“They're for my mother,” I said.
Calma, you are a sad, depressing individual.
“Look, Mrs. Elliott, I've got to fly,” I continued, backing away. “See you soon.”
“Get some ointment for those pimples, dear,” she yelled at me as I scuttled through the automatic door. “And resist the urge to squeeze them.”
I headed for home. There was a small crawl space in the roof and I was staying in it until I was forty.
Three
I'm learning heaps in English. Year 11 sure is a step up in complexity.
My class learned about unreliable narrators today.
Okay. Pin back your ears and pay attention. I'm only going to tell you once and there will be a test at the end. Ready?
I am a narrator and I am unreliable.
All narrators are unreliable, because all people are unreliable. We might not lie, exactly, but our narration is colored by our experiences, our prejudices, or our misconceptions. One person's truth is not another person's truth.
With me so far? Good.
Readers of a novel written in the first person, therefore, shouldn't necessarily believe that the “I” within the narrative is telling the objective truth. Because the objective truth doesn't exist. Try as the narrator might, he or she is bound to be unreliable because human frailties afflict us all.
Good stuff, eh?
So. Where does all of this leave us: you, the reader, and me, the narrator? Let me tell you. Unless I am much mistaken, you want to know about my father. You are probably curious about why I was so hostile toward him. Something has happened in the past, you are thinking. Well, take a prize off the top shelf. And guess who is going to tell you the nasty, sordid details? Me, obviously. I'm the narrator. But as a narrator, I'm unreliable, so how do you know if what I'm saying is accurate? It's a problem. So here's what I'm going to do. I am going to try, really hard, to be as objective as I can. I'll let you know the facts in plain words, like a newspaper article. I will avoid:
Any display of emotion.
Any use of colorful language.
Reference to any event that is not historically (herstorically) accurate.
Any obvious subjectivity or personality in my writing style.
Here goes.
My father—that sleazy, two-timing, pathetic bag of shit—dumped my mother and me when I was in Year 6. Having the sensitivity of a hemorrhoid, and being of an age when his shriveled excuse for an ego was at its most vulnerable, he spent his evenings drooling over the cleavage of a twenty-year-old barmaid in the local pub. This woman, and I use the word in its loosest possible sense, already suffered from repetitive-strain injury through the frequency with which she removed her underwear. My father, led by his groin (marginally larger than his brain), suggested they destroy the lives of two innocent people by running off to Sydney together, where she could paint her nails and indulge a passion for skimpy Lycra outfits and he could comb his hair to hide his bald patch. Five years passed before my father, unable to survive without inflicting pain and misery on another human being, returned to the tropics and attempted to make contact with those he had abandoned. This vile slug had not contacted us in five years, and now he oozed back in search of forgiveness, hot meals, and air-conditioning—not necessarily in that order.
Okay. Those are the facts. Now you can form your own judgment.
Four
I had a poem to write for English.
Most kids have to write poems for English, nearly all hate it, and even more are crap at doing it. But it is so easy.
So do you want the Calma Harrison foolproof guide to writing poetry on any conceivable subject in fewer than two minutes? It will change your life. Never again will you dread that assignment. I guarantee you'll pass, and if my experience is anything to go by, you'll probably get an A.
Okay, here goes.
Let's get rid of some misconceptions. Misconception number one: poetry has to rhyme. Wrong. Rhyming poetry is actually very old-fashioned (as well as a pain in the arse to write) and we are modern, up-to-date wordsmiths here. Misconception number two: rhythm is important. Wrong, wrong. Modern poetry relies upon the rhythm of the street, the natural cadences of the spoken language (memorize that and repeat it to any teacher who challenges you). Misconception number three: poetry has to make sense. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Let's be honest. How many proper poems have you read where you've known what the hell was going on? Few, if any, I'll bet. And the same applies to your teacher. He or she will read your poem and nod wisely. They can't admit they don't understand it. They're English teachers, after all. In the unlikely event they ask you to explain, recite the following: “It was my attempt to rationalize the dichotomy between personal emotions and the pressures of modern-day living.” That'll shut them up.
Okay. We don't need rhyme, rhythm, or meaning. The key is that it should look like a poem.
Let me give you an example. Take any old drivel you can think up in twenty seconds:
The wind leaned sideways in the town and the boy threw up as I felt excitement pouring down the rain-swept streets.
Gibberish? You got it! Now watch as I turn it into a masterpiece of poetic inspiration:
See? It's still crap, but no one knows it's crap. Mucking around with spacing, the shape of lines, and punctuation has made it poetry in motion.
Too bloody easy.
Calma, you're a legend.
Five
Dear Fridge,
I don't know how to break this gently….
You might remember that twenty years ago, when you were young, inexperienced, and suffering from the bad taste that characterized the early eighties, you fell under the noxious spell of a serial loser called Robert. Instead of spurning him, as one would a rabid dog, you lost the plot to such an extent that you muttered “I do” in front of appalled witnesses at a registry office. I, personally, am inclined to attribute this to temporary insanity produced by excessive substance abuse (rampant at the time), though I don't insist upon this. It may not have escaped your memory, either, that some four years later there was issue from this union in the shape of yours truly. I still hold out hope that this was the consequence of artificial insemination from an anonymous donor.
Be that as it may, the putrid excrescence known as your ex-husband is back, Fridge. He turned up this morning like a bad smell, though I attempted to waft him away. We need to arrange new identities, false passports, and visas for the Galapagos Islands. Give me the word and I'll withdraw the forty-eight dollars from my savings account.
