Howzat

by Mark Peters

Chapter 1

The week before Christmas didn't feel like Christmas at all.

It felt dry. It felt like heat. And it felt like yet another new start in another new town, as sixteen-year-old Cameron Lewis watched the removal van back into the driveway of his family's new home, being guided into the yard by his bank-manager father.

This seemed to be the pattern of the last ten years or so, and he couldn't help but wonder if it would ever actually end. He was tired of making friends, and losing friends. Then he wondered what Brett might be doing right now.

A squeal of brakes snapped him back to the present, as the truck came to a stop about five metres from the garage roll-a-door, and the steps leading up to the front door of the modest brick home.

The air seemed to shimmer. Everything smelled like dry grass and diesel. And the cicadas screamed their eternal summer song from the treetops.

Welcome to Riverbridge. That was what the sign had said when they drove into town this morning. Cam wasn't sure just yet whether he was meant to feel welcomed, but he hoped that things might be different this time.

Two removalists stepped down from the truck and came to the back of it, where Cam and his father were standing, then quickly dropped the ramp and opened up the rear doors, revealing the contents of their lives, packed up in boxes or wrapped in blankets and covers. After they spoke briefly with Cam's father, who soon opened up the garage roll-a-door, they busied themselves with the unloading, stacking most of the manageable sized boxes on the front porch, while taking most of the furniture straight into the garage, from where it could be taken into the house as needed.

The heat of the morning was sitting heavily on his shoulders as he stood aside in front of a house that didn't feel like his yet, watching two removalists haul furniture from the back of a truck. His mum had already disappeared inside with a clipboard and a list. His dad hovered near the truck, making small talk and handing over bottles of water. Cam stood uselessly to one side, holding nothing, doing nothing, his shirt already sticking to his back.

'Go for a walk if you want,' his dad said, glancing over. 'Get a feel for the place.'

'You sure?' Cam ventured to ask.

'May as well, but we'll need to start getting some rooms set up later . . . after lunch, maybe.'

Cam nodded, grateful for the excuse, and slipped away down the street before anyone could hand him a box.

The neighbourhood seemed strangely quiet in that pre-Christmas way, with decorations half-up, lights unlit in the full glare of the morning sun, and lawns already browned off by summer. It wasn't like this back in the city, that's for sure. Back there it was all go, go, go, with noise everywhere you went. It was going to take a bit of getting used to, he figured.

Cam walked with his hands in the pockets of his jeans, while he could feel beads of sweat trickling down his back, beneath his t-shirt. Beneath the soles of his joggers he could also feel the heat of the concrete footpath, and he thought about stepping off the concrete for a moment, and just walking on the dry grass beside it, until that was, he approached an intersection, and he needed to make a decision as to which way to go.

While he pondered that thought he heard shouting, followed by a cheer going up. Laughter. Catcalls. The sharp, unmistakable crack of something hard hitting something else.

He slowed, then followed the sound, which was coming from somewhere down the road to his left, until coming to a vacant lot about half-way along the block and on the opposite side of the road. Looking over the road he could see a stretch of dry grass and bare dirt bordered by a few scraggly gum trees. A timber fence ran along one side, its palings faded and rough. A few were even missing. Along the other side there was a netting fence, and at the back of the lot, which seemed to drop away, there was bushland and trees.

And there on that parched block of land, a group of boys were playing cricket.

Not proper cricket, of course. No whites. No pads or helmets. Just shorts and singlets and bare feet or joggers, a tennis ball and a battered bat. A makeshift pitch could be seen in the middle of the lot, with stumps hammered into the dirt at one end. An upturned garbage bin stood guard at the other. Dust puffed up with every step, and the air buzzed with heat and noise and easy familiarity.

Cam crossed the road and stopped near the fence, half in the shade, leaning against it, and watched. He couldn't help but smile.

Running his eyes over the rag-tag group of boys, the boy at the crease caught his attention immediately.

He was maybe seventeen, tall and loose-limbed, with dark hair falling into his eyes and a kind of confidence that said this was his domain and he knew what he was doing. He held the bat easily, comfortably, like it was an extension of himself. Someone called something from the outfield, and he grinned without looking back.

Across from him, a red-haired boy paced back, ball in hand, tossing it up and down a few times as he walked, then turned and began his run-up.

Cam watched the bowler's feet pound the dry earth, watched his arm come up, watched the ball leave his hand.

The bat sliced through the air and connected, with a sharp crack, and the ball skidded along the ground and slammed into the fence right near Cam with a loud whack. The vibration travelled through the timber and into his shoulder.

'That'll be a four!' someone yelled.

'Oi! Nice one!'

'Shot, Tommy!'

The red-haired bowler groaned theatrically. A couple of boys laughed.

The ball rolled to a stop at Cam's feet. Without thinking, he stepped forward and picked it up. It was warm in his hand, gritty with dust.

