by Leanne Hall
‘Why don’t you search my house, if you’re so convinced?’ Pulpitt says but my feet have finally come unstuck and I’m not convinced at all.
I run and run, as fast as I can.
When I reach the train station I’m still shaking all over and my shirt is plastered to my back and my throat hurts and my hands hurt and it was not fun being a detective or assassin and I feel grubby all over.
Even though it’s the middle of the day, there are still quite a few people on the platform and they’re all staring at me but not in the good way, more in a what-is-wrong-with-her way. I walk right to the end and find a bench, sitting with my head in my hands.
If Samuel Pulpitt isn’t Doctor Calm, that means someone else is. There are probably hundreds or thousands or tens of thousands of men out there who hate girls and want to hurt them and the world keeps going around and nothing changes. And what can we do? Make a photo, chase a suspect, read the news.
My face is either freezing cold or boiling hot—I can’t tell anymore.
I’m so so tired and term is about to start on Monday and I’ll have to face everyone and put my game face on and it’s as if I haven’t had a holiday at all. Yin will have slipped from everyone’s minds a little bit more, and by the time exams and the formal come around she will have slipped completely, and by the time we’re in Year Twelve and going on to live full and interesting lives she’ll be a puff of dust in the distance, still only sixteen years old.
The tracks hum and I shuffle to the edge of the platform as the train arrives, the robot voice chanting over the PA and then the train comes in fast and loud, squealing metal on metal.
There’s a moment of danger when the train pushes hot dragon breath around me and I’m dizzy and it would be nothing to let myself fall forwards, off the platform and into space. All I have to do is take another step forward, then another. It would be that easy.
The lurching spreads all the way through me as the train streaks past in a rush of sound and wind. I haven’t moved, of course I haven’t, because I don’t want to move, I don’t want to fall, I want to live, I know that. I really want to live. Seconds feel like hours and I walk towards the nearest carriage door. All I can think is: I can’t go on like this.
On the train I find the quietest seat and read Chloe’s message.
Yeah. I talked to a cool artist. Thanks for inviting me.
She doesn’t apologise for leaving the opening without saying goodbye and quite frankly I don’t need her to, I just need her to keep replying to me. I don’t know if I’d describe Genital Gerard as ‘cool’ but maybe it’s an art thing. I read and reread her words, trying to discover more of their tone and mood, but they stay the same.
Mum sits at the dining table with her laptop open in front of her, reading glasses on, a cup of coffee beside her, in an example of the most normal scene you could conjure up in our household.
‘Did you have a nice time at Chloe’s?’ She flips her glasses to the top of her head. I think she knows I lied.
‘Great,’ I say. Our potted palm needs watering, no one has stacked the dishwasher since yesterday, and nothing has changed at all in the world. I met a sex criminal, I yelled at a rapist and still everything is exactly the same.
‘I hurt my hands.’
I hold them out towards her. I’ve grazed both of my palms, close to my wrists.
‘Oh, sweetie, how did you do that?’ Mum gets up straight away.
‘Tripped and fell over.’ I have the vaguest memory of stepping off the gutter near Stockton station and flying, sprawling across the asphalt and bouncing up again.
‘Upstairs,’ says Mum and I follow her to their ensuite, where she washes, disinfects and bandages my hands. Her touch is cool, her presence soothing.
‘Mum, can we do delivery tonight?’ I ask.
‘Sure,’ she says and she lets me wear her slippers and dressing gown because somehow hers are so much softer and more comforting than mine.
DAY 58
I start Term Four locked in a toilet cubicle, the mature and reliable technique I used heavily in my first few weeks at Balmoral. Looking down at my hands, I can literally see the work I did on the holidays: paint under my fingernails, irritated patches from the glue, a tiny cut from my scalpel. I had to take a 7 a.m. bus here this morning, dragging my clunky artwork with me, and I’m already exhausted.
The illusion of bathroom calm holds for one moment, but then I picture the bell ringing at the end of form assembly and thousands of girls spilling into the corridors, funnelling up towards the Great Hall for all-school assembly. The entries for the school art prize, including mine, have been hung in the main corridor along the outside length of the Hall.
