by Leanne Hall
‘Do you know what email they were talking about?’ I stop for a moment, to speak face to face. Lisbeth has told me that noisy, open places don’t work for her.
‘I got it last night, I’ll send it to you.’ Lisbeth holds onto her red lunchbox and smiles. ‘See you in Japanese, Chloe.’
I say goodbye and dump the rest of my sandwich into the bin. On the way to English I count how many people would notice if I never showed up to school again. I do not need to use more than one hand.
Lisbeth is true to her word. Halfway through English an email comes through. I drop my iPad into my lap, using the desk as a shield.
Dear chloe, I don’t believe in chain emails but some of these points do seem quite sensible. liss x
WARNING!!! You must forward this email to five people in the next five days or someone close to you will be kidnapped!! Do not ignore this warning!
IN THE UNLIKELY EVENT OF AN ABDUCTION
1) Become an unappealing target. Deviants have fantasies about the innocence of schoolgirls so ruin that by making yourself seem older and experienced. If you have no personal sexual experience to draw on, you can channel a promiscuous character from a TV show.
2) Urinate. Experts recommend peeing yourself to prevent rape. It has never been reported that prior victim Karolina Bauer was raped, but statistically speaking that’s what these perpetrators usually do.
3) In the event that you can’t avoid abduction, remain calm and alert. Mentally record evidence and information. Some examples are: what kind of vehicle are you in? How many minutes was it to your destination? Did the car sound old or new? Did it smell of anything?
If you are taken to another location take note of your surroundings: stairs, paving, grass, type of doors, number of lights. Pay attention to outside noises: cars, trains, buses, trucks, planes, school bells, birds, lawnmowers and other people living nearby.
4) Do not look at the attacker or attempt to see his face. Identifying him is a death sentence.
5) If the attacker ties you up, breathe in as deeply as you can to expand your torso, and tense your muscles to make them bigger. When you exhale and relax, hopefully the binding will have loosened enough for you to free yourself.
6) You should try to be a good girl, obedient and well behaved, and make the attacker like and/or pity you. You shouldn’t try to escape. (This advice makes no sense in relation to points 1) and 5) but this is what the experts say, and it’s all we have to go on.)
DAY 4
I sigh, even though I really want to rip everything to shreds. Another photo ruined. The watercolour bleeds everywhere, turning the paper into a crinkly mess. I dab at it with a tissue, but I can’t save it.
Our final folio has to include a self-portrait, and it’s the one piece I’ve been avoiding. I can do still lifes and landscapes and portraits of other people very happily, just don’t ask me to look too hard at my own face.
Painting over my school photo was the easiest way I could think of to meet the requirement. I had the idea after I stumbled across an interesting photo of a young geisha. The portrait was from the late 1800s, so before colour photography, but it had been hand-painted so well it almost looked real. The geisha’s cheeks were flushed pink, and the floral pattern of her kimono was meticulously coloured, with daubs of red and yellow and green.
I thought it would be a relatively easy effect to replicate, but I’ve ruined five prints so far. It’s hard to concentrate on anything today. I couldn’t settle in bed last night, and when I look around at my classmates’ faces, I don’t think they slept well either.
I fold the latest botched photo in half and thumb through my sketchbook instead, trying to remember a distant era when I had one good creative concept. At Morrison our Art teachers would give us very specific themes and assignments we had to complete, but Balmoral takes a much looser approach. You’d think that would be good, but actually it is a form of torture. My ideas start solid and sure in my brain, but quickly turn wispy when I try to get them out into the real world.
What I should do is complete my self-portrait, accept its mediocrity, and then free myself to focus on my major project. But I don’t. Instead, I start eavesdropping on Ms Nouri’s consultation with Audrey at the table behind me.
‘I was inspired by the work of early female video artists,’ Audrey says. ‘I want to use my own body and face to explore ideas about connection and place, but also keep a surrealist edge to it.’
