The bus stop

The pack moved restlessly to the bus stop. They were unsettled, hanging around, waiting for something else to happen. They’d been left unsatisfied and were revved to the max. Because of the delay, most of us had missed our usual school buses. That meant there were even more of us squashed into a minuscule patch of grass just inside the school gates. We weren’t allowed outside the gates because some moron had managed to get himself flattened by a souped-up Torana three years ago. The kid was fine now, but Waddlehead has never got over it.

I don’t know why we had to suffer because some idiot forgot to follow his road rules. But that was the way things went at St. Andrew’s College Lakeside. Lakeside was the name of the fake suburb where the school was built and, like most things at St. Andrew’s, the idea of it being near any kind of water, let alone a lake, was bullshit.

I made my way over to where the boys were. Jock was causing havoc, as usual, running around trying to give any unsuspecting junior a wedgie. Tim, who was always up for anything, was Jock’s accomplice. They’d worked out this routine: they’d cash in on their rugby-hero status and their size, single out a kid, make him feel really important, and then one of them, normally Jock, would move in behind and give the poor unsuspecting bastard a wedgie. The other kids would fall about cracking up, leaving the victim not knowing whether to join in or throw a complete hissy fit. The funniest thing was, though, once they’d readjusted themselves, most of them looked like they thought it was the best joke ever. Some even asked, sometimes begged, for Jock and Tim to do it to them next. Sad.

Jock looked up above his midget fan club and waved me over.

I shook my head and dropped my bag in our regular patch of grass. I noticed that one of the midgets had set up camp nearby with a music case half his size. He was definitely loving the Tim and Jock show—but only from a very safe distance. I was about to point out that he had to wait another four years before he’d earned the right to step on senior ground when I made eye contact. There was no way I could have told those eyes to get lost, they were too … trusting. Anyway, he wasn’t hurting anyone and if he went over there and became the next victim, I wasn’t going to protect him. I left the big-brother stuff to Jock and Tim.

If I thought about it, Tim and Jock were my closest mates, except for Chris. Chris was my best mate, but because he lived across the road from the school he’d never been a part of the bus bonding. This was something that had killed him in Years 7 and 8 but now, when we were whingeing about bad body odor on thirty-degree days, he just smiled and told us he’d be home relaxing after a cool shower in two minutes’ time.

Jock, Tim and me had gone through the same routine since we’d begged our mums in Year 7 not to drop us at the school gates and kiss us in front of our mates. And even worse, be at the bus stop when we got home! Back then catching the bus was considered a rite of passage. But now, four years down the track, it was a pain in the arse. The anticipation of our own set of keys to a car, any car, teased all of us. One more year before we could be masters of our own destinies and do as many burnouts as we wanted.

At least this year was different. We had finally crawled our way up the bus chain and graduated to the top of the pyramid. The bus law of St. Andrew’s may not have been written in the student diary but every St. Andrew’s kid knew it. After five years we had earned the right to total bus control and power. We got on the bus first, the backseat was ours, and if anyone was going to peg something at someone it either came from us or was cleared by us. Only the Year 12 boys could pull rank. It was part of the unwritten student code, the one that teachers know nothing about.