Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11 — BOOK I

 

The Year That Didn’t End

 

(Sydney, mid-2000)

 

Summer settled into the school without ceremony.

 

By the second week, the rhythm was fixed: early mornings already warm, collars loosened before roll call, bags lighter without jumpers but heavier with water bottles that never seemed to last until first bell. The quadrangle baked by mid-morning, grass flattened and yellowing at the edges, the air carrying the dull shimmer of heat rather than damp.

 

Summer sport selections were posted without ceremony.
Names, teams, fields.

 

Rugby occupied the centre of the noticeboard, clustered and confident. Soccer sat slightly off to one side, lists longer, columns tighter, handwriting denser. Boys gathered in groups, reading once, then again, tracing names with fingers as if confirmation might change something.

 

Embong scanned his line, nodded once, and stepped back.

 

He had tried rugby when he was younger, because it was what the place offered first—what boys were expected to try before they chose otherwise.  He had learned the drills, taken the hits, listened carefully. When the season ended, he had not returned. Soccer had asked for something else—endurance, positioning, an awareness of space rather than force—and once he had settled into it, he stayed. There was no announcement. He simply kept turning up.

 

Geoffrey lingered longer at the board.

 

Rugby had been the obvious choice. Back home, it would have been baseball. Here, rugby felt closest to the version of himself people recognised first: size, speed, impact. He attended the initial sessions, learned the patterns, felt the weight of expectation settle easily enough across his shoulders.

 

It did not last.

 

He noticed it first in the quiet moments—how often he checked the clock, how his attention drifted during drills that asked him to collide rather than think. He finished the trial, thanked the coach, and did not put his name down again.

 

Soccer was different.

 

The field was fuller, voices layered with accents that blurred together easily. Instructions were repeated more than once, sometimes translated quietly between teammates. The game moved continuously, less punctuated by impact than by adjustment. Geoffrey listened, adapted, found his place.

 

No one made a comment when he switched.

 

They rarely did.

 

Training afternoons settled into routine. Boots thudded against mud. Breath came sharp and steady. Embong played with his usual care—tracking, covering, passing early. Geoffrey learned quickly, using space well, following instructions without needing to be reminded twice.

They did not talk much during play.

 

They did not need to.

 

Inter-house competition arrived mid-term, announced the same way most things at the school were—by noticeboard and expectation rather than enthusiasm.

 

Gilchrist, Armstrong, Kay, Aspinal, Fitzpatrick.

 

The names were chalked onto whiteboards and shouted across fields as if volume alone could shift outcomes. Houses gathered in loose clusters, colours pulled on over jumpers, allegiance declared more by proximity than noise.

 

The events were familiar.

 

Shot put first—heavy metal spheres passed hand to hand, boys testing weight before stepping into the circle. The throws were watched closely, distances measured with quiet seriousness. Then the sprints: one hundred metres, breath held tight at the line, the race over almost before it registered. Tug-of-war closed the afternoon, rope biting into palms, heels digging into turf already torn up by earlier contests.

 

Embong competed without fuss. He followed instructions, took his turn, stepped back when it was done. Geoffrey ran when he was told to run, pulled when it mattered, stopped when the whistle went.

 

Wins were counted. Losses noted. Nothing lingered.

 

Saturday brought rowing.
Rowing sat in the timetable like a fixed law of the week.

 

Before dawn, buses carried boys down to the water, jackets zipped, conversations muted by the hour. Crews moved with practised efficiency, oars lifted and set down in rhythm learned long before it was understood. Along the riverbanks, the other GPS schools gathered in familiar clusters—Sydney Grammar School, The King’s School, Shore School, St Joseph’s College Hunters Hill, Newington College, and St Ignatius’ College Riverview—each watching the others with the same careful attention.

 

The races were clean, fast, unsentimental.

 

The Scots College competed as it always did—without flourish, without complaint—victories taken seriously, defeats absorbed and left behind on the water.

 

By the time the buses returned to campus, the day already felt spent.

Homework waited.

 

So did Monday.

 

On Fridays, the school gathered in the quadrangle before dispersing for the weekend. Prefects stood along the edges, scarves tucked neatly, posture relaxed but watchful. The buildings caught the sound easily, stone returning voices with a faint echo that made even casual noise feel larger than it was.

 

Someone started the song.

 

It rolled forward without prompting, familiar enough to invite mischief.

