Pan’s Whisper

by Sue Lawson

  Grandma’s father was from Holland. Or Poland. I can’t remember. Some “land”.

  I try to fit this man with the nickname “Dutchy”. Dutchy implies he is friendly and approachable. Oscar Holland is neither. He motions for me to follow him. I decide he’s a mutant, cross between Charlie Chaplin and Hitler.

  In his office, the Holland-Chaplin-Hitler mutant looks me up and down before launching into a speech about uniforms, rules and expectations that goes for a lifetime. He repeats the uniform bit twice. He hands me a timetable, a stack of school books and folders, all of which Rose has organised and paid for, takes me to my locker and first class.

  “Well, here we are, Pandora.” He stops outside a room filled with the exact stuck-up morons I used to laugh at. “Ms Grinter’s English class.”

  I hug the folder and English texts to my chest and walk to the door before he can do the “welcome the new girl” thing. I can do without the stares and pity. The good thing about having been to heaps of different schools is that I’ve learned stuff, like the art of sliding, invisible, into a new class and how to take everything in, while it looks like I’m staring at the ground.

  I open the door. Shrieks of laughter and rapid-fire conversation pound me. Students in ironed, clean uniforms sit against the windows and perch on the edge of tables and chairs, too caught up in themselves to pay any attention to me. I spy an empty seat in the middle of the room, and slip into it, my hair, veil-like, across my face. I glance to my right – empty seats – then to my left. There’s a guy lounging in his chair, arms stretched along the window ledge, iPod cord hanging down the front of his jumper. He’s talking to a couple of girls. There’s something about his eyes that make me stare longer than I should. He catches me looking and smiles.

  I quickly turn back to face the opposite window where Holland stands talking to a grey-haired woman. Her neck is swathed in one of those furry scarves. I’ll set fire to that thing if she makes a fuss of me being new.

  I hold my breath as she waddles into class and slams her books on the teacher’s desk. “Righto. Seats thanks.” Ms Grinter bellows like a footy coach.

  The conversation and laughter are replaced by the sounds of shuffling and chair legs scraping the floor.

  “Texts open – act 1, scene 4. Joel, you’re Romeo; Heath, Mercutio; and Tham, read Benvoli. Up the front now, boys, hurry.” She stares straight at me, her eyes as green as her fluffy scarf. “Romeo and Juliet.”

  Okay, so I’m new to the place, and sure my last school was a high school not a college, but that doesn’t make me an idiot. I do recognise the names Romeo and Mercutio. We studied Romeo and Juliet last semester.

  I glare at her from beneath my fringe. She looks away first, continuing to bark orders as though I’m not here. And that’s just the way I want it.

  Lunchtime, and I’m sitting on the steps outside the library, eating the salad wrap Rose made. Ahead of me a group of younger boys, maybe year sevens, push, shove and giggle. Girls with thick ponytails, urge them on.

  A school kilt blocks my view. I glance up as I take another bite. A girl looms over me. Freckles speckle her nose. Her eyes give me the once over. “You new?”

  “Apparently,” I chew for longer than necessary.

  “Pan isn’t it?” Her smile is big, but fake. “I’m Beccy Maritz. I’m in your English class.”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  Beccy blinks. Twice. “So, I can show you around school, introduce you to– ”

  “No need. Not going to be here long enough.”

  “Right. Well.” She nods but doesn’t move. What is she waiting for?

  I roll what is left of my wrap in plastic and stand. “Anything else?”

  Beccy folds and unfolds her arms. “Okay then,” she says, stretching out the okay. She stalks to the other side of the courtyard where two girls wait for her. When Beccy speaks to them her hands move as though she’s shooing flies. The girls glare at me and shake their heads. Good.

  Livia brushes past me. “Way to make friends, Pan.”

  It’s pouring. Build-an-ark pouring. I hold my backpack close to my chest and run to the bus shelter. The icy wind makes the tin roof creak and bang. Huddled in the corner, I congratulate myself on being left alone since lunchtime.

