by Claire Zorn
‘Leave me alone.’
He keeps hold of my hand. Frowns at me. I pull away, leaving him there.
At the end of second period I leave English class and begin the walk across the yard towards the ag plot. After what happened this morning I can’t shake my craving for solitude. As I am walking I notice that the yard seems almost entirely empty of students. There is noise, though, like a crowd watching a sporting match. It comes from the direction of the canteen rather than the oval. As I near it I see the backs of students as they scuffle and strain to get a closer look.
It’s obviously been going on for a bit because both their uniforms are torn and smudged with dirt. Josh has Nick, the dreadlocks guy, by the collar. He rams him against a concrete pillar. Nick takes a swing, connects with Josh’s chin. Josh staggers back a step, barely losing a second before returning a punch, which sends Nick to the ground. Josh is on him then, holding him by the collar, shouting. Which is when three male teachers, one of them Mr Black, finally arrive, whistles shrieking. It takes two of them to pull Josh away, there is blood streaming from his left eyebrow. Another teacher pulls Nick to his feet and as soon as he’s upright Josh tries to take another lunge at him. There’s more shouting, this time from the teachers and it’s as they’re hauling Josh and Nick away that Josh’s eyes meet mine. He holds my gaze.
I don’t see him for the rest of the day.
On Thursday morning Mr Black pulls me aside on my way into homeroom. He tells me Josh has been suspended for two days. He asks me what I saw and I tell him.
‘So you don’t have any idea who instigated the fight?’ he asks. ‘Who punched who first?’
‘No,’ I answer. ‘I wasn’t there when it started.’
‘Your name was mentioned apparently.’
‘I don’t know anything about it.’
He looks at me sceptically. ‘All right. Go back to your seat.’
***
Mum knocked on my door. ‘Hannah? Darling, can you open up?’
If I pulled my knees up to my chin, wrapped my arms around my legs and closed my eyes it was like I wasn’t there at all. The very act of opening my eyes only anchored me in reality and I didn’t want to be in my reality anymore. I was done.
I could hear Mum on the phone to Mr Black. She didn’t talk to him so much as shout. She demanded to know what the school was doing about the bullying. She demanded suspensions, expulsions, criminal charges, public flogging – you name it. Then she rang my dad and then Nanna. From the sounds of things, Nanna’s solution was that I drop out of school and get a floristry apprenticeship.
I don’t remember the rest of the day very well. At some point I moved to the window and lay there looking up at the sky. I didn’t do anything else. I wasn’t sure I could and I didn’t have the energy to try. In the evening, after he got home, Dad knocked softly on my door. I heard Mum follow him up the hallway. ‘Just let me talk to her,’ he said. I listened to him knock but I didn’t move. Eventually he spoke. ‘Spannie, I’m just going to sit on the floor here, on the other side of the door, so I’m here when you need me.’
I don’t know how long I waited before I got up and pulled the desk away from the door. He came into my room and sat beside me on the bed.
‘You’ve got to let us help you, mate.’
‘Anything you do will make it worse.’
‘Make what worse? Talk to me, Span.’
But I couldn’t.
***
On Friday I round the corner of the ag building and Josh is on the veranda, ripped shorts and a singlet top, no shoes. He lies on his back, hands behind his head, eyes closed. I find myself noticing his bronzed upper arms. He has useful-looking shoulders. Josh opens one eye. Closes it again.
‘Nick Pergis is a tool, Hannah. How come everyone else knows not to trust a fucking thing that comes out of his mouth, but not you?’
I sit on the edge of the veranda, dangle my legs over.
‘You didn’t have to punch him.’
‘You don’t get to tell me what I should and shouldn’t do.’
‘Sorry.’
He sits up, eyes burning into me. ‘Do you really think I would say something like that about you? Do you, Hannah?’
‘Josh. I’m sorry. He got me off guard. I’m not …’
‘Not what?’
‘Not good at trusting people.’
‘You don’t say.’
‘You don’t understand,’ I whisper. He watches me. ‘You don’t know what it was like before … before my sister died. The stuff they used to do.’
‘I’m not them.’
‘I know.’
