The Crimes and Punishments of Miss Payne

by Barry Jonsberg

  Mrs. Mills: You think about Miss Payne a lot, do you, Calma?

  Calma: No! Well, I mean, yes. But not for the reason you're thinking.

  Mrs. Mills: And what do you think I'm thinking?

  Silence.

  Mrs. Mills: Tell me about your home life, Calma. Your father left when you were in Year 6. Is that right?

  Calma: Yes.

  Mrs. Mills: And how do you feel about that?

  Calma: What do you mean how do I feel? How do you think I feel?

  Mrs. Mills: It's not how I think you feel that's important, Calma. It's how you think you feel. How do you think you feel?

  Calma: I feel deliriously happy, Mrs. Mills. I haven't stopped laughing since he walked out on us and went to Sydney with the twenty-year-old barmaid from the Blarney Stone Irish pub.

  Mrs. Mills: Is that right, Calma?

  Calma: No, of course it's not right! I was being ironic!

  Mrs. Mills: Do you often hide your true feelings by telling … untruths?

  Calma: It was bloody irony!

  Mrs. Mills: I can see you're getting upset again. Does the mention of your father always get you upset?

  Calma: No.

  Mrs. Mills: Would you say that you are resentful toward men as a result of your childhood experiences?

  Calma: No. I resent my father, that's all. Why are we talking about my father?

  Mrs. Mills: Are you uncomfortable talking about men?

  Silence.

  Mrs. Mills: Is your mother a strong woman?

  Calma: Absolutely. Solid steel and enamel. Rusting a bit on the bottom, but that's to be expected. She's not exactly young anymore, let's face it. Well past her warranty.

  Mrs. Mills: What do you mean by that, Calma?

  Calma: My mother is a refrigerator.

  Mrs. Mills: What do you mean, a refrigerator?

  Calma: It's just a joke, Mrs. Mills. I see more of the fridge, that's all. Forget it.

  Mrs. Mills: Your mother works two jobs, doesn't she? I imagine you don't see too much of her. Do you resent that, Calma?

  Calma: I don't know about “resent.” I'd like to see more of her, naturally, but she works hard to provide for me. She's brought me up by herself, doing two jobs and nothing in the way of child support. It's been really hard for her.

  Mrs. Mills: You admire strong women, then?

  Calma: I admire my mother, even if it's at a distance. She's a strong woman. That doesn't mean I admire all strong women.

  Mrs. Mills: Do you think Miss Payne is a strong woman?

  Calma: I'm not convinced she is a woman!

  Mrs. Mills: That is very interesting. Why do you say that?

  Silence.

  Mrs. Mills: Do you often think about Miss Payne's femininity?

  Silence.

  Mrs. Mills: You told Miss Payne that you loved her, didn't you, Calma?

  Calma: No. Yes. No. Well, I did, but I didn't mean it.

  Mrs. Mills: And you followed her to her house, didn't you?

  Calma: No, I didn't follow her. I just knew where she lived, that's all.

  Mrs. Mills: Do you make it a habit to know where your teachers live?

  Calma: No.

  Mrs. Mills: Do you know where any of your other teachers live, Calma?

  Calma: No.

  Mrs. Mills: Miss Payne said that you were behaving strangely when you came to her house. That you were talking in a disjointed fashion, quite out of character with your normal level of sophistication. That you were nervous. Would you say that was an accurate description?

  Calma: I suppose. But I know what you're thinking. I was nervous, but not because I am madly in love with her. I was nervous because …

  Mrs. Mills: Yes?

  Calma: Nothing.

  Mrs. Mills: So you were nervous, breathing heavily, and then you told her that you loved her. Is that right?

  Calma: YES! But I didn't tell her I loved her because I love her! I hate her!

  Mrs. Mills: It's often said that love and hate are two sides of the same coin, Calma, that there is very little difference between them. What do you say to that?

