Dad picks me up from outside the gym where Marley and I have been taking the class that has you dancing along having a good old time and then suddenly dropping to the floor to do push-ups and crunches until you want to hurl all over your mesh-panel leggings.
‘Does Marley need a lift?’ Dad cranes his head.
‘Nah, she likes to walk. It’s barely a block.’
‘We should take her…’
‘Dad! We’re not babies anymore.’
That shuts him up, but in actual fact I am personally relieved that I don’t have to walk the narrow streets in the dark. Marley, on the other hand, loves this time of night.
‘Good workout, honey?’
I fiddle with the aircon, directing the jets right onto my sweaty face. My body has been full of adrenaline and secrets since I went to that pervert Pulpitt’s house, and then that got mixed into a sludge with anger at Petra, but now stomach-crunching until my abs burned has somehow restored my feeling of reality, of being back in my body instead of in a nightmare.
‘I had a crap day so I suppose it helped.’
‘Crap day? Anything I need to know about?’
‘I’ll tell you at home, I just want to flop for a second.’
I put the radio on loud, Dad turns it down a notch, and we race down the slippery dip of Windermere Avenue, flanked by the biggest, richest, oldest mansions, the kind that have tennis courts and swimming pools and British-sounding house names. I wonder what crimes have happened behind the closed doors of these houses that no one knows about.
When we get home Dad makes me sit at the breakfast bar and pick coriander leaves off the stalks, which definitely counts as child labour.
The benches are littered with gaping spice packets and sticky spoons, the food processor is out and awful ancient Bob Dylan is on the sound system and there are one-and-a-half empty wine bottles and I realise that Dad shouldn’t have been driving the car. Mum is going to crack it when she sees the mess and Faith doesn’t come again until Thursday.
Dad pours himself another glass. He puts rice on to boil and commences chop chop chopping a giant pile of vegetables. Steam gathers around us and fogs up the back windows.
‘You in the mood yet to tell me about your day?’
I shift on my stool, nearly kicking Dylan Thomas, who wends his way around my legs.
‘What do you think about censorship, Dad?’
‘You’ll have to be more precise, honey.’
‘Censorship of art.’ I scroll on my phone for pics of Chloe’s art piece, which I also think of as mine. ‘Remember that art project I helped my friend with at the beginning of the holidays?’
He nods, even though he has no idea. Mum keeps track of me and my schedule, but he has only the faintest idea on any given day. I show him the screen.
‘Is that you, Tal?’
He reaches across the bench and grabs my phone with his greasy cooking hands.
‘I don’t like seeing you like that. Where were you? Why would you agree to that?’
I grab my phone back and wipe it on my top.
‘Forget it’s me, Dad. God, can you just try and be normal for a second? Chloe is trying to make a point about the portrayal of young women or something. And then this dweeb complained about Chloe’s photo, saying she was offended or whatever, and Mrs Christie banned it from the exhibition.’
Even just talking about it makes my hackles rise. I pretend not to feel it most of the time, but Balmoral is a stifling, suffocating blanket, as bad as the boarding school in Picnic at Hanging Rock. It’s not only that Petra thinks she’s got the moral high ground, but also that the school agrees with her, that they don’t care about the things that matter to us.
When something real and raw like Chloe’s photo comes along, they push it away. As if we don’t know what bad people can do.
‘Is that what happened?’
‘Chloe worked so hard on this for her major art project, and so did I, and it was only up for less than a day before one person—one person!—complained, and they’ve taken it out of the exhibition. And Chloe isn’t eligible for the art prize now, which is totally unfair and she deserved to win—’
‘I’ll call Gary after dinner—’ starts Dad.
‘NO.’
I march over to the wall and flip on the fan before the smoke alarm starts beeping.
‘I don’t want you to call Gary, Dad. I want you to tell me what I should do about it.’
‘Huh.’ Dad gives it actual thought. The kitchen is an utter mess around him and he forgot to put an apron on and has turmeric smeared down his front.
‘So this photo is an important personal statement, right?’ I nod.
‘And you’ve been silenced from making this statement.’ You can almost see his mind rewinding to his radical university days, as he likes to call them. Apparently even Gary was a socialist back then, which is impossible to believe.
‘I think a petition is a good place to start.’ He slides spring onions into a pan. ‘Get the support of your fellow students first. And try to get some teachers to sign.’
