Bad Behaviour

by Rebecca Starford

  When I first saw Libby I was reminded of the old-fashioned doll I used to have perched on a shelf in my bedroom. That doll frightened me; she always seemed to be watching me when I woke in the morning, her straw bonnet oddly tilted, her small pink lips curled into a snarl.

  Libby spots Portia flicking through a magazine and heads straight towards her. A few minutes later Portia has taught her how to stick up her middle finger. Girls gather around the bed to watch.

  ‘There, Libby,’ Portia says. ‘Now, you do this when you go home and see Daddy. And then you say, Fuck you.’

  Laughter bristles through the dorm, but it is weighted, expectant. Portia’s laugh is unlike anything I’ve heard—raw and caustic. She reaches out to me, gently pinching the flesh above my elbow. I hate it when she does that.

  Libby starts jumping up and down, clapping her tiny hands, a thin stream of dribble running from her mouth. When I glance around I see how the girls are watching me, waiting, and I let out a strained laugh. Portia stops pinching.

  I have Solo that night. It’s a compulsory night out camping in the bush on your own, and everyone has to do it once during first term. It’s a time, the teachers told us, for quiet self-reflection, and to feel totally at ease with the bush. Before going to sleep we’re expected to write a letter to ourselves, which at the end of the year will be posted home.

  After dinner I’m driven in a Jeep with a few kids from other houses and dropped off at my site, a dry clearing surrounded by tall trees and clusters of prickly bushes.

  By the time I set up it is dark. Inside the tent I lie in my sleeping bag with my knees curled to my chin. The tent smells of hiking—a stale stench of wood smoke and dirt and sweaty socks. My guts churn whenever I think of Dad’s visit tomorrow.

  As a distraction I busy myself with my pack, recalling how Simone said that on her Solo she heard the tinkle of Bobo the Clown. This makes me feel worse. I switch on the torch and poke my head outside. There is nothing out there, of course. Just large stars sparkling in the sky, the drifting scent of eucalyptus.

  Back in the tent I pull a beanie hard over my hair and cry for a while. Why do they make us camp on our own like this, barely past the school’s boundary? It just seems cruel.

  Through my tears I skim the pages of the Solo kit, a booklet of inspirational quotes about living in the outdoors, appreciating nature and having a sense of personal calm and purpose.

  After a while I grow tired of crying and begin writing the letter to myself. Dear Rebecca, I begin:

  Well, you are a year older and hopefully wiser after the great Silver Creek year. I hope you also found it the best year of your life.

  At the moment, I love school and schoolwork, hiking and running. I love the boys and most of the girls. Our House is the best . . .

  When I’ve finished, I read the letter once over before sealing it back inside the floral envelope. I know I’m not telling the whole truth about everything that’s going on up here, but by the end of the year I hope my feelings do reflect these words; that there will be more veracity to them. And perhaps, in the years to come, this is how I will in fact remember everything.

  Back in the sleeping bag, I listen for sounds outside, but I can’t hear much—only the occasional hoot of a night bird or the rustle of a breeze—and clasping my hands together I snuggle further into the warm bag. I think about the booklet. Most of the quotes are lame, like the one about no bird soaring too high with its own wings, but I liked the one from Walt Whitman, ‘Song of the Open Road’: Now I see the secret of the making of the best persons / It is to grow in the open air, and to eat and sleep with the earth.

  Dad sits in the corner of the office, rising only to give me a scrape of a kiss. He’s dressed for work in his suit and tie, and I realise that is where he must have come from earlier this morning. He looks exhausted.

  Mr Pegg does most of the talking—about Silver Creek and its values. At the window, behind Mr Pegg’s head, leaves press against the glass. Dad crosses his legs, his left foot moving up and down in a familiar gesture of irritation. I suppose he doesn’t need to hear about standards and expectations—he is a school principal, after all. Suddenly I am ashamed—more ashamed than I’ve ever been. Poor Dad, I think. This must be so embarrassing.

