by Fiona Wood
Ben can sit with anyone. He could sit on his own and people would gather as though around a messiah. But he wouldn’t care if they didn’t. It would never have occurred to him to have a moment’s concern about being alone. It’s as though he walks around inside a Ben force field that everyone would like to penetrate.
Holly is always getting annoyed with me about forgetting anniversaries and generally not being observant enough of the whole relationship thing. But even I have noticed that some of his friends are not crazy about me being inside the Ben perimeter.
All-access pass to the roped-off zone in Ben World. I’ve got it. They want it.
His group is large and multilobed. A mighty social network. I would bet my entire travel fund that Ben has never gone out to eat his lunch with the sinking feeling that he might have to walk a lap and then nonchalantly retreat to the library because his few friends are away from school or have sundry lunchtime commitments that he doesn’t have. Sports. Drama. Debating. These seemingly innocuous things have often rendered me friendless for lunch. I was also rendered best-friendless once when Holly changed groups without notice, and let me know that it was a one-person group move and I couldn’t come, too. But that was to Tiff Simpson’s group in year eight, and it all ended in tears, and with Holly sitting back with me and our other second-social-rung cronies.
But now we’re all hanging out together. Happy days.
Tiff, for example, will not hesitate to look up, smile, and move over if I approach. My new acceptance status is a Ben/billboard combination—the ratio is about fifty-fifty to the girls, and maybe seventy-thirty to the boys. Ben is their principal deity, after all. Only a month ago, I was invisible to Tiff, except as the recipient of an occasional puzzled why would someone wear that in public? look.
The first couple of times these people smiled, or moved over to let me in, I looked over my shoulder, because it couldn’t be for me. And it’s not for me. It’s for some imaginary construction they have made of a new Sibylla Quinn, who isn’t me at all. They’re smiling at the girl on the billboard. Ben’s girlfriend. Real me sits there to one side, watching skeptically, remembering all the mean exclusions and casual put-downs, and preening superiority this group represents to the average kid in our year. New me thinks, They’re really quite nice when you get to know them. It’s fun being on the inside, with them. Real me and new me can’t both be right. Can we? Which interpretation survives if we merge and become one?
Holly acts as though it’s the natural order emerging. But it’s not. It’s double bizarre land—some random social mutation caused in part by me having a particular godmother. And it could reverse out as quickly as it nosed in. Wonder why I don’t exactly feel relaxed with these people?
It’s also one reason I make a point of sitting with Michael some lunchtimes, forcing him to put his book down and play humans with me, although I am guiltily aware that I could do this more often. Not that a library skulk would occur to Michael, either, though he is frequently alone. He always, but always, has a book in whose company he is perfectly happy. And even though he is absolutely aware that his behavior is in the loser, loner, geek terrain, he could not care less. Which actually shifts his category. He is a loner, but no one so self-contained, and so clever, can ever really be a convincing loser.
On this day, this spring lunchtime with air as sharp as an unripe plum, we are drawn to the sun. We float into it like aimless motes, blinking our morning classes away. Attractive teen people sitting in dappled light on sturdy, rustic benches in our casual sporty uniform separates, various enough to allow us to feel like individuals, similar enough to provide—uniformity. A decent smattering of students from other countries: we are proudly multicultural. We look like a freaking public relations exercise for how wonderful this school is. And it is. And it isn’t. Just like every other school is, and isn’t exactly what it seems to be.
I walk past the gathering Ben fan club—it’s three days after our anniversary, so I don’t think I’m transgressing any rules of the going-out universe—over to where Michael has found a sunny spot in which to devour his selection of food that looks like itself. Like Ben, and Eliza, too, he puts away a huge amount of fuel. Runners. His lunch is a quarter of a roast chicken. Two hard-boiled eggs. Two whole-grain rolls. An apple. A tangelo. A large bowl of salad. Two pieces of fruitcake. It barely fits on his tray. I’ve made myself a chicken and salad roll with two types of chutney, and also have an apple and a piece of chocolate cake. A wasp with designs on my chutney is buzzing lazy circles around us.
