Read My Private Pectus for Free Online

‘This is Mr McDermott, Jack's dad,’ he says.
    Dad stands proud and says, ‘You can call me Brian if you like, or by my rank, which is Captain.’
    â€˜Or Ferret,’ I say. ‘His nickname is Ferret.’ But only a few boys laugh.
    Dad raises his hand and accepts the halfhearted laughter, but his eyes flick threateningly in my direction. Maloney, meanwhile, glares at me, hands on hips. He's not into this preferred name stuff, he's too old-school for that. Maloney's a rules man. You can tell by the stiff way he dresses: polo shirts, sneakers so clean they glow, a strap for his sunnies so he can hang them from his neck. But the socks are what set him apart: hauled up to his knees, kept there with a band of elastic. He's in his mid-fifties and he loves school structure. He gets off on sending kids to the principal.
    â€˜Can we play a game, sir?’ Cuppas asks Dad.
    â€˜It's Brian or Captain, are you deaf?’ The P tells him.
    â€˜Or Ferret,’ someone up the back shouts, which is followed by a stronger volley of laughter.
    â€˜Sir, can we?’ Cuppas insists.
    Dad looks to Maloney to see if he's happy to get things started. Maloney nods.
    â€˜This is how it will work,’ Dad says, his arms crossed. ‘You do what I say, and you do it well, you'll make the team. You take a slacker's approach, and sit around on your backside and don't have a go, your skinny butt will be lucky to make the bench.’ He looks straight at me before sending his attention back to the team. ‘I've played footy for years,’ he says, one finger raised. ‘I played Kingaroy A-grade and we were the best team in the South Burnett,’ he says.
    â€˜Where's that?’ I hear someone ask.
    But Dad doesn't stop to explain. ‘And I was the best hooker this side of the Queensland border. Even the Brisbane teams were sniffing at me. But I chose the army instead, where I learnt team work and discipline, and that's what I'm here to teach you lot.’
    Bored, I scuff my boots together. They glisten even harder.
    â€˜Sir, can we just start playing?’ Cuppas whines.
    â€˜You'll play a game once you boys earn it,’ he says. ‘Train well, nail your drills, then we'll play.’
    â€˜That's crap, sir,’ Cuppas coughs into his hands. And because it was Cuppas, nearly all of us go, ‘Eeeeer,’ like a herd of sheep, then say, ‘ya wanker.’
    Dad glares at him, but says nothing.
    He gets us to stretch then run a few laps of the oval. I lope along with Cuppas gasping behind me. Gez keeps up with the pack no worries, but slows down on the last lap so he can talk with me.
    â€˜You know what we should do,’ he says, barely puffing. ‘We should have a themed party.’
    I think about all the failed themed parties I've been to, like the ‘M’ party Marissa Anderson organised for her sixteenth. Most of the guys rocked up as Maloney—their socks hauled up to their knees. As the night went on they tried to outdo each other. Socks crept up to groins. Gez and I left early.
    â€˜Why would you want a themed party?’
    â€˜Not just any theme,’ he says. ‘A theme we've gotta work on. You know, put some real effort into. A theme that makes everyone say, “I wanna be there”.’
    â€˜Example?’
    â€˜I dunno. Hawaiian maybe?’
    â€˜Hawaiian sucks,’ I say.
    â€˜No way,’ he says. ‘I like Hawaiian.’ He looks back over his shoulder and yells out to Cuppas, ‘If I invited you to a Hawaiian party, would you come?’
    I don't turn around, but I can imagine Cuppas’ face: purple-red, beads of sweat on his acne, his eyelids half closed with exhaustion. His cheeks rise, a grin covers his face and his eyes light up like a pair of spotties. Cuppas never gets invited to anything.
    â€˜Hawaiian's the pits!’ he yells.
    I nearly trip over.
    â€˜Pump with your arms!’ Dad yells as he gets