FIVE
Somewhere within the school’s expansive acreage of playing fields, two dozen Third Formers were waiting to burst forth from a hemmed-in herd. Mr Connor, whistle in hand, loved to keep us waiting. Binny was jiggling around like a marionette, eager for the race to start. A lawn mower growled into action on an adjacent field and shreds of freshly cut grass swirled into the air. To my dismay I was racked by a percussive sneezing fit. Almost in sympathy, Tracy began to cough and cough.
I looked down at my bare legs, exposed by the short gym tunic I hated putting on because I knew it might mean failure and misery. My swimmer’s legs were strong, but they weren’t agile or attractive, and now they were blotchy from the cold. When Mr Connor blew his whistle I forced the pair of dullards into action. Come on. Take chase. Do what you’re told to do. It was like trying to run in a bad dream when invisible weights make your legs hard to move and the evil man gets closer and closer. It was too chilly for vigorous exercise but I lumbered into action, following the wrench of the herd.
‘Give it all you’ve got, girls,’ preached Penny, who had already taken the lead.
Just go slow, Beth, and you’ll make the distance. My ample thighs were chafing against each other. Only seven laps to go! I pretended I didn’t care if I came last, but I was relieved to see Samantha plodding behind me. She could stay home from school tomorrow and not me.
Two gruelling circuits later the predictable occurred. Tracy overtook me. She sped by, completely ignoring me. Then I was passed by Penny and Binny who were running together, their eyes glued to the back of Tracy’s long grey socks. While I hated being lapped by the baton-change girls, at least they weren’t insensitive enough to wave as they passed.
Seconds later Mish hovered at my elbow. She reduced her pace and jogged beside me, telling me about her new pet rabbit. ‘Yes, it’s incredibly soft and trembly and it has pink eyes!’ Dear, sweet Mish. She had slowed down to keep me company. And of course she had nothing to lose, as the first three places were already taken. Tracy always called fourth place the booby prize, implying it wasn’t worth much. But even an ‘honorable mention’ for any sport would have made me proud.
When Mish said ‘See ya’ and accelerated away, I slowed immediately. Running beside Mish had given me a stitch. Noone else seemed to get a stitch. Just me. I was approaching the pixie clan, who’d decided to risk the ire of Mr Connor by walking to the finish line. Thank God for brave anarchic them.
Pixie Jane smiled. ‘Hey, Beth, where’ve you been?’ That was invitation enough for me. Jane wasn’t scared of Mr Connor. I joined the pixies in their footslog and listened intently to their discussion about The Paul Hogan Show, contributing nothing as I had never watched it, but taking the opportunity to get my breath back.
After the race came a pride-salvaging reprieve of sorts. Peninsula weather is full of surprises and we were sometimes subjected to mists that rose off the bay and wafted up Mornington hill to the raised plateau where our school sits, two miles inland. Cold blasts from Bass Strait encountering warm winds from the Mallee produced these mists – or so we had learned in geography. Now, a massive fogbank was coming towards us at incredible speed. We barely had time to register the disappearance of the school buildings when the playing fields were wrapped in a cocoon of damp silk and we could see no more than two feet around us. Kids hooted and screamed as they bumped into each other. It was worth being fourteen and miserable for the privilege of being kidnapped by this cold August blur.
In my brief invisibility I remembered that I was a person who actually liked being who she was. Hey, Beth, this is lovely, isn’t it! I expanded into airborne particles and heard Tracy’s voice.
‘It’s why we run so fast,’ she was saying. ‘Living on the peninsula puts more strength in our lungs. Dad says it’s a big advantage not to live in the city.’