‘Dad, please. That’s not going to happen. The teachers don’t care about anything but keeping their jobs.’
‘Yeah, fair point.’ He bats the onions around the pan with an egg flipper. ‘Still. You can ask, to make your point. Make it obvious what you’re doing and if anyone questions you, say you’re exercising your democratic rights.’
‘But what about an actual protest? Hanging a banner over the school, or staging a walkout…or a sit-in. Or a hunger strike?’
‘Let’s cross that bridge when we get to it.’ Dad’s eyes are shining and it’s not just chilli and steam and wine. ‘First, create awareness around the issue. It might be enough. Your posse will help you, right?’
I roll my eyes. Posse.
‘They might.’ I already know awareness won’t be enough to fix this, not at Balmoral. Something more extreme is in order.
‘Maybe ask Sarah? I haven’t seen her over here for a while. Are you two still tight?’
‘Dad, just because I asked you for your opinion doesn’t mean you get to mess with my social life.’
He holds his hands up in surrender.
‘Okay, point taken. My only condition is that you don’t get yourself suspended. Know your limits and try to exercise some judgement.’
‘Sure. Judgement.’
Dad takes the coriander off my hands. ‘Did I tell you I’m taking a few weeks off?’
He didn’t.
‘Your mother is stressed out of her mind with that Baker-Hill contract,’ he says. ‘I’m going to stay home to cook and be around for her. And you, of course. Give you lifts, help you with your homework.’
Mum is always stressed out over some project so it’s not an excuse. I look at Dad’s tired face, the pan smoking on the stove behind him, and I feel bad for ever doubting him, for wondering about the nights he comes home late, for thinking the police might be onto something.
I want to ask him about the case, what the police asked him and why, but I can’t.
One day he’ll have a stroke or a heart attack or an ulcer from too much work and I wish he could just say he’s taking time off work for himself, because he needs a break too.
We are alarmed by the censorship of Chloe Cardell’s artwork, Someone’s Watching, and are dismayed by the restriction of free speech in our school. Balmoral’s motto, Sapientia et Libertas, encourages its students to think independently, which we believe Chloe Cardell has done.
We demand that Someone’s Watching be put back on display and that it be rightfully considered for the Balmoral Art Prize.
Sarah thinks that I should put the petition online, but I disagree. Anyone can click ‘like’ or join a group, it doesn’t mean they believe in it, they just want to do what everyone else is doing and be seen looking like they care. What I need is to look people in the face and know for sure that they think that Nouri and Christie and Petra are wrong and we are right. I need them to agree with me.
So, I’m going old school with this: a paper-and-pen petition, something that Christie and the School Board might understand. Dad helped me with the wording and it made him tragically happy.
I use the photocopier in the library and get a surprising amount of encouragement from the librarians who are all secret anarchists except when it comes to the Dewey decimal system. But they laugh when I ask them to sign and say it’s not their place to get involved. I stick petitions up on every corridor, and then I go around with a clipboard and I talk people into signing and I am a proper campaigner.
I hit up our year level first, at morning recess, starting with 10Q, Chloe’s class. It’s not easy. I have to convince everyone you can’t get in trouble for having an opinion.
‘You were in the photo right?’ says Teaghan. Because Teaghan signs, Brooke and Ella do too. ‘Looking scary and dead.’
‘Thank you for your support,’ I say because I am a born diplomat and I’m genuinely surprised that Teaghan still talks to me after we replaced her with Ally in eighth grade. ‘But I’d do this anyway even if someone else was in the picture because I don’t think the school should infringe our civil liberties.’
I can tell they don’t believe me and I wouldn’t either and I don’t actually know anything about civil liberties, but I don’t waste time worrying. I’ve gone into what Dad calls the zone, which apparently happens to him sometimes when he’s playing golf or drinking aged whiskey.
All I’m focused on is the numbers; the more signatures the better. Chloe was so dejected yesterday, like a stray dog that had been kicked one too many times, and I wonder if I can be a good friend, a better friend, the best sort, and whether that will make up for anything.
The international students decline to sign the petition, except for Bochen, who listens carefully.
‘What do you do with it?’ she asks.
‘I’ll give it to Mrs Christie, and if that doesn’t work, the School Board.’