As I walk past the mob, someone says, “Man, yo’ ho—where’s she going?” Ben smiles his lazy smile and gives me the backward nod. Even though it’s still hard to believe, I know that I could go over and the Red Sea would part and let me into a spot by his side, but I’m already heading Michael’s way and not about to detour.
Lou arrives at the same time as me. “Why do they think it’s okay to say ‘ho’ like that?”
Ben smiled? Did he hear yo? Did he hear ho? He’s okay with me—or anyone—being spoken about like that?
I poke all the ingredients inside my roll so I can close it up properly for a bite. “I don’t know. Blame rap.” I’m trying to make light of it, but I’m annoyed because I hate that whole pimp/ho thing. Particularly when it comes from the mouths of little middle-class white boys.
“No context,” says Lou. “Why do they think they can use language like that?”
Michael looks at me. “Why didn’t you say something?”
And why didn’t Ben say something? “Is it really worth it?” I pick up lettuce and shredded carrot bits migrating from my roll to my lap and transfer them into my mouth, feigning indifference.
Lou sighs. “Trouble is, if you say nothing, you’re really saying you’re okay with it.”
“True,” says Michael.
“I’ve spent years saying stuff. Nothing changes.”
“But maybe it would have been even more severely unchanged—if you hadn’t said anything,” says Lou.
Michael smiles. He likes Lou. I can’t remember the last time he added anyone to his “like” list.
Holly comes over with a bustle of importance. “Did you guys fight?”
“Me and Ben?”
“Duh.”
“No.”
“So what are you doing here?” she asks.
“Eating my lunch.”
She looks at Michael and Lou, as though she can’t quite figure out what I’m saying. “Well, you missed out on working with Ben on the Othello assignment. He said he’ll go with me and Tiff.”
“I wouldn’t want to anyway.” But I’m feeling a small gut punch that he didn’t try to persuade me, or even ask me.
“Work with us,” says Lou.
Michael nods. “We can have three.”
“You’re not pissed off because I’m partners with Ben, are you?” says Holly.
“It’s not ‘partnering’ if there are three of you,” says Lou.
“‘Partner’ implies two people,” says Michael at exactly the same time. Pedantry compatibility. Not that either of them looks interested to note it.
“Jeez, okay—so long as we’re all happy,” says Holly, giving me the your weird friend look.
So now I feel triply left out. Boyfriend, best friend, oldest friend are all paired up for an assignment and not one of them asked me first.
I’m shoved off-balance by a rogue wave of homesickness. It is such a petty grievance, the sort of item I would only ever share with my mother in a private after-school whinge session, during which she wouldn’t judge me, after which she’d give me a hug and a cup of tea and I’d feel as better as I did when I was little. Or if she wasn’t home, I’d have a comfortable sook into my own pillows, a sulky burrow into my own duvet. I’m so sick of acting like every little annoying thing up here is just fine. There’s no end of the day to unpack all the shit. The day goes into the night goes into the day. Over and over, and I’m so over it. I’m overstuffed with trivial irritations that
build in the absence of home, my decompression zone. Maybe that’s why everyone is running through the mountains like maniacs. Getting stuff off chests. Maybe I should run more? Even considering that is a worrying sign.
tuesday 23 october
I told someone.
I told Michael.
I was in the cave, and he came to find me. He said, Knock, knock—ha-ha, no door. He said, I was wondering if you’d like to talk about jealousy, manipulation, betrayal, and murder? For our Othello class paper.
I said, As luck would have it, jealousy, manipulation, betrayal, and murder happen to be my favorite topics of conversation. Come on in.
My cave is warm and dry, as all good caves should be, but many are not, with plenty of room for visitors.
He said, I love what you’ve done with the place.
The Lost Estate was sitting next to me, and he saw it. He said, I really enjoyed this. Are you enjoying it?
I’ve read about half and said, Yes, a friend recommended it, and I like it very much.
