by Tiffiny Hall
‘Look,’ she says, her voice thick with hurt.
I peer into her pocket and two yellow eyes stare up at me.
‘Cute kitten,’ I say.
‘Cute eye patch,’ Cinnamon replies without looking up. ‘Pirate chic,’ I say. Two pointed black ears poke up and she smiles.
‘Mum and I found him on the highway on the way to school. She said I can keep him.’ Cinnamon’s voice becomes light again. ‘I’m going to call him Rescue.’
‘How will you look after him at school?’ I ask.
‘He fits in my pocket, and I’ll give him half my lunch. Mum thinks he’s still in the back seat.’ She looks down adoringly at the kitten, then surveys our surroundings. ‘Don’t tell,’ she pleads.
‘I won’t,’ I promise.
We both look through Gate Two. Hero and his friends have assembled at the other end of the drive. They love to start the day by taunting Gate Twoers. Hero is wearing fingerless gloves and a puffer jacket. He looks taller today, as if he’s had a growth spurt. Great. Just what the world needs.
‘I hate casual clothes day,’ I say. ‘Zigzag it?’
Cinnamon and I have a few different gateway patterns that we alternate to avoid spit bombs. The older kids like to fill straws with chewed white paper, which they spit at Gate Twoers in hard, wet darts. The paper sticks like glue in your hair and to your clothes. Spit bombs are guaranteed on casual clothes day because the bullies know kids have gone to some trouble to look good.
‘What are you waiting for, Sweat Queen?’ Hero yells.
Cinnamon and I break away to opposite sides of the gate. Elecktra is surrounded by her friends, but glances over at me to eye the sweat patches under my arms that are ruining her T-shirt.
‘On three,’ I say.
‘Three!’ I yell.
We run through the gate, crossing paths once then twice in a figure-eight motion. Today my feet feel light and I speed past Cinnamon. All the sugar she eats has made her slow. She’s clutching at her pocket to keep the kitten safe and heaves for air as she tries to keep up with me and not spill her energy drink.
I’m too quick for the spit bombs and they miss me, speckling the path behind me, but Cinnamon cops it. Her red afro fills with white darts, like hail on a scarlet bush. Her eyes shine with tears.
Hero and his friends laugh as we regain our composure inside the gate.
‘Not here,’ I tell Cinnamon and she holds back her tears. ‘We’ll get him back one day.’
‘How? We don’t have any friends here,’ she says. ‘We’ve got no backup.’ Her eyes moisten again.
I take my eye patch off and fold it over her eye. ‘No crying,’ I say.
‘Got any goggles?’ Cinnamon asks, wiping a tear from her unpatched eye.
We laugh. I pick a spit bomb out of her hair. ‘It’s a good look — think of it as lucky fairy dust,’ I say.
A heavy hand falls on Cinnamon’s backpack and her unpatched eye widens as she’s forcefully spun around.
‘What’s in your pocket?’ Hero asks. His eyes are molten black. His friends encircle us. If Hero gets hold of the kitten, he’ll kill it.
Cinnamon’s grip tightens on her pocket and I hope the kitten has enough air to breathe. ‘Nothing,’ she says in a trembling voice.
‘Nothing doesn’t move!’ Hero says.
‘She’s got nothing in her pocket,’ I say.
His eyes shift to me without his head moving. It’s a creepy way to look at people. I put a hand across Cinnamon’s chest to protect her, but my skin burns and when I look down, my hand’s flashing between visible and invisible. I retract it quickly and hide it in my pocket, but it’s too late. Hero’s eyes are now on my pocket. Why does this invisible thing happen? Cinnamon hasn’t noticed, but Hero’s definitely seen something. He licks his lips. I brace for spit bombs in the eyes.
‘Pizza’s here!’ someone yells.
Gate One kids often have pizza delivered before school and eat it in front of everyone else. The smell wafting from Gate One is tormenting. Hero glares at me for what seems like forever, then sprints off after the others.
‘Saved by the smell,’ I say. ‘Now hide Rescue.’
Cinnamon and I take our places at the front of the geography classroom. Hero and the TCs (Too Cool kids) sprawl along the back row.
The class is hysterical. Casual clothes day makes everyone a little nuts. Despite my warning, Cinnamon still has Rescue in her pocket. He has curled up against her warm thigh and gone to sleep. He is black with white spots and under his nose he has two brown markings like a moustache.
