Good Young Men by GARY LONESBOROUGH is a YA coming-of-age novel about three small-town Aboriginal friends finding their way towards adulthood.

Read on for an extract.

 

 

ABOUT THE BOOK

In the idyllic coastal town of Carraway’s Point, four Aboriginal boys grew up together on Chopin Drive, carefree and close. But they drifted apart in high school, and everything changed forever the night Brandon was killed by a white cop.

Now racial tension is brewing, and each boy must wrestle with grief and their own complicated lives.

Kallum has lost his sport scholarship and must return from Sydney.

Jordy contends with family responsibilities and a closeted boyfriend.

Dylan was the only witness to Brandon’s death, and he must testify in court.

Struggling to contain their emotions and process the murder of their friend, Kallum, Jordy and Dylan must navigate explosive events in a way that opens up a future they can’t yet see.

 

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EXTRACT

 

DYLAN

As we step into the shopping centre car park, white spraypaint on the orange brick wall catches my eye. Two council workers in high-vis shirts are on ladders, scrubbing away the words: WHITE POWER.

KALLUM

 

ONE

It’s not my fault I got expelled from St Augustine’s – not really.

The sun’s setting when I get off my train and walk along Redfern Street. The place is abuzz with adults heading home from work, older people dawdling, a man on a mat on the corner with writing on a piece of cardboard that says HELP PLEASE $.

I’m on my way to Aunty Lisa’s house. Aunty Lisa’s not actually my aunty – she’s an Aboriginal woman from Carraway’s Point who moved to Sydney years ago, and her house is the go-to spot for Kooris visiting from home.

The weight of my duffel bag is killing me; all the books, clothes and shoes I could fit – my whole life as I knew it – burning into my shoulder.

In my stomach, along with the threatening vomit, there’s a feeling of grief. I’ve lost my scholarship. The sporting college was my ticket out of Carraway’s Point and I f*cked it up. Mum and Dad probably want to disown me. They always said it was such a great opportunity, a chance that kids like me could only dream of. I was the potential-filled rural Aboriginal scholarship student, the world at my feet. Now, I’m an expelled disappointment who’s getting a bus back to Carraway’s Point in the morning.

My mates back home thought I was chasing my dreams. I was going to play for the Rabbitohs one day. The truth was I just wanted to get out. The window opened but I’ve managed to slam it shut again. Because of the rage.

I don’t remember all I did when I was in that rage. I remember what happened before it, though – things I can’t tell my parents. They’d be more ashamed than they already are. As it is, they’ll think I’m violent, that I’m one of those aggro boys – but maybe it’s better that way.

My feet are starting to kill me as I walk through Redfern Park. There’s a big fountain in the middle. A couple sit on one of the benches nearby, and there’s a young family, a mum and dad walking with their two little sons and a baby in a pram. The mum’s wearing a Rabbitohs hat.

Everyone loves the Rabbitohs in Redfern.

When I was a kid, I dreamed of running out on the footy field at Olympic Park wearing the green and red jersey with the rabbit emblem on the chest.

I guess those dreams are dust now.

Out of Redfern Park, I walk onto busy Elizabeth Street. I pass the football field and the basketball courts, then cross the street into the quieter neighbourhoods. The giant orange public-housing buildings tower over the suburb like beacons lighting the way home, away from the prestigious all-boys college where I was studying and living, rubbing shoulders with boys who’d received Audis and jetskis for their 16th birthdays. The map on my phone is leading me to Aunty Lisa’s house, near the towers.

The backstreets are quieter in Redfern. I pass a person with a backpack and a tucked-in shirt, a woman walking a small dog, and two teenagers powerwalking in hoodies and parachute pants. The townhouses and streets remind me more of where I’m from – this is more me.

I come to a two-storey townhouse with faded green and white paint. All the townhouses share walls, with variations in the little gates out front. Aunty Lisa’s is a small white gate, which rattles when I open it and walk the few steps along the pathway, passing shrubbery and a red-lidded wheelie bin.

I knock on the door and when it opens, Aunty Lisa is standing there in a black top and jeans. Her hair is tied in a ponytail, and the greys are coming through the black. She’s tall and has bags under her eyes, like an owl. She smiles then rushes to hug me.

