Paradise City (7 page)

Chapter Twelve

‘Oh no, you d’int!’

Laura snatched the piece of paper out of my outstretched hand. ‘They actually gave you permission? Your aunty and uncle are so cool!’

‘Well . . .’ I said, leaving the word to linger.

‘Well, what?’

‘I may have got it by some other means,’ I said, wincing at the admission.

It took a moment, but then the realisation hit Laura. ‘Oh my God, you mean . . . ?’

I nodded.

‘Amanda?’ Laura lowered her voice, her eyes shifting around the locker room. ‘How?’

‘Nothing a bit of quid pro quo couldn’t fix.’

And a whole week of wearing her down.

‘Huh?’

‘You scratch my back and I scratch yours. I had to make out that she was cousin of the year to win brownie points with her parents, and in exchange she would forge her mum’s signature for me.’

Laura laughed, shaking her head. ‘Hot chips for everyone!’

‘Almost everyone,’ I said, pocketing the precious note. ‘Now you have to get permission.’

Laura’s smile fell away. ‘No chance, my brother is such a rat. Because he’s always in trouble they’re extra strict on me. As if I’m somehow going to follow down the same troubled path as Boon; I mean, as if. It’s only because I’m a girl; it’s so unfair.’

‘I don’t expect you to ask your parents,’ I said in all seriousness, again amused by the blank expression plastered across her face. But it only took a mere moment for the light bulb to go off.

‘No, no way,’ she said.

‘Oh, come on, Laura, I don’t want to go without you.’

‘No! I am not asking Boon!’ she said, turning to close her locker door.

‘Well, can you forge it?’

‘Not a chance; believe me, I’ve tried. Boon’s the expert forger in our family.’

‘Laura,’ I whined, ‘please.’ I clasped my hands under my chin; I would beg if I had to, this was my golden ticket down to the beach, down to watch the boys surf, to see Ballantine.

Laura’s shoulders slumped, her jaw clenched. ‘You don’t understand, he will use this against me any chance he gets, it will be like a time bomb waiting to explode at any given moment.’

‘Well, we’ll just make it so the favour is of mutual benefit,’ I said with confidence. ‘If he does this for us, we’ll do something in return.’

Only my second week at Paradise High and I was already getting really good at this stuff, a mastermind of lies and manipulation and what for? Hot chips and hot surfers. Seemed like the right kind of motivation for me.

‘Is there anything you can think of that we could use as a bartering tool?’ I asked Laura, who was lost in thought, biting her bottom lip. We were running out of time before the morning bell sounded. But then her eyes flashed with a spark of knowledge, a grin spreading from ear to ear.

‘I’ve got it!’ she said just as the bell sounded.

As the crowds scurried around us my heart slammed against my chest with the desperation to find out what Laura was about to say before the second warning bell sounded.

‘Boon and the boys have been carrying on for weeks about their footy, which got confiscated by Mr Branson. If we got it back for them I’m pretty sure he would do anything we asked him to.’

‘Why don’t they just buy another footy?’ I asked.

‘This isn’t just any footy, this is Boon’s precious St Kilda footy, he’s had it for years.’

Perfect.

‘Well, where’s the ball?’

Laura’s enthusiasm died some. ‘Can you believe in the Year Twelve common room?’

I tried to think if that meant anything to me? It didn’t.

Laura rolled her eyes, losing patience. ‘The Year Twelve common room is off limits while it’s getting renovated. It’s where the teachers have been storing confiscated items.’

The second warning bell sounded, propelling us both into motion. ‘We get the ball, we get Boon.’