  “You’re Pan, aren’t you?” The voice comes from the guy sitting beside me. I recognise him straightaway. He’s the guy from English, and he was in history and maths too. I do one of my secretive glances and check him out. There’s an earbud in his left ear. The cord trails down his throat into the top pocket of his shirt. He has tousled brown hair with bleached tips and his hands are big, like a footballer’s, only he doesn’t look the type to chase a piece of leather. He has two sleepers in his left earlobe, and just down from his thumb a tattoo runs under his watchband and up his jumper sleeve. I can’t tell if the tattoo is a picture, a Japanese character or something in English, without making it obvious I’m checking it, or him, out.

  “Yeah, I’m Pan.” I force myself not to add, what’s it to you?

  “Hunter.” He smiles without showing his teeth. “How was your first day in hell?”

  “Okay,” I say with a shrug.

  Hunter’s laugh takes me by surprise. “Didn’t pick you for a liar.”

  Even though it feels cold enough to snow, my face burns hot. “Been to worse schools.” Livia, standing with her friends at the other end of the bus shelter, picks up her bag. Relief floods through me. “My bus is here.”

  “See you tomorrow, Pan,” says Hunter.

  “Yeah.” I step from the shelter into the stinging rain.

  In the bus I slump in the front seat and listen to my iPod. When the bus stops at Arnica Drive, I’m off and headed to the McMinn’s before Livia has moved. At least I think I’m heading in that direction.

  Livia jogs to catch to me. I can hear her footsteps and the stuff in her schoolbag rattling and thumping.

  “What’s your problem, Pan?”

  “No problem. Just don’t want to be here.”

  She snorts. “Because your old life was soooo much better.”

  I slam to a halt. “You know nothing about me or my life.”

  “Yeah? Well, I do know the McMinns are okay, and that people are trying to be nice to you, but you’re being a bitch.”

  I feel my face twist into a snarl. “Like I said, you know nothing.”

  She steps back.

  Nine

  Friday afternoon – only a few more hours then it’s two days free of bland people, bells and rules. Then it hits me. Instead of catching a movie, mucking around on the computer, or hanging out at the mall, I’ll be trapped in Legoland with the McMinns. Two full days of stupid conversations about Livia’s production or Nate’s tennis coach and nothing to relieve the boredom, not even a computer. The McMinns do have a computer, but it’s in the middle of the family room, so Ian and Rose can enforce their strict computer rules. The short version is Facebook is evil, chat’s a waste of time and YouTube is the tool of the devil. Okay, so they’re my words, but that’s what they meant. We – the other fosters and me – have access to the computer for an hour a day, more only for homework. What’s that about?

  From the table outside the cafeteria, I watch the stampede to class. Suckers. A shadow smelling of incense looms over me. A bracelet clanks. It’s the welfare woman I met when Rose first brought me here, I just know it.

  “Pandora – at last. Remember me? Merle Romeril. Welfare Officer.” Her voice is soft and breathy. “Sorry I’ve neglected you. It’s been a crazy week.”

  “Yeah,” I say, pushing my chair back. “And it’s Pan, not Pandora.” I pick up my untouched chicken roll and empty chocolate milk carton.

  Merle is beside me, hand on my arm. “Come and I’ll show you my office.”

  Yeah, like I want to do that. “I have class.”

  “Drama. I’ve spoken to Toni. She knows where you are.”

  Merle increases the pressure on my arm.

  Drama o
r Merle. Drama for Merle. I toss the milk carton in the bin, tuck the roll under my arm and allow Merle to steer me to her office.

  Merle’s office has “Welfare” printed on the door in one of those fonts old people think are funky, but are just hard to read.

  Merle opens the door with a flourish. The smell of incense wraps around me. The walls are covered in sappy motivational posters. Printed underneath two hands reaching to each other in front of a blue sky is “Courage is not being afraid to ask for help”. Near Merle’s desk are an Asian-style “Believe” and a folksy “Laughter – music of the heart”. A good vomit would be the perfect music right about now.

  Merle’s desk is covered in plastic and metal puzzles and a box of those stupid affirmation cards. I stare at the words “I Am Worth Loving” until the letters blur. Behind that, smoke curls from the burning incense stick. I swear Kylie used to burn this one – Spiritual Haze? Sandal Rose? I can’t remember.

