Terry Bosniak

The news of Richard Pratt’s ill-health brought out not the slightest hint of sympathy in Dean Laidley. Even the most casual observer could see Laidley was not a sympathetic man.

He hadn’t been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He’d been brought up like he played his footy: hard, tough, with a system that might not look pretty but got results. Except in September. There was some flaw in the system that made it fail in September. Laidley put it down to hemispsheric disparities, or the phase of the moon.

“Am I in trouble Dad,” asked his 10 year old son.

“You’re always in trouble son, that’s what life is about. A desperate struggle to keep your head above water while the world tries to grind you down at every opportunity,” he replied, his steely eyes navigating the traffic ahead of him.

“So why have you asked for a meeting with my teacher?”

“You’ll find out when we get there.”

Mrs Miller, the teacher, had heard a lot of stuff from parents in her 23 years as a teacher, but this was a new one.

“You want to what, Mr Laidley?”

“I want to trade my son. He hasn’t been putting in the required effort, his performances have been sub-par, the lawn has been covered in leaves for days now, his room is always dirty.

“But yes, he has potential, I see that, so that’s why I’m not just taking him down the beach with a potato sack and a few bricks. I want to see what I can get for him.”

Miller shook her head. This was a new one.

“And, what, who … what do you expect to get from trading your son Mr Laidley?” she asked, finding it hard to believe the conversation was even happening.

“Terry Bosniak”

“What?”

“Kid in Grade Two. I like the look of him. He’s not flashy, but gets the job done. Never once been late with his homework. Hasn’t pissed his bed in years. Looks like a solid performer,” Laidley said.

“Let me get this straight, you’re proposing to swap your son for Terry Bosniak?”

Laidley nodded.

“Or,” he said, “Alternatively, I’ll let you guys have him, you could use him around the school and stuff, picking up papers and washing the dunnies, and then I get to choose whatever prep I want from the new intake in February.”

Mrs Miller was just about to attempt to explain to the … the … the … maniac … why what he was proposing was not only illegal, but immoral on so many grounds, when the vice principal rushed into the room.

“Mrs Miller, sorry to interrupt, there’s an emergency. Alan Didak’s outside the art room with a chainsaw!”