White Lady

by Bell, Jessica

  I reckon Mia was happy then.

  Crikey. We were all happy.

  “You are not doing too well, are you?” Sonia says, checking left and right as if to make sure no one’s listening in.

  “Nah. I’m fine.” I look up. Sonia’s eyebrows are practically touching her heart-shaped hairline. “Promise.”

  I pinch my nostrils with my forefinger and thumb to make sure there aren’t any nose hairs sticking out. I swivel my seat to face the computer straight on, open my e-mail and a reply window to make myself look busy.

  I can see Sonia in the corner of my eye, nodding a few too many times. She gently punches me on the shoulder.

  “I am free after recess,” she says.

  “Yep. Me too.”

  I move a few papers around my desk and accidentally push the tip of my finger into a stray tack.

  I curse under my breath and bring my finger to my mouth, but Sonia grabs my hand and stares at it. I let her watch as a drop of blood drips onto my desk before realizing what’s going on and yank my hand away.

  “Hey,” I say with a frown.

  Sonia’s breath quivers as she deeply inhales. She blinks, coughs into her fist. “Right. See you after recess.”

  I smile and nod. She stumbles a little as she walks to her cubicle.

  I stare at my screen, flexing my fists under the desk, hoping she’s going to be okay. I reckon I should go over and give her a neck rub. But maybe I should also leave her alone. I’m never too sure whether my affection is a distraction or reminder, so I usually let her initiate it.

  I decide to stay put.

  I click my e-mail closed to reveal a shot of me and Celeste as teenagers in our murky-green school uniforms. She’s blowing cigarette smoke into my mouth, her feathery blonde hair teased high enough to nest squirrels, my fringe gelled into a wave.

  It was three weeks before I decided to skip tryouts for the Carlton AFL team.

  I remember because she told me she was pregnant.

  And wasn’t sure if it was mine.

  Chapter 5

  Mia: I deserve it.

  I reach my classroom in the new science wing, sweaty and flushed, ankles tight. The insides of my bum cheeks burn like someone has rubbed them with sandpaper. If only I could shove an ice pack between my legs, I’d feel a little more human and less like pork-spit-walking.

  Everyone is seated, and Mrs. Shâd is writing the answers to yesterday’s algebra homework on the board. I take a seat at the desk that’s always left empty, as if sitting there might mean they’ll catch my fat like a disease. I don’t drop any books, and I make minimal noise. An achievement on most days.

  The room is dead silent, bar the chalk that scrapes rather than slides across the blackboard. Before writing on the board, Mrs. Shâd used to dip the chalk in water. Not only were we spared the cringe-worthy squeaks and scratches but the symbols dried bright and bold, and you didn’t have to squint if you were sitting at the back. But the principal told her it used the chalk too fast and therefore school funding.

  What a tosser. He even checks in to make sure she’s stopped doing it.

  If there’s one thing I’ve noticed since being transferred to Mrs. Shâd’s class, it’s that she tries—even down to the simplest of things—to make school life glide rather than stutter. And I never used to appreciate how small acts of kindness made such a difference until I became this stinking ugly bitch-face and started paying more attention to others. Even if only because I can’t stand my own existence.

  I know. You’re thinking, why was I transferred? Well, what do you think? The oblivious principal put me back into the class that is taught by Mr. Monroe. I couldn’t stand him last year; I was certain he was dropping his pens by my desk so he could look up my skirt. So I kicked up a stink. Cried sexual harassment. He denied it, of course. But at least I got something positive out of it: Mrs. Shâd. She’s cool.

  Mrs. Shâd spins around, the sheen of her dark-grey pencil skirt catching the sunlight as she moves. She doesn’t even have to smile. The kindness shining from her presence alone is enough to make me feel guilty for surfing the Net before class instead of finishing my homework.

  Mrs. Shâd swivels around holding her chalk in the air. “I trust you have your answers ready to compare with those on the board.” She looks straight at me as if she somehow knows I didn’t finish.

  As I yank my notebook from my bag, a tampon slips out from between its pages and rolls down the aisle. I snort as if the class has already broken out in laughter, and I have to join in to hide my humiliation.

