Holly
My name is Holly Holley and I am a chicken.
Mum knocks on the door and opens it without waiting for an answer. I am in bed with an exercise book open on my lap.
It isn’t a lie that I have homework to do.
Telling them I was going to do it is the lie.
I expect her to be angry. I’m prepared for her to be angry. I have my own anger pumped up and ready for battle. But she sits on the edge of the bed and runs a hand through her hair.
‘How’s the homework going?’ she asks.
‘Not well,’ I reply. These are support-act words, the appetiser. I wait for the main course.
‘Chicken,’ she says. ‘I know this is difficult for you. You’ve been thrown out of your own room, you’ve missed that sleepover. I know it was important to you and I’m sorry. And now there’s Cassie. It’s not easy.’
I don’t say anything. There’s nothing I disagree with.
‘But …’ There’s always a ‘but’. Parents are programmed to say it. ‘But I think you need to make more of an effort. You can’t go on ignoring them …’
‘I haven’t ignored them.’
‘You’ve avoided them.’
That’s closer to the truth, so I let it pass.
‘I’m not having a go, sweetie. Seriously. I understand. And maybe it’s okay to avoid them for a bit. But there will come a time when your avoidance will hurt their feelings. And they don’t deserve that. Remember, chicken, there is a kid in there – a smart kid, a sensitive kid …’
‘Mum, I know.’
‘And she’s having a bad time. It’s not easy going through a split, particularly when there doesn’t seem to be any good reason for it.’
‘What do you mean?’ I immediately regret asking. The last thing in the world I want to hear is sordid details. But it’s too late to take the words back.
‘Oh, it’s just that James – Cassie’s dad …’ Mum smiled. ‘My sis is a pretty strong character and she has a good turn of phrase. The way she puts it, he wanted the “front seat”. And he can’t have it. Because that’s Cassie’s and it always will be. Do you understand?’
I do, sort of. And it is kind of boring. Maybe sordid details would be better. Anyway, I need to steer the conversation away from stuff like this.
‘Listen, Mum,’ I say. ‘I’m not being rude You know I work Sundays and Amy and I arranged to go out after my shift ages ago. It’ll be okay. But I can’t drop work just because they’re here, can I?’
‘No one’s asked you to do that.’
‘Okay, then.’
Mum leans forward and gives me a hug. It crushes the exercise book in my lap, but that doesn’t matter. There is nothing written in it anyway.
‘We’re ringing your school tomorrow to see if Cassie can get a place,’ she says. ‘That’s all right, isn’t it? I mean, you wouldn’t feel … I don’t know. Strange?’
‘Why should I?’
‘No reason at all. Just thought I’d keep you in the loop.’
‘Sure.’
Mum stands to leave. She has the door half-opened when she turns back.
‘How’s your headache?’ she asks.
I haven’t thought about it. Now, when I do, there is nothing there.
‘The headache is gone,’ I say.
‘Maybe Cass really is a miracle worker,’ she says.
‘Maybe it’s the power of suggestion.’
4
Cassie
For them, I am an empty space. My head twists. My arms move. Sounds surge in my throat. I cannot control them. How can I be invisible? Mum has anger written loudly across her face. It is in large print.
Fern
‘Why do you think it would be better for Cassie to come here, rather than a special school?’ said Mr Wilson, the Principal.
Fern sighed and looked around the table. Other than herself and Cass, there were five people present. And apparently there was another one who was late, but on his way. She’d forgotten their names instantly. This wasn’t an enrolment meeting, she thought. This was a judge and jury.
‘I understood this was a special school,’ replied Fern. ‘I wouldn’t consider sending Cassie anywhere that wasn’t.’
There was silence.
‘Look,’ said Fern. ‘Cassie has physical limitations, but in every other regard she’s a normal student. And, intellectually, she is gifted. You’ve assured me this school has wheelchair access to all classrooms. Trust me, that’s all the “special” she needs.’
‘Forgive me, Mrs Marshall,’ said the principal. ‘But it is my understanding that Cassie is unable to communicate, either orally or in writing. Other students write essays, give oral presentations. If Cassie cannot complete assignments, how can we assess her?’