•

I don’t know why I did what I did. But I backed out of the long canteen line, leaving Laura to chat with one of her friends and made my way across the yard to where Amanda and her posse sat in a cluster near the Kirkland boys. Much to my amusement, I skimmed past Boon and Ballantine lining up for their own food for once. Two Year Seven girls were giggling behind them, flushed with excitement at being so close to Year Twelve surfing gods. Even though I’d declined her half-hearted invitation to ‘hang’ with her, if Amanda was surprised by the fact I was approaching her now she didn’t let on. In fact, I am pretty sure Amanda didn’t do many emotions besides pissed off, really pissed off and anxious. Although today she added bored to the list. I confidently sat down opposite her and her two girlfriends: one a tanned blonde with shiny shoulder-length hair, the other a tall dark-haired girl who looked like she could be on the cover of
Dolly
magazine.

‘Want a Tic Tac?’ I asked, pulling out a box of the clattering white beads; it was my attempt at an icebreaker.

The blonde held out her hand so I could tap the pack into her palm. ‘Thanks,’ she said, flicking all three into her mouth at once.

After a moment of reluctance, the tall girl held out her hand too, but she was more discreet, instead placing one into her mouth and pocketing the rest for later. I did the same dance for Amanda, but she just shook her head.

Seeing as Amanda wasn’t the most gracious of hosts, I took the lead. ‘I’m Lexie,’ I said. I could tell there was a certain unease in my presence, as their conversation had died off since my arrival. Now all that could be heard was the occasional outburst from the Kirkland boys on the seats next to us.

‘I’m Jess,’ said the blonde, ‘this is Gemma.’ Her eyes shifted to the tall girl. ‘And I’m kind of guessing you know who Amanda is,’ she said with a knowing smirk.

I tried not to react – but holy crap! Had Amanda mentioned me to her friends? Although the excitement died down a bit when I realised that it probably hadn’t been the most glowing character reference. It was up to me now to prove I wasn’t the girl they thought I was.

‘So is anyone in English with Miss Scott? I have a double next.’

I thought I’d try my luck at aligning myself with one of the Year Twelve girls, but when my question was met with silence, I quickly learned that this was not going to be as easy as I’d hoped, until an unexpected voice trailed over the top of us.

‘Miss Scott’s class?’ Boon was hand-balling chips to one of his mates on the opposite side of the table. ‘I’m in that class. Do you want me to save you a seat?’ he said with a cheeky wink that made his mates burst into laughter, jeering and pushing him into his seat. Even Ballantine hid his smirk behind the carton of Mr D’s Cola he was taking a swig from.

My eyes flicked briefly to Amanda. I made a mental note not to look for her response; I could already feel her eyes burning into my skull.

‘Better not. I haven’t the best track record for finding the right classes,’ I said, trying for a half-hearted joke at my own expense. ‘On my first day of school I thought I was in Biology but I was actually in –’

‘We know,’ said Jess, cutting me off.

‘Oh.’

Gemma laughed. ‘Everyone knows.’

Oh.

I could feel the heat flooding my cheeks; no doubt I had been the butt of many a joke.

‘So why aren’t you guys hanging in your common room?’ I asked innocently enough, also eager to change the subject.

‘It’s getting renovated,’ said Gemma.

‘Yeah, some students broke in last school holidays and trashed the place,’ added Jess. ‘From what I hear it’s going to be pretty cool. New carpet, new paintwork, new sofas.’

‘Sounds awesome,’ I said. ‘So where is this common room?’

This was it; this was the intel I needed. The small, yet vital detail I hadn’t thought to ask Laura. I waited for the answer, almost holding my breath. To my surprise, it came from the least likely of sources: my cousin.

‘It’s that building over there, the one with red double doors leading into it,’ she said.

Jess followed her gaze before nodding animatedly. ‘Oh, yeah, you’ll definitely have to take a look, see if the wallpaper is up yet. Rainforest, wasn’t it, the new theme?’

‘Rainforest,’ Amanda agreed.

‘Yeah, but best to do it before the recess bell rings, that way the painters won’t be in there and you can have a real look around,’ Gemma added helpfully.

I checked my watch: five to. ‘I’ll go now and report back,’ I said. Thinking this could be my moment of glory: sneak in, grab the footy, come back to the group, smiling like the cat that got the mouse. I would be a hero, a legend to go down in history. We could deliver the footy to Boon on the proviso he forge a note for Laura and we would all head off for hot chips and beach-time activities.

