The Crush by Scott Monk Read Free Book Online

still left one question. Who had sent him the hundred bucks?
    â€˜Are you sure you didn’t send me a card?’
    â€˜Quite sure. I might be fifty-eight, but don’t put me in the old folks home yet.’
    â€˜Why? What’s wrong?’ his mum asked, suspicious.
    â€˜Nothing. I just thought Nan must have sent that other card I got today. The sender forgot to write their name on it.’
    His mum and grandmother exchanged a quick glance.
    â€˜It must be from one of your old friends then,’ his mum offered.
    â€˜That wouldn’t be surprising, what with the number of times you two have moved homes. How many times is it now? Five? Six?’
    â€˜Does anyone want dessert?’ his mum asked.

Wednesday began just like every other cool but clearing August morning. Clouds breezed through the blue sky that promised a mildly warm day and threatened late showers. Streams of Corollas, Commodores and Falcons started clogging the major roads as people finished their rushed breakfast and groggy goodbye kisses. Trains stalled and started, stalled and started between stations carrying loads of unhappy commuters. And houses echoed with screams about who had stolen whose hairbrush.
    Weeds danced at Matt’s ankles as he ran along the chainlink fence of the Chullora railway yard. Sweat teemed off his elbows, knees and chin as he glanced at the rusted coal, petrol, stock and flatbed carriages parked in the distance. Each swallow was dry andgravelly. Cramps riddled his calf muscles and sides, still agitated even after a good night’s sleep. But he fought on. Pain was good.
    A freight truck shuddered loudly beside him, blasting him with barrelling hot air. The stinking breath was nearly enough to knock him over. Exhausted, he stopped and doubled up, sucking in lungfuls of diesel fumes, smog and dust as he tried to regain his breath.
    He looked around him as he stretched against a telegraph pole to rub the splintery cramps from his legs. An advertising billboard down the road caught his attention. It showed a proud father teaching his five-year-old son how to shave. The pitch was for a brand of electric razor. Matt stared at it for a moment, then sighed. Time to move on.
    Regaining his rhythm, he made his way home. School started in fifty minutes and he needed to shower, shave and catch the bus. He turned a corner and nearly smacked into twin boys. They were no older than the boy in the billboard and still dressed in their pyjamas. They’d shot out of their driveway to fight for a rolled-up newspaper on the nature strip. Their father chased after them, hid them behind his legs then apologised to Matt.
    â€˜Sorry. They’re terrors, you know. We all were once, right? C’mon, boys. Back inside.’
    Their father scruffed their heads then led them into the house.
    Eyes down, Matt tore out of there. He sprinted as hard and fast as he could, clenching his teeth against the ache building up inside him. He kept running and running and running until the pain ripped through his legs, chest and throat like little powersaws. His tendons felt like snapping and his heart rupturing. But instead of slowing down, he pushed himself harder and faster until sweat, speed and agony blinded him.
    Ssscccrrreeeeeeccchhh!
    A car nearly splattered him all over the evening news.
    â€˜What are you trying to do, you stupid kid? Kill yourself!’ Stunned, Matt stared back at the driver, too scared to speak. The driver shouted at him again. He finally fought off the daze, and didn’t hang round to argue.
    With a quick twist, a tap blasted water into Matt’s cupped hands. Kneeling in a corner of a small park, he threw the liquid into his face. Slivers dripped from his palms and elbows as he ran his fingers down his cheeks. He was shaking, which was good. It meant that he was still alive.
    Relax, man. Relax. It had been a scare, that’s all.
    He hated this time of the year. The time around his birthday. The