Free Max by Michael Hyde

Strong as a bull – Strong as an ant – perhaps. But ants didn’t go around killing themselves. They sacrificed themselves – but they didn’t do themselves in!
    What was it about suicide? Everybody wanted to know, to get in on the act. They all wanted to know why. Why did he kill himself? Why? If we knew the answer, would it make sense? Because it wasn’t the details that mattered. The details were clear, the whys and wherefores not so clear. Not so clear? If the truth was told, murky would be a good word. And no matter what you did, when your friend killed himself, the meaning of it all just fell through your hands like mist between your fingers. Why’d he do it? If Lou knew that, he probably wouldn’t have done it.
    Max and he could be spraying together right now. He could’ve told Lou about the tunnel and the blood and the autumn leaves, swinging and swaying, laying down paint like they were rich men, leaving vaporous trails of purple, making love to the wall, stroking the piece out. With Lou, Max could’ve stayed there forever, swinging on the end of the rope, arms outstretched, touching the outer edges of a circle, reaching for a star. Getting some balance.
    Standing in the shadows, Max watched the security car patrol down the street. A black bird glided past, following the power lines. With the guards now out of sight, he rode along Wellington Street, gusts of wind skittering papers ahead of him. The time was 12:45 am.
    The Tan Dai grocery lay in darkness. Upstairs, a small light shone dimly from a back room.

13

    A NYTHING WRONG WITH YOUR PHONE, son?’ Max had been outside the principal’s office for most of the afternoon.
    â€˜Not that I know of, Sir. Although I think I heard dad saying something about it the other day.’
    â€˜Well, after last night’s little effort, you better tell your father that if I can’t get through on the phone, I’ll be coming to your house in person.’
    Max swallowed. ‘I told you, sir. That graffiti didn’t have anything to do with me. I was looking after my brother. You can check with my father if you like, Sir.’
    Lying was beginning to grow on him. When nothing seemed certain, truth and lies shimmered like a mirage.
    He caught sight of Mai walking down the corridor. He gave her a look that said, ‘Don’t go. Wait for me.’
    â€˜I know what you told me, son! It’s not only the vandal-ism and the police visiting our school. It’s your attitude. You seem to be a student intent on shooting out of orbit.’
    Max looked away. The walls outside the office were lined with old school photos – girls in black shorts leapt over hurdles, swimmers turned their heads as they touched the finishing lines, an old teacher in overalls who lived for the school and one day died on the job. There were no photos of champion graffiti artists on these walls.
    Mr Davidson heaved a sigh. ‘Very well. Off you go – and don’t forget to tell your father. I’m serious, Max!’
    He watched the boy traipse up the corridor, asking himself why he’d even bothered to say such an ineffectual thing. Of course he was serious. But Max seemed to be serious as well. Mr Davidson went back into his office wondering if there was a company that could scrub paint from porous bricks.

    Max’s head was in a whirl after his talk with Mr Davidson. He leapt down the front stairs of the school. The street was deserted. But when he looked again, there she was, standing under the plane trees, among their fallen leaves.
    Max ran over to her. He stood for that second that always seems like an hour, then reached out and grabbed her by the hand. It felt natural.
    â€˜Max. Hello. You in trouble again?’
    â€˜No – yeah. Kind of.’
    â€˜Is it about that?’ she asked, pointing to the top of the main school building.
    He turned around, knowing exactly where to look. His belly leapt and a