The more I think about Kendall, the more intrigued I am. She can’t help but stand out in a drab dorm with brown walls and a brown floor—her hair is so very white. And those eyes, such an intense blue; they almost radiate from her pale face, as do her blood-red lips. There is something ethereal about her, like she lived a whole other life before this one.
But what I notice most about Kendall is how much time she spends on her own. Trailing behind on the way to breakfast, or sitting on her bed after school. I feel sorry for her; she must be lonely. But after a while I see that she doesn’t mind this solitude; in fact I think she rather likes it. After class she heads back to the house along the service track, on her own but at a relaxed pace, almost a stroll. She may not chime in with all the chatter, but she is always listening, even when she appears not to be—I often catch her smiling at snatches of talk around the dorm.
I wonder if she has any friends outside of Red House. I’ve seen her talking after class to the girls from her slow hike group. Perhaps they are all friends. But here in the house she barely talks to anyone. How does she manage it, surrounded by so many people? I’ve never seen her get sad or angry. How does she preserve that discipline of feelings? I almost admire her for it.
One afternoon I find myself alone in the dorm with her and we strike up a conversation about fencing. It turns out Kendall is good at fencing, with a high ranking in the Victorian league. Just as I’m picturing her jousting in medieval castles, the rest of the house returns like a stampede, and when Ronnie overhears she suggests Kendall must look like the Michelin Man in her fencing costume, which makes everyone laugh.
From across the aisle I fume at Ronnie. I had been enjoying our chat. Kendall’s face is expressionless, but I do catch something beseeching in her eyes. I know I should say something, stand up for her, but an instant later that look is gone.
~
It isn’t long after this that Kendall begins snoring. And it isn’t dainty snoring, as I discover the first night, but congested rumbles that seem to shake the very foundations of the house. When girls complain, Kendall says it isn’t her. Slippers get thrown, and Sarah even flings a hiking boot, striking Kendall in the head.
‘I can’t help it,’ Kendall says.
One night, as I chat quietly to Emma after lights-out, I notice a figure in the shadows beside my bed. I scream. But it’s only Kendall, holding a pillow. Her face looks strange, like she’s underwater. Her eyes are blank.
‘If you don’t shut up,’ she whispers, ‘I’ll smother you with my pillow.’
‘Woah, Kends,’ says Emma. ‘Calm down.’
‘If you don’t shut up,’ she says again, turning her cold gaze on Emma, ‘I’ll smother you both with my pillow.’
The girls around us laugh as Kendall edges away, propping the pillow against her bedside table.
I watch Kendall warily after that, no longer sure what she is capable of. I had thought we might get along—we’d never be friends, of course, but we could at least be civil to one another, have the occasional chat like the one we had about fencing. Now something is broken, and any compassion I might have felt for her has disappeared.
For others, Kendall’s nocturnal outburst is the ammunition they have been waiting for all term. Ronnie, in particular, seizes any opportunity to be cruel. She hounds Kendall, pointing, jeering, sometimes even pushing her, for crimes like walking during crossies, or stinking out the bathroom. More of Kendall’s smelly clothes are exhumed and paraded around the dorm.
Even Kendall’s diary is plucked from her desk, with Ronnie reading out the choice bits to whoever will listen. Like the passage about Kendall tricking the teachers into believing she fainted on a hike: ‘And then I slumped to my knees and pretended to fall. Haha, it was so easy, they didn’t even check if I was unconchus. You can’t even spell,’ Ronnie laughs. ‘You spaz.’
And I am always there, at Ronnie’s side, laughing with her. No one stands up to us. Even Kendall doesn’t bother to defend herself—she just sits on the end of her bed, never uttering a word. But it doesn’t feel mean like it might have before, because Kendall scared me. I didn’t do anything to her; it was unprovoked. She needs to be punished for that. Taught a lesson.
One time, however, she does fight back. It’s morning and I’m turning down my bed. The house has failed inspection again, so I must make sure my area is tidy. As I smooth out my doona, I become aware of girls mingling at the top of the aisle. Then I hear Kendall and Briohny, voices raised, nearer to the door. I look up to see Emma creeping up behind Kendall with the broom and poking her, quite playfully, in the bum. The girls begin to tussle, Emma laughing, but it is no game to Kendall. Her eyes have that blank look to them.
