Kiffo brightened.
‘It’s sorta weird, Calma. Get this. At four-forty-something the phone rings. I damn near crapped myself. I’d kinda fallen asleep on my feet by then and I thought it was a police siren. The cocky in my trousers started jumping about. Like that Irish idiot. So, I’m wide awake and I can hear the Pitbull talking. She’s really tired, her voice all grumpy at being woken up. “Who the hell is it?” she says, or something like that. And then there’s this long silence and then she says, “What, now? It’s nearly five in the morning. Can’t it wait?” More silence. And then she says, “Let Ravioli deal with it.’’ ’
‘She’s talking about pasta at five in the morning?’
‘What?’
‘You said “ravioli”. ’
‘Well, it was something like that. Some Italian name. There’s more silence and then she says, “All right. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Don’t let him get away from you this time, or you’re dead.” Something along those lines anyway. So she gets up and leaves the house, taking the bloody dog with her. What is all that about, Calma? I mean, who gets up at five in the morning for secret meetings and what does she mean about not getting away and, “or you’re dead”?’
‘I’ve no idea, Kiffo. Business, maybe.’
Kiffo snorted.
‘Business? She’s a teacher, Calma. What business is she doing at five on a Saturday morning? Comparing exercise books? No, she’s up to something. You didn’t hear her. She sounded really mean on the phone, like whoever she was going to see was going to regret it. Like, major.’
‘She always sounds mean.’
‘Not like this. This was serious.’
‘So what do you reckon it was?’
Kiffo leaned towards me conspiratorially and lowered his voice. Not that he needed to. There was no one awake within a ten kilometre radius.
‘I reckon she’s a member of the Mafia.’
I shook my head firmly.
‘Kiffo. As you pointed out just now, she’s an English teacher in a high school. Just how many Mafia members do you think take on second jobs in the education department? “This Mafia business doesn’t seem to be paying very well. I think I’ll get a teaching job to enhance my superannuation.” Come on. I mean, there’d be opportunities for drug supplying, I guess, but it’s not like she’s operating a numbers racket on the oval or offering the canteen protection.’
‘Well, I dunno, do I? But I’m going to find out.’
‘Kiffo, give it a break. We both had a horrible night last night.’ I decided that I wouldn’t tell him about my protestations of undying love to Miss Payne. Kiffo’s not the kind of person to take the charitable view. He’d give me heaps if he knew. ‘Let’s just cut our losses. Anyway, you’ve trashed her place now, so that’s it, isn’t it? Revenge accomplished.’
A look of sheepishness passed over Kiffo’s face.
‘You did do it, didn’t you, Kiffo?’ I said. ‘I mean, that’s why you went there. That’s why you spent hours in her walk-in robe. So you could trash her place when she and the hound left. Don’t tell me you left without doing it.’
Kiffo looked pained.
‘I forgot,’ he said.
TWO
Time: 9.00 a.m., Monday
Location: Student Counsellor’s office
Mrs Mills: Please make yourself comfortable, Calma. How are you today?
Calma: Fine thanks, Mrs Mills.
Mrs Mills: Anything bothering you?
Calma: Only that I was told to come to your office.
Mrs Mills: It bothers you, coming to see the Student Counsellor, does it?
Calma: No. Well, a bit I suppose.
Mrs Mills: And why do you think that might be?
Calma: Because it suggests I need counselling, I guess.
Mrs Mills: And do you think that you don’t?
Calma:Why is everything you say a question?
Mrs Mills: Do questions worry you, Calma?
Calma: You see what I mean?
Mrs Mills: Why do you think you feel the need to get aggressive when questions are being put to you?
Calma: I’M NOT GETTING AGGRESSIVE.
Mrs Mills: Do you feel upset, Calma?
Silence.
Mrs Mills: Let’s get back to the original question, shall we? Do you have any idea why you were asked to see me?
Calma: Well . . . I could have a guess, I suppose. Anything to do with Miss Payne, by any chance?
Mrs Mills: Now why did you think that?
Calma: Because . . . oh, never mind.
Mrs Mills: You think about Miss Payne a lot, do you, Calma? Calma: No! Well, I mean, yes. But not for the reason you’re thinking.
