Take My Word for It (8 page)

Can I see anything? I don't think so. I don't understand a lot of things. It's being able to see the inside of things that matters—anyone can see the outside, and it doesn't signify much. Take life at ‘Connewarre', for instance. I only ever looked at the outside life there. I looked at the paddocks, the trees, the sky, at the blackberries growing in the old boundary rider's hut, the Boobook owls perched above the willie wagtail's nest, the burnt out car among the trees and rocks on a hilltop on the far side of the property. The thing is, though, that the heart of a property is the house, and I never looked, I wouldn't look, at what was going on in that house. I was outdoors from dawn to dusk. Inside the house it was cold and uncomfortable, although I was only dimly aware of that—I didn't think about it. I only came in for meals and sleep.

It was the same with the magazine picture that wrecked everything. Mrs Aston and Miranda. I showed it to Mum quite innocently, didn't I? ‘Look Mum, how come Mrs Aston doesn't come here any more. She used to come so often. I didn't know she had a daughter. She looks like that baby photo of Chloe, doesn't she? I thought it was Chloe at first.' Was it all innocent? That's what I'm not sure of. Even though I didn't know or understand, I had some deep, strange, vague feeling that I was stirring up trouble, doing something dark and wicked and wrong. It was the same as a year or so before that, when I'd let Mum catch me eating some chocolate I knew Chloe had shoplifted, and when Mum said, ‘Where'd you get that?' I'd innocently said, ‘Chloe gave it to me,' knowing Chloe would get into a lot of trouble.

With the magazine it was vaguer than that—a vaguer feeling of mischief—but I knew, or at least thought it possible, that I was nudging open an evil door. I had a feeling something was lurking in there.

Well, if I wanted to cause trouble, I sure succeeded. I lay in bed that night listening to what I'd caused. My eyes were open and I practised keeping my face even and strong and cold. I was determined not to be a baby. But I felt sick at what I'd done.

I feel sick writing about it, remembering it.

After that I started thinking that my family would have been better off if I'd never been born.

Oh, by the way, we actually won the basketball. Can you believe it? I can't. If ever a bunch of losers went onto a court with no hope at all, it was us. But we battled away, scored a few baskets now and then, and got ourselves out of it whenever we seemed to be heading into a catastrophe. We did it on guts, not class or skill. We won 28-24. I'm still amazed.

M
AY
29

It's getting good and cold. I don't mind the cold weather, especially when it means snow. I hope it's a good season. It opens officially next weekend but there hasn't been a flake so far. Still, ‘late snow is good snow,' Mr Susanto always tells us. At least we can count on Dad to take us skiing—he loves it so much that he'd go even if he had to ski barefoot. Um, come to think of it, that mightn't work too well.

Mr Lindell, Rikki told me today that she hands in her Journal every few weeks and you write comments in it. She said you do it for anyone who asks. Now that's very sly of you—I didn't know we could do that. The big question is, do I want to do it? There's a lot of stuff in here that I wouldn't like to have anyone read. On the other hand . . .

I'll have to think about it.

We had a proper basketball practice today. What a relief. Just lay-ups and dribbling practice, but boy did we need it. Afterwards Trace and I took a quick illegal and shot up to Bridgland's for a milkshake and a general pig-out. Putting down incriminating evidence like that is one reason why I shouldn't hand this Journal in. Self-dobbing. Mr Lindell, how do we know you don't photocopy the ones you read and hand them over to Mrs Graham or Dr Whiteley? I mean I know you wouldn't, but still.

Tracey's a funny kid I reckon. A lot of people have got the wrong idea about her—they go on their first impressions and don't look any closer. Actually my first impressions of her weren't too good. I thought she was a bit of a slob. She is big, but it's more that she's big-boned, if you know what I mean. At the same time she can be lazy—physically lazy anyway—but she does a fair bit of Prep. The first few days I was here Trace seemed like one of those background people who agree with everybody. Then I noticed that everything she said had a cutting edge to it—she was always hacking a chunk out of me with these little spiteful comments. Then we got put on a PE assignment together—we had to prepare and teach a skills lesson to Year 6—it took ages, because we were a bit hostile to each other, but in the end it worked out really well. We got the giggles when we were demonstrating our lesson to our own class, and we just collapsed after it, and I think that's when we became friends.

Trace is one of those people who pass through the school without the teachers noticing. She never talks to them. But she's got a network of kids who know her and who she hangs around with and I think she has a big influence with them, although it's not that obvious. She isn't liked much in dorm B, or she wasn't at the start of the year, but she's getting more popular now. That's because people know her better. Actually the teachers are noticing her more too—she's getting in more trouble. Plus she's got a man now—Stewart Pace his name is, he goes to Grammar—and I think that's making a bit of a difference to the old Trace. If she married him she'd be Trace Pace.

M
AY
30

Oh golliwobbles, just what I didn't want. Getting a letter is such a major thrill here. You stand there as they call the names out, thinking, ‘I won't get one, there'll be nothing for me,' hoping that if you say that enough it'll somehow make you get one. Well, I got one, and now I wish I didn't.

Aaaghh, yuk, slime, now what do I do? I don't want to write back. She's already acting like she owns Dad. Right now I wish I could talk to Chloe.

M
AY
31

Can't write much—I'm drowning in Crusaders and Moslems. At least I've got some good books—Cathy and I are sharing some. Normally Ann gets into the Library before anyone else and corners all the books, but she's still in Japan, ha ha. She'll be so crapped off.

Speaking of people being crapped off, Sophie was up a tree, my tree, having a smoke when the branch snapped and down she went. She twisted her ankle and cut her head. I think it was my tree getting its revenge on Soph for poisoning it with nicotine. Soph didn't think that was too funny when I suggested it—guess it wasn't really. But I didn't know my tree was so popular. I reckon Sophie's accident prone.