‘Hey!’ I shout as Kendall snatches the broom and smacks Emma on the chin.
Briohny starts shouting, calling her stupid slut and bitch. Kendall turns around, the handle gripped at her waist like barbells. She seems to size Briohny up, before storming down the aisle. She slams into her with the full force of the broom, catching Briohny around the windpipe and pinning her against the cupboard.
I scream, but Kendall is gone before I reach her, charging out the back door and up into the bush.
It’s all over in half a minute, maybe less. Emma stares at the floor, rubbing at her chin.
‘What the hell was that?’ I gasp.
Later, when Miss Lacey inspects the house, I tell her Kendall went to the nurse. ‘With a stomach ache,’ I lie.
Kendall doesn’t reappear until dinnertime. She sits hunched at the end of the table, picking at her meal. No one mentions the broom, or what happened in the dorm.
But Briohny doesn’t forget. Each night she peers into the bathroom mirror to examine the bruise around her throat. ‘I’ll never forgive her,’ she says. ‘I mean, she could have killed me. Crazy bitch.’ She glances at me accusingly.
I try not to listen to Briohny. About anything, really. It’s difficult. Her voice always pierces the throng of noise in the house. I don’t think I’ll ever like Briohny. Her miserliness is the worst: I’ve never seen her give away a single piece of food or can of drink, or lend someone anything. Rather than keep her food in the tuck room like the rest of us, she hides it in a carpenter’s toolbox beneath her bed.
This red box has a strange power over me. Imagining its contents can entertain me for hours. Already I’ve caught glimpses of chocolate bars, crackers and the occasional packet of dried meat her mum brings back from holidays to America. Briohny’s always careful to lock the box before returning it to the drawer. ‘Because you’re all thieves,’ she says.
The box is brought out after every crossie. Sprawling the length of her bed, Briohny sucks on a can of Coke, stuffing crisps into her mouth. When she’s finished she throws the packet, rather lavishly, to the floor.
Today I wander over and ask if I might have a chip. A few girls are getting changed; others lie on their beds, waiting for showers.
‘No,’ Briohny says. Stray bits of hair dance about her ears like sea anemone.
‘Not one chip, Briohny?’ I ask, loud enough for everyone to hear. ‘You won’t give me a single chip?’
She stabs a salty finger at me. ‘No,’ she says, her voice rising to a shout. ‘No, no, no! They’re mine. Mine! You’re nothing but a scab, Bec. You hear me? A scab! Why don’t you just go away?’
Stunned, I shuffle back to my bed, a few giggles pinging around the dorm.
The next afternoon my viola lesson finishes early and I come back to the house before everyone else. As I throw myself across my bed, I catch a flash of fire engine red. Briohny’s tuck box has been left out on her quilt, key still in the lock. It doesn’t seem possible. This has never happened before. I glance at my watch: the girls won’t be back for at least ten minutes.
I creep over to Briohny’s corner and sit on the edge of her quilt. I run my fingertips over the box’s cool lacquered surface before tipping open the lid to expose the mass of treasure—more wonderful than I’d ever imagine
d. The box is stuffed with bars of chocolate, jellybeans, lollipops, Starbursts and ten-packs of Wizz Fizz. But all I can see is the packet of Lay’s Cheese Onion just sitting there on top of the pile.
I rip it open and stuff a handful of chips into my mouth. I shower her quilt in crumbs, and when I finish I throw the packet on the floor.
‘You stole them, didn’t you?’
Briohny stands at the end of my bed. She’s clasping her dog-eared Japanese textbooks tight in her arms.
I put my own book to one side. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘I know it was you,’ she says. ‘No one else has been up here.’
My tongue nudges at the chips stuck in my back teeth. ‘Briohny,’ I say, ‘I didn’t steal them. Why would I?’
‘Because that’s what you’re like!’ She is yelling now, her face right up close to mine, spidery veins creeping across her cheeks.
I lie back, smiling; I can’t help it.
‘You just have to have everything, don’t you?’ she says, kicking at my drawer. ‘Why don’t you just admit it, you fucking hypocrite.’
