by Leanne Hall
I wedge myself into the spare stretch of wall.
At the end of the corridor is a table of drinks and canapés. Parents and students stroll up and down, passing comment on their daughter’s work (the best), their daughter’s friends’ work (a nice attempt) and their daughter’s enemies’ work (a toddler could have done that). I seem to be winning more than a few indulgent and condescending smiles so I keep a permanent scowl on my face so everyone knows how serious I am about fighting the power.
When I’m not demonstrating my political credentials I crane my neck, trying to see who has come tonight. I see Brooke and Bochen and some of the other boarders including that nasty supremacist Jody and wonder if Petra has the gall to be here when she has ruined everything and is clearly anti-Art.
The front doors thump heavily. Even though the entrance is a good thirty metres away I swear a gust of air races up the corridor. A trick of the sunset sends rosy light angling through the glass doors, filling the lobby with dusty sparkles.
Standing in the distance is a still figure dressed in a silk blouse, tailored pants, pale shoes. Familiar blonde hair, spun gold in the sudden beam of light.
The sunset glow smoothes out her skin, turns her into an angel with a halo. When she spots my Marcel Marceau act among the paintings and collages and drawings she grows even more still.
Viewed as if from another world, barely glimpsed.
A cord that connects her to me and me to her.
Mum?
I stare. Fair and golden and good parental angels don’t belong in the school corridor outside the Great Hall when they’re supposed to still be in the office working on the Baker-Hill contract.
She marches towards me, and the closer she gets the clearer it becomes that I’m not seeing things.
I smile quizzically in what I hope is a disarming way and raise my hand hello, but Mum doesn’t smile.
Students and parents and teachers melt out of her way and I am about to be incinerated, Dad too, for my unruly behaviour, my spectacle-making, my refusal to know when to stop, for being too much.
But Mum’s expression isn’t warpath, it’s soft. It’s soft like ice-cream and sorrowful and full of pain. There’s compassion on her face, and regret and fear and there’s only one thing that could give her that face. I saw it when Grandad died and here it is again.
My face gets it first, my lips snarl, and then the knowledge rolls down my body in a sickening oily wave. Somewhere, in some other part of my brain, I register a Dad-shaped smudge coming through the front doors, but I don’t pay it much note because—
It’s Yin.
Not good news.
They’ve found her, but not really her.
An emptiness, a shell.
They’ve found a body.
I know I know I know what tsunami is about to crash over us, not just me but the whole year level the whole school rippling outwards, crashing into every worried person in this city.
I push off the wall and run.
Mummy.
I get so close I could reach out to her and the realisation hits my legs and my knees melt to nothing. Her mouth an O, her arms out, but I’m too far away still and I feel the hard floor and the bite of carpet for only a millisecond before darkness comes.
DAY 62
The story unfolds on our TV screen in gritty blue pixels, as if it’s another shaky scene from Devil Creek. A windswept reporter in a parka stands in the foreground, while behind her there are police cars and people in dark clothes and hi-vis vests.
‘The body of sixteen-year-old Yin Mitchell was found around 4 p.m. yesterday by a park ranger in the Broken Ranges State Park in Melbourne’s far west, cementing what has been suspected for a long time: that this is a homicide investigation.’
I can’t help drawing in a sharp breath, even though this has all been mentioned in the morning news. It looks so unremarkable, this scrappy paddock, the run-down picnic facilities.
‘Should I turn it off?’ Mum squeezes my hand, hard, and we lock eyes. She let me stay home today, even though classes were still on. Attendance was optional, not just for Year Ten but the whole school. I wonder how many girls showed up.
‘If I don’t find out the details now, I’ll look online later anyway. I want to know what happened, otherwise I’ll just be making things up in my head.’
‘I can’t believe it’s come to this.’ Mum looks as shaky as I feel. ‘I don’t know how I would go on living if anything happened to you or Sam.’
The reporter goes over the timeline of Yin’s abduction, accompanied by computer graphics showing dates and places. When it’s laid out so clinically like that, this ending seems inevitable, but there are no words for how unreal it all feels.
