Bad Behaviour

by Rebecca Starford

  ‘Looking for something?’ Portia points towards the drying room. ‘Go on. It’s in there. We were only having a joke.’

  They look away as Kendall scuttles up the steps. But when she is inside the drying room, fumbling around in the dark, Portia rushes at the door and slams it shut.

  Sarah starts laughing. ‘It isn’t even in there.’ She points towards the corner of the deck where the towel lies in a wet lump.

  Portia struggles to hold the door fast, her feet sliding out from under her, until it suddenly falls still. Then, from deep inside the drying room, comes a sound I’ve never heard before—the sound I imagine a cow makes when her calf is taken away. Deep and elongated, raw with distress. I can’t bear it.

  ‘Let her out,’ I plead. ‘Let her out!’

  But Sarah bangs and bangs on the door.

  ‘See how you like that,’ she shouts, veins standing out like cords on her throat. ‘See how you like that now!’

  I stay out on the deck after they’ve gone. It’s as if I’m rooted to the floor. How has this happened? I wonder, feeling nauseous. Why are we like this? A few tears roll down my cheeks.

  Eventually the drying-room door creaks open. Kendall’s face is ghastly, blotchy and warped out of shape. I haven’t seen her cry before, I realise, which seems extraordinary after everything that has happened.

  She doesn’t look at me as she scurries over to the corner, her flesh almost scaly under the lights.

  ‘Kends . . .’ I begin as she bends over to pick up her towel.

  But she is already down the steps, taking the path towards the back door.

  ~

  The next morning Portia decides Red House won’t get out of bed for breakfast. ‘To protest against Miss Lacey for not believing Bec about the man,’ she declares. It has to be all of us, she insists, otherwise it won’t work.

  I don’t object. I feel like I’ve been thrown under a truck—every part of my body aches and my eyes are puffy from crying. Just before I fall back to sleep, I look across the beds to Kendall, but she is lying on her side, her back to the rest of the dorm.

  On her bedside table lies the bottle of Impulse. Last night as we prepared for bed, after Portia and Sarah and the drying room, Kendall had reached for that aerosol and set herself alight. Up and down her legs the blue flames had pulsed, like a giant forked tongue, and as she danced around the top of the aisle, laughing a high-pitched cackle, I thought, with cold dread, What have we done?

  I flew out of bed and scrambled towards her. But others reached Kendall first, beating her down with their pillows. The flames were extinguished almost immediately, a wisp of black smoke drifting to the ceiling.

  When the lights came back on, everyone’s faces were fixed in stunned horror.

  I was shaking. I couldn’t stop. ‘Are you out of your fucking mind?’ I shouted.

  A few beds down, Simone glared at me. ‘Kends,’ she said, ‘are you okay?’

  Kendall peered down at her pyjama pants. They were singed, and the smell of the scorched aerosol wafted through the dorm. But when she looked up, she didn’t say anything. A faint smile played on her lips. Simone waited, then shrugged and climbed back into bed. But I could see in the reflection of Kendall’s pale eyes how she was retreating—back into her dark, silent, secret cave—and now I shudder at the memory of it, wishing I could push it out of my head forever.

  The tread of boots from the road is the next thing to wake me.

  ‘What are you doing? Don’t you know it’s breakfast?’

  Miss Lacey. No one stirs. I can hear ragged air shooting from her nostrils. She must have run from the dining hall. I push my pillow into my mouth, choking on a nervous laugh.

  ‘Girls,’ she says. ‘Girls! Get up this instant.’

  Someone giggles, and it sets everyone off, a flurry of laughter engulfing the dorm. Portia springs onto her mattress.

  ‘You can’t tell us what to do!’

  ‘It’s not a prison.’ That sounds like Sarah.

  Then we’re all up on our beds. ‘Slut,’ someone shouts—Simone, maybe—and then we’re all flapping our arms about, a chorus of ‘Slut, slut, slut’ beating through the dorm. I’m waiting for Miss Lacey to retaliate, to threaten us with Stonely Roads or Mr Pegg. But there is fear in her eyes—real, tangible fear—as she flattens herself against the doorway, her face crumpling.

