Posse (13 page)

I chuckle. Dad looks offended, so I tell him what's going through my mind.

‘Mum used to make out that you'd molested her.'

Dad shakes his head and scoffs.

‘I don't need to remind you she's a madwoman,
do I?' he says. ‘Look, the reason I'm telling you this is not to contradict everything your mother's told you, but to let you know that I understand. You probably don't want to take advice from an old man you haven't seen for five years, but I'm entitled to give it to you. If you want to keep your life on track, you need to turn the volume way down. Just back away.'

‘You're telling me to pretend nothing happened?'

‘I'm telling you to grow up and make a compromise.'

I hate being told to grow up. I feel like giving him some lip, but I let him go on, moving my bottle to where he can't reach it. His fiddling is beginning to irritate me.

‘Let me put it this way. You can go with your emotions, your high standards, whatever's driving you, and you'll be kicked out of school. No one will appreciate your reasons. You'll be “Amy Gillespie – the girl who got expelled”, not
“Amy Gillespie – the girl of integrity who refused to take crap from the school”. Do you see what I mean?'

I give a reluctant nod.

‘This is not a situation where you need to take a stand. Let it wash over you. Keep your reputation.'

‘But everyone will think I'm a spineless liar. What's that going to do for my reputation?'

‘Your headmistress will paint you as a liar either way. And it's not
lying
, Amy. It's
compromising
. I mean,
you
know the truth. You're not lying to yourself. You're just showing some respect for the people who have appearances to keep up.'

‘Mrs Sproule.'

‘I'm sure she doesn't give a rat's arse whether or not you kissed this guy or made up a story or whatever. So why don't you give her the option of overlooking the whole business.'

‘I don't know if I can pretend like that.'

‘Amy, for God's sake, it's what grown-ups
do
. Anyway, have a think about it. Tell Lizzie in the morning so she knows what to do.'

He wipes his mouth with the back of the hand as if his grandmother's just kissed him.

‘By the way, you're welcome to stay here as long as you like.'

‘Thanks, Dad.'

That's the first time I've called him Dad in five years. It has quite an effect on him. Tears well in his eyes, but he seems determined to not let them roll down his cheeks. They just hang there.

‘And one more thing. You have to ring your mother and tell her what's happened and what your plans are.'

‘Can't you tell her?'

‘I want her to know that all this is coming from you and not me.'

‘Dad, I don't hate you,' I say. The tears finally roll down his cheeks. He wipes them with the pads of his thick fingers.

‘Well, thanks. I don't hate you either.' He cups his hand and shouts through the flyscreen door, ‘Guess what, Lizzie! Amy doesn't hate me!'

‘I don't hate you either,' she shouts back at him.

I'm forced to smile. But I'm really not used to being teased at home. Everyone in Nanna's house takes themselves very seriously.

Dad cooks a barbecue for dinner and I pig out. He lets me have a couple of sips of his beer.

‘Don't tell your mother,' he says, winking, ‘unless you feel like vividly recounting the entire evening to a Family Court judge.'

‘You should see how much red wine Mum puts away,' I say. Dad and I grin at each other conspiratorially. ‘I'd have a thing or two to tell the judge about that.'

I've only drunk alcohol a couple of times before, each time supplied by Deborah's older brother, Justin. I'm not really accustomed to booze, but I can see what the attraction is. As soon as it hits my stomach, I get this warm, loose,
happy feeling, and every stupid comment I make seems hilarious. Dad and Lizzie laugh too – they're probably laughing
at
me – and I don't even care. I can tell Dad's happy to have me here. He keeps telling stories about things I used to do when I was little. It reminds me that he
did
know me for a long time, that there wasn't always such a distance between us.

We stay on the verandah until long after dark. I'm having a great time and I wish Mum could see me. It would kill her – she's in love with this idea that I won't be happy and cared for anywhere but with her. And she had me fooled about that for a long time.

I don't know what time it is when I get into bed. Dad comes into my room and stands there in his pyjamas. They're the same long, faded, stripy pink-and-blue pyjamas he used to wear when we were living together. They're actually not pyjamas in the strict sense – more of a nightie, really,
stretched and see-through, with his long, hairy legs sticking out the bottom.

