Free The Ice-cream Man by Jenny Mounfield

heaving. The sounds of splashing water and kids’ voices coming from the lagoon did little to crowd out the angry voices inside his head. Why did his parents have to treat him like a baby? They were always so worried something bad would happen to him, always so sure he couldn’t cope. He would turn sixteen after Christmas, the same age his father was when he’d left school and started his first job.
    Marty stared at the ramp. It would serve his parents right if something did happen to him. Maybe that’s what they wanted. Bad things happened to normal kids all the time: they fell off bikes, got bruised on footy fields – even got detention. His parents never treated him like a normal kid, but maybe they would if he acted more like one. He swiped at his eyes. Now there were tears mixed with the sweat running down his hot cheeks. Normal . God how he hated that word! It was almost as bad as special .
    His mother certainly never let him forget exactly how much trouble there was lurking around every corner, just waiting to find him. He didn’t need Rick to lead him into trouble; it already had his number, didn’t it? It’d found him before he was even born and had thrown this crippling muscle disease at him. Oh yes, Marty and trouble were old mates.
    Marty’s eyes focused on the ramp again. Maybe if he could make it to the bottom without falling out of his chair, he’d feel better. That would be a pretty cool stunt. Controlling his speed was the thing. The slope was steeper than any of the others he regularly wheeled down. The last time he’d tried to get to the bottom of the ramp he’d slowed down too much, too soon. He could go down at walking pace, of course, but there was no fun in that. What he had to do was swallow the fear that he might hurt himself and just go for it.
    Marty rolled onto the ramp, his fingers going slack on the wheel rims. Already he could hear his mother’s words: I told you to be careful, Martin. Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I . . . ?
    He’d show her how normal he was. He’d make it to the bottom of the ramp – might even try to finish with a wheel-stand. That’d show her.
    The wheelchair shot forward and for a few breathtaking seconds Marty was free, flying unencumbered, soaring like an eagle. The feeling was so exhilarating he forgot all about braking. Moments later he found himself face down on the hot bitumen path, tasting tears and blood and pain
    – lots of pain.
    ‘Geez, mate, whatta ya tryin’ to do, kill yourself ?’ Someone rolled Marty over. He groaned and squinted into the sun. Raising a hand to shield his eyes, he bumped his skinned forehead causing a gasp to escape him. ‘What? Who?’
    ‘Great, you’ve gone and scrambled your brains. Just what I don’t need.’
    Rough hands tried to pull Marty into a sitting position, but thanks to his bent legs, this didn’t work. Marty propped himself up on his elbows – both of which were grazed – and groaned as fresh pain ripped through his right leg.
    ‘Marty, look at your friggin’ knee.’
    Marty blinked. He knew that voice. That face.
    ‘Rick, what are you doing here?’
    ‘Picking up what’s left of you, looks like. Geez, you got a death wish or somethin’?’
    Marty glanced down at his leg; the one that felt like it was simultaneously being chewed off by a dog and set on fire with a blowtorch. His kneecap, which he was fairly sure was usually sitting in the middle of his leg somewhere, was now poking out the side. Marty tore his eyes away and stared at something else until the world stopped spinning.
    ‘Reckon it’s dislocated,’ Rick said. ‘Me dad once did the same thing to his shoulder. I can try and pop it back in if ya like.’
    Marty’s stomach rolled. ‘No, I’d rather give my mother something to stress about.’
    Rick grinned. ‘You’re one sick puppy, you know that?’
    Despite the pain, Marty grinned back.
    Rick helped him into his chair and pushed him to the top of the ramp. ‘Why’d you do