Eventually they break off. Their timing is perfect. They speak together quietly, Tom with his hand on Leila’s hip. Then he leaves, Leila watching him go before she too heads back down the track towards her house.
Simone and I clamber out from the bushes. She slings her arm over my shoulder, laughing. ‘Enjoy that did you, creep?’
I shrug her off. ‘You’re the creep!’
‘Relax, I’m only joking.’ She moseys on, gazing at the starry sky with the same dreamy expression. ‘I mean, Tom is good-looking, but there are bigger hotties at the school, don’t you think?’
I glance down the hill to the cluster of girls’ houses, where I can make out a bluish smudge. Somewhere a light goes on, burning bright through the dark.
New assistants arrive as the old ones leave. We have a gathering to farewell Miss McKinney. Miss Lacey brings cupcakes with pink icing and a packet of jelly snakes, and a bottle of lemonade makes its way around the study.
I can’t wait to meet the new assistants. Two young women from France and Canada, and three men from Scotland, Germany and England. There is much speculation about what they will look like and what kind of people they will be.
The following night they’re all seated at the teachers’ high table. It’s a merry meal—I can see empty bottles of wine lining the slush trolley. Miss Lacey is chatting with the Scottish assistant, Mr Connolly, a gangly man with curly hair, every now and then putting her hand on his arm and throwing her head back to laugh.
‘I think Miss Lacey might have a new boyfriend,’ Portia sneers. ‘Hamish McDougal . . .’
A few of us look towards the high table, and when Miss Lacey gives a small wave Portia makes kissy faces.
‘Why would she be interested in him?’ I say. ‘He’s not even good-looking.’
‘He’s not that bad,’ says Emma. ‘It’s not like she has a lot of choice up here, anyway.’
I chew on a piece of bread. I don’t see why she has to have a boyfriend at all.
Sitting beside Miss Lacey, dressed in a pink polar fleece, is the French assistant, Miss Sagnier. She is very pretty, with chestnut hair and honey-coloured skin. She eats her dinner slowly, probably horrified at the gristly stew, having just come from the land of fois gras and champagne.
I’m still thinking about Miss Sagnier the following night as I’m standing at the bathroom sink brushing my teeth. I hope we become friends.
At the next basin Portia begins dragging the comb through her short hair. For once she has wrapped a towel around herself. Ronnie and Briohny stand nearby, waiting for showers.
‘I had the weirdest dream last night,’ Portia murmurs. ‘I dreamt I kissed Leila from Jade House.’
I think I’ve heard wrong. The bathroom has gone very quiet. I want to look at Ronnie and Briohny, but I keep my eyes on the shiny taps.
‘It was weird,’ Portia continues, her comb clattering in the sink. ‘We were walking down to dinner, and then we were in the trees. There were other people around, I think. And then I just kissed her. For ages.’
I spin around, still not believing what I’m hearing. Panic bats at my stomach. Are they playing some sort of trick on me? But Ronnie just stands there fidgeting with her bottle of shampoo, while Briohny stares at the ceiling as if it is the most interesting thing in the world.
‘Then what happened?’ I splutter through the toothpaste. Ronnie and Briohny glare at me, but turn to Portia, waiting for a reply.
She shrugs. ‘We kissed more. It was . . . nice.’
‘But you don’t . . . I don’t know . . . like her or anything, do you?’ Ronnie says. ‘I mean, what about Rollo?’
‘What about him?’
Ronnie blinks several times. ‘Don’t you still like him?’
Briohny still hasn’t spoken. Her lip is slightly curled, nose pinched. ‘It was just a dream,’ she says. ‘It doesn’t mean anything.’
‘But that’s what I’ve been wondering.’ Portia sighs. ‘I mean, with my mum and everything . . .’
We all look at the floor now, suddenly embarrassed at this conflation.
‘I’ve heard it skips children. That every third child has it.’
‘Has what?’
Portia turns back to the mirror, gripping the bench. Colour has crept up her arms, flushing across her chest. This is the first time I’ve ever seen her vulnerable, I realise with shock. I’d always imagined I’d enjoy it, but it doesn’t feel good to see her like this—instead I feel sorry for her.