  When she flees we all cheer like a flock of hungry gulls. I catch sight of a ghoulish yellow face in the window, the mouth caught in a snarl, eyes narrow and steely, and I’m shocked to recognise it as my own.

  I wash my hands in one of the basins in the bathroom and splash icy water on my face. In the mirror I see how circles smudge my eyes, and dark roots have begun to show in my hair. I lean in and check my nose for any spots, having a half-hearted squeeze.

  The smell is stronger in here. Mould, but it’s damp now, slightly antiseptic. Light filters through the high, dusty window, bouncing off the tiles, and when the wind rattles at the window it makes me jump.

  I have always remembered how much power Portia had in the house, but I had forgotten just how effectively she had wielded it. Maybe that was why I hadn’t written about any of it in my diary—her unrelenting rule was what had frightened me most. Or maybe it was because I was still trying to comprehend my own complicity in everything that happened up here.

  On the bench near the basin are vanilla reeds in a small vase. Their smell fills my nostrils, tickles my throat. The memories of Red House have become jumbled in a way I never expected. Time and people are mixed up, like I have picked at bad stitching and the garment has unravelled. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I was supposed to be in control of this journey, in control of what I remembered and how. But instead of Portia or any other Red House girls, now I have Alexis here in the bathroom with me.

  ~

  Things weren’t great after we came back from Sri Lanka. The holiday hadn’t felt like a holiday in the end, and almost as soon as we walked in the front door arguments started—day-long brawls about stupid things, like the shopping or what to watch on television.

  We were invited to a barbecue at Fran’s house on Boxing Day. Fran was a new friend of Alexis. I didn’t have a good feeling when we left that morning, but throughout the afternoon Alexis hardly left my side as guests sprawled out on picnic rugs, sharing beers and handing around sizzling-hot meats on paper plates.

  In the evening everyone headed out to a club. As soon as I walked inside, Alexis pulled away from me, looping her arm through Fran’s. They got a jug of beer from the bar and headed to the courtyard. By the time I’d bought my own drink and went to join them, they’d moved to the dance floor, where Alexis had her hand on Fran’s shoulder, laughing riotously at something she’d just said.

  My face flushed hot. Suddenly everything in the dingy club felt near and dirty. I went to buy another drink, and came back to find them gone. I spent ages pacing up and down the corridors and around the sticky side rooms, until I found them in the bathroom, pressed together in a toilet cubicle, kissing.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  I was shaking with rage as I held open the flimsy door. Fran at least had the decency to fix her eyes on the floor. But Alexis just stared at me, defiant.

  I ran out of the club onto the street and hailed a cab. All the way home I heard Cate’s jeering voice in my head: I told you so.

  Back at the house I had a shower. Under the needling water I felt strangely calm. Finally I felt tears building, and I hoped they might also bring on anger or pain, but I was still feeling numb when I dried myself off. After I’d changed into pyjamas I sat out on the deck, which vibrated from the party next door. Had that really just happened?

  Alexis didn’t come home until early the next morning. I woke to the sound of her key in the lock and her high heels clacking across the floorboards. She didn’t emerge from her room until late in the afternoon.

  The following day more arguments began. About Fran and respect and love. About
what it was to be in a relationship. They were awful arguments, with me shouting and crying until my throat felt raw. But Alexis never cried—she spoke in a quiet, controlled voice.

  ‘How can you do this to me? How can you just humiliate me like that?’

  She folded her arms. ‘I’m not trying to humiliate you,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t you even care? Don’t you even love me?’

  ‘It’s not about love. You knew this was who I am. You knew this when we got together. I’ve never made any secret of it.’

  I shook my head. ‘You just don’t want to take responsibility for anything.’

  That set her off. She started shouting hysterically—telling me to get out of her room, that she couldn’t stand the sight of me. That she hated me.

  After she’d slammed her door, I stood for a moment on the threshold before shuffling upstairs.

  Ruby had come home and heard everything. I smiled sheepishly as I passed her in the kitchen.

