by Cath Crowley
‘Gracie, you’re in trouble. We’ve got a media analysis in a week. It’s very important that you do well. You need to let me help.’
‘I leave for camp today. We’re gone till Friday.’
‘In that case I’m calling your parents.’
‘No, wait. Alyce is coming with me. She’ll help.’ Mum’s been so proud lately. I don’t want her to hear this while I’m away. I need to be around to do damage control.
There’s no way any of my old teachers would let me off the hook. But Mrs Young is new and I take advantage of that. ‘Give me one last chance. I’ll do well, I promise.’ It’s the first time in my school career I’ve really meant it.
She looks me in the eye. She falters. ‘Fine. But I’m marking the media analysis essay the night you do it and then I’m calling your parents with the result.’
‘No problem, Mrs Young. I’m going to ace it.’
‘How am I going to ace it?’ I ask Flemming while we’re waiting for the camp bus. He’s only half listening. The other half is watching Brett hold hands with Alyce.
‘Relax, Faltrain. I’ve got it covered.’ He pulls out an envelope. ‘These are the articles they’re using and these are the answers.’
‘Where did you get those?’
‘If they question you, it’s better not to know. You want them?’
‘No. You don’t want them either.’
‘Take a copy in case.’ He pushes the envelope into my hands. He forces me to take them. That’s my story. And I’m sticking to it.
JANE
‘Alyce is so excited about going to camp with Gracie,’ I say to Corelli, watching them wait for the bus. ‘I didn’t have the heart to tell her that Faltrain’s a magnet for trouble on excursion.’
‘You’d love to be going with them, wouldn’t you?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘I know how you feel. Francesca’s been on exchange for the first part of this year. I wanted to go with her but the time’s gone really quickly.’
‘Francesca?’
‘Frankie Butera, my girlfriend. I met her over the holidays and then she left in January. She’s back soon, though.’ He goes on talking but all I hear is white noise: sharp, ear-piercing white-hot noise.
‘Excuse me,’ I say after a while. ‘There’s something I need to tell Faltrain before she goes.’ And I have to find a private place to let my head spin off my shoulders.
GRACIE
Jane walks over and says to Mrs Wilson, ‘Gracie has to go to the toilet before she leaves.’ She whispers to me, ‘Move quietly and don’t make a fuss.’ When we get there she pushes me into a cubicle with her and locks the door.
‘Jane, I swear; I wasn’t going to open the envelope.’
‘I don’t know what envelope you’re talking about. I don’t care. We have five minutes before you leave and they’re all about me. You never mentioned that Corelli has a girlfriend.’
‘You two are friends, I thought you knew. She’s in Italy or something.’
‘If I knew, I wouldn’t have been dreaming about Corelli in his Superman suit. But it’s too late to stop that now.’
I have a flash of memory. ‘He wore red undies over the top of blue tights.’
‘The dream’s in full colour, Faltrain. I know.’
‘Okay, this is weird. You’re acting like me.’
‘I can’t help it. My serotonin levels are up.’
‘What?’
‘The hormone levels in my brain. Didn’t you listen even in Sex Ed?’
Okay. Now Jane’s freaking me out and not only because I’m backed up against a toilet and she’s yelling about Sex Ed and Corelli in his red underwear. ‘Calm down. There’s not much time. We need to think what you’d say to me in a situation like this.’
‘I’d say, “Get a grip, Faltrain.” But it’s too late for that. I really like Corelli. I know you think that’s weird. I think that’s weird. It’s why I haven’t said anything. But I do. I like the food he cooks. I like that he drives me around in his car and sings Britney Spears. I can talk about the goats with him.’
‘What goats?’ Jane’s passed the point of sanity and I know because most of the time that’s the point where I live.
She leans in closer. ‘You’ve seen her. She’s pretty, isn’t she?’
It’s a tricky question to answer at the best of times. But when your friend has you locked in a toilet, raving about goats and underwear, it’s even trickier. ‘Define pretty.’
‘She looks like Jennifer Garner, doesn’t she?’