‘Took ya time gettin’ ’ere,’ she says.

‘Yeah, sorry,’ I reply. ‘I need to put this bag down.’

I follow her inside and along a skinny hallway. The carpeted stairs ahead are steep. In the lounge room, Uncle Dane greets me. My cousin Hilary, who is 19 and heavily pregnant, has her feet up on one of the couches watching Love Island. She offers me a ‘Hey’ as I drop my bag behind the couch. The smells of the house cover me like a mist – frying chicken, curry and marijuana smoke.

‘You right, Kal?’ Aunty Lisa asks me. ‘What happened at that school?’

‘Oh,’ I say, still catching my breath from the walk. ‘It was just a fight. They got zero tolerance for fighting.’

‘Jeez. Bullshit, hey. As if teenage boys don’t fight. Make yourself at home, Kal. Dinner’s almost ready.’

I sit on the other couch, facing the TV.

‘I hope you got ’im good,’ Uncle Dane says. ‘It’d wanna be worth expellin’ ya for, hey? They wouldn’t’ve kicked ya out if you weren’t black. They always racist in them institutions.’

‘Yeah, I dunno,’ I say.

‘Tellin’ ya, if you was white, they’d give ya a few detentions and you’d be good as gold. Instead, they kickin’ you out.’

I get his point. Maybe I wouldn’t’ve been straight-up expelled if I was white. For sure Aaron Davies ain’t getting kicked out. I guess he was just defending himself.

Aunty Lisa dishes out curried chicken with basmati rice in little bowls. She places them on the bench in the kitchen and I follow Hilary to collect mine. Hilary pours herself a glass of off-brand cola, and I do the same.

Aunty Lisa switches over to the news when we all gather on the couches with our bowls. The curry is a lot hotter than I’m used to.

‘Did you hear they set a date for that trial down home?’ Aunty Lisa asks me, downing a forkful of curried chicken and rice.

‘Trial?’ I ask, taking a sip of cola.

‘The trial for that copper who shot that young fulla, Brandon Long, last year.’

‘Oh,’ I say, remembering when I heard the news. Some police commissioner guy called it ‘an unfortunate incident’. I remember what my mates Mitch and Eric said about it: that Brandon probably tried to attack the officer or something, that it was probably his fault.

It was March last year when it happened. I was already living in Sydney then, and I found out about it because a couple of people posted ‘R.I.P’ messages with pics of him on their Instagram stories. Brandon was a Koori fulla that lived at the end of our street – Chopin Drive. He was the same age as me, and we used to be mates, but we drifted apart in high school. I started hanging out with the white footy boys and he hung out with the crew of Kooris, including Dylan Keenan – another lad I used to be friends with who also lives on the same street. It used to be me, Brandon, Dylan, and Jordy Danvers – another Koori fulla. We were the boys of Chopin Drive. Somewhere along the way in Year Seven, me and Jordy kind of moved on. But Dylan and Brandon were still mates.

I heard Dylan was there that night, and saw everything.

I don’t know the full story, but Dad said the police were trying to arrest Brandon and he reached for a weapon. They shot him. Mum wouldn’t talk to me about it when I asked, I guess because she’s a police officer. She and Dad were sad about it, though.

‘When’s the trial?’ I ask.

‘November, they reckon,’ Aunty Lisa replies. ‘I saw a video on Facebook. They got this Murri activist from Brisbane involved. Shirley something. She’s organisin’ rallies and protests for Brandon.’

After dinner, Aunty Lisa and Uncle Dane sit at the far end of the kitchen, drinking a beer each, while Hilary reclaims the TV to watch more pointless reality shows. She’s got Below Deck on now, and it’s the whitest thing I’ve ever seen. I’m checking the time on my phone. As the night gets later, and the stream of pointless shows keeps on rolling, I’m begging her with my inner voice to f*ck off to bed so I can go to sleep on the couch.

My phone buzzes in my lap. It’s a text from my mate Liam from St. Augustine’s.

What’s with this video of you and Aaron Davies fighting? When did that happen? I came to your room but ur not there. Where you at?

I reply: Expelled. Not coming back. Sorry.