  Mrs. Shâd glides past, scoops the tampon up in a funnel of papers and drops it in my bag with a wink.

  Just as I think the incident has gone unnoticed, a dude from the back row asks, “So how do ya decide where to stick those, Rebel?”

  Cute. But I’m not as big as Rebel Wilson, thank you very much.

  All heads turn to him. Some sneak glances at me. But my smirk slightly fades when I realize who made the remark. I swivel round in my seat and squint at him. At Mick. The dickhead who gets away with everything because he was diagnosed with ADD. The one that had an obsessive crush on me a year ago when I was still skinny, and I always turned down, then pashed his best friend in front of his face just to piss him off.

  Yeah, I know. That wasn’t a really smart move.

  I would give anything to take that back now. To be skinny again, to kiss again, to actually accept Mick’s offer and go out on that date without an ulterior motive. After all this time of hating body-builder muscles, his are starting to look attractive to me.

  But. I deserve his shit. And won’t fight it.

  You know what? Bring it on.

  Mrs. Shâd squeezes my shoulder. I flinch. No charity. Not now. It’s pure bully bait. I know. I used to be Queen Bitch of Thornbury High. The one all the girls hated but still wanted to be. The one the boys wanted to fuck but wouldn’t dare try. Hey, that rhymes. Mental note to jot it down in my lyric book.

  Mick leans back, spreads his legs, picks a pimple. “I mean, wouldn’t it just get lost everywhere except your nostrils?” he says.

  Some students giggle, others snicker, pens drop to desks, heads bow to chests. There goes that rhyming again.

  “Mick,” Mrs. Shâd snaps, now standing at the front of the classroom. “That is a terrible thing to say. Apologize.”

  It was a horrible thing to say, but I’m not gonna let it get to me. Words are words. And I’ve got something like five tubes of Wite-Out in my pencil case.

  Mrs. Shâd sifts through some papers on her desk as if the whole incident were evolving to plan, or maybe she’s just tired of his disobedience. He really loves to screw with people’s heads. In fact, he can get pretty disgusting at times.

  Mick narrows his eyes at Mrs. Shâd for a moment before focusing on me again. When he stands, his chair scrapes against the floor and echoes through the classroom.

  “And to think I once wanted to stick my dick into your skanky cunt.”

  Student murmurs and giggles crawl the classroom walls like vines. Wow. That totally wasn’t called for. Okay, maybe that hurt a bit. Maybe a bit more than a bit.

  “Get out. Now!” Mrs. Shâd points towards the door, cheeks aflush.

  Tears block my windpipe. But I can’t let them out. Can’t show it hurts.

  Can. Not.

  I glance at my bag. There are Lamingtons in there. I need them. To soak up all the self-loathing and mental vomit. What’s the point in trying to lose weight now, anyway? I’m too far fucking gone. I should just suck it up. Learn to live as if this were the way I’ve always been.

  Mick drags his feet towards the exit.

  And spits at me on the way by.

  Chapter 6

  Sonia: It was the back porch that changed everything.

  It is mid-period, and the corridor is as silent as a morgue. I point my finger so close to Mick’s forehead, I could engrave my initials into it with my nail. He has crossed the line one too many times. How
much more do I have to “be sensible” and continue to watch him get worse and worse, more confidence shoved under his rebellious belt?

  What now? Detention? Principal’s office? Suspension? Again? All that’s left is to expel him. But really? Does it have to come to that? Should it come to that? And I am so tired of the racism. Just because he is Turkish, everyone assumes that he is a good-for-nothing thug, and that his rebellious behaviour should be expected. The teachers at this school are constantly sending him to the principal’s office without taking the slightest moment to consider the root of the problem.

  Listen to me. I know the root of his problem. His father is the drug lord of Melbourne’s prime criminal network. But he is gone now. He is out of Mick’s life. For now. And there has got to be a way to inject some sense through Mick’s thick emotionless skull. Should I stoop down to his level? Bully him? Use bad language? Would he respond to that? Obviously “power” doesn’t faze him in the slightest. And who is to blame? Me? It is so easy for people to point the finger at the parents. But just look at Nash and Mia. Instead of getting worse after a family crisis, her attitude has gotten better, even if it is only on the surface. But that is one step in the right direction. There has got to be hope for Mick at some point.

