Jasper Jones (27 page)

Eliza clutches my arm.

“Jeffrey is amazing! I didn’t know he was so good!”

“Oh, he can play,” I say, feeling simultaneously proud and jealous.

Jeffrey plays the spinner with some caution. He’s surrounded by close fielders; they form a tight ring around him. The first two balls he defends ably. The third ball drops short, or short enough for a certified midget like Jeffrey to get underneath it and pull it onto the on side. And the ball sails. He’s hit it well. One bounce and it’s over the line.

The Blackburn captain has his hands on his head, looking baffled and irritated. The next ball Jeffrey belts hard. The crack of it echoes around this little amphitheater, and all eyes watch as the ball fizzes through the infield. The sideline experts begin to nod and tilt their
heads. The Corrigan side cluster around the coach. And Jeffrey Lu, for the first time in his life, might be garnering grudging respect.

At the end of the over, a runner skips out with a drink and a message. The game must be close. I see Jeffrey accept the cup and nod his head. I can scarcely believe it. Not only have they furnished Jeffrey Lu with a refreshing drink, but they’re conveying information like he’s a real teammate.

Jeffrey jogs back to the crease. He looks like he’s been playing the game for twenty years.

The field is slightly less generous. Another small sign of respect. Even so, Jeffrey slots in a boundary with a cheeky glide past backward point, and manages to keep the strike.

I am not sure of the score, or how many balls there are left to play, which keeps my nerves at boiling point. But Jeffrey elicits no signs of panic or pressure. He’s playing it smart and sure. He bats patiently, waiting for a half-chance to strike. And when it presents, he executes expertly. Toward the end of the next over, he neatly lofts a full ball straight, which scutters over the line. He plays the same stroke for the last ball, but doesn’t hit it cleanly. Fortunately, they run three and Jeffrey holds strike again.

The bowler replacing the Veteran seems just as angry, but a little less consistent. Frustrated, he sprays the ball wide, trying to bowl too fast, and Jeffrey capitalizes.

The next over is the spinner’s last, and Jeffrey lays in. He swash-buckles him, picking the gaps with amazing precision. It’s risky batting, but it is paying off. I really can’t believe this is happening. Eliza and I are smiling at each other, shaking our heads. My spine is tingling. It stuns me to think he is even out there. Jeffrey Lu has taken this game by the nuts. In this frightened town, Jeffrey Lu, its shortest, slightest occupant, is fearless.

It must be getting close. Even tired and bored children are drawn to the sidelines. Even wives who care little for the game sense that something significant is happening. It’s the last ball of the over. The
spinner stands at his mark, tossing the ball to himself while the Blackburn captain screams and marshals his fielders. Jeffrey, resting the bat on his shoulders, takes in the field, nodding at each one as he counts them.

Jeffrey drives well, but an acrobatic piece of fielding denies him a chance to take the strike for the next over. The crowd gasp and mill about. And I realize the next over must be the very last. I have no idea how many runs we need. I watch the coach, the ruddy self-important bastard, as he skirts the boundary with a cigarette between his fat fingers. I look back to Jeffrey, who is chatting mid-pitch with his teammate, pointing and gesturing. I can’t sit still. Eliza grips my arm again, but this time I barely notice. All attention is fixed on the game.

There are six balls left.

The Blackburn captain makes his final arrangements. The bowler takes his mark. He pushes off. Eliza Wishart has taken my hand in hers. This isn’t real. It is too much.

Jeffrey’s plan is to run on the first ball of the over, regardless of where it is hit. He starts sprinting just before the ball is bowled; it goes on to hit the other tailender high on the leg. The Blackburn bowler, sensing Jeffrey’s movement, steps to his right to stand in his path, almost skittling him over and slowing him down significantly. Jeffrey scampers and dives at the crease, but the underarm throw is miraculously wide of the stumps. Jeffrey is safe. Just.

The Corrigan crowd is livid with injustice. They holler and remonstrate from the boundary after the unfair bump. I smile. Not the for the first time this summer, the world has turned on its head. They’re screaming on Jeffrey’s behalf. They’ve got his back, they’re on his side.

As it happens, the umpire issues a stern warning to the bowler, who shrugs him off and petulantly strides back to his mark. The crowd jeers at him.