Under the stark tube lighting of the change shed we moved into our respective zones. There was a demarcation between the glamorous athletes, who shimmied out of their gym tunics on the far side of the shed, and the useless runners like Judy and I, who got changed near the shower cubicles. On this day, we were joined by the cluster of pixies who had sauntered across the finish line with me. The pixie clan could be fickle friends, but their lackadaisical non-athleticism was something we shared. I was listening to their chatter about fashion, make-up, teen idols and family possessions. So-and-so’s sister had bought some pale green Levi cords but the pale grey cords were still everyone’s favourite. Helena Rubinstein cosmetics were pricey but the mascara lasted and lasted. Had anyone seen the latest Tiger Beat magazine? One pixie pulled out a copy from her bag. The guys were worth a gawk. Giggles. Sighs. There followed a discussion about who was better looking out of Shaun Cassidy and Scott Baio. No consensus could be reached.
‘Don’t tear the pages, Lynne. Wait your turn.’
‘Puke. Donny and Marie Osmond holding hands.’ Moans of derision.
‘Catch Marie in a poncho, would you? What a psycho. She can’t skate for nuts.’
The pixies moved on to other topics. Jill was organising a speedboat party. ‘Dad’s going to let us steer.’ Jane was getting an in-ground swimming pool installed. ‘You should see the big black hole in our yard. It’s full of snails.’
I paused in the shower cubicle, even though I was already fully changed. If you had a Clark Rubber swimming pool in your backyard, as Cherie and I did, you were a bit of a laughing stock.
Still, I chose the wrong moment to emerge.
‘Why do you always get changed in there, Beth?’ Lynne wanted to know. As if I was going to say, ‘Because I don’t want you commenting on my bra and my flab.’ I ignored her and sat down to wait for fussy Judy, who had chosen to take a shower.
The second bell went and most of the girls hurried off to class, disappearing into the mist that was filling the doorway like a swab of cotton wool.
Lynne was admiring Jill’s razor-shaved legs. She was sliding her hand over Jill’s shins, saying that she wanted to get rid of the hairs on her own legs but her mother had told her not to because if she did they would grow back twice as thick.
All of a sudden Lynne swivelled around on the bench and addressed me. ‘Hey, Prairie Mary, did you know that JS was talking about you?’
We often referred to the spunks at school by their initials. It was an attempt at concealment; liking a boy in an adjacent classroom could be hazardous.
‘Jordan was talking about me?’
‘Uh-huh. We ran into him at the Frankston flicks, and he said he really liked you, didn’t he, Jill?’
I remained silent, letting it sink in. So the great Jordan Sinclair had noticed me.
Lynne continued. ‘Shall we rightio it for him to call you up? Can we give him your number, Beth?’
I felt a rush of self-love: Why not me? I looked like Melissa Sue Anderson, a real Hollywood actress, even if my legs were chunky. And when we went to dancing class, Judy would say begrudgingly, ‘Wow, Beth. Guess which guy’s giving you the eye?’
So I gave Lynne a nod of assent and tried to act casual. ‘Sure, if he wants it.’
On the bus I was too nervous to look up when Jordan made his way down the aisle; I kept my face screwed to my social studies textbook. In the evening I hung around the phone, but when it finally rang it was only Judy. I cut our conversation short and stayed up till eleven o’clock waiting. Hmm, maybe Lynne had given Jordan the wrong number, accidentally on purpose.
I went to bed still hopeful, dreaming about Jordan and imagining him giving me a charm bracelet with tiny dolphins on it, like the one with the tiny silver batons he gave Tracy after they’d been going out for three months. Rumour was he’d had the bracelet specially made for her. We weren’t allowed to wear jewellery at school, but Tracy had made the most of flashing the bracelet around when the teachers weren’t watching. She didn’t need to tell us anything. The baton-changers did that for her.
The next day I approached Lynne and Jill to find out what had gone wrong. Lynne looked pleased to see me – all was fine by her – but Jill was guarded, which should have alerted me to a problem.
‘Is he going to ring tonight or what?’ I asked, hand on hip. I didn’t need to be modest if Jordan Sinclair had seen my worth.
‘Beth, it was just an April Fool’s kind of thing …’ said Lynne gaily.
Jill winced. ‘Sorry.’
‘You … you made it up? But that’s not fair. It’s August, not April Fool’s.’