Mrs Mills: And what do you think I’m thinking?
Silence.
Mrs Mills: Tell me about your home life, Calma. Your father left when you were in Year 6. Is that right?
Calma: Yes.
Mrs Mills: And how do you feel about that?
Calma: What do you mean ‘how do I feel?’ How do you think I feel?
Mrs Mills: It’s not how I think you feel that’s important, Calma. It’s how you think you feel. How do you think you feel?
Calma: I feel deliriously happy, Mrs Mills. I haven’t stopped laughing since he walked out on us and went to Sydney with the twenty-year-old barmaid from the Blarney Stone Irish pub.
Mrs Mills: Is that right, Calma?
Calma: No, of course it’s not right! I was being ironic!
Mrs Mills: Do you often hide your true feelings by telling . . . untruths?
Calma: It was bloody irony!
Mrs Mills: I can see you’re getting upset again. Does the mention of your father always get you upset?
Calma: No.
Mrs Mills: Would you say that you are resentful towards men as a result of your childhood experiences?
Calma: No. I resent my father, that’s all. Why are we talking about my father?
Mrs Mills: Are you uncomfortable talking about men?
Silence.
Mrs Mills: Is your mother a strong woman?
Calma: Absolutely. Solid steel and enamel. Rusting a bit on the bottom, but that’s to be expected. She’s not exactly young anymore, let’s face it. Well past her guarantee.
Mrs Mills: What do you mean by that, Calma?
Calma: My mother is a refrigerator.
Mrs Mills: What do you mean, a refrigerator?
Calma: It’s just a joke, Mrs Mills. I see more of the fridge, that’s all. Forget it.
Mrs Mills: Your mother works two jobs, doesn’t she? I imagine you don’t see too much of her. Do you resent that, Calma?
Calma: I don’t know about ‘resent’. I’d like to see more of her, naturally, but she works hard to provide for me. She’s brought me up by herself, doing two jobs and nothing in the way of child support. It’s been really hard for her.
Mrs Mills: You admire strong women, then?
Calma: I admire my mother, even if it’s at a distance. She’s a strong woman. That doesn’t mean I admire all strong women. Mrs Mills: Do you think Miss Payne is a strong woman?
Calma: I’m not convinced she is a woman!
Mrs Mills: That is very interesting. Why do you say that?
Silence.
Mrs Mills: Do you often think about Miss Payne’s femininity? Silence.
Mrs Mills: You told Miss Payne that you loved her, didn’t you, Calma?
Calma: No. Yes. No. Well, I did, but I didn’t mean it.
Mrs Mills: And you followed her to her house, didn’t you? Calma: No, I didn’t follow her. I just knew where she lived, that’s all.
Mrs Mills: Do you make it a habit to know where your teachers live?
Calma: No.
Mrs Mills: Do you know where any of your other teachers live, Calma?
Calma: No.
Mrs Mills: Miss Payne said that you were behaving strangely when you came to her house. That you were talking in a disjointed fashion, quite out of character with your
normal level of sophistication. That you were nervous. Would you say that was an accurate description?
Calma: I suppose. But I know what you’re thinking. I was nervous, but not because I am madly in love with her. I was nervous because . . .
Mrs Mills: Yes?
Calma: Nothing.
Mrs Mills: So you were nervous, breathing heavily, and then you told her that you loved her. Is that right?
Calma: YES! But I didn’t tell her I loved her because I love her! I hate her!
Mrs Mills: It’s often said that love and hate are two sides of the same coin, Calma, that there is very little difference between them. What do you say to that?
Calma: Yes, I’ve heard that, Mrs Mills, and I’d say that it is the single biggest heap of crap ever. It’s like saying that there is no difference between heaven and hell, or light and dark, or youth and age, or fish and kangaroos. These things are opposites, Mrs Mills . . . well, fish and kangaroos are not exactly opposites, but you know what I mean. Saying that opposite things are really the same is just lazy. And wrong. A philosophy that only the feeble-minded could accept. When I said that I don’t love Miss Payne, I meant that I don’t love her. When I said that I hated her, I meant that too. No confusion, no possibility of misinterpretation. I hate her!
