by Sue Lawson
I cringe at my fake laugh.
“It wasn’t a joke.”
“Right, ’cos I’m Miss Popularity.” This time I cringe at the bitterness in each word.
The wind swirls around us and a rumble of voices fills the air. Hunter’s friends are coming back. He looks over his shoulder.
“Better go. Don’t want them to see you with a loser.”
Hunter frowns, only it’s more than a frown. He looks hurt.
“Coming?” asks the guy from history, tapping Hunter on the shoulder with a chocolate milk carton.
“Yeah.” Hunter takes the drink and stands, his movements slow. “See you later, then,” he says, pushing the chair back under the table.
I don’t answer.
As they stroll away, all arms and legs and burbled laughter, I feel flattened.
Later that day, on my way to the bus stop, I see Hunter over by the pine trees that edge the school’s eastern boundary. This time he’s alone, earbuds in, eyes glazed, lost in some place he obviously loves. I watch him walk down the path, self-assured, more than happy – content.
I imagine his home life: Mum and Dad; a brother and sister; pet dog – a border collie called Mickey; neat lawns, chair on the verandah, doors and windows open on a sunny day. Family barbeques out the back and summer nights filled with laughter.
Envy seeps from my pores.
Sixteen
It’s pouring – again. This has to be the wettest place in the world. Under the shelter of the verandah I watch the rain smash into the concrete path leading to the IT room. I have two choices; make a run for it and risk not only being drenched but falling on my face, or stay here until the rain stops and turn up late to class, which would mean an after-school detention. I have no intention of hanging around this place any longer than I have to. I stuff my folder and pencil case under my jumper and step into the icy rain, ready to make a run for it. Two steps later something solid smacks into the side of my head. I stagger. Another hit, this one to my shoulder. When I wipe my face, my hand comes away white and claggy. I’ve been flour bombed.
Laughter, huge guffaws that rip the skin from me, falls with the rain. I look up. On the library’s second floor, by an open window, Beccy and those girls, the ones who crashed into me days ago, are doubled over, their mouths open like the Luna Park gates. There’s a smudge of white across Beccy’s school jumper.
Sometimes, detention is worth it.
I stumble through the rain to the library and slam my folder on a desk. Raindrops and flour spray the counter.
“You there!” calls the librarian. “Outside and clean yourself up.”
I ignore him and climb the stairs. With each step gluggy flour drips down my body and falls in lumps on the carpet. The sound of my clumping feet echoes around the library. The girls’ laughter is louder. My pulse thuds near my throat.
“Is it snowing out?” says the redhead, her voice honey-sweet, when I reach the second floor.
“Must be,” adds the girl to her right. “Look, a snowman!”
I pull muck from my hair and march in their direction. Their laughter stops. They back away, but are trapped between me and the library carrels. Beccy is shielded by her friends.
I smear flour across the redhead’s jumper, grab more from my shoulder and mash it into the blonde’s hair. They squeal and push me away.
Fire still raging in my chest, I grab the folders from the desk beside them and make for the open window. I take aim, ready to chuck their binders into the rain.
“Put those down. Immediately.” Holland’s voice is loud but measured.
I freeze, but don’t lower the folders. The beat of my heart, and rain against the library roof are the only sounds.
The Holland-Chaplin-Hitler mutant steps towards me. “Now, Pandora.”
I look from him to Beccy. Her eyes sparkle in triumph.
Instead of chucking the folders into the rain, I slam them to the floor. Papers scatter over the grey carpet.
Holland points to the mess. “Pick them up.”
I roll my eyes. “Make up your mind.”
His jaw twitches. “What did you say?”
“You heard.”
Holland open and closes his fist. “Pandora, you will go to my office.”
I fold my arms and nod at Beccy and her mates. “What about them?”
That’s enough to crack Holland’s cool. A deep growl rolls from his throat. Face fierce, he bellows, “Now!”