‘Who’s your friend?’ Hero calls out to Cinnamon, one boxing-boot heel on his desk.
Cinnamon stops breathing and her porcelain skin washes grey. She tightens her grip on her pocket.
‘Your only friend!’ Hero yells.
Cinnamon shuts her eyes, the way I do when I’m wishing I’m invisible.
Hero persists. ‘Who’s your friend?’
The class silences. Cinnamon doesn’t answer.
‘On ya face!’ He laughs and the class joins in.
Cinnamon lets go of her pocket and leans her cheek into her hand to hide her pimple. I turn slowly to meet Hero’s dark eyes. His brow pinches with a hateful thought, ready to fly at me.
Sergeant Major stomps into the classroom and everyone, even Hero, falls silent. Sergeant Major’s wearing his regular uniform: commando laced-up boots, army camouflage pants and a tucked-in tight black T-shirt that seems to cut off the circulation to the bright blue veins strangling his shoulders and neck. Sergeant Major was in the war and he talks about it all the time. No one knows what war, or why everything reminds him of digging a hole and sleeping in it or slugging bullets, but it does. We went to the zoo once and saw an echidna, and he said it reminded him of the war and having to carry ‘lots of stuff on his back’.
Sergeant Major is more entertaining than the other teachers, who are rusty gnomes in comparison and drone on about uniforms and rules. They all wear old people’s clothes — cardigans, tweed jackets, knee-length shorts, slacks, pearls — but Sergeant Major gets away with wearing his army gear as Hindley Hall was once a boys-only school and cadets were popular.
Sergeant Major is new to Year Seven teaching. After injuring himself in the army, he said he wanted to influence new recruits. We do a lot of physical education along with geography. He says all we need to learn is where we’re going and be fit enough to get there. He runs our classroom like a sleek military operation. There isn’t a pen or desk out of order.
‘Morning, Sergeant Major,’ we chorus.
‘Prepare for inspection!’ Sergeant Major shouts.
We hurry, tidying our pencils, stacking our school books, straightening our belongings inside our desks, cleaning our shoes and resting them against the first right leg of our desks in a five-past-one position.
‘Attention!’ he orders.
Each kid snaps into a rigid position next to his or her metal-framed desk: ankles together, eyes forwards, shoulders back.
He nods in approval as he passes the first line of desks.
The classroom bin captures his attention. He stomps his right foot, rattling our desks, and strides over to the bin. He bends from his hips, with his hands in fists by his sides, to inspect its interior, then reaches in and pulls out a soft-drink can.
‘Why is there an unidentified object in the bin?’ he yells.
We freeze. No one owns up.
He throws the can in the recycling basket, then, on second thoughts, retrieves it. ‘You know the drill!’ he barks.
We do know the drill. We push our desks out in front of us by exactly half a ruler’s length, sit on our hands, walk our feet out, then drop our bums to the floor, dipping our body weight from our elbows.
‘One. Two. Three. Four,’ Sergeant Major yells.
At ten body dips no one has owned up. My arms are beginning to burn. Cinnamon is struggling to keep her pocket to the ceiling so as not to disturb her sleeping kitten.
Sergeant Major will make us all do desk squats if he discovers she’s brought a pet to school.
‘Nose to the plank,’ Sergeant Major commands.
No one dares complain. We sit back on our chairs, pull our desks in, fold our hands behind our heads and crunch our stomachs down until our noses touch our desks, like a sit-up. Many of the kids wheeze, practically pass out, but I have always found Sergeant Major’s exercises easy. I’m a natural at sport, like my mother. Our surname means ‘orchid’ in Japanese, but Mum always says we live up to the meaning in English, since the Rans have always been fast. The problem is that I lack the confidence to join any of the sporting teams or even compete. I try to hide my ability from the other kids.
Dennis, a notorious soft-drink addict, is exhausted from the dips and desk crunches. He waves his white ruler and surrenders. Sergeant Major strides over to him and holds the soft-drink can at arm’s length.
‘Duck,’ he orders.
Dennis stands under his arm and then, like a boxer, weaves to the left and right of the soft-drink can with his guard up.
‘Open your books to page thirty. First one to solve the problem won’t get laps,’ Sergeant Major orders.
