The Pain, My Mother, Sir Tiffy, Cyber Boy & Me

by Bauer, Michael Gerard

  I didn’t really take much of a shine to her.

  Go figure!

  So right there and then I made up my mind that this year was going to be different. The time had come to reclaim the old, pre-father-shooting-through Maggie Butt. The one who enjoyed school and did well there. The one who smiled and laughed because she still had a sense of humour. The one who spoke to people and was even capable of making friends. The one I actually liked. And the fact that it was also going to be my last year at the college (both St Brenda’s and St Greg’s only went up to Year Ten) just made me even more determined to get my life back on track before I headed off to the senior campus of Preston College.

  After confidently proclaiming this year to be THE YEAR OF THE BUTT, I wrote down THREE SPECIFIC AND REALISTIC GOALS to help me achieve that noble aim.

  Goal 1: Make at least one good friend at St Brenda’s.

  Goal 2: Find a partner for the Year Ten Graduation Dance.

  Goal 3: Get an overall A for English (my best subject).

  Nothing too outlandish there? I mean it wasn’t like I was shooting for World Peace or an End to Poverty. But with only a couple of months of the school year left to run, my THREE SPECIFIC AND REALISTIC GOALS weren’t looking too healthy. To be honest, it was more like they were all on life support and being read their last rites.

  Take Goal 1: Make at least one good friend at St Brenda’s, for example.

  Now this one had actually shown some promising signs early on in the year. In fact, it had been motoring along quite nicely. But then, due to circumstances unfortunately well within my control, it motored straight into a pothole the size of the Grand Canyon and disappeared without a trace, taking any budding friendships, as well as what was left of my reputation, right along with it. (I apologise for the overdose of figurative language there, but the literal details of what happened are just far too horrendous for me to put into words at this point. I promise that all will be painfully revealed later. Thank you for your patience and understanding.)

  Then of course there was Goal 2: Find a partner for the Year Ten Graduation Dance.

  Now I don’t want you to think that having this goal meant I was so feeble that I thought I needed a male to make me happy. Ha! Far from it. I really just wanted an acceptable partner to show that I wasn’t quite the loner-loser everyone assumed I was. And how was that one going, you ask? Let’s just say that, with the graduation dance looming ever closer, I was still wading my way through a mountain of Maggie Butt partner applications! (It was complete rubbish of course, but let’s just say it anyway because it will make me feel sooooooo much better.)

  And so that just left Goal 3: Get an overall A for English.

  You might be surprised to hear that by the halfway mark of Year Ten, I was right on track to nail this one. It was in the bag. Done and dusted. The larger-sized lady was singing up a veritable storm!

  But unbeknownst to me, a Dark Force was about to enter my life. A Dark Force whose sole aim appeared to be crushing Goal 3 dead in its tracks. A Dark Force known as …

  SISTER EVANGELISTA.

  6

  Wrong they were

  Sister Evangelista – aka Sista Lista, aka Sister Yoda – is a nun.

  Officially she was retired. (From teaching, not from nunning.) But halfway through Year Ten when my real English teacher, Mrs Warwick, decided to go on maternity leave (selfish!), instead of hiring a proper teacher, St Brenda’s decided to save money by bringing Sista Lista out of retirement (or possibly suspended animation) just for my class.

  Straightaway my grades plummeted. Sista Lista single-handedly torpedoed Goal 3! And what made it worse was that EVERYBODY ADORED HER! They were always going on about how ‘sweet’ and ‘gorgeous’ and ‘soooooo cuuuuute!’ she was, just because she was the size of a hobbit, had a tiny, round face with rosy cheeks and little twinkly eyes, and was always smiling. But that wasn’t the end of it. Because she wore an old-fashioned white nun’s habit, which covered her head and hung down to her ankles, she looked like a female version of Yoda from Star Wars, so everyone assumed she was the source of all wisdom and knowledge and goodness.

  BUT WRONG THEY WERE!

  Only I knew the truth. Sista Lista wasn’t Yoda. No way.

  She was the SISTER-MINATOR!

