problems with seasonal change.
And he paces up and down, squirting drops into his eyes as though he drinks through his corneas, burping big, salty, lemon-lime burps and turning them into words. Frank Green has reached the edge and travelled beyond it. Frank Green is maxed-out on Gatorade. Frank Green has a Daniel Boone hat.
He is coping very badly with our end of fourth year exams. And Iâm not looking good, but Frank is in a state of raging, open disrepair.
âBut donât let me get in the way,â he says, and blows in my ear when I get back to my desk.
Gently, admittedly, but itâs still blowing in my goddamn ear, and I already had a bit of a concentration problem. He unravels a paper clip and pokes my ear lobes with it.
âBig lobes, big lobes,â he says. âHey, is that a savoury-mince jaffle?â
âAnd itâs all yours,â I tell him. âBut only as a present for quietly fucking off. Baby.â
And he dances behind me, as though thereâs a special dance you do when you get a jaffle and Iâve just never known it. And he dances out of the room, with only two brief curtain calls to mark his departure.
I hear a splash and heâs in our pool. In our pool, wading up and down, arms above his head para-military style and chanting, âIâm mad as hell and I just canât take it any more.â
And I want to tell him, no, it wasnât that kind of mad, but it wouldnât seem right. And besides, Iâm studying, thatâs what this bookâs for. This book Iâm gazing at. This book that refuses to infiltrate my resolutely unthinking brain.
And Frankâs wading and chanting, wading and chanting, and my mother brings him a pile of savoury-mince jaffles on a plate, and a milkshake. With a cocktail umbrella bobbing around on top, pinned to a maraschino cherry. And then, a separate appearance to give him a broad-brimmed hat, and I think he sings her something from The Gondoliers . She applauds, but thatâs only politeness. Heâs doing a shocking job of it.
Meanwhile, I have an appointment with a trance to get to, and I only come back when I lean forward onto the unravelled paperclip, which Iâm now holding in my hand.
And thereâs less noise outside, and I look out again and Frankâs still wading. Still with one arm above his head, clicking his fingers, but heâs got the kitchen phone in his other hand, dragged out the full length of its extension cord.
I donât know whatâs going on. I donât want to.
So back to the books. Back to the gazing and achievement of little. Back to the menace of the paperclip, held in front of my forehead in case I drift again. And I do drift, of course I drift, but this time into a dream involving a sharp stabbing pain that just gets worse and worse.
Then Frankâs in my room. In my room with my sisterâs towel around his waist (which will, in time, mean trouble) and a beer in one hand.
âIâve been putting in some calls,â he says, like a man with better options than he actually has.
âAnd drinking my beer, too.â
âYeah, yeah. They come in sixes. Youâre supposed to share them. Anyway, stop the study for a sec. Youâll want to hear this.â
And he tells me about the calls. Tells me Jenny Blairâs bought four tubes of toothpaste and sheâs already onto the second. Tells me Slats is crying so much his nose is running. Tells me Oscar Wong told him to fuck off cause heâd never had a day like this with his Pac Man before.
âOscar Wong,â he tells me, âis in awe of himself, and thatâs a quote.â
âYeah, a Greg Norman quote.â
âYeah, but you get it, donât you?â
âWhat?â
âTheyâre gone, arenât they? Iâve got this exam pretty much pissed in if I can keep my cool. I made ten calls out there, and I can name three people Iâve got beaten
And he paces up and down, squirting drops into his eyes as though he drinks through his corneas, burping big, salty, lemon-lime burps and turning them into words. Frank Green has reached the edge and travelled beyond it. Frank Green is maxed-out on Gatorade. Frank Green has a Daniel Boone hat.
He is coping very badly with our end of fourth year exams. And Iâm not looking good, but Frank is in a state of raging, open disrepair.
âBut donât let me get in the way,â he says, and blows in my ear when I get back to my desk.
Gently, admittedly, but itâs still blowing in my goddamn ear, and I already had a bit of a concentration problem. He unravels a paper clip and pokes my ear lobes with it.
âBig lobes, big lobes,â he says. âHey, is that a savoury-mince jaffle?â
âAnd itâs all yours,â I tell him. âBut only as a present for quietly fucking off. Baby.â
And he dances behind me, as though thereâs a special dance you do when you get a jaffle and Iâve just never known it. And he dances out of the room, with only two brief curtain calls to mark his departure.
I hear a splash and heâs in our pool. In our pool, wading up and down, arms above his head para-military style and chanting, âIâm mad as hell and I just canât take it any more.â
And I want to tell him, no, it wasnât that kind of mad, but it wouldnât seem right. And besides, Iâm studying, thatâs what this bookâs for. This book Iâm gazing at. This book that refuses to infiltrate my resolutely unthinking brain.
And Frankâs wading and chanting, wading and chanting, and my mother brings him a pile of savoury-mince jaffles on a plate, and a milkshake. With a cocktail umbrella bobbing around on top, pinned to a maraschino cherry. And then, a separate appearance to give him a broad-brimmed hat, and I think he sings her something from The Gondoliers . She applauds, but thatâs only politeness. Heâs doing a shocking job of it.
Meanwhile, I have an appointment with a trance to get to, and I only come back when I lean forward onto the unravelled paperclip, which Iâm now holding in my hand.
And thereâs less noise outside, and I look out again and Frankâs still wading. Still with one arm above his head, clicking his fingers, but heâs got the kitchen phone in his other hand, dragged out the full length of its extension cord.
I donât know whatâs going on. I donât want to.
So back to the books. Back to the gazing and achievement of little. Back to the menace of the paperclip, held in front of my forehead in case I drift again. And I do drift, of course I drift, but this time into a dream involving a sharp stabbing pain that just gets worse and worse.
Then Frankâs in my room. In my room with my sisterâs towel around his waist (which will, in time, mean trouble) and a beer in one hand.
âIâve been putting in some calls,â he says, like a man with better options than he actually has.
âAnd drinking my beer, too.â
âYeah, yeah. They come in sixes. Youâre supposed to share them. Anyway, stop the study for a sec. Youâll want to hear this.â
And he tells me about the calls. Tells me Jenny Blairâs bought four tubes of toothpaste and sheâs already onto the second. Tells me Slats is crying so much his nose is running. Tells me Oscar Wong told him to fuck off cause heâd never had a day like this with his Pac Man before.
âOscar Wong,â he tells me, âis in awe of himself, and thatâs a quote.â
âYeah, a Greg Norman quote.â
âYeah, but you get it, donât you?â
âWhat?â
âTheyâre gone, arenât they? Iâve got this exam pretty much pissed in if I can keep my cool. I made ten calls out there, and I can name three people Iâve got beaten
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