‘Only in certain lights.’
Jane sits on the toilet seat. ‘This isn’t fair.’
Sometimes there’s a girl called Francesca waiting in the grass while you’re running deliriously through it. ‘No,’ I agree with her. ‘It’s definitely not.’
Last year I would have found Corelli and told him to wake up to himself. Jane’s better than any girl, even the real Jennifer Garner. But I know now that sometimes, when life goes wrong for your friend, the best thing to do isn’t to dive in and change things. Sometimes the only thing to do is share their toilet cubicle for a while. So until I have to leave for camp, that’s what I do.
JANE
Love sucks. Okay, that thought isn’t going to win me a Pulitzer Prize. But it’s the truth.
GRACIE
I can’t stop thinking about Jane on the way to camp. I know we’ll be back on Friday but time’s a funny thing. The week will last forever for her and for me it’ll fly by because I have to be ready to write the English essay after the weekend. If I don’t do well there’s no way I’ll get a study score of twenty-five.
I know it’s wrong but that envelope looks pretty inviting. I put it in my locker after I spoke to Jane. I wanted to hide what I was planning to do from myself but the only thing I use my locker for is to store my soccer ball. So now I have a picture in my head of that envelope in an empty locker where there should have been books and pens and study notes.
‘Are you okay?’ Alyce asks.
‘I’m fine. A little bus sick, that’s all.’
‘We’re nearly there.’
‘Really? It feels like we’re a hundred miles away.’
Alyce, Kally and I get a three-bed cabin and set up our stuff. ‘We have to meet in the main hall,’ Alyce says.
‘What for?’ I ask.
‘A study talk.’
And in the words of Flemming, let the torture begin. In Year 12 they take the fun out of everything. You can’t go on camp anymore and canoe. You have to think about study scores of twenty-five in English that are way beyond your reach. You have to look deep inside yourself for the answers. I don’t have the answers. Actually, I do have the answers but I don’t think they count if you steal them.
Mrs Wilson hands out blank paper. ‘I want you to write a letter to yourself. Put in it what you want to achieve this year. Write where improvements could be made. Write what you do well. Be completely honest.’
I look around at everyone scribbling away. Sure, there are things I could write. But putting them on paper makes what I’m afraid of real. ‘Having trouble, Gracie?’ Mrs Wilson whispers. I shrug. It’s not my style to over-think things and she knows it.
‘I always loved your pieces about soccer. Why don’t you start with that?’ If you looked up ‘desperate’ in the dictionary it would say Mrs Wilson. Not ‘desperate’ in a bad way. She really wants me to get something out of this. And after seven years of knowing me and three years of putting up with me as a student, I figure it’s time to throw her a bone.
So I start. And then I can’t stop. I fill page after page of all the things I want and all the things I’m worried about and all the things I love and all the things I want to get away from. Who knew there was so much stuff in my head? When I’m finished I do what Mrs Wilson says. I lick my envelope and seal it. I put it away somewhere safe to open down the track.
‘Okay, so we’ve got an hour before dinner,’ I say to Alyce and Kally. ‘Let
’s explore. On the map there’s a flying fox marked at the edge of the property.’
‘It’s a long way,’ Alyce says, following Kally and me across the back paddock. ‘And it’s out of bounds. You heard Mrs Wilson. No second chances after the Year 11 camp. Any bad behaviour and they’ll send us home.’
‘They always say that. No teacher’s sending a student home from study camp. It’d be playing right into our hands.’
‘Are you sure you know where we’re going?’ Alyce asks.
‘I can follow a map.’ When I say that I’m certain; after another half an hour, I’m not so sure. There’s a tree that’s starting to look a little too familiar.
‘We’re not walking in the right direction,’ Alyce says. ‘The flying fox is to the west. We’re heading east.’
‘How do you know?’
‘The sun is setting.’ She points ahead of us.
‘And?’
‘And it sets in the west, Gracie.’
I can tell Alyce is flustered because she hardly ever sounds cross.
‘She’s right,’ Kally says. ‘We should go back.’