  “Have a seat, Pand … Pan.” Merle gestures to the sofas. I perch on the nearest one, hands clasped in my lap.

  Merle frigs around at the bench by the window, filling the kettle and placing cups on the bench, her long skirt swishing as she moves. She lifts a pink mug. At last, something not printed with psychobabble. “Tea, coffee, hot chocolate?”

  “Coffee, I guess. Milk. Two sugars,” I add before she opens her mouth.

  Merle busies herself making the drinks. She places her weird-smelling drink on the coffee table covered in pamphlets on everything from HIV and teenage pregnancy to being gay, and hands me my drink.

  She smiles. “Pan. How has your first week been?”

  I hold the coffee mug in both hands and watch the steam disappear into the air. I wish I could evapourate right now. “Okay.”

  “We have terrific kids here – very friendly. I’m sure they’re making you welcome.”

  So far only two people have spoken to me, if you don’t count Livia or teachers – Beccy Maritz and that Hunter guy. Not that I’m complaining. That’s how I want it.

  “How does Cranbrooke compare to your old school?”

  “Which one? I’ve been to seven schools since I started prep.”

  Merle’s mouth tightens as she reaches for a manila folder on the floor. She flips it open and scans the material inside. “I mean your last one … Deakin Bay.”

  This place is full of fakes and posers; Deakin Bay was full of bogans. “Schools are schools.”

  Merle nods and rests the folder on her lap. “So, Pan, is there anything I can do to make the transition easier for you?”

  “Yeah – let me go home.”

  Merle frowns. “Now, Pan, you and I both know that can’t happen until we decide it’s the best thing for you.”

  I shift in my seat. The coffee slops against the mug. “We decide?”

  She fidgets with her bracelet.

  “Are you on, what did that judge call it, my welfare panel?”

  Merle clears her throat. “I’m just one of several people who’ll be making recommendations.”

  How can she, this weirdo hippy who has known me for about three seconds, know what’s right for me? “But you don’t know me.”

  “Not yet.”

  Her smile makes me what to vomit. “Who else gets to decide what’s right for me?”

  “The magistrate, court psychologist, your caseworker and the McMinns.”

  “That’s just wrong.” I slam the mug down, splashing the pamphlets with coffee. “Not one of you knows me or Mum.”

  Merle wrenches tissues from the box and mops up the spilt coffee. She scoops up soggy pamphlets and dumps them in the bin. When she speaks, her voice is ridiculously soft and slow. “Pan, we only want what’s best for you.”

  I glare at her. “What bullshit. As if living with strangers and a new school is best for me. If any of you cared about me, really cared, you’d send me home.”

  “Pan, you know you can’t go home,” Merle says like I am an idiot.

  “Or find my dad.” Where did that come from?

  Merle’s bangles and bracelets clank as she flicks through pages in the manila folder. She frowns. “Your father? But …” Merle shakes her head. “Pan, your father left before you were …”

  I watch her struggle for words.

  “Born? I know.”

  “There’s no record of him contacting you, of any detail about him in this file. And all correspondence to him was returned unopened. If the court had been able to track him down …”

  I grit my teeth. How kind of her to remind me that my father wants nothing to do with me.

  “Your caseworker–”

  I scoff. “Gemma? She’s useless.”

  Merle chews her lip.

  I hang my head and try to make my voice shake. “Maybe if someone found him, he’d … well, you know …” I glance up at Merle’s face. She’s closer to tears than me.

  I drop my face into my hands and make a noise that I hope sounds like a sob.

  She reaches out and squeezes my hand. “Pan, this must be so hard for you.”

  I nod and sniff.

  “Look. How about I have a poke around, see what I can find out?”

  I mentally high-five myself. “It’s okay; you have so much else to do,” I whisper.

  Merle sighs. “Pan, this is important.” She reaches behind her and takes a pen from her desk. “Now, what do you know about him?”

  Hmmm, let me see. According to Mum he’s a no-good-faggot-liar. “His name is Brent.” Surname … I decide on the first thing I see. “Wall. Brent Wall.”

  “And have you any idea where he lives?”

  Is she serious? I sniff and sigh.

  “His name should be enough,” says Merle. As she places the pen on the table and closes the file, her phone rings.

