A Straight Line to My Heart by Bill Condon

the cop to punch. Good one. Anyway, Bull comes into my room and I go mental and throw stuff at him and tell him to rack off – only I don’t say rack. But, you know, I really like it that he makes the effort. That’s why I thought I’d come over and see you. Didn’t want you to be angry all on your own.’
    He looks up at me. At last.
    â€˜You’re a weird chick, aren’t you?’ That’s what he says to me.
    â€˜Good observation.’ That’s what I answer.
    A glad, happy look breaks out on his face. I mean, really breaks out, as if it’s been held captive by the forces of doom and gloom and now it’s on his face and stretching out and smiling at me.
    â€˜So you drop books on people?’
    â€˜Yep.’
    â€˜And that’s a good thing?’
    â€˜Aw yeahh. Not real books because I would never damage a book. No way. What I do is – say I’m you. Right?’
    â€˜You’re me.’
    â€˜Okay. I’m playing footy. Having a fine time. And then this gorilla headbutts me. I realise later it was an accident, but at the time I’m not in a fit state to realise anything, because all I can think of is killing the fool. You with me so far?’
    â€˜I might even be ahead of you.’
    â€˜Good. Now here’s where our approach differs. Instead of punching out like a maniac, as you did, I would have closed my eyes and used my imagination to build a plane.’
    He looks doubtful. Can’t imagine why.
    â€˜Trust me. This works. I do it all the time and I can’t even use a screwdriver. I build the plane – it takes a second – jump in and take off. Then I swoop low over the head of my victim and wave at him from the cockpit. That alone feels amazing. He starts running and I can see the fear on his face, but there’s nowhere to hide. Now here comes the really good part. I open the bomb doors. One thousand copies of War and Peace land on him –
    â€˜Five hundred and sixty thousand words in each book.
    â€˜Hard back covers.
    â€˜Large print edition.
    â€˜The pen is mightier than the sword!’
    He mulls it over for a second, before telling me what he thinks.
    â€˜Yeah,’ he says, nodding, ‘you are full-on weird.’ But he says it with a smile.
    It seems like a perfect time to leave – while I’m winning.
    When I get back to Kayla she’s full of questions for me. I give her answers trimmed to the bone.
    â€˜Just thought I’d make sure he was all right.
    â€˜He hardly said anything.
    â€˜I said a lot of rubbish.
    â€˜And no, I don’t expect to ever see him again.’
    That night I type the day’s adventures into my journal. For the first time I don’t call him Big Foot. He’s Davey.

On sunday they have an eight-dollar dinner special at the Royal. Kayla and I never miss it. I go for the shepherd’s pie with chips and she has the lasagna with chips. If you eat at the Royal, you’d better like chips.
    We find an empty table in a corner, but before long it’s noisy. Meat raffle’s on. Charlie Dent is in charge. He’s quite a poet. Especially when he works with colours.
    â€˜Twenty-nine blue – could that be you?’
    â€˜Thirty-three green – has anyone seen – thirty-three green?’
    And he’s known far and wide for this one:
    â€˜Fifty-six pink – rinky-dink-dink!’
    It’s so bad it’s funny. But Kayla isn’t laughing tonight. She isn’t all that bothered about food either. Not long into the meal she abandons her knife and fork to graze on the chips, seeking out the slightly burnt crispy ones. But she soon tires of that.
    â€˜Can we get outta here, Tiff?’
    That’s fine with me. We both know a quieter place. It’s a fair trek but it’s on our way home and there’s a short cut. In fifteen minutes we’re standing at the entrance to our own private hide-out: Gungee Creek