by Nova Weetman
Nova Weetman lives in Melbourne with her partner and two children. She has written for TV, including Backyard Science, H20 and Pixel Pinkie. Nova is the author of several middle grade and young adult novels. Her middle-grade novel The Secrets We Keep was shortlisted for the Readings Children’s Book Prize, the Speech Pathology of Australia Book of the Year Awards and the ABIA Awards, and was a 2017 CBCA Notable Book, winner of the KROC Award for Best Fiction for Years 7–9 and Honour Book in the 2018 KOALA Awards. Her second book in this series, The Secrets We Share, was a 2018 CBCA Notable Book.
www.novaweetman.com.au
Also by Nova Weetman
Middle Reader
The Secrets We Share
The Secrets We Keep
A Hot Cold Summer
Play the Game
Young Adult
Everything Is Changed
Frankie and Joely
The Haunting of Lily Frost
For Brigid and for Sandra
Meg
My current best friend is a brown paper bag that has a slight crease in the corner. I take it everywhere. This particular bag has been with me for about two months now, although it’s getting ratty along the edges so it won’t hold my air for much longer.
I stash my old bags in a drawer in my room because I can’t bring myself to throw them out. After I hide the old one, I go hunting for a plain, recycled, thick paper bag that will withstand the force of my lungs blowing into it. Bags like that are harder to find than you might think. Mushroom bags are good, or bags that have held fancy loaves of bread. I tried naming my bags at the beginning, but it felt a bit sad, so now they’re just The Bag.
I didn’t always have The Bag for a friend. I used to have a real best friend. Her name was Eleanora. I was so impressed that someone with such a sophisticated name was my friend that I’d say her full name as often as I could. She had four syllables. I only have one. Meg. Actually, that’s not true. It’s Margaret, which I like even less than Meg. It’s as dull as my mousy-brown hair.
Eleanora isn’t around anymore. That makes it sound like she’s dead. She’s not. She just ditched me and made friends with other girls, who don’t carry paper bags in their pockets, leaving me here, in Sick Bay, with mine.
Sick Bay is a fluoro-lit room down the corridor from the principal’s office where The Bag and I sometimes spend part of the school day. At first my teachers tried to coax me back to their classrooms, although now they’ve accepted that I hang out here on occasion. Actually, if I were to fill in a questionnaire about how frequently I was in here, I’d probably lean towards the Often category. I like those questionnaires. I’ve filled in a few in the last year or so. There’s something reassuring about seeing parts of your life broken down into a series of black marks in little boxes. It makes life feel more manageable.
The office lady, Sarah, who starts the day with red lipstick on her lips and ends the day with it smeared on her teeth, even sneaks me in some leftover morning or afternoon tea. It might be a finger of banana bread or a couple of strawberry cream biscuits. The food makes me feel like I’m now one of Sick Bay’s permanent residents, as regular as Dash Jones, the kid with asthma.
Sick Bay is about the size of a child’s bedroom. There’s a single bed that nobody ever wants to lie on because it’s hard to imagine the sheets are changed very often, and what if the kid who used it before you had gastro and vomited on the pillows? And there’s a pair of armchairs that are too brightly covered in red-and-yellow- patterned vinyl, like they’ve been stolen from the children’s hospital where the furniture is all primary coloured to lift the mood of the patients. The only wall decoration is a poster of a healthy-eating food pyramid that is torn in one corner and there’s a straw basket of picture books clearly left there for preps to read when they are having a bad day. When they built Bayview East Primary School, they should have consulted the students to see how many of us might need to frequently use Sick Bay because then they would have worked out it needs to be much larger than it is.
There’s nothing pleasant about the room, but I still spend a lot of my time here. It’s tricky to explain why. My friend The Bag knows why, although nobody else really does. Except for Sarah in the office because she knows everything about everyone in this school, although she’s never actually said anything directly to me.
The reason I walked out of class today is because it’s Thursday and on Thursdays we have an hour of PE and today we’re running four laps of the mini oval and I happen to be wearing slippers and if I go to PE then my teacher will do two things: first he will lecture me about wearing inappropriate footwear, and then he will make me run anyway in the inappropriate footwear.