I take a breath, ready to launch into him, but the breath clears my mind. The red fury clogging my mind disappears. I fold in on myself. Head low, I kick the mess of folders and walk away.
In Holland’s office, I watch his shadow cross the carpet while he paces and yells. The throbbing in my leg is louder than his noise, merging his words into a long mumble.
“Do I make myself clear?” From the way his voice has increased in volume, I’d say he’s said that more than once.
“Crystal.”
“Anything to say for yourself?”
I shake my head.
“I’ll see you here straight after school for detention.”
“What about Beccy and the others? They started it.” I sound whiny and pathetic, like a little kid.
“You should only be concerned with your own behaviour, Miss Harper, which was appalling. I will deal with the other girls. Kindly leave it to me.”
“What about the McMinns?”
“I’ll call Rose now.” He reaches for the phone on his desk. “Get to class.”
As I leave his office, I wish I’d stayed on the verandah and waited for the rain to stop. At least that way I’d have deserved a detention.
Seventeen
I take forever to pack my schoolbag, then drag my feet across the courtyard to the front office. Holland is at the reception desk waiting for me.
“Starting to think you were wagging detention, Pan,” he says, pushing off the desk.
He can shove his jokey tone. “Had to pack my bag.”
“Rose will pick you up from here at five.”
“Five?” I squeak. “An hour and a half detention? But it wasn’t my fault. What about the–”
“Enough.” For a little bloke, Holland has a massive voice. “Bec and the others did the wrong thing, but you made it worse. Your reaction was violent and excessive.” He straightens his tie. “Anyway, I’m not explaining myself to you. This way.”
I figure he’s taking me to a classroom where I’ll have to write lines or maybe an essay about the need for quiet in the library. At least that’s what I’ve done at detention in every other school. But detention at Cranbrooke College, like most other things about this place, is different.
Holland leads me across the courtyard, past the library and art block to the performing arts building. We go through the side door to the backstage area. A balding guy, who has what’s left of his long blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, studies a painting of a brick wall on a huge sheet.
“Ari, this is Pan Harper,” says Holland. “Pan, this is Mr Hedt.”
“Call me Ari,” he says, turning to face me, his hand outstretched.
I shake his hand and look around. “So where’s the desk or do I sit on the floor?”
“No desk, Pan. You’ll be helping Ari paint backdrops for the production.”
“You’re kidding.” My voice echoes through the empty building. “I am the worst at art. I’ll wreck it.”
Holland ignores me. “Send her back to the office at five, Ari. Have fun, Pan.” With that he struts to the side door.
“This sucks,” I mutter.
“I won’t take that personally,” says Ari. “Anyway, it has to be better than cleaning up rubbish, or writing useless essays.”
I hang my head. “It’s just …” I sigh. “Trust me, after you see my artistic skills, you’ll be wishing I’d been made to pick up rubbish.”
“Can you colour in?” asks Ari.
“What, like a kid?”
“Exactl
y, only on a bigger scale.”
“I guess.”
“Then you’re the woman for the job. Come on.”
I follow Ari across the stage to a large room. Laid out on the floor is another sheet thing. This one is covered in sketchy outlines of a massive basketball ring and backboard, a laneway and more brick buildings.
Ari opens brown paint and pours it into two plastic containers. “If you look at the backdrop, you’ll see words amongst the drawing. All you have to do is look for “brown” and paint that section. I’ll add the detail. Easy, eh?”
“Yeah, easy.”
Ari laughs and throws me a white shirt covered in paint splodges. It smells of turps. “Put that on to protect your uniform.” Without waiting for my answer, he pours cream paint into a plastic container.
I sigh and pull the shirt over my head, pick up the paintbrush Ari has left beside the brown paint, and start my detention, poking at the backdrop as though the brush will explode.
“Relax, Pan. You can’t mess this up.”
“That’s what you think.”
“So if you’re no good at art, what are you good at?” asks Ari, painting cream onto the sheet in long flowing strokes.