What the f*ck? Bruh Aaron was talkin some sh*t about you.

By 10 o’clock, reality show number 3000 finishes and Hilary decides to go to bed. She turns off the TV and brings me a blanket from the cupboard. I use one of the cushions as a pillow and lie on the couch. My legs are too long for it; I have to stretch them over the armrest and dangle them off the edge. As I get comfortable, Aunty Lisa and Uncle Dane turn off the lights in the kitchen then head up the stairs.

‘See you in the mornin’, Kal,’ Aunty Lisa says. ‘Uncle will drive you to the bus stop.’

‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight.’

The steps creak as they climb to the top. Their footsteps move into their bedroom and they close the door. I’m in darkness in the living room, alone on the couch. I pull out my phone, staring at the last text from Liam. I run through all the possible replies in my head.

Nah, not true.

Don’t believe what you hear.

It was nice knowing ya.

Yeah, it’s true. Sorry.

I would’ve told you, but I was scared.

Nah. I can’t reply. In my head, I’m replaying this afternoon over and over. But I don’t want to talk about this. Ever.

A messenger came to get me from class. They left me at the brown door to the deputy’s office, and I knew exactly why I was there.

Inside, Mr Walker was behind his desk and Tracy, the wellbeing officer, was sitting in one of the chairs.

My palms were sweating and I could feel my heart beating like a drum in my throat as I sat down.

‘Is something wrong?’ I asked.

‘We’ve recently become aware of a video that’s been shared around here at the college,’ Mr Walker said. ‘Are you aware of this video, Kallum?’

I shook my head, but I was. A heaviness filled my stomach like cement. It was sour, poisonous. My toes curled tight in my shoes and I held my sweaty hands in my lap.

Mr Walker turned his laptop around on his desk to show me the screen. He pressed the space bar, and shouting and swearing echoed from the speakers as I watched myself on screen, banging my fist into Aaron Davies’s face. The recording was shaky but I could see he was trying to fight back.

‘What the f*ck. . . you psycho. . . you’re killing him. . .’

He was on the ground and I was on top of him, my arms swinging away. Two of the other boys tackled me and wrestled me off.

‘You f*cking idiot,’ someone shouted at me as the camera came closer. The video ended on a frame of my face, someone’s arm across my chest, holding me on the concrete.

‘That was you, wasn’t it, Smith?’ Mr Walker asked me. I swallowed all the words I wanted to say and nodded. ‘That was you who was seriously physically assaulting a fellow student, right?’

I nodded again.

‘Can you tell me why you were assaulting Aaron Davies?’ Mr Walker asked. ‘Can you tell me who else is in the video besides you and Aaron?’

I couldn’t tell the truth, so I kept my mouth shut.

Mr Walker sighed. ‘You know St Augustine’s has a zero-tolerance policy when it comes to violence, Kallum. Do you have nothing to say for yourself?’

‘Am I expelled?’ I asked.

Mr Walker reached for his phone. ‘I’m going to have to call your parents.’

I swallowed hard. Even now, lying on this couch that smells like old farts, I can still taste the sour, stinging vomit threatening my throat, just as I did when I sat in Mr Walker’s office. My chest feels tight and I’m hot again.

I set my alarm to seven-thirty. My shoulder is sore but luckily, I’m f*ckin’ exhausted. I close my eyes.

When I was a kid, camping in the bush was the only time when Mum and Dad didn’t fight. I could close my eyes and listen to the bush and everything was okay.

In my head, I create the sounds of the bush – leaves and branches brushing against each other in the breeze, birds singing. I imagine the smell of the trees, hear the quiet, and it calms me.

ABOUT THE BOOK

Gary Lonesborough is a Yuin writer, who grew up on the Far South Coast of NSW as part of a large and proud Aboriginal family. Gary was always writing as a child, and continued his creative journey when he moved to Sydney to study at film school. Gary has experience working in youth work, Aboriginal health, child protection, the disability sector (including experience working in the youth justice system) and the film industry, including working on the feature film adaptation of Jasper Jones.

His young adult novels, The Boy from the Mish, We Didn’t Think It Through, and I’m Not Really Here have been shortlisted for numerous awards.

Visit Gary Lonesborough’s website