 

“Doo a dee dee dum dee dee doo—

We’re gold, we’re blue—

We’re going to f— all over you”

 

The word landed wrong.

 

Not by accident.

 

A prefect turned.

 

“Ruck,” he said clearly. “It’s ruck all over you.”

 

The correction came without heat. Without embarrassment.

 

Laughter moved through the crowd in a quick wave, released rather than raised. Boys nudged one another, grinning at the shared relief of being corrected instead of caught.

 

A beat passed.

 

Then the song started again, louder this time, the word landing where it should. By the second line, the rhythm had settled properly.

 

Dr Robert Iles appeared at the edge of the quadrangle, unnoticed at first, hands clasped loosely behind his back. He listened without expression, then nodded once and moved on.

 

The song ended.

 

The crowd dispersed.

 

As they walked toward their bags, Geoffrey glanced at Embong.

 

“Tempting, though,” he said.

 

Embong considered this. “Only once.”

 

Geoffrey smiled. “Worth it?”

 

Embong shook his head. “Not really.”

 

They crossed the quadrangle together, cleats slung over shoulders, voices thinning as boys peeled away toward buses, cars, and the quiet anticipation of weekends.

 

It happened on a Tuesday.

 

Not during sport.
Not during assembly.
Not at a moment that carried weight.

 

Just between classes.

 

The corridor was warm from trapped air, lockers slamming in staggered rhythm as boys shifted from one room to another. Embong moved with the crowd, timetable folded into memory, bag strap resting high on his shoulder.

 

Behind him, a flick.

 

Soft.
Quick.

 

Something struck the back of his head and stayed.

 

There was a brief tug when he stepped forward.

 

Then laughter.

 

Not loud.

 

But close.

 

Embong reached back without looking.

 

His fingers met resistance.

 

Sticky.

 

Pink.

 

A voice behind him, amused:

 

“Oi. Malaysian. Want some Aussie flavour?”

 

Another laugh.

 

“That’ll make your hair stay in place.”

 

The corridor did not freeze.

 

It recalibrated.

 

A few boys slowed.
Some pretended not to hear.
Most watched.

 

Embong did not turn immediately.

 

He felt the gum settle further into his hair as he shifted.

 

He could remove it later.
He knew that.

 

What he could not remove was the pause — the moment in which everyone measured how he would respond.

 

He turned slowly.

 

“Are you done?” he asked.

 

Not loud.
Not sharp.

 

Just level.

 

Callum grinned, but the grin held for half a second too long.

 

“Relax. It’s just gum.”

 

Embong held his gaze.

 

“I know what it is.”

 

He did not swing.
He did not swear.

 

He adjusted his bag strap and walked on.

 

The laughter followed him for several steps, then thinned into the corridor’s usual noise.

 

Geoffrey had seen it.

 

Not the flick — but the aftermath.

 

He closed the distance without comment.

 

“You alright?” he asked quietly.

 

Embong shrugged.

 

“It’s not fatal.”

 

Geoffrey’s jaw tightened.

 

“No,” he said evenly. “It’s deliberate.”

 

Embong did not answer.

 

The gum remained in his hair all afternoon.

 

At his locker later, the corridor nearly empty, Embong stood straight as if posture alone could undo what had settled.

 

Geoffrey stopped beside him.

 

“I know,” Embong said before he could speak.

 

“You shouldn’t have to.”

 

Embong shut the locker gently.

 

“It’s fine.”

 

“No,” Geoffrey said. “It isn’t.”

 

Across the courtyard, Callum was laughing again — louder than necessary.

 

Geoffrey watched.

 

Not with rage.

 

With assessment.

 

At Vaucluse that evening, Delima noticed before anyone else.

 

“Diam,” she said, already reaching for a small bowl.

 

She warmed coconut oil in the kitchen, the scent familiar and faintly sweet.

 

Embong sat on a stool, shoulders relaxed in a way that suggested he wished to be elsewhere.

 

“It’s fine,” he said lightly. “Free hair treatment.”

 

She did not laugh.

 

Her fingers parted his hair carefully, working oil into the gum with slow precision.

 

“You don’t let people do that again,” she said.

 

He shrugged.

 

“It’s nothing.”

 

Her hands stopped.

 

She looked at him properly.

 

“No,” she said quietly. “It is not nothing.”

 

The room held still.

 

“You are not to shrink for anybody.”