  When Mr Pegg finally moves on to my misdemeanours and punishments, I clasp my hands together to stop them from shaking: dorm raids, out of bounds, talking after lights-out, a ‘general leader of trouble in the house’, Stonely Roads and Queen Rivers. He even mentions an essay I wrote in English, comparing Silver Creek to Animal Farm—‘I mean, really?’ he scoffs.

  Eventually Dad clears his throat and asks about my scholarship. ‘Does Rebecca’s behaviour put the arrangement in jeopardy?’

  Mr Pegg takes a while to answer, but then with a sigh says it is fine—for now. But my behaviour must improve. ‘You’re running out of chances,’ he tells me.

  Afterwards, I walk with Dad to the car park. It is a warm afternoon, the big eucalypts rustling like maracas.

  Dad leans against the bonnet of the Pajero, rubbing at his eyes. ‘I just don’t understand all this, Rebecca,’ he says, glancing at me from beneath his bushy eyebrows. ‘You’ve never been in this kind of trouble before.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I mumble.

  He touches the tip of his shoe to the front wheel. ‘Is there anything you need to tell me? About the house, or any of the girls?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘It’s all fine.’

  He looks away, over the line of grey-green trees. He takes a deep breath, exhales loudly. ‘We’re worried about you. Your mother and I. You’re so far away. We just don’t understand why you’re behaving like this . . .’

  ‘I’m fine, Dad,’ I say. ‘Really. It isn’t going to happen again.’

  He watches me, squinting. Except for the occasional burst of anger, my dad never shows a lot of emotion. Now he looks sad.

  ‘I won’t be naughty anymore,’ I say, firmer this time. ‘I’ll be good, I promise.’

  He nods, his eyes sliding to the ground. He doesn’t believe me.

  I watch the car crawl down the road, growing small and shiny like a beetle until it disappears near the piggery, and then I squat in the gutter. I’m so tired—I could lie down on the scratchy grass and sleep for hours. But we’re leaving on a hike this afternoon, camping tonight on the edge of Mount Stonely. I can’t think of anything worse.

  I put my head between my knees. A few flies buzz around, and I play with the soft hair on my shins. How like my parents it is for Dad to make the trip up here, to be the disciplinarian. That’s how it has always been in my family. Mum is the one who lets you get away with things; she is softer, more malleable.

  But I wish it had been Mum to come up here to find out what was going on. That she had asked me something about how I was feeling. I picture her at home, sitting in the back room, a cup of tea on the table, sunlight streaming through the French windows. I’ve seen her like that a thousand times, but right now I can’t make out her face.

  I feel out of sorts after Dad’s visit. I know I promised him I’d be good, but I don’t feel like being good. I become irritable around the house, snapping at anyone who gets on my nerves. Sometimes I lie in bed at night and want to break things. Pieces of furniture, mainly, but sometimes I also think about hurting people—the girls. Sometimes I picture myself hitting them in the face: Briohny usually. These thoughts frighten me, but probably not as much as they should. I don’t know where they come from or how to stop them.

  I’m not the only one in the house acting different. Lou has grown quiet and withdrawn. She doesn’t laugh as much as she used to, and whenever she smiles there is something pained about it. I don’t know why her parents sent her to Silver Creek when she loves the farm so much. I know her dad was a student at the school, and her grandfather before him. Maybe these traditions are more important.

  One night Lou and Sarah come back from music practice drunk. They’d snuck into the vestry and skolled
the Communion wine. ‘All of it!’ Sarah screeched.

  Miss McKinney is on duty tonight; she’s due to drop in any minute. Simone and I haul Lou to the bathroom to sober her up, making her brush her teeth and then pushing her into the shower.

  But Sarah won’t be drawn. Instead she runs up and down the dorm, grabbing any loose items from beds and tossing them on the floor.

  ‘Is she crazy?’ Portia breathes. ‘McKinney is coming up the road.’

  Sarah balances on a metal bed end, still laughing hard. But her eyes seem determined to me, controlled. Perhaps she wants to get caught.