  “I should go,” I say.

  She looks from me to the flashing phone. “Well …”

  I stand, wipe my eyes and give her the most pathetic smile I can. “Thanks, Merle.” I’m out the door before she can say anything or worse, hug me.

  Hunting down Brent Wall should keep her busy and away from me for a while.

  A week passes before I catch sight of Merle again. I’m sitting on a bench under an oak tree, eating a salad sandwich when she bustles by, holding a stack of brightly coloured folders.

  “Hellooo, Pan.” She doesn’t stop.

  “Hey, Merle,” I call after her.

  “I’m working on it, Pan.” She waves with her spare hand. “Leave it with me.”

  I grin and rest my back against the tree trunk. Ahead of me on the classroom window is a SunSmart poster. Kids wearing hats and with zinc smeared across their cheeks make a sandcastle at the beach.

  I think about that photo of me and Morgan again – the sunshine, the sand, the seagulls.

  Morgan,

  Remember when Grandy and Grandma took you me and Kylie to the beach and how we stayed in that caravan park? I found a photo Grandy took of you and me in front of the sandcastle we built. That thing was massive. Did Kylie help us build it? I can’t remember.

  That was the coolest holiday. The best fun. The ice-creams, fish and chips. Sharing the annexe with Kylie. Remember the night we went down to the beach to look for penguins?

  What changed between us, Morgan? When did everything get so messed up?

  I can’t work it out. If I think too hard about it, I just end up angry and with an aching brain.

  Anyway, I was just thinking, that’s all.

  Pan

  Eyes closed, Morgan lay on her back, sleeping-bag zipped up to her throat. Her skin tingled from a combination of seawater, sun and sand. Even though she’d scrubbed and rinsed at the shower block until her feet stung, sand still felt gritty between her toes. It wasn’t all bad. If she thought about a grain of sand’s squarish shape and its sparkles, she could block out the memory of Kylie sailing out the annexe door, singing her party song “Celebration”, and of Grandy, standing in the caravan doorway, his sorrow visible even in the sh
adows.

  The annexe walls sucked and heaved, pushing the lingering scent of Kylie’s floral perfume around the enclosed space.

  Morgan screwed up her eyes and made a list of words to describe sand.

  Gritty, sharp, solid, prickly, golden, sparkly, hot …

  Nope, she could still see Grandy. Morgan understood why he looked so sad. Kylie would come back swaying, laughing, smelling of cigarette smoke and the pub, even though she’d promised. Something would upset her – soap suds in the sink, a sideways glance – and it would start. Again.

  The fold-up bed squeaked as she rolled onto her side to face Panda on the bottom bunk opposite, asleep and burrowed deep inside her sleeping-bag. In the dim light shining through the caravan window into the annexe, Morgan could only see the top of her head.

  Voices rolled from inside the caravan, like the ocean across the road from the holiday park. Grandy and Grandma were playing cards. Funny how Grandma could still remember how to play games, but had no idea who Pan was most of the time.

  The annexe was dark; the light from the caravan out. Morgan started and sat up. She must have fallen asleep.

  Something crashed into the outside annexe wall. Someone. The lump heaved. Swearing. Laughter.

  Morgan listened in the dark. The lump moved off the tent with a groan. Stumbling. Whispering.

  A light came on in the caravan and the door opened with a squeak and rattle.

  “Okay, Morgana?” whispered Grandy.

  “There’re people outside, Grandy.” Morgan knew one of them. She recognised the voice.

  Grandy reached inside the van for his torch. Morgan watched him unzip the annexe door and ease through the opening.

  “Get up, Kylie,” he snapped.

  Morgan’s senses sharpened.

  “Piss off,” slurred Kylie. Again the annexe bulged near Morgan’s feet.

  “Stop that rot, immediately. Your children are asleep.”

  “Can’t stand it when I have fun, can you?” The lump lurched.

  “Fun? Is that what you call it?”

  Dread and knowing crept through Morgan’s veins. She glanced at Pan before reaching under the bed for her torch and climbing out of the sleeping-bag. She padded across the rug, the night breeze rolling over her bare arms, and pulled her tracksuit and jacket over her pyjamas. She gathered Pan’s clothes.