‘No government?’
‘No, never,’ I say and she signs.
I count and I’ve hit ten pages of names and addresses. Ten! I’d count actual numbers of signatures but I can’t afford to slow down for one second.
Chloe’s not at school and I can’t tell from her messages whether she’s really sick or just moping. I’m hoping to surprise her with an avalanche of signatures by the time she comes back to school tomorrow and she will weep tears of joy and tell me how amazing I am, both as a muse and a future prime minister or CEO or general all-round boss bitch and she will be right.
I race to every class as soon as the bell goes, so I can use the seven minutes in-between periods to get signatures.
At lunch I convince Marley and Sarah to cover the bottom corridors, while Ally and I roam the top levels. It is a testament to our collective boredom that they agree without a single argument.
Ally and I have amazing success with the Elevens and Twelves, who are grumpy about their assessment tasks and sign easily. I don’t think about how the entire school probably feels sorry for our year level and I don’t care if some are pity signatures.
We work our way down to our floor again and come across Petra sitting in an empty classroom with some minor fellow geeks, playing chess of all things and it’s like we’re out on the savannah and I’m a cheetah and she’s an antelope. Dinner time, little antelope.
‘Tal, no,’ murmurs Ally, and tries to reverse out the door, tugging on my sleeve. I pretend I haven’t heard her.
Petra is minus her twin Audrey and looks scared when she sees us. I can actually hear Ally whimpering behind me.
‘Hi everyone. We’re petitioning Mrs Christie about the unfair censorship of Chloe Cardell’s artwork.’
‘Chloe who?’ one of the chess players asks.
‘If you care about freedom of speech, then you should sign it.’
I place the clipboard down on the table and hold out a handful of pens. The geeks avoid eye contact.
‘Who’s organising it? Is it Amnesty International?’ one of the girls asks Petra.
‘It’s me!’ Is it that hard to believe?
Ally—I could kiss her—joins in. ‘It’s a student-led thing. We’re being involved citizens, or something?’
‘We just don’t think that one person’s opinion should override what the rest of us think.’ I stare right at Petra when I say this, and to my surprise she meets my gaze.
‘Why are you doing this, Natalia?’ asks Petra. She’s not being defiant, she seems genuinely puzzled. Realising her hand is hovering, she puts the chess piece down on the board.
‘Do you think it’s fair?’ I throw back. ‘That one person thinks they’re so important and so right, that they’re going to make everyone else suffer?’
‘I’m not suffering,’ whispers a girl to her neighbour, confused.
‘Is it that you think you’re above us, Petra?’ I can’t help raising my voice and banging my hand on the table. I’m on a roll again; pure lightning runs through my veins. ‘Are your precious little feelings more important than Chloe’s hard work and talent?’
Petra has gone super-red in the face, and I can see she’s surprised because I’m one hundred per cent right and she can’t deny it.
‘Individual rights should be balanced against what’s best for the group,’ she has the nerve to say. ‘And if I’m so coldhearted, then why am I the only one who thought about how upset the Mitchells would be if they saw a photo mocking the whole idea of kidnapping up on the school wall?’
This is enough to take my breath away, for real. I understand for the first time what seeing red means. Who was it that let Chunjuan snot on her shoulder?
‘Mocking? You don’t know anything about how the Mitchells feel. Why do you get to decide what’s right?’
Petra clears her throat.
‘I didn’t decide. Mrs Christie did. But do you want to know what I think?’ Her voice is low but there’s total hush in the classroom so it rings out. ‘I think you’re using Chloe for attention. And you’re using me as an excuse to be angry.’
She’s in tears which is just a cheap ploy to get her nerd friends to turn against us. I open my mouth to respond but she gets in first.
‘You think no one remembers Junior School, but I do. So I don’t get why you’re defending that photo! Or why you would do it in the first place. Where’s your heart?’
That is like a punch to the face and I’m actually reeling backwards but I try to control it, try to wipe any expression off my face and stay strong. I’m so mad and frustrated I can barely see.
‘My heart is broken…’ I start, but a torrent of tears threatens to overtake me and I won’t let anyone see me like that.
I pick up my clipboard and leave and Ally rushes to catch up to me, saying nothing, but sticking to my side.