  “Mick,” I half-whisper, adding a touch of grit from the rear of my throat, “what the fuck has gotten into you lately?” The taste of that rancid word contaminates my mouth like Mavala Stop—a polish to stop nail-biting, which my mother forced me to lick. I wasn’t a nail-biter. But she wanted me to stop the biting, in general, so I’d make some Aussie friends.

  For a very short instant, Mick looks taken aback, but then that devilish smirk of his melts into his cheeks like cream.

  “Wow. That musta took some sorta effort.” He sneers, puts his hands into his pockets, switches the weight from one foot to the other.

  I, despite the intense uncertainty of using such language in the school corridor, am adamant not to be stepped all over. I grab him by the collar, push him to the wall, and attempt to lift him off the ground with one hand.

  Not quite. Getting rusty?

  I lower my voice to a guttural purr. “You disrespect anyone in my classroom again and I will show you what effort looks like, you hear?”

  He laughs and nods repeatedly, feigning fright. I let go of his collar and step back, keeping my posture upright, remaining impassive to his mockery.

  “Just go home,” I say, returning my voice back to normal. “There is food in the fridge.” I straighten my shirtsleeve and avoid eye contact. “Drop by the nurse, tell her you are not feeling well.”

  Mick’s bottom lip moves as if about to speak.

  “Probably best you do not say anything else at this point,” I say, crossing my arms in front of my chest. I point in the direction of the nurse’s office, look at the floor, tap my foot, visualizing Ibrahim beating him to a pulp.

  Darn it.

  It all started when he saw the blood on the back porch. I am sure of it. Something changed in the way he’d look at me. As though he knew it wasn’t an accident.

  When I look up, he is gone.

  I iron out the front of my skirt with my hands and step back into the classroom with a smile on my face. Two students are poking each other with the corners of their set squares. I groan under my breath.

  It’s the only downfall of being a mathematics teacher—my constant exposure to pointy objects.

  Chapter 7

  Mick: Fuck her. Fuck them all.

  Forgot me fuckin’ key. Again. Gotta go in through the back door. Again. Can’t stand the back door. The first place me eyes go is the dark patch. It’s not even that big. Me foot could probably cover it up. But it’s there. And every time I see it, the memory zaps me between the fuckin’ eyes, ’n’ me head starts to pound with hate.

  I don’t even know who I hate.

  I know it wasn’t me mum’s fault. She said she had to help clean it up. I remember it so fuckin’ clearly. I didn’t see nuthin’ until it was just a stain. But I heard ’n’ felt everythin’.

  Me mum’s squealin’.

  Me dad’s calm.

  And then that fuckin’ silence that lasted so long I swear to fuckin’ God I thought they were both goners. I sat in the corner of me room. Tryin’ not to cry. Because I knew that cryin’ wasn’t allowed.

  I take a deep breath before I enter me house. ’Coz I know it looks like fuckin’ shit bombed it, and it reeks like yobbo puke. Me mum keeps refusing to clean up until I start to “chip in.”

  I go inside and kick the bin outta me way. The kitchen looks like a fuckin’ tornado hit it. If Mum comes home and it’s still like this, she won’t shut the fuck up about it.

  I can hear her now, in that whiny fuckin’ housewifey voice: “If you enjoy living in a pigsty, then that’s exactly what you’ll get.”

  But fuck her. Fuck everything.

  All I want is Metallica. I turn it up. Earsplittin’ loud.

  And pray to Allah for everythin’ to come good.

  Chapter 8

  Mia: Can’t I throw up in peace?

  I spend recess in the toilets. I enter a cubicle, lift the plastic seat, and sit on the cold porcelain bowl. Just in case I crack the seat like last time. Not that I care about destroying school property. My pride? Maybe. After that shit with Mick I’m not sure I have much, but I’m sure as hell certain I’m gonna hold on to whatever I have left.