Later that night, watching Briohny and Portia laughing, I turn over a sour taste in my mouth. Why does Portia like her so much? Maybe she appreciates Briohny’s bleak outlook on life. Or maybe it isn’t that at all, I think, grabbing a towel. Maybe it’s because Briohny doesn’t try to make anyone like her.
I’m still thinking about this when I get back from class one afternoon to find Ronnie and Portia lingering in the corner of the dorm. They’re both dressed in crossie gear, headbands pulling their eyes wide.
‘Bec!’ Ronnie blocks my way. ‘Want to know Kendall’s new nickname?’
Kendall is crouched next to her bed, sorting through her drawers.
‘Okay,’ I say.
‘KFC.’
I frown. ‘Like the chicken?’
Ronnie glances at Portia, then lets out a shrill laugh.
‘It stands,’ Portia says, ‘for Kendall’s Fat Cunt.’
For a moment the dorm seems to pitch, and I reach out to steady myself against the bed. As I do, I see behind Portia how Kendall’s shoulders drop, her head slumping forward like it is too heavy for her neck. Ronnie has her hands on her knees, laughing so hard tears stream down her face. But Portia watches on unsmiling, her jaw flexing against her cheek.
I edge away. ‘That’s so mean,’ I whisper.
Portia spins around. ‘What?’ She grabs at my arm, pulling me towards her, so near I can see the tiny beads of sweat above her lip. ‘What did you say, Rebecca?’
‘Nothing,’ I say, shrugging her off.
‘KFC,’ Ronnie wheezes. ‘Classic.’
When they’ve gone I pace the length of the dorm. Everything is tight and achy. I should relish this time in the house on my own, but instead I am queasy, a deep black feeling, sticky as tar. I go to the window and press my nose against the cool glass. I’m looking for something, I just don’t know what.
The next day Portia doesn’t save me a seat in the dining hall. Briohny sits in my place, her face squished against her fists as she stares morosely at the casserole served up from the trolley. It’s nothing, I tell myself. You can’t sit with her every meal.
But I catch Portia watching me through lunch. Her eyes narrow for a moment, but she always smiles, toothless and tight.
Later that night I come across her and Briohny whispering in the tuck room. They fall silent when I walk in, and I feel their eyes on the back of my head as I rummage about in my locker. I find my Monte Carlos and draw one from the plastic sheath.
‘What’s up?’ I say, trying to keep my voice calm.
More silence, until Portia says, ‘We’re thinking of dorm raiding Yellow House tonight. You interested?’
I turn around. Briohny is easy to read, her feelings like words on her face. She looks smug, standing there with her arms folded, as though she’s worked out the answer to an equation before anyone else. I’m not so sure about Portia. The corner of her mouth is twitching, but her eyes are cold. I fold my own arms to stop them trembling. Portia is still staring at me, waiting for an answer. I feel like I’ve been given a handful of priceless sand that’s now slipping through my fingers.
‘Who else is coming?’ I ask, biting into the biscuit.
The Monte Carlos have gone stale, the cream in the middle slightly sour, and I throw the rest of it in the bin.
‘Me and Bri,’ Portia says. ‘And Sarah, too.’
I’ve already had Stonely Roads for being out of bounds. How far can I push Miss Lacey and Mr Pegg before I start to get in serious trouble, where my parents are involved and my scholarship is at risk? But I also really want to go. It’ll be fun, and a bit dangerous. And I don’t want to miss out on doing this with Portia. She will like me more, after the dorm raid; we’ll become firmer friends. It’s too good an opportunity to miss.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘I’m in.’
Portia glances at Briohny and claps her hands. ‘Nice one, mate,’ she says.
She saunters by, giving my shoulder a squeeze, and I smile back weakly. I can’t work out why Briohny is still sneering from the corner of the room.
~
The moon is high and bright in the sky. Red House seems so small from the road, so far away.
We enter through the back door, tiptoeing across the cool tiles like a SWAT team. Yellow House is a carbon copy of Red House, but it smells more cold and clean; it’s a lemony smell, mixed with pine. In the dorm, I creep, as planned, towards a bed in the middle. Lying under the covers is Freya. She’s a nice girl, someone I would like to be friends with if I knew how. But it is too late; Portia has already bellowed, ‘Dorm raid!’