  Miss McKinney walks in just as Sarah crashes to the floor. Red-faced and sweating, she gazes up at the assistant and lets out a giant burp.

  ‘Oh, Jesus,’ Miss McKinney says, and to my surprise she laughs.

  After Miss McKinney takes Sarah away, Miss Lacey arrives. She makes us line up so she can smell our breath. My heart races when she reaches Lou, but she takes a sniff, nods, and moves on to the next girl. After searching the house for contraband, Miss Lacey seems satisfied there is nothing to be found. Sarah, she tells us, has been suspended for a week. Tomorrow she will be driven down to Melbourne to stay with her guardians.

  A few nights later, Portia and Briohny do another Bell Run. They’ve been bragging about it all week. As they get ready, they make a big deal about who they’re going to ask to join them. ‘Bec?’ Briohny scoffs when my name is mentioned. ‘Not that suck.’ I hear Portia snort.

  It seems like they’ve been gone for hours before the bell gongs across the school, and moments later they come galloping back through the dorm.

  I check my watch. It’s 3.12 am. I feel hysteria start to build in my chest, almost vibrating—I desperately need to sleep.

  ‘Can you be quiet?’ I shout.

  ‘Fuck off.’ Briohny laughs and throws something hard at my bed. ‘You keep us awake all the time.’

  ‘I don’t care. Just shut up, will you?’

  But they don’t listen. They chatter for hours, laughing off other complaints. I don’t say another thing to Briohny—I don’t trust what might come out of my mouth, what I might do. My dislike of her has transformed into something keener, sharper. I’m afraid of it.

  ~

  There is another long run that afternoon. This one takes us past the dam and over the hills to the west of the campus, along a narrow path dipping down by the creek.

  I keep thinking the runs will get easier as we get fitter, but they never do—each one is more excruciating than the last. At the finish line I stare down at my place card, blood rushing to my head. I’ve ranked somewhere in the middle of the field of girls. Average.

  I wander over to the tree on the small lawn, lingering for a moment to catch my breath. I want to go back to the house, and when no one is looking I creep around the library and up the steps. In an alcove I glimpse Portia in a circle of boys, Rollo Walker beside her. He’s wearing a Bintang T-shirt and red footy shorts. Even from here I can see the hair at his nape is wet with sweat.

  I wave, hoping Portia might invite me over so I’ll have the chance to talk to Rollo. But as her eyes meet mine her face changes, hardening. I’ve seen this look a dozen times, and the hair on my arms tingles. She says something quietly to Rollo, making him laugh, before she turns away.

  ~

  That night I scuttle down the stairs, late for dinner. The bell must have been rung because lines are already forming. I don’t want the teachers to see me coming in late, so when Miss Lacey’s back is turned I make a beeline for the spot at the front. But I didn’t see Briohny, and as I slip my way in she lunges at me, hissing, ‘Go to the back of the line!’

  I stand my ground. She shoves me again, right on my spine. Before I know what I’m doing I’ve grabbed her around the collar, my vision narrowing, only aware of my white knuckles, my voice, which has gone strangely hollow and tinny inside my head, and the words working their way from my gritted teeth are foul, awful words that I can never take back. I hoist her higher. Now who’s smirking, you cunt. I want to hit her, really smash her face in. That’ll show her that she can’t push me around. That will show her that I am strong, someone to be feared. But Briohny isn’t fighting back, she’s just staring at me, her head jolting around like a ragdoll.

  Miss Lacey comes out of nowhere and tears me away. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  I stagger from the line, woozy. What is wrong with me? Miss Lacey has her hands on her hips, waiting for my answer. But no words come.

  Briohny tugs at her collar. ‘She pushed in. Then started fighting me!’

  Now Miss Lacey grabs my arm, twisting it. I can see the red threads in her eyes, smell the beer on her breath. ‘You’re this close, Rebecca. This close . . .’ She holds up two fingers like pincers. ‘And despite what you think, you don’t get special treatment around here. So get to the back of the bloody line.’