  ‘Why do you let her speak to you that way?’ She was staring at me in horror, and I felt a new kind of shame blossoming inside me.

  That afternoon I rode my scooter down to Westgarth and bought a ticket to the next movie showing at the cinema: A Single Man. I bought popcorn and a lemonade, and I sat in an empty row near the front. I cried as the previews rolled, then checked my phone. I had three missed calls from Alexis, along with the message: Where are you?

  As the film went on, I pondered what it was keeping me there, in that house, with Alexis. I loved her, but I didn’t want that kind of relationship. Was it the slivers of tenderness we still shared, that she only reserved for me, the one she loved best? Or was it that look I saw in others’ eyes, appraising her, admiring her? We had been through so much just to be together, with Cate and the backlash from her friends. Was it pride, or was it something more complex, to do with fear and loneliness?

  I gazed at the screen. Maybe it was none of those things. Maybe it was that I enjoyed what I was feeling now—alone and miserable in the cinema—in a way I couldn’t comprehend. Maybe I took pleasure in the humiliation of it. My eyes filled with tears again.

  When I got home she was waiting on the couch, her arms crossed.

  ‘Where have you been? I was worried.’

  That night we rode to the supermarket. It was late, and the aisles were mostly empty. As I pushed the trolley through the fruit section Alexis threaded her arm through mine, drew me close. ‘What’s up?’ she said.

  I examined an apple. ‘You know what’s up.’

  Alexis looked at me, and for a second I thought she was going to get angry again. Instead she brushed her hair out of her eye and sighed. ‘You know what the problem is?’ she said. ‘I want to be single, but I don’t want to lose you either.’

  I shook my head. ‘Well that’s just fucking great.’

  She was still watching me. Her eyes were bruised-looking. ‘I’m only being honest,’ she said.

  ~

  Every time Alexis and I went somewhere I felt anxious, scrutinising everyone who came near her, talked to her, touched her; waiting for them to swoop in and steal her from me.

  Then, one night, she didn’t come home after work. She didn’t answer her phone or reply to any of my messages. I lay in bed, my stomach curdling, checking my phone every minute until I wanted to rip my hair out.

  Eventually my phone pinged with a message telling me she was staying over at her friend Damien’s house. I stared at the blue screen until the words blurred.

  When she came home the next day she didn’t come upstairs. I heard her moving about in her bedroom, then the shower. At last she came to the kitchen and put on the kettle. I heard her make a cup of tea, bang around for a bit longer, then move across the floor towards my room, knocking softly on the door.

  ‘Yes?’

  Perched on the end of the bed, she didn’t say anything for a while. Just smoothed my brow and stared at the wall. Eventually she said, in a quiet voice, ‘We have to break up. I’m so sorry. I can’t see another way.’

  ‘You weren’t staying with Damien, were you?’

  Alexis shook her head, looking sad. I rolled on my side, facing the wall.

  ‘You were with her, weren’t you? With Fran. You slept with her.’

  ‘I don’t want to hurt you,’ I heard her say.

  ‘Do you want to break up?’

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘Do you still love me?’

  Silence. Then, stroking my hair: ‘More than anything.’

  I rolled back. Glancing up at me from her tea, Alexis looked, for the first time, scared. She was wearing her hoodie, and her face was white, delicate without make-up. I almost smiled. That’s how I always liked her best—unadorned.

  ‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘I understand the monogamy thing, how it isn’t for you. But we don’t need to break up.’

  I sounded like a robot, a dim part of my brain not believing what I was saying.

  ‘But you don’t want this,’ she said. ‘It’s not fair.’

  ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘I mean it’s not fair on me. You don’t want this, and I’ll just keep hurting you.’

  ‘No you won’t,’ I said. ‘I understand. This is how you are. This is how it has to be.’

  Alexis nodded. But she wasn’t really looking at me; I could tell her mind had wandered off some place else, far away from my stuffy bedroom. She checked her phone: she had a friend due any moment. They were going to a gig nearby. Did I want to come? she asked as she stood up and smoothed down her sweatpants. As she did I caught her looking at herself in the mirror.

  ‘I don’t really feel like going out tonight,’ I said.