Dennis continues weaving under the can.
I notice Cinnamon wrestling with her pocket. Small beads of sweat drip from her hairline. Her bright afro swirls around her neck. Cinnamon is the most striking girl I have ever seen. If only she realised that too.
‘Stop it,’ I hiss.
‘He wants to get out,’ she whispers.
‘Take him to the toilet. Let him walk around for a minute,’ I whisper.
Sergeant Major doesn’t notice Cinnamon slip out of class. But Hero notices. His eyes laser onto her pocket.
Dennis gives up, puts the can in the recycling basket and class begins.
‘Bruce, Krew, hold up that map.’ Sergeant Major indicates the rolled map leaning against the pinboard.
The boys, members of Hero’s group, slouch their way to the front of the classroom. Even they don’t dare to mess with Sergeant Major. They unfold the map and hold it up against the pinboard. Sergeant Major opens the top drawer of his teaching desk, takes out a handful of nuts and dried goji berries and guzzles them, then shoves his paw into his pocket. He retrieves a small staple gun and aims it at the left-hand corner of the map, still chewing, and shoots. A pin staples the map to the board and Sergeant Major shoots pins at the remaining corners.
We stare at the map of Tasmania on the board, waiting for Sergeant Major to speak.
I can feel Hero’s eyes on the back of my neck. But when I turn around, he’s disappeared. I can’t relax.
Cinnamon slips back into the classroom with slick cheeks and swollen eyes. She takes a paintbrush from an immaculate row of bristles lined up against a pile of alphabetised folders and shoves it into Rescue’s pocket, which she pats as she sits down. ‘I can’t find him,’ she whispers in a quivering voice.
I can’t risk searching for Rescue while Sergeant Major is taking class. If I get caught with the kitten, I’ll get into trouble. Sergeant Major will make me run fifty laps of the oval and even though my last name is ‘Ran’, no one’s that fit. I turn my attention to my notebook to take my mind off Rescue until after class.
Things that make me feel good, I write.
1. Cleaning out drawers.
2. Spying on Lecky.
3. Receiving mail.
4. Organising my desktop.
5. Eavesdropping on other people’s conversations, even though I know I shouldn’t.
6. Stapling stuff.
7. Wrapping presents.
8. Cuddling hot plates from a fresh dishwasher cycle.
9. Checking out what books people are reading.
10. Cuddling pets in pet shops.
11. Inventing conversations between my favourite foods.
12. Bending paperclips into baby coathangers.
Hero returns to class. His taunts interrupt my train of thought. ‘Sweat Queen and Pimple Dimple,’ Hero whispers and laughs.
Cinnamon is sobbing now. She looks so defeated, so vulnerable, that I can’t wait any longer.
‘I’ll find Rescue,’ I tell her. ‘Cover for me.’
I slip out of class just as Sergeant Major switches off the lights to show us a video I am sure we’ve all seen before.
FOUR
Cinnamon was walking Rescue around in the toilets so that’s where I begin my search. I creep down the hall, alert for teachers, and slip into the girls’ toilets. I look under the bathroom stalls, behind the sinks, out the window — but no Rescue. I call his name quietly, but I don’t think he’s even had a chance to learn it yet.
‘Kitty Kat! Kit Kit? Little Puss! Rescue?’ I whisper, but nothing.
I am feeling light-headed and put it down to the stress of casual clothes day. My body is unusually hot, the hair at the base of my ponytail wet. My heart is racing and I feel like I’m getting sick.
The boys’ and girls’ toilets are located in one large fluorescent-lit room with a high dividing wall between them. There’s a narrow space at the base of the wall, just big enough for a kitten to crawl through. The boys try to use the space as a spy hole. I crouch down, nose to the tiles, but I can’t see the kitten.
A pair of boxing boots enters the boys’ toilets. There’s a rustling sound, then the opening of a cubicle door, then I hear a noise that drains the blood from my face. A tiny mew.
‘Rescue!’
I leap to my feet and throw myself towards the top of the dividing wall. I misjudge the distance and hit my head on the roof as I go over, and smash to the ground. I expect to feel Hero’s boot in my cheek, but when I stand, he has his back to me. I look in disbelief over my shoulder at the wall. It’s twice my height and yet I leaped over it!