  I scuff my way to the rear of the amphitheatre. Kendall is standing there, but she doesn’t turn around. Is she scared of me too? The thought is awful, and my lip begins to quiver.

  Now why did you do that?

  ~

  There is a film screening after dinner: The Princess Bride with Cary Elwes. All the girls think he is hot. But I go back to the house. I want some time on my own, to walk around the dorm with no one looking, to think about things I’m never able to up here—like stories and characters and dialogue I’ve made up in my head. I want to talk to myself.

  But I find Kendall, lying on her bed, reading a book. She raises a hand to me, a small nod of a greeting. I smile tightly.

  We sit in companionable silence. This isn’t so bad. I make a cup of Milo and take it to the deck, where I watch the sunset until mosquitoes come out and start to bite around my ankles.

  Back inside, Kendall has swapped her book for sewing. I lean out my window, tracing my finger along the dusty sill, breathing in the night air. It is the only thing I’ll miss during the holidays—the air. Tonight it smells slightly damp, with the faintest hint of wood smoke swept up from somewhere down the hill.

  I run a shower and sing under the hot water, old tunes from The Phantom of the Opera, which I used to listen to on my Walkman, always crying at the part where the phantom loses Christine. I scrub at my arms. They’ve grown so brown—my legs, too, slim and sturdy as poles. I watch the shampoo suds stream over my breasts and down my body, circling the plughole before disappearing. I turn off the taps and wring out my hair. Have I changed? I wonder, as I pad across the tiles to the bench. When I look into the mirror, it does seem like a stranger is staring back.

  It is night. Blue shadows move around Yellow House, shifting and morphing near the basketball ring, the house beyond it, illuminated by a single square-shaped light. I stare at the patch of road that veers off to make a path. The breeze picks up for a moment before dropping away with a sigh. And then, from the shadows, emerges a dark mass. Arms and legs and hiking boots. They move with such silent stealth they could be almost floating along the road. I can’t see faces, just the outline of their movement. But when the moon drifts out from behind a cloud, bathing the road in an urgent sort of light, I see how they’re all gazing up towards Red House.

  ‘They’re coming back,’ I murmur. I turn to Kendall, and she puts her sewing aside, eyes on me. They never waver.

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  PART TWO

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  I start up the engine and drive on, over the cattle grid and up the first incline. My hands are sweaty on the wheel. Rain has begun to fleck the windscreen and the wind howls at the windows.r />
  When I come to the closed gate I almost cry out with relief. I won’t be able to go in after all. But it isn’t locked—nothing at Silver Creek is ever locked. I’d forgotten this rule: that you are encouraged to trust those you live with.

  The road dips and curves, and some blue sky creeps out from behind the clouds. The vineyard has grown, the vines heartier, spreading across the length of the paddock. Everything else seems unchanged.

  I pass the sheds, the vegetable garden, and the pen where the pigs were kept. I can’t see any today. Further along is the hayshed. It looks creepy, almost derelict, with cobwebs billowing in the breeze.

  Just before the library I pull over beside a rash of wattle on the yellow lawn. I probably shouldn’t take the car all the way up to Red House. I check the rear-view mirror, then the other windows. I chew on my fingernails, furtive. No one is around. It is school holidays—the students are away, off-campus. But I still can’t shake the feeling that I’m sneaking around.

  I rest my hands on the steering wheel, the steady pulse of the engine throbbing through my fingertips. I hadn’t expected these nerves. I’d mulled over the idea to visit Silver Creek for ages, always feeling rather clinical about it. It’s only a school, I’d told myself. You’re only going to remind yourself of the landscape and smells and the ‘feel’ of the place. But now that I’m here, hunched over in the car, it does seem wrong. What if I run into someone? I can’t tell them what I’m writing about: the school is so private. They would take it the wrong way.

  I’ve only come back once to Silver Creek since I left, when my parents and I dropped Archie off for his year away. I was only a couple of years out of school myself, but still a teenager, still naïve. Still with the arrogant swagger of a graduate student; an Old Girl. How different that feeling is now, ten years later. Shouldn’t I have grown easier in my own skin?