THE BLOKE NEXT DOOR

I was up to my elbows in clay when A.J. Tobias vaulted over the fence and landed under the mango tree.

When I’d arrived at Grandma’s on Friday, I’d thought (as one does) that he’d be right ‘round to say hi. I’d even hoped he might come to the airport to meet me. Since then, four days had gone by, all totally devoid of A.J.

"When you’re being creating, you attract kick-butt cosmic energy," my friend Ayesha told me once. That’s why I was being creative out in Grandma’s garden.

And wouldn’t you know: no sooner was I up to my elbows in clay and sweating up a storm in the tropical heat than A.J. finally vaulted back into my life.

He’d been a dorky eighth-grader when I’d last spent the summer vacation with Grandma, but now he was BIG. Looked like he’d spent the past three years chomping on steaks and pumping iron. He was way taller than me and that’s uncommon.

"G’day, Little," he said. His voice cracked when he was t13, but now it had dropped way down into his boots.

I’d pinned so much on this meeting, but I thought I had to match him cool for cool. "How’s it hangin’, A.J.?"

I wiped my face on my fist and pinched a bit of clay off the lump in the tub. I made it into an interesting shape and attached it to the front of my future masterpiece, then stepped back to admire the effect.

I’d started clay modeling in summer school back home in the States, and Grandma had ordered me some clay so I could keep in practice.

"What the heck is that," asked A.J.

"It’s Michelangelo’s David, A.J. I suppose you have, like, heard of Michelangelo?"

A.J.’s grin grew teeth, kind of like a shark. "What, Moaning Lisa? C’mon, Little, what’s an iggerant Aussie like me gonna know about things like that?"

There was an edge to his voice I’d never heard before. Leastways, not when he was talking to me. I decided to wipe the grin off his face. "When did your teeth turn into tombstones, then?"

"Last year, I reckon." He glanced at my chest. "When did your grapes turn into grapefruit, then?"

"When did your beak turn into a mountain peak?" I feigned a punch at his nose.

A.J. whipped out his hand and grabbed me by the wrist. "Watch it, Little."

"I’m so scared." I snapped my hand over and down in the grip-breaker I’d learned from Mom, and A.J. jumped back like I’d bitten him. I raised my arms and showed off my biceps. (I was the arm-wrestling champion of my junior high for nothing!) "Are you too wussy to arm wrestle me?"

"I don’t wrestle birds."

Wrestling birds? What the he– O yeah, birds equal girls in Aussie lingo.

A.J. frowned and flicked at his chest. "Frickin’ heck, Little, you’ve gone and splattered clay all down my shirt!"

"Like it makes a difference to that trash can special. What’s that funky smell?"

"Washing stuff. I was a clean shirt before you got your mitts on it. " He stared at me again. "More than I can say for that thing you’re wearing. Where’d you get it? The rag bag?"

My own tee was kind of baggy , blotched with clay and all sweaty, but who dresses in designer gear for a clayfest? "Guess I’d better wash up," I said.

I grabbed the hose off the reel on the porch and turned on the faucet. It was already dribbling from when I’d used it to damp down the clay tub, so a good jet of water shot right away and arced across the dry grass. The hose surged in my hands, and the water slashed right across my half-done model of David.

"Oh, no!" I jerked around, and the jet hit A.J. right in the middle of his chest, splashed up and broke like a wave all over his face. He looked so astonished, I cracked up laughing and dropped the hose. It thrashed like a sidewinder, hitting A.J. at knee level, then snapping back to dump another load of water on David. His bits, which I hadn’t had time to attach properly, fell off among the unripe mangos in the grass and got squished flat. I bet Michelangelo never had this kind of problem.

I made a dive for the hose, but A.J. got there first…