Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4 — BOOK I

 

Finding the Rhythm

 

(Early 1999)

 

The Sydney summer had no patience for ceremony.

 

Heat pressed down on the stone paths of The Scots College senior school as boys drifted across the grounds, blazers slung over shoulders, ties already loosened. The Second Intake always arrived this way—midyear, half outsiders, stepping into a rhythm that had already been established.

 

Geoffrey stood at the edge of the courtyard, his timetable folded once, then unfolded again, as if the paper might explain where he was meant to belong.

 

The bell rang. Voices rose. Someone laughed too loudly.

 

Then he saw him.

 

The boy was sitting beneath a gum tree near the far edge of the courtyard, taller than Geoffrey remembered, broader through the shoulders. He was unwrapping something from a banana leaf, the scent of coconut rice cutting cleanly through the heat.

 

“Are you American?” the boy asked, looking him over without hesitation.

 

Geoffrey blinked, then smiled despite himself. “Kind of. Also Australian.”

 

The boy considered this. “Double trouble,” he said, grinning.

 

Geoffrey laughed—for the first time in weeks.

 

“Anyway,” the boy added, standing and brushing grass from his trousers, “I’m Embong.”

 

“Geoffrey.”

 

They shook hands.

 

“Sit,” Embong said, dropping back down onto the grass. “It’s too hot to roast standing up.”

 

Geoffrey sat. The smell of food lingered.

 

“What’s that?” he asked.

 

“Nasi lemak,” Embong replied. “Breakfast of champions.”

 

“Looks better than my sandwich,” Geoffrey admitted.

 

“Heritage, mate,” Embong said lightly. “One day you’ll beg me for banana leaf.”

 

“Yeah? Maybe I’ll trade you for peanut butter and jelly.”

 

They cracked up, laughter slicing through the summer haze.

 

Geoffrey studied him for a moment, then smirked. “Glad they stopped calling you Omlet.”

 

Embong stared at him, then burst out laughing. “You remember that?”

 

“Of course,” Geoffrey said. “Dumbest nickname I’ve ever heard.”

 

“Tell that to the Year 6 boys,” Embong replied. “They thought they were hilarious.”

 

Just like that, the awkwardness of reunion dissolved. There was no catching up required, no careful probing. The familiarity was still there, waiting patiently beneath the years.

 

That was how the healing began—not with a grand gesture, but with a small act of welcome under a gum tree.

 

At home, rhythm arrived differently.

 

Ganang had developed a habit of announcing Embong’s return before Embong reached the door, feet pounding down the hallway, voice already mid-sentence. He wanted to know everything at once—who Embong had sat with, whether the teachers were strict, whether anyone interesting had joined this time.

 

Embong answered what he could. Ganang accepted the rest without disappointment, veering off as quickly as he had appeared, already absorbed in something else. He did not linger, did not probe, did not insist. The house absorbed Embong’s days the way it always had—without interrogation.

 

By the time Embong returned to school each morning, the noise had settled, the questions spent. Whatever weight he carried with him was lighter for having been briefly set down.

 

The bell rang again, sharper this time.

 

They rose together and followed the stream of boys toward the auditorium.

 

Inside, the space filled quickly. Blazers darkened the rows, sunlight catching on polished wood. When the music began, the boys stood.

 

Dr Robert Iles waited for the room to settle before speaking. His voice carried without strain, measured and clear.

 

“You are joining us at a busy moment,” he said. “But there is room here—for effort, for integrity, and for those willing to grow into them.”

 

Geoffrey listened, taking it in. Embong stood beside him, hands clasped loosely, already at ease.

 

Afterward, during recess, they found each other again without effort.

 

As they walked between buildings, Geoffrey nudged Embong lightly. “So,” he said, lowering his voice, “what was that thing you said earlier?”

 

“What thing?”

 

“‘Careful, or I’ll switch to Melanau and you’ll drown.’”

 

Embong laughed. “That.”

 

“What’s Melanau?” Geoffrey asked. “I’ve never heard of it.”

 

“It’s an ethnic group from Sarawak,” Embong explained. “My father’s side. Different language. Different rhythm.”

 

Geoffrey raised an eyebrow. “So you speak it?”

 

Embong shook his head, amused. “Hardly. A few words, maybe. My cousins back home know more than I do.”

 

“Then why threaten me with it?” Geoffrey asked.

 

“Because it sounds impressive,” Embong said, grinning. “And you wouldn’t know the difference.”

 

Geoffrey laughed. “Fair.”

 

Later that week, Geoffrey tested it anyway.

 

Walking between classes, he nudged Embong and tried his luck.

 

“Awak lapar ke?” he asked, proud of the pronunciation.

 

Embong stopped short. “Oi. Since when did you become Malaysian?”

 

“Since I realised I can confuse everyone else,” Geoffrey replied smugly.

 

“Cheeky,” Embong said. “Careful, or I’ll actually switch to Melanau.”

 

“And I’ll drown?”

 

“Immediately.”

 

They laughed and kept walking.

 

The book came back to Geoffrey during prep.

 

The correction was neat. Polite. Final.

 

Below it, Embong had written the English word again, smaller this time, as if testing how it sounded when it belonged to both of them.

 

Geoffrey closed the book carefully.

 

He did not touch it again.

 

By the end of the week, people had started to notice them together—not because they were loud, but because they moved easily through space, adjusting without discussion. Geoffrey filled silences when they appeared. Embong shaped them when they grew too large.

 

Neither of them named it.

 

They didn’t need to.

 

The school went on around them, unaware of how something ordinary—a seat beneath a tree, a shared joke, a remembered name—could steady a person who had arrived carrying more than he knew how to set down.

 

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