He's also pretty tipsy tonight and he smells of beer, sweat and men's deodorant. He sits on the end of my bed.

‘I knew you'd come back to me, Amy. I knew once you'd grown up and had a chance to form your own opinions about things, you'd come back to me. You've got no idea how happy I was when you started writing to me …' He stops as his voice cracks. Soon the tears are running down my cheeks as well. ‘I just hope you keep in touch, even if you go back to your mother's. This is what I always wanted – to have you in my family. I love you so much.'

There's a lot I want to say, but I say nothing. I just stare at him through my tears. He kisses me goodnight and leaves. When he's gone I cry happily in the dark.

D
AD AND
L
IZZIE WAKE ME
early in the morning. They come into my room in their work clothes and loom over my bed.

‘You have to ring your mother this morning,' says Dad. ‘You don't want her hearing about this kerfuffle from a third party. Your headmistress, for example.'

‘Can't you call her?' I mumble, picking sleep out of my eyes.

‘Amy!'

‘Oh, all right. I'll get around to it, I suppose.'

‘This morning,' he snaps.

‘And Amy,' Lizzie chimes in, ‘speaking of your headmistress: you're going to have to tell me what you want me to say to her.'

‘I can think of a few things right now.'

Dad shoots me a filthy look.

‘Okay. I'll call you,' I say to Lizzie. ‘When I've made my mind up.'

‘We're not trying to ambush you,' says Lizzie. ‘But the sooner we tackle the problem, the better. It would be good to sort things out before Mrs Sproule has the chance to prepare your expulsion papers – you know, before the deed is done.'

‘And Amy …' says Dad with a cheeky smile, ‘how about a kiss for your old man?'

I sit up in bed and let him kiss me on the forehead. Lizzie winks at me.

‘Thanks for everything, Lizzie,' I say limply.

I don't get up until they're gone. The house is silent, empty. I can't remember the last time I
was in an empty house. It's refreshing. With my bare feet on the cool slate, I feel full of energy and optimism, completely different from yesterday. I have a long, hot bath, which makes me feel even better.

While I'm there, the telephone rings. I let it ring out, with no intention of disturbing my bath to answer it. But it rings a second time, again ringing all the way out. When it rings a third time, I grab a towel, scowling, and scurry into the kitchen to answer it.

It's Clare.

‘Amy! What are you doing at your dad's place?'

‘I couldn't face Mum.' I pause for a moment as a horrible thought dawns on me. ‘Clare, where did you get this number?'

‘We had to tell her.'

‘So she knows.'

‘My parents spoke to her. I'm ringing to let you know that she's on her way over there now.'

‘Oh no! Why did you …'

‘Amy, shut up. So much has happened since yesterday. Sproule got my parents to pick me up from camp. When I told them what happened to us they freaked out and called the police. I have to go to the station this morning and give a statement – a proper one. Everyone's on our side now. Miss Howell's taken stress leave and Mrs Sproule's gone quiet. It looks like she might have to apologise.'

‘I can't believe this.'

‘People are listening to us, Amy. I'm so glad we stood up to Sproule.'

I should be happy to hear this news, but I just feel left behind. I didn't want the police involved, not for what Bevan did with me.

‘Has Bevan been arrested?' I ask.

‘Not yet. They've asked him to come in for an interview, and he won't. They can't really do much until you give a statement. It's the sexual intercourse they're interested in, not him roughing me up.'

‘Sexual intercourse? But we didn't have sex.'

‘His penis touched your mouth while you were under his care. Apparently that qualifies.'

I'm completely flabbergasted. The situation is out of control.

‘So he could go to jail?' I say.

‘That depends on what you say. It's up to you. But you know what I think.'

‘No, I don't know. Yesterday you said you were happy to forget about it.'

‘And you said we should tell the truth. I think you should tell the truth. Bevan's an arsehole and he deserves what's coming to him. The cat's out of the bag, Amy.'

‘I wish I'd never said anything to anyone,' I say. ‘Me and my big mouth.'

