Posse (4 page)

‘No, Mrs Lovash. This blood'sh coming from my mouf.'

The girls and teachers hovering around all crack up. I hear Bevan's soft low chuckle. His knees click as he stands.

‘I'll make it up to you, Amy. I promise. I'm so sorry.'

‘Don't worry about it,' I say, not too clearly. My top lip has begun to swell. ‘It wash my fault too.'

Patricia sits cross-legged beside me in her goalie gear, slapping the mozzies that land on my legs.
Johanna and Deborah help Mrs Lovas wipe my face with wet washers. The bleeding stops after about two minutes. I sit up. It's not nearly as bad as I'd thought. I'd imagined the operation, the wire, the braces. Months of drinking mush through a bloody straw. I've got a split lip and that's all.

‘I'm never playing without a mouthguard again,' I say. And I mean it this time. No mucking around.

Clare's wandered back from the huts to see what the fuss is about. When she sees that it's about me she sighs.

‘God, you look like crap. Your face is like a magnet for hockey balls.'

‘It was a hockey stick this time,' I say. ‘Bevan's stick.'

‘Oh?' She looks casually to her left and right and folds her slender arms. ‘And where
is
young Bevan and his stick?'

‘Praying somewhere, I imagine.'

‘The stick too?'

‘Well, Jesus died on a stick.'

And so I go along with her riddles and games, which are her way of smoothing things over. I forgive her for the ten millionth time.

No one but Clare could get away with it. She humiliates me in front of my friends and teachers, storms off in a huff, then waltzes back over and asks casually after the man who just made mincemeat of my face. She's an awful friend most of the time, if the truth be known. Just plain bloody awful. Like a rosebush that only flowers once a year. You put up with the thorns and black spot the rest of the time because the bloom, when it finally opens, is magnificent.

A
LL
I
CAN SAY IS
that I hope the swelling goes down soon. I'm walking around with this fat top lip that makes me look kind of sultry. I had a peek at myself in Clare's hand mirror. Everyone tells me I look really cute, but I know Mum won't find me cute. Mum's not into cute.

I can imagine the telling-off I'm going to get if she notices. I remember the telling-off I got two years ago, while I was on the slab before the operation on my jaw. I was practically begging the
anaesthetist to put the mask on me and gas me into oblivion.

After the accident I would have considered retiring from hockey if Mum hadn't tried to make me. As it turned out, I didn't need her cooperation. I just kept going to hockey practice and Johanna's mother gave me a lift to matches on Saturday mornings. There wasn't a damn thing Mum could do about it. She did her best to stand over me, and I think that was one of the first times I threatened to go and live with Dad and Lizzie. That shut her up quick smart.

My mission in life is to avoid being under her control. I'm not going to be living with her when I'm fifty, taking orders and doing her bidding. I'm leaving as soon as I've finished school. And if that means asking Dad for money, so be it. He owes me big time.

The thing about Mum is that the telling-off can last for weeks, months and even years – basically until you give up and do what she wants you to
do. She can be a real bully like that. It's just as well I've found my trump card. Dad.

I remember one spring when we were still living together, Dad wanted to plant a copse of silver birches in our front yard. I remember him pulling into the driveway with a trailer full of them – tall and spindly with smooth, light bark and tiny emerald leaves.

‘We'll have our very own European forest,' he said to me as we brought the tools out from the shed. ‘We can plant bulbs under them when they're all grown up.'

Dad dug the holes, which I filled with water before he planted each tree. I clearly remember squatting beside him and patting the dirt over the roots. God, I loved him – his bigness, his deep voice, the way he used to tease me. I just adored him. I guess that's why I hated him so much after Mum and I left. Love is very close to hate – just look at me and Clare. Love and hate are best friends. I know that now like I know I'm alive.

Anyway, while Dad and I were having this great moment together, dreaming of our shadowy forest, Mum was standing on the porch with her arms folded and her shoulders hunched. Dad kept looking over uneasily because Mum never stands still unless she's trying to make a point. She never just stands or sits. I've watched her empty a cupboard full of linen, refold each piece, and then put it all back in the same cupboard. Of course, all the linen has her name written in permanent marker in the corner.
Leone's sheet. Leone's pillow-case. Leone's oven mitt
. I'm not kidding. Sadly.