It is completely unacceptable that Mrs Christie is not in her office when I have a million signatures to hand over, collected scrupulously over the last two days. Who can blame her, though, it must be hard to admit that everyone at this school thinks you’re wrong wrong wrong. She’s such an egomaniac it would never occur to her that someone might ever stand up to her.
‘Try the staff room,’ offers the receptionist through the annoying little window that makes her look like she’s selling drive-thru hamburgers.
I narrow my eyes to indicate my disapproval and whirl away, and the queue behind me shuffles up.
In a case of the most rotten or perhaps the best timing ever, Petra and Audrey walk across the open space in front of me, arm-in-arm. I brighten my face when I see them, smiling like I’m an entrant in a beauty pageant and holding up my impressive stack of paper. Behold my wrath and quake before me et cetera, the Queen is here to carve new factions in the kingdom and reign supreme. I zoom the petitions through the air while Audrey sneers and Petra looks away.
The doors to the staff room are almost as busy as reception, swinging back and forth every few seconds spitting out teachers or sucking them in, but the teachers have looks on their faces that say don’t interrupt me, probably on account of not having had enough coffee or sleep or not having had sex in the last two hundred years.
Every time one of the staffroom doors swings open you get a tantalising glimpse of the interior. Everyone knows that the teachers are always getting drunk in the staffroom and that’s why they never let students look inside although I guess 8.30 a.m. is a little early.
‘Natalia, can I help you?’
Finally Mr Scrutton takes pity and lingers in the doorway.
‘Mrs Christie is supposed to be in there.’
‘Let me check.’
The doors slam in unison, and the posters on the wall opposite flutter. As if the universe is trying to mock me, there’s a big poster publicising the art exhibition. The exhibition cocktail evening is tonight, which means I only have today to get Chloe’s artwork reinstated. I don’t have time to play cat-and-mouse with Christie.
‘No luck, I’m afraid, Natalia.’ Mr Scrutton stands in the doorway, keeping it ajar with one foot. A microwave dings somewhere in the den of iniquity. ‘Have you tried her office?’
I’d like to answer his very obvious question but my attention has been taken by the noticeboard just inside the staffroom, near the open door. Student photos are pinned up with notes underneath, warning of chronic asthma, allergies, epileptic seizures, diabetes and more. Yin’s face is among them.
‘Is everything okay? Anything else you need help with?’
I try not to get busted staring at the noticeboard. Mr Scrutton is not too bad as far as teachers go.
‘Everything’s fine!’ I sound so fake he must be able to tell. Under Yin’s photo it says ‘Shellfish—anaphylaxis. Moderate asthma—ventolin.’
I’d forgotten about Yin’s allergies until now. I remember the time Yin accidentally ate a dipping sauce with minute amounts of fish sauce in it and her eyes and mouth swelled up instantly and Chunjuan had to stab her in the thigh with an epipen. What if Doctor Calm doesn’t know about her allergy? What if she told him and he didn’t take her seriously?
‘It’s been a stressful year for everyone.’
‘Uh huh.’ My eyes want to return to the noticeboard. Drop it, I tell myself sternly.
I thank Scrutton and get away from the staffroom, the petitions heavy in my hands. I wonder if Yin had her epipen and ventolin with her when she was taken. What if the reason she hasn’t been returned like the others is because there was an accident?
Drop. It. Natalia. This time I rap myself three times on the head with my knuckles, as if I can make each word sink in.
I walk slowly across the foyer, sunk in thought.
Two maintenance men in blue overalls carry a large orange-and-green balloon arrangement across the space, the balloons skimming the low ceiling.
I know where Mrs Christie’s office is, everyone does, so when the receptionists aren’t looking, I scuttle down the short corridor to her lair and put the petitions right in front of her door, where she can’t miss them. Because I’m clever, I also take a photo of them, so she can’t say afterwards that she never saw them.
I send the photo to Chloe with the message: We need to talk about tonight.
She doesn’t reply but when I go to get my books for fifth period she’s waiting in front of my locker.
‘So you are at school today!’ I remark. I must say that I’ve seen her look better but I guess that’s what happens when Balmoral tries to crush your dreams.
‘Ally showed me the petition.’
‘I didn’t count for sure, but I’m thinking we might have over four hundred signatures. At least.’
‘It’s nice that you’re trying to do something for me…’ she starts.