 

The gum loosened gradually. A few strands came away with it. She trimmed what she had to, movements economical, controlled.

 

Geoffrey sat at the bench, unusually quiet.

 

“You did something,” Delima said without looking at him.

 

Geoffrey hesitated. “I made sure it won’t happen again.”

 

She met his eyes.

 

“And did you hurt anyone?”

 

“No.”

 

“Good.”

 

She returned to Embong’s hair.

 

“Strength without control is noise,” she said softly.
“Control without strength is weakness.”
“You choose the middle.”

 

Embong rolled his eyes faintly.

 

Geoffrey did not.

 

A week later, near the oval, Callum intercepted them.

 

“You reckon you’re clever?” he muttered.

 

Geoffrey did not step forward.

 

He did not raise his voice.

 

He held eye contact.

 

“No,” he said. “I reckon you are.”

 

Callum blinked.

 

“You’re clever enough to know the difference between a joke and humiliation,” Geoffrey continued. “So choose better.”

 

There was no threat in it.

 

Which made it heavier.

 

Embong stood beside him.

 

Not behind him.

 

Callum looked between them.

 

Something recalculated.

 

He stepped back first.

 

 

That evening, they ate in Chinatown at Golden Century Seafood Restaurant.

 

 

Golden Century was loud with movement—chairs shifting, porcelain touching down, voices crossing without pause. The tanks along the wall glowed softly, shadows of fish sliding past one another behind glass.

 

 

Awan spoke to the floor manager when she arrived.

 

 

“We’re Muslim,” he said evenly. “No pork, no lard, no alcohol. Seafood only, please.”

 

There was no hesitation.

 

The manager nodded once. “Understood.”

 

Menus were opened. Elaine scanned hers with interest, then set it aside. George poured tea, listening without comment. When the order was taken, Awan rose from his seat, Rusaldi following him without comment. Geoffrey and Embong trailed behind, drawn by the length of the display window and the quiet choreography inside the tanks—silver bodies turning in slow arcs, prawns layered against glass, lobsters stacked with their claws bound neatly.

 

Awan and Rusaldi studied the tanks carefully. A finger lifted. A brief exchange with the attendant. One choice, then another.

 

Satisfied, they returned to the table.

 

Geoffrey scanned his menu, then looked up. “I’ll stick to seafood.”

 

“You could order chicken,” Embong said lightly.

 

Geoffrey shook his head. “Not here.”

 

Then, after a beat, “I’m joining you tonight.”

 

Elaine smiled, small and approving, and reached for her teacup. George nodded once, already unfolding his napkin.

 

The dishes arrived—steamed fish, lobster noodles, greens, rice—and whatever distinction had existed folded quietly into the ordinary business of eating.

 

The lobster was placed in the centre, red shell split cleanly, steam lifting in faint ribbons.

 

Geoffrey reached for a claw with more confidence than experience.

 

It shifted under his grip.

 

A thin streak of sauce marked the edge of his sleeve.

 

He paused.

 

Embong looked at the stain, then at him.

 

“You said you’re joining us,” he said lightly.

 

“I am,” Geoffrey replied.

 

He adjusted his hold and tried again, slower this time. The shell gave way with a sharp crack. A fragment landed near his plate.

 

Awan slid a folded napkin across the table without comment.

 

“Twist first,” Elaine said calmly. “Then pull.”

 

Geoffrey followed the instruction. The meat came free cleanly.

 

George watched with quiet approval. “Good,” he said. “You learn quickly.”

 

Geoffrey nodded once.

 

Embong had already finished his portion.

 

“Malaysian science,” he murmured.

 

Geoffrey did not look up. “Repeatable method,” he said.

 

No one laughed loudly.

 

They simply continued eating.

 

No one returned to the subject.

 

At the end, fortune cookies were set down with the tea. Everyone broke theirs in half, Geoffrey and Embong included, unfolding the slips to read whatever small promise or joke had been assigned to them.

 

Some were earnest. Some made no sense at all.

 

It was a hearty meal.

 

Routine settled in.
So did expectation.
are excellent and properly earned.

 

Some choices announced themselves loudly. Others were made the same way they were kept—without comment, repeated often enough to become habit.

 

By the time the term moved on, no one remembered exactly when Geoffrey had stopped being a rugby boy or when Embong had become indispensable on the field.

 

They only knew that, once noticed, neither had moved again.

 

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