Free One Dead Seagull by Scot Gardner

oumayhavelostyourhand.There ’ snothing I can doaboutthat. Y oumayhavehadalongperiodof time off school.There ’ s nothing Icando
aboutthat eithe r .I’m
yourEnglishteache r .’Shespokeflatlyand
movedclosertome,staringintomyeyes.Herbreathwas
staleandsmelledlikespe w .Hereyesweremilkybrown wheretheyshouldhavebeenwhite.
    ‘Itdoesn ’ tmatterhow
muchworkyoudointheother classes...ifyoufailEnglishyoufailyearten.Ifyoudon ’ t
completethose essaysyouwillfail.’
    Igot a‘B’foroneanda‘C’fortheothe r .Ipassedyear
ten.Whoopee-do.
     
    The lastfewdaysof
term arelike ablur no w .Ican
rememberthethingsthathappenedbutIwasn ’ treally there.TheHumesinvitedmewiththemtoMarsCove
(surprise,surprise)andI
agreed—barringaccidents—to
go.ForonereasonoranotherIforgottomentionitto
Mum,untilthreedays beforeChristmas.The Humeswere supposedtoleaveonBoxingDa y .
    ‘Whatdoyoumean,BoxingDay?’Herlipswerepulled
tight. ‘ W eareall going up to
Shepparton,until the New Y ea r .’
    Icanrememberhermentioning
it butit musthave slippedmymind.Itoldheritwouldbeoka y ,I’djustgo
aroundtotheHumes’placeearlyandstayover andshe couldgoupbyherself.Thatwasn ’ twhatshewantedto hea r .
    ‘WhataboutChristmas?’
    Thethought
ofsittingwithalltheoldfartsandmy cousins(Jenelleistheoldestandthesmartest)didn ’ tturn meonatall.Christmashadlostitsappealformeyears ago.
    ‘ W ecan haveChristmasherebeforeyougo,’Isaid,and sheslapped thearmofherchairandsentherashtray flying.
    ‘ Y ou’reso bloodyself-centered, W ayne. Y ou’relikeyour
bloodyfather—youdon ’ t
giveashitunlessit concerns you.’
    Shewentonandon.Gavemeabiglectureabouthow Idon ’ tpullmyweightaroundtheflatanddon ’ trespect heroralltheeffortsheputsin.
    Myeyesjustglazedoverandfromthecornerofmyeye
Icouldseewhatlookedlikeathundercloudhangingover herandcolouredbolts oflightning, redandorange, shootingintotheloungeroomfromthetopofherhead.
IfIlookedrightathe r ,Icouldseelittlebitsofspitflying outofher mouthbutifIlookedbesideher
Icouldsee the heavycloudandthelightninghoveringoverhe r .Bizarre.
    ‘No. Y oucan ’ tbloodygo. Y ou’recomingwithme,’she
said,andstartedcoughing.
    Istompedofftomyroomandslammedthedoo r . W e gaveeachotherthesilenttreatmentuntilChristmasEve.
    IcamehomefromGameZone atabout twoo’clockto findDad ’ suteinthedrivewa y .
    ‘ W ayne!’DadshoutedasIpushedthroughthedoo r .
Theywerein thekitchen withtwoemptybottlesof champagne,grinningateachotherlikelittlekids.
    ‘Mer r yChristmas,mate.Likeaglass?Herehaveaglass o f champagne . Y ou’l l nee d it, ’ Da d sai d stuffin ga bubblingfluteintomyhand.
    Isippedattheglassandnearlyspatthestuffback.Itwas suckingmymouth insideout.Carbonatedcamel ’ s
piss. MaybeIcouldmixsomeMilo
withittotaketheedge
off...
    ‘Sithere,’hesaid,andpulledoutastoolatthebreakfastba r .‘Ihaveinsurance,right? Y ouknowwhatinsurance
is?’
    Inodded.
    ‘ Y es?Good.Ihavehealthinsurance,’hesaidagainand
lookedathishandsonthebench.Mumhadadragonher
cigaretteandnodded,waitingforhimtocontinue.Hesat
likethatforeverandMumstartedlaughing.
    ‘Shutup,Sylvie.WherewasI?Ihavehealthinsurance. Myinsurancecompanypaidallthehospital
billsafter the accidentandbecauseI employed you, W orkcoveraremakingapayouttoyou.Onehundredandfour
thousanddollars.It ’ sina
trustandwecanonlyaccessitto bu y prosthetic s an d tha t sor t o f thin g unti l you’re eighteen.Butit ’ syours,mate.Justlikea
flash-and-where ’ s- you r -grandmothe r . On e hundre d an d fou r thousand dollars,’hesaidandslappedmeontheshoulde r .
    Idrankmyglassofcamel ’ spisslikeitwasCokeand
motionedforDadtofillitupagain.‘ T ellmeyou’rebullshittingme...’
    Theybothshooktheirheads.Sothisiswhatit ’ sliketo win SaleoftheCentu r y .
Whata buzz.SuckonthatPhillip
Baxter!
    ‘ Y es!’Ishoutedandnearlyrockedoffthestool.
    ‘ Y eah,hangonaminute mate.It ’ s in trustfor you, right,until you’reeighteen.Thatmeansyoucan ’ tuseit untilyou’re oldenoughunlessit ’ stopay foraprosthetic.’
    ‘What