‘Good idea. Which way is back?’ I ask.
Alyce turns the map around a few times. ‘That way. I think.’
The problem with dark bushland is that it’s very hard to see in it. ‘What was that?’ Alyce asks. And then there’s the problem of the animals.
‘I’m sorry I dragged you both into this.’
‘You know there’s more to life than flying foxes. It’s not all fun and games and racing along ropes, screaming your way to the end,’ Alyce says.
‘I know. But I thought we could use a little fun.’
‘We’re not on this camp for fun. We’re here to think about our future.’
A twig snaps. ‘What was that?’ I ask, peering ahead into the darkness. ‘It might be a wild dog or a bear or a man with a chainsaw.’
‘There are no bears in the Australian bush,’ Kally says.
‘Is that meant to be comforting?’ I ask.
‘We should stop walking. No one ever gets help in the bush if they keep moving.’ Kally’s right. We find a spot to sit.
‘I thought eyes eventually adjusted to the dark,’ I say after a while.
‘You’re not nocturnal, Gracie. Your eyes won’t adjust to this darkness.’
I can’t see Alyce anymore but I can tell by her voice that she’s mad. I would be too; it’s cold and way past dinner time. But I can’t stand the quiet. ‘What did you write in your letters?’
‘I wrote about New York and what I plan to do when I get there.’
‘Tell me about the program, Alyce.’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
Fear makes people do dumb things. It makes people like Alyce snap at her best friend. ‘I didn’t mean to get lost,’ I say.
‘What did you write in your letter?’ she asks, and her voice is softer now, more like the Alyce I know.
In the dark, it’s easy to tell her and Kally. It’s a relief. ‘I wrote about how I’m really trying in school now but I’m still scared that I’ll fail. I’m even more scared now because failing is worse if you’re actually trying to pass.
‘I wrote that I miss playing soccer with Martin and sometimes I wish I was still in Year 7 and we were friends again. I wrote how stupid I feel sometimes for having a dream to play for Australia but I can’t stop wanting it. I wrote about Dan and how much I like him. I wrote that the strangest thing about falling for him is that I want to tell Martin all about it. He’s one of my best friends and sometimes I feel like my arms are missing because he’s gone.
‘I wrote that I’m worried about what’s going to happen next year if you all go to uni and I fail.’ I take a breath and keep going. ‘I didn’t write, because I was worried that I’d get caught, that I’m thinking about cheating in the analysis essay on Monday. Flemming gave me the answers.’
I wait for Alyce to sound shocked and for Kally to tell me I’m stupid. ‘Everyone gets freaked about life sometimes,’ Kally says. ‘You’re not on your own there.’
‘I wrote that I ruined my chances for the Young United Nations Program,’ Alyce says quietly. ‘I haven’t done any actual volunteer work where I have contact with people. The truth is, ever since Mrs Davila said “Third World” to me I’ve been frightened.’
‘But you collected all those coats and made potpourri for the old people.’
‘But I never visited the old people. You and Jane did that.’
‘We wanted to get out of school. The potpourri-making was at lunch.’
‘I’m not going to New York. I made a list of places I could volunteer at but I haven’t done anything about it.’
‘You’ve helped more people than anyone I know. You found a way to help Flemming. You won the comedy debate against Annabelle but you didn’t humiliate her like I would have. You collect coats for cold people.’
Across the darkness she reaches for my hand. ‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘I’ll help you pass this year, Gracie. You’re not a cheat. And even if you can’t see us all being there for you because we’re in different places, we’ll still be there.’
It makes me feel better, hearing that. ‘Do you think we’ll always be friends?’ I ask.
‘Nothing will change that.’
‘I can help you with analysis. I’m pretty good at it,’ Kally says, and then lets out a scream that makes Alyce rocket to a standing position.
‘It’s me. I was grabbing your hand to say thanks.’
‘I watch a lot of horror films. Give a little notice next time.’
‘What did you write about, Kally?’ Alyce asks.
