My Private Pectus by Shane Thamm

score?’ he yelled.
    I made something up. ‘24-10.’
    â€˜You're kidding me!’ He got up then pointed at the TV. ‘Put it back on Fox.’
    Five minutes later he called out, ‘How tall are you?’
    â€˜Hundred and eighty-three centimetres.’
    â€˜Weight?’
    â€˜Sixty-five kilos.’
    â€˜Say that again.’
    â€˜Sixty-five!’ I repeated more forcefully.
    He came into the lounge room and planted the calculator in my face. ‘You're low,’ he said. ‘Your BMI's nineteen-point-four. You've gotta be between twenty and twenty-four to get in.’
    I shrugged. ‘So I'll put on weight. I'll have a big meal beforehand.’
    He looked at me, his hands on his hips. ‘We'll just have to keep you training,’ he said. ‘Keep you in the team.’
    I groaned.
    He sat down beside me, as if we were having a fabulous father-and-son moment. So I got up, went back to the dining table and looked up more stuff on the laptop. I wanted to check the medical stipulations. I trawled through pages of information, but couldn't find anything I wanted. They don't want to put anyone off.
    I sat back and let reality sink in. Dad had booked me in for a physical in the first weekend of October, the weekend after Gez's eighteenth. I thought this was something I wouldn't have to face until next year. But now, my physical is set even before I finish Year 12. I'm set to join the army—Private Jack. That's me all right: private.
    I thought of what Lisa said about the army on that Westfields afternoon and googled to see what she was on about. Sure enough, I found a few sites, but not heaps. There were a few about gay bashings in the US Army, another about sexual assaults on female officers, but what gave me the creeps was a UK site. It had a picture of a bunch of soldiers standing naked around another soldier on the ground—also naked. He was bloody and bruised. Unconscious. He was bashed during an initiation ceremony.
    I put a hand on my chest. What would I cop? Imagine if they thought I was a gay like the boys on the footy team think? I wouldn't be unconscious. I'd be dead.
    Convinced that Dad was completely engrossed in the footy again, I went onto the Pectus Boyz blog. I wanted some questions answered. I wondered if any of those guys were in the army. I started a new topic: PE and the military. I wanted to put a question out, asking to hear from anyone who had PE and was in the army. But just after I finished writing and was about to send, Dad said, ‘What are you looking at, Jack?’ He was out of the couch, peering over my shoulder. ‘Pectus Boyz?’ he asked. ‘What's that about?’
    â€˜Nothing!’ I said and slammed the screen shut.
    â€˜Your um—’ he stuttered, ‘your—’ He rested his hands on my shoulders. ‘It's troubling you, isn't it?’
    He has always referred my chest as ‘it’, as if my PE is something to be disowned. It's virtually three years since he's last seen it. He has no idea how big it's grown. And only now, when there is a possibility it could affect his dreams, does he show an interest.
    â€˜Is it getting worse?’ he asked, kneading my shoulder muscles.
    â€˜No.’
    He kept standing there. ‘Do you want to show me?’
    â€˜No!’
    â€˜Jack, I think you should.’
    â€˜Why? Don't you believe me?’
    â€˜Course I do.’
    â€˜Then I don't need to show you.’
    I got up and went to my room. I lay on my bed and looked at Oscar's greasy business card. Maybe if I went to TAFE next year I could turn the job into an apprenticeship? I wondered how many guys would apply. What kind of stuff did I need to know? I got up and stuck the card to the top of my computer monitor.
    In the morning, I gave him a call. He answered with heavy breathing. There was the sound of machinery in the background.
    â€˜I want to apply for the job,’ I