Everyone that enters the school will see them.
I spent the weekend in a frenzy of collaging, making a frame around my photo that hopefully gives some context to the piece. Adut recommended I look up a German artist called Hannah Höch, who used collage to comment on gender issues and criticise the government. It was just the reference I needed, so I put my doubts aside and went for it. I’ve used newspaper snippets about missing women, shreds of Devil Creek episode descriptions, excerpts from one of Mum’s crime books and a dozen tiny cut-out clones of me in my school uniform, standing or crouched, looking inside at Natalia.
I’ve called the piece Someone’s Watching, because the words seemed like they held a few different meanings.
My phone buzzes. Three guesses who that will be.
Where r u
Your photo is getting some love
I wash my hands and leave my haven. The corridors are still full so maybe the first bell hasn’t even rung yet. I make my way to the main corridor and try not to think about vomiting all over my shoes.
To my surprise there are already quite a few girls looking at the paintings and sculptures and hanging costumes. Many of them hold the green voting forms for the students’ choice award. It’s a bigger deal than I thought it would be.
Natalia and her friends are easy to spot, clumped at the end of the hallway. Somehow I don’t think of them as The Blondes anymore. I wonder if she told them that we hung out on the holidays.
‘Chloe! Yours is so good!’ Lisbeth appears next to me. ‘It’s very intense.’
‘Oh. Thanks, Lisbeth.’
I feel a rush of affection for her.
‘I never thought I’d say this, but Natalia almost looks like an angel.’ Lisbeth glances around. ‘And I know she’s not.’
She looks guilty, as if she’s said something really mean.
I smile. ‘I know what you mean. Maybe she could be a fallen angel?’
‘Yes, you’re so right!’ I’d forgotten that when Lisbeth gets excited, her curls actually bounce up and down, for real. She’s so sweet, it’s ridiculous. I missed her on the holidays. ‘Hey, maybe I’ll see you in the quad at lunch today?’
‘I would love that! And I’m definitely going to vote for you, Chloe. You can count on me.’
Lisbeth drifts away and Natalia pretends she doesn’t see me coming towards her but I know she does. I wonder if she expects me to apologise for disappearing from the Park ARC exhibition. I don’t feel like apologising, even though I probably should. She did completely neglect me that night, but it ended up being helpful.
There’s a semicircle of space in front of my photo. Sarah, Ally and Marley say hello, which is about the most I’ve ever gotten from them. Sarah and Ally are both deeply tanned.
I stand next to Natalia and dare to look. It’s one of the biggest pieces on the wall.
‘What do you think?’ It occurs to me that the photo is an exposure of sorts for her as well. Maybe she’s more comfortable with that than me, though.
‘I had no idea you were going to do this extra stuff.’
Natalia leans in to inspect my collage. An eternity passes. I was so rushed getting it done that I didn’t have time to judge if it worked. I’d rather Natalia tell me the truth than lie. I still think she looks great and otherworldl
y in the photo, even if the lighting isn’t perfect.
‘Of course I’m insanely jealous that you’re so talented,’ Natalia says eventually. Her face and voice are uncharacteristically flat.
‘Are you sure you like it?’
Light slants through the high windows, striking Natalia’s face at an odd angle. She’s pale, and there are blue marks under her eyes. She doesn’t look like someone coming off the back of two weeks holiday. Then again, I probably look equally pasty after spending all my time in Dad’s shed.
‘It’s great. I like it. I look good for a dead person.’
‘Or asleep,’ I remind her. ‘Hibernating attractively.’
‘I wish I could believe that,’ she says.
Sarah pushes Ally into position and takes a photo of her looking at me looking at Natalia, which is so many levels of meta I can’t even figure it out. I’m still not convinced that Natalia isn’t mad at me for leaving the exhibition opening early. If the others weren’t here I’d ask her straight out.