I wonder if he will get up and walk away but he doesn’t.
‘Are you in trouble?’ I ask after a few moments.
‘They gave me two days’ suspension. First warning for fighting. Two counts and you’re out. Seems a bit harsh to me, most people want to punch Nick in the head at one time or another.’
He looks away. He has an expression I haven’t seen on him before. Hurt.
‘I’m sorry, Josh.’
He turns his face to me. Examines mine, unsmiling. I can feel myself blushing.
‘Yeah, well. You’re lucky I’m an awesome guy. Very forgiving.’ An almost-smile.
‘Thought you were a peaceful kind of a guy.’
‘Ha. Nearly got expelled from my last school for fighting. Thought I was over it, though. Obviously not. Don’t really see what the big deal is, if you’re both up for it, I mean.’
‘What did your mum say?’
‘Said she’s going to send me to my dad’s. Standard response from split parents. What do the ones who are still together threaten you with? Boarding school?’
‘I haven’t been caught fighting. Couldn’t really say.’
‘Saw a movie about a boarding school once, girls’ one. They seemed to have a pretty good time. Interesting uniform code.’
‘Oh shut up.’
‘By the way, you know you’re wagging class right now? Bell went ages ago.’
‘Did it?’
‘Yeah. But you’re here now, so …’ He shrugs. ‘Since you’re already on the slippery slide to doom, may as well make the most of it. I’m going for a swim. Coming?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Come on, Jane. It’s freakin’ boiling. Can you imagine Rourke in this weather? She’ll be a mad woman. She’s probably brought a weapon to class.’
‘I’m not on holiday, though.’
‘You will be soon if you keep hanging round with me.’
‘I’ll come but I’m not swimming.’
‘We’ll see, Jane Eyre.’
‘Why do you call me that?’
‘Can’t remember your real name. Helen? Heather? Hayley?’
‘Oh shut up.’
The bush hums as we wind down the side of the gully. There must have been a fire through not long ago, tree trunks are scorched charcoal, their regrowth a shock of acid green. The new leaves start at the base of the trunk and feather out, all the way up the branches, making the trees look like giant tentacled creatures rising up from the earth.
‘How much further?’ I ask.
Josh is ahead of me, picking our way through the rocks. ‘Bit. Down the bottom. Listen.’
I strain my ears to sift through the hiss of the cicadas. I can just make out the rushing of water. Using the rocks like the steps of an amphitheatre we make our way deeper into the gully. The opposite side looms taller and taller as we go down and I have the feeling of being folded into the spine of a great, lush book. The rush of water intensifies and soon I can feel the damp on my skin and see a sandy bank through the trees. A wide flow of dark sparkling water gushes around hulks of rock.
Josh heads downstream, along a narrow goat track by the water. I follow. Soft grass overhangs, stroki
ng the running water. Beneath the surface, the smooth flat stones are silver and copper. We step up over a boulder and then I can see where the stream leads to a big shimmering body of water, four times the size of a backyard pool.
‘Told you it was worth it.’ Josh pulls his singlet over his head. I can feel myself blushing again. It’s fair to say he looks like he gets a good amount of exercise. He starts to climb a track that leads back into the bush.
‘Where you going?’
‘Up there.’ He points to a rocky ledge at the top of a cliff face. The drop into the water is about ten metres.
‘No way,’ I say.
‘Yeah. You have to try it.’
‘I’ll pass.’
Josh shrugs, follows the well-worn path, hoists himself up one rock face, then another. I hesitate and then start to follow. He glances over his shoulder, gives me a grin.
‘This doesn’t mean I’m jumping,’ I say.
‘Yeah, yeah.’
We get to the top. It is a huge slab of rock like a balcony overlooking the water. Josh doesn’t even walk to the edge and peer over, instead he runs – taking three quick strides – and launches himself into the air. He lets out a whoop as he drops from sight. Then there is the smack of his body hitting the water below. I walk gingerly to the edge and peer over. The water’s surface is unsettled but I can’t see Josh.
‘Josh?’
A hot rush comes up the back of my neck. I wait.
‘Josh?’