The day we planted the silver birches, Mum just sulked. Dad kept asking what was wrong, and the reply was always a grumpy, ‘Nothing.'

And the whole time this sick little dance was being performed, I was just about suffocating with
globus
. How many nine-year-olds get so anxious in their own home that they can't breathe?

Eventually, Dad cornered her and said, ‘Is it the trees in the front yard, Leone?'

‘No.'

And then they launched into one of their rows. It
was
the silver birches. Mum went on and on about them. They would grow too tall, kill all the grass underneath, compromise the fence. She got really emotional about it because she wasn't getting her way. Her face went red and she spat. She tends to spit when she's giving you a good telling-off.

The next weekend Dad pulled out the silver birches and dumped them on the compost pile. Then Mum went to the front porch and looked at the holes where the silver birches had been. And after some more sulking and another fight Dad filled the holes. Then Mum went to the back porch and looked at the dead silver birches on the compost pile – with her arms folded and her big chin stuck out.

Dad ended up taking the trees to the tip, but that wasn't the end of it. For months Mum reminded him of all the time and money he'd wasted on the silver birches. And it was the same
story when I broke my jaw. I've never heard the end of it. And I'll never hear the end of my split lip if she notices it. It'll probably give her an excuse to go on longer about my jaw. If I didn't hate Dad so much I'd call him for some sympathy. Lately I've been tempted to give him a call and tell him all about Mum. It's going to take a major crisis to make me actually do it, though. I'm still pretty pissed off about his dirty deeds.

The thing about Mum is that you can't have a sensible conversation with her. Nan's the same. You can't talk about what's really bothering you, what's bothering anyone. Instead you talk about silver birches and the dangers of school sports as if they're the most important things in the world.

One of the things I love about Marina Miller is that I
can
talk to her. When we first got together we used to spend hours on the phone every afternoon. Within a week I'd told her everything about Dad's muck and our weird little household. And she told me about her little brother who drowned
in the bath and how her family never talks about him any more. I cried about that. I'd never cried about someone else's pain before.

Then there are the fringe benefits of the relationship. They came slowly, and believe it or not, Marina made the first move. We were at her house in Cheltenham after school about three months ago, sitting cross-legged on her bed. It was pelting rain and the coin-sized raindrops were hitting her bedroom window almost horizontally. I was talking about something – probably the rain – and out of the blue Marina asked if she could kiss me.

Now, I've kissed people before. I used to let boys kiss me at dances. I even kissed Clare once on a dare – her idea, not mine. But that first kiss Marina and I had on her bed with the rain belting the window took me somewhere I'd never been before. It was like the first bite of a hot, moist doughnut. My blood surged and my skin tingled and I wanted to kiss every tiny freckle on her beautiful face.

Marina's more of a woman than anyone in my year. She's only fourteen, but she seems to be leading us through the physical side of our relationship. I've known how to get my kicks for a while, but the intensity of Marina's touch makes me shake.

Mum lets me visit the Millers' house even though she has a fair idea of what we get up to. As I've already said, she's great at pretending things aren't happening, a master of self-deceit. Sure, she's quiet when I get back, but those icy silences don't have much effect on me any more. My
globus
might creep in and squeeze me for a little while, but I can usually shake it quickly. I get a few hours of peace before she's on at me about something unrelated, like the state of my room. I know what she's really on about, but I pretend not to. That's my game. You have to have a game in my house. A normal person would go crazy.

‘Your mother,' Dad said to me once, ‘is like Norman Bates. And your Nanna is like Mother.'

That was back in the days when I used to go to Dad's place on the weekend. It was before the big fight in the Family Court. Years later, I told Mum what Dad said about her and Norman Bates and she had no idea what I was talking about. Which shows you two things about Mum. First, she has stayed as far away from popular culture as you can without living in a cave. And second, she has absolutely no insight into what a weirdo she is. I even hired
Psycho
on video and played it after dinner one night. Her diary entry for that day – which I later checked specifically – said, among other things:

Alfred Hitchcock's masterpiece made no dent in her whatsoever.

