Free Dirt Bomb by Fleur Beale Page A

Robbie. ‘Any shit, and we deck him. Okay?’
    Robbie flexed his biceps. ‘Absolutely.’
    I got myself out of the car before I said anything. ‘This article I read … it said you have to focus on the bend you’re coming up to. Forget the rest of the course. Just take each corner in turn.’
    They squinted at me, faces all intense and thoughtful. Then they looked at each other and shook their heads. I took off before they did, racing up the paddock, swerving, snatching up a road cone before turning to face them. Couldn’t run any further because I was laughing too hard. I held the cone in front of me like a shield. ‘Okay, cool it! Here’s the real deal.’
    I told them as we walked back to the car. ‘Is that all?’ Buzz asked, and I got the picture that if it wasn’t I’d be toast.
    ‘Honest, that’s all,’ I said. ‘It felt really boring and dumb to start with. You’ve got to keep at it.’
    They both had a go, keeping their eyes on the course ahead of them. They stuffed up big time. When it was my turn again, they didn’t wait at the start. Trusting buggers — Buzz stood halfway along the course and Robbie went up to near the final cone. They’d be watching to see where I was looking. If I could have worked out a way to fool them, I would have, but I figured that’d take a lot more skill than I had, so I just drove the best I could. I didn’t miss a gap, didn’t hit a cone either. Yes!
    They didn’t say anything when I got out of the car. Buzz just got in and took off. We watched him send the first five cones flying.
    ‘What you said — it’s no shit?’ Robbie asked.
    ‘Try it and see,’ I said. He’d been watching every single thing I did with my head. He’d looked so hard, he’d probably seen when I blinked.
    It was nearly time to leave. Buzz and Robbie didn’t get any better, but I could tell I was getting faster. When they nailed it some time in the next day or two, that would be when I’d suggest timing our runs. Nothing like a bit of competition to spice things up.

Chapter Eleven
JOB INTERVIEW
    I GOT HOME to find Gramps all hyped up and waiting for me. He didn’t even let me put a foot in the door before he started yapping.
    ‘There’s a job at the supermarket. You’ve got an appointment at 4.15, so you’ll have to step on it.’
    I stopped dead. What? I didn’t want to work in a bloody supermarket.
    Gramps stomped forward, grabbed me and towed me into the house. ‘Get a move on, lad! Jump in the shower and make sure you wash your hair. That’s what the shampoo is for.’
    Funny. Not. I just stood, gaping at the kitchen. My Christmas jeans lay over the back of one chair, the too small green tee-shirt he’d given me was on another one. He’d ironed them both.
    He took a long breath, let it out slowly, then gulped in another one. ‘Look, Jake, you’re either serious about getting a job. Or you’re not. Which is it?’
    I went to the pantry. He’d cooked cheese scones.I ate a couple of them without saying a word, but there was plenty going on in my head. I didn’t want a job. I wanted money. Saying I was looking had got everyone off my back.
    The supermarket. Hell on wheels.
    Gramps looked like he was on the verge of exploding. ‘You’ve got half an hour to get cleaned up and get down there. I’ll take you. Move it.’
    I moved it. At least taking a shower would give me time to think.
    ‘Don’t forget the shampoo!’ he yelled through the door.
    I decided several things while the water cascaded over me. The obvious one was that it would be a good idea to act like I was doing my best to impress the supermarket boss. The next was that I hadn’t ever believed I’d have to actually get a job — that I’d have to work. Whatever way I looked at it, I just couldn’t see myself behind the check-out or stacking the shelves.
    But I always came back to the tricky part: I needed money.
    Gramps banged on the door. ‘Hurry up, Jake. Time’s moving on. And make sure you