The Spite Game

by Anna Snoekstra

  “Silence please!” the teacher said from the front, and three hundred heads bent over three hundred tests again, except mine.

  I was sure they were coming to arrest me. During the test. On my way home. As I sat in my room, staring at my textbooks but not reading even a word. I deserved it. I knew that. I was as bad as the man who had stood over my bed that night with the baseball bat in his hands. There was something deep and fundamentally wrong with me.

  The next day it started all over again. The first test of the day began and I sat staring at the back of Mel’s head. Had she been awake all night, scared? Worried a real psycho was after her, biding their time, wanting to hurt her. Wanting to make her bleed, make her scream.

  We broke for lunch. Everyone scampered out into the sunlight and hot, real air. Mel headed for her huddle with Saanvi and Cass. I followed.

  “Mel,” I said to the back of her head, “can I talk to you for a sec?”

  Saanvi sneered at me. “Are you seriously talking to us right now?”

  Cass looked at her feet.

  “Mel,” I said, “it’s about the notes.”

  “Fuck off, psycho.”

  But Mel turned toward me. I’d imagined a dullness in her complexion, shadows under her eyes, but there was none.

  “It’s fine,” she said, and began to walk.

  It wasn’t until we were out of earshot, standing in the shade of a thick-trunked eucalypt with four wooden benches surrounding its base that she turned to me and hissed, “What? What do you want?”

  I kicked at the wood chips. My confession had been right there, ready to spill out any second all night. Now I didn’t know how to say it.

  “I didn’t want to upset you,” I said lamely. “Are you okay?”

  She crossed her arms and waited.

  “Those letters. They...” I put a hand over my face. “It was me. I wrote them. I’m sorry. I’m really, really—”

  I could have gone and on, but Mel had grabbed my arm. I forced myself to look at her, to face the anger, the yelling, the tears, whatever she was gearing up to throw at me. But her face looked exactly as it was.

  “Yeah, obviously,” she said. “I’m not an idiot.”

  “The letters,” I stammered, thinking she didn’t understand, “the ones about following you home and all that horrible stuff. I was trying to, I don’t know, get even or something.”

  “Well, dah!” she said. “I knew that from the start. I was just fucking with you.”

  I stared at her openmouthed.

  She turned on her heel and went back to the group.

  38

  I slept all day in the weeks before graduation. It was like the tiredness from the previous months had just been waiting in the bays and now that I could finally rest it was released, pummeling me, smothering me. Bea and my mum thought I had the flu, so I carried around tissues and complained about a sore throat, so that I could get away with staying in bed.

  I only got up to go and return the brass cat that Mel had stolen to the old woman’s house. I left it on their doorstep. I didn’t want it in my room anymore. On my way there, I left food and some extra blankets in the house where I’d seen the boy camping out.

  My results arrived in the mail, but I showed no one. I would graduate, but only barely. When I saw my score I wanted to be sick. I didn’t want to go to graduation, but Mum and Bea insisted.

  “It’s one of those things that no one wants to do and is so bloody boring,” Bea said.

  “Is this meant to be convincing me?”

  “Seriously though, it’s an important life event. You’ll regret it if you skip it.”

  So we went. The three of us in the car, driving the long winding route out of Lakeside together. I wished it was for good.

  Mum brought her camera and sat up the back of the gym, smiling when I turned to her. Bea had brought a book.

  Sitting in my assigned seat, I watched as Saanvi arrived with her parents and older brother, Cass going back and forth between her mother and father, who were sitting on opposite ends of the gym. Mel’s mum and dad flanked her when she walked in, like bodyguards.

  The clattering and chattering quieted as the principal took the stand.

  “Well, this is it,” she said. “It’s over.”

  Looking around and ignoring the speech, I realized she was right. It all seemed so final. After today, I would never be forced into a room with these people again. I might never be called “psycho.” This would all be in the past. Theodore, Saanvi, Cass, even Mel. Potentially, I’d never even see them again.

  “Now, before we continue with the ceremony, I’d like to make special mention of one of our students who’s had a really tough year. As I’m sure all of you are aware, Melissa Moore has been put through a terrible situation. Since the airing of A Current Affair, a donation account was set up to fund Melissa’s dream of moving to Paris. Melissa, where are you? Do you mind standing?”

  We all watched as Mel stood.

  “I’m happy to report here today that, as of this morning, over ten thousand dollars has been raised for Melissa’s living expenses and tuition fees.”

  Mel grinned, a blessed, modest smile. It was the perfect resolution of the high school movie she had envisioned for herself.

  Soon, everyone was on their feet, hands clapping in a round of applause, everyone except for me.

  Part 7

  POOR BEHAVIORAL CONTROLS

  2016

  39

  It should have all ended when I got back from Paris. If it had, I wouldn’t be here, planning my statement, wishing things were different.

  I was going to stop, I really was. In fact, for a long time, I did. For two whole years I didn’t even look. I stayed well away from their online profiles; I didn’t google their names. I tried not to think about anything that had happened in the past. For the first time since high school, I tried to just live.

