90 Packets of Instant Noodles by Deb Fitzpatrick Read Free Book Online Page B

welling pissedoffness in me like I want to break out and run around and shout or something, but there’s nothing out there, and just being in here makes me want to break things. Everything is so the same, and there’s nothing to do. I want to see Bella! I want to talk to her about things, tell her I’m gunna get my shit together. I want to see her play soccer. I bet there’s dudes ogling her from the sidelines, especially now with me gone.
    I’ve gotta get some music happening in here. That stupid old granny radio is gunna get smashed shortly. It might get smashed in a second if I don’t chill out. Every time I turn it on there’s someone droning on about when to plant your petunias or how to prune your lemon tree: it makes me nauseous. I think I’m going schizo out here. My brain is frying and there’s no one to help me get perspective. McPhee got what he wanted, I guess: for Joel to fry a fuse. That’s what he would have been betting on, for sure.
    The rain’s getting harder. Now I know why no one builds houses with tin roofs anymore, it’s like getting your head drilled in the middle of the night.
    The letter from Craggs is lying unopened on the table next to Dad’s. I slump down, and focus on it warily. Does it count as a breach of my conditions, even reading a letter from Craggs? Do I really want to read this? I have to read this, I say out loud, and tear it open before I can change my mind.

    Blowjoel,

    Bet you never expected me to write, eh? What’s that? You never thought I could write? That’s ten years in the slammer for that misdemeanour, you little shit. Well, I figured you may need the company out there with no one to chew the spew with. Me, I’m lucky—I’ve got Crusty and Max to listen to all day, every day. They like to go over their best gigs, mainly car jobs, so I’m learning heaps. And of course there’s always the gym to go to and get rid of some of that pent-up fuckedupness. Needless to say, mate, there’s a fair few mini Arnies around the place.

    No complaints really, though, except that I’m bored shitless—this poxy letter shows you how desperate I am. Part of the deal here is social rehab, i.e. group therapy with some psych about two years older than us who runs these pathetic anger management workshops and—get this—‘Youth in a Changing World’ seminars. Give me a fucking break. Those still awake at the end of the session are probably the biggest psychos.

    Time flies when you’re having fun—only two months to go if I behave myself. I’m trying to work out what you have to do to end up staying longer in here, anyway. Last night a kid tried to karate chop a warden and I would have thought that’d count for an extra day or two but so far he’s only been denied gym access, and you’d think they’d taken his teddy away or something, the way he’s carrying on.

    Think Sull’s got a fair whack longer to do. Eight months, no probation, they said. He’s in some other joint way out woop-woop.

    Mum visited me, which was pretty bad. She cried and shit. I told her to thank the old man for coming.

    Anyway, where the hell are ya? All I’ve heard is ‘down south somewhere’ and ‘in hiding’. Mum told me where to write to but where the fuck is Nallerup? Isn’t that the joint where all the magic mushies grow—remember they caught a whole bunch of hippies a couple of years ago picking em out of some farmer’s paddock? I’m there! Any spare room on the floor? Reckon I’ll need a holiday after this little tour of duty, and I don’t think the old man’ll be opening the door for me, so whaddya reckon?

    Take it easy and spin me some news. Like me new address?

    Craggles
    I read over Craggs’s letter again. I put it down. I read it again.
    The envelope is stamped: Banksia Hill Juvenile Detention Centre.
    Fucken hell.
    I