‘You know,’ she finally replies. ‘The gay gene.’
‘You’re not . . . gay!’ Ronnie explodes. ‘That’s just crazy!’ She looks to Briohny again, almost imploring her to agree.
‘Just a dream,’ Briohny says.
Portia smiles without feeling. In the reflection she meets my eye, holds it.
The showers are free. Briohny and Ronnie glance at each other again, something passing between them, before locking themselves in adjacent cubicles. Steam soon fills the bathroom.
I wonder if I should say something to Portia—something to make her feel better, to show her that I understand. She looks so small, standing there on the cold tiles in just a towel, and so unhappy.
But I say nothing. How can I trust her not to wield her own shame against me? I wipe the toothpaste from my chin and walk past her, my eyes fixed to the tiles. I can’t risk her recognising those same feelings in me.
~
Miss Sagnier is on prep duty that night. When I ask for some help with my French, she takes me into the dorm and we sit on my bed while she explains the various conjugations of être. She smells nice, like the hand cream Mum uses.
‘Isn’t she great?’ I gush afterwards, back at my desk.
Simone swivels in her seat. ‘She’s okay.’
‘Don’t you think she’s pretty?’
Simone frowns. ‘You’re being weird.’
But she doesn’t understand. In French class, the boys stare at Miss Sagnier openly. At her arms and legs and breasts and bum. They think she’s hot, which gives them some sort of permission to look at her like this. I wish I could look at her like that—like it was something I was allowed to do. Instead I take her in patiently, and sometimes when her eyes meet mine she will smile, like we’re sharing something, like I’m not doing anything wrong.
I start to wonder: is this desire? How can it be? But I don’t have another word for it. I walk back from class on my own, trying to take apart the threads of these feelings, only managing to work them back into a tighter knot. I think of Portia, and her dream about kissing Leila. No one has mentioned it again. I wonder if Portia looks at Miss Sagnier like I do, thinking what I think. The idea is disturbing.
I know the rest of the house doesn’t feel like this. I know they like Miss Sagnier, but they don’t go red whenever she talks to them, or get sweaty palms and a thick voice. They might think she’s pretty, but they’re not excited by that beauty; it doesn’t make them anxious or uncomfortable. They don’t want to be with her when she isn’t around, and they don’t long to have her looking at them. These feelings they have around boys, never girls.
I wonder what would happen if I told someone—that I like Miss Sagnier like a girl likes a boy. What would they say? I try to picture myself telling Emma or Simone, but I can never see past those first words. But I can see their faces; I can see their surprise, swiftly followed by disgust. I know it would feel like deceit for me to admit to such a thing. To have pretended to be one thing when I am another. And yet, despite this fear, this secrecy, there is a new feeling growing inside me. Something private, but something sure, like a buoy in a deep, dark sea.
~
One afternoon, when everyone is back from a long run, covered in mud and soaked through from the rain, Portia wanders into the dorm. After her confession in the bathroom, I’ve avoided being alone with her. But I can’t stop thinking about what she said, and what my own feelings must mean. At first I felt certain in them, but now I am afraid.
Portia�
��s had a shower and is naked again, and begins to get dressed beside her bed with the usual languor. I’m reading a letter from my parents. I’ll shower later, after I’ve been down to the tuckshop to buy a packet of Tim Tams.
‘What are you staring at?’
I look up. Portia is pointing a finger in my direction, her pupils shrunk to pinpoints. But it is Emma, clipping her toenails, who replies, ‘What?’
‘You were watching me get dressed,’ Portia says. ‘That’s what.’
She has made her way across the floor and is standing in the middle of the aisle, her pubic hair bristling.
‘God,’ she cries. ‘She’s still looking!’
I laugh now, I can’t help it. ‘Portia, you are walking around naked. It’s a bit hard not to.’
She turns on her weathered heels, seizing my words. ‘You were looking too?’
I blush. ‘No, of course not.’
‘What are you—a dyke? Are you a dyke?’ She spits the words out.
Emma puts aside her clippers. ‘What are you on about?’