Nothing. Not even bubbles. I scream his name. I kick off my shoes. There is no time for the tie. No time even for a deep breath. I leap from the edge of the rock. There is air rushing past my face, and the water coming toward me and then it is in my ears and eyes, nothing but green. The cold prickles my scalp. I lunge in the direction I hope is up, lungs aching from the shock of the drop and the cold and not enough air. I break through the surface, gasping, look left and right and behind. Nothing but rippling water and still, silent bush. I dive back under but I can’t see anything, not even knowing which direction to look. I come back up to the surface.
‘Josh?’
And then there is laughter. Josh steps out from behind a boulder on the bank.
‘Whoa, I didn’t expect you to jump in! I’m touched. No really.’ He laughs so hard he doubles over, hands on his knees.
My breath catches. I turn and swim to a rock, realise I still have my socks on.
‘Oh come on. That was hilarious.’
‘You shouldn’t have done that.’
I hoist myself out of the water, the rock’s surface grazing my palms. Without looking back I head in the direction of the track back up the gully. There is a pulling and churning in my guts. My lungs feel like someone is squeezing them.
‘Hannah?! Come on, Han. I’m sorry. Hannah! Come back.’
I pick up my bag, keep walking. Josh runs behind me, ducks in front. ‘Come on, Han,’ he laughs. I turn my head away but he sees my face. His smile vanishes.
‘Oh shit. Hannah, I’m sorry, I didn’t … Oh, shit, I’m sorry.’
‘You shouldn’t have done that.’ Water drips from my hair. A hot, sour gush of sick comes up from my stomach. I turn away and vomit into the sand.
‘Are you okay? Shit. Are you all right?’
Embarrassed and furious, I wipe my hand across my mouth. A deep breath pushes into my chest.
‘Han. I’m sorry. I was just kidding around, I didn’t expect … Are you okay? I’m sorry.’
I keep my hand clamped over my mouth and try to breathe deeply through my nose. I let my knees fold beneath me. Josh grabs my elbows.
‘Hey, hey.’ He steadies me, eases me to the ground. I sit in the sand and put my face in my hands. He crouches down next to me and puts an arm around my shoulders, hugs me towards him.
‘It’s okay,’ he whispers. ‘I’m okay.’
I put my head on his chest and let him hold me. We sit there on the ground until I stop shaking.
When I get home from school my mother is sitting in the living room. The television isn’t on. The radio isn’t on. She isn’t reading a book or even looking out the window. She is looking at nothing and I step through the door and she turns her eyes to me.
‘Hi,’ I venture. She says nothing. I walk past her into the kitchen. She follows me.
‘The school rang,’ she says.
I open the fridge. The glass shelves gleam with Spray n’ Wipe. Nanna must have been around.
‘It was your counsellor, actually.’
I stop. ‘Why?’
‘She said you didn’t make your appointment today, you didn’t go to class either. Is that right?’
‘I guess.’
‘Where were you?’
I turn away and head up the hall. She follows.
‘Where were you, Hannah? Is your hair wet?’
I turn and face her. ‘Are you and Dad getting divorced?’
‘What? Hannah, we’re not talking about that. I’m asking you why you missed school today. You’re not in trouble, I just want to know why.’
‘Why do you care?’
‘I beg your pardon, young lady.’
‘You don’t care about anything. Why do you suddenly care about school? You wouldn’t notice if I dropped out. How would you even know? You’re always in bed.’ It is the most I have said to her for nearly a year.
‘Hannah!’
‘Are you and Dad getting divorced?’
‘Come and sit down,’ she says, pointing towards the lounge room.
‘No.’
‘Why do you think we’re getting divorced?’
‘Because you hate Dad.’
‘I don’t hate anyone.’
‘Yes you do, you hate Dad because of the accident, you think he killed Katie.’
‘Hannah, honestly, I don’t know what to think.’
‘You think it was all his fault. It wasn’t. You weren’t there.’
‘Why don’t you tell me then? Tell me what happened.’
‘I DON’T REMEMBER! But I know it wasn’t his fault!’
She doesn’t say anything.
‘You don’t care about anything else! It’s all about you and how sad you are. I was there. I’m the one who watched her die.’