Brilliant!

I didn’t go through the red double doors that led into the corridor though, that would have been too obvious; I didn’t plan to merely stick my head in and check out the bloody rainforest wallpaper. No way, I was about to do the one thing that no-one else had thought of doing; I was going to sneak in and liberate the confiscated collection. Swipe the footy and save the day. And to do that I had to be a little more discreet – I needed to find an alternative way in. Rounding the other side of the building, skimming along the edge of the weatherboarded walls, I looked up at the windows, noticing a line of them were left open, probably to let the paint fumes out. There were a few stragglers walking by but luckily the common room looked out over a manicured courtyard near the music room, and aside from band lessons and music classes, the building seemed to be largely unoccupied, meaning the coast was clear.

With the theme to
Mission Impossible
in my head, and adrenalin soaring though my veins, I wedged my foot in the first slat, giving myself enough leverage to pull myself up and latch onto the window ledge, freezing when I thought I heard someone approaching, but no-one came. I decided the only way to do this was to lift and army roll myself into the room, snatch and grab and get out like the ninja I intended to be. All before the bell sounded, all before someone walked around the corner and all before the painters came back.

I silently counted to three and lifted myself up under the window, envisioning I would let gravity do its thing as I rolled forward into a beautifully elegant somersault. But when the curtain got trapped against my face and the sill and my footing unlocked themselves from below, suddenly my planned badass entrance turned into me screaming, and falling forward, face-diving onto the carpet with a gut-heaving oomph, the pain of the ensuing carpet burn on my left elbow was outdone only by the curtain rod that chose to twang down on the back of my head. I barely managed to claw the fabric away from my face, the netting threatening to suffocate me. I rolled onto my back with a groan, trying to regain the breath that had been knocked out of me.

I blinked, clearing the spots from my vision and struggling to gather my thoughts, but those thoughts were interrupted by a rather loud and unexpected voice.

‘Miss Atkinson!’

My head snapped around. First I spotted legs, chair legs, table legs, people legs, then I looked upward, wide-eyed and horrified. My mouth gaped as I took in the stern faces of Mr Clarkson, Miss Smith, Mr Anderson, the Drama teacher, the Music teacher, the entire faculty watching on, interrupted from their papers, cups of coffee, conversations. Everyone stalled in horror at the sight of the new girl lying on the floor in what was clearly not the Year Twelve common room, but the teachers’ staff room.

My eyes shifted to the voice, to meet the wild and fuming gaze of Mr Fitzgibbons standing over me, his face red, a vein pulsing in his temple.

‘My. Office. Now.’

Chapter Thirteen

There would be no lunchtime hot chips, no beach cartwheels, and no gawking at hot surfers.

I had landed myself on Mr Fitzgibbons’ radar, and that was not a place anyone wanted to be. I found myself in the principal’s office; this time it wasn’t to bask in his compliments about how impressive my grades were. Instead, what followed was a livid principal pacing back and forth in front of me in his tiny office, his movements so animated that it caused the leaves of the pot plant to sway.

‘I overlooked the late arrival to assembly last week. I was willing to give you the benefit of the doubt, Miss Atkinson, but I damn well draw the line at breaking and entering into the staff room,’ he shouted.

‘I’m sorry, it was an accident.’ I cringed as the words fell from my mouth.

‘So, you just accidentally climbed up, opened a window and “fell” into the staff room, did you?’

Mr Fitzgibbons using sarcastic air quotes just seemed wrong and momentarily put me off my path.

‘No, of course not, I just . . .’

Here was the clincher. I couldn’t dob Amanda in, even though I inwardly cursed her with every ounce of my soul. But I had to be smart. I’d seen enough late-night documentaries on doing time in hard prisons, and aside from some differences like manufacturing a shank in metal work, I was sure that schoolyard politics also frowned upon being a snitch.