Mrs Mills: Do you not think that you might be in denial, Calma?
Calma: Yes, I am in denial. I deny that I love her.
Mrs Mills: So you admit that you’re in denial. That’s a start, Calma. A very promising start. We haven’t time right now to continue this discussion. Under normal circumstances we would remove you from Miss Payne’s class immediately, for reasons that you will probably understand. Don’t panic. I’m not going to do that. Mainly because we are so understaffed at the moment that there actually isn’t another class I could put you into . . .
Calma: Please put me into another class, Mrs Mills!
Mrs Mills: I know that you are worried but you’ll just have to be strong, Calma. You have to understand that what you are going through is a very common experience for girls of your age. It’s nothing to be ashamed of and it doesn’t mean that you are abnormal or anything. Now, back to class with you. We’ll probably have a little chat once or twice a week, just to make sure everything is under control, if you know what I mean. You can tell me anything, Calma. Anything at all. And it goes without saying that anything that is said within this room remains entirely confidential. Just between us and these four walls. When you let yourself out, dear, could you tell Rachael Smith to step right on in?
Calma: Yes, Mrs Mills.
THREE Time: 9.45 a.m., Monday
Location: Science classroom
‘Rachael Smith says you’re gay, Calma. She says you’ve got the hots for Miss Payne.’
‘Rachael Smith is a lying pig!’
‘Calma’s got the hots for the Pitbull, Calma’s got the hots for the Pitbull . . .’
Chapter 8
A reflection upon circumstances,
after mature consideration
Bugger.
Chapter 9
The cutting edge of
educational practice
If you want to know the truth, there is one thing that really drives me insane. Diaries. I hate them. Now, just before you start to think, ‘Hang on, has this person only got one oar in the water or what?’ I should explain that I don’t mean the physical diary itself. I have nothing against someone publishing a whole series of books with blank pages. That’s business. I don’t even object to people buying them. I mean, it’s not my money. In fact, for about sixty years my Aunt Gillian has bought me one every Christmas and I’ve always smiled, thanked her very much and stuck the damn thing in the bin the moment I’ve had the chance. But it’s not the sight, the touch or the smell of a diary that is liable to start me foaming at the mouth. Hey, I’m not unreasonable.
No. What I hate is the way teachers think that diaries are, in some mysterious fashion, the cutting edge of educational practice. What is it about diaries that excites them so? Do they really think that by setting a diary entry for homework they are somehow tapping into genuine adolescent interests? That we are all going to go, ‘Wow, that was one really dull lesson, but now I’ve got the chance to write a diary entry on it, the adrenaline is really pumping. This is fantastic, inspiring, brilliant . . . oops, I’ve wet myself with excitement!’? That’s only the girls, of course. The boys will, without exception, plan to write dairy entries, in which cows, milk and the churning of butter figure prominently. I’ve a theory about boys and spelling. I think that most of them are born with only half a brain!
And I know the answer to why we are subjected to the mind-numbing routine of diary entries. Laziness. That’s what it is. Sheer laziness. And that’s something else. ‘Use your imagination, class. I want fresh ideas and fresh expression. Now what can I give them to do? I know, I’ll trot out that old standby, the diary entry.’ Double standards. It makes my blood boil.
I’ll tell you another thing. Sometimes – no, probably most times – the diary entry is completely inappropriate. I remember last year our English teacher did Macbeth with us. Now I don’t know if you know the play but it has this woman, Lady Macbeth, and is she a real cow? This woman is completely evil. She pushes her husband into murdering the king just because she wants to be queen. Initially, he agrees, but later when he says he doesn’t think he can do it, she tells him that she would have plucked her own baby from her breast and beaten its brains out, if she had sworn to do it. You know, that nothing would stop her from getting what she wants, even if it means killing her own baby in cold blood. And you believe her! She is one cold, unfeeling woman. So, her husband murders the king and gets the crown and she becomes queen and all. And it’s very bloody. Our teacher told us to write a diary entry from the viewpoint of Lady Macbeth after the murder of the old king, who was called Duncan. Can you believe that? This is Shakespeare we are talking about here. High tragedy. And we are expected to imagine that in the middle of all the bloodshed, Lady Macbeth is getting out her K-Mart diary every night and jotting a few things down! So this is what I wrote.