‘You know what?' says Clare. ‘Until last night I thought this was all my fault. I thought that I'd be in trouble if the truth came out. But it's not my fault. And it's not your fault either, Amy. I mean, we were acting like idiots, but we're
supposed to. We're sixteen years old. It's Bevan who's in the wrong. He's the one who caused all this, not you and me. There's no reason why he shouldn't take the blame.'

‘I'm going to have to think about it. Christ, I can't believe Mum knows.'

‘Well, she does and she's furious. She wants to pull you out of the school.'

‘Well, thanks for giving me the heads-up. And for backing me up yesterday.'

‘Give me a call tonight. Hey, how's it going with your dad?'

‘Pretty well. We're catching up.'

‘Are you going to stay there?'

‘For a while, I hope. It's really nice here.'

I can hear Mrs McSpedden talking in the background.

‘O-
kay
!' whines Clare. ‘Just a
minute
!' She reverts to her normal voice. ‘Amy, I have to go. But give me a call this afternoon.'

We exchange farewells and I feel great about our
friendship. As soon as we've hung up, though, I start thinking about Bevan and my mood sinks.

I stand by the phone for a few minutes, slightly stunned and weak, full of regret.

For the millionth time, I kick myself for saying anything about Bevan at all. If only I'd been able to keep my big mouth shut. If only I hadn't baited Clare. If only I'd ignored Bevan from day one.

If only he'd ignored me. Why didn't he?

Something that has bothered me from the outset is Bevan's motivation for pursuing me. I don't have low self-esteem, but I know I'm not a great-looking girl. I am capable of being realistic about my looks without wallowing in despair. There are plenty of good points to Amy Gillespie. I've got a lean, muscular body and good hair. Thanks to my hockey accident and years of braces, I've got great teeth. Some people say my eyes and eyelashes are beautiful.

But let's face it – I'm no Clare. Why would Bevan choose me over Clare when Clare is so
pretty and so available? He told her she looks like a boy, which just isn't true. She's got short hair and a long, thin body, but if anyone has masculine qualities, it's me. So why me? I wish I could ask him.

I suppose it could have been my personality he was attracted to, but then he never got to know me. When I was with him I was coy and sarcastic, which is not the way I am usually. So why, then?

Did he think it'd be easy to get me into bed? Is there an air of desperation about me? Was there something about the way I reacted to his advances? Did I seem particularly flattered or embarrassed? I can't work it out, but he must have seen something in me. I know it wasn't random because Clare was there too, noticing that he'd singled me out, and ready to throw her arms and legs around him at a moment's notice.

I try to imagine being in Bevan's shoes. What was it like for him? What did he think he was
doing? Clare and I were behaving like silly little girls, but what was Bevan doing?

What the hell did he think he was doing?

I start pacing around the kitchen, angry at Bevan.

I've been mad at so many people over the last forty-eight hours. I've been mad at Clare, Jo, Mrs Sproule. I've been mad at myself. It occurs to me now that we might all have had our parts to play, but it's not our fault this happened. Clare's right. When am I going to start blaming Bevan?

It's becoming clear. Whatever I do or say to the school, I have to pursue Bevan. Why didn't I see it before? Why didn't Lizzie or Dad or someone tell me? If the police believe me, if a court believes me, then it doesn't matter whether Mrs Sproule wants to believe me or not. She has to bend and let me stay at school. She'll cause a scandal if she doesn't. Bevan will be the one to take the impact, not me.

And that, I realise now, is as it should be. I'm
only sixteen years old. Bevan should have known better. If touching my mouth with his dick is a crime, then he's guilty. It might not have seemed like a big deal at the time, but what was he doing with it anywhere near my mouth? I close my eyes and think back to that moment on the bed – his repulsive, quivering cock, the awful smutty smell. Just thinking about it makes me want to puke.

I know I shouldn't have been in his hut, but he shouldn't have let me be there either. He was supposed to be looking after me. His job as a pastor is to shepherd people, young people. But Bevan Browning is not to be trusted with young people. He's in the wrong bloody job, that's for sure.

I don't know where he belongs, but it's not around schoolgirls.

