Free The Year My Life Broke by John Marsden Page A

hand . . . well, he’d said he didn’t like cricket, or didn’t play, I couldn’t remember which. We’d played twice before, not for long, and he’d gone all right, but this time he was hopeless. I was bowling really slowly, but I still got him out three times in four balls. The third time he started crying, standing at the crease holding the bat, with tears running down his face. I was used to Callan and Pippa chucking tantrums when they got out, and claiming it was unfair, but this was different. He wasn’t complaining about anything; he was crying for no reason. He looked like someone who thought life was crap, had always been crap and would always be crap.
    The cop was kind to him and said, ‘Maybe it’s time to go home now, Woody.’
    He said, in between sobs, ‘It’s not home and my name’s not Woody; stop calling me that.’
    The cop looked at Callan and me with an expression that said, ‘You weren’t meant to hear that,’ and he took Woody by the arm and led him away, not over the fence like they normally did, but down our driveway and up the driveway of the house next door.
    â€˜Sheez,’ said Callan, ‘what gives with that kid? And how come he always has a cop with him?’
    I was a bit shocked. ‘How do you know they’re cops?’
    Callan shrugged. ‘Woody told me a week ago. Anyway, it’s obvious. They look like cops, they talk like cops, they act like cops. What else they gunna be?’
    Trust Callan; that kid always called it like he saw it.
    But I was worried that Woody had been talking so freely to Callan. I didn’t know if Callan could be trusted to keep a secret for more than five minutes. I didn’t mention it to Mum and Dad, which may have been a mistake, but I can’t see how it would have changed anything.
    Pippa and Callan went off to bed sometime between 8.30 and 9 pm, with Mum saying like she did every night: ‘It’s too late for children their age; they should have been in bed an hour ago.’
    I got sent off at about 9.15. It was just like any other night, except that I didn’t feel a bit tired. I lay there thinking about Woody, and worrying about the game against Maxwell. Poor Woody. What was his real name? What was going on in his life? And the cricket, would I make any runs tomorrow? Or get out for a golden duck? Would Tarrawagga get humiliated or would we actually win something for once?
    I stared at a book about sharks for fifteen minutes without reading more than three pages, then Dad came and turned out my light. I lay in the darkness, still wide awake. I wasn’t only thinking about Woody and the game against Maxwell. It was all the stuff going on in my life, with my mum and dad and everything. Since we’d lost our money I hadn’t slept too well. And tonight didn’t seem like it’d be an exception.
    I heard the TV go off, and Mum and Dad going to bed. More time passed. I shut my eyes for a while, then opened them again. I gazed out through the window.
    I’d set up my bed to face the back lawn, because I liked the view. The moon must have been out, because I could see the trees and the tree house. I saw a possum run along the top of the fence between our place and where Woody was staying. It got almost to the end, trotting along casually, minding its own business. Then suddenly it crouched down and froze, staring into our backyard. I looked where it was looking, expecting I might see a cat maybe, or another possum.
    But what I saw sent my body prickling all over. I broke out in prickles from head to foot. A man was moving from one tree to another. If he hadn’t moved I wouldn’t have seen him, because he was dressed in really dark clothes. When he stopped again and stood by the tree that held our cubby I had a lot of trouble making him out.
    My skin kept crawling like I had goose pimples running up and down me in waves. I felt paralysed,