‘But Bec,’ Portia persists, now gesturing at me. ‘You did see her looking at me, didn’t you? You saw her perving on me.’
‘Eww,’ Briohny cries from across the room. ‘That’s gross.’
Emma shakes her head. But taking in all the shocked faces, she turns to me, a little fearful. ‘Bec?’ she says. ‘Tell her.’
The dorm is unmoving. My breath sounds loud. ‘Well . . .’ I begin.
At the back of my head is the dim possibility of Portia playing a trick. But seeing Ronnie’s and Briohny’s cold stares from across the dorm freezes this suggestion in my throat and my mind goes blank. All I can see is Miss Sagnier and her smile. The warm weight of her slender arm—or Leila’s, or any girl, really, because it is now clear to me that it is, and perhaps always will be, a girl—around my waist. My own fumbling longing. And then I think with a panic how they all must see it, the girls, as they wait for me to defend my friend. They must see everything written all over my face, and I suddenly feel so foolish, so naïve, to have imagined I could ever really live like that, have those kinds of feelings about girls, in the real world.
‘I don’t know,’ I stammer. ‘I didn’t see.’ I wave the letter pathetically. ‘I was reading.’
‘You didn’t see?’ Emma says. ‘What the fuck, Bec?’
My hands start shaking. I want to close my eyes and lie down. Nothing seems to be holding me together anymore; I feel so brittle I’m worried I might fall over and break in half.
‘You know,’ Portia says, swaggering back towards her bed, her white bottom quivering with each step, ‘I’ve seen Emma watching us get dressed before. I didn’t want to say anything at the time.’ She picks up her talcum powder and taps a cloud of it to her pubes. ‘I mean, we can’t have a lesbian in the house with us.’
‘Are you guys retarded?’ Emma shouts. ‘I am not a lesbian. I wasn’t looking at her. I’ve never looked at anyone like that!’
‘But I saw you,’ Portia says, dusting her hands clean. ‘There’s no use lying.’
‘This is crazy.’ Emma grabs her towel. ‘You guys are insane, all of you. I seriously cannot wait until this year is over and I never have to see any of you again!’
Like a pack of dogs, the house stirs, brays. But Emma has already charged off to the bathroom. No one goes after her.
I sit on the end of my bed, something coiling around my insides, tugging. Why didn’t I defend her? When I glance across the dorm and see how Portia looks at me, like she’s proud, that tug grows more insistent, and more painful.
~
I don’t see Emma again until dinner. I try to draw her aside before line-up, but she shrugs me off. ‘Seriously, Rebecca,’ she says. ‘Don’t even look at me right now.’
After prep, I follow her into the tuck room. I know it’s probably making her madder, but I can’t help myself. I have to fix this.
She doesn’t say anything at first, just goes through the motions of making a cup of tea. Stirring in the milk, she finally turns to me, her face pale under the harsh lights.
‘I don’t care what they say about me,’ she says. ‘They could say I fucked an emu and I wouldn’t bat an eyelid. But you . . .’ She bangs about in the cupboard and brings out a sachet of sugar. ‘I’m one of the only people who cares about you here. And you still didn’t stand up for me.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I fucked up.’
My mouth feels gluey, words like tissue stuck to the sides. I can’t look at her. I’m terrified that I’ve ruined our friendship, and that fear makes me want to drop to the floor and howl. I remember how, when I was a kid, I climbed my parents’ antique wardrobe, hoping to find some treasure at the top. As I gripped that high ledge, there had been a split second when I felt the wardrobe tilt, just enough time to register profound regret, before the whole thing came crashing down on top of me.
‘Do you hate me now?’ I whisper.
Emma rolls her eyes. ‘Don’t be such a dickhead.’ She leans against the bench. ‘I’m angry, really angry. I need some time away from you.’ When she turns back, her face is a little softer. ‘You’re far from perfect, Bec. But you’ve also got so much going for you—you’re the smartest girl I know. But really—’ she brushes by, turning out the lights on her way—‘when are you going to stop being so fucking weak?’
The dorm has turned cold after dark clouds moved across the sky. I check my watch and I realise I’ve been sitting here on the bed for ages—I shouldn’t really linger like this, I have to keep moving. But my head feels foggy, like I’ve just woken from a nap.