Friday, 11.30 p.m.
Dear Diary,
It’s been a few nights since I’ve written to you. I hope I’m not getting lax, but I’ve been pretty busy recently, what with entertaining the King of Scotland and his three thousand hangers on. I was all for ordering takeaway, but Macbeth wouldn’t have it. He reckons the local Thai restaurant is over-priced and he’s been wary of the pizza place ever since he had the seafood thick crust and got crook with food poisoning. So I was up to my elbows in pie-floaters for everyone, while Macbeth and old Duncan were watching The Footy Show and getting a few VBs down them. Typical bloody men! Anyway, after all that, Macbeth tells me he doesn’t want to murder Duncan after all. He’s changed his mind! I tell you, I gave him heaps. I was ropeable. I said, ‘Listen here, matey, it’s just like when you were supposed to be putting up the shadecloth over the pool. That took five bloody months. No way, mate. Get in there and kill the old bastard right now or you can forget all about going to the V8 Supercars next week!’ ‘Aw, jeez, Lady Mac,’ he said. ‘Give me a break, will yer?’ To cut a long story short, he does it. Not without a lot of whingeing and whining, mind. And there is, like, loads of blood all over the good doona. Took me hours to get the stains out. Forget that old stuff about salt being the business for stains. Might work for wine, but gobs of blood is a different matter. By the time I finished, I was completely tuckered. So I’ll make this short. To be honest, after the day I’ve had, I just fancy a cup of hot Milo and a quick read of Woman’s Day. I’ll write again tomorrow, I swear.
I was expecting a detention for that. I wanted a detention! But do you know what happened? I got a big tick and a B grade. She hadn’t even read it. Sometimes teachers make me sick.
Look, sorry about all this. I know I’m rambling. It’s just that I had a hard time after Rachael Smith had finished spreading the hot news about my supposed love affair
with the Pitbull. Not content with telling the entire school within twenty-five minutes – not a bad effort when there are over eight hundred kids at the school – she then gave the full rundown to the parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, second cousins twice-removed, neighbours, casual acquaintances, newspaper-delivery kids and the bag lady who spends her time gibbering and drooling in the city centre. I’m surprised she didn’t take out a full page advertisement in the local paper. I couldn’t watch 60 Minutes for months afterwards without worrying that my face would appear accompanied by a breathy voiceover, ‘Pervert Student Stalks Kindly Teacher.’
[Rachael Smith – Virgo in conjunction with Uranus. There is a tendency today to speak without thinking, possibly because you have the brains of a brick. Beware of large-breasted, bespectacled females bearing two-metre lengths of plumbers’ piping. ]
I don’t know if you have ever been in a similar situation. Unlikely, I guess, unless you are, like me, gifted with a talent for inviting disaster. But it’s hell. Yeah, okay. I know what you are thinking. ‘It’ll pass. Worse things happen at sea. Bit of teasing never hurt anyone.’ Was that what you were thinking? If it was, please go at once and stick your head in a large bucket of pool acid. I know all about treating misfortune with dignity. In theory. But in practice, you wish you were dead. Everywhere I went, there was giggling and immature remarks. Girls would leave the toilets if I went in. I was pathetically grateful that Vanessa still sat next to me in class. She continued to wear boredom like a badge, but there was a subtle change in her attitude. Difficult to be specific. Little things, like the way her body was slightly more closed, as if she was desperate that our legs wouldn’t touch under the desk. Maybe it was my imagination, but I thought that even the teachers looked at me slightly differently.
I went straight home from school that day. To be honest, I needed my mum. I wanted to talk things through with her, the way they do on soap operas. You know. All that stuff where the girl says, ‘Mum, I’m pregnant by the local heroin addict, my best friend’s topped herself and the police want to interview me in connection with the arson at the high school.’ And the mum strokes the girl’s hair and says, ‘It’s okay, Charlene, you know that I’ll always be here for you.’ I needed that kind of thing.
The Whole Business with Kiffo and the Pitbull Page 6
