Thyla (12 page)

The person I least wanted to see my scars was the one who saw them first.

I was in the washroom at recess time, after a science lesson where I had listened to perhaps one half of what our teacher, Mrs Bush, had told us.

We were learning about the phases of the moon, in preparation for an upcoming class astronomy session. At first, I was enthralled by her words. As Mrs Bush talked about the orbits of the sun and earth, and illuminations and eclipses, my skin itched and tingled with excitement. When she told us that the astronomy session would involve a viewing of the full moon – the most famous and magical of the lunar phases – my ears began to buzz.

As she said, ‘It will be an excellent opportunity for us to observe the full moon, in all its glory, with our new telescope, which was kindly provided to us by Mr Lord …’ my scars began to throb.

It was my scars that drew my attention away from what Mrs Bush was saying. Though I was still intrigued by this talk of the moon and its powers, the pain in my scars overwhelmed me. They ached and burned and pounded – it felt as though they were coming alive and raising up even more beneath my school shirt. I was very glad I had decided to wear my thick blazer again that day.

I dimly heard the discussion turn to werewolves and contacting spirits. I wanted to listen but my scars hurt so much now it was impossible to concentrate. I closed my eyes and allowed my mind to drift away to other things.

Like Perrin.

I could see his face in my mind, with its strong angles, its white skin, its huge, dark eyes and the jagged scar that slashed across his cheek. I could see his wide, wicked grin, and his sleek, slicked-back hair. I could see the tenseness of his muscles beneath his shirt, and his strong, pale hands.

And I felt quite embarrassed about how I had acted. He wasn’t really
that
rude to me, and
I
had behaved like a banshee.

I wished I could take it back. I wished I had taken his hand. Though I did not know why, I believed that holding Perrin’s hand would be …
thrilling.

All the while, as I thought of this, the pain in my scars grew more and more intense, until it felt as though I might faint and slide from my chair. I gripped the side of my desk to keep myself from slipping away.

Laurel, who sat next to me in science class, turned to me and whispered, ‘You okay? You look kinda funny.’

‘Miss Simpson, would you like to share your message with the whole class?’ Mrs Bush growled, making Laurel and I both sit bolt upright.

Laurel shook her head, her fuzzy red curls bobbing and shimmying. ‘Um, not really, Mrs Bush,’ she replied. ‘Sorry.’

‘What about you, Miss Connolly?’ asked Mrs Bush, and I felt a tiny blush of happiness at hearing my own name attached to yours. It felt nice, even as I was being chastised. It felt as though we were connected.

‘Laurel was just asking if I was okay, Mrs Bush,’ I admitted, feeling the need to stand up for Laurel. She looked across at me, gratefully. ‘She was just being a good friend.’

Mrs Bush nodded, and gave a half-smile. ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ she said. ‘I’ll be even more glad if Miss Simpson can tell us the name of the “werewolf” illness I was just telling you about – the one that is connected with the full moon.’

‘Lycanthropy,’ I answered, before Laurel could even open her mouth (and I suspect that if she did open her mouth, she would not have given the same answer). I didn’t mean to speak out of turn, and I’m not quite sure where the word sprang from. I couldn’t remember hearing Mrs Bush say it.

I could tell by the look on Mrs Bush’s face that she was less impressed with my answering than she was annoyed at the fact I had answered in Laurel’s place.

‘Sorry, Mrs Bush,’ I said, quickly. ‘I know you asked Laurel, but I’m really not feeling well.’

‘Do you need to go to the sick room, Tessa?’ asked Mrs Bush.

My scars gave another twang and I nodded.

‘Okay, then. There’s only five minutes or so left of class, so you may go. Have a good read of the symptoms and folklore of lycanthropy as your homework tonight, and also their basis in science, ready to give me a full report tomorrow. I hope you feel better.’

‘Thanks, Mrs Bush,’ I replied. I gathered up my books and left the classroom, giving Laurel a grateful smile as I walked past. She grinned back.

‘Miss Simpson, focus, please,’ said Mrs Bush, and I saw Laurel roll her eyes and slump further down in her seat.

By the time I left the classroom, I had already decided I would
not
go to the sick room. I had been lucky to avoid it the day of the ‘period’. I knew that the nurses there already knew about me. You had asked Ms Hindmarsh to inform them so that if I did need medical attention, they would be, as you said, ‘up to speed’. I wasn’t afraid to tell the nurses about my scars. I was afraid that there might be some other student there in the sick room as well: one who might overhear our conversation, or catch a glimpse of my back as I showed the nurse.

I decided instead to go straight to the washroom and have a look at my scars myself, to see if they really were growing. Everyone else would still be in the classrooms. I would be alone. It would be the perfect time for me to examine my back in private.

I shrugged my thick wool blazer from my shoulders, enjoying the rush of cool air that took its place. I really could not understand how all the other girls endured the shirts and blazers – and sometimes even jumpers as well – every day. They all complained that it was cold, that winter in Hobart was torture.

I liked the cold. It made me feel alive. Being stuck inside, in the cloying, stifling heat made me feel as if I was slowly suffocating.

It was better in the washroom, though, which (when there were no running showers filling the room with steam) was the coolest place in the school. And it was better with my heavy clothes off.

After my blazer, I removed my shirt. Then I unhooked my bra (a contraption I hated, but which you said I must wear to avoid pain when running or playing sport. I did try physical education without it one day. You were right.).

I kicked off my shoes and peeled off my socks. The feeling of the cool tiles against the soles of my feet was Heaven. I padded slowly over to the mirror and, just as slowly, turned around.

What I saw made me gasp, made my face burn, made my heart flutter like the wings of a thornbill.

