The Best Thing He Ever Wrote

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

A pigeon sits fair in the driveway. It fluffs up and then sticks its head between muffled feathers, pulls out a few and then begins to coo. I watch it bewildered, as though I've never seen an everyday pigeon in the yard before. I want to reach for it and pat it, or at least see if it's ok. I want to bring it into the house for my mother so she thinks I really am her kind-hearted son she used to love.

I move a step away from the front door, a step closer to the pigeon. It turns its head, eyes widening in fear. It sits there for a moment before stretching out its wings and with a coo its grey body begins to blow with the breeze. It flies off.

I sigh, rearranging the stack of papers under my arm. One piece slips from the pile landing in a flutter onto the grass. In the corner there's me, smiling like a goof ball at the camera, wearing an ironed black t-shirt that looks half descent. Then under that it reads; Brandon Mawbray. Then it lists a few details, qualities, prior work experience...

I pick it up, stacking it on the bottom of the paper pile under my arm. I'm half pissed off because the only other place I worked at under 'prior work experience' is at was the box factory my father manages. The place where he fired me because I became so bored that I built a triangular pyramid out of dull brown packing boxes. He couldn't have his son be shown as felony, useless and of course reckless.

Havenstone is known for its boxes, like some towns are known for their mines or high educating schools. No, I let out a small laugh, Havenstone is known for none the less then its spectacular boxes!

Number two reason why I'm pissed it because damned Sydney wore my good t-shirt and when he died almost all of his clothes went to charity; including that top. Sydney is probably looking down at me right now laughing like there's no tomorrow. Although, I guess in his case, there probably isn't.

I look over at the Ute, I need a job for two reasons as well; one for the sake of getting my parents off my back, and two so I can afford petrol for the Ute. I guess there's three reasons, I sigh, getting into the truck.

Three- so I can move the hell out of the house and stop 'leeching'.

I sit and wait for a further five minutes, I watch the school bus go by me and then stop a little further off from me again. I used to catch that bus, to the place of no purpose, for me anyway. I don't feel bad for quitting half way through the year; some people just don't suit certain things. In my case being sat down in front of a board didn't do much assistance. In fact my parents can shove it, seeing neither one finished high school let alone grade ten, in which I accomplished. It's not even as though they had to work two extra jobs to drag together the money for my education...

I focus further forward to the big white bus ahead of my Ute, I make sure Cindy gets on it. I do this almost every day not letting on the hint that I actually do, although I'm sure she sees me. I just want to make sure people stay away from her, not that she's ever said anything about bullying. I just know pretty well that some of those kids on that bus need a good hit in the head so they're facing the right way. And, I suppose, that she just gets on that bus.

What can I say; I'm a fairly ok brother even though she doesn't deserve it.

The bus rumbles. Black smoke smothers the semi-clean air. It pulls forward. The bus begins to trudge along nosily down the road. So noisy that it almost seems just as illegal as my Ute.

I watch after the bus for a long moment, as it turns this way and that. I watch people run up and down it's isle as it turns a sharp corner and is totally out of sight. Then I kick over, following the same path as the bus, I watch it stop as more people climb a bored. I watch more smoke and hear more grumbles of its engine. I then pull up at its last stop, deciding it’s better to wait for it to get on the main road and take the exit I'm not going to take. I'm not too flash at overtaking, not that I've really tried.