I’m standing on a concrete-slabbed veranda, beneath a warm Australian summer sun. There are cicadas chirping, dappled sunlight streaming through the wattle trees and the air is rich with the smell of asphalt and eucalyptus. It’s recess and I’m six years old – short for my age but equally as precocious, wearing polished black leather sandals, white bobby socks, a green-checked school tunic and a crash helmet. The crash helmet is not simply a bold aesthetic choice, but rather, a practical piece of headgear given that on this day at school, there is a queue of other kids lined up to take impassioned turns at throwing things directly at my head.
To be fair, I was the one inviting it. For a five or ten cent coin donation, I was offering my fellow classmates an opportunity to join me for a unique game of ring toss. The uniqueness coming from the fact that I nominated myself to be the human stake around which the rings were tossed. A successful toss, one where the ring cleared my head and shoulders and clattered down triumphantly by my feet, earned the player a prize. The vast array of prizes was a modest selection of plastic trinkets, assiduously collected and preserved from pass-the-parcel victories, gumball machines, $2 shop hauls and McDonalds happy meal surprises. They are treasured by me, and difficult to part with. But my home is strewn with bigger, more beautiful and sought-after toys. The types of toys that feature on 90s tv commercials. You see I was a kid that got everything that I ever wanted. Every game. Doll. Book. Every oversized plush. Every Furbie. Slinky. Figurine and Tamagotchi. Some kids might have said I was spoiled. But what I was was lucky.
But I learned that not all kids are that lucky. Some kids don’t get the dolls and the books and the Furbie’s. Some kids don’t even get new and freshly pressed school uniforms or tiny teddies for recess. In fact, some kids don’t get any packed lunch at all. My mum told me this, to my own disbelief, one afternoon at a suburban shopping centre. I asked for a silver coin to insert and watch spin hypnotically around a wide, circular plastic funnel that emptied into a donation bin.
“Where do the coins go?” I asked my mum.
“They go to kids who aren’t as lucky as you.”
“What do you mean?”
Then she told me about the kids who grew up in families that didn’t have much money. She told me about the kids whose families didn’t or couldn’t look after them very well. And she told me about the kids who didn’t have any families at all. Her answer left me feeling like my insides turned to ashes. I felt confused, curious and I felt sad and deeply compelled to do something.
So, with courage, kindness and humility I rustle together some toys as prizes, ask for a silver coin donation for the chance to play, and put on a human ring toss game. Over the course of recess, I work up a generous stash of coins, and donate them back at the yellow funnel. I don’t mind putting myself out there when real kids, kids not as lucky as me, really need it.
Two days later, I am back on the concrete slab again. Amongst the cicada chirps and the dappled wattle and eucalyptus. It’s lunchtime, and I’m sitting with Irena, Carly and Elizabeth. And if all goes well, it’s going to be a really good game of Poison Letter. I say that because some days, it doesn’t go so well, and Irena, Carly and Elizabeth don’t let me play with them. We go to a small school, and there’s not a lot of options when it comes to friends. The days when I don’t get to play are not good days. I’m glad that, so far, today isn’t one of them.
As we take our places, lined up behind the cracks of the light concrete, another girls walks onto the veranda. Her name is Peta which is silly because that is definitely a boy’s name. She hasn’t been going to our school very long, and she mostly keeps to herself. I’ve never sat with her at lunch time nor taken much of an interest in her because honestly, she never has any cool toys to play with and she is a bit weird. Her school uniform is way too big for her. It is always crumpled and dirty. Her hair is frizzy and unbrushed. She smells funny, like cat litter. But today, she makes her way up onto the veranda and walks up to us. She asks if she can play. As she asks, she bumps into Carly who is instantly mortified. “Yuck!” Carly says, running over to Elizabeth and tagging her hard on the shoulder “Peta germs, no returns for life and death.” Elizabeth, horrified, comes running towards me. “Peta germs!” and they’re passed to me. I look over at Peta, then rush over to Irena. “Peta germs. No returns.” Thank god, I’m safe. And after that, Peta gets the idea.
She turns around and walks off the concrete veranda, to wait out the rest of lunch time, alone on a cold aluminium bench near the cafeteria. As she walks away, I feel a sinking feeling of something heavy and hot. But mostly I feel relieved. Relief that today it was her and not me.
Not long after that lunchtime Peta stopped coming to our school. No one really noticed and I never found out what happened to her. That was probably lucky for me.