My scars
had
changed. Back at the hospital, when I had first been shown them, the scars had been pale pink lines across my back. They had been thick and long, and had looked as though whatever caused them had been painful – but they had just looked like scars.

Now they weren’t pink any more. They were black.

And they were much thicker and wider, and raised about half a centimetre from the rest of my skin. They didn’t look like scars any more.

They looked like stripes.

But still the sight of them didn’t scare me. Not after I got over the first shock. In fact, they looked to me almost … beautiful.

I ran my hands over them, letting my fingertips ride over the bumps and ridges. It felt good. The fine hairs on my back stood up as my skin goosebumped with pleasure. My stripes liked to be touched. I smiled. Though I should have been afraid or worried for my health, I wasn’t. In the cool silence of the washroom, with my fingers caressing my transformed scars, I felt sublimely happy.

The silence, and my joy, was shattered in an instant by the sound of a strangled scream.

I whirled around.

And found myself face to face with Charlotte Lord.

Charlotte Lord had many friends. Friends she enjoyed gossiping with. Friends she enjoyed telling secrets to.

And Charlotte Lord’s friends liked gossiping too.

By the end of the day, I felt every eye in Cascade Falls upon me, and I heard my name whispered behind every mouth-shielding hand.

Everyone knew. They knew I wasn’t normal. They knew I was
different
. And it hurt. It hurt so badly.

I limped my way through afternoon classes, barely hearing a word any of my teachers said. My mind was full of one word only: the word that Charlotte had spat once she had finished screaming, and before she had turned and run from the washroom. The same word that Inga had used and that had been inked on my history class desk.

Freak.

That’s what I was. I was a freak.

I was a girl with no memory, who had been discovered as a wild thing in the middle of the bush, who had strange dreams, who smelled more keenly, heard more powerfully, who had strength that seemed unnatural, who hated the heat that everyone else loved.

And I had stripes.

At the end of my last class – mathematics – I grabbed my books hastily and ran from the classroom as fast as I could. All I wanted was to be in my bedroom. Alone. Away from the whispers and the stares. I wanted to curl up beneath my doona and make it all go away.

As I ran down the hallway, I passed Erin and Laurel.

‘Hey, Tessa! What’s wrong?’ Laurel called out. I shook my head and kept running. I ran all the way back to room 36. I wrenched the door open, leapt inside and shut it quickly behind me. On the other side, I turned my back to the door and slid down onto the floor. I put my head in my hands and cried.

‘Tessa? What’s happened?’

The voice made my head jerk upwards.

Rhiannah was lying on her bed facing me, a pile of books beside her. Her eyes were wide with concern.

‘What are you doing here?’ I asked, between my sobbing. ‘Class only just finished.’

‘I got the day off. Told Ms Hindmarsh I felt a wog coming on and I wanted to recover before the walk. I’m not really sick. I just wanted some R and R and I kind of needed to catch up on my homework. Been spending a bit too much time bushwalking lately, I guess! I found something, actually, when I was researching for history. Something kind of creepy, in an old book in the library. I think you should look at it. But do you wanna tell me what’s wrong first, Tess?’

I decided it was time. Time to tell her everything.

I just needed to tell
somebody
. I mean, I know that
you
knew, Connolly, but I needed to tell someone else. Someone my own age. Someone at Cascade Falls. I banished all thoughts of bent-back legs, of leaping over walls. Rhiannah was a young girl, just like me. She was my friend. And she was strange, as I was. She would understand.

And so I told her everything. About having no memory, no past, no family. About how I was found on the mountain.

And then, finally, about my stripes.

When I told her the last part, her face grew even paler than usual, and I noticed her hands gripping the corner of the bed, her long nails digging in.

‘Can I see them?’ she whispered.

I shrugged. Why not? I had already told her everything. I might as well
show
her as well. I pulled my shirt up and turned around.

Rhiannah gasped. ‘Oh, crap,’ she whispered.

‘I know. I know. I’m a freak,’ I said, sniffing.

‘No,’ Rhiannah replied, and her voice was firm. ‘No, mate. You’re not. You’re …’

Rhiannah shook her head, and stood up quickly.

‘I have to go,’ she said, and grabbed her backpack. She started stuffing things into it – clothing, a torch, a woollen hat.

‘Where are you going?’ I asked. ‘Can’t you stay and talk to me?’

Rhiannah shook her head quickly. ‘I need to go and …’

She stopped and looked at me intently. Her eyes darted towards the heavy book that was on the top of the pile she had been reading. She marched over to the bed and grabbed it.

‘Look at this,’ she said, handing it to me. ‘I found it kind of fallen down behind the library shelves. I’ve been trying to make sense of it all afternoon. I thought it was just a creepy coincidence, but now, after what you’ve shown me, maybe it makes more sense. I don’t know. Just read it. I’ll be back in the morning.’

‘You’re going out tonight?’ I asked.

Rhiannah nodded. ‘Yeah. Bushwalk. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?’

She raced from the room before I had time to say another word, leaving me alone with the hefty book.

My eyes brimming with tears, I looked down at it.

At first I wasn’t sure what I was looking at. I wiped crossly at my eyes.

‘I don’t cry,’ I muttered, through clenched teeth. ‘I don’t …’

As the words and pictures on the page became clearer, they sucked all the words from my throat.

I sat, open-mouthed, staring and reading and trying to make sense of what I was seeing. Finally, as I reached the end, I used a phrase I sometimes heard you use, Connolly, when you got particularly annoyed with Vinnie’s grumpiness, or when some new lead about who I might be failed to produce any answers.

I let the heavy book fall with a thud to the floor, and I whispered, ‘Holy hell.’