The bookmark you made was visible in the book, and he said, shyly, because he is not at all intrusive, This friend?
I nodded. He looked at us in the photos, and he looked at me.
He said, I wondered where this part of you was. I thought it must be in there somewhere. He gave the wry/apologetic smile that shows he’s used to people thinking that whatever he says is often the wrong thing to say.
However I looked, his next question was, This person, he’s not around anymore?
I shook my head. I couldn’t talk. But my eyes were full. Full of you being gone. Full of tears. Full of the still impossibility of saying the words. And my mouth did the uncontrolled wobble that is trying not to cry.
He said, Oh, Louisa. I am sorry. I’m so sorry.
And he did not flinch, Fred. He could take it. He picked up my hand, and he held it between his warm hands. And sat there with me, holding my hand and my hurt. I could feel the sympathy transfusing, and I was thirsty for it. I hadn’t realized how much I needed to let someone in.
Not even three weeks in, less than a third of the term gone, and we’re getting up each other’s noses to the point of brain injury.
Annie and Eliza are in a state of escalating open war about killing versus not killing bugs and spiders. Annie has decided we should all be vegetarians, lectures us about all the horrible aspects of meat-eating, and insists on rescuing every insect or spider that finds its way inside. Eliza is a savage bug-killer and an unapologetic meat-eater.
Though she defends and saves ants, Annie has decided that one might crawl into her ear and eat its way into her brain. She can’t be persuaded that there’s no connection between her ear canal and her brain.
In classic Annie fashion, even when confronted with diagrammatic proof, she said, “Haven’t any of you losers watched Home Renovation? Walls can be knocked down. Or chewed through.”
Our menstrual cycles are slowly converging. Six starting-to-overlap waves of PMS is a lot to deal with under one roof. God help us all when we’ve got PMS at the same time. We’ll have a genre leap from “coming of age” to “schlock horror.” Hide the knives. I can see the crime-scene tape now.
We are all over Pippa doing nothing around the house. Being sweet doesn’t cut it when you’ve left the cutting board out for the thousandth time for someone else to rinse, wipe, and put away. Or when your contribution to any rostered work always sits in the range of zero, token, and decorative.
And someone still smells. It’s a constant low-grade waft of body odor. Hard to pinpoint because we all come in reeking and soaking and muddy after various hiking, camping, running activities. But whose smell is lingering? Or is someone stashing dirty laundry? At our last house meeting, Holly burst out at the end of a list that included pull your own hair out of the shower drains, close the screen door, don’t leave used tissues and cotton balls around, wipe up your own kitchen mess, and WHOEVER STINKS, CAN YOU PLEASE TAKE A SHOWER AND USE DEODORANT! So, whoever it is, she must have the message after that.
But of all the simmering animosity in the house, the real hot spot is Holly’s growing annoyance with Lou. She hates it when people are impervious to her withholding of approval. She likes them to squirm. And she doesn’t like it when people are so private that there’s nothing to talk about behind their backs.
She was needling Lou a few days ago and ended up, after getting either silence or one-word responses, saying, “Oh, I get it, you’re a zombie.”
To which Lou responded in a monotone, “I am, indeed, a zombie. You are insightful and perceptive.” That got a laugh from Pippa, which made Holly snarkier.
Holly jumped up and sat down next to Lou at the table. It was deliberately aggressive, right in her grill. “What’s this shit?” Holly had picked up one of the fat Blu Tack caterpillars Lou is always fiddling with.
“It’s Blu Tack.”
“What’s it for?”
“It’s for a project I’m working on.”
“What project?”
“Project Gee, It’s None of Your Business.” Lou made an effort to keep reading. Holly stayed sitting right next to her.
Lou stopped reading, put her bookmark in, and said, “What?”
Holly grabbed the end of Lou’s bookmark and pulled it out of the book. “Oh, dear. You’ve lost your place.”
Lou stared at her with a completely blank expression. Holly smiled at her, and flipped through the book. “What have we got here? The Lost Estate. It looks like crap.”
