Bleakboy and Hunter Stand Out in the Rain by Steven Herrick Page A

Beth. I’ve got to do it alone.’ I try to stand a little straighter.
    â€˜Are you sure?’ Beth asks.
    â€˜I’ll just tell the truth.’
    Beth grins. ‘Did Trevor tell you to say that?’
    â€˜Trevor doesn’t actually speak,’ I reply.
    Beth looks to the door. ‘Do you want me to wait outside, just in case?’
    I shake my head.
    â€˜Just think of the starving millions, Jesse,’ she says, before creeping quietly up the back stairs and waving from the landing.
    A noise like a dentist’s drill comes from behind the door. It stops for a second, followed by shuffling and then the drill starts up once more. I knock. The drill keeps going. It seems to be getting louder.
    I knock a little harder.
    â€˜Who is it?’ Dad’s voice sounds frustrated.
    I open the door and poke my head around. Dad is sitting in the centre of the room behind a sewing machine.
    â€˜Hi, Dad.’
    â€˜Hi, come in, Jesse.’ He holds up my blue jeans. His overalls are in a pile on the floor. ‘I’m stitching our old clothes.’ He coughs, embarrassed. ‘Your mother suggested we make some savings, after our,’ he looks at me, meaningfully, ‘recent expenditures.’
    â€˜Have you already donated, Dad?’
    â€˜No, not yet. Tomorrow night. Your mum suggested we do it together, as a family, before dinner.’ He looks quickly toward the door. ‘Just between you and me, Jesse, I may have been a bit rash promising one hundred dollars.’
    â€˜That’s okay, Dad. I understand.’ A vision of Kelifa flashes in my mind, his disappointment is easy to imagine. ‘Maybe we could pay it in …’ I can’t think of the word.
    â€˜Instalments?’ Dad suggests.
    â€˜Yeah, like fifty dollars over two months.’
    Dad smiles. ‘Don’t worry about it, Jesse. My credit card can take it.’ He stares at the back wall and his eyes have that faraway look he gets when he and Mum talk about holidays. ‘Beth’s right. Growing fruit and vegies is not enough.’ Dad looks around his workshop, cluttered with tools and boxes full of cast-off junk and old appliances. He points to an ice-cream maker. ‘That was used for one summer if I remember correctly.’
    I swallow hard. I don’t want Dad to feel bad because of something I started.
    â€˜Dad, I stole something,’ I blurt out.
    Dad looks surprised. ‘You what?’
    â€˜I did it for a good reason, but,’ my cheeks feel as if they’re on fire, ‘but I know it’s still stealing. I’m really sorry.’
    â€˜What did you steal, Jesse?’
    â€˜Your credit card,’ I say, in a small voice.
    â€˜My what!’ Dad’s hand instinctively goes to his back pocket.
    â€˜For CARE Australia … and Kelifa … the Ethiopians,’ I blather.
    â€˜Who? Where?’ Dad looks confused.
    â€˜You can get Mum, if you like. I’m sorry,’ I say.
    Dad stands up from the sewing machine and walks toward me. He takes my hand and leads me over to the old couch in the corner. We both sit down. ‘Okay, son,’ he says, ‘tell me what you did. Slowly.’
    I take a deep breath and tell him everything. Well, almost everything. I leave Trevor out of the story. I figure Dad would blame him, even though it’s all my fault. Dad listens patiently, although he sighs a little too frequently to make me feel comfortable.
    After I’ve finished my confession, I know Dad is thinking because he’s not talking.
    â€˜Maybe I could pay it back,’ I suggest. ‘By working extra in the garden, or,’ I gulp, ‘you could take it out of my pocket money.’
    Dad smiles. ‘I stole ten dollars from my dad once,’ he says. ‘When he found out, I suggested paying it back out of my pocket money too.’ He pats my knee. ‘Your grandpa charged me interest, to teach me a