One of the boys – freckle-faced, hair bleached blond from summer – jogged over, grinning, and Cam tossed it to him. The boy nodded his thanks and turned to throw it back in.

Cam looked up, to find the batter was staring at him.

Not a glance. Not a casual look.

Staring.

Their eyes met and held, and for a few seconds, everything else . . . the shouting, the cicadas, the heat . . . seemed to be a blur around the edges. The boy rested the bat against his shoulder, watching Cam with open curiosity, like he was trying to work something out.

Cam's stomach did a strange, slow flip. He'd experienced this before.

The bowler called out and began another run-up. The batter finally looked away and set himself.

The ball came in.

It was loose, too high, too easy. The bat connected cleanly, and the ball soared upward, spinning against the bright sky.

It flew straight towards Cam.

Time did that stupid thing it does sometimes, where everything slows and Cam's thoughts scattered.

It's coming to me. It's actually coming to me.

Yet, he barely had to move. A step to the side, arms lifting, his hands closing instinctively and the ball landing solidly in his palms, which he then brought into his chest, just like he'd always been taught.

For half a second there was silence.

Then the lot erupted.

Cheers, groans, laughter. Someone whooped. Someone else yelled, 'Out!'

The batter threw his head back in exaggerated misery. 'Oh, come on! It's clearly a six!'

'Yeah, but six is out anyhow!' another boy teased.

Cam laughed, startled by the sound of it, and lowered his hands, still holding the ball. His heart was racing for reasons that didn't quite add up.

The batter started walking towards him, bat held loosely in one hand, beckoning Cam closer with the other. They met halfway across the lot.

'That was quite a catch,' the boy said, smiling.

Cam shrugged, suddenly aware of his own awkwardness. 'It just came to me.'

'We play Out goes In around here,' the boy said. 'So you're up next.'

Cam blinked. 'What?'

The boy grinned wider. 'You caught me. That means you're in.'

'But . . . I don't even know you guys,' Cam said. 'I'm only just moving in.'

'All the more reason,' the boy with the floppy, dark hair replied easily. He held out his hand. 'Tom Madden.'

Cam took it. 'Cam Lewis.'

Tom's handshake was warm and confident, his grip lingering just a fraction longer than was necessary. Cam liked that. He also liked the spark that seemed to flow between them. But what did that mean?

'Well,' Tom said, releasing him, 'now we know each other. And you're in.'

Before Cam could protest, Tom shoved the bat into his hands. It was heavier than he expected, the handle worn smooth from use, the blade marked from misuse.

'Just try not to get out first ball,' Tom added. 'No pressure, but it can make things awkward with the guys.'

A few of the boys laughed.

Cam walked to the crease on unsteady legs, copying Tom's stance as best he could. He'd played a bit of cricket at school in his previous towns, but he had never taken it seriously. A Golden Duck on his first official Saturday game had seen to that. It was hard to get excited about cricket after that inglorious debut.

The bowler sent the ball down hard and fast, and Cam flinched, but somehow managed to block it. The ball thudded harmlessly away.

'Run!' someone yelled on the next ball, and Cam ran because everyone else did, lungs burning, heart hammering.

He didn't last long. On Tom's over, Cam swung cleanly and sent the ball up, only for it to take out middle stump.

'Howzat!!!' one of the kids yelled out.

He walked towards Tom and held out the bat for him.

'Unlucky,' Tom said as he accepted the bat.

'At least I didn't get out first ball,' Cam replied.

Tom laughed, before pointing to one of the kids in the outfield. 'Simmo! You're in!' he commanded.

The new kid, Simmo, a strawberry-blond, freckle-faced kid, whooped and then ran in, gladly accepting the bat, while someone else threw the ball back to Tom. Cam suddenly felt like he was part of the game, part of the noise and the heat and the dust. And when he walked away later, back towards the house full of boxes and unfamiliar rooms, he couldn't quite shake the feeling that something important had just happened.

That night, after having set up the bed in his room, and then finding some of the boxes with his own belongings and unpacking them, Cam started the long process of making the place his own. As he placed clothes in the drawers and hung others in the walk-in-robe, he found his thoughts drifting back to the dusty lot and the impromptu game, where he had been welcomed like a local.

He had found it a little odd, but at the same time he was excited at the thought he had already made some potential friends. For the first time in days he found himself thinking not about Brett, the guy who he had been closest to in the last town he had called home, and the first guy with whom he had been intimate, but instead about the tall boy with the floppy, dark hair and emerald-green eyes, Tom Madden, and wondering how soon it might be before he sees him again.

He had little to worry about, however, as over the days that followed, Cam kept running into Tom, time and time again. In fact, he had soon discovered that they lived on the same street.

