Paradise City

by C. J. Duggan

  ‘Off you go,’ he said with an adamant head nod. ‘All around the main yard.’

  There was no alternate route to take; the stairs led down into the heart of the yard, and once the sun’s rays glinted off the reflectors on my vest it was only a matter of time before they would see me, and then would come the titters and the sniggers and the laughter and . . . I wanted to be sick.

  I tried not to look at them, but then there was something in me that wanted to look, that wanted to cast daggers towards Amanda, complete with silent, pissed-off body language that read:

  You did this, you did this to me!

  The horror of the vest and the severe tongue lashing I had received from Mr Fitzgibbons, was all in the name of teaching me a lesson – this little exercise was allowing me to pause and reflect on my actions. Oh yes! And to ensure it wouldn’t be happening anytime in the future, definitely yes. I lifted my chin with an air of stone-cold defiance, making my way proudly down the steps, almost stomping a loud trail, my steps echoing in the silent yard, and sure enough one head, two, three, four heads spun around, taking me in – the bag lady of Paradise High. But their giggles and mutterings were just distant white noise to me; instead, all my focus was directed solely at Amanda. She had flicked her head around, smiling and laughing with Gemma, until her eyes landed on me. Her smile fell away, her eyes widening as they trailed over my attire in horror, as if she was genuinely shocked to see me in ‘the vest’.

  One of the gangly surfing buddies sitting next to Ballantine started singing Chris Isaacs’ ‘Baby Did a Bad Bad Thing’. That had everyone in the class laughing, everyone except, to my surprise, Ballantine, who just stared on with his cool, calm gaze.

  ‘All right, Jason, settle down, we don’t need to be tortured by your off-key singing,’ Miss Gleeson said, attempting to reel in her rowdy class.

  I lazily tore my gaze away from Amanda and moved into the yard, imagining every Prima box, chip packet and banana peel was Amanda’s stupid, insipid face as I spiked each item.

  I wasn’t the kind to think of master plans of revenge, but if I was going to hang with the big guns I would have to hold my own, and that is exactly what I decided to do.

  •

  I peeled off the vest before I did anything else, throwing it to the ground before dousing my hands with a liberal amount of liquid soap, lathering to my elbows and washing the suds off with blistering hot water. I looked as though I was about to perform an operation. Maybe I was? A personality transplant for Amanda would be nice. If there were two things I had learned in my time of punishment they were that, firstly, I was an idiot for trusting Amanda to begin with and, secondly, the students at Paradise High were absolute pigs, who seldom used a rubbish bin. The bell for lunch sounded, causing me to sigh in sheer relief that my time was up; I wouldn’t dare seek permission to leave the school grounds, that was for sure. I picked up the vest, slinging it over my shoulder as I dragged my feet out of the girls’ toilets.

  You had to have your wits about you, ducking and weaving amongst the frenzy of the lunchtime crowds. The seniors whooping and hollering, pushing and nudging each other down the stairs towards their lockers, towards freedom. Having already returned my manky rubbish stick I now had to report to Miss Smith to receive the homework that I had missed. Classroom 7B: I stuck my head through the slightly ajar door, slowly pushing it open.

  ‘Miss Smith?’ I called, knocking lightly on the door. ‘Hello?’

  The room was eerily empty, everything was in its place and desks were free from students’ mess, even the whiteboard had been cleaned down; it seemed that the students were not the only ones keen to escape the classroom. An image of Miss Smith hip and shouldering students out of the way through the door made me smile.

  I left the classroom, once again entering the chaotic fray of high-pitched screams and chatter where I was always finding myself either stepping on someone or being stepped on. I saw a Year Seven cop an elbow to his temple from a girl who was fixing her hair; he just laughed with his mates and kept on walking. I had not yet acclimatised to the noise, the sea of flailing arms. It was still very much a culture shock for me; I almost felt like an explorer trying to machete my way through the jungle. I learned quickly that saying ‘excuse me’ would only get me weird looks.

  Oh, yeah, manners, sure. What are those?

  Unless your best friend called you a skank or a mole, your friendship wasn’t a true one.

