Jasper Jones

by Craig Silvey

See, most people you meet, they’ll talk to you through fifty layers of gauze and tinting. Sometimes you know they’re lying even before they’ve started speaking. And it seems the older they get, the more brazen and desperate folks become, and they lie about things that don’t even matter. Like my dad with his comb-over, or my mum with her russet hair dye.

“So that isn’t courage. He’s a man of steel, you retard. He’s invincible. He doesn’t need to be brave. If a bullet can’t possibly hurt you, how is it brave to stand in front of one?”

“Concession doesn’t necessarily mean defeat, Charlie.” “Who said that?” He smiles. “I did.”

Maybe I should start another novel. A less ridiculous one. Prove to him I’m smart enough. I could write it about Jasper Jones. And it could stand alone as he does; shoulders squared, spine straight. And I could throw it on my father’s desk one day, after it’s been published and he still has no idea. Casually, like it’s nothing. And I’d tell him that life might be easier if you give in a little, but it’s better if you hold on to something so hard you can’t give it up.