The first time he saw him was at the nearby petrol station when he had been with his mother, and the two of them had found themselves at the same ice cream freezer at the same time. Then again on the main street, ducking into the same milk bar to escape the heat. And one time in the arcade at the local shopping centre, though he was with a girl that time, which made Cam's heart sink and his stomach lurch. Then there was another late afternoon, down by the river at the park in the middle of town, shoes off, skipping stones across slow-moving water.

Afterwards, as the afternoon light ebbed away, they sat there talking, while the world went on around them. They talked about everything, yet nothing much at all. Music, school, movies they'd half-watched and forgotten. Tom was easy to talk to, relaxed and funny without trying too hard. He never asked Cam anything too personal, never pushed. For that reason, Cam feared asking anything too personal of Tom, even though he had really wanted to.

At first, their chance meetings had felt like they were accidental. But were they? Cam just had this feeling . . . or something . . .

He soon found out that the lot was more than just a place where the guys played the odd game of cricket, it was a meeting place at almost any time of day, especially during holidays. A known drop-in place. Sometimes just a couple of guys might be hanging out, while at other times there might be ten or so. Cam got to know most of them by name, or at least by their nickname. There was Bluey, who was the red-headed bowler from that first day in town. Brandy, whose surname was Alexander, so Brandy Alexander it was . . . not that he knew what that really meant. Others were easy to decipher, though. Smithy. Macca. Simmo. Even a Porky . . . but the kid didn't look fat in the slightest. Maybe it was from when he was much younger.

Tom's nickname was usually just Mads . . . but occasionally he would get called Slugger, and so far, Cam hadn't been able to find out how that came about, despite his quiet enquiries. He could take a guess, of course, but figured he probably shouldn't ask too many questions.

There was something else about the lot that Cam quickly found out as well; it wasn't far through the scrub at the bottom of the lot, to a slow-moving waterhole in the river that passed through town. Here was a place where they could while away their time without having to worry about parents or friends invading their space, and talk for hours on end. It was here where Cam really took notice of things. The way Tom listened. The way his smile softened when Cam laughed. The fact that neither of them mentioned girlfriends, except in the vague, offhand way people did when they were expected to.

'Just been busy,' Tom said once, shrugging.

'Yeah,' Cam replied. 'Same here, I guess. But didn't I see you with a girl in the mall the other day? I just assumed . . .'

'Nah,' Tom replied. 'Not a girlfriend. That was my cousin, Felicity. Probably the only person in the world who really gets me.'

'Ahhh . . . right. Makes you sound, I don't know, complicated.'

'Nah. Not complicated. I just . . . maybe I just have a side that I don't show all that often.'

'I see.'

'So, nobody significant for you, then?'

'Not really. There was someone I was kind of interested in, but . . . well, we moved.'

'Bummer.'

'Yeah, but maybe I'll meet someone here,' Cam replied, while giving Tom a sideways glance.

'Maybe you will,' replied Tom.

They started meeting there on purpose after that, sitting in the shade by the water, sharing headphones, passing a cold drink back and forth. Sometimes they were alone, sometimes there were others. Sometimes they were shirtless, sometimes they were down to boxers and swimming lazy circles in the placid pool. Time stretched in that lazy summer way, with afternoons bleeding into evenings without either of them really noticing.

Often, they sat close enough that Cam could feel Tom's arm brush his, the contact brief but electric. Yet neither moved away.

Then the moment came quietly.

They were sitting on the grass, backs against a tree, watching the sky shift colours as the heat eased. Cam shifted his weight, and Tom did the same, and suddenly they bumped shoulders.

Cam froze. So did Tom. And for one breathless second, Cam was acutely aware of everything: the warmth of Tom's body, the sound of his breathing, the unmistakable, embarrassing awareness that shot through him.

Tom leaned back first, laughing softly. 'Sorry.'

'Yeah,' Cam said quickly. 'Me too.'

They didn't talk about it.

They didn't need to.

It was just a moment they were both acutely aware of.

A short while later, as the cicadas sang their evening song, they realised it was time to head home, so reluctantly Tom got to his feet, while holding out a hand for Cam. When he pulled Cam to his feet, this time their bodies collided, as Cam overbalanced while getting up and came in full contact with Tom.

Cam's arms somehow became wrapped around Tom's waist as their bodies from head to hips came in contact, and in that brief, awkward moment, both sets of eyes registered surprise when the two boys realised the other was in a state of excitement that could not be mistaken.

Quickly they stepped back, embarrassed, yet not really.

'S-sorry about that,' Cam mumbled.

'Nothing to be sorry for, mate,' Tom replied, while offering a wry smile, before then brushing some grass and leaves off Cam's arm, which created another spark.

They walked home in thoughtful near silence after that, with little being said until they reached their street and the driveways into their homes.