A
T DINNER IN THE MESS
hall I'm something of a war hero. Apart from having my lip split by a direct hit to the face, I'm also, as Patricia keeps pointing out, the only person to have scored a goal. The game ended after Bevan's attempt to decapitate me, and everyone went back to the dam for a soak before dinner. It was generally acknowledged that the girls' team had won.

Patricia copped a good telling-off from Mrs Kerr for putting the goal posts closer together. At
the Methodist School for Girls this kind of misdemeanour is treated with the utmost seriousness. It might only seem like a small deed, Mrs Kerr said, but that's where dishonesty begins. She told Patricia that a letter would be sent to her parents about it. The poor girl was practically in tears when she joined our table for dinner. It's punishment for not being sneaky
enough
, if you ask me.

Tonight we're eating rubbery sausages – quite edible, though – and powdered mashed potato slop. The sausages actually bounce. We've tested them on the floor. And the mashed potato makes a very good projectile when flicked from a spoon. This has also been tested by Clare on Toni, who dobbed to Miss Lackie afterwards. Toni and Joey are sitting at a table by themselves now, and Miss Lackie is standing over Clare, trying to make her apologise.

‘I'm not going to apologise,' says Clare.

‘You should apologise,' says Miss Lackie, shifting her weight from foot to foot. Her hands are
clasped behind her back. She's trying to look fearsome, but no one's fooled for a second. It might as well be Deborah standing there glowering at us. At least Deborah would have some credibility.

‘I don't think so,' Clare says, and starts chopping her sausages into little pieces.

‘Clare …'

‘It was an accident, really. This mash is aerodynamic.'

‘Please apologise, Clare.'

‘I'm not going to. I'm not sorry. Apologising would be like telling a lie.'

‘Well, no …'

‘I'll go to hell if I apologise to Toni, Miss Lackie. This is where dishonesty begins, you know. Mrs Kerr just told Patricia all about it.'

‘Just tell her you're sorry. Come on, Clare.'

‘It's not going to happen.'

‘Then write her a note.'

‘I don't think so.'

Clare knows she's won. She eats her bouncy
sausages with great enthusiasm while the rest of us watch the scuffle awkwardly. Her behaviour's been very bad today, even more obnoxious than usual, which is saying something. I think the scent of Bevan has driven her into heat and this is her way of howling at the moon.

Miss Lackie opens her mouth as if to continue the fight she's already lost, but then purses her lips until they're white. She swallows hard.

‘Okay.' And she walks away. Defeated, just like that.

There are a few moments of silence. I shake my head and smile. Smug little cows like Clare give private school girls a bad name.

‘I bet she goes back to the teachers' table and tells everyone what a
brat
you are,' I say.

‘My parents are paying her salary,' says Clare.

‘You've been a
very
cranky girl today.'

‘It's just so bloody hot. I've got jungle fever.'

‘Looks like Deborah's got jungle fever too,' says Johanna, holding up a napkin Deborah's been
doodling on. I use the word ‘doodle' deliberately – she's drawn a penis, very lifelike, with tufts of curly hair at the base and a cartoon face drawn where the head of the penis should be.

‘It's Bevan,' says Clare.

‘Deb, you have a talent for portraits,' I say. And I'm not kidding. It really does look like him. The handsomeness is all there. The square jaw and small, straight nose are just so. She's even managed to capture his expression – superior and faintly amused. She's also taken pains to draw the specks of stubble on his chin.

‘And here's Johnny,' says Deborah, holding up another napkin. This penis is shorter and broader with more veins and ridges – just like John – and the face is long with an exaggerated hook nose and small eyes set close together.

The napkin drawings are about the funniest things I've ever seen. Everyone's getting a real kick out of them.

‘These should be hung,' I say.

The whole posse's cracking up so loudly that the girls at the next table are staring. Clare passes them the two napkins and within seconds there's an uproar of laughter from them as well.

