Free Forgetting Foster by Dianne Touchell Page A

morning?’
    Foster had forgotten about class news. Usually Mum helped him think of something to bring to class that he could talk about. Once he’d brought in a praying mantis the size of Mum’s palm. She’d found it sunning itself on the kitchen windowsill and scooped it up, fingers kinked to gently tent the twiggy limbs. It rocked back and forth on her hand, its huge head thrusting like a pigeon breast. Mum had put it in a shoebox with some leaves from the garden and said, ‘Now that’s news, Fossie.’
    But Foster didn’t have any news today.
    ‘I don’t have any news today,’ he said. That’s when he heard someone quietly say, ‘Oh, he’s got news.’ Everyone started to laugh. Foster had to hold hard to that untasted cake to stop himself from crying. He hadn’t cried at all, not really. Not even at the most terrible things, like Dad going missing or the church puddle.
    ‘Settle down, everyone. No news at all, Foster? That’s all right. Maybe next week.’ Mr Ballantyne moved on to the next person, who had shells that used to be the home for living things. Sometimes the thing inside died, and sometimes it got too big and had to move into a bigger shell. You wouldn’t know the shell had nothing inside unless you got right up close and gave it a shake.
    By recess, everyone knew it was Foster’s dad who had forgotten where he was and wet his pants, and although Foster was in the clear, so to speak, the snickering and nasty jokes continued. He began by laughing along with it all, as if he didn’t care what they thought or said. But the laughing along didn’t feel good, and Foster felt if he laughed too hard he might break open. He needed something else. So from his sadness and his desperate need to hide from everything, Foster pictured his dad eating cake, whilehe himself had to go to school. The result was anger. Foster decided his best way through the day was to join the ranks of the bullies against the real cause of his humiliation: Dad.
    ‘It really stank!’ he said, the small crowd around him beginning to grow. ‘I was like, “Put the window down! Put the window down.” ’ Boys around him were shrieking with laughter. ‘Mum sat in it. She had it all over her dress . . . he just stood there like a baby. Mr Wet Pants!’ Boys echoed the phrase, a sing-song slur bouncing off shiny concrete verandahs.
    ‘What’d you do then?’ someone asked.
    ‘Got out of there, stupid!’ Foster said. Suddenly all the boys were laughing at the stupid one who didn’t know what Foster did then.
    Soon the small gathering broke apart as boys headed to the after school pick-up area. Still the chuckling and repeating of the story as smaller and smaller groups of boys hurried away to waiting cars, taking the news of the General’s greatest battle loss further and further afield. Foster now a part of the laughter instead of the object of it, popular by choosing the side of disgust over shame. He was one of the group again. It should feel better than this. Foster couldn’t understand why it didn’t feel better.
    Foster was the last one to be picked up. Mum was often late these days. As he waited, one of Jimmy Maher’s friends spun past on his bike and called out, ‘Maybe next time he’ll shit himself!’
    Foster laughed hard, and waved. When he was finally alone, he cried. For the first time. He’d turned the tears into something else by the time Mum pulled the car up next to him though.

not-so-nice necessities
    Foster didn’t like it when Mum had a weekend shift at the meat factory. He knew she preferred nights to weekends because the money was better and Aunty was available, but she took the shift because she wanted to get ahead. That’s how she explained it to Foster. ‘We need to get ahead a little,’ she said as she picked up the phone to call Miss Watson.
    ‘Not Miss Watson,’ Foster said.
    ‘Oh, Fossie, please,’ Mum said. ‘I know she’s boring but it’s just for a few hours.’
    ‘Why do