No-one had ever set me up like this before. My reaction was to shield my wounded dignity from Lynne and Jill, and even from myself. I was muffled by their cruelty, as though they had gagged me with a scarf after beating me up. My response was partly self-protective. If I made a fuss or confided in Judy, more people would find out that I’d been conned. Some girls, once they’d heard, might assume that I had a phenomenal love interest in Jordan Sinclair. I dared not tell Judy. My innocence annoyed her. She might conclude I needed a ruler stabbing as a cure.
My method of moving on was to pretend that it hadn’t happened. The Beth who was Cherie’s sensible daughter recognised that it was just a harmless prank, and I was being way too sensitive. At school we had dozens of pleasant and unpleasant interactions every week; life muddied us as it cleansed us and cheerful things always came along to replace hurtful ones like this.
Couldn’t-care-less Beth detached herself from the incident and moved on.
Crushed, mortified Beth did not go with her.
When I overheard some boys in my class talking about a dumb blonde who knew nothing, I assumed they meant me. Escape was imperative. I disappeared at lunchtime and not even Judy could find me. I took sanctuary in the gum-tree cross-country circuit that borders our school, mutely tagging along with a nature-watching group under the tutelage of a biology teacher. On the tanbark I found a crimson rosella feather. A Fifth Former explained how to use tweezers and scissors to turn the feather into a quill. I thanked him for this knowledge and put the feather in my blazer pocket where it stayed for three years, even surviving a couple of expeditions to the dry cleaner.
At home I sought answers from Cherie.
‘How did I become so naive?’
‘Are you so naive?’
‘I think I am. Other kids seem more cluey … about stuff.’
‘A trusting nature’s not to be sneezed at, pet.’
‘Okay, but why am I different?’
My mother shrugged. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have sent you to school at four and a half.’
‘But Mum, my friends were all going.’
‘Yes, and you loved school,’ she nodded.
‘There must be another reason?’
Cherie had a think. Then she gave me a hug. She wasn’t concerned. ‘Well, you’ve grown up in a safe bubble, haven’t you, Beth? No-one’s been mean to you – that’s just not your reality. No older brothers to bully you. No manipulative sisters to contend with.’
I paused. It was surely I who was at fault, not my upbringing.
‘I think I may be … slow-witted.’
Cherie gaped. ‘What evidence do you have for that?’
I shrugged. I only partly believed the idea myself.
‘What’s behind this? Did Judy call you naive?’
‘No, but she does think that. And it really bugs me.’
My nausea and dizziness had passed and I was breathing normally again. I had managed to keep the tablets down and the paracetamol was trying to fix any problem it could find, as that consummate painkiller always does. I was lying in a foetal position with my head pressed into a corner of the couch.
I hadn’t thought about that incident for years. The imminent arrival of my wedding guests, including Lynne and Jill, had brought it back but it wasn’t really about them. No, what I had felt in Third Form I was experiencing again today with respect to Jordan: I had been deceived and I was somehow to blame. A shrewder woman would have known better.
I couldn’t get my own back on Jordan because I would end up hurting myself – but I could get my own back on Lynne and Jill. I could really put them in their place now that I had made it into the A-league, so to speak. But Jordan wouldn’t like me doing that. He’d say it was my wedding day and I could afford to be generous. Jordan never held grudges, but that also meant he never got over people. My old university boyfriends meant nothing to me now. Oh, they still disgusted me a little, I have to admit, some more than others, but disgust is easier to to live with than feeling rejected.
For most of the day I had wanted to have a good cry about Jordan, but so far I hadn’t been able to. Everything was clenched firmly inside and cathartic tears wouldn’t flow. Part of me knew my circumstances didn’t warrant tears. My fatalism was a creation of my own mind, and I would eventually see that I’d overreacted. Yet real damage had been done. My loss was heartfelt. I deserved to cry. I would never return to the ardent state I was in before Tracy dropped her bombshell on me. And I wanted to go back to being who I was yesterday. That was my strongest motivation. Grieving would only start the process of changing, possibly into a new person, so I resisted it for now.