Run to Me (2 page)

‘You must really like getting your arse kicked.
. .
Bucket,
’ she says, tilting her head back to look at me. She’s
wearing too much lip gloss, as usual. With every word strings of pasty red link
her lips together. ‘Thought you’d learnt your lesson? Or are you too
stupid?’
  

‘Lay off. I didn’t come round here for this
shit.’

The jerks behind me are sniggering. I should
have known she’d be here swanning about like she owns the place. Just because
she’s having it off with McFadden now doesn’t mean she’s cool.

I’m not up for this. I turn my back on her and
start walking away. But she’s still on me, shouting her bull across the whole
skate park.

‘You’d better watch out, Bucket, if he catches
you round here you’ll be chicken shit. He’s always up for a re-match.’

As I squeeze through the gate everybody turns to
stare at me.

I don’t bother looking back at her. I know
she’ll be laughing, they probably all will be. I take a long, deep drag on my
cigarette and blow some smoke rings as I walk up the road to school. I’ve only
got a block to go when I see McFadden heading towards me. He’s wearing his
usual shorts and a too-small wife-beater; showing off his bulky muscles. His
shoulders are all hunched like he’s cold, even though it’s already pretty
steamy. He’s got his head down and for a second I think I’ve got time to skip
out of sight, but then the inevitable happens. He glances up.

I curse myself. I should have taken the back
streets.

‘Bucket. Fancy meeting you here,’ he yells out
from metres ahead of me.

I keep on moving, and smoking, and I try to walk
straight past him. But he grabs hold of my arm.

‘Where do you think you’re going, fuckwit?’

His long toes hang over the front end of his
thongs and there is dandruff swimming in his number two.

I try to shake his hand loose. ‘Let go,
McFatty.’

‘What are you going to do about it? You up for
round two? Coz that’s all we got to, you know. You flaked out so early last
time.’

‘Whatever you reckon.’

‘I reckon a lot of things about you Bucket.’

I shake my arm again. ‘I’ve got to go.’

‘Surprise, surprise. Bucket’s got no balls. I
know you’ve got a tiny dick but I didn’t know you’ve got no balls to go with
it. That’s right. Amanda told me all about your little woodpecker and here’s
some advice Bucket.’ He leans in close so I get a good whiff of his onion
breath. ‘There’s a hole where you’re meant to stick it, actually there’s two if
you’re lucky. If you’re not sure next time, give me a call and I’ll come finish
the job for you.’

He throws his head back and laughs. I yank my
hand free and take off up the road as fast as I can without breaking into a
run. The last thing I need is for him to think I’m scared.

***

I steer my car into the last available parking
space and switch off the engine. I look out the window at the sprawling green
of the oval and the red-brick buildings that line its outer edges. I can hear
the excited chatter of teenagers and the distant laughter of children.

I know I can’t hide in my car forever so I hop
out, smoothing down my skirt and reaching for my bag. The February air is crisp
and humid, left over from the weekend showers. I don’t bother with the jacket;
my collared shirt will have to be respectable enough. As I draw closer to the
main door I see a sign marked ‘Office’. My heels click on the stone steps and
the wide wooden door creaks as I push it open.

A woman with black curly hair is sitting behind
the tall desk. A pair of wire-framed glasses sit atop her head, nestled deep
amongst the curls. Glancing at me she asks, ‘Can I help you?’ 

‘Hello. Yes, my name is Abigail Fox. This is my
first day here. I mean, I start work here today.’

‘Fox. Fox.’ The skin around her eyes creases as
she tries to place me. ‘Oh yes of course. Mrs Fox, our new English teacher,
correct?’

I nod and smile. ‘That’s right’.

‘Great. I’m Cynthia Brown. It’s nice to meet
you.’

We shake hands across the desk. The skin on her
hand is rough against my own and she wears a chunky gold bangle that falls
heavily on her wrist bone as we shake.

‘Are you new to Jungilla?’ she asks.