The next ball Jeffrey punches through cover, zipping through for two runs. And it is with complete disbelief that I hear real encouragement from the sidelines. His teammates. In unison. Those belligerent
bastards, yelling “
Shot
, Cong!” across the field, at once turning an insult into a nickname. Jeffrey’s chest is heaving. For the first time, he turns his head toward the pavilion.

The next ball is flipped easily down wide of fine leg. Jeffrey has placed this well, and he flies through for another two. There are more applause, more visible tension and frustration from the Blackburn team. Jeffrey smears away his sweat with his wrist. The crowd are urging him on. It must be close now. They’re pressing in from the sidelines. I am squeezing Eliza’s hand unbearably tight.

The next ball is short and fast. Jeffrey gets inside it and swings hard, but he fails to connect under the steep bounce. The wicket-keeper takes the ball above his head. The crowd gasps. No score. The Blackburn side applaud and yell their support, walking in like a slow ambush of wolves. The captain runs to his bowler, gives him what appears to be a very clear instruction, then pats his arse and runs back to his place.

The next ball is an even higher bouncer, almost impossible for Jeffrey to lay any timber on. I wince and protest, as do the rest of the crowd. It doesn’t seem fair. It should be called wide. Some folks begin booing. The Blackburn team clap and yell louder, sensing victory. It’s another ball without score.

There is one ball remaining in the innings. I’m not sure how many runs we need, but the way the crowd are huddling and yelling and clapping suggests there is still a conceivable chance we can win. Jeffrey stands at the crease, surveying the field. The boundary is completely protected now, which suggests that a four will be enough to take the game. Warwick Trent stands motionless beside the coach, his arms folded. The rest of the side hollers advice and support. There’s no malice or scorn. They’re really barracking.

And for some reason, this makes it harder for me to spectate. There’s so much more than the game riding on this next ball. I don’t want to think of him failing. I don’t want to think of these people being let down.

“I can’t watch!” Eliza says, and claps her hand over her eyes.

“Come on, Jeffrey,” I say through my teeth, willing him on, over and over.

It’s happening.

Everything hushes as the bowler streaks in. All eyes are on his path, his heavy tread, his smooth tangle; then on the ball; then on Jeffrey Lu, for the most important split second of his life.

The ball, like the last two, is short and sharp and straight. Jeffrey must have known this. Must have anticipated the tactic. Because before the ball was delivered, I noticed him shuffle slightly, stepping back. Holding his bat high and ready. Giving himself room. And as the ball sharply rose, just above the level of his head, he was ready to play the shot he’d premeditated.

Not even a shot, really. Jeffrey doesn’t swing at it. He simply lifts the bat, angles the blade so that the ball is deflected higher without losing much speed. He taps and glides the ball directly over the wicket-keeper’s head, just inches away from his outstretched glove, and the ball holds its line, skipping across the only part of the oval left unprotected, piercing the two fielders behind the bat, who chase the ball with a sense of futility.

He’s done it.

Corrigan erupts. Jeffrey Lu is a hero. Eliza and I jump up and down on the hill, screaming and holding each other. It’s amazing. My spine sparks and arcs electric, my lips quiver. And Jeffrey Lu, after calmly watching the ball, turns and thrusts both arms into the air, hoisting his bat high. He grins like a madman. He has done the unthinkable. Blackburn slump in disbelief. The Corrigan side ruffle each other’s hair and laugh and mess about. The other tailender walks up to Jeffrey, slaps his back, and wraps his arm roughly around him. Jeffrey is barely as tall as his waist, adding to the awkwardness of this display of congratulation.

What I’m feeling, I think, is joy. And it’s been some time since I’ve felt that blinkered rush of happiness. This might be one of those rare events that lasts, one that’ll be remembered and recalled as months and years wind and ravel. One of those sweet, significant moments
that leaves a footprint in your mind. A photograph couldn’t ever tell its story. It’s something you have to live to understand. One of those freak collisions of fizzing meteors and looming celestial bodies and floating debris and one single beautiful red ball that bursts into your life and through your body like an enormous firework. Where things shift into focus for a moment, and everything makes sense. And it becomes one of those things inside you, a pearl among the sludge, one of those big exaggerated memories you can invoke at any moment to peel away a little layer of how you felt, like a lick of an ice cream. The flavor of grace. An inadvertent gift of myth from Jeffrey Lu. And as if to seal it in a chest of treasure, I see him seek me out as he walks off the oval as a match-winner, and he tilts and points his bat at me in triumph. My arm shoots up in a celebratory salute. I’m grinning like an idiot.