My arm slows. Good question, only the answer is a huge blank. “Messing up.”
The sound of Ari’s brushstrokes stop. “Seriously, what are you good at, Pan?”
I glare at him. “You want me to paint this or not?”
Ari shrugs and goes back to painting. A piano drowns out the sound of our brushes.
The music is like something from an old black-and-white movie. It’s different to anything I’ve ever listened to. It’s jerky, frenetic, and makes me want to move.
Ari starts whistling short bursts of notes to match the feverish music. The music changes to something slower.
“He’s such a talented student,” says Ari.
“Someone from Cranbrooke is playing that?”
Ari nods. “Hunter Alessio.”
My skin fizzes. I place my brush across the container, walk to the door and peek into the auditorium. The piano player is hunched over, his whole body involved in the music. He sways, his head bobs, his hands swoop over the keyboard like diving gulls. I recognise him even though he has his back to me. It’s Hunter.
A door slams and voices mingle under the music; Livia with some of the other kids from the play. Hunter stops playing. I duck behind the door before he sees me.
“Come on, I need those bricks finished,” says Ari.
I can hear the smile in his words.
I pick up the paintbrush and dab at the sheet, my mind spinning.
“How was rehearsal?” asks Rose. She steers the car out of the school gates and onto the busy road.
Livia’s words run into each other. Even though I’m slumped against the back passenger door, staring at the concrete gutter, I listen hard, ears pricked for any mention of music. Piano. Hunter. Rose stops at a red light, and I realise what I am doing. I press my thumb into my thigh and gasp at the pain so strong there’s no room in my head for anything else.
Livia mistakes my noise for a scoff. “Nobody cares what you think, Pandora.”
Pandora? I straighten up.
“Enjoy your detention?” she sneers.
I catch the look Rose shoots at Livia. Livia’s lips press together.
“Easiest detention I’ve done.”
“Ian and I will discuss that with you later, Pan. How was your solo, Liv?”
Rose’s dismissal stings.
I stare out the window and try to remember why I’ve always hated painting.
Morgan,
Know what I did today? Painted. Not my own stuff but a backdrop for a play. I copped a detention, which I don’t want to discuss because it wasn’t my fault. Anyway, instead of the usual punishment, you know essays and crap, I had to paint with the art teacher.
At first I freaked out, but it was actually okay. Made me wonder why I’ve always hated painting so much.
I guess there’s a reason, I just can’t remember why. Maybe I hated the smell of the paint or something.
Here we go – the plastics are calling me. Wish me luck.
Pan.
Morgan stomped along the footpath and turned into Elver Drive. Stupid name for a street. Stupid town. She’d begged Kylie not to leave Mildura, she’d cried and yelled, but it hadn’t made a difference. Kylie still packed them a case each and walked away from everything, a month after Grandy died and after she moved Grandma into that hospital place.
Morgan missed the orange trees bursting with fruit, the searing sunshine and the gum trees along the Murray. And Grandy. Most of all, Grandy.
“Wait for me, Morgan,” moaned Pan from behind.
Morgan turned, hands on her hips, and waited for her sister who struggled with her backpack and swimming bag. Her hair was still wet, plastered to her head.
“Come on, Pan.”
“My legs are tired.”
“You whinge a lot.”
“Shut your fat face.”
“Here you are,” sang Mum from the front gate. She wore a man’s shirt, sleeves rolled, and cut-off jeans. Her hair, no longer brown like it was when the girls had left for school, was bright pink and tied back in a ponytail.
“Mum!” Suddenly recovered, Pan ran around Morgan to Kylie.
“Want to do something fun, Panda?” asked Kylie.
Morgan stalked past them to the house. “What the hell?” She stared at the velvet sofa, black coffee table and matching TV cupboard, all of which Kylie had bought at the op shop, stacked in the hall.
Kylie skipped up the steps and weaved through the furniture to the lounge. “Come see my surprise.”