I think she might cry at that. But she doesn’t. ‘You said you don’t remember anything. If you remember, you have to tell the police.’
‘Fuck you.’
I push past her and go into my bedroom. I slam the door and slide down to the floor, close my eyes. I shake my head, but I can’t get it out, I can see it. I can see it behind my eyes; the picture that forms in the black of my memory. I see the intersection. I hear the sound. Katie’s eyes look into mine, utterly terrified.
*
I can’t be near her, can’t be in the house. I open the window and push out the screen. I climb out into our front garden. The heat outside welcomes me, envelops me. Mrs Van is in her yard. She sees me and calls out. I ignore her and keep walking. I walk down the road, on the edge where the bitumen breaks into ochre pebble and dust. Somewhere in the distance a firetruck wails. I climb the hill and turn on to Blue Gum Crescent, lined with double-brick houses, Colorbond fences. There is the splash and squeal of kids in a backyard swimming pool. I head up Blue Gum, turn onto the highway and follow the path. I walk and walk until I get to Johnson Street. It takes an age. My shirt is clinging to my back, sweat trickles from my temples. The cars sweep down the slope of the hill, tinted windows up, passengers freshly chilled with air conditioning. I walk to the edge of the road. There is a speed sign there that says eighty. Taped to the traffic light pole is another bunch of tiger lillies, the cellophane that wraps them quivers and flutters with every passing car. I stand there with my toes on the lip of the kerb and feel the push of air from the traffic, like it could pick me up. A car b
lasts its horn in warning. Another. Another. I watch as a semi-trailer approaches the intersection two hundred metres further up the hill. It thunders, hurtles towards me. The horn bellows. I can see the blue sky reflected in its windscreen, the sunlight flare on the chrome grill. The wind takes my hair and whips my cheeks. I step from the kerb, back onto the grass of the embankment.
Twenty-one
There is a cuckoo clock on the wall, a tiny wooden house with flowers carved into its eaves and a front door painted china blue.
‘From Holland,’ Mrs Van says as she places a glass of water in front of me. ‘My sister, Jani, send it for my birthday, many years ago. Too many!’
She nestles into her chair opposite me. I tell her it looks comfortable, more for something to say rather than because it does.
‘It is a ridiculous chair. My son buys it for me, tells me it will lift me up to my feet, save my back. See this lever here? I tell you, I pull it and I go shooting through the window. Ridiculous chair.’
I laugh and she frowns at me. ‘You think it is funny to catapult an old woman out the window. Young people all the same. My sister, Marieke, she was always making trouble for the old people. She would ring their doorbells and then run away, or meow like a cat in their window. She was fearless.’ Mrs Van shrugs. ‘Or stupid, either way.’
She sips her tea and gazes at the clock.
‘Marieke, she has been gone seventy-four years. She would be an old woman now herself.’ Mrs Van laughs softly. ‘I cannot imagine that.’
‘Did she die in the war?’
‘Yes. She used to lead the youth group at the church. The Germans occupied Holland. But they had left our village alone, mostly. This one day there were rumours, you know, of the Germans nearby. The Dutch police and authorities, you understand, they did whatever the Nazis wanted. They had surrendered to them.’ She closes her eyes and shakes her head. ‘Nobody knew what was going to happen, everyone was scared. It was the day of the youth group meeting and I said to her, “Marieke, you cannot go. It is not safe” – the Germans, you see, did not like people meeting in groups, no matter if they were just teenagers. They would arrest people for talking too long on the street. But she was so stubborn. Defiant. She would have wanted to meet especially to spite the Germans. Silly, silly, girl. So she went. And an hour later my neighbour comes to the door and tells me the Germans are on the way into our village. So I run, I run down the hill, across the bridge to the church.’ She shrugs. ‘But I am too late. People there, they tell me the Nazis have arrested all of the teenagers for conspiring. Except Marieke. And I say, “Where is my sister?” and they tell me she tried to stop the Germans. I go into the church hall and I find her in the doorway. She tried to block them. To stop them taking the others …’ Mrs Van pauses. ‘She must have thought they wouldn’t shoot a girl. She was wrong.’