All This Could End (4 page)

There was a stray cat that used to visit that cottage in the bush up north where they lived before her first bank robbery. The cottage was falling apart but the views were beautiful. They only lived there for a few months and Tom and Nina slept on mattresses in the living room or camped in the backyard, so it all felt like a fun holiday in the country.

Nina had always loved animals, but their lifestyle meant