Sorrowfully, your loving daughter,
Calma
Dear Calma,
Bob's been back a week. Didn't tell you because I knew how you'd react. Wasn't expecting he'd turn up at the house. Sorry. Should have told you.
Put the Galapagos trip on hold and don't withdraw your money. I'd hate to create a crisis in the Australian economy.
Love,
The Fridge
Six
“Calma, could you do me a favor?”
Miss Moss was the best English teacher I'd ever had. She was new at my school, replacing Miss Payne, who'd left under a cloud. And with a police escort. I still couldn't understand how Miss Moss had gotten the job. She was articulate, intelligent, excellent at English, enthusiastic about communicating her skills, and conscientious to a fault. My school wouldn't normally touch someone with such impeccable credentials. We specialized in the aging and incompetent. The interview panel had obviously made a big mistake, but I wasn't complaining.
“Of course, Miss.”
Miss Moss carefully opened the large case on her desk. We were minutes into our first lesson of the new week. It was a pleasure to be in class, not just because of the quality teaching but also because I was with fifteen other students who were eager to learn. We sat in respectful silence while Miss Moss removed a large saxophone from the case and walked over to my desk.
“Could you play us a tune, Calma?” she said, thrusting the gleaming in
strument under my nose. I laughed.
“Sorry, Miss,” I said. “I can't play sax.”
“Oh, go on,” she said. “Any tune you like. Make something up.”
I took the saxophone from her, only because she wasn't giving me an option. It was lovely and slightly warm to the touch. There was a bewildering array of valves and stops, burnished to a golden glow. I could imagine it had a beautiful tone. But that was academic. I had more chance getting a tune out of a toaster.
“I can't play, Miss.”
“Please. Just a short melody.”
Now, I liked Miss Moss, but the part of my brain responsible for intellectual irritation was receiving serious stimulation. I mean, I couldn't have been much clearer. Maybe she had me confused with someone from the school orchestra—it was a charitable thought—and I had tried to point out her mistake. But this was getting silly. It was time for plain speaking.
“Miss,” I said. “You don't understand. I can't play saxophone. It's not a question of not wanting to. I can't—meaning I do not have the skill, the ability, the expertise, the know-how, the technique, the requisite musical knowledge, the capacity, the facility, the knack, the gift, or the talent. I can't get a tune out of a jukebox, let alone this.” I smiled sweetly. “I hope I've made myself clear.”
Miss Moss had returned to her desk and was searching through a drawer. She pulled something out, looked at me a moment, and then held up a sheet of paper.
“So how do you explain this, Calma? Your ‘poem.’” I swear I could hear the quotation marks in her voice. “What a sad, pathetic thing you must think the English language is if you can pretend that what you have written here is anything other than cacophonous drivel. I asked you to make music out of words. You didn't. And you are quite right about the saxophone. No one would expect someone without talent to make music from it. But you are talented at English, Calma. You can make words sing. You have the capacity, the skill, the gift, and the talent. Which makes this”—she waved the sheet again, as if trying to shake it to death—“all the more deplorable. If you want to desecrate your abilities, then fine. It's your choice. But don't expect me to be pleased or to collude with you in it. ‘'Sblood. Do you think I am easier to play on than a pipe?’;”
I could feel my face flush. I fixed my eyes on the desk.
“Trivia question, class. From which play did that quote come? Answers to me at the beginning of next lesson. First correct to receive a completely pathetic prize.”
The class laughed.
“Right. Last week we considered the unreliable narrator. Let us continue. Please turn to the first page of Jane Austen's Emma.…”
I cradled the saxophone on my knees for the rest of the lesson. When the bell rang, I waited until everyone had gone, then placed it back in its case. Miss Moss was wiping the whiteboard.
“That was unfair,” I said. “Why did you humiliate me?”
Miss Moss turned.
“You humiliated yourself, Calma,” she said. “I was teaching you.”
We stared at each other for a while. Tears pricked my eyes. My next class was a free period, and I needed to think. I was nearly out the door when Miss Moss called my name.
“The quote, Calma?” she said.
“Hamlet,” I said, “to Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.”
Miss Moss waited until I forced myself to meet her eyes. She smiled.
Barry Jonsberg was born in Liverpool, England, and now lives and works in Darwin, Australia. As a student, he was so desperate to avoid work that he stowed away in a university department for years, eventually emerging into the real world, blinking and pale, with two degrees in English literature.
His first book, The Crimes and Punishments of Miss Payne, was short-listed for the Children's Book Council Book of the Year Awards in Australia.
Barry is a supporter of Liverpool FC and, after the 2005 Champions League final, believes firmly in miracles. He also enjoys watching cricket and is convinced England will regain the Ashes before he dies.
THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2004 by Barry Jonsberg
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children's Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
KNOPF, BORZOI BOOKS, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc. www.randomhouse.com/teens
Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at www.randomhouse.com/teachers
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Jonsberg, Barry.
[Whole business with Kiffo and the pitbull]
The crimes and punishments of Miss Payne / Barry Jonsberg.
p. cm.
SUMMARY: Calma, who is smart and an excellent writer, and her unlikely friend, Kiffo, a seeming all-around failure, undertake a dangerous project when they follow an abusive teacher whom they suspect of dealing drugs.
eISBN: 978-0-307-48341-6
[1. Friendship—Fiction. 2. Creative writing—Fiction. 3. Family problems—Fiction.
4. Teacher-student relationships—Fiction. 5. Schools—Fiction. 6. Australia—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.J7426Wh2005 [Fic]—dc22 2004063236
v3.0
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