“Well, it’s fantastic. But I don’t think you’d like it,” said Lou.
Holly stood up, still holding the bookmark. Lou went to grab it back, and Holly sensed a pressure point. She jumped up and danced out of Lou’s range. Lou’s face was red.
I told her to give it back, but Holly was not about to turn away from the only chink we’d ever seen in Lou’s armor. She looked at the bookmark for a long time.
“Well, isn’t that sweet?” she said, holding it up so Pippa and I could both see it—a laminated photo-booth strip.
“Cute pics,” said Pippa. “Is that your boyfriend?”
“It was,” said Lou, not taking her eyes off Holly.
“Aw, what happened? Did he dump you?” Holly pretended to look again, more carefully. “But he’s such an ugly gimp, maybe you dumped him.”
Lou stared at her, not saying a word.
“What’s the story, Lou-Lou? Love gone wrong? But how’d that happen when your glasses and your zits look so damn compatible?”
“No story. Just give it back,” said Lou.
“Give it back,” said Pippa.
I walked over and took the bookmark from Holly, glancing at it as I handed it back to Lou. I was shocked. Here was a different Lou: someone I’d never seen, eyes full of happiness. The guy looks just like her, and just as happy. Both of them have long dark bangs and geek-chic thick frames, and yes, some pimples. But who cares, when you’re making each other laugh like demented drains in a photo-booth?
“He looks nice,” I said.
“Are you seeing him on exeat weekend?” Holly asked. “Maybe you can patch things up.”
Lou looked at Holly for a few seconds. “You can’t possibly think I’m interested in talking to you.” She picked up her book and left.
Up till then, I’d just thought Lou was a low-key girl. A private girl. But seeing the way she looked in the photos, compared to how she looks now, makes me think there is a story there. Something has gone way wrong. She sleeps just a couple of feet away from me every night. She could be hemorrhaging from heartbreak. She might be crying silently into her pillow every night. And I don’t know a thing about it.
I should have known that the minute she heard about Beeso’s “party” at Snow Gum Flat on the river, Holly would find a way to go and make me come, too.
In order to go, we’d have to pretend we were having a legit two-day hike, and talk someone else into making up a three.
The whole idea made me want to puk
e. Hippy heaven with the jocks? Give me a break—worlds colliding, and not in a good way, but resistance was pointless.
Holly’s response to all my objections was: “Well, I’m going anyway.”
I gave up. “Fine. Just remember: Don’t drink if you’re smoking, because it makes you vomit. And stay away from fast streams and cliff edges.”
“Why do you have to be so smug?” Holly burst out.
“I’m not. It’s good advice. Those guys are tools. You’ve seen them at parties. What other girls are going?”
“Tiff and Laura and some others.”
“And you’re really still chasing Tiff?”
“Don’t be a bitch.”
“I’m trying to keep you out of trouble. Snow Gum Flat is only a few hours’ walk away. It’s within teacher prowling range.”
“Well, I’m going anyway. And Ben’s coming,” Holly said.
“No, he’s not.” I hoped.
“Well, maybe you don’t have the most up-to-date information about that.”
The force of her determination is overwhelming. She will do anything, say anything, to make me do what she wants to do. It is honestly as though she hears maybe or try harder when I say no.
When I was little, Mum used to give me workshop practice in saying no. Concrete examples of what Holly might suggest, and how I might refuse diplomatically.
Holly is such a wanter. It mostly means more to her that we do something than it means to me not to do it.
Which probably makes me a wimpy invertebrate. But I honestly don’t care sometimes. I am genuinely easy. Easygoing. Don’t mind one way or the other. A pushover.
In this case, I just got tired and gave up. And I figure that it will count as one of our compulsory overnight hikes, providing we don’t get caught, so I get to cross a hike off my list without actually having to hike far. A free pass. That’s how I’m rationalizing caving in, anyway.
We get permission for our hike and drag Eliza along. She’s perfectly happy to get a hike credit, ignore the party shenanigans, and get some extra time for running training.