Arnold curls warmly over my feet. Just over two months ago, Mum and I sat in this very same position and watched Yin’s abduction unfold like a bad dream. Sam isn’t here this time. Dad has taken him to soccer practice and he’s having a sleepover at Dad and Jarrod’s house.
‘Several pieces of evidence have been removed from the site today, and the police will continue their search tomorrow. Broken Ranges State Park is popular with hikers and rock climbers. Police are calling for anyone who has witnessed any suspicious activity in the area in the last six months to please contact them via the Operation Panopticon hotline.’
A police detective appears on the screen to talk about something to do with the post mortem and forensics and bringing the killer to justice but suddenly I’m full of too many awful details so I switch the TV off myself.
The exhibition and the art prize seem inconsequential now. The argument I had with Natalia doesn’t matter either, none of it’s important. I swear I’ll never complain about homework and acne and bad marks and not finding the right jeans ever again. I swear I’ll never be anything but patient and nice and loving towards Mum and Sam. And Dad too.
‘Have you heard anything from Natalia today?’ asks Mum. I told her that Natalia and Yin were childhood best friends, told her about what had happened at the photo shoot. Mum said it sounded like Natalia was experiencing the after-effects of trauma.
‘No.’ I almost messaged her this morning, but something stopped me. ‘What do you think I should do?’
‘Send her your love and thoughts,’ Mum says. ‘Let her know you’re thinking about her. And then give her time.’
DAY 63
When I finally let someone into my dark bedroom, it’s Liv.
‘Don’t expect good conversation.’ I immediately go back to my bed and get under the doona.
Liv follows me under there. ‘Not here for the conversation, just the snuggles.’
I pretend to complain and push her off but her skinny arms are tattooed tentacles and I eventually give in and let myself sink against her. I don’t know how she can look so sharp and hard but in reality be so massively soppy.
Once I give in to her, something inside me breaks and I cry again for the millionth time since Mum interrupted my protest to tell me the news early, before anything was officially released, before it hit the news. Which seemed cruel and unnecessarily humiliating at the time, but was probably a good idea.
Liv waits out several waves of tears and also has the good sense not to mention that I’ve barricaded myself in my room for almost two days, with Mum leaving increasingly elaborate tray meals outside my door.
My bed is awash with scrunched-up tissues and old Balmoral yearbooks that I’ve been flicking through on repeat repeat repeat. I have my phone and my laptop somewhere here on the Good Ship Natalia, but I’m sick of the outside world and want to float only on my bed, which is cut off from the mainland and surrounded by an ocean of my very own snot and tears.
If only I was still friends with Yin. If only I had realised what I had when I had it. If only I could remember our last conversation. If only I had called her out of the blue that night and shifted the course of history. If only we still had slumber parties and I’d been there to protect her.
‘You’re into dru
gs,’ I dig my chin into Liv’s collarbone. ‘Can you get something to make me stop crying?’
‘It’s better to let it out.’ My sister sounds like a bona fide adult. ‘Plus you’re one of those annoying people who looks good when they cry. You should have seen me after Mel and I broke up.’
Liv acts out how grotesquely she wept and it prompts a smile from me, a smile that makes me immediately guilty for feeling anything except the worst ever, when Yin is where? In a metal drawer in a morgue that looks like the one on Devil Creek?
The tears leave me now, adios until the next round comes and grabs me by the throat and shakes me down. Periods of calm followed by one thought—I can’t believe she’s gone—and then the earth shakes and the rocks fall and the rivers burst their banks and I come close to throwing up my own stomach, followed by all my major organs.
I’ve been having nightmares about what Yin’s last hours or minutes might have been like, how scared she was, how much she saw, did she know this was the end, what was the last thing she said, was she in pain and on and on and on.
‘Look at these…’ Liv has wonder in her voice. ‘I can’t believe you kept them all.’