‘I thought it was the Year Twelve common room, I just wanted to take a look.’ It wasn’t entirely untrue.

‘The Year Twelve common room doesn’t concern you, Miss Atkinson.’ I knew he was mad because he kept referring to me by my last name.

‘The Year Twelve common room is a privilege, not a right – a privilege, might I add, that is not for you. Never forget you are still a Year Eleven student.’

I looked down into my hands; I had suffered enough humiliation caused by my own stupidity. The thought of being downgraded from my accelerated classes would have my parents asking questions. Oh God, my parents.

‘Are you going to tell my parents about this?’ I asked quietly, afraid to look him in the eye.

Maybe it was the completely defeated slump in my shoulders or the fact I fought so hard not to let the tears come, but something in Mr Fitzgibbons’ demeanour changed. Maybe he wasn’t used to chastising girls; I’m sure this seat I was on was usually reserved for Ballantine.

He sighed, took a seat behind his desk and watched me wearily. ‘This is your first warning,’ he said. ‘Second, you will not be so lucky.’

I exhaled in relief, a smile of gratitude lining my face. ‘Oh, thank you, Mr Fitzgibbons, I swear I will be on my best behaviour.’

‘Well, to ensure that you are, I’m going to remind you of the consequences of bad behaviour here at Paradise High. You are to report to Miss Smith and tell her that you will be on yard duty – she will know what that means. And then you are to report to Mr Collins, the cleaner; he will give you the bag you’ll be needing. Then, once you have spent your time thinking about why you are cleaning the schoolyard, I want you to report back to Miss Smith at lunch to pick up any homework and lesson notes you have missed.’

Okay, that didn’t seem too bad. Skipping class, picking up some rubbish. Could be worse. Mr Fitzgibbons rolled back in his seat, pulling open his bottom drawer, rummaging around before he brought out a bright orange scrap of material. He handed it over to me and I reluctantly took it from him, touching it as if I was afraid it might electrocute me. I held it in front of me; it was a fluoro orange safety vest, with reflectors down the trim, the kind of jacket road workers wore, but all I could think about was how my Uncle Eddie would have loved it. My mouth gaped in horror. This couldn’t get any worse. Did Mr Fitzgibbons expect that I might get hit by a bus? Was it a hazard on the barren schoolyard? I tried to think myself lucky that at least he hadn’t wanted me to do this in the thick of lunch: a small silver lining in the dark storm cloud of my soul.

Mr Fitzgibbons linked his hands over his stomach, looking on as if he was most proud of his invention. ‘Turn it around,’ he insisted.

Looking at him warily, I slowly flipped the vest around on the desk in front of me. My blood ran cold.

Oh-no-no-no-no . . .

There, in big black permanent texta were the words:

I DID A BAD, BAD THING.

The vest of shame suddenly took on a whole new meaning, and I just wanted to die.

•

Lunchtime reprieve or not, it was amazing how many teachers thought it such a great idea to take their lessons outside. And on this particular occasion, of course it happened to be Miss Gleeson’s Lit class. Amanda, Gemma and Ballantine sat around the bench seats underneath the shade of a gum tree. They were the first students my eyes locked on, as I stood there at the top of the stairs, in my fluoro vest, holding my big black garbage bag in one hand, my stick with a spike in the other. I looked back to where Mr Fitzgibbons stood in the open doorway, probably making sure I didn’t make a run for it. I had thought about it.

‘Off you go,’ he said with an adamant head nod. ‘All around the main yard.’

There was no alternate route to take; the stairs led down into the heart of the yard, and once the sun’s rays glinted off the reflectors on my vest it was only a matter of time before they would see me, and then would come the titters and the sniggers and the laughter and . . . I wanted to be sick.

I tried not to look at them, but then there was something in me that wanted to look, that wanted to cast daggers towards Amanda, complete with silent, pissed-off body language that read:

You did this, you did this to me!