I want to roll my eyes, but the fact is, I’m intimidated. I have never made a video good enough to call art; it’s difficult not to look amateur, even though we have access to all this equipment. Balmoral has ten art studios, a photography studio, three darkrooms, a printing room, a dedicated woodwork space, this massive pottery kiln, and a tech studio full of 3D printers and computers loaded up with the latest software.
‘I’ve collected images from all the places around the world my family has lived and projected them onto my skin…’
It would be nice if Audrey was all hot wind, but she’s not. She’s good. Her certainty about her art underscores my complete lack.
‘Remember to move beyond technique and fully explore your idea,’ says Ms Nouri.
I realise she could be speaking directly to me about my self-portrait. All I’ve got is the technique of using paint to hand-tint a photo, but no idea behind that.
The art-room door opens.
‘Ms Nouri, could I have a quick word?’
Ms Nouri excuses herself and stands in the corridor with Ms Baker, my Biology teacher. Almost immediately, the speculation starts, as if there has been a river of chatter flowing beneath the surface all this time. It’s painfully obvious that things are going on that we’re not being told about. Teachers keep getting called out of class, extra security guards roam the campus and serious men in suits walk the corridors.
‘I told you, it’s the dad.’
Sarah’s voice is crystal clear, even from the other end of the room—she’s obviously under the mistaken impression that her easel has created a floor-to-ceiling sound barrier.
‘My mum finds it hard to believe that he slept through the whole thing.’
I can’t tell who the other voice is, but it will be one of the Blondes. They only take Art because they think it’s an easy A, which shows they don’t know Ms Nouri very well.
‘Not the stepdad, he’s ancient. I mean Yin’s real father, the Chinese guy. Apparently he runs an importing business and spends a lot of time overseas. He could easily be involved in organised crime.’
‘I saw something on YouTube about the Triads once.’
‘Also, the custody battle for Yin when they divorced was nasty, so she could already be back in China being forced to marry some old man, and she’ll never be heard of again. They don’t have proper laws or protection over there.’
Over in the boarder section of the room, Jody says to Brooke, ‘My mum says there are way too many Asians at Balmoral these days. It wasn’t like that when she went here. My parents are thinking of sending me somewhere else. If they wanted me to be around this many Asians, we’d move to Bangkok or something.’
I lean around the edge of my easel to shoot a filthy look in Sarah’s direction for starting up the conversation. The Blondes have set up their easels in a semi-circle, right next to the radiator, with Natalia at the centre. Sarah has her phone angled above her head, ready for a pouting selfie.
The international students—from Hong Kong, Mainland China, Malaysia, Taiwan—have a habit of keeping to themselves in another corner, but there’s no way they can’t hear what’s going on. I can’t believe they have to live in the boarding house with people like Jody. My heart speeds up.
Sarah clocks me staring at her and pauses, her mouth an ugly slash. ‘What? Have you got something to say to me?’
Ally and Marley lean out further for a better look, smelling delicious conflict.
‘You were being a bit racist, don’t you think?’ I want my voice to sound strong, but inst
ead it wobbles.
‘How is what I said racist?’ Sarah’s genuinely confused.
‘Well…automatically assuming that Yin’s dad is a gangster, like a walking stereotype from a John Woo movie and—and the forced marriage to an old man thing. And they do have laws in China, they’re just different from the laws here.’
I struggle to order my thoughts. There’s plenty to be said about the rule of law in China and human rights, but that’s way too nuanced for this conversation.
‘I don’t even know who John Woo is.’ Sarah hits back straight away. ‘And anyway, stereotypes are there for a reason. They’ve have to be a bit true or how do they even start?’
‘We don’t mean you, Chloe,’ says Ally in her baby-soft voice. I’m surprised she knows my name. ‘You’re not a real Asian, you know what I mean? You’re from here.’
Her eyes shoot over to the international students, as if I won’t get it. In her eyes I’m slightly more acceptable because I was born here and I don’t have an accent.
‘I don’t think that’s relevant.’ I’m already regretting having broken my rule to always fly under the radar. Natalia’s eyes settle on me. ‘It’s offensive to anyone. But you are actually half talking about me, okay?’