In the tog room, the lockers and metal crates are filled with clothes and crusty-looking camping gear, hiking boots stacked like milk bottles on the top shelves. It’s even colder in here, and smells of mould.
My old locker looks the same, just a few more scuffs around the handle, some chipping at the bottom, at the ridge. I can still see myself crouched here all those years ago, unpacking with Mum. She had spent weeks sewing labels into my clothes—every sock, every T-shirt, every pair of underwear.
I open the locker but close it again almost immediately. It feels wrong to spy on another girl’s possessions. But it’s a stronger feeling than that—like the bed in the dorm, I have no claim to this locker either, which leaves me bereft. It reminds me of when I moved away from home: at first, my parents kept my room just as it had been, almost in memoriam, but after time my things were moved out to the garage so Dad could set up an office, and by then it didn’t really feel like home anymore.
I was still living with Mum and Dad when I started my first job, as the assistant editor for a literary magazine. I was twenty-one and had just returned from a month-long holiday with Marina. We had travelled around Vietnam, making our way north from Ho Chi Minh City on the national bus service. It had been a wonderful trip; Marina and I travelled very well together. Almost every day I thought about telling her about the girl in the pub in Collingwood—I hated concealing it from her. But I was scared. I knew Marina thought girls being with girls wasn’t proper, that there was something unnatural about it; she’d said as much to me many times before—never in a deliberately cruel or even hateful way, but with a cool, steely certainty.
A few weeks later I spent New Year’s Eve with two new friends: a girl named Laura and a boy named Ben. I’d met them the night I first went out in Collingwood and we’d kept in touch in the months since. After drinks at Laura’s, we had a meal in South Melbourne, and eventually we made our way to the Stanley.
The pub was full, steam already sneaking around the bottles lining the bar. Dim red lights blinked from each corner. We had more drinks, and danced in the middle of the sweaty dance floor. After a while I excused myself to go to the bathroom.
As I washed my hands a girl strolled in with a small cigar snagged between her teeth. After she’d been to the toilet she joined me at the basin, a fug of smoke hanging about her dark head. We started talking, and outside, on the l
anding, she asked if she could buy me a drink. We spent the next few hours dancing, and early the next morning I went back to her flat in Brunswick.
I’d never met anyone like Eva. She was quite girly in many ways, slight and almost fragile-looking, but there was also something aggressive about her—in her swagger, in the way she looked at women: openly, with blatant desire. At first I found it shocking, which she sensed and played up to, but after a few dates I think we both grew bored; just as it had been with Fraser, we ran out of things to say.
One night Eva invited me to a gay dance party on Smith Street where I was introduced to some of her friends. I felt shy around them—they were all cool, inner-north types, with tight black jeans and asymmetrical hair. Except for a girl named Cate, who wore a pinafore.
It was dark and loud upstairs. Eva played pool, rounds and rounds of it, hardly speaking a word to me. In fact Cate was the only one who made an effort to talk. It turned out we’d been at Melbourne University at the same time—we had probably shared a seminar.
‘Film and Sexuality?’
‘Yes!’ Cate grinned. ‘That essential component of an arts degree.’
When Eva was done playing pool we all went downstairs to the dance floor. By now it was late, almost closing time. All of a sudden the interior lights came on. I remember raising my hand against the glare, and how Cate had stood there, a hand on her hip, sipping at her drink, something so bright red just looking at it made my teeth ache. She turned to face me as if she’d felt me watching. All night she had been hidden in the dark and now I saw her properly for the first time: her fair hair, the dusting of freckles across her nose, her green eyes, dark—almost flinty. I thought she was beautiful.
‘She’s got a girlfriend, you know,’ Eva said later, after we’d said goodbye on the street outside the club. She kicked at a McDonald’s wrapper fluttering against a grille.
I didn’t see Cate until the next week, at a party in a grotty share house in North Fitzroy. I sought her out, and we talked beneath a tree until her girlfriend came over. She said she was going home—‘I’m too drunk’—and Cate’s eyes flashed at me in the shadows.
Bad Behaviour Page 13