  ‘I want you to come,’ Alexis said, squeezing my hand. ‘Please come.’

  Eventually I was persuaded, and I promised to meet her there.

  When she was gone I roamed around the kitchen like a sleepwalker. I made some pasta and took it out to the balcony overlooking the fluorescent-lit pool, a bottle of cheap wine at my feet. I stared at the bowl of pasta, then put it to one side, reaching for the wine. After I’d popped the cork, I drank straight from the bottle.

  It took me ages to walk to the pub. Up a long, dimly lit street, and along the main drag, which was bustling with Saturday night revellers.

  The band room was crowded. Alexis bought me a drink, and when the band came on we sat near the front, her arm looped through mine, her friend on the other side. After a while Alexis leant into me and nodded towards the singer. ‘She’s hot, isn’t she?’ she said.

  When the band finished and the lights came on, a girl came over and asked if she could buy Alexis a drink. Alexis took my hand. ‘No, thanks,’ she said. ‘This is my girlfriend.’

  The girl looked me up and down. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Sorry.’ She melted into the crowd, turning once to give Alexis a sly smile.

  Alexis was watching me, frowning. ‘Are you okay?’ she asked. My hands were shaking.

  It was never going to work. What was I thinking? I knew who Alexis was, what she wanted and needed from a partner—and it was never going to come from me.

  It was just like Lara, back in primary school, and Portia in Red House. It was a repeating relationship, repeating behaviour. Like I had with them, I hoped that Alexis would change—I needed her to change—to prove to everyone, including myself, that this relationship was real; that I hadn’t made a mistake, that I hadn’t disappointed anyone, that it had all been worth it—all the cruelty, all the humiliation, all my own bad behaviour. I kept thinking about Mum, and how she’d said I’d live to regret the choices I’d made in love. Like anyone has a choice in love.

  I went home with Alexis that night. But things didn’t go back to how they were before—how could they?—and like an animal backed into a corner, Alexis became more brazen and more cruel. There was a girl she went home with on my birthday, and then one, who she spent a lot of time with in the end, who took her horse riding for a weekend away. ‘It was so not me,’ she said,
laughing, when she came home late on Sunday evening. ‘Can you picture me, Rebecca, riding along the beach? Argh! What was she thinking?’

  But I could picture it and I couldn’t get it out of my mind.

  ‘It’s not cheating,’ she later shouted, a vein pulsing furiously on her forehead. ‘You agreed to this. You said yes. I’m the one who should be angry. I’m the one who has been cheated. Tricked. You made me believe you were someone different. You made me believe you’re someone you’re not.’

  When I finally turned around and said enough, Alexis let out a sigh and nodded. ‘I’ll have to go back to Dad’s for a while,’ she said, looking at me as though she was wondering how we ever could have loved each other, and what should have felt like a relief, like the end of something long and painful, but at least the end, opened up like a black and endless chasm.

  ~

  The sun has launched itself from behind the clouds. Everything flits by—too fast; I feel dizzy. I plunge down the hill, past the chapel, tall and dark and draped in shadow, down the steps near the classrooms. I have to get out of here.

  I fling open the car door and scramble inside. I sit with my head pressed against the steering wheel until my heart slows. But my mind is swarming: Emma’s shocked face, Portia’s laugh, Alexis’s back to me. Shame worms its way into my guts. This is where it started. Here—at Silver Creek. This is where the fear began. And it was of my own making, not anyone else’s.

  You’re always the victim, Alexis used to complain. But that is how I’ve always remembered it.

  After I start the car, I pull out my phone, meaning to check the map to work out the best way to the campsite. But I can hardly think straight. I’m remembering that night I went to the bar on Smith Street. Alexis had been there, with some other girl, and I stood in the corner and drank. When I walked over and tugged at her sleeve, Alexis had rolled her eyes. ‘Bec,’ she said, ‘I don’t want to talk to you right now.’

  ‘But I’m so unhappy,’ I moaned. ‘How can you not care?’

  Her hands flew into the air. ‘Because you’re impossible! I can’t be around you when you’re like this.’