Neither can I. I’m sure I should hate Balmoral but instead I have religiously kept every single yearbook from prep through to last year’s. The Junior School ones are thin and simple, but the yearbooks from Year Seven onwards are glossy, full-colour books.
‘Hey look, it’s us.’ Liv shows me the page. We’re at Sports Day, in matching polo shirts, with ribbons pinned to our fronts. Me, a baby Grade One, Liv a big girl in Grade Six. We’re wearing these puffy old-fashioned bloomers that are just glorified underpants and my little infant legs look like sausages.
I screw up my face. ‘Embarrassing.’
I find my Year Seven yearbook and Liv and I leaf through it together. Our House Concert that year was set on a cruise ship, and there’s a photo of me in a sailor costume dancing with a mop. The Year Twelve formal minus Liv, who refused to wear a dress and wasn’t allowed to come unless she wore one. Bad poetry from nice girls. Class lists. Debating reports. A tedious essay from Mrs Christie extolling the virtues of the Lord.
‘I was looking for answers, I think.’
‘About you and Yin?’
‘Yeah.’
I show her the photo of Yin in Junior Orchestra, how she’s smiling so hard her eyes have disappeared, clutching that clarinet like someone might want to rip it out of her hands. She started learning it because she wanted to graduate as quickly as possible to the saxophone, but instead she fell in love and I bet she wanted to marry that clarinet.
Claire and Milla are in the photo too, Milla with her French horn, Claire on timpani drums. Every year, every time there’s a photo of Yin, either Claire or Milla are in it. I guess Claire and Milla are feeling what I’m feeling now, but maybe even worse, if that’s possible.
‘You never know, you and Yin might have come back together again, in Year Twelve, or even later in uni,’ Liv says. ‘That happens sometimes.’
‘Not now it doesn’t,’ I reply and burrow my head on Liv’s shoulder as another wave takes me.
DAY 67
‘Chloe, can I talk to you?’
I’m lost in my own thoughts when Petra speaks to me at our lockers. It’s a shock because I know she’s been actively trying to avoid me all week. Lisbeth told me she saw Petra stashing her books in Audrey’s locker, which is right at the far end of the corridor.
‘Sure.’
A mottled flush decorates Petra’s throat and ears. I wait, because I don’t want to make this too easy for her.
‘I want to apologise for going to Mrs Christie with my concerns about your photo. I thought at the time that I was doing the right thing. I didn’t think she’d disqualify you…’
‘Didn’t you? What did you think she’d do?’
‘I mean, I didn’t think it through that well—but I felt very strongly that—’
‘If you didn’t think she’d do anything, then why would you say something in the first place?’
Petra’s lip trembles and I force myself to lower my voice and tone slightly. She’s already had Natalia yell at her and it didn’t do too much good. And if what Audrey told me last week is true, Yin’s disappearance set off a grief ripple about her aunt, so maybe I should be showing a bit more compassion.
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ I tell her, ‘I don’t want to hold a grudge, but this isn’t even a proper apology yet. I currently don’t care why you complained. Do you know how hard I worked on that photo?’
Petra has no idea how much it took from me to put myself out there like that, to take a risk, to submit an entry to the prize. I wouldn’t expect her to understand. She’s been bred for lifelong, all-round excellence.
‘Okay…’ Petra takes a big shaky breath and I can almost hear the cogs of her brain working. ‘I’m sorry that I got you eliminated from the exhibition and the prize. It must have been disappointing for you…’
‘It was.’
‘Especially since you worked so hard on it. So—for all your hard work to go to waste like that—and—I can see why you hate me.’
‘I don’t hate you. Honestly, Petra, I don’t.’
Petra gets a panicked look on her face and waves her hand down low, shooing. I turn and see Audrey and Brooke slink away. Girls are trickling into the corridor, so the bell must be close to ringing. Or maybe none of us are in our classes. Most of the Year Tens have been coming in this week, but the days don’t have their normal structure. Small groups have been sent to counselling sessions, movies have been playing in the Great Hall for anyone to attend, candles are being lit with the chaplain.