Fern took two glasses, filled them from the water carafe in the centre of the table and lifted one to Cassie’s lips. She took a tissue from her bag and dabbed at Cassie’s mouth. Then she sipped from her own glass. She was pleased her hands did not shake. She reached down into her bag, produced a large ring binder and placed it on the table.
‘How can you assess her work?’ she said. ‘Mr Wilson, let Cassie educate you.’
Holly
Holly sat at her normal place – the bench closest to the basketball court. She hadn’t spotted Raph, but he’d be along soon. A lunchtime hardly went by without Raph practising his slam dunk. On good days, he would take off his shirt. Holly was hoping for a good day.
Amy sat next to her, reading from a science text book, and eating a sausage roll. She had a science test right after lunch. This made it a good Amy day.
‘Did I tell you I saw Raph at the cinema yesterday?’ said Holly.
‘Only six times,’ said Amy.
‘I think he likes me.’
‘Raph likes Raph. When he looks in the mirror, it’s not infatuation. It’s the real thing.’
Holly took another mouthful of Fern’s spaghetti carbonara. She had persuaded her English teacher to heat it in the staff microwave at the end of last lesson. It was delicious. The only positive of having guests, as far as Holly could tell, was that dinner times might cease to be exercises in culinary torture.
‘How are you getting on with Cassie?’ asked Amy.
‘Okay, I guess. It’s just that it’s … well, hard, you know? To communicate, I mean. Hey, do you reckon there are many calories in spaghetti carbonara?’
Amy glanced at the plastic container.
‘What? Bacon, cream and pasta? Just the odd squillion.’
Holly digested this along with the carbonara. Maybe it wasn’t a great idea to pass the chef’s hat on to Aunty Fern. A few months of this cooking and she’d balloon even further. They could paint slogans on her stomach and float her over major sporting venues for advertising purposes. At least lentils were basically calorie-free. Of course, they were also taste-free. It was a delicate balance.
‘I did some research last night on cerebral palsy,’ said Amy.
‘Oh yeah?’
‘It’s really interesting. And I assume I’m going to meet Cassie at some stage, so I …’
‘Raph’s coming.’
Amy grimaced. Holly sat up straighter. Raphael McDonald was strolling towards the basketball court, spinning a ball on his index finger and chatting to a couple of mates. He was wearing cut-off denim shorts and a singlet that showed off well-developed biceps. His legs were good. Surely Amy could see that. And she knew about sports science and the number of hours needed in the gym to develop that kind of physique. So she should at least respect him for his commitment.
Holly sighed.
Amy sighed and turned back to her text book.
‘Aren’t his legs fabulous?’ said Holly.
‘Well, he’s got the right number,’ said Amy.
‘And look at those shoulders. Couldn’t you just nibble on those for a few hours?’
‘No. I’ve had a sausage roll. Look, Holly, do you want to hear what I learned about cerebral palsy
?’
‘Look at him, Amy! He’s all muscle, hard and toned. I reckon you could crack fleas on that butt.’
‘Holly!’
‘Oh, sorry. Yes, go on. Tell me about cerebral palsy.’
‘Well, it’s a condition that affects the way the brain controls the muscles of the body. It’s incurable and …’
But Holly turned away. Amy followed the direction of
Holly’s gaze. Demi and two of her hangers on were making a bee line straight for the bench.
Fern
Fern opened the binder and turned it so the pages could be seen around the table.
‘These are assignments Cassie did last term, at her high school in Darwin,’ she said. ‘Everything in here is her own work. This Health project has articles, diagrams, posters – all completed by Cassie. This interactive CD, including its cover, was designed by Cassie and all decisions regarding content and style were hers.’ Fern paused. ‘Cassie doesn’t have the motor skills to physically compile such work, so she had an Inclusion Support Assistant who worked enormously hard alongside her.’
Fern slipped a page from the binder.