Freya sits bolt upright and I slam the pillow across her face, knocking her back down with an ooph. When a few girls start to get out of bed, Sarah rushes at them, and screams mingle with our own crazed laughter.
At the top of the aisle Briohny tosses flour into the air, and for a few moments it’s like being in a blizzard. Portia moves from one bed to the next, still lashing out with her oversized pillow. Her eyes shine like a cat’s in the dark.
The whole thing lasts for about a minute before we’re out the back door. ‘That was awesome!’ I cry, leaping up our front steps.
Briohny shoves me in the back. ‘Shut the fuck up, Bec. Do you want the whole school to hear?’
~
The next morning, before the others are awake, I run to the bathroom to throw up. I barely slept a wink the night before, tossing and turning with worry. I stand over the toilet bowl, my legs quivering, and close my eyes. I don’t want to be like this anymore. I want to be good again. I flush the toilet. Please, God, don’t let Dad find out.
The others don’t appear bothered about the trouble we’re facing. Briohny is getting dressed with uncharacteristic joviality, and on the way down to breakfast I can hear Portia whistling.
Emma draws up beside me. ‘Are you all right?’
My hands and brow are clammy. ‘I didn’t sleep well,’ I mumble.
Emma tilts her head, still watching me, and I find myself blurting out my fears about losing my scholarship.
We walk past the chapel. ‘But what’s the big deal?’ Emma asks. ‘Why the secret? I’d love to tell people I’m smart enough to be on a scholarship.’
We stop at the bench. Soft light dapples through the trees. Emma puts her arm around me, which makes me happy and sad at the same time, because I know she knows that I don’t want to be different. That I don’t want anyone thinking I don’t deserve to be here.
Birds skitter across the path. Some feed together on crusts of bread. I feel a pang of longing for my family, for my own bedroom.
‘I just need to be careful,’ I say. ‘You know, with being naughty. I can’t get in much more trouble.’
‘Good luck with that,’ Emma laughs. ‘You’re the worst girl in Red House.’
I stare at her. ‘Very funny.’
But this makes her laugh harder. ‘I’m not jo
king, Bec.’
‘Hang on,’ I say, reaching out as she starts to walk on. ‘You’re saying out of everyone in Red House, you think I’m the most badly behaved?’
Emma blinks. ‘Well,’ she says, ‘it’s all relative, isn’t it?’
I watch her walk down the path and disappear beneath the steps. She must be winding me up. She can’t really think that, can she?
~
No one in Yellow House will look at us. The girl beside me still has flour in her dark hair. I search up and down their line for Freya, spotting her near the front. ‘Bitches,’ someone snarls as they file into the dining hall.
Near the end of breakfast Miss Lacey comes over to our table. I haven’t touched my piece of toast. I watch as she leans in, whispering in Briohny’s ear, then Portia’s. ‘Rebecca,’ she says when she reaches me, ‘Mr Pegg would like to see you in his office after breakfast.’
I expect disappointment, even disgust, when I look up from my lap. Instead Miss Lacey gazes at me with pity, which I think is worse.
Mr Pegg gives me three Queen Rivers; a Queen River is a ten-kilometre run to The Junction and back. A shiver of worry works its way down my spine. I have heard all about these runs. They are worse than Stonely Roads—much worse: the track is rocky, all the way to the creek, and I’ll have to go on my own, before dawn, in the dark.
With a fluttering voice I ask about my scholarship. ‘Is it all right? Is it safe?’
Mr Pegg stares me down. ‘You’re skating on thin ice, Rebecca,’ he says. ‘This is a serious situation. This morning I called your father to speak with him about your behaviour. He is very concerned and has decided to come up for a meeting this week.’
I begin chewing on my fingernails, tearing down at the loose tags of skin. I’d rather one hundred Queen Rivers than face Dad about this.
After school, Libby wanders into the house. She’s the daughter of Mr Hillman, the teacher who lives with his family in the brown house down the road. Libby, who is about six or seven, isn’t like other children—there is something slow about the way she walks and talks. Her hair is dark, shining auburn when it catches the light, and her enormous blue eyes are always slightly vacant as they roam across your face.
Bad Behaviour Page 6