It’s more than that. It’s more than half of me. Because I take after Mum so strongly, the world sees me as Asian, therefore I am. It’s not like that for Sam, who looks more like Dad.
‘Lighten up, girl. Really.’ Sarah returns to her pose, but Natalia stands up and snatches Sarah’s phone right out of her hand. She has her predator face on again.
‘Sarah, did you know I’ve got a special name for your selfies?’ She pauses. Every head in the room turns to her. ‘I call them Insert-Dick-Here photos. Maybe you should change your handle to that.’
There’s stunned silence. Sarah looks cut to the ground.
‘What? You’ve always got your mouth wide open, what am I supposed to think? Lighten up, girl. Really.’
Natalia sits down and smiles at me, secretly, conspiratorially. I look away. I don’t need her to defend me.
‘Way too harsh, Tal.’ Ally sounds thrilled and impressed.
‘It’s got nothing to do with Yin’s dad, anyway, it’s the same guy who took that German girl.’ Brooke would never normally join in a conversation with the Blondes, but people have been talking all day, to anyone. She’s on tiptoes, trying to see the two teachers in the corridor. ‘Did you see those two men outside reception? I bet they’re plain clothes detectives. Ooop!’
Brooke makes it to her stool as Ms Nouri slips back into the classroom.
Natalia raises her hand. ‘Ms Nouri, why did the life model get cancelled? Sarah was looking forward to seeing a naked dude.’
Sarah’s expression doesn’t even change. She’s still shell-shocked from the first takedown. Natalia looks at me again, and this time I stare back, trying to figure her out. I don’t need your help, I try to say with my eyes. But maybe that’s not it, maybe she’s randomly lashing out at her own friends for no good reason. There’s no sign of the desperation I glimpsed on her face in the quad yesterday.
‘We thought it best to reschedule.’
‘Is it because he’s a suspect?’
Ms Nouri sits on the edge of her cluttered desk. The art rooms are the only places at school that aren’t unnaturally neat. She’s wearing a black dress and tights that look like smashed-up stained-glass windows.
‘Let’s discuss the art prize,’ she says. ‘The deadline is the week before your major project is due. So you should all consider finishing your project early and entering the prize. This year I want to make a proper exhibition out of it—Mrs Christie has already agreed to let us use the main hallway. Most of you have been working hard, and I think it would be great for other students to see what you’ve done. We’re going to award a separate prize for the student vote.’
Ms Nouri seems to stare hard at me in particular as she says this. I let my head drop, and my hair closes around my face. How could anyone not know about the art prize, given the entire school is plastered with posters about it?
At the beginning of the year I looked up Ms Nouri’s website. She’s a real artist, with a painting degree from the best art school in Tehran. She’s done commissions and exhibitions, and is way too talented to be stuck at Balmoral. I want to impress her so much it’s crippling. And the $500 first prize would be handy.
‘How can we think that far ahead when we don’t know if we’ll survive this week?’ Ally’s voice is plaintive.
‘I know it’s difficult right now, Ally.’ Ms Nouri is known as one of the most genuinely sympathetic teachers at school. ‘Do your best, that’s all. You’ve got roughly two months to go, keep that in mind.’
Brooke raises her hand. Ms Nouri doesn’t like us to do that, but habits are hard to break. ‘Miss, who were those men in the lobby earlier?’
Ms Nouri combs her fringe flat with her fingers, looking nervous. She never talks down to us, and that’s why everyone likes her.
‘I was told they were gentlemen from the Sexual Crimes Squad.’ Her face takes a funny turn; she regrets being so honest. It shuts everyone up.
Arnold and I run our usual route, along the Renfrew Street strip of shops, past the mini-mart, the servo and the medical clinic. Most places are preparing to close.
