Pip: The Story of Olive (13 page)
The school was divided into four ‘houses’, represented by four colours: red (Turner), blue (Wilkinson), green (Grieves) and yellow (Burnett). The houses were named to honour previous headmistresses and teachers who would otherwise have sunk into grim obscurity.
Mr Hollywood – who taught Maths and was every bit as theatrical as his name suggested – said that nowadays teachers got nothing but Task Assessments and After-Hours Marking. He was lobbying for a fifth house named ‘Hollywood’ (which would clearly have to be pink). Olive didn’t like his chances, though. A local school supplies company wanted naming rights in exchange for an annual donation.
Mathilda was in Wilkinson (soon to be
Foley’s Quality
School Supplies
Wilkinson). Olive was in Burnett, and so was Amelia.
Olive and Pip walked into the old ballroom that doubled as Burnett’s homeroom. Around them, colossal girls buzzed in blazers with yellow braid. Olive kept her eyes focused on the balling carpet, partly because she was self-conscious about her wonky hair, partly because she didn’t want to see Amelia, and partly because she didn’t want the big girls to remember that she hadn’t returned her money for the chocolate drive.
She couldn’t help but notice Amelia walking in front of her, though – a valley between the blazered giants. She guided Pip to the left to give Amelia a very wide berth.
Olive had been at the school since kindergarten, but she didn’t really have any friends in Burnett, and the tall girls made her feel nervous. In the first few weeks of the year, way before the whole Till–Mill saga, Olive and Amelia had sat near each other for these meetings: not quite next to, but near. While they didn’t talk, it was a kind of Year 7 solidarity thing, when there was nobody better around.
Amelia knew lots of Burnett girls now, and she also seemed to be related to a good portion of them. Whenever they had Sports Day or the Swimming Carnival, Mrs Forster let Amelia bring in the hand-stitched Burnett banner that Amelia’s grandmother had sewn as a girl. The banner was made with gold embroidery thread on merino wool, and Amelia draped it over her shoulders like a royal cloak.
The banner bestowed heritage – Amelia was practically a Burnett Aborigine (who hadn’t been stripped of her rights). It didn’t need to be said that her name would be embossed on the mahogany board for house captains, come Year 12. It would just be there, along with her mother’s and her grandmother’s; this was as much a fact as the collective straightness of the Forster women’s teeth.
‘So how did you end up in Burnett?’ asked Pip as they claimed a couple of carpet squares in a poky corner of the room. It must have been clear to her that Olive had no friends and no Family Connection.
‘I liked the colour.’ Olive paused. What was not to like about yellow? ‘I actually had no choice; it was allocated in Prep. But it’s a good colour – the colour of everything happy and summery: sun, sand, mangoes, chicks—’ ‘Wee.’
It was true. Indian yellow paint was made with distilled cows’ urine. Olive had read it once. They boiled it down into sticky goo before packaging it for painting. ‘Thanks, Pip.’ Olive looked at her sister. ‘You always put such a gross spin on things.’
‘Well, it’s hardly the colour of everything happy.’ Pip paused and gestured at Amelia, who was chatting to her Year 9 cousin, Poppy Atkinson, a bit further along the room. Poppy was leaning in towards Amelia with her hand near her mouth as a shield. They kept glancing in Olive’s direction.
Pip directed a spaz-face at Poppy. ‘That whole family looks yellow.’
‘Pip, if you’re going to say these things, can you at least say them quietly?’
‘They do. All that fake-tan skin and peroxide: they’re the modern yellow peril.’
‘Okay girls, okay.’ The House Captain, Marie-Claire Coombs, was waving her arms at the front of the room, trying to get some quiet. Olive shook her head at Pip and leant forwards to listen.
Although they made her nervous, Olive found the big girls glorious. There was an elegance to them, despite their height. No bands, no spots, no puffy faces. They wore beautiful dresses to the school dance and had their make-up done at Mecca. Olive would pore over their dance photos in the school magazine each Christmas: it was just like Joanne d’Arc’s very own Oscars. Last year, they had even entered on a red carpet.