Deborah has a very, very sexy sense of humour. She lives with her Indonesian-born mother, Hilda, and her brother, Justin. Hilda's a painter and their house is always buzzing with arty types, who include Deborah and Justin in their conversations. So Deborah is quite mature for her age and seems to know a lot about sex. That's all artists ever talk about, she reckons.

Her latest works of art are passed to another table, and then another, and the reactions are the same. Brows crease. Noses wrinkle. Hands shoot up to cover giggling mouths. Deborah's causing quite a stir, and it's a stir that's been noticed by some of the teachers.

Clare shoots off her chair and charges across the mess hall to retrieve the napkins, but Mrs Kerr
beats her to it. The unlucky girl who has the napkins in front of her when Mrs Kerr arrives gives them up immediately.

‘They're mine,' shouts Clare, and actually tries to rip the napkins from Mrs Kerr's hands. She manages to tear away a few pieces. She puts them in her mouth and swallows them.

‘You're out of control, Clare!' says Mrs Kerr. She hasn't opened the napkins yet.

‘They're mine!'

‘Don't touch me. That's assault, Clare.'

‘And you're stealing something that belongs to me.'

‘Go back to your seat. I'm afraid I'm going to have to raise your behaviour with the headmistress when we get back to school. It's completely unacceptable.'

Clare returns to us in a rage and we watch Mrs Kerr open the napkins and look at the drawings, her mouth fixed in a pucker like a cat's bottom. She shows Mrs Ricci and a few of the other
teachers. Miss Howell smiles, but only for a moment. Overall, they're not amused.

‘I'm sick of this bloody school,' says Clare. ‘I'm ringing my parents. That carrot-top saddlebag-with-eyes just stole from me.
She
stole from
me
.'

‘It's my intellectual property, actually,' says Deborah.

‘Well, she stole from you, then …'

‘Don't worry,' I say. ‘What can they do to us? Which school rule are we breaking? It's nothing, Clare – really.'

‘No, I'm thinking about what my parents can do to Mrs Kerr. Bitch.'

Johanna's gone quiet. The blood seems to have left her face.

‘What's wrong?' I ask.

‘Oh, nothing,' she says, shrugging quickly.

I'm not convinced.

‘Something's wrong. I can tell.'

‘Well … it's just … I don't know. I hope they
don't think that this has anything to do with me. I mean, what if Dad finds out?'

‘I told her they were mine,' says Clare.

‘Still …'

‘Typical Jo,' says Clare. ‘Afraid for her own bones again …'

‘Your father's not the school minister,' says Jo.

‘Nothing's going to happen!' I'm practically shouting.

‘Deb, you've got to go and tell them that you drew those pictures! Tell them it had nothing to do with the rest of us.' Jo's big, soft pug face is desperate.

Deborah shrugs. ‘Fine.'

‘Don't you dare,' says Clare. ‘I've already told them they're mine. Don't you do anything, Deb.' She turns to Johanna. ‘Do you always have to worry about your own damn skin? You are
completely
self-obsessed. All you Christians are.'

It's not just teasing now – Clare's really jacking it up. I wish she'd stop it. If she knew that my
chest was gripped with
globus
, would she stop it? Probably not. And I'd never tell her about it anyway. She'd only use it against me.

To my relief, Deborah skilfully changes the subject to a movie that's just about to come out, but Clare and Johanna don't look at each other for the rest of the meal. They're still smarting fifteen minutes later when we're stacking the tables at the back of the mess hall to clear a space for night-time activities and prayers. Night-time activities have turned out to be the highlight of the day at Riveroak Recreation Ranch. I'm not kidding. Fun is so light on the ground here that even the good, clean type will do.

Tonight Miss Howell makes me sit on the sideline and watch. I'd like to join in, but I can see her point. I still look like a rhinoceros and if I collide with someone I'll reopen the wound. Quiet observation is quite fun anyway. You'd be surprised how entertaining it is to watch sixteen-year-olds play drop-the-block and fruit salad and
the usual round of daggy games designed to wear out little kids before they go to bed.

When I do finally get bored, I slip outside and sit on one of the benches on the verandah. It's sunset and the rose-coloured light makes the view across the dusty paddock to the murky dam look quite picturesque. For the first time since arriving at Riveroak Recreation Ranch, I relax. It's finally begun to cool down.