  It’s true. Sister Evangelista was a dangerous visitor from another time, sent into my classroom with a mission to TERMINATE once and for all any chance I ever had of getting my A for English in Year Ten! And if you think that I’m just making up excuses here and blaming someone else for my own failings (oooo, nasty!), let me throw a few FACTS at you.

  Fact 1: Throughout primary school and even into Year Seven and Year Eight when all the leaving/divorcing stuff was going down, I got top marks for just about everything I wrote without really trying.

  Fact 2: Even in Year Nine when I had to change schools and I was busy being that sulky, withdrawn, irritable, etc. etc. etc. new girl, I still managed to scrape into a B grade overall.

  Fact 3: At the start of Year Ten, after I set myself Goal 3: Get an overall A for English, I pushed my grades with Mrs Warwick almost immediately back up into the A range.

  But now, thanks to Sista Lista, I had become a permanent fixture in TEAM B! What was going on? Was giving me a mark in the A range against one of the SISTER-MINATOR’S sacred vows? The closest I’d got was a B+ for a short story.

  But all was not lost. Goal 3 was still achievable. I worked out that, with my high grades for Semester One, if I got a solid A for the last big written assignment on Macbeth and then aced the final exam, I could still make it.

  Everything hinged on the Macbeth assignment. No ‘A’ for it, no overall ‘A’ for the semester no matter how well the exam went. Which is why, in the week following Friday’s NIGHT OF PAIN, I made an appointment to see Sister Evangelista to discuss face to face the first draft I’d submitted.

  It didn’t go quite as I had hoped.

  7

  Channelling Mad Max

  I met up with Sister Evangelista in a study room in the resource centre. (Right after our class photo was taken, and the horror of Taarsheebah’s handiwork was recorded for all posterity.) When I arrived she was waiting for me, smiling (as always) and looking adorable. Looking adorable.

  I sat down beside her.

  ‘Hi, Sister. Thanks for seeing me.’

  ‘Not at all, child. That’s what I’m here for. Now what can I do for you?’

  GIVE ME AN ‘A’ FOR MY MACBETH ASSIGNMENT WOULD BE A GREAT START!

  ‘Sister, I was a bit worried about my grades. They seem to have dropped a bit recently … like this semester. I was getting mostly As in English, you know … last semester.’

  Sister Evangelista happily patted a manila folder on her desk. It had my name on it.

  ‘Ah yes, I’ve been reading through the work you did for Mrs Warwick. An excellent teacher. Lovely lady. And a generous soul to be sure.’

  Riiiiiiiiight.

  ‘Um, anyway, Sister, if I’m going to get an overall A for English this year, I really need a good grade for my Macbeth essay, so I was wondering what you think I mainly need to work on before I submit the final draft.’

  Sister Evangelista folded her hands on her lap.

  ‘Well, first I think you need to be aware that you can’t rely just on your obvious natural English ability to get you through any more, my dear. These second semester tasks are quite challenging and demanding and we are expecting more of you. Serious thought and application are required.’

  Gotcha.

  ‘And as was the case with your previous pieces, this last essay needed greater clarity and focus. You have a tendency to waffle at times and shoot off on unnecessary tangents.’

  No, please. Tell me what you really think.

  ‘I guess I did go a bit over the fifteen-hundred-word limit,’ I admitted.

  Sister Evangelista checked the notes she’d written in the margin of my draft.

  ‘One thousand seven hundred an
d fifty-three words over by my rough count, dear. Which means you were over the word limit by an amount that was itself over the word limit. Quite an achievement.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Some serious editing is required, Miss Butt. Decide what needs to be said and in what order and then devote your time and energy to working out how to express those ideas as clearly and concisely as possible.’

  She picked up my essay.

  ‘Case in point,’ she said as she flicked over the cover sheet and pointed at a spot near the bottom of the first page. ‘Now in responding to the topic That Lady Macbeth is more powerful than her husband and it’s her “vaulting ambition” that leads to his downfall you argue here that, “compared to her husband, Lady Macbeth’s power is greatly limited by the conventions of the patriarchal society in which she lives”. An interesting and very valid point.’