‘I wrote about how I want to study astronomy. Annabelle’s dad took us to a field in the country before he died and made us memorise all the constellations he could find. I’ve been hooked ever since. In my letter I wrote how I worry that if I don’t make it he’ll somehow be disappointed.’ Kally goes through a few constellations for us. I see a sky packed full of patterns I never knew were there before.
‘When did he die?’ I ask.
‘In Year 6.’
For the second time tonight I’m glad it’s dark and I can hide. I can’t say for sure whether I knew the answer to that question before Kally told me. I’d like to think I didn’t because I fought with Annabelle that year as hard as ever. But with Kally’s answer comes a memory of Annabelle in Year 6. She’s sitting on an old wooden seat in the schoolyard, the grass brown at her feet. Her face reminds me of how my house felt in Year 10 when my mum and dad nearly got a divorce. Empty. In Year 6 Annabelle must have ached a million times more than I ached in Year 10. ‘That’s so awful,’ I say, and feel like a liar. It’s no secret how I’ve treated Annabelle.
Kally squeezes my hand and a tiny light blinks between us. ‘What’s that?’ Alyce asks.
‘It’s my phone,’ I say. ‘Jane’s calling. I put it on silent so Mrs Wilson wouldn’t know I had it. What?’
‘If you have your phone, Gracie, we can call people,’ Kally says.
‘You’re right. I could call Dan.’
‘Or Mrs Wilson.’ Alyce sounds cross again.
‘I guess we’re not as lost as we thought. Jane, I’ll talk to you soon. I have a feeling we’ll be home ahead of schedule.’
After a while lights bounce across us. We walk back to the camp in the dim tunnel of Mrs Wilson’s torch. ‘At least teachers found us and not chainsaw-wielding crazy men,’ Kally says.
‘When you say it like that our fears seem stupid.’ She laughs. She’s letting me off the hook for what I did to Annabelle. You’ve changed, her voice says. You wouldn’t act like that now, that’s why I’m your friend.
I have changed. I’m not saying I want to be Annabelle’s best mate. But if she was ever hurting like that again, I wouldn’t kick her. ‘Concentrate, Gracie,’ Mrs Wilson says when I trip. ‘Or you’ll knock us all down.’
‘Grab my shirt,’ Kally says. I do. Behind me Alyce does the same thing. And w
e all step carefully across the darkness, feeling our way towards home.
24
GRACIE
‘Some people are born rebels and some people have rebellion thrust upon them,’ Jane says when we get out of the car.
Mum shakes her head. ‘I’m definitely in the second group. Alyce, Kally, why don’t you call home and tell them I’ve got you but I need a coffee. I’ll drop you round later.’ She walks into the kitchen and I follow.
‘Are you angry?’
‘Gracie, your father and I drew straws before you left to see who’d drive up to that place in the middle of the night.’ She sits next to Dad and rubs her eyes. ‘I worry one day you’ll do something that can’t be fixed.’
I see her, then. I mean, I really see her. She looks tired and worried. She drove all that way in the dark to bring me home and the first thing she said at camp was, ‘I’m so glad you’re all right.’ Okay, then she said, ‘Get your butt in the car or I’ll kill you.’ But at least murder was her secondary instinct. Her first was to hug me.
I’ve been worried that she doesn’t see me the same way she did before I lied to her last year. But I know she loves me. I see why she thinks school is important but I need her to see how important soccer is to me. ‘There are some things I haven’t told you,’ I say. And I hand them my camp letter.
They don’t say, ‘No more soccer.’ They don’t say, ‘No more life.’ They hug me. Squeeze harder, I think. I feel good. I feel safe. But it can’t last forever. It’d be a bit embarrassing walking into exams or onto the soccer field with my parents attached to me in a bear hug.
Mum lets go before me. Then Dad. We stay sitting close, though, around the kitchen bench. ‘I remember leaving home for the first time,’ Mum says. ‘My mother didn’t want me to go but I was desperate to live in the city. She put me on the train. She smiled the whole time. If I hadn’t looked back I would never have seen her crying. I sat on that train and wondered who I was going to be.’