Jeffrey has his hand shaken and his hair ruffled by players and spectators. Even Warwick Trent gives a nod and a slap. I realize I’m still holding Eliza’s hand. I shiver.

“That was amazing!” Eliza says. “I’m shaking!”

“I can’t believe it,” I say, still watching Jeffrey. “I just can’t believe it.”

The group disperses; the team heads toward the pavilion and into the changerooms. Somebody is carrying Jeffrey’s kitbag for him. The Blackburn team sulk and shuffle, hands on hips. The oval slowly clears. The day is slowly winding toward twilight.

Eliza and I sit down. We’re no longer holding hands, but I’m acutely aware of our shoulders touching. We sit silently for a time. I begin to feel awkward again.

But then Eliza leans forward slightly as the sun melts away.

“Can I tell you a secret?” she asks.

I try to read her face. Is it something about Laura? It has to be. Surely. What does she know? What pages of this story has she been pressing to her chest? What does she know about that night? I’m not sure I’m ready to hear it. Not today. Not right now.

“Okay,” I say carefully, nodding once.

“Well.” Eliza blushes and tugs at her hair. “It’s stupid. But … I’ve been waiting outside the bookstore for the past two weeks, pretending to browse at paperbacks, but really I was just hoping I might see you pass by.”

My stomach is a hive. My head whirs like a pinwheel. There’s dust in my throat. Again, I don’t know what to say. I never have the right words in me. I swallow heavily. Blink hard.

“Oh well. I got … I was grounded. I couldn’t go anywhere. That’s probably why …”

“I know,” she says, “which is why it was so
stupid
, because I knew you’d been grounded and that you weren’t going to suddenly appear, but I still kept going there.”

“Wait, you
knew
? How did you know I’d been grounded?”

“Sarge told my mum all about it the day after, and then she told me. You know, about how you snuck out to come see me.”

“Oh,” I say, stunned.

We sit in a bubble of quiet. It’s Eliza who bursts it.

“I think you’re very sweet, Charlie. And I wish you’d made it to my house that night.”

She smiles and shifts her body, turning toward me. I am afraid. And exhilarated.

“You have very nice dimples,” I offer. “You know, on your cheeks there.” And I point, sharply, at her jaw, as though she requires me to chart exactly where her dimples reside. I am an idiot. My wit, which flowed briefly, has ebbed. The tide has dried. My mouth is parched and unwieldy and useless.

But.

Then.

Mark Twain might well have had an opinion on everything. He might have been bestowed with the wit I don’t have and blessed with phrases I can’t summon. He might write with the air of knowledge earned; he might invoke laughter or sadness or anger with his herds of words. He might beguile and illuminate, frustrate and affect. He
might gift you whole worlds to walk in, wide eyes to see through. But not even Mark Twain could describe just how soft a girl’s lips are when they’re pressed against your own.

Eliza Wishart has kissed me. Is kissing me. Right here, beneath this tree. And it is lovely and thrilling and terrifying. There is nothing else like it. Not even close. My skin is tight and itching, my neck hot and ticklish.

We pull away, and I feel both relieved and regretful to be doing so. She smiles, bashful. I guess I do the same. “That was nice,” she says. “It was,” I say.

We look at each other. Tremulous and uncertain. Her lips are red and wet. They look a little swollen. She smells incredible, I can’t tell you. Neither could Mark Twain.

“Should we do it again?” she asks, biting her lip.

I hold a shrug, because I’m an idiot.

“I guess. I mean, well, yes. But only if you want. Which isn’t to say I don’t, of course, which I do.”

She shuts me up. Thankfully. She tilts first, and I follow. And it’s so much easier the second time, when you know it’s coming. Our bodies don’t move. Everything is concentrated on that soft part where we touch.

I feel a little embarrassed, of course. We’re out in the open, and this feels very private.

We kiss like we’re glued together. Like statues. And I worry that Eliza thinks I’m rubbish, that I’m not doing it properly. And so, when I’m slightly less stunned and more comfortable, I try to execute some maneuvers that I’ve taken note of previously on television and in books. I open my mouth slightly, and she does too, which leads me to believe it was a risk worth taking. It’s weird and nice. A little more confident, I decide to place my hand on her cheek. Unfortunately, all manner of grass and sand has adhered itself to the sweat on my palm, which I duly plaster over her face.