  I found myself on the receiving end of a pat on my hand and one of Sister Lista’s trademark smiles.

  Hey, I did good! I returned her smile.

  She flicked over to the next page.

  ‘What isn’t so valid is this whole next section where you drift off into a discussion of the Women’s Liberation Movement and the changing role of women in today’s society, get side-tracked with a personal story about your mother applying for a job and end up drawing parallels between Lady Macbeth challenging the attitudes of eleventh-century Scotland and … Miley Cyrus … challenging modern views on morality. All very creative and fascinating, my dear, but I’m afraid not particularly relevant or helpful in a literary analysis essay such as this.’

  I’d stopped smiling. She leant closer.

  ‘Remember, just because a thought enters your brain, child, it doesn’t mean it has to end up on the page. Sometimes keeping it locked safely away inside that head of yours might be the very best place for it.’

  She told me this complete with your actual head tapping.

  Her finger.

  My head.

  WHAT A SWEETIE!

  But maybe she was right, because at that moment, I was having some thoughts about Sister Evangelista that I’m sure were better kept locked safely away.

  ‘Ah, anything else then, Sister?’

  I soon regretted the question.

  ‘Only that you need to watch those metaphors and similes of which you seem so fond – particularly in this analytical style of essay.’

  Sista Lista flicked over another page.

  ‘For example, here where you’re describing the relationship between Macbeth and Lady Macbeth and you say, “Macbeth is the one consumed with ambition but he lacks the drive to put his dark desires into actions.”.’

  She glanced up at me.

  ‘Another very valid point. But then you go on to say that Macbeth “is like a car without petrol. He can’t get to where he wants to go. Lady Macbeth becomes his petrol pump of passion and persuasion. Using the high-octane fuel of her potent words she fires up her husband’s engine and sets the wheels of his vaulting ambition racing at a breakneck speed down a hellish and bloody highway towards the nightmare towns of treason and murder”.’

  Sista Lista looked up again and raised her eyebrows at me.

  ‘Are you analysing Macbeth here, my dear, or channelling Mad Max?’

  Okay, fair point. I might have gone a fraction overboard there.

  ‘It may be creative, Maggie, and I do have a soft spot for the image of Lady Macbeth as “a petrol pump of passion and persuasion”, but it’s hardly the logical presentation of a clear and reasoned argument that we’re looking for. Oh, and one more thing. Shakespeare actually wrote some quite good lines himself, so perhaps incorporating a few more of those in your analysis might go a long way to supporting the arguments you are putting forward.’

  It was becoming pretty clear to me that I had a lot more work still to do on my essay if I wanted to end up with an A. But before I left I had one last shot at getting the Sister-minator to look more kindly on what I had already submitted.

  ‘Thank you, Sister. That’s been very helpful. I’ll be sure to keep all that in mind … but … I was just wondering … have you ever noticed how some writers … modern writers … sometimes use different styles in their writing … on purpose … you know … for effect?’

  Sista Lista’s eyes sparkled and her rosy cheeks shone.

  I took it as a positive sign!

  ‘Why yes, as ancient as I am, I believe I have noticed that. And are you saying that you might be one of those writers, Miss Butt? Are you suggesting that the lack of focus, the unwarranted inclusions, the drawn-out comparisons and the general higgledy-piggledy nature of some of your writing may in fact be a conscious and deliberate technique on your part and not as it would appear, the undesirable, but inevitable, consequence of a lack of careful drafting and editing?’

  Wait. Was I suggesting that? I wasn’t sure. I nodded vaguely in agreement anyway.

  The Sister-minator took one of my hands and patted it gently.

  ‘Bless you, child. Bless you,’ she said warmly. ‘A wonderful thing to have such belief in one’s own writing ability. It really is!’

  Then she gave my hand a little squeeze.

  ‘However, best not to let yourself drift totally into the realms of self-delusion. Wouldn’t you agree?’

  I was smiling back at her. Still nodding my head. I had absolutely no idea why.