  Aside from the tsunami of noise as crazed pubescent weirdos surged through the corridors, you could always be guaranteed of the warnings yelled from teachers trying to navigate the chaos like traffic wardens at a city intersection.

  ‘Pick. It. Up.’

  ‘No running.’

  ‘I’m watching you, Jones.’

  ‘Language!’

  ‘I won’t tell you again, Robbie Robinson.’

  I didn’t know what was more shocking: Mr Branson’s screaming or the fact that someone actually named their kid Robbie Robinson.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Mercifully I found the principal’s door open and Mr Fitzgibbons on the phone.

  I tiptoed into his office and placed the folded-up orange vest on his desk, ready to sidestep away, all until his finger lifted up and he mouthed: ‘Wait’.

  My insides screamed.

  No-no-no-no . . .

  Mr Fitzgibbons nodded thoughtfully, his expression grim with concentration. He was probably speaking to the department about some government grant, or maybe child services about little Robbie Robinson and his poorly chosen name. I bit my lip, trying to think of something else before I lost it. Mr Fitzgibbons scribbled down something on his notepad before speaking.

  ‘Yep, twelve potato cakes, eight pieces of flake, two lamb souvlaki, five dollars worth of chips, and half a dozen dim sims.’ He crossed off his list.

  Was he for real?

  ‘Yep, great, how long will that be, Connie? Right, excellent! Thanks for that.’ He put down the phone, jotting another note on his list.

  He glanced up, pausing as if he had forgotten I was there.

  ‘Ah, Atkinson.’

  Was this how it was going to be now? My criminal activity would have the principal forever referring to me as Atkinson, just like all the other rule breakers. I had only ever heard Boon or Ballantine referred to by their last names, and they were the resident school delinquents.

  He followed my eyeline.

  ‘Oh, yeah, it’s a Special Lunch Day,’ he said sheepishly. ‘A few of the staff chip in and we lash out on some takeaway.’

  More images of the teachers charging out the doors of their classrooms, pushing students out of the way. No wonder Mr Branson had been so crabby in the corridor: he was thinking ‘Hurry up! Hurry up! It’s Special Lunch Day!’

  ‘So how did you go?’ he asked, reclining lazily in his chair.

  ‘Yeah, good. The yard’s clean.’ I nodded.

  ‘Hmm, for now it is,’ he said, glaring out the window at the screaming basketballers. I kind of wondered if Mr Fitzgibbons was really suited to working with teenagers.

  ‘Now, I have had a talk with some of the other teachers and I think we have all come to the same conclusion about you, Lexie, about the best way to deal with this situation.’

  ‘Oh?’ I said, feeling rather concerned that I was deemed a ‘situation’.

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid we believe there is only one way to deal with your actions.’

  Oh God, they’re going to tell my parents.

  I could feel my stomach churning, the seventies wood-panelled walls were closing in on me, heat flooding my cheeks as the deafening thrums of my heart made it difficult to concentrate.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to send you to Siberia.’

  Wait, what?

  I blinked. ‘Sorry?’

  Mr Fitzgibbons’ face crinkled with confusion. ‘Oh, sorry,’ he said with a laugh. ‘Siberia is what we call detention. We are sending you to detention.’

  ‘Oh.�
� I blew out the word in relief. Hang on a minute: detention? My relief was short-lived.

  Mr Fitzgibbons pulled a pink slip out of his top drawer. He scribbled his unreadable handwriting across it. ‘Hand this slip to Mr Anderson in room C3; I believe he is running Siberia today.’ He handed me the slip. ‘You are to present yourself every lunchtime for the rest of the week. I suggest you make full use of your time, Miss Atkinson.’ He reached for a manila folder in his in-tray. ‘Miss Smith asked me to give this to you – this was what was covered in today’s lesson.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I managed rather unenthusiastically.

  His cool grey eyes looked at me with no kindness, until they dipped to his wristwatch – then they lit up. ‘Anyway, best get going, I have things to do.’

  Pfft, yeah, wouldn’t want your fish ’n’ chips to get cold.