'Want to come in for a drink?' Tom asked, while glancing across the road towards his home, where his father's four-wheel-drive sat in the driveway. 'Looks like the old man is home.'

'You sure that it's okay?'

'Absolutely,' Tom replied. 'You've got to meet him sooner or later. I promise, he won't bite.'

'Well, that's always good to know,' Cam replied, with a chuckle, before they set off for number eleven, Murrumbidgee Street.

And then the next day was Christmas, with the morning arriving bright and hot.

'Merry Christmas,' Tom had said when they had spoken briefly on the phone that morning.

'Yeah, Merry Christmas,' Cam replied, with his thoughts still on the previous afternoon.

Tom was leaving to visit his grandparents; the family car already packed with their contribution for Christmas dinner. Cam stood across the road with his parents, watching.

An hour or so later, they waved as the car pulled away, Cam standing there longer than he needed to, watching as the four-wheel-drive pulled away, heat pressing down all around him, and the street suddenly far too quiet.

The morning dragged. It was strange spending Christmas so quietly . . . with no family visiting, or being close enough for them to visit. It was just Cam and his parents, who were now busying themselves with more unpacking, and cooking. Cam drifted in and out of rooms that still smelled unfamiliar, restless and unsettled, his thoughts somewhere out on the highway leading from town. Lunch was subdued, though they still managed all the Christmas trimmings. They'd be eating cold ham and turkey, followed by trifle and ice cream, for days to come.

By mid-afternoon he told his parents he was going for a walk and wandered back towards the lot, empty now, the grass golden in the low sun. He had no idea when Tom might be home, but he had hoped that someone, anyone, would drop by, yet he was alone.

Sitting close to where he'd first met Tom he realised, with a small jolt of clarity, that he missed his new friend. Not abstractly. Not hypothetically. But he actually missed him. That accidental touch and the realisation they had both been in a similar state the previous afternoon, and then seeing Tom's bedroom with all those sexy sportsmen – no women – plastered over the walls, had seemed to answer so many questions that had been in Cam's head these past few days. The next question, however, would be whether anything else might come of it?

With nothing happening at the lot, he decided to venture through the bush, down to the river. It was always quieter there, further away from the traffic and the town, with just the sounds of the bush. It gave him time to think.

Pulling off his shirt, he tucked it into the waistband of his shorts, and immediately felt cooler, with the slightest of breezes caressing his damp skin. When he reached the river, he pulled off his shoes, then tossed his shirt on top of them, before wading out into the water, revelling in the feel of his feet sinking into the sandy bottom. The cool water felt magical as he waded out deeper, and when it lapped at is privates, he decided to go all in. He dropped to his knees, letting the water come up to his chin, and then pushed off, striking out using a breaststroke and swimming out deeper, before stopping and treading water for a few moments, where his feet weren't touching the bottom, and then heading back towards the shore.

Just that little dip, as he reached the shallows and finally stood, river water dripping from his shining skin, made him feel alive. This town was beginning to feel like something he had never felt before. Could this be the place he might finally get to call home?

Cam didn't hear the footsteps approach. It was only when a shadow was cast over him that he reacted and opened his eyes, finding Tom standing there and looking down at him, a little flushed, hair messier than usual, smiling like he'd been holding it in.

'You're back,' Cam said, as he sat up, then shielded his eyes from the sun, so he could get a better look at his friend.

'Couldn't stay away,' Tom replied, then winced slightly, as if surprised by his own honesty.

Cam reached up a hand, and once more Tom pulled him to his feet, as the sun dipped lower, the cicadas rising again, and the air cooling just enough.

Once more they came together, only this time nobody stepped back. With his hands on Tom's hips, Cam pulled him closer, until their bodies touched, and the fresh rush of blood was felt by both of them.

'I missed you,' he said quietly.

Tom nodded. 'Me too.'

'Even though it was only for the one day.'

'Yeah, even then.'

Cam smiled at him.

The first kiss came naturally. There was no rushing it. And there was no doubt in their minds.

When they separated, their foreheads still touching and their arms still holding each other in place, Cam quietly asked, 'When did you know?'

'That moment when you picked up the ball and stepped out of the shade of the trees. I thought you were simply beautiful,' Tom answered. 'What about you?'

'When you were staring at me straight after I picked up that ball, I knew I needed to get to know you. But when we shook hands, before you handed me the bat and sent me in, when our hands touched that first time, it was like there was a spark or something.'

Tom grinned back at him and said, 'Must be my electric personality,' but then he leaned in once more for another kiss.

This was what was wanted. What was needed, in fact. Just two boys, on a summer evening, finally understanding what it was they'd already caught. Finally understanding what it was they were both feeling. And this time, neither of them stepped back, or let go of the other.

This time, they both knew that what they had was the beginnings of something quite real, that would carry them into a promising future.

END

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Howzat

by Mark Peters

Chapter 1