Perhaps the grown-up thing to do is to shut up and forget about it. That's what Dad and Lizzie want me to do. But they don't know the full, unexpurgated story. They don't know that I
was scared for a moment or two, or that he tried to force me to give him a blow job. And even if I hadn't been scared, even if we'd only kissed, it wouldn't matter. Dad and Lizzie are missing the point. I'm not a grown-up. I might look like one, and occasionally I might act like one, but I shouldn't have to act like one all the time. Perhaps that was what attracted Bevan. He thought I was mature enough to keep things to myself, to protect him for the sake of keeping the peace. He trusted me to cope with it, taking advantage of my above-average maturity.

I know exactly what was going through his mind:
Oh, she's fully developed. She can handle it. She's the one who kissed me. She enjoyed it.

And how do I recognise this chain of reasoning? Because every time I have the slightest doubt about my relationship with Marina, my own mind follows the same tracks.

Gradually, grudgingly, I come to terms with some other facts of life.

I'm sixteen and Marina's fourteen. She looks up to me because I'm two grades ahead. She admires me because I'm good at sport and popular. Before now, I'd never properly considered whether I was taking advantage of her, whether she was actually a lesbian or just going along with my desires because I made her feel special. From time to time I've sensed she wasn't completely happy with the physical things we were doing, but I brushed off those concerns.
She's fully developed,
I told myself.
She can handle it. She's the one who kissed me. She enjoys it.

It occurs to me in a sickening jolt that I'm going to have to back right off Marina, whether she likes it or not, whether she loves me or not. Grasping that reality makes me dizzy, weak at the knees with grief. But the truth of our relationship grows stronger in my mind as I go over it.

I'm too old for Marina. It's only a two-year age gap, but at school that means a lot. She's also underage. She's too young to be in this kind of
relationship, and at fourteen, I would have been too. Perhaps I still am.

I have to stop the physical relationship and see how we go without it. I have to stop treating Marina as though she's a lesbian when she might not be, when she's really too young to be sure of what she's doing. It's going to be tough, but I owe it to her. I can only hope the friendship will last.

I'm crying. I feel faint at the thought of losing her altogether. I think of all the things we've done and said to each other, all the jokes and secrets and times we've shared. I'm really going to miss that.

I go and slump on the lounge. It's only seven-thirty in the morning, and I'm wrecked, beaten.

It's no wonder no one wants to tell the truth. The truth is hard to grasp, hurtful once it's in your hands. And when you send it out into the world it can do a lot of damage. That's why Dad keeps it to himself and Mum dodges it altogether. That's why Mrs Sproule only wants it in dribs and drabs.
The whole truth is powerful and dangerous. When you look it in the face you have to change.

Staring out the window, I'm only slightly dismayed to see a long, dirty-white Ford station wagon crawling up Dad's driveway. It's Nanna's car. Just when I thought I couldn't take any more.

I go to the window and press my face against it. I see that everyone's in their usual place. Nanna's behind the wheel, her stiff grey bowl cut looming over Coke-bottle glasses. Grey Bowl Cut Jnr's in the front passenger side and Tom's in the back, probably with his hearing aid turned down.

I consider hiding behind the lounge, but there's no point. Mum has to be confronted sooner or later. It's as good a time as any.

I walk straight to the front door and open it before Mum gets there. Her rubber Crocs crunch rhythmically on the gravel as she approaches.

I must look an absolute fright, wearing nothing
but a little bath towel, my face swollen and tear-streaked. I can imagine tonight's diary entry.

‘Hi, Mum.'

‘Amy!'

She rushes to me and hugs me hard against her scratchy green smock. I'm actually glad to see her.

‘What on earth are you doing here?' she says.

It's a hard one to answer.

‘I needed to do some thinking,' I say, drawing gently from the hug.

We stand in the doorway staring at each other, both fighting back tears.

‘Why didn't you call me? I would have taken you straight to the police. What happened to your lip?'

‘Nothing. Copped a hockey stick.'

Mum shakes her head but doesn't say anything about hockey. I'll slam the door in her face if she does.

‘Well, you'd better get some clothes on. We're going to the police station right now. Clare McSpedden and her parents are going to meet us there. You've really got to ask yourself why your father didn't take you to the police last night.'

‘Mum, stop it. He'll take me to the police when I ask him to …'

‘He's never done anything for you, Amy. He never will. There's only one person he cares about and that's Brian Gillespie.'