  Calma: Yes, I've heard that, Mrs. Mills, and I'd say that it is the single biggest heap of crap ever. It's like saying that there is no difference between heaven and hell, or light and dark, or youth and age, or fish and kangaroos. These things are oppo-sites, Mrs. Mills… well, fish and kangaroos are not exactly opposites, but you know what I mean. Saying that opposite things are really the same is just lazy. And wrong. A philosophy that only the feebleminded could accept. When I said that I don't love Miss Payne, I meant that I don't love her. When I said that I hated her, I meant that too. No confusion, no possibility of misinterpretation. I hate her!

  Mrs. Mills: Do you not think that you might be in denial, Calma?

  Calma: Yes, I am in denial. I deny that I love her.

  Mrs. Mills: So you admit that you're in denial. That's a start, Calma. A very promising start. We haven't time right now to continue this discussion. Under normal circumstances, we would remove you from Miss Payne's class immediately, for reasons that you will probably understand. Don't panic. I'm not going to do that. Mainly because we are so understaffed at the moment that there actually isn't another class I could put you into….

  Calma: Please put me into another class, Mrs. Mills!

  Mrs. Mills: I know that you are worried, but you'll just have to be strong, Calma. You have to understand that what you are going through is a very common experience for girls of your age. It's nothing to be ashamed of and it doesn't mean that you are abnormal or anything. Now, back to class with you. We'll probably have a little chat once or twice a week, just to make sure everything is under control, if you know what I mean. You can tell me anything, Calma. Anything at all. And it goes without saying that anything that is said within this room remains entirely confidential. Just between us and these four walls. When you let yourself out, dear, could you tell Rachael Smith to step right on in?

  Calma: Yes, Mrs. Mills.

  “Rachael Smith says you're gay, Calma. She says you've got the hots for Miss Payne.”

  “Rachael Smith is a lying pig!”

  “Calma's got the hots for the Pitbull, Calma's got the hots for the Pitbull….”

  Chapter 8

  A reflection upon circumstances,

  after mature consideration

  Bugger.

  Chapter 9

  The cutting edge of

  educational practice

  If you want to know the truth, there is one thing that really drives me insane: diaries. I hate them. Now, just before you start to think, “Hang on, has this person only got one oar in the water or what?” I should explain that I don't mean the physical diary itself. I have nothing against someone publishing a whole series of books with blank pages. That's business. I don't even object to people buying them. I mean, it's not my money. In fact, for about sixty years my aunt Gillian has bought me one every Christmas and I've always smiled, thanked her very much and stuck the damn thing in the bin the moment I've had the chance. But it's not the sight, the touch or the smell of a diary that is liable to start me foaming at the mouth. Hey, I'm not unreasonable.

  No. What I hate is the way teachers think that diaries are, in some mysterious fashion, the cutting edge of educational practice. What is it about diaries that excites them so? Do they really think that by setting a diary entry for homework they are somehow tapping into genuine adolescent interests? That we are all going to go, Wow, that was one really dull lesson, but now that I've got the chance to write a diary entry on it, the adrenaline is really pumping. This is fantastic, inspiring, brilliant … oops, I've wet myself with excitement!? That's only the girls, of course. The boys will, without exception, plan to write dairy entries, in which cows, milk and the churning of butter figure prominently. I've a theory about boys and spelling. I think that most of them are born with only half a brian!

  And I know the answer to why we are subjected to the mind-num
bing routine of diary entries. Laziness. That's what it is. Sheer laziness. And that's something else. Use your imagination, class. I want fresh ideas and fresh expression. Now, what can I give them to do? I know, I'll trot out that old standby, the diary entry. Double standards. It makes my blood boil.

  I'll tell you another thing. Sometimes—no, probably most times—the diary entry is completely inappropriate. I remember last year our English teacher did Macbeth with us. Now, I don't know if you know the play but it has this woman, Lady Macbeth, and is she a real cow? This woman is completely evil. She pushes her husband into murdering the king just because she wants to be queen. Initially, he agrees, but later when he says he doesn't think he can do it, she tells him that she would have plucked her own baby from her breast and beaten its brains out if she had sworn to do it. You know, that nothing would stop her from getting what she wants, even if it meant killing her own baby in cold blood. And you believe her! She is one cold, unfeeling woman. So her husband murders the king and gets the crown and she becomes queen and all. And it's very bloody. Our teacher told us to write a diary entry from the viewpoint of Lady Macbeth after the murder of the old king, who was called Duncan. Can you believe that? This is Shakespeare we are talking about here. High tragedy. And we are expected to imagine that in the middle of all the bloodshed, Lady Macbeth is getting out her Kmart diary every night and jotting a few things down! So this is what I wrote.