I’d like to think that if I were a teacher, I’d guess that wearing slippers to school wasn’t through choice. And then maybe I’d investigate what else might be going on. My PE teacher isn’t really one to ask questions though. He’s a whistle man. He enjoys creating sharp noises and making us sweat.
Unsurprisingly, I’m really not up to PE today, so instead I’m in here, in Sick Bay, perched on my favourite of the chairs in the corner near the fridge. Usually I bring my book and re-read the passages I love, although I forgot it this morning.
From this spot I can see the corridor through the open door so I know when someone’s coming. I like being prepared. I can also hear the hum of the fridge filling in time. For the past five minutes, I’ve been looking through the glass door of the fridge, reading the labels of the medicines. It’s really the school’s fault I’m doing this because if they don’t want anyone knowing what medicines kids are taking they should keep them somewhere a bit more discreet.
I’ve now learned that Jacob in grade two is asthmatic, and Emily in grade four is anaphylactic if she comes into contact with chocolate, eggs or strawberries. Bummer, Emily. I thought it was hard having my life. Removing chocolate and strawberries is something else altogether. One kid is on Ritalin for ADHD, and someone else requires oral steroids. I didn’t bother investigating Dash’s medication because he told me all about it last year. It’s like a miniature pharmacy in there.
‘Hey,’ a voice says from the corridor, and I look up as quickly as I can, trying to pretend that I’m not reading the labels after all.
It’s Riley Jackson, another girl from grade six. She started at my school towards the end of last year so I don’t really know her. She doesn’t look so good and I hope she’s not about to vomit on me. She’s tall and skinny and her ponytail is a bit messier than usual. She’s in shorts and a patterned t-shirt, and she’s wearing the black-and-white fabric bumbag she always wears around her waist. I’ve tried to find out about the bumbag but it makes it hard when I don’t have anyone I can ask. Riley crashes in through the doorway and drops down on the bed. I jerk out of reach so we don’t bump legs. Touching isn’t really my thing.
‘Riley, I’m calling your parents.’ Sarah rushes in after her.
I look away from them. This is one of those moments when I hate being in Sick Bay. Two kids are definitely enough to fill this space; two kids and a grown-up who is taller than most dads makes it claustrophobic. I see Sarah look across at me and I clutch The Bag. It’s a just-in-case clutch.
‘No, I’m okay,’ says Riley as the office phone starts ringing.
‘You sure?’ says Sarah.
‘Yeah. I’m fine. Really,’ she says in a very shaky voice.
‘I have to get that. I’ll be back to check on you,’ says Sarah, rushing off again.
I wonder if Sarah expected to be a full-time receptionist and a full-time nurse when she took this job. She’s Mum’s age, or maybe even older. Her hair is silvery in threads at the front but the rest is brown.
&n
bsp; ‘What are you in here for?’ says Riley, looking over at me.
‘Carjacking.’ I’m not about to tell her the truth.
She stabs a short laugh that’s not entirely unfriendly and then stops, her face turning even whiter than when she came in.
‘If you’re going to vomit could you please direct it elsewhere?’ I ask.
She gives me a strange look.
‘You look rather pale,’ I tell her.
‘Nah, it’s nothing. Hey, I like your t-shirt.’
I look down as if I’m trying to remember which one I’m wearing. Of course I know its Gumby because it’s always Gumby. I don’t have any others that fit.
‘Is it old?’
‘Age is all relative, isn’t it?’
‘What?’
She manoeuvres her body so she’s half sitting, half leaning back against the spotty-covered cushions. I notice her Converse at the same time she spies my slippers. I tuck my feet back under the legs of the chair like somehow that will make my slippers disappear, but she’s still peering at my feet. So, I take a deep breath and scrunch my eyes as tight as I can and practise seeing blue water.
‘What are you doing?’ Riley asks.
‘Relaxing,’ I tell her.