The horror of the vest and the severe tongue lashing I had received from Mr Fitzgibbons, was all in the name of teaching me a lesson – this little exercise was allowing me to pause and reflect on my actions. Oh yes! And to ensure it wouldn’t be happening anytime in the future, definitely yes. I lifted my chin with an air of stone-cold defiance, making my way proudly down the steps, almost stomping a loud trail, my steps echoing in the silent yard, and sure enough one head, two, three, four heads spun around, taking me in – the bag lady of Paradise High. But their giggles and mutterings were just distant white noise to me; instead, all my focus was directed solely at Amanda. She had flicked her head around, smiling and laughing with Gemma, until her eyes landed on me. Her smile fell away, her eyes widening as they trailed over my attire in horror, as if she was genuinely shocked to see me in ‘the vest’.

One of the gangly surfing buddies sitting next to Ballantine started singing Chris Isaacs’ ‘Baby Did a Bad Bad Thing’. That had everyone in the class laughing, everyone except, to my surprise, Ballantine, who just stared on with his cool, calm gaze.

‘All right, Jason, settle down, we don’t need to be tortured by your off-key singing,’ Miss Gleeson said, attempting to reel in her rowdy class.

I lazily tore my gaze away from Amanda and moved into the yard, imagining every Prima box, chip packet and banana peel was Amanda’s stupid, insipid face as I spiked each item.

I wasn’t the kind to think of master plans of revenge, but if I was going to hang with the big guns I would have to hold my own, and that is exactly what I decided to do.

•

I peeled off the vest before I did anything else, throwing it to the ground before dousing my hands with a liberal amount of liquid soap, lathering to my elbows and washing the suds off with blistering hot water. I looked as though I was about to perform an operation. Maybe I was? A personality transplant for Amanda would be nice. If there were two things I had learned in my time of punishment they were that, firstly, I was an idiot for trusting Amanda to begin with and, secondly, the students at Paradise High were absolute pigs, who seldom used a rubbish bin. The bell for lunch sounded, causing me to sigh in sheer relief that my time was up; I wouldn’t dare seek permission to leave the school grounds, that was for sure. I picked up the vest, slinging it over my shoulder as I dragged my feet out of the girls’ toilets.

You had to have your wits about you, ducking and weaving amongst the frenzy of the lunchtime crowds. The seniors whooping and hollering, pushing and nudging each other down the stairs towards their lockers, towards freedom. Having already returned my manky rubbish stick I now had to report to Miss Smith to receive the homework that I had missed. Classroom 7B: I stuck my head through the slightly ajar door, slowly pushing it open.

‘Miss Smith?’ I called, knocking lightly on the door. ‘Hello?’

The room was eerily empty, everything was in its place and desks were free from students’ mess, even the whiteboard had been cleaned down; it seemed that the students were not the only ones keen to escape the classroom. An image of Miss Smith hip and shouldering students out of the way through the door made me smile.

I left the classroom, once again entering the chaotic fray of high-pitched screams and chatter where I was always finding myself either stepping on someone or being stepped on. I saw a Year Seven cop an elbow to his temple from a girl who was fixing her hair; he just laughed with his mates and kept on walking. I had not yet acclimatised to the noise, the sea of flailing arms. It was still very much a culture shock for me; I almost felt like an explorer trying to machete my way through the jungle. I learned quickly that saying ‘excuse me’ would only get me weird looks.

Oh, yeah, manners, sure. What are those?

Unless your best friend called you a skank or a mole, your friendship wasn’t a true one.

Aside from the tsunami of noise as crazed pubescent weirdos surged through the corridors, you could always be guaranteed of the warnings yelled from teachers trying to navigate the chaos like traffic wardens at a city intersection.

‘Pick. It. Up.’

‘No running.’

‘I’m watching you, Jones.’

‘Language!’

‘I won’t tell you again, Robbie Robinson.’

I didn’t know what was more shocking: Mr Branson’s screaming or the fact that someone actually named their kid Robbie Robinson.