  Friday, 11:30 p.m.

  Dear Diary,

  It's been a few nights since I've written to you. I hope I'm not getting lax, but I've been pretty busy recently, what with entertaining the King of Scotland and his three thousand hangers-on. I was all for ordering takeaway, but Macbeth wouldn't have it. He reckons the local Thai restaurant is overpriced, and he's been wary of the pizza place ever since he had the seafood thick crust and got crook with food poisoning. So I was up to my elbows in pie floaters for everyone, while Macbeth and old Duncan were watching Fox Sports and getting a few Buds down them. Typical bloody men! Anyway, after all that, Macbeth tells me he doesn't want to murder Duncan after all. He's changed his mind! I tell you, I gave him heaps. I was ropeable. I said, “Listen here, matey, it's just like when you were supposed to be putting up the shade cloth over the pool. That took five bloody months. No way, mate. Get in there and kill the old bastard right now or you can forget all about going to the V8 Supercars next week!” “Aw, jeez, Lady Mac,” he said. “Give me a break, willyer?” To cut a long story short, he does it. Not without a lot ofwhingeing and whining, mind. And there is, like, loads of blood all over the good sheets. Took me hours to get the stains out. Forget that old stuff about salt being the business for stains. Might work for wine, but gobs of blood is a different matter. By the time I finished, I was completely tuckered. So I'll make this short. To be honest, after the day I've had, I just fancy a cup of hot chocolate and a quick read of Woman's Day. I'll write again tomorrow, I swear.

  I was expecting a detention for that. I wanted a detention! But do you know what happened? I got a big check and a B grade. She hadn't even read it. Sometimes teachers make me sick.

  Look, sorry about all this. I know I'm rambling. It's just that I had a hard time after Rachael Smith had finished spreading the hot news about my supposed love affair with the Pitbull. Not content with telling the entire school within twenty-five minutes—not a bad effort when there are over eight hundred kids at the school—she then gave the full rundown to the parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, second cousins twice removed, neighbors, casual acquaintances, newspaper-delivery kids and the bag lady who spends her time gibbering and drooling in the city center. I'm surprised she didn't take out a full-page advertisement in the local paper. I couldn't watch 60 Minutes for months afterward without worrying that my face would appear accompanied by a breathy voice-over: “Pervert Student Stalks Kindly Teacher.”

  [Rachael Smith—Virgo in conjunction with Uranus. There is a tendency today to speak without thinking, possibly because you have the brains of a brick. Beware of large-breasted, bespectacled females bearing two-foot lengths of plumbers’ piping.]

  I don't know if you have ever been in a similar situation. Unlikely, I guess, unless you are, like me, gifted with a talent for inviting disaster. But it's hell. Yeah, okay. I know what you're thinking. It'll pass. Worse things happen at sea. Bit of teasing never hurt anyone. Was that what you were thinking? If it was, please go at once and stick your head in a large bucket of pool acid. I know all about treating misfortune with dignity. In theory. But in practice, you wish you were dead. Everywhere I went, there was giggling and immature remarks. Girls would leave the toilets if I went in. I was pathetically grateful that Vanessa still sat next to me in class. She continued to wear boredom like a badge, but there was a subtle change in her attitude. Difficult to be specific. Little things, like the way her body was slightly more closed, as if she was desperate that our legs wouldn't touch under the desk. Maybe it was my imagination, but I thought that even the teachers looked at me slightly differently.

  I went straight home from school that day. To be honest, I needed my mum. I wanted to talk things through with her, the way they do on soap operas. You know. All that stuff where the girl says, “Mum, I'm pregnant by the local heroin addict, my best friend's topped herself and the police want to interview me in connection with the arson at the high school.” And the mum strokes the girl's hair and says, “It's okay, Charlene, you know that I'll always be here for you.” I needed that kind of thing.

