Chapter 2
So just how many friends
has John Marsden got?

‘Creeping hell!’ said Vanessa. ‘What in the name of God is that?’

I was bent over my exercise book, putting the final touches to a character star sign entry, when her hoarse whisper caught my attention. I looked up at her face. Her eyes were glazed with horror and her mouth turned down in an expression that seemed to indicate that something exceptionally smelly had just been thrust under her nose. Naturally, I twisted my head to follow her line of sight. And when I saw what she had seen, my jaw hit the desk . . .

Whoa! Hang on a moment. Let’s take a break here. To be honest, I’m a complete beginner when it comes to story-telling and I need to take a time-out. Collect my thoughts. Sorry.

Tell me something. Have you ever read John Marsden’s Everything I Know About Writing? Rhetorical question! Of course, I could sit here until you answer, though I suspect that might take a long time. Sudden image of me sitting in the library for years waiting for the reply. I’m a skeleton in the corner, crumbling into dust, with a little sign on my rib cage saying, ‘still waiting for a reply’.

New students come to the school: ‘What’s with the skeleton?’

Librarian: ‘She was writing a book. Asked a rhetorical question. Still waiting for a reply.’

Anyway, the reason I mention old John’s book is that there was a bit in there that went something along the lines of, ‘Just tell the story as if you were telling it to a friend.’ I’m not sure if they were the exact words, but frankly I can’t be bothered to look it up. You can, if you’re interested. I thought at the time that this was good advice. It sounds easy enough. Now I’ve started, though, it seems trickier than I thought. I mean, I don’t know you at all. I wouldn’t recognise you from a hole in the ground. If I was telling this story to some friends, then they would already know Jaryd Kiffing and they would know me and they would know the school and everything. I’d just be able to get straight into what happened with Miss Payne. But you don’t know anything. No offence. And that means I’ll have to tell you about things that I wouldn’t have to tell a friend.

Maybe John Marsden is friends with everyone in the world. But I don’t think so. I’ve never had a phone call from him, for example. Unless it was that wrong number a couple of weeks ago.

I suppose I should tell you something about Jaryd Kiffing. Kiffo. He is the most important player in this story, the chief character, the main protagonist. It’s a great word, protagonist. I love it. There are some words, I’ve decided, that have to be written in italics. Or in bold, underlined. Protagonist is one.

Anyway, Kiffo. I could say all that stuff about how he is fifteen years old, of medium height, of limited academic ability and concentration span, with behavioural problems and freckles. The trouble is, that doesn’t give you a clue what he is really like. The thing is, Kiffo isn’t a character in a book. He’s a real person. A friend, God help me. When I think about describing him, I just know that ‘average height’ and ‘freckles’ won’t do it.

You remember that assignment on similes? My teacher hated what I wrote, but I was pretty pleased with it. She thought I was being too smart. How can you be too smart, by the way? Most of the time your teachers are telling you that you’re being really dumb. ‘Stop acting so stupid!’ they say. And then when you do something intelligent, they say, ‘Are you trying to be smart? Don’t get smart with me, young lady.’ I wish they’d make up their minds.

I got an afternoon detention for that simile assignment. Now I don’t mind detentions. But I also got the whole, ‘You are wasting a great talent. You should apply yourself, young lady,’ lecture, which was really boring. I’m good at English, you see. Everyone thinks so. That’s one reason me and Kiffo agreed that I should write down the whole business about him and Miss Payne. But my teacher wanted me to be good in her way. Do you know what I mean? Take the simile assignment. I liked it. I really did. I thought it was funny, but also accurate. I’d put effort into it. But she wanted something else entirely. She had often told us to be original, but when I did something that was original, she went red in the face and steam hissed from her ears. Did she want me to be original in the same way as everyone else? Doesn’t make much sense to me.

Anyway, I’m starting to wander away from the point. Jaryd Kiffing, fifteen, uglier than a bucketful of butt-holes, flaming red hair, bandy legs, really bad in all lessons, a waster, a hoon, disruptive, childish, violent at times, often cruel, class idiot, proud of his cultivated image of stupidity, part-time criminal. My friend.

And me? Well, I hope you might be a little curious about me, since I’m the one talking to you. My name is Calma Harrison and you can forget all the jokes about my first name. I’ve heard every single one. ‘You need to be calmer, Calma,’ or, ‘You’ll suffer from bad karma, Calma,’ and all of that. The biggest thing about me is my boobs. I’m fifteen years old and my boobs are really huge. It’s not that I’m overweight or anything. It’s just that I seem to be saddled with a chest you could balance a tray on. As you can imagine, I’m a little self-conscious about this. Particularly in a Year 10 class filled with lads who are not exactly backward about making personal comments. I always wear baggy tops [uncomfortable, to say the least, in the heat of the tropics] but it still looks like I’ve got a couple of wombats tucked down there. If I turn quickly I’m liable to knock someone unconscious. You can probably imagine the kind of comments I’ve been getting. Not very original, of course. Things like, ‘How many of those do you get to the kilo?’ and, ‘Can I park my bike in there?’ and that sort of stuff. I hate Phys. Ed., of course. I wasn’t built for sudden movements. When I run, my chest stops half an hour after everything else.

Anyway, enough about my boobs. I just thought I should be honest about myself and that’s the thing about me that I’m most aware of. And everyone else, apparently. As for the rest of me, well, I’m reasonably normal to look at. Fairly attractive, I suppose. Long dark hair that comes halfway down my back. None on my head, just down my back. Joke! Shortsighted, so I wear glasses. I like glasses. I’ve got about five pairs. The ones I like best at the moment [I keep changing my mind] are bright blue, thick plastic things. They are so in-your-face. And on your face, I guess. They do stand out like a nun in a betting shop. Maybe I reckon that if everyone is staring at my glasses, then they won’t be looking at my chest. Isn’t psychology great?

I’m a fairly hard worker at the subjects I enjoy, like English. Other stuff doesn’t really interest me too much. Science is okay because it’s quite beautiful and well worked out, like a poem. And some of the words are really cool. But Phys. Ed. sucks. I hate physical exercise and I can’t see the point of it. And while we’re on the subject of pointlessness, can anyone explain the value of Drama lessons? Swaying like a tree or holding sweaty hands in a circle or pretending you’re a bird. Call that adequate development of lifelong learning skills?

Q. And what makes you think you will be a good journalist/ teacher/copywriter/politician/organised crime boss?

A. Well, even though I’m crap at reading and writing, I can do one hell of an impersonation of a sulphur-crested cockatoo in a cyclone.

Look, I don’t want to give the impression that I’m a rebel or anything. I tend to do what the teachers tell me to do because it’s easier that way. I’m not like Kiffo in that sense. He seems to think that anything the teachers want you to do is a direct challenge to do the opposite. That’s okay, though. We’re all different. I just keep my head down and my chest in.

That’s probably enough for the time being. I’ll get back to the story.

Oh, hang on. There is one other thing you just might find interesting. Then again, maybe you won’t. Who can tell? Anyway, here is another interesting/boring revelation about Calma Harrison: my mother is a Westinghouse refrigerator.

So where was I?