‘This poster is composed of over one hundred decisions. The size of the paper, its orientation, colour. Which pictures to use, where they should go on the page. The words themselves, the font, the font size, the colours. The list goes on. Cassie chose everything. One decision at a time. This poster took fifteen hours of solid work. Some people might argue this is not her work because she didn’t physically manipulate it. That’s rubbish. This is Cassie’s vision, presented so others can share it. It’s her hard work.’
Mr Wilson squinted at the poster. He passed it to a woman on his right and flicked through the rest of the pages in the ring binder.
Fern took another sip of water. Cassie caught her mother’s eyes and smiled. Her hand brushed Fern’s arm.
‘Thanks, sweetheart,’ whispered Fern.
Mr Wilson pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose.
‘I must say, Mrs Marshall,’ he said. ‘You have spoken very persuasively. I think I speak on behalf of everyone here when I say we would be delighted to enrol Cassie. Congratulations.’
Cassie shrieked, causing one or two people around the table to jump.
Cassie
It is funny. They can’t read the words people don’t say. Mum’s thoughts are mine. They march across the inside of my head. And she can read me.
I cannot go to a school where I cannot be seen. No one has even looked at me. No one.
Fern
Fern opened her mouth. Her words stopped in her throat when the door opened and a small man in his mid-thirties bustled in. He had a neat beard, long hair and dishevelled clothes. A pile of papers was tucked precariously under his arm.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said. ‘Please forgive me. I got here as soon as I could.’
‘Ah, Mr Adams,’ said the principal, glancing at his watch. ‘Good of you to join us. But I’m afraid our meeting is virtually over. Indeed, we have already offered Cassandra a place at the school.’
Mr Adams shrugged apologetically, and the papers under his arm, delicately balanced, spilled out over the floor. He knelt to gather them up, then placed them onto the table. Still on his knees, he looked up into Cassie’s face, smiled and offered his hand.
‘You must be Cassie,’ he said. ‘I’m pleased to meet you. My name is Greg and I’m the Special Needs coordinator.’ He glanced down at himself and gave a sheepish grin. ‘I hope you don’t judge a book by its cover, Cassie. Believe me, I’m not normally this clumsy.’
Fern leaned back into her chair.
The school had just earned itself a second chance.
‘Cassie, I’d like you and your mum to be involved in the selection of an Inclusion Support Assistant,’ said Greg. ‘If you accept our offer of a place, that is.’
Fern glanced at Cassie.
‘Cassie would like that,’ said Fern. ‘And so would I.’
‘Hi, Holly.’
‘Hi, Demi.’
Kari Williams and Georgia Glasson flanked Demi, but they didn’t say anything.
‘I’m so sorry I couldn’t make it on Saturday,’ said Holly. ‘Did you have fun?’
‘Hey, don’t worry,’ said Demi. ‘Things happen, you know? How was the evening with the rellies?’
‘Horrible,’ said Holly. ‘I would so much have preferred to be with you guys.’
Amy bit her lip and bent her head over the text book.
‘We missed you,’ said Demi. ‘And I just wanted to say thanks.’
‘Thanks?’
‘For your invitation on Sunday. I would have loved to have gone to the movies, but I didn’t get your message until later in the evening. I hope you found someone to go with.’
‘Oh … yeah.’
‘Well, thanks again. See you around, hey?’
‘Yes. Bye, Demi.’
Holly gave a sidelong glance at Amy, but she was absorbed in her revision.
Holly
I’m Holly Holley and I don’t know who I am anymore.
I see Cassie and Aunty Fern coming out the main entrance, so I keep my head down, and scoop carbonara from the plastic tray. I’m not trying to be rude. I just don’t have the energy. As it turns out, it makes no difference. Cassie sees me. There’s this high-pitched shrieking and everyone stops. Even Raph stops, mid dribble, and turns towards the source of the noise.
Cassie is thrashing about in her wheelchair and just yelling. It’s difficult to tell if she is looking at me or not, because her head doesn’t stay still for a moment. But apparently she is. Aunty Fern looks over and gives me a big smile. She waves. There’s nothing else I can do. I wave back.
As they move towards my bench I can feel the eyes of the school on me. It’s embarrassing. It’s like she is a spotlight and I am being dragged into the bright circle of her presence. I know how a rabbit feels, frozen by light.