I haven’t seen Claire or Milla or Natalia all week, and Natalia still hasn’t replied to my message.
‘I know you thought you were doing the right thing.’ I’ve spent some time over the last few days trying to put myself in Petra’s shoes and not being that great at it. ‘I was trying to do the right thing too, in my own way. But I’m sorry I upset you with the subject matter of my photo.’
She dares to look at me. ‘Really?’
‘I’ve been wondering if I did the right thing. Maybe I should have thought about other people’s reactions more. Audrey said—’ I have no idea if this is a no-go topic or not so I tread lightly, ‘that Yin’s abduction might have brought up some family stuff for you.’
Petra sighs; I see her whole body inflate and then deflate completely.
‘I know that’s Audrey’s theory…and maybe she’s right. But. But.’ Petra grapples with something unseen. ‘I’m not a good person,’ she whispers eventually.
‘Let’s go outside.’ I grab Petra’s arm and take the doors outside to the breezeway. We lean on the waist-high balcony, looking down to the quad where the Year Sevens have been constructing a mandala out of flower petals. One breath of wind and the whole thing is going to blow away, which I guess is the point.
‘Why aren’t you a good person?’ I ask.
Petra doesn’t look at me. ‘Because…because I was always envious of Yin. She was first clarinet, I was second. We took all the same subjects and she always got slightly better marks than me. And everyone likes her—liked her—but I secretly thought of her as my nemesis. Even though she was so nice to me, so generous. She used to lend me her notes all the time, like we weren’t rivals.’
She falls quiet.
I try to understand what the problem is. ‘So you felt guilty when she went missing?’
‘A little.’ Petra wipes her nose and I see that she’s been silently crying. ‘I know logically that I have nothing to do with what happened to her, but I wish I had been nicer to her, accepted her friendship more. I can’t believe the things that used to matter to me.’
‘I get it,’ I say. I do. It’s hard not to pit yourself against other girls in the hothouse environment of Balmoral. ‘It makes sense.’
‘Thanks, Chloe. You’re the last person I would expect to listen to me.’
&nbs
p; ‘It’s done, right? Let’s try to move on, if we can. You might have to ignore Natalia for a while. She’s going through a lot, I think…’
‘I know.’
We’re both quiet. I had no idea I would do this but I step forward and give Petra a hug.
‘It’s been awful,’ she says. ‘The whole thing.’
‘I know,’ I say, and we separate. I’d feel embarrassed, but there’s been more hugging in the last three days than in the whole year combined.
‘I keep waiting to wake up and find out this has all been a nightmare.’ Petra extracts a tissue from her blazer pocket. ‘I knew what the chances were. Statistically speaking, you know. That whole thing about ninety per cent of kidnapping victims being dead within the first twenty-four hours isn’t a particularly accurate statistic, it’s more complicated than that, but it’s not far off.’
Something occurs to me for the first time. There’s something familiar about what she’s saying. ‘Petra—did you write the email about what to do in the case of an abduction?’
She flushes all over again. ‘Please don’t tell anyone. Not even Audrey knows.’
‘I won’t. You must have been worried to send that around.’
She nods, her eyes wide. ‘I was so scared. I just wanted to do something useful.’
DAY 67
Every bone in my body is screaming get away get away get away but somehow Mum and I pile in the car and follow Stephen and Chunjuan’s champagne-coloured Audi down the highway and into an area of the city I’ve never seen before.
‘You don’t have to do this,’ says Mum as we park our car and my heart goes pitter-pat or more like BANG BASH BANG and I think I’ve figured out how cows feel before they get led to the big chopper.
‘You don’t either,’ I say back, but neither of us stops moving as we get out, put our jackets on and join the Mitchells at their car because we were asked to do this and it wasn’t our family that lost a member and there are some things you can’t say no to.
The BBQs and wooden tables that I saw on the news and in the papers are everywhere around us. The scrubby trees too, the dodgy public toilets and the trail signs.