The bell rings and Marley sidles up to me. ‘I feel very disturbed, Chloe,’ she sighs, with a hand on her heart and a smile on her face.
In fourth period English we troop down to the main corridor and view the exhibition as a class. Mr Purdy wants us to use the artworks as writing prompts, which I’m pretty sure is a convenient way to keep us busy so he can play Solitaire on his iPad.
‘Devices away!’ he shouts. ‘I want you to try writing by hand. It’s good for your brains.’
‘Can I do a graphic novel?’ calls out Teaghan.
‘No.’
Mr Purdy always wears brown suit pants that are too tight. It means that when he’s standing in front of us, with his legs apart and his hands on his hips, we all have to look away.
Audrey raises her hand. ‘What about poetry?’
Purdy is more irritated by us than he should be. ‘Sure.’
‘No fair.’ Teaghan slams her folders down.
I ignore my entry and spend my time looking at the other work in the exhibition. A Year Eight girl has made some surprisingly good felt toys, mushrooms and fungi and moss. The Year Nines have obviously been working on still life recently, because there are several paintings of flowers, vases, jugs and fruit. Up the far end is a mannequin dressed in an amazing Marie Antoinette-style costume made from recycled rubbish by a Year Eleven.
I sit down in front of Bochen’s entry—her pencil portrait of Mercury Yee. Bochen has rendered Mercury’s face with painstaking detail in orange and blue and pink, showing her sucking on a bubble cup with her mouth twisted comically to the side. Her style is exaggerated and realistic at the same time. The drawing must have taken hours and hours to complete. She’s incredibly talented.
I write a few stiff lines in my notebook and then cross them out. They’re so bad I would rather cut off my hands than have anyone read them. I am not in the headspace for creative writing.
‘I don’t get it,’ Petra says to Audrey. They’re directly to my right, ignoring me and looking at the felt mushrooms. Audrey is lying on her tummy, already scribbling furiously. ‘What are we supposed to be writing about?’
Audrey waves her away. ‘Express yourself, P, I don’t know.’
‘Excuse me, Chloe?’
Bridie and Sunita crouch next to me.
‘I want to write about your photo,’ Bridie whispers, ‘but I was wondering, what does it mean?’
I answer truthfully. ‘I’m not one hundred per cent sure.’
‘Is it meant to be scary?’
I let out a breath. How am I going to explain the book covers and Devil Creek and the other things and how it didn’t turn out precisely as I wanted it to?
‘I want to write about it too.’ Sunita has her pen poised over her notebook, ready to take notes. ‘Is it about Yin?’
‘Not really.’ But that’s not totally true either. It isn’t about Yin directly, but it does have something to do with her. Sort of.
‘I think it’s a story where two schoolgirls get murdered,’ Sunita says. ‘So the title Someone’s Watching means that there’s a guy we can’t see and he’s about to attack them with a knife.’
‘I guess?’ I don’t want to reject her idea, especially as this is the first proper conversation we’ve ever had.
‘Sunny, that’s completely wrong. Look, she’s already bleeding, so he’s already attacked them.’
Sunita writes in her notebook. ‘Shhh, babe, I’m feeling it.’
I notice Mr Purdy looking at us, so I keep my voice low. ‘If you look closely you can see the red’s actually feathers. It was more about the colour.’
‘I’ll have to look at it again.’ Bridie seems disappointed by my response. I rack my brains for something Ms Nouri might say.
‘It’s not my meaning that matters anymore. The point is what happens when you look at my photo. It’s yours now. You get to make your own meaning.’
Sunita stops writing for one moment. ‘That is literally the one of the deepest things I have ever heard, Chloe.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, and they retreat.
Next to me, Audrey is on her third page of notebook, filling the space up with lines and lines of words, but Petra is getting more and more restless. By the amount of deep huffs coming from her direction, I’m guessing she likes creative writing about as much as I do.
Eventually she puts up her hand.
‘Mr Purdy, I don’t get it. What themes are we supposed to be writing about?’
Even though you can tell he doesn’t want to lift a finger, Purdy comes over. I cover my mostly empty page with my arm, and turn away.