  Yelling from the playground filters through the gap below the door—the gossip of girls whispering in front of the fractured mirror that’s glued onto the beige brick like an afterthought; the yelling and screaming of wrestling boys, debating whose turn it is to fill the principal’s fuel tank with water; basketballs bouncing against concrete walls, Anglo football jocks pretending they can dribble better than the black dudes who have already proved their status in the basketball tournament the previous week.

  I spread my legs and lean forwards to open my schoolbag. My stomach pokes out from the bottom of my T-shirt and touches the cold toilet bowl. I know I shouldn’t be doing this. But I can’t help it. It’s the only way I know how to self-medicate.

  I pull out a Lamington. Shove the whole thing in my mouth at once, squash it and swallow with barely a chew. I pull out another one. Shove that in too. I chew, mash, push the cake through my teeth with my eyes closed, making sure I can taste every single bit.

  Because this is my last one.

  Forever.

  I promise.

  When I swallow the last bit of Lamington stuck under my tongue, I feel a strange sense of relief.

  I stand up and stare at the toilet bowl. I can do this.

  I’ve seen how fast girls lose weight this way in those stupid ’80s documentaries they play in Health class.

  I zip up my bag, gulping pockets of air, deep and fast and heavy, to try to make myself feel sick. I feel a little dizzy and lean my shoulder against the right cubicle wall.

  Let’s do this.

  I have to just do this. Not think about it. If I think about it, I’ll back down. But I am thinking about it now, aren’t I? Thinking about it by telling myself to not think about out.

  Man …

  I jam my fingers down my throat, convulse and heave as if I were vomiting the intestine of a cow. The whole thing has made me so ill that I keep dry-retching even when there is nothing left to spew. I close my eyes and my mouth, try to breathe through my nose to calm the hurricane in my stomach, to ease the throbbing in my temples.

  Gross.

  No way I’m doing this shit three times a day.

  I knock the lid down, and it echoes like one of my mum’s “motivational” cheek slaps.

  I rip off some toilet paper to wipe my mouth, when someone knocks on my cubicle door.

  The handle jiggles.

  Silence.

  Another knock.

  “Leave me alone,” I mumble. “I’m fine. It’s just a stomach bug.”

  “No. It’s not.” The girl’s voice is husky
yet soft.

  I straighten my back and look at the gap at the bottom of the door. The girl’s presence hovers in a shadow.

  Is she serious? “And how the fuck would you know that?”

  The girl shifts her feet. The tip of her sneaker peeks through the bottom of the door.

  “I can help you lose weight.”

  What the hell? “Huh?”

  “Just open the door. It’s Kimiko. I’m alone.”

  Chapter 9

  Nash: It’s all Celeste’s fault.

  During recess, I sit at my desk to play FIFA 13, sweaty and hot after joining the boys in a rough game of basketball. The girls were whiny today, so I just let them sit on the sidelines to file each other’s nails. Except one girl who insisted she “get down and dirty.” The honorary boy of the class, who I want to help apply for an AIS scholarship. For a moment I wish I had a daughter like her, then withdraw the thought, queasy with guilt.

  Teachers’ footsteps fill the staff room with the mental weight of dealing with classroom misbehaviour, their noses in manila folders, fingers hooked around cups of coffee, as they walk by my desk. Thank crikey for the cubicles. If it wasn’t for this antisocial static mass of plywood everybody complains about, it would be damn impossible to chill out here. At all. “Sometimes goodness comes in mysterious ways.” Yeah, Celeste was right about that. She was often right about a lot of things.

  She was right about Mia too.

  I glance at the time in the bottom-right-hand corner of my screen. Sonia should be back any minute. I open my drawer and pull out a pear. As I bite into it, I catch sight of my Drum. And groan.

  I should quit. Mia and I should quit our addictions together. It would give her something to nag me about at the same time. Maybe it would help her. I did force a lot of fruit onto her this morning, but for all I know, she’s chucked it in the bin and bought junk with the cash Celeste keeps putting into her bank account. Guilt money.