  I left the session with Sista Lista not exactly filled to overflowing with hope and joy. I was even less filled to overflowing with hope and joy when I stopped to read the three notices on the Year Ten noticeboard just outside the entrance to the resource centre.

  NOTICE 1:

  SENIOR SUBJECT CHOICES – Add your name if you wish to attend any of the following subject talks.

  Great. More ‘discussions’ with Mum to look forward to.

  Groan.

  NOTICE 2:

  ST BRENDA’S GRADUATION DANCE – Names of partners (if applicable) and group tables (max 8 people) must be finalised AT LEAST a week before the night if you want to be assured of sitting with your friends

  Partner? Friends?

  Double groan.

  NOTICE 3:

  COMMUNITY SERVICE ACTIVITIES sign-up roster. LAST DAY!

  Oh crap! The Community Service Activities were due to start the following Thursday and run for six weeks and I’d completely forgotten to write my name down for anything. This was despite the fact that our homeroom teacher had been reminding us constantly for the past two weeks that because of the strict number limits on each activity, it was ‘first in, best dressed’.

  I scanned the noticeboard for my options.

  Okay, let’s see. Primary School and Pre-School Book Reading. Now that sounded like it would be great fun, but … FULL.

  Rightio, how about Creek Regeneration and Tree Planting? Might be a bit messy, but hey, I think could handle that … FULL.

  Fine. No problem. In that case, I could always join in the Amnesty Letter Writing. That would be both a breeze to do and also I’d be helping a good cause … FULL.

  Then what about all these other options that I don’t have the slightest interest in but … FULL. FULL. FULL. FULL. FULL.

  So, that just leaves this one. The exciting and laugh-a-minute prospect of taking part in the Aged Care Facility Visit. Well, lookie here. HEAPS OF SPACES!

  I dug out a pen from my bag and added my name to the three already there.

  Maggie Butt. Last in. Worst dressed.

  Triple groan.

  8

  A reverse death knell

  The following weekend Mum and The Pain went on their picnic while I stayed at home and worked on editing and generally de-Mad Maxifying my Macbeth assignment.

  I was typing away at my desk, carefully avoiding tangents, massacring a few mutant metaphors and inserting some pearls of wisdom from Billy Shakespeare himself when The Pain arrived. From behind the blinds in my bedroom, I saw a bomby yellow station wagon pull up in front of our house. Wow. I wasn’t even
aware that they manufactured cars back in the Middle Ages.

  Unike the previous Friday night, this time when the front door bell rang, I planned to stay safely holed up in my room. Once painfully bitten, twice painfully shy and all that. A few seconds later I heard the front door being opened and Mum and The Pain talking. It wasn’t long before I also heard my name being called.

  ‘Maggie! We’ll be heading off any second. Maggie? Did you hear me? Are you there, sweetie?’

  That was Mum-talk for ‘Stop being rude! Get out here and show your face before we go!’

  I knew there would be no escaping it, so I ventured out for a quick ‘Hi’ and ‘Bye’. As it turned out, it was nowhere near quick enough to stop The Pain from being painful though.

  ‘Hi, Maggie. How goes that new haircut? Is it growing on you yet?’

  Mum smothered a chuckle and kissed me goodbye. Then she turned round and pushed The Pain towards the door.

  ‘You …’ she said, smiling.

  I just stood there thinking of all the great words I could use to finish Mum’s sentence.

  Then they were gone.

  Of course once I was on my ownsome, I considered taking the opportunity to sneak out to the mall with my mad besties, hook up with some hot guys and with eight weeks to go to the graduation dance, smash that partner-finding goal right out of the ball park. But I didn’t. I was much too mature and responsible for that sort of thing. Besides, in order for that to happen, I would have to (a) actually have some mad besties and (b) possess the ability to attract the attention of the aforementioned ‘hot guys’.

  So it was just me and Macbeth, home alone.

  It was later that afternoon while I was taking a well-earned internet and ice-cream with chocolate topping break in the lounge room that I heard the bomby yellow heap returning. Somehow it had held together for the whole day. A minute or so later Mum came through the front door – by herself. A good sign! I was hoping to hear all about The Pain’s truly painful colours shining through.