  Of course, Mum wasn't back from work and the fridge was, as always, strong, silent and dependable, but rather weak in the empathy stakes. So I kicked it a few times, leaving a couple of decent dents, and I felt a bit better. Then I ate the last of the ice cream. I didn't particularly feel like it, but it was Mum's favorite and she often had a bowl between shifts, so I forced it down. Pathetic, I know, but someone had to pay.

  Overdosed on raspberry ripple, I wandered off to Kiffo's place. Funnily enough, I'd never actually been to his house before, but I knew where he lived. It was not the kind of neighborhood that you tended to go into if you could avoid it. Particularly when it was getting dark. Particularly if you were a woman. Particularly if you were a woman with huge boobs. What the hell. I didn't care. I think in my state of mind I'd have been more than a match for any roving gang of hoons.

  I knocked on the door, and after a few moments Kiffo opened it. He looked at me with surprise and then nodded for me to come in. The front room was a disgrace. I've seen some messes in my time—hell, I've created my fair share—but this took the whole packet of biscuits. Crumpled beer cans were scattered around the carpet, if anything so threadbare and filthy could be dignified with such a name. Old pizza cartons, at least three of them, were also arranged artistically on the floor. Two still contained traces of pizza, though they were clearly so old that any positive identification would have taxed the expertise of the most distinguished forensic scientist. I guessed at thin-crust mold with extra botulism topping. The place stank of old socks, sweat, tobacco and despair. Kiffo noticed my expression.

  “Yeah, well,” he said. “It's the cleaning lady's day off. Come in and sit down.”

  I looked around. There was nowhere really that I considered a safe place to sit. The couch would have been rejected by the local dump on the grounds that it would have brought down the ambience of the place. Not that I cared too much about the fact that it was held together with fishing wire, or that it sagged alarmingly in strange places, like a depressed storm cloud. But there were things living in it. I could see them moving. It created a strange effect, like those Lava lamps. There was a never-ending rearrangement of the pattern. A microbiologist would have been enchanted, but I wasn't sticking my bum anywhere near it. I found a broken barstool in the corner. It wasn't clean, but at least it wasn't creating its own visible ecosystem. Kiffo slumped into the couch, which gave off a dense cloud of irritated bugs, some, undoubtedly, unknown to modern science.

  “Wassup, Calma?” he said,
fishing into his pocket and producing a cigarette with a distinct dogleg to it.

  “You don't want to know, Kiffo,” I said.

  “Okay,” he replied and lit up. There was a silence.

  “Well, when I say you don't want to know, I mean that you probably do want to know. It's kind of a rhetorical question—well, not a question, obviously, more of a rhetorical statement—but it produces a similar effect. You're supposed to press me and then I reveal all. So not at all like a rhetorical statement, when it comes down to it.”

  Kiffo narrowed his eyes at me through the cloud of smoke and airborne bacilli.

  “You're talking like an English teacher,” he said. “Don't. It makes me want to throw up. If you've got something to say, then say it.”

  Good advice, let's be honest. So I told him all about what I had said to the Pitbull the night of the break-in and how she'd told the school counselor—

  [Mrs. Mills—Gemini. Your normal sense of discretion will desert you today. Beware of unfortunate slips of the tongue caused by either a momentary lapse of concentration or an innate tendency toward verbal diarrhea.]

  —who'd obviously said something to Rachael Spit-in-Her-Eye Smith, who'd let her mouth off the leash and created havoc. As I was telling him, I could feel the tears welling. But I kept them back. Kiffo's one of those guys who doesn't like crying. It would embarrass him and he wouldn't know what to do. So he'd have to get angry. Still, I tried to tell him how I felt as if my whole life had been ripped up and thrown away in the course of a single afternoon. I wanted him to know that this was important.

  And he listened. When I had done with the tale, a little breathless with the effort of keeping emotion out of it, he threw his cigarette onto the carpet and ground it out with his heel. Then he leaned back and looked at me.

  “You, Calma,” he said, “are something else.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “You did that for me? You told the Pitbull you loved her just to give me more time? I don't know what to say. I really don't. No one has never done nothing like that for me. Never.”