‘No no no no—’ I jump in, ‘Not trying, I am doing something for you. And there’s more, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I have a spectacular protest planned for the cocktail evening tonight.’
‘Natalia,’ she says.
‘We’re going to stick it to the man, or the woman I suppose, in this case. Christie needs to know that we won’t bow to her fascist—’
‘Natalia. Look at me.’
Chloe holds her head at the temples like her brain might explode any second now. I’m no expert, but she seems unusually stressed. Her eyes are sliding about like she knows something I don’t know.
‘I appreciate you doing all this, but I need you to stop.’
The look on my face must say it all because she continues.
‘I don’t want to fight anyone about this,’ Chloe says. ‘Not Mrs Christie and not even Petra. Audrey came and found me this morning, and she thinks Yin’s disappearance has brought up Petra’s grief over her aunt who passed away not that long ago.’
‘What? That makes no sense. Yin has nothing to do with Petra’s aunt. She deserves everything she gets!’ My finger goes up in the air. I am ready, more than ready, to debate this. ‘Firstly, we both know that Petra fired the first shot and anything we do is just matching her dirty move. If she didn’t want to fight, she shouldn’t have taken us on.’
Chloe opens her mouth to interrupt me, but I roll right on.
‘Secondly, you didn’t do anything. I, on the other hand, did go in quite hard because there was a principle at stake, right? And I’m trying to defend you, because, let’s face it, you’re not doing anything to defend yourself.’
Chloe looks outraged at this, but I’m almost there.
‘Thirdly, this has been going on for a long time. You forget that I’ve known Petra since Junior School. She has always gone overboard about every little thing.’
Chloe crosses her arms in front of her chest. ‘Why does everyone always bring up the fact that I didn’t go to Junior School?’
I’m very confused for a second. ‘What? We don’t.’
Chloe draws up to her full height which, truth be told, is slightly intimidating.
‘You don’t get anything,’ her voice is strangled, ‘because you’re rich and beautiful and you’ve got all the confidence in the world. You don’t know what it’s like to be an outsider or a target, you don’t know how easy it is to bring someone like me down. I tried, and I failed, and I just want to go away and be quiet now.’
I stare at her. This conversation is starting to resemble a runaway train, a train full of sentences that make no sense at all. What does she mean about confidence? She’s confident.
‘No petition. No protest. No attacking Petra. I mean it.’
‘Attack? Come on, Chloe.’
We fall silent for a moment, staring at each other, and there’s a sense that we’re strangers and don’t know each other at all. It’s embarrassing to be carrying on like this in the corridor where everyone can see us.
‘Is this our first fight?’ I ask. If she only knew what I’d planned for tonight, she’d see what a stroke of brilliance it’s going to be.
Chloe bites her lip, looking very uncertain. ‘You’re not listening to me, Natalia. Maybe it’s because this whole thing is tangled up with how you’re feeling about Yin.’
My vision blanks for one second, blanks with a red curtain. When it comes back Chloe is tenser than ever.
‘I feel terrible that I asked you to pose like that, now that I know you used to be fr—’
I hold up my hand to halt her. Yeah, I can do that because I’m rich and beautiful and that’s one of my superpowers.
‘Not you as well,’ I say, and walk away.
‘I think it’s a little strong.’
Dad fails to do a head-check before changing lanes, which is hypocritical of him because he’s always at me about it when he takes me on a driving lesson and this is why I don’t listen to him about many things.
‘You said I had to decide the best approach on my own. Using judgement.’
‘That’s right and, respectfully, I’m telling you, I think the language you’ve chosen is too strong. There’s a difference between making your point and being inflammatory. You could have just said bring Chloe’s photo back.’
‘That’s got no flair, Dad. Boring.’
I turn to look at my placard resting on the back seat.
STEALING STUDENT VOICES SINCE 1910
Take that, Balmoral knobs.
The school is so proud of its august history that I think it strikes exactly the right note. I am very satisfied with my sign. It took me at least an hour to paint those thick black letters when I could have been doing a million other things like watching music videos or stalking Samuel Pulpitt’s adult children online.
I’m wearing all black and I’ve got a roll of gaffer tape ready to slap over my mouth. I was going to use my school scarf to gag myself, until Dad pointed out that might be in bad taste. And I took his fatherly feedback on board, because I’m not a monster. My small rectangle of tape will be very tasteful.
