Posse by Kate Welshman

go to bed.
    When I do finally get bored, I slip outside and sit on one of the benches on the verandah. It’s sunset and the rose-coloured light makes the view across the dusty paddock to the murky dam look quite picturesque. For the first time since arriving at Riveroak Recreation Ranch, I relax. It’s finally begun to cool down.
    I start when a tall shadow is cast over my legs. I look up. It’s Bevan with his guitar and a big, Christian grin. He’s just finished performing ‘Babe in the Manger’ to the tune of ‘Cats in the Cradle’. I’m glad I was out here while he was playing it because I’m sure my cringing would have been visible. He’s really too daggy for words. If Clare could see him right now, all thoughts of sexy time with him would be banished from her head.
    â€˜I suppose this is my fault,’ he says, making himself comfortable on the bench beside me.
    â€˜Sorry?’
    â€˜You sitting out here all by yourself. It’s my fault you can’t join in.’
    â€˜Oh, that.’ I put my finger to my lip. ‘I’d almost forgotten.’
    â€˜I’m so sorry about hitting your face, Amy. That was just completely stupid of me.’
    â€˜It was a foul. You’re not supposed to lift the stick above your shoulder.’
    â€˜I’m not a very good hockey player.’
    I shrug.
    â€˜Jenny Howell says you’re the best hockey player at the school.’
    â€˜I’ve been doing it for a long time.’
    â€˜Have you ever considered playing professionally?’
    â€˜No … No, Mum would never let me do that.’
    â€˜With respect to your mother, Amy, she doesn’t know what God has planned for you. God gave you talent for a reason.’
    â€˜Did God tell you to become a minister?’ I ask, trying not to laugh in his face.
    â€˜He did. I mean, it wasn’t a telephone call or anything, but he told me all right.’
    â€˜How?’
    â€˜I was a professional Aussie Rules player until about three years ago.’
    â€˜Really? What happened?’
    â€˜Someone landed on me and my knee was bent about forty-five degrees in the wrong direction.’
    â€˜Ouch.’
    â€˜Ouch is right. I’ve had five operations on it. It’ll never be right. And I can never play football again.’
    â€˜That sucks.’
    â€˜In a way it does. At the time I thought it did. I was very frustrated for a long time – until I let God into my life. And God made me grateful to be away from that lifestyle. He made me see the way.’
    â€˜Well, there you go.’
    Unlike Clare, I’m not dying to talk to him. I mean, I guess he’s nice enough, but he’s a dork and a crazy Christian, and I keep suppressing theurge to say, ‘I don’t believe in God.’ As I’ve already said, I’m too honest for my own good.
    â€˜So, what’s the guitar for?’
    â€˜I’m going to sing you a song.’
    â€˜Great. A Christian song? Can I clap?’
    He doesn’t realise I’m being sarcastic, or if he does, he’s not offended. Religious types tend to be fairly indestructible like that. Their skins are about a metre thick.
    â€˜A song of your choice,’ he says.
    â€˜â€œBetter the Devil You Know”.’
    â€˜I don’t know that one.’
    â€˜Well, how about something else?’
    â€˜Crowded House?’
    â€˜Okay, but you’re showing your age.’
    I watch him, smiling, as he tunes his guitar. His thick, dark fringe flops forward as he leans over to watch his fingers and strum.
    â€˜ Somewhere deep inside …’
    And he starts singing ‘You’d Better be Home Soon’ quite beautifully. At first I’m embarrassed,but I gradually get over myself and begin to feel more comfortable – flattered even – that he’s singled me out like this. How can you feel any other way when someone sings for you?
    I start