Marie-Claire Coombs may have been looking splendid, but she was also looking most disapproving. She put her hands on her hips. ‘I have a list of girls who have not returned their money for the chocolate drive. As you know, this money was due in last week, and as a consequence of these few girls, Burnett is sitting third, not second, on the league tables. I personally feel really angry that the selfish acts of a thoughtless few have penalised us all in this way.’
There was a murmur around the room, a stirring, as if it were the speech given by William Wilberforce to abolish slavery. Hundreds of girls shook their heads in agreement with Marie-Claire Coombs and looked as if they would have said ‘Hear Hear’ had they been fat men in parliament.
Olive felt herself blush deep, deep crimson. She stared at a patch of carpet. How had Mog managed to forget for the second term in a row?
Nicole Reid, the vice-captain, handed Marie-Claire Coombs a list.
‘Now, I have spoken to Nicole and we have decided to ask these girls, these Traitors of Burnett, to stand up at the end of this session when I call their names.’
‘Oh man,’ said Olive. This was unbearable. What was Marie-Claire Coombs thinking? Olive didn’t want to be
lynched
. The betrayal felt personal.
‘Blashnarshoknnggfasdejdcdmeddmdsoedcjndecm.’
A gentle rolling of syllables tumbled over Olive. The syllables formed words that had no meaning; it sounded as if somebody was just speaking what they’d typed by sitting on a computer keyboard.
‘Bihsogedjflofslkanfebhfqbecqejhifchokcvboqvhejkqbvejquc hebihjcbebhmodi.’
‘It’s May,’ whispered Pip.
‘What?’
‘Look – under there.’
Olive turned. Right against the wall, under a pile of pushed-back desks and chair-stacks, was a girl hunched over crossed legs, holding her hands to her ears and muttering.
‘That’s May?’
May heard her name and waved them over.
‘Hang on. I’ll wait here for you to be called,’ said Pip.
‘I’ll be quick.’ Olive crawled through the metal desk legs. ‘Um, hi,’ she whispered. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Trying to block them out,’ May whispered back.
‘Why?’
‘I’m desperate. I can’t believe it. I’ve done it again.’ May shook her head.
‘Done what?’ Olive asked. May was pretty strange.
‘Eaten the entire packet. Every single bar. I just can’t believe it – it happens every year. I always mean to sell the chocolates, and I always eat them, even if they taste soapy and I can buy them for two dollars less at the milk bar.’
Olive nodded. ‘Me too.’
‘One of the Year 12s says it’s like a chocolate credit card. Eat first and worry about remembering the cash later.’ May shook her head. ‘Though all is not lost. I’ve had an idea.’
Olive could hear the drone of Nicole Reid’s housekeeping above them. ‘Hey, we should probably get back out there. They’re getting us to stand up if we haven’t handed in our money.’
‘They’re what?’ May sat up so quickly she knocked her head on the roof of a desk.
‘Marie-Claire Coombs wants us to stand if we haven’t handed in our money.’
‘This place is ruthless.’ May rubbed her forehead. ‘Marie-Claire Coombs spent too long on Duke of Ed hikes in her formative years.’ She gave a very deep sigh and started crawling out behind Olive.
As the girls emerged, the floor echoed with the press of footsteps as Burnett stood to sing the cheer.
I don’t know but I’ve been told
Burnett Girls are Out for Gold
Sound Off Sound Off
Burrr-neeettt Burrr-neeettt
Can we do it? Can we do it?
Yes we
clap
sure can.
Burnett finished with a few high whoops and a sprinkle of applause. Olive whooped and applauded just behind the pack. May didn’t bother.
‘It’s lucky we’re selling chocolate bars and not heading off to war. That was terrible.’ May frowned, sitting back down.
Olive nodded. ‘If Joan of Arc had received that on her send-off she’d never have mounted the horse. She’d have got right back into her nightie and hopped into bed.’
The girls laughed.
At the front of the room, Marie-Claire Coombs shook a piece of paper. ‘Right, that’s enough. Could the following girls stand when I call their names. Starting in Year 7 . . .’
Olive wriggled. She leant in towards Pip and May, her head down.
‘. . . Vanessa Johnston, Alice Martin, Isabella Whitlam, Olive Garnaut and Lim May Yee.’
Olive stood. She stared at a piece of squashed chewing gum, smooth and grey on the ballroom floor.