I move onto the gravel shoulder of the road. There’s still peak-hour traffic rushing past, and it’s not the safest place to jog, but I keep going. The more my legs hurt the more I can forget that train wreck of a conversation in Art class. Broken glass from bottles and old car accidents hides among the small stones, and I have to ignore two guys in a ute, who slow down beside me and whistle and try to get me to look at them.
‘Nice dog!’ one of them yells.
It’s unclear whether they’re referring to Arnold or me.
My legs ache but I’m already enjoying the rhythmic huh-huh of my breath, and the cold pinching my cheeks. I’m so glad to be back in crappy Morrison Heights and far away from school. The entire year level has been suspended precariously between crying and hysterical laughter all week. Every time the PA crackles we all jump a mile, like we’re about to receive the worst news.
The most difficult thing is that there hasn’t been any news about Yin at all.
A car screeches loudly behind me, and then shoots past, a leering face pressed against the rear window. Arnold strains at his leash. I pretend I’m one of Sam’s superheroes, the kind that can achieve full invisibility.
By the time we reach the park, my tracksuit pants are rubbing against my sweaty thighs. I used to walk Arnold in my school uniform, before I accepted that he has one speed only: full tilt. So now I wear my oldest pair of tracky daks and my sneakers. Arnold goes wild the moment I pull his lead out of the cupboard.
At the entrance to the park I almost collide with another jogger—a guy my age in high-tech leggings and earphones.
‘Hey!’ he says, not bothered by our near-collision. ‘Evening!’
I frown in return. He’s not puffing at all, while I sound like a malfunctioning steam train.
The jogger is a park regular, I see him out most evenings. He’s cute too. Not my type—too sporty—but cute. Once I’m sure he’s crossed the road, I turn and check out his springy stride. The leggings cut his muscles into defined areas.
The park is emptier than usual. The light is fading and the grass is already wet with dew. It was a mistake to do my homework first. Sometimes I run with earbuds in, but not tonight. If someone comes up behind me, I want to hear them.
We pound the train path, down the hill and across the creek. I think about how the jogger probably plays football (deal breaker), and how Brandon from my old school is ruining his near-genius brain with pot, and how the Grammar boys on the tram are way too clean-cut and not inclined to slum it, not that I need anyone’s pity lust anyway.
‘You’ll marry me, won’t you, Arnold? If I get to thirty and don’t have anyone?’
A
rnold gallops and pants inappropriately and doesn’t answer, as usual.
This is what I know about this park: no one has ever been raped in it, but there was a flasher here when I was in Grade Six.
Arnold doesn’t mind the way the trees crowd thickly on either side of the path, creating shadows where a person could hide. Hide and then leap out, pulling an arm tight against my throat, feet kicking against air.
The bridge clangs as we thump over it. I squint into the distance. A figure crests the hill ahead. I can’t tell if it’s a man or a woman.
Normally the park brings me a small sense of peace, even though it’s pretty basic as far as parks go. The train line runs the length of it at the top of a high embankment, and to the right is a lumpy paddock criss-crossed with paths and the creek. The park sits on top of a waste site: rusted barrels and broken concrete blocks still poke through the green. Some of the blocks look like grey french fries scattered among the ti-trees.
I consider turning back, but the view from the top of the hill makes the pain of running worth it. If I let myself get scared, then it means another victory for the evil people of the world. Still, I fish my keys out of my waistband pocket and grip them so they poke out for maximum stabbing potential.
Stop being irrational, I tell myself. You’re in no greater danger today than before Yin was taken.
As we get closer I can see that the mystery person is a man in a suit, probably on his way home from work. Not many men wear suits around here. Suit-wearers are supposed to be respectable, but more importantly, they sit at desks day after day and are probably unfit.
When the man gets within ten metres I draw myself up to my full height and lift my feet, making sure I look carefree and energetic, as if I could run at this pace for hours. I consider spitting on the ground to gross him out.
Out of nowhere, Arnold growls. He never growls.
The man—balding, white, dad-aged—assesses me below the neck, but never meets my eyes. We pass each other. I continue up the hill, he continues down. The moment passes. Even Arnold relaxes.