  For a while I did okay. There were a lot of changes to focus on. Nancy got lawyers involved in Celia’s will. I didn’t fight her. I’d never asked Celia to give me everything, despite what Nancy thought. It was hard to have someone who I cared about hate me so vehemently. So when she lost the fight and the zeros appeared in my bank account, I did try to make it right. I tried to give her money; I wanted her to have the house, at least. But she packed her car and left by the end of the week.

  Evan had been right, you see. Celia did have money. A lot of money. All those photographs Celia had shown me of her on the arm of various men, the ones I’d seen again and again, I guess I never really looked closely enough. If I had, maybe I would have recognized some of them from the papers, or the history books. Although, I can’t forget, you are a detective. Probably best for me not to get too deep into all that.

  Living in Celia’s house all alone felt a little strange at first. But I got used to it. Slowly, I started to feel less like a shadow, more like a real person. I went for long, very slow walks with Chucky, who was now deaf and blind in one eye, sometimes to that mall that Bea had taken me to all those years ago. It had started to look a little wild, weeds creeping out from every crack in the pavement, huge silvery cobwebs, birds nesting in the drainpipes. I ran every morning. Anything to feel my pulse in my ears, sweat on my skin, anything to feel alive without creeping around in the dark. I listened to music up loud. I gave my worn-out T-shirts and trainers to the charity shop, and bought new clothes. Tailored pants, leather shoes, tops in cotton and linen and silk. Colors now, no black and gray. I went on dates, quite a few of them. But only ever first dates. I still knew my limitations. I still knew what I was.

  I read a lot of books. Nonfiction mostly, often memoirs, like reading about other people’s lives could give me clues on how to create my own. I did short courses online, and at the college in Greensborough. Business, finance, drawing, photography. I gave a lot of things a
shot. I was trying to find my place, I guess. Trying to figure out what to do with my second chance. I liked to think that’s why Celia gave everything to me. Though the other option, some misguided spite to Nancy, was probably more likely.

  Evan came over often. He helped me repaint the walls into a calming pale blue. He helped pull out the cheap Perspex kitchen cabinets and replace them with pale timber. But he never stayed over, and I never asked him to.

  One night I finally agreed to let him teach me to ride.

  “Just think, now you can say ‘It’s just like riding a bike’ and mean it,” he kept saying. We walked his black fixed gear down to the empty lake. He pushed me around the footpath that circled it. But I just felt stupid. I wobbled every time he let go and put my feet down straightaway.

  “Let’s try again another night,” I said, but we both knew I’d never give it another go.

  I was trying desperately to construct a life, to construct a person. No wonder it failed. I’m no expert, but I don’t think that’s how it works.

  I didn’t even look, I can swear to that. I was minding my business, cooking a stir-fry for one, half watching some dumb game show on the television, canned laughter and the smell of simmering sauce filling the empty house. It was the night after the failed bike riding lesson, and I was still feeling low, embarrassed at how terrible I had been at something kids can do. My phone binged. I thought it might be Bea asking if I wanted to come over later, or my mum asking me how to work her Apple TV. Cassandra Fischer is live right now. I didn’t even know you could do that. I pressed on it, and there she was, halfway through a story, her face pressed up against her boyfriend.

  “And then he was saying, no, we can’t go inside. And I was like, why not? What’s up with you? And then he looked like he was panicking.”

  “I wasn’t!”

  “Yeah, you were.”

  Her face was glowing. Little hearts and thumbs-up signs were floating up the screen.

  “And then, can you believe it? He actually got down on one knee! Yep! So anyway, just wanted to let you all know it’s finally happened. See ya!”

  Her finger came in front of the camera, the video paused on the blurry image of a diamond ring, and then the video disappeared. I continued staring at my phone, as the laughter continued from the television and whispers of smoke began filling the house with the smell of burned sauce.

  It was amazing how quickly I slipped. It was like she was reeling me in, egging me on. She had never used social media a lot, but now she was posting constantly about wedding dresses, tasting cakes, picking flowers and color stories and tablecloths. It felt like an invitation.

  40

  You’d expect someone like Cass would awaken on a Monday morning with birds flying into her window, and she’d sing to them as they helped dress her into pale silks of pink and blue. No. In reality she’d wake to the grating dings of her alarm, and hit snooze again and again until eventually her fiancé would groan, “Get up, Cass.”

  She’d make herself a peppermint tea and drink it as she got ready. She still didn’t wear makeup, so it never took long. She’d walk to her tram with her headphones in her ears, listening to a podcast, perhaps, as she would laugh every so often.

  When she got to the Collingwood Arts Institute, where she worked as a student counselor, she’d lean on the desk as the school receptionist set up. They’d tell each other about what they’d done after work, which usually comprised the specifics of television shows and dinner, and then whine about how they didn’t know how they ended up so boring.

  “So how’s it going with, you know, everything?” the woman asked, referring to a conversation they’d had over happy hour on Friday. “Feet still feeling a bit chilly?”