Marie-Claire Coombs glared down along her bosom and the top of the list.
‘I didn’t forget mine,’ said May.
Olive looked up. May looked pink. Marie-Claire Coombs looked surprised. ‘This isn’t really a forum for excuses.’
‘I know, but it’s not an excuse. I put my box on eBay and the auction doesn’t close until the end of the weekend. It was already at forty-two dollars this morning, though. With any luck, I’ll be able to trade them for another boarding house – like that American man who traded a paperclip for a house on the internet.’
There was a twittering around the room. One of the boarders was laughing so hard, she started hiccuping.
‘I see,’ said Marie-Claire Coombs. ‘Well, make sure you get a cheque to me on Monday. And in Year 8, Eliza . . .’
Olive and May sat back down with a thump. Olive breathed out loudly. A boarder behind May poked her shoulder. ‘Classic.’
‘Thanks,’ said May and turned to speak to her. ‘Luckily you can buy those chocolates at any milk bar. I ate the lot.’
Pip smiled. ‘She really is nuts.’
Ten minutes later, the bell rang for first period. Pip and Olive trailed along with the other Burnett girls until they were sucked out through the ballroom door. Year groups blended in the press.
Outside in the grey morning, Olive found herself behind Amelia. Amelia was still talking to Poppy Atkinson.
‘So when will you know what’s happening with Mary?’ asked Poppy.
Pip raised an eyebrow. Everybody knew Amelia was meant to be Mary in the Christmas concert, despite the fact she was only in Year 7. Everybody also knew that she might be demoted because of the scissor incident.
‘I have to go and see Mrs Dalling about it today. I’ll be so furious if I lose it – it was
not
my fault.’ Amelia looked around and caught Olive’s eye. She threw Olive a very dirty look.
Poppy paused to pull up her sock. ‘I wouldn’t worry. You’re still the best actor in the school and besides, you weren’t actually
holding
the scissors.’
Pip took Olive’s arm. ‘If I were the headmistress, I’d never let her act again.’ She laughed. ‘Well, not unless I needed somebody to play a tandoori chicken.’
Olive smiled, but only a bit, and watched Amelia walk off towards the middle-school piazza. She looked at the fresh new-white of Amelia’s socks against her brown calves. She looked at Amelia’s uniform, which she wore longer than most girls, with the belt looped twice around her hips. Pip was wrong; Amelia had been selected to play Mary for a reason. The sort of glamour the big girls possessed was hinted at in someone like Amelia. That was her appeal. Regardless of how nasty she was or what she did, it was impossible to refute that Amelia Forster possessed style beyond her years.
That afternoon after school, Pip and Olive walked down the street towards the hairdresser. Olive and Mog had been going to Chez Clarissa for as long as Olive could remember. Although Mog was sick and tired of the way that Clarissa cut her hair, she couldn’t bear the thought of going to a hairdresser she did actually like in case Clarissa found out.
Life’s tricky enough already
, Mog would say.
Olive liked going to Chez Clarissa because she loved studying the curls of wet hair swept into the corners of the salon and trying to work out which lady belonged to which hair clippings.
When they were almost there, Pip stopped outside a shop not two doors down and pressed her nose to the glass. Mannequins with engorged heads but no faces posed in a glittering conga line. Their skirts looked like squirts of fake cream.
‘Let’s look.’
‘Pip, nothing will fit. It never does – that’s why I have to shop at David Jones,’ said Olive. ‘In the kids’ section,’ she added in a whisper. ‘Besides, it’s a bit . . . you know.’
‘What?’
‘Tacky.’
Pip looked at Olive. Her eyes narrowed. ‘Well, I’m going to check it out. I for one am sick of getting about in your Alice in Wonderland gear.’ She stalked into the shop and picked up a slippery top lit with sequins. Then she strolled to the counter and bought it.
Olive watched on in disbelief. Pip knew they had to pay for the haircut with the money Mog had given them, but she’d still gone and bought a top
just like that
, right in front of Olive. Not only had she gone and bought a top with the hairdresser money
just like that
but she had gone and bought one that Mrs Graham would only describe as garish. Olive hated it. She glared at her sister as they left the shop, and ignored her as they walked into the salon.