‘Good luck with that.’
I snap my eyes open. She’s watching me as she pops a bright green jelly bean into her mouth. Where did that come from? Then I notice a small bag of coloured jelly beans perched on her lap. My stomach flutters at the sight.
‘You want one?’
Riley holds out the bag and I can see the tremor in her hand. I take too long to decide and she sighs, so I grab the brightest thing I can see: a fluoro-blue bean. Instead of eating it, I grip it, feeling the thick sugar crust crush in my fist.
She eats another jelly bean and then tosses a pink one into the air and catches it in her mouth.
‘You should probably hide them from Sarah,’ I say. ‘We aren’t supposed to eat lollies at school.’
Riley laughs like I know nothing. Maybe she doesn’t care about rules.
‘Do I still look like I’m going to throw up?’
‘A bit.’
‘Don’t worry. I’m not.’ She sits forward. ‘This bed is all lumpy.’
‘That’s the germ bed.’
She looks down at the mattress. ‘Why?’
‘Unsurprisingly, the sheets are rarely washed.’
Riley laughs and the sound is light. ‘To be honest that makes me want to sit here even more!’
She wriggles to the edge of the bed and swings her Converse back and forth like she’s on a ride in a theme park. ‘You going to eat that lolly or just play with it?’
I unpeel my fingers and peek at the blue bean. I bite it in half, pretending for a second I can savour it, and then suddenly suck the whole thing into my mouth. It tastes like cheap grape jelly and my stomach rumbles for more.
‘Here, have as many as you want. I have heaps in my locker,’ says Riley, throwing me the plastic zip-lock bag.
I try to think of something smart to say, something that prevents her from knowing how much I want to eat the lot, although I can’t.
‘Have you done another test, Riley?’ asks Sarah, bustling back in.
I’m holding the lollies in full view and I wonder for a second if it was Riley’s intention that I get busted with them instead of her. I quickly wedge them between my back and the chair.
‘I was just about to,’ she says, unzipping the long bumbag from her hip and taking something out. I can’t quite see what it is because Sarah’s now blocking my view. What test would she be doing? What’s wrong with her?
I hear a beep and then Riley says, ‘It’s back up to four. I’m fine now.’
‘Good. But I want you to stay here for another ten minutes and then you can go back to class. Okay?’
‘Sure. That means I get out of PE,’ says Riley lightly.
While Sarah’s looking the other way, I manage to pop a green jelly bean into my mouth. This one is a strange lime flavour. I’m not sure I like it much.
Sarah leaves again and Riley sits up properly this time. She doesn’t look white anymore.
I take a couple of jelly beans and pass the bag back. ‘Thank you,’ I say.
She shrugs and zips them into her bumbag. I wait, expecting her to tell me what she was testing.
‘So, what’s wrong with you?’ she says instead.
I don’t really know how to answer, so I quote a line from my favourite book. ‘I’m in the depths of despair,’ I tell her.
She frowns at me and leans closer, peering at my face. ‘You’re what?’
I shrug, deciding it would be too hard to explain.
‘I thought this place was for sick people,’ she says, swinging her legs out of the bed.
‘It’s a public space, and despair is a medical condition,’ I say defensively.
‘It’s called Sick Bay and it’s for sick people. Just saying. I’m going to PE now. If Sarah comes back, tell her I left.’
She pushes past me, her hip banging into my elbow. When she reaches the doorway, she swivels and stares at me for a second, taking in my slippers again, and I can feel the stickiness of the jelly beans on my teeth. Then she walks off down the corridor and she’s gone, and I’m back to the hum of the fridge, reading the labels on the medicines and hanging with my friend The Bag.
Riley
Starting the school week with a conversation about how Nick Zarro apparently has a crush on me is not my idea of fun. I don’t believe it for a second but my friends have been giggling and writing me notes about it. I don’t like Nick much. He’s too sure of himself and when he talks to me he always looks past me like I’m not very interesting. And when I first started at Bayview East Primary School, he made a joke about my insulin pump and told me I looked pregnant because of the bag I wear around my stomach with my testing kit. I’ve never forgiven him for that.