‘Why does there have to be a theme?’ Purdy says. ‘Break some rules. Let your imagination run wild.’
‘I’ve tried, and I can’t. I don’t like any of them.’
Both Petra and Purdy sound more annoyed than you’d think anyone would be about a minor task.
‘Year Tens,’ Purdy raises his voice and both his hands. ‘The exercise is very simple. How about less whingeing and more independent thought?’
‘How can he say that?’ Petra says, low and furious to Audrey. ‘Who does he think he is?’
‘Work independently, ladies,’ whispers Teaghan, doing her best deep-voiced Purdy impersonation, ‘and let me get back to watching my porn.’
DAY 59
Tuesday morning is quieter, but girls I don’t even know are still coming up to me in the hallway to compliment me on my photo.
It’s regular, standard-issue Balmoral, just with one major change, as if we’ve slipped into a parallel universe where people know my name.
I have a spare for second period, so I go to my usual table in the library. Petra is already set up there, tackling statistics, by the look of it. Thanks to art dominating my holidays, I figure I’m at least a month behind in my maths homework.
‘Room for me?’
Petra looks annoyed to be interrupted but nods and continues hunching over her books and poking at her calculator.
I sit down and begin the Chapter Ten exercises but it’s hard to concentrate. Petra is restless when she studies; she crosses and uncrosses her legs, scrunches bits of paper, sighs a lot, drums her fingers on the table.
After a few more minutes of my mind sliding over maths problems and not landing anywhere I catch Petra sneaking glances at me.
I put down my pen. ‘These graphs are killing me.’
It’s an excuse to talk—in fact the only good thing about stats is drawing nice neat diagrams on clean, checked graph paper. Petra looks tired. We haven’t bumped into each other at our lockers yet this week.
‘How were your holidays?’ I ask.
She looks away so I barely catch her words. ‘I went home.’
‘Where’s home?’
‘Karraton. The country.’
If I didn’t know better I’d say she’s upset about something. We’ve built up a tenuous connection since the notorious self-defence class, but none of that is there today. I try to think of a top
ic that will interest her but I fail and return to my calculations.
A few minutes later Petra packs up her things abruptly and leaves without saying goodbye.
I pedal as hard as I can on stats, trying to make up for my neglect. Mrs Wang has been trying to talk me into doing Advanced Maths next year, but I’m not sure.
If I could, I’d do all humanities and absolutely no science or maths for the next two years, but Balmoral want us to choose subjects that will get our university entrance scores scaled up, even if we’re not interested in them. I’m already worried our careers counsellor won’t let me study Art next year unless I commit to applying for a Visual Arts course at uni, which isn’t an actual option.
With about fifteen minutes of period two left, Mrs Berryman gives me a heart attack by appearing right next to me, out of thin air. Secret librarian skills.
‘Chloe? Ms Nouri has asked to see you.’
‘Now? Why?’
‘Not sure, love, but she wants you to go up to her office.’
Mrs Berryman should swap places with the school counsellor or nurse, she’s that nice.
I gather my things and pretend that it’s not unusual that Ms Nouri wants to see me.
My heart thumps a little faster. Could it be something to do with the prize? Surely the judges haven’t made their decision already.
As I make my way to the third floor I run through my favourite fantasy, a blatantly unrealistic daydream where Ms Nouri tells me that her art-dealer friend likes my work and wants to give me a giant pot of money to go overseas to make art and find myself.
Ms Nouri’s office is barely bigger than a broom closet, and she shares it with two other art teachers. Once you’ve crammed in three desks, bookshelves, a portable heater, three oversized handbags and a collection of lumpy statues, there’s barely room to move. Funny things are going on with my insides.
‘Chloe, take a seat.’
Ms Nouri is alone in the office and I perch on a spare chair. There are art books, sketchbooks, stacks of paper, jars of pens, posters on every available surface. A framed photo of Ms Nouri and her wife and their little boy is tucked on the shelf nearby and I try not to look too nosy.