I start when a tall shadow is cast over my legs. I look up. It's Bevan with his guitar and a big, Christian grin. He's just finished performing ‘Babe in the Manger' to the tune of ‘Cats in the Cradle'. I'm glad I was out here while he was playing it because I'm sure my cringing would have been visible. He's really too daggy for words. If Clare could see him right now, all thoughts of sexy time with him would be banished from her head.

‘I suppose this is my fault,' he says, making himself comfortable on the bench beside me.

‘Sorry?'

‘You sitting out here all by yourself. It's my fault you can't join in.'

‘Oh, that.' I put my finger to my lip. ‘I'd almost forgotten.'

‘I'm so sorry about hitting your face, Amy. That was just completely stupid of me.'

‘It was a foul. You're not supposed to lift the stick above your shoulder.'

‘I'm not a very good hockey player.'

I shrug.

‘Jenny Howell says you're the best hockey player at the school.'

‘I've been doing it for a long time.'

‘Have you ever considered playing professionally?'

‘No … No, Mum would never let me do that.'

‘With respect to your mother, Amy, she doesn't know what God has planned for you. God gave you talent for a reason.'

‘Did God tell you to become a minister?' I ask, trying not to laugh in his face.

‘He did. I mean, it wasn't a telephone call or anything, but he told me all right.'

‘How?'

‘I was a professional Aussie Rules player until about three years ago.'

‘Really? What happened?'

‘Someone landed on me and my knee was bent about forty-five degrees in the wrong direction.'

‘Ouch.'

‘Ouch is right. I've had five operations on it. It'll never be right. And I can never play football again.'

‘That sucks.'

‘In a way it does. At the time I thought it did. I was very frustrated for a long time – until I let God into my life. And God made me grateful to be away from that lifestyle. He made me see the way.'

‘Well, there you go.'

Unlike Clare, I'm not
dying
to talk to him. I mean, I guess he's nice enough, but he's a dork and a crazy Christian, and I keep suppressing the
urge to say, ‘I don't believe in God.' As I've already said, I'm too honest for my own good.

‘So, what's the guitar for?'

‘I'm going to sing you a song.'

‘Great. A Christian song? Can I clap?'

He doesn't realise I'm being sarcastic, or if he does, he's not offended. Religious types tend to be fairly indestructible like that. Their skins are about a metre thick.

‘A song of your choice,' he says.

‘“Better the Devil You Know”.'

‘I don't know that one.'

‘Well, how about something else?'

‘Crowded House?'

‘Okay, but you're showing your age.'

I watch him, smiling, as he tunes his guitar. His thick, dark fringe flops forward as he leans over to watch his fingers and strum.

‘
Somewhere deep inside
…'

And he starts singing ‘You'd Better be Home Soon' quite beautifully. At first I'm embarrassed,
but I gradually get over myself and begin to feel more comfortable – flattered even – that he's singled me out like this. How can you feel any other way when someone sings for you?

I start daydreaming that Clare walks outside and sees us here. She slaps Bevan's face and storms off into the night. Then I imagine that it's me she slaps.

I look at Bevan out of the corner of my eye. His eyes are fixed on the guitar strings and I don't think he notices.

Up close he's rather good-looking. His features are strong and carved. I begin to think what a shame it is that there's nothing between the ears. Out of the blue, I have another daydream: that he leans over and kisses me. I feel a little pang between my legs. I cross them.

With a final strum and a soft, low hum, Bevan finishes the song. I give a baby clap with the tips of my fingers.

‘Did it suck?' he asks.

‘Yeah, it sucked big donkey's balls.'

‘You've got a potty mouth.'

‘You said “suck”. You'd be on detention for that at my school.' Feeling awkward, I stare ahead. ‘No, it was okay, actually. Little donkey's balls.'

‘Is that a compliment?'

I shrug. I'm uneasy, but I'm enjoying myself. I don't want him to go now.

‘I had a bad accident too, you know,' I blurt out. ‘A hockey accident. It really stuffed up my face. All healed up now, of course.'