Free Whole Wild World by Tom Dusevic Page A

circle. You knew which families could or couldn’t go back to Croatia. My sense then was that the main helpers at the Croatian club, like my father, were not permitted to travel there.
    As Sam was in fourth class, my mother allowed us to walk home by ourselves after school. It was just under a mile (1.6 kilometres). The arrangement gave her more time for housework; we got freedom. When Sam went to Croatia, Mama was inclined to go back to the previous pick-up system. I begged her to let me walk home on my own. I went most of the way with Peter, one of Sam’s friends. On Burwood Road, there was a zebra crossing near the library. A police officer had visited our class, boring us with pedestrian safety when all we wanted her to talk about were bad guys and guns. Look left, look right, look left again.
    As we do every day, Peter and I are talking and oblivious to any danger as we walk across the zebra markings on the road.
    Bam! Hit by a car. Its front strikes me just below the hip. Boom! The impact sends me rolling on top of the hood. The car stops. Bam! I fall back onto the road. An older lady screams as she exits the car. She puts her arm around me, sits me up. I’m in shock. Where did that come from? Whoa, I’m on top of a car! The pain would come later, as would a shocking replay of the impact, visiting me in the dark, over and over.
    I sit on the side of the road with the woman, who’s wearing a fur coat. She’s scared, breathing heavily. I’ve got scratches on my hands, which I’d scraped to break my fall. Instinctively, I feel I’ve done something wrong, causing this lady worry and agitation. People had come out of shops to gawp, not help.
    â€˜Where does it hurt? Is it your leg? Should I call an ambulance?’
    I know if I go to hospital it will be the end of walking home by myself.
    â€˜I’m good,’ I say, running on adrenaline. ‘I’ll be okay.’
    The woman had been making a left turn, but looking right, in the direction of oncoming cars, and didn’t see us until we were right in front of her. I try to walk, but it’s a hobble.
    â€˜Let me drive you home,’ she says, calmer now.
    She offers Peter a ride but he lives a street away. I’ve officially been ‘run overed’ or ‘runned over’, both terms acceptable in the schoolyard.
    The woman asks if I know the way home.
    I do. She has the most fancy car I’ve ever been in, with leather seats. It’s warm inside, which I’m thankful for because I’m shivering. She drives slowly and, unlike our Holden, the car changes gears by itself. Her voice is now very calm, even soothing, and I sense she’s not from this area.
    â€˜What’s your name, young man?’
    â€˜What school do you go to?’
    â€˜What class are you in?’
    â€˜What’s the name of your teacher?’
    â€˜Will anyone be at home to look after you?’
    â€˜No,’ I lie, firmly. ‘My parents are at work.’
    As we drive down Cecilia Street I see Mama is at work in the front garden.
    â€˜Just drop me off here please,’ I say.
    We are across the road from my house. Think quickly.
    â€˜Is this your home?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    Another lie. When the car stops I open the door, trying to appear as if everything is normal and I’m not hurt. I glance over the road. My mother is digging in the garden, head down.
    â€˜Shall I wait for your parents to come home?’
    â€˜No, they’ll be home much later.’
    I thank her and wait for the car to pull away. My mother looks up. I wave, sheepishly. She looks at the woman in the car and waves to her. The woman waves back and drives away slowly. I cross the road, trying not to limp. Be calm.
    â€˜Who was that?’
    â€˜My teacher.’
    â€˜Why did she give you a lift?’
    â€˜Because I didn’t feel well and it was on her way. But I’m okay now and just want to rest.’
    She goes