Page 65 of Sing it, Sam

I continue around the table. Everyone has brought something personal to them, except Sam. Well, I guess that’s because I dragged him here, and at the last minute.

I crouch down beside him. “Are there any photos you have in your room? If you have some on your phone I could print them out in the office?”

Sam slips his hand into his pocket and pulls out a phone. He clenches his hand and stretches his fingers out wide before he presses the screen. A short time later, he smiles.

“Yeah, this one.” He flips the phone so I can see the image.

My heart stalls as I take in the selfie of us on Superhero Day. Heat prickles at my cheeks. “Um, sure. I’ll just send it to my email.”

Sam hands me his phone. I click on the email icon and send it. The phone chimes to let me know it’s gone through, so I hand it back.

“I’ll get it sorted in a minute,” I tell Sam with a nod.

“Maybe print me off an extra copy, huh?” Sam asks with a wink. “So I can take my time looking at those pretty green eyes when you’re not around.”

Frederick nudges Sam’s elbow. “You’re smooth, trouble,” he says, drawing a grin from Sam.

I can’t hide my smile. “Two copies. Not a problem.”

I pick up the pile of blank albums in the middle of the table. “This is your project,” I announce as I walk around the group, placing one in front of each participant. “You can go as crazy or as subtle as you like. Pick out some colours, embellishments—whatever you want. And you don’t have to limit what you design to the album. You could create something to go on the wall or in a picture frame. Whatever takes your fancy. I’ll come around and help you with glue, double-sided tape and scissors if you need it.”

Mrs Cassidy’s arm shoots straight up in the air. “I’ll need some help. I just don’t know where to start.”

Sam sniggers. It makes me want to throw the nearest roll of decorative adhesive borders at him.

“Of course, Mrs Cassidy,” I say politely, simultaneously shooting daggers at Sam. “I’ll just quickly print something out in the front office, and I’ll be back. Why don’t you pick out a few of your favourite pics in the meantime?”

She smiles and sets about flipping through her images, carefully perusing each one. With that many photos, how is she going to be able to choose? I plaster on a smile and duck off to the office.

Sally-Anne is on the phone at her desk when I arrive. It doesn’t take long to pick up on the fact that she’s talking about some music festival, and how the kids’ father needs to take some responsibility and look after them so she can go party with Grant. Is he new on the scene? Is he the hickey-giver?

None of my business.

I print off two copies of Sam’s photo and then head back to the group. When I return, I notice that Mr Thompson has sat down at the far end of the table. He has a deck of cards in his hand, and a row of five cards facing upwards in front of him, side by side. I set about getting an album for him and an assortment of coloured backgrounds. I deliver the photos to Sam.

As I pick up a blue album, I glance back at Mr Thompson. He stands up and peels off his powder blue T-shirt. He circles it around his head twice before tossing it aside, revealing a white Bonds singlet.

I walk up beside him and place my hand tentatively on his bare shoulder. “Are you feeling hot, Mr Thompson?” I ask. “I can adjust the temperature.”

He turns to me, furrows his brows, and grunts, his eyes vacant. He sits once more and deals two cards to himself and others in front of him, some face down, some face up.

“Miss Jane?” Mrs Cassidy calls out and waves her arm feverishly in the air.

When I reach her, I take in the mess in front of her. “Where would you like to get started? Do you want to pick some backgrounds first?”

“Uh, yes,” she says, and babbles under her breath about Snuggles and all shades of blue that she wants to use to highlight her cat’s eyes. It’s hard to understand her when she’s almost frantic with excitement, scooping up anything green or blue within reach.

“How about we pick two of your favourite photos?” I suggest. “Then we can build on that.”

“Put it away, Thommo,” Mr Blandford calls out.

I look up to see what the fuss is about.

Old penis.

Mr Thompson had dropped his trousers and jocks. His singlet sits atop his flaccid dangly bits.

With my forearm, I shield my view.Dear God, help me. What do I do?

---