Morgan and Pan followed. Pan was the more excited of the two.
Even empty, the lounge room was poky. Its walls, yellowed with age, were dotted with grungy cream squares. Black garbage bags lay across the baby-poo coloured carpet.
“Tada!” Kylie held a roller in one hand and a paintbrush in the other. “We’re going to make this place look fantastic.”
“Why? Because Jason reckoned it was a dogbox.” Jason was Kylie’s last boyfriend. He moved south with them, but cleared out after a week.
Kylie ignored Morgan as she flicked the lid off the paint tin. “First we paint the whole room white.”
“Right, because a white dogbox will be so much better and will bring him back.”
“Trust me, Morgan, this room will sparkle when we’re done.”
Morgan sighed. “Come and change, Pan.”
Morgan stopped in the middle of the path and stared. Kylie waited by the school gates, holding two shopping bags. Pan was already beside her, chatting and squirming.
“What’s in the bags?” asked Morgan when she reached them.
“You’ll see,” said Kylie. She cut a path through the other kids and parents.
Pan rambled on about some kid called Maddie the whole way home. Morgan walked a little behind, trying to work out what could be in the shopping bags.
At the house, Morgan and Pan changed and raced back to the lounge, where Kylie waited. Lined up along the wall without a window or door were small pots of red, blue, yellow, green, white and black paint, a bundle of paintbrushes and a pile of paper plates.
“How did you pay for all that?” asked Morgan.
Kylie ignored her. She dipped a brush in the red paint and flicked it. A spray of dots appeared up the white wall.
Pan laughed, and did the same with the blue paint.
Kylie picked up another plate and mixed red and blue together. She dipped her fingertips in the purple and walked them across the wall.
Morgan’s fingers twitched.
“Can I paint a picture?” asked Pan.
“Do whatever you like, Panda.” Kylie used her elbow to push the play button on the portable CD player.
Boppy music filled the room. Pan painted flowers, a house, Morgan, Kylie and herself, a cat and butterflies – loads of butterflies. Kylie dr
ew swirls, splatters, dots and twisting vines. Morgan crept forwards and painted Grandy at the beach.
The phone broke through the songs. “I’ll get it,” said Kylie. She stopped the CD and ran from the room.
Morgan looked at Pan and laughed at the splodges of red and yellow paint on her face. Pan grinned but kept painting.
A few minutes later, Kylie’s voice thundered into the room, growing louder and louder, until it became a continuous screech of words Grandy had told Morgan never to say.
Pan moved closer to Morgan. Together they painted a sandcastle on Morgan’s beach.
Something smashed in the kitchen – a glass, maybe a plate. Pan dropped her brush. Morgan picked it up for her.
Another crash, a yell and a thud. The rubbish bags scrunched as Kylie stomped into the lounge.
“Mum,” said Pan. The word hung in the air.
“That wall looks like shit,” snarled Kylie. “I’ll have to repaint the whole bloody room.”
She crossed the room, weaved through the furniture and out the front door, slamming it behind her. Grandy’s car started. Kylie reversed out the drive, wheels screeching as she drove away.
Pan started to cry.
Eighteen
I open the dictionary I chucked in my schoolbag to use for homework and look up “discuss”.
Discuss
Verb 1. Talk over. To talk about a subject with others.
Ha! Just as I thought. A discussion involves talking, being talked to, being involved with the talking, not being talked at.
The moment Ian arrived home from work, I was summonsed to Rose and Ian’s retreat to discuss “the incident in the library”.
Discuss – yeah right.
I flip through pages searching for the right word to describe what happened.
Lecture
Noun 3. Reprimand. A speech intended as a reprimand.
Yep, that’s it, only it felt more like being whipped with a feather than being reprimanded.
Ian and Rose’s love, care, share approach is driving me nuts. How do they stay calm when faced with my impersonation of a brick pillar? I’d have cracked it with me if I’d had to sit through it.