  •

  My lunchtime pass had gone from a forged note of freedom to a pink slip pass to Siberia.

  Life was wicked and cruel sometimes; my mind flashed to Amanda who was probably sitting on the beach watching Boon and Ballantine slicing up the waves. Ballantine’s bronzed skin, iridescent droplets of water cascading over his toned stomach as he wedged his board in the sand and towel dried his torso in slow motion. I blinked. . . . almost walking into a rubbish bin.

  ‘Wake up, Lexie!’ Mr Branson called. He was still standing in the hall barking orders at people, probably dreaming of his cold dim sims.

  Would every day be like this? How had I managed to stuff up so badly and it was only my second week? I was now going to be imprisoned in a classroom all day for the rest of the week. I walked through the corridors dragging my feet and sighing with each step, the very same thing I found myself doing as I handed over my pink slip to Mr Anderson, the head of the Drama department. He had kind hazel eyes and a salt-and-pepper goatee. He also referred to me by my first name, which made me instantly like him.

  ‘Take a seat, Lexie. You got stuff to do?’

  ‘Yeah, some English,’ I said, making my way to the back row, before stopping mid-aisle.

  Yeah, that didn’t end so well for me last time.

  I about-faced and headed for a middle row near the window. From now on I was going to be a stellar student. I sat down, lifting my chin and straightening my spine. No more crazy, whacky antics daydreaming about surfers or hanging with the cool kids, no more attention-seeking strutting in the schoolyard and playing the new girl card; I mean, it’s not like anyone cared anyway. From now on I would spend my time maturely and patiently, I thought, unzipping my pencil case and lining up my red pen, blue pen, grey pencil, rubber, sharpener on top of the desk. From now on there was going to be no distractions, just hard work that would get me the worldly experience I craved and the grades I wanted.

  It was all about focus.

  But then a binder and pencil case slammed down next to mine, breaking my focus and causing me to blink in fright. I took in that familiar black Quiksilver pencil case and an exercise book graffitied with blue inked waves.

  My heart stopped.

  Slowly I lifted my eyes to see Ballantine and Boon standing there looking down at me.

  Boon with a boyish grin peeking over Ballantine’s shoulder, not an easy thing to do considering the fact that Ballantine was a good foot taller than him.

  ‘Bloody hell, new girl. What. Did. You. Do?’ asked Boon, laughing hysterically, as he pulled his chair out, scraping the legs against the floorboards, leaving Ballantine still standing, still looking at me with an amused, curious spark in his eyes, as if he was trying to solve a mystery.

  I shifted awkwardly under his watchful scrutiny, straightening my already straight line of pens. ‘I’m not in your seat, am I?’ I asked, cocking my brow and glancing up at him with a challenge.

  He tucked in his bottom lip as if to stifle the smile that wanted to come. Instead he shook his head. ‘Not today.’ He pulled out the chair next to me, taking his seat and shifting himself forward, placing his elbows on the table, almost touching mine.

  I swallowed. So much for being focused. If anyone had warned me that I would be spending my lunches in Siberia with bad boys from Kirkland, I wouldn’t have believed them.

  Never could I have hoped for better; Ballantine sat so close I could sense the rise and fall of his chest in my peripheral vision, actually smell the mind-numbing scent of his aftershave: crisp, clean and mouth-watering.

  Oh God, Lexie, get your head together.

  Not so easy when I was aware of every single move he made, flicking the pages of his exercise book, the deep sighs, his fingers ruffling through his thick, dishevelled hair, rummaging through his pencil case. Why was he sitting next to me? There were plenty of other seats in the room. Why me?

  ‘All right, gang, you know how this works. Heads down, zipped lips and best behaviours, yeah?’ Mr Anderson settled in behind his desk stacked with piles of paper, probably using the time to catch up on some marking, I thought, until he pulled a mysterious little ear plug from his top pocket and wedged it in his right ear. Bloody hell, was he looking at a racing guide for the horses?

  I couldn’t believe it; nothing like a bit of sly gambling on the side to kill the time. My outrage was short-lived when Ballantine leant over to me, so close I could feel his breath against my earlobe.