‘He told Matt yesterday that he liked you,’ whispers Lina.
‘Whatever.’ I resist adding an eye roll.
One of our teachers, Mr Sanderson, is midway through explaining BIDMAS to us and I really need to concentrate because I have no idea what he’s talking about.
‘Don’t you like him even a bit?’
‘No. Not one bit,’ I say, louder than I intended.
‘Riley Jackson? Do you want to come and explain this concept to the rest of the class?’ Mr Sanderson has that teacher stare happening. I look away first.
‘Um, no, sorry.’
I elbow Lina sharply, hoping she understands the physical code for shut up. She nudges me back and slides her notepad over. There’s a line of grey sketchy love hearts that she’s drawn as a border around the maths equations. This time, I go all out on the eye roll.
My friends at this school are always talking about boys. It’s not that I don’t like boys. I might. Or I might not. I’m just not even thinking about all that stuff yet. Besides, if I were going to have a crush on someone, it probably wouldn’t be the boys in my class. And it would definitely not be Nick Zarro. Actually, that’s what drives me mad about all these conversations. Apparently, if a boy likes me I’m supposed to be flattered and therefore sort of interested in him. It doesn’t seem to matter what I think of him. I explained this to Lina but she just looked at me like I was an alien and then told me I should be happy if someone’s crushing on me. I fail to understand why.
‘Riley, can I see you for a second?’ Ms Barber, the year coordinator and my favourite of the grade six teaching team is standing in the doorway. I like her because she talks about gender and equality and cracks down hard on Matt Park and his friends who sometimes make really annoying jokes about the girls.
Mr Sanderson sighs as I get up to leave. He thinks maths is more important than pretty much anything else.
; I follow Ms Barber out to the teachers’ office in the grade six common space. The grade six students are in a beehive of rooms. There are five classes that all share the common space and we go to different rooms for different subjects. We’re split off into our home groups for most classes, then come back together for weekly meetings. It’s not like my old school in Sydney: desks in rows and small classrooms. Here it’s all open learning and team teaching. The teachers’ office is right in the middle so they can watch us at all times.
I don’t get to come in here much, but whenever I do, I scan the desks and the walls as quickly as I can, looking for information that may come in handy later. One desk is covered in confiscated Pokémon cards and another has several blocks of opened chocolate on it. There are notes scribbled in handwriting messier than mine stuck to the walls. Some are about students. Others are dates. I try to read them, but Ms Barber turns her head around to face me.
‘Mrs Myer would like you to make one of the speeches at graduation,’ she says.
Mrs Myer is the principal and we haven’t had much to do with each other. I frown, suspicious. ‘Why me?’
Ms Barber smiles. ‘You’re a good student. You’re a good leader and you’re … you’re …’
‘Different?’
‘We’re all different,’ says Ms Barber, trying to catch my eye.
I can’t help but smirk at her. Graduation is five and a half weeks away. But apparently, it’s a huge deal at this school. There’s a dinner and an afterparty disco in the gym and everyone gets super dressed up. My friends have been talking about it for ages. It sounded like fun, until I was chosen to make some sort of poxy speech in front of everyone. We both know the reason I’m being asked. Even though I’ve only been here for a year, I’ve already gathered that Mrs Myer likes to showcase the points of difference in her school, like somehow they better reflect on her leadership.
‘Don’t be too cynical, Riley. You’re one of our strongest students.’
When I started at this school after we moved down from Sydney for Dad’s work, it was Ms Barber who checked in every few weeks to make sure I was okay. She was the teacher who did diabetes training so I could go on excursions without Mum freaking out. For weeks, until I became friends with Lina and the others, I would hang out with Ms Barber at lunchtime and talk about cats. Hers is called Lizard, because it slinks around and lies in the sunniest spots in the backyard, soaking up the warmth. We used to have a cat called Jelly but it stayed in Sydney with Granny because she said if we were all abandoning her, the least we could do was leave her the cat.