I look down at my torso and hands: they’re invisible. My skinny jeans and ballet flats are standing here all on their own.
Hero turns slowly and I see that he’s holding Rescue’s tiny black and white body over the toilet bowl by the scruff of the kitten’s neck. His other hand’s resting on the flush button.
‘I know it’s you,’ he says, even though he can’t see my face. ‘Don’t come any closer or I’ll flush it!’
His eyes flicker furiously as he tries to see me. He seems unperturbed that half of my body is invisible. Serrated black clouds move across the whites of his eyes. His hair becomes hard like stone and his skin turns the colour of rock.
‘Let go of him and I won’t tell,’ I say.
As soon as I speak, my arms and torso become visible again. Hero smiles evilly.
‘I knew it was you,’ he says.
‘What do you mean?’ I say. I try to sound tough, but my voice squeaks.
‘I hate ferrets,’ he says and drops the kitten into the toilet bowl. Rescue squeals.
The same fire I felt on the bench in the playground returns and swells in my ankles. I feel it burn up into my kneecaps. Before I can bring it under control, I am propelling myself towards Hero. I knee him in the back of his knee and land with my feet either side of the toilet bowl. Rescue is drowning. I swoop to pick him up, but Hero grabs my hand and yanks it backwards, throwing my body out of the cubicle and crashing it against the toilet wall. Rescue flies out of my hand and plunges back into the toilet. Hero barricades the cubicle and reaches for the flush.
Soaring to my feet, I sprint towards him; it feels as though my feet are coated in oil, gliding across the tiles before take-off. I launch into the air and my left leg stretches out, my right leg bends underneath in support and my hands punch out in straight arms, arrowing towards Hero’s jaw. I tell my body to relax. I strike and watch in disbelief as Hero’s jaw slams into the side of the cubicle. Part of me wants to apologise and run, but Rescue is still floundering in the toilet bowl, his eyes closed, pawing at the dirty water. With wet fur he has shrunk. I race to pluck him out, but Hero sweeps my leg from under me, arm-bars my right arm, locks my wrist and slowly, excruciatingly, bends my arm back t
owards his chest. We watch Rescue fight for his life in the deathly suck of the flush, his legs tiring as they struggle to keep his head above the water.
‘I know what you are,’ Hero whispers in his cruel voice. ‘And since you don’t, the kitten will die.’
The fire rushes out of my body and I become very still. I squeeze my fists. What is going on? My heart is a hammer, my fingertips tingling, I’m freaking out at my sudden ability.
Then Hero’s friends walk in and snap me out of it. Now there are three boys surrounding me. Bruce isn’t that tall, but he’s the fastest kid in school, with knuckles as large as knees; and Krew has a similar vibe to a brick wall: flat and impassable. Hero releases the arm bar and locks both my arms by my side, then leans in from behind me and smells my neck.
‘I know who you are,’ he sneers.
Hero holds me in place while Bruce pushes me hard. My neck jars and my skin smoulders. ‘That’s just for thinking you’re better than everyone,’ Bruce says.
His short, curly brown hair is gelled close to his head like a helmet. I reckon if I punch it, I’ll hurt my hand. I look at Rescue: the flush has stopped and he’s still treading water.
‘Why do you hate me so much?’ I say in a strangled voice.
‘Ask your mum.’ Hero’s sour breath congeals on my neck.
I turn my chin away from him. Why does he keep taunting me about my parents?
‘Your mum’s boyfriend’s an unemployed loser,’ Krew says.
‘Yeah,’ Hero says, ‘they’re a pair of hippies.’
All of a sudden, I am aware of my every heartbeat. My chest rises with a single tidal breath to give wind to my next move. I slam my hips back into Hero’s groin, simultaneously snapping my hands forwards to break his grip. He crouches over his groin as I knife my front heel into Bruce’s groin at the same moment that he kicks out towards me. The power of my strike propels him backwards into the sinks. He cracks against the porcelain and falls to the floor.
With one leap I am at the toilet bowl and lifting the drowning kitten out of the water. Rescue collapses on the palm of my hand; I can feel his thimble-sized heart raging. He opens his eyes and coughs. I place him on the floor beside the toilet as Bruce and Krew step into the cubicle either side of me. I don’t know where my powers have come from, but I’m happy to test them out on these two.