‘Any word from the principal?’
Mrs Christie had plenty of time after lunch today to respond to my impressive wad of paper and she did not get off her arse to do anything, so if anyone is to blame for tonight’s public spectacle, it is her.
I sit up and pretend I possess Mrs Christie’s giant mono-boob and prissy mouth. ‘I imagine she would say: We don’t negotiate with terrorists.’
Dad tries not to smile at that, but his cheeks twitch suspiciously.
When we get to school I make Dad park as close as he can, so he can see the main doors clearly. The entrance lobby is lit up but it’s abandoned and there aren’t many cars in the front car park.
‘Okay, what’s the plan, kiddo?’
‘Enter the building, find a place to situate myself for the duration of my peaceful protest. Engage in passive resistance.’
‘And leave if you’re asked to by the security guard or teachers,’ finishes Dad.
He makes me pose quickly by the side of the car with my mouth tape on, holding up the placard, taking pics with my phone. I have the good sense not to send any to Chloe. Maybe later, when she’s calmed down, I can show her, and she’ll say, you were right, Natalia, I was afraid to grab the attention and acclaim that I so clearly deserve.
It is maybe a tiny bit possible that perhaps I overreacted a small amount when Chloe brought up Yin, because of course someone told her how close we used to be. It’s not ideal, but I am admittedly a notorious and interesting person that others talk about.
‘Remember, if they try to expel you, I’ve got your back.’
‘Comforting, Dad.’
I trudge towards the main doors, thinking about how Dad is almost certainly having his second mid-life crisis and I’m only enabling him and Mum would definitely not approve—if we had told her about our plan, that is.
I manage to wiggle my sign through the school doors. My breath comes in little snorts and it’s hard to tell if it’s because I am beginning the very slow process of freaking out completely or if I’m still adjusting to breathing only through my nose.
A sandwich board announcing the Arts Sparks cocktail evening has been set out in the lobby, beside the fugly towering balloon thing that I saw the workmen lugging around earlier. I peer down the corridor and can see a few students and others milling around right at the end.
‘Ahem.’
Two Balmoral mums sit at a table about ten metres away and I literally did not realise they were there until now.
Their table holds matching glasses of champagne and a full bottle of champagne on standby, which seems quite keen for a cocktail evening that starts at 6 p.m., plus an array of school merch and some amateur ikebana and raffle tickets. Their expressions are set somewhere between puzzled and disapproving and they’re sporting the Balmoral Mum uniform of tailored asymmetry, chunky jewellery and patterned scarves—Old Girls for sure. Women who never got over the glory days of their time at the school and still hang their entire identities on being Old Collegians and making sure their own daughters repeat their very same experience at Balmoral. So very very sad.
I tilt my chin in a haughty manner and glide to my chosen site of peaceful protest next to the hideous balloon monster. I hold the placard in front of me and set my gaze to forward.
The mums exchange murmured assessments of my behaviour.
The doors squeak open, letting in a rush of outside air. Dad flashes his headlights at me in what I suppose is encouragement or solidarity or whatever and I hope isn’t a warning. Cars gather around him as the car park fills.
A family walks past, slowing slightly to read my sign. The girl smiles and takes a photo, the parents do not.
‘Honey, are you supposed to be there?’ One of the mums calls out. ‘You’re Kasha’s daughter, aren’t you?’
I flip my placard to reveal the other side.
FREEDOM TO EXPRESS NOT FREEDOM TO SUPPRESS
They read my second message and fall back into their chairs, more murmur more murmur more murmur. One takes a pic of me, the other taps at her phone.
The doors open again; more people arrive, more eyes slide sidewards. No one seems confident enough to fully acknowledge my presence.
I’m used to breathing through my nose by now, but my arms are getting tired from keeping my sign at chest level. Very occasionally someone gives me a confused nod. A Year Eleven flashes me the peace sign.
‘Is this performance art, Natalia?’
Nouri appears magically by my side and almost gives me a heart attack.
‘PLOH-TESS,’ I say through my tape.
‘Right.’ Nouri smiles and waves as more parents and Old Girls and students arrive.
She lowers her voice. ‘I’ll consider this as going towards the grade for your project. It’s thematically consistent with what you’ve already handed in.’