  “Oh God,” Cass said, feigning just embarrassment even though in reality it was clear she was mortified. “I guess I had one too many.”

  She had. She hadn’t even noticed that her voice was getting louder and louder, or that there was another woman sitting alone at the next table, listening to every word. Me.

  “I don’t think it’s anything to worry about,” the receptionist said, lowering her voice. “Honestly, one little last hurrah, just to get it out of your system. Just pick a cute stranger, someone you’ll never see again, have one quick ride and you’re done.”

  Cass assured her that, really, she’d only been joking and almost aggressively changed the subject.

  When she got to her office, she’d sit quietly, sipping on a second cup of tea and filing through her iPad, taking notes on the students she was seeing that day. Sometimes the appointments would be back to back, sometimes she would spend hours in her office, just taking notes and writing emails. But, week to week, she could always rely on Oliver.

  To begin with he’d come once a fortnight. Then once a week. Now it was almost every second day.

  He knocked with one knuckle. “I know I don’t have an appointment. Are you busy?”

  “No, no. Never. This is what I’m here for,” she said, bringing the microphone app onto her iPod and hitting Record. “Come in, sit down.”

  He took his usual spot on the couch. At a guess, I’d say Oliver was nineteen. He had dyed black hair, and a uniform of black band T-shirts and skinny jeans, which only accentuated his spindly legs.

  “How are you?” he asked, always eager.

  “Fine, just catching up on emails as usual. How’s your new song coming along?”

  His face lit up. “It’s sick. Bryan thought of this new bit on the keys, and now it sounds kind of like synth-pop, but it is still really heavy and cool.”

  “That’s really good. So you’re feeling more positive about school, then?”

  “Yeah, way more. I think I’m going to be fine this semester. I probably won’t ace it or anything, but I’ll definitely finish.”

  “That’s great.”

  “Thanks.” He was grinning now.

  “So why did you come in today? What happened?”

  “Oh.” He looked down at his hands now, leaned back in the couch, away from her. “Nothing really, it’s no big deal.”

  “Doesn’t matter if it’s a big deal or not.” Cass leaned back in her chair too, mimicking his body language. “You can tell me anyway.”

  “She called me last night.”

  “Your mum?” Cass asked.

  “Yeah.” He still wasn’t looking at her.

  She didn’t say anything. It was a technique Cass used a lot. Whether it was bullying, depression, anxiety, whatever—she’d let the students fill the silence.

  “She was high,” Oliver said eventually.

  “That must have been difficult,” was all Cass offered.

  “I shouldn’t have answered, should I? You said I should just cut her off. She’s not good for me. This always happens.”

  “We agreed together, didn’t we? I would never tell you to do anything. It always has to be your decision.”

  “Yeah, well you know what I mean. We decided that I’d cut her off. But she called me six times in a row and I was worried something was wrong. I thought now that I’ve moved out it would be easier. But it just feels harder. Now that I don’t know she’s at home safe, I’m always worried about her.”

  “She’s the parent. Not you.”

  “I know. But I had to answer, didn’t I? What if something had happened to her? Maybe she needed me?”

  “Did she?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know, no more than usual. She just wanted someone to rant to about how she was going to get better. How she was going to change, and she wasn’t going to do it anymore—she didn’t need it. As if I hadn’t heard it a million times.”

  “Do you think that’s really why you answered?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you think that you answered because you thought she might need you?”

  “Ye
ah, why else?”

  “Why else do you think it might be?”

  I left her to it. She knew the answer, so did Oliver, so did I. He desperately wanted his mother to love him, to ask him about himself, to seem like she cared about him. But we all knew that this woman, whoever she was, would always love booze, crack and whatever else she could shove up her nose or in her arm more. I don’t know why she thought he needed to say it.

  * * *

  I didn’t have to follow Cass to know where she’d be after work. She always went to the same place. A small cocktail bar on Brunswick Street. She told her fiancé that she finished work at six, when really she finished at five. She’d sit up at the bar and get at least two glasses of wine in before jumping down from her stool and going to wait at the tram stop, chewing on some mint gum.

  I thought I had plenty of time, to find the best place, the best seat, to watch. I parked my car down a side street and tossed the book I was reading into my bag. Checking my reflection quickly in the sun visor, I slipped some stray hairs behind my ears. I locked my car and made my way past the small terrace houses to Brunswick Street. Sunlight bounced off car windshields, making me squint as I dodged my way down the street, wishing I’d remembered to put my sunglasses in my bag. You see how little I was paying attention? The time away from it all had dulled my senses, diminished my focus. A few years back, my muscles would have been quivering in anticipation, I would have been hyperaware, paying attention to everything around me while planning moves and countermoves meticulously. Instead, I was idly pondering how much the area had changed since I’d lived nearby as a teenager. Since I’d wandered drunkenly across this street with them, vodka seeping straight into my bloodstream. I was thinking how strange the last vestiges looked, the grimy Thai restaurants, the grungy music venues, sharing their walls with the pristine veneers of artisan coffee shops and designer clothing brands. That’s what I was thinking about when I heard my name.