‘Hey, Holly,’ says Aunty Fern, giving me a hug and completing the full spectrum of embarrassment. ‘Guess what? Cassie’s just enrolled.’
‘Here?’ I say. ‘Oh, okay. When does she start?’
‘Thursday.’
‘That’s great,’ I say.
I introduce Amy, who shakes Aunty Fern’s hand and then smiles and gives Cassie this small, apologetic wave.
So much for school being a place I can escape to.
It’s so unfair. It’s so unfair I want to cry. Tears prick behind my eyes and I have to steel myself to keep them there. I want to shout, shriek and yell. Hey, why not? When Cassie does it, everyone thinks it’s sweet.
But I just sit and smile and nod. And inside I am a mess.
Cassie
This place is cold. The sun is diluted, but the cool sucks moisture from my skin.
Things are dry here. Skin, faces and smiles. Holly smiles, but it doesn’t touch her eyes. It flutters, an injured bird, and dies on her lips. She cannot look at me. Her attention slips and slides.
Suddenly, I feel dry inside as well. It was wrong to come here. But I can’t let Mum read my thoughts, or hear my silent words. I am responsible for her happiness.
And unhappiness has a sour taste. It coats my mouth.
Holly
‘She seems nice,’ said Amy. Fern and Cassie had gone home.
Holly picked at the rest of the carbonara, but she wasn’t hungry anymore.
‘Who?’ she said.
‘Cassie. Sweet.’
Holly put the plastic container on the bench. She wasn’t sure she could control what was bubbling up inside her. She didn’t know if she wanted to.
‘And just what do you base that on, Amy? Huh? Come on, you’re the scientist. Give me the evidence.’
‘Holly …’
‘No. You say she’s sweet. You meet her for about five seconds, she screeches and thrashes around and that’s “sweet”. You have no idea what she’s like, Amy. You can’t see inside her. Neither can I, come to that. But at least you don’t have
to have her living in your house, messing up your life.’
Amy’s eyes were large.
‘Hol,’ she said, ‘I think you’re overreacting. I only said she seemed nice.’
Holly got to her feet. She wanted to tear something, destroy it. But there was nothing at hand.
‘You know what, Amy?’ she yelled. ‘You are so full of it. You are crammed full of it. Miss bloody reasonable. Well, you can shove it, Amy. I’m sick of it.’
Amy bit her lip and turned her eyes back to her book. Holly turned away and stamped off.
5
Holly
It was Friday and Cassie’s second day of school.
Holly couldn’t avoid travelling to and from school with her. Fern gave them both a lift. But she was relieved when Cassie’s ISA met her at the car and wheeled her off to the Special Needs staffroom. After that she didn’t see much of her during the day, apart from English lessons. Even then, Cassie and her support worker shared a desk at the back of the class, so there was no pressure to socialise. Holly sat at the front. Other than that, it was a matter of quick glimpses during recess and lunch.
It wasn’t hard to avoid a wheelchair.
On Friday lunchtime, when the bell signalling the end of morning lessons rang, Holly hurried to the main girls’ toilet block. It was double maths in the afternoon, a class she rarely enjoyed. Mr Tillyard knew his stuff all right. Sometimes she wondered how his head managed to keep his brain crammed in. The trouble was, he didn’t understand that not all his students were similarly well-equipped. If you didn’t understand a formula, he simply explained it in exactly the same way you hadn’t understood in the first place. So you couldn’t ask again. Not without feeling like a moron. As a result, a large percentage of the class sat in a fog of incomprehension while Mr Tillyard taught the three or four on his wavelength. It didn’t make for a happy prospect on a warm Friday afternoon.
Demi leaned over a washbasin refreshing her make-up. Most of the mirror on the wall was tarnished, but she had found a small, clear space. Kari and Georgia flanked her. Three heads turned as Holly pushed open the door.
‘Hi, Holly,’ said Demi, turning back to the mirror and grimacing at her reflection. Holly couldn’t imagine what she might see to object to. As far as she could tell, Demi was flawless.
Cassie Page 5