  ‘Can I borrow a pen?’

  I flung into action fast, a desperate attempt at aiming to please. ‘Um, yeah, sure,’ I said, almost pushing my pencil case off the edge of the desk, catching it just before it fell and pens clattered everywhere. I breathed a big sigh of relief as I pulled the pencil case into my lap, smiling a small smile at Ballantine, who was waiting with amused interest. I nervously tucked a strand of hair behind my ear as I delved into the recess of my case, hunting for the best pen I could find. I opted for a black ink ballpoint with a retractable clicker.

  Nice.

  I held it out to him, my heart rate spiking as he took it from my clasp, his finger once again brushing against me in the simplest and briefest touch, but it was enough to have me replaying and analysing every aspect of it for the rest of the day.

  ‘Thanks,’ he whispered, with a crooked smile.

  I had an image of me fainting at the sight of that devilish smile, eyes rolling to the back of my head, sliding under the desk unconscious. Instead, I cleared my throat and faced forward, glancing around the room. It suddenly occurred to me that either Paradise City had a school full of impeccably behaved students or we were just the really bad ones, segregated from the rest of the school, kind of maximum security, or maybe this was just the section for seniors? I was dying to know but didn’t dare ask. Not that I minded sharing detention solely with Ballantine and Boon. And the fact that, even with a massive empty classroom, they opted to sit next to me was a rather dramatic change after the seating fiasco of my first day.

  I pulled out what looked like an English assignment and read through the bullet points of the criteria, trying to focus my mind. Not so easily achievable when a triangular piece of paper flicked into my temple and landed on the back of my hand. I slowly shifted my eyes to the two other students in the class. They sported excellent poker faces, looking down at their books with deep, intense interest.

  I glanced up to Mr Anderson, who was intently studying his racing form and pressing in the earbud; it must have been mid-race because he was sitting on the edge of his seat mouthing ‘Come on, come on’ under his breath. I took the moment of his distraction to slide the paper into my lap and unfold it carefully to read:

  Seriously, what did you do?

  It was Boon. I knew this much because it was scrawled in blue ink, not the black I had given Ballantine.

  I bit my lip.

  What did I do?

  In any case, honesty was always the best policy, right? Plus, there was a little part of me – okay, a huge part of me – that wanted to see his reaction.

  Mr Anderson fist-pumped the air, well and truly distracted, as I jotted down my response.

  I got c
aught breaking into the staff room :(

  I thought the sad face was a nice little touch. I refolded the note and tugged gently on Ballantine’s shirt, motioning for the pass down. His head snapped around in surprise as he eyed the piece of paper with interest, taking it from me and discreetly passing it to Boon.

  Boon slowly unfolded it much like I had, with an ever-watchful gaze on Mr Anderson. When his serious blue eyes lowered, to tick over my response, the instantaneous rise of both his brows was priceless; I had to force myself not to laugh. Ballantine’s interest piqued, he grabbed the note from Boon and a small smile creased the corner of his mouth, his brow kinking in surprise. He glanced my way as if gauging whether I was telling the truth or not.

  I merely shrugged, as if to say ‘What’s a girl to do?’ As I returned to study my English assignment I could still feel the full weight of Ballantine’s eyes on me, but I just straightened my spine and read on in confidence. I would leave the details up to their imaginations, let them wonder what would possess a new girl to act in such a way, allow myself a certain amount of mystery, I thought. In actual fact, there was more mystery surrounding Ballantine than there was me. Everyone would know by now that I was Amanda’s country bumpkin cousin from Hicksville. They would know that there was obviously no love lost between us. I was inducted into the Gilmore brainiacs and was rebelling mere days after starting here.

  But what of Ballantine? Why was he here? Why was it that mostly every time I came into contact with him it was to do with some kind of trouble? He was sporty, a surfer – a good one or bad one I was yet to find out. He had an annoying tendency to click the top of his biro while flicking it through his fingers. Actually, that was kind of hot. As was the thick leather bracelet he wore on his right wrist, accompanied by several smaller leather bands, intricately braided in different colours. I wondered what the story was behind them.