I nod and definitely don’t appear too grateful. It didn’t occur to me before she said it, but yes, while I deserve a medal for this, a B+ will also do.
Nouri moves away quickly, as if she doesn’t want to be associated with me. The gaping loneliness of the activist fills me. Chloe should be here to see this.
A grey-suited security guard wanders into the lobby, stares and retreats. She soon multiplies into two security guards. I smize at them. And then, inevitably, Vice Principal Mackenzie marches into sight.
‘Natalia, good evening. Would you mind explaining what you’re doing?’
I shrug, raise my sign, and try to convey that my whole deal for tonight is silence.
‘Who are you here with this evening?’ It’s a pity Mrs Mackenzie has such a pointless job because she could be quite nice if everything about her life was different. ‘I’ll need you to speak now, Natalia.’
I roll my eyes and peel off my mouth tape. That sounds simple, but it’s basically ten times more painful than getting my bikini line done.
‘Oh my god.’ I wince and roll the tape into a ball. When I recover feeling in my lips, I talk. ‘I’m protesting, miss. I’m exercising my democratic rights.’
This makes her frown. ‘One moment, please, Natalia.’
No doubt she has gone to call Mrs Christie on her batphone and receive orders about what to do with me.
I take the opportunity to tuck my sign under my arm and sprint down the hallway towards the exhibition, pretending to be a secret agent while I do it. Now that most people have arrived for the evening, maybe I can stand in the blank space where Chloe’s artwork should be hung. Speeches are going to be every kind of awkward tonight.
I wedge myself into the spare stretch of wall.
At the end of the corridor is a table of drinks and canapés. Parents and students stroll up and down, passing comment on their daughter’s work (the best), their daughter’s friends’ work (a nice attempt) and their daughter’s enemies’ work (a toddler could have done that). I seem to be winning more than a few indulgent and condescending smiles so I keep a permanent scowl on my face so everyone knows how serious I am about fighting the power.
When I’m not demonstrating my political credentials I crane my neck, trying to see who has come tonight. I see Brooke and Bochen and some of the other boarders including that nasty supremacist Jody and wonder if Petra has the gall to be here when she has ruined everything and is clearly anti-Art.
The front doors thump heavily. Even though the entrance is a good thirty metres away I swear a gust of air races up the corridor. A trick of the sunset sends rosy light angling through the glass doors, filling the lobby with dusty sparkles.
Standing in the distance is a still figure dressed in a silk blouse, tailored pants, pale shoes. Familiar blonde hair, spun gold in the sudden beam of light.
The sunset glow smoothes out her skin, turns her into an angel with a halo. When she spots my Marcel Marceau act among the paintings and collages and drawings she grows even more still.
Viewed as if from another world, barely glimpsed.
A cord that connects her to me and me to her.
Mum?
I stare. Fair and golden and good parental angels don’t belong in the school corridor outside the Great Hall when they’re supposed to still be in the office working on the Baker-Hill contract.
She marches towards me, and the closer she gets the clearer it becomes that I’m not seeing things.
I smile quizzically in what I hope is a disarming way and raise my hand hello, but Mum doesn’t smile.
Students and parents and teachers melt out of her way and I am about to be incinerated, Dad too, for my unruly behaviour, my spectacle-making, my refusal to know when to stop, for being too much.
But Mum’s expression isn’t warpath, it’s soft. It’s soft like ice-cream and sorrowful and full of pain. There’s compassion on her face, and regret and fear and there’s only one thing that could give her that face. I saw it when Grandad died and here it is again.
My face gets it first, my lips snarl, and then the knowledge rolls down my body in a sickening oily wave. Somewhere, in some other part of my brain, I register a Dad-shaped smudge coming through the front doors, but I don’t pay it much note because—
It’s Yin.
Not good news.
They’ve found her, but not really her.
An emptiness, a shell.
They’ve found a body.
I know I know I know what tsunami is about to crash over us, not just me but the whole year level the whole school rippling outwards, crashing into every worried person in this city.
I push off the wall and run.
Mummy.
I get so close I could reach out to her and the realisation hits my legs and my knees melt to nothing. Her mouth an O, her arms out, but I’m too far away still and I feel the hard floor and the bite of carpet for only a millisecond before darkness comes.