I GET ANOTHER note in roll call. It’s from SRF:
Shauna, see me now in my office.
I hope it’s about the support courses at St Augustine’s. Maybe she wants to tell me that my parents have finally sent in the permission slip.
‘Shauna, where have you been?’
‘I came as soon as I got the note.’
‘No. I mean, where have you been as Olivia Pike’s mentor?’
‘Oh.’
‘I met with her yesterday and she told me you hadn’t spoken to her since that morning in the withdrawing room. And that was weeks ago.’
‘Well, she told me she didn’t want to talk to me.’
‘And?’
‘I assumed she wanted to do things under her own steam.’ I sound flippant, though I don’t really mean to. I can tell that Reverend Ferguson doesn’t like my tone one bit. The soft lines of her face have hardened. Her mouth is small and set.
‘Why on earth would you assume that?’
I can’t answer, and I don’t think she wants me to.
‘When you arrived at Oakholme College, you were just as brittle and abrasive as Olivia. You were just as closed off from people, from help. But that didn’t mean you didn’t need the help, did it?’
‘No, Reverend Ferguson.’
‘You’ve gone from a sullen introvert who couldn’t spell or recite her times tables to one of the top students at the school. Did that happen because you were left to your own devices?’
‘No.’
‘No, it didn’t. We worked hard to get you to come out of yourself. To think about something other than your own sorrow and your own problems.’
‘I’ll talk to Olivia,’ I say, now feeling quite embarrassed. ‘I promise.’
‘You’d better, Shauna. Even though you’re busy with your studies and about to get busier.’
‘The revision classes? Did my parents sign the slip?’
‘They sure did.’ Finally she smiles.
At lunchtime, I scour the canteen queue for Olivia Pike. She’s with a group of Year 8 boarders.
I don’t beat around the bush. I wade through the queue right up to them.
‘Olivia.’
‘Yeah.’ Her blue eyes flash icy daggers that aren’t reflected in her voice, which stays light for the benefit of her friends.
‘Come and talk to me once you’ve bought your lunch. You can come into the common room if you like.’
‘No thanks.’
I stand over her, really loom over her. The icy daggers glow brighter.
I decide to play my trump card. ‘If you don’t come with me, who knows what might come shooting out of my mouth?’ ‘Okay,’ she says, suddenly jelly-backed at the prospect of being outed. ‘Just let me get my sandwich.’
Her tweeny friends huddle around her. What does she want? What was that all about? Are you in trouble?
She buys a ham sandwich and walks with me to the common room. We find a table in a quiet corner. She unwraps her lunch slowly, looking around the room as if it might swallow her. One thing I know about Olivia Pike: her veneer of aggression and arrogance is baking-paper thin. Between terrifying and terrified is a fraction of a millimetre.
‘So how’s Oakholme treating you? You seem to have made some friends.’
She bites into her sandwich, chews, swallows and scowls before responding. ‘And I’d like to keep them.’
‘I don’t want to turn your friends away from you, believe me.’
‘So leave me alone.’
‘That’s not possible.’
‘Look, I’ll tell Reverend Ferguson that we’ve been talking, okay? She put me on the spot yesterday. I didn’t know what to say.’
‘SRF wasn’t born yesterday, my friend.’
‘Who?’
‘SRF. Reverend Ferguson’s initials. Self-Raising Flour. That’s what Lou-Anne and I call her.’
Olivia’s dimples sink into her cheeks. What’s that? A little smile? Some evidence of a sense of humour?’
‘She’ll know you’re lying,’ I say. ‘She’ll ask you what we
talked about and you won’t be able to lie quickly enough.’
‘Try me.’
Now she’s beginning to remind me of myself.
‘Well, why don’t I throw you a bone by covering some topics? Help you along with your fabrications.’
‘I don’t even know what that means.’
‘Your lies, Olivia. Let me help you.’
She shrugs. ‘Okay. Fine.’
‘Where are you from?’ I ask her.
‘I’m from the Black Forest. Where are you from?’
‘Barraba. New England. But my mum’s people are from North Queensland. Now tell me where you’re really from.’
She takes a long pause, as if silence could kill me. Then she blinks quickly.
‘Bourke.’
‘Bourke?’
‘Yes,’ she hisses. ‘Bourke.’
‘I don’t know anyone from Bourke.’
‘Thank God.’
I could give up now, really I could. But then I think about that bright spot. The spark of humour. Where there’s humour there’s intelligence.
‘So, Olivia . . . are the boys hot in Bourke?’
There’s no smile, just an upward flick of her eyebrows. Then her face darkens. She looks down.
‘I don’t have a boyfriend,’ she mutters. ‘I’ve never had a boyfriend. Probably never will.’ Her blue eyes move up to mine. ‘You?’
I immediately think about Nathan O’Brien and start stammering. ‘Well, not really. I mean, I’ve had boyfriends, but . . . I can’t really be bothered with boys right now because I’m going to Paris next year. That’s in France.’
‘I know Paris is in France.’
I notice Keli Street-Hughes & Co saunter into the common room. They line up at the coffee machine and they all get the same thing. A cup of black coffee. They really are the biggest try-hards God ever put on this earth.
Keli surveys the room and Olivia cringes as her eyes settle on our corner.
‘Hey, Ollie!’ calls Keli stickily.
‘Hey, Keli.’ Olivia’s smile is tight.
Buxom Keli comes up to our table armed with her long black and her long-black swilling crew.
‘My buddy from Bourke!’ She hugs Olivia’s shoulders lightly and glares at me. I’m not quite cute enough to give her the ‘Say thanks to your dad for me’ line, but I wish I could.
‘What are you doing in the common room with this article?’ Keli says to Olivia. ‘Is she lecturing you about identity politics?’ She waggles her finger in Olivia’s face and croons, ‘Check your white privilege, Olivia.’
Olivia looks scared and lost. She clearly has no idea what Keli’s talking about, but one of the Tampon Princess’s pet bitching topics is identity politics. Apparently people like me take particular political positions just because we’re Aboriginal or African or gay or whatever group we’ve decided to ‘identify’ with. As if someone who looks like me has any choice about which group they belong to. I don’t get to decide! Usually other people choose for me the second they clap eyes on me.
I smile sweetly at Keli. Keli smiles sweetly back and shakes her head. She wants to say something crippling, but she’s afraid of my response. I can tell. She’s not in control anymore, and she knows it.
‘You know the common room’s for Year 12 students only,’ she says eventually.
‘I was just about to leave,’ says Olivia, standing up. I stand, too.
Annabel coughs ‘coon’. The rest of them snigger.
‘Did you just call me a coon?’ I ask.
Annabel looks suddenly terrified.
‘She just coughed,’ says Keli.
‘You know guys,’ I begin, holding onto self-control by the ragged tips of my fingernails, ‘some of us were invited to a meeting in the withdrawing room last week to discuss HSC University Pathways. I was truly astounded to see none of you there. Astounded.’
‘As if you were there for any reason other than affirmative action,’ says Keli.
‘As if I was there for any reason other than the fact that I’ve completed an HSC subject early.’
‘They feel sorry for you because you’re a . . .’ She coughs.
I walk out, knowing I won’t be able to stop myself from smacking her if I stay a moment longer. Olivia follows me, her eyes blazing with hurt and fear.
‘Sorry about that,’ I tell her.
‘That’s why I don’t want you talking to me,’ she says. ‘Keli’s my friend.’
‘So next time we don’t go to the common room.’
‘There’s not going to be a next time,’ says Olivia, and she storms away, blonde ponytail swinging furiously behind her.