We've got the topic for the next debate, on top of everything else. It's ‘Life is Bliss'. We're saying it is. But I don't know. I look around me and see Marina huddled in a corner, Cathy writing letters for Amnesty, Soph painting her fingernails with liquid paper and felt pens, Kate asleep at her desk, Emma going through the hymn book singing us verses from her favourite hymns, and Tracey sandpapering her new DB's to try to make them look old. This is bliss?

J
UNE
1

Something very strange is going on with Peter. During the holidays we agreed we'd go to the Mortal Danger Concert in August and I gave him $35 for a ticket. When the tour was cancelled I asked him for my money back and he made some vague excuse. Since then I've asked him twice on the phone. It's starting to bug me—it sounds like he's trying to sleaze out of it.

J
UNE
2

Alex Bear had a particularly bad night tonight. Soph kidnapped him and hid him and wouldn't tell me where. I turned the dorm and the Prep Room upside down, with Soph going ‘You're getting warmer' . . . ‘colder' . . . Finally I found him—she'd hung him out the window from a long string—and upside down at that. Poor Alex, he has a hard life. I don't think Sophie's very kind to Teddies. Cathy's got a family of Bears and others, so many she can hardly fit in her own bed. Anne's got a few, Trace has a koala called Ned Good, but all Soph has is a Barbie doll that she's punkified: she dyed her hair, gave her a mohawk, pierced her ears, painted tattoos on her, and put a ring through her nose.

Trace's koala is so lifelike, and so big. Miss Curzon picked it up one day and said ‘Goodness Tracey, this koala is so heavy! What's it got in it?' and Trace just answered ‘Koala.'

I like that. If koalas are full of koala then I suppose humans are full of human.

I'm feeling guilty about Alex. I forgot to take him for the holidays so the poor thing had to sit sadly on his own in the dorm the whole time. Is this what growing up does to you? You forget your best friends? I know I'll always love Alex, the whole of my life, but maybe adults don't have time for Teddy Bears.

J
UNE
5

This Crusades assignment is going to end with my throwing myself off the top of the clock tower. It's too much. I did hardly anything else all weekend. Ann got back yesterday and went white when she realised what she'd missed. She's started on it already. No doubt she'll be in front of me by the end of the week.

I shouldn't backstab her though. She actually gave me a present from Japan—she had something for everyone in the dorm. Mine was a writing pad of the most beautiful handmade paper.

We played basketball again Saturday morning and lost 14-30. It's a bit of a rip-off—we're the only sport with Saturday matches at the moment. I don't mind that—I enjoy playing—but it makes it harder to find a team. People get so bitchy about it—it's not my fault that we have to play.

I tried out for ‘Flowers for Algernon' on Saturday too. That's the school play. It looks like it'll be a good play but I don't know how I went. It's hard being Year 9—you'd never get a big part. But at least nearly everyone in this dorm had a go.

But the main thing this weekend was my big fight with Peter. I rang him Saturday night and somehow we got onto the subject of the Mortal Danger $35 again. It's obvious that he's spent the money and he's trying to put me off till he can get some more from his parents. What a low-life. We ended up having a terrible fight and I hung up on him. I just can't believe he's done this. Guys really are jerks. They're such users. Well, he's used me for the last time. I'd rather talk to his parents than to him. How'd they come to have such a drop-kick for a son?

J
UNE
7

Chloe rang tonight, in a bad way. It's funny, we've never discussed each other's problems much, but suddenly she rings me like this and talks and talks, and cries too. Things don't sound too good. She reckons Dad'll get married to Lynette, and she can't stand Lynette. The worst thing for Chloe is that she's moved back in with Dad, and it was working quite well, but she says she couldn't live under the same roof as Lynette.

I still don't like Lynette that much either. She's OK I guess but if Dad gets married—well, I don't know, it seems like he's breaking things up even more. First there were the arguments, and the silences, then they moved to different houses, then they got divorced, then they started making new friends, and mixing with new groups of people . . . now, if Dad gets married again, where will it all end? It seems to go on for ever, further and further away from the life we used to have. I feel myself reaching back for it, like someone being washed out to sea, grabbing at the shore, my fingers leaving lines in the sand as the tide drags me away. I want to be back on the beach, on the hot dry beach.

The thing is, despite everything, I still like to think I'm a fighter, that if I work hard enough at something I can change it, that what I achieve is up to me. But with Mum and Dad, I don't seem to have any influence over what happens. They keep doing all these things, one after another, and they never even tell me—I find out about them indirectly or by accident, or when someone bothers to tell me.

I'm glad Chloe rang, though. I only wish I could have found something good to say to her. I couldn't think of anything much.

I'm meant to be preparing for this debate. ‘Life is Bliss?' Famines, floods, fires, AIDS. On the other hand chocolate, rowing, guys (sometimes), friends, teddy bears, trees, music . . .

It's Marina's birthday today, so we all partied on, on her behalf. She had a lot of tuck actually—first time ever—and she shared it round at supper. No-one wanted to take much, because it's so unusual for her to have anything, but we ate some. She would have been hurt if we hadn't.

She got such a shock this morning—we all had presents for her, and we sang ‘Happy Birthday' and all that stuff. I honestly don't know if she enjoyed it or not but I'm glad we did it. I gave her a Genetic Defects tape, and a poster of Jerome Vary (although that just comes with the tape). She got some good pressies.

J
UNE
8

I've got so many Crusades books on my desk that there's hardly any room for this Journal. Mr Lindell, if you ever do read this, I'm sorry it's a bit patchy at the moment but all my thoughts seem to be in the twelfth century.