Free My Private Pectus by Shane Thamm Page A

don't like her going there on her own. But as we get to a street corner about three blocks from home, she stops and asks, ‘What were you really waiting for?’
    Now it's me re-positioning the straps of my bag. ‘For you,’ I say, finally sure I'm telling the truth.
    She crosses her arms.
    â€˜Is that so hard to believe?’ I ask.
    She drops her eyes and shrugs. ‘Yeah. Kind of.’ There's only a hint of a smile. ‘I live up there,’ she says and jinks her head at the street. ‘I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?’
    â€˜Tomorrow,’ I say.
    â€˜See you, then,’ she says and turns away.
    I watch for a while, noting the houses, wondering which one is hers. Then I start off home before she can turn and catch me staring.

i flogged the p
    There are only two days to go before our first real game. Dad's put me on the team, all based on one event: I tackled The P. Dad even phoned Roger just to tell him I made it. ‘He's gonna be full-back, I told you he could do it!’ he yelled into the phone. ‘And you know what else? Jack's gonna join the army. He's enrolled for a physical in October!’
    It all started at training last night.
    About ten minutes into the game and playing for the opposition Cuppas broke the defensive line. He palmed off one guy, trampled over another. Hitting open space, he gulped for air as he ran, his flab shuddering with every step. Then, as the defence caught up from behind, he threw a pass to The P. It was a shocker.
    It wobbled and dipped. The guys screamed, ‘Forward, it went forward!’ But Dad did nothing.
    Sprinting, The P stooped forward, scraped the ball up from his ankles and returned to full height in the one motion. Gez came after him, but The P palmed him off and charged straight on. He tucked the ball under an armpit. His knees drove up and down like pistons. He ran at me full pelt, daring me to take him on. But I was still peeved with him. Annoyed that I let him pressure me into beating up Cuppas; pissed off with myself for being such a soft touch.
    So I lunged forward and buried my shoulder into the soft flesh below his ribs. Air exploded from his lungs, the ball shot from his grasp and tumbled out of play. There were groans of shared pain from The P's team mates and cheers from mine. The P collapsed to the ground, rasping for air.
    Gez seized me in a friendly headlock. ‘Aawww, what a ripper!’ he yelled.
    The boys on my team were ecstatic. They slapped my back. They laughed. No one could believe The P got nailed by Jack ‘the axe’ McDermott! I felt great, but terrible, too. The P was on all fours, gulping for air. ‘How do you feel?’ I asked, but I said it with a smile.
    He looked at me with a vicious snarl and watering, bloodshot eyes.
    When Gez and I got to the car after training, Dad threw me the keys. He was grinning. His eyes were bright with pride. Gez couldn't stop laughing as he climbed into the back seat. Dad opened and closed his mouth several times, but nothing came out.
    Gez leaned forward and blurted, ‘You're in the team, Sticks. Boy, are you in the team! Am I right, Brian? Is he in the team?’
    Dad turned to me as I started the motor. ‘He could be,’ he said, still smiling.
    â€˜Could be? Jack nailed him. His P-ness went down like a sack of spuds!’ Gez laughed and I grinned. ‘Wammo!’ he yelled and clapped his hands. ‘Jack flogged His P-ness!’
    When we got home, Dad marched inside and yelled, ‘What a tackle, Jack!’ He walked purposefully into the lounge room and went to the sliding doors that open out to the yard. ‘I'm proud of you,’ he said.
    â€˜It was just a tackle.’ I was trying to keep my joy under wraps.
    â€˜Just a tackle? It was beautiful.’ He puffed his chest. ‘Perfect!’ He looked out at the wire mesh on the lawn waiting to be turned into a bird aviary. He opened the sliding doors and marched