‘No. No. Born and raised.’

‘Ahh, right,’ she says, nodding. ‘Ok. Well, I
have some information here for you, a few things for you to sign and if you
would like to head down the hall here you’ll find Peter Stewart, our Principal,
whom I’m sure you’ve met before and he can show you around.’ No more small
talk; all this comes out in one long breath.

She shoves some papers at me and points out into
the hallway.

‘Welcome to Whateley,’ she says, as an
after-thought.

‘Thank you, Cynthia.’

I wander into the hall. Hanging on the walls are
oversized photos of previous alumni, I’m guessing, and those extra special
students, like Prefects or House Captains. The people I’d always despised at my
high school.

I pass a few office doors - all rich, dark oak
to match the shiny floors - until I reach one marked ‘Peter Stewart,
Principal’. I have met him before. He had been part of the interviewing
committee that sat across from me on the wide lacquered table and fired
question after question at me. Questions I had obviously answered to their
satisfaction.

I raise my hand and rattle lightly on his door.

‘Come in.’

The door strains when I turn the large gold
handle, so I lean heavily against the wood and push. It hardly moves. Then a
hand appears around the frame and yanks the door from my grasp.

‘This door is a bit tricky.’

It’s Peter Stewart, in full suit and tie,
standing before me. He is smiling, and his teeth are stained a hideous yellow.
I’d forgotten about that.

‘Good morning, Mrs Fox,’ he says, reaching out
to shake my hand. ‘Nice to see you again. Ready for your first day?’   

‘It’s Abby, please. And I’m as ready as I’ll
ever be,’ I say as I try to extradite my hand from his cumbersome grasp.

Behind him, next to the large, square desk, is
an old-fashioned stereo with waist-high speakers. Classical music seeps out;
filling the overly-cluttered room.

‘Good. Good. Nothing to worry about. You’ve done
this all before. Just like riding a bike, as they say.’ He smiles his
yellow-teethed smile at me and puts his hand on my shoulder. ‘Well, let me show
you to your first period classroom then Mrs... ahh, Abby.’

We turn out of his office, head down the hall
and out into the quadrangle. The area is the size of a netball court; half
covered in gravelled cement, the other half with patches of green grass and
bricked flower beds. This is only the third time I’ve been on the school
grounds and I’m still getting used to the manicured landscape. My previous
school didn’t have as much cash at their disposal.

Opposite the imposing Main Office is a red-brick
building that houses a set of four classrooms. Some kids are milling around the
stone steps that lead to the classroom doors. One girl sits astride the
balustrade, her school kilt hitched up around her knees, her blonde hair
tumbling in curls down her back, her fingers expertly applying a pink, shiny
gloss to her lips. There are three boys crowding around her, each vying for her
attention, and getting none.

Peter Stewart leads me along a narrow, paved
path that edges past the enormous library. At the end it opens up onto another
quadrangle, this one entirely covered in grass and surrounded by the odd oak
tree. Students are everywhere; boys lounging on their backs on the grass, their
heads resting on their biceps; girls huddled in tight circles, shoulders
hunched, gossiping in whispers; a lone couple standing under the thick branches
of a tree, him running his fingers through her long hair and her giggling
softly.  As we stride through the quad I see him lean in, his hand still
massaging the back of her neck, and kiss her. She succumbs to him, her own
hands dragging limply at her sides until it is as if a switch is flicked on inside
her and she lifts her arms and tentatively cups his face with her palms.

I feel uneasy, having stepped into their private
moment, but I can not look away. I think about Luke in the kitchen earlier,
hating my cold hands on his skin. Something sharp attacks me, like a dozen
pin-pricks to my heart, and I can’t help but groan.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll deal with them later’ says
Peter Stewart, having taken my groan as one of disapproval.

I simply nod. What else can I do?

***

By the time I reach the school I’m fuming.
Bloody McFadden. I don’t know how to get rid of him. He just seems to pop up
everywhere I go, like he’s stalking me. He’s had his biff with me and I thought
he’d leave it at that. But then again I’m not done with him either. I don’t
want that last fight to be what I’m remembered for. I know I didn’t flake but I
let him get one over on me and that doesn’t sit too well.

I walk straight through the school gates and
head up to the Year Twelve common room. My first day amongst the ‘big boys’ as The
Chief would call them. It means crap all to me. This Year Twelve common room
shit is nothing but a change of scenery.

I push open the door with all its peeling paint
and half-arsed attempts at graffiti and wander into our new territory.
Instantly I’m hit with the smell of girls. Perfume, deodorant, fannies, chewing
gum, whatever you want to put it down too. A bunch of them are sitting round
the couches that circle a low coffee table covered in girly magazines. They’re
all giggling and telling stories of their holidays.

‘So Mum and Dad took us to Queensland and all I
did was lounge on the beach and work on my tan. Check it out. Isn’t it perfect?’

‘For sure, Sar. It looks awesome. How lucky are
you? I had to hang out with my grandparents the whole time.’

‘Hi Paul’. One of them waves at me.

I ignore her and walk up the back to the
lockers. Not that you can really call them ‘lockers’. They’re all worn out,
again with peeling paint, and most of them don’t even lock. I scan the messages
scratched into their doors – ‘Biffo waz ere 99’, ‘For a good time call Becky on
0433787666’, ‘PK loves RT 4eva’, ‘Mr Gleeson likes little boys’.

After I dump my bag I get the hell out of the
common room and head to the canteen. That left-over pizza has made me more hungry
than not and I can already taste a hot meat pie and sauce.

‘Meat pie? They won’t be in ‘til lunchtime,’
says Betty, the canteen matron.

I look around the rest of the place, trying to
decide what to eat instead. The white plastic shelves are loaded with junk
food. Mars Bars, chocolate frogs, Mint Patties, Red Skins, Salt and Vinegar
chips, Tic Tacs, Starburst…. I dip my hand into my left trouser pocket and come
up with a hand full of coins.

‘All right. I’ll have a Mars and those salt ‘n
vinegar chips. And put me down for a pie at lunch, will you?’

Betty looks at me with one raised eyebrow. It is
bushy and unkept, and the same boring brown as her permed mop. I wait for her
to give me my food but she just stares at me, then tilts her head expectantly.

‘Please?’ I venture.

She dumps the food on the white laminated
counter and holds out her palm for the money. I hand it over.

‘You might want to be more courteous next time,
Mr Beckett. I’m the one handling your food, remember,’ she says with a smirk.

I smile.

‘Sure thing, Betty.’

Betty’s all right. Been here for years but she’s
still got a sense of humour. Don’t know how. I’d go nuts having to work in that
shit box all day.

Outside the canteen is a row of long wooden
benches. I drop onto the closest one and rip open the chip packet. I’ve got a
mouth full when a hand slaps me on the back.

‘Beckett, mate. Howzit? You catch the cricket
yesterday or what?’

Reggie throws his bag onto the cement and
straddles the bench. His pants are ripped at the knee and he has a gravel rash
on his right cheek. It’s just beginning to ooze bright red blood.

‘What happened to you? Did you stack your pushie?’
I ask, unwrapping the Mars Bar and taking a generous bite.

‘I reckon,’ he says, touching his fingertips to
his cheek and rolling his eyes. ‘Just around the corner too. My own fault
though. Was checking out that Rachel Stevenson. Man, I’d like some of that
action.’ He holds out his hands in front of his chest to mimic her giant tits.

‘I wouldn’t trust her after that stunt she
pulled on Hamilton last year.’ I take another bite of my Mars.

‘Who gives a toss about trust? She’s nothing but
a bit of a shag, that bird.’ Reggie slaps me on the back again, smiles and
winks at me.

I roll my eyes.

‘Have you seen Matt yet?’ I ask.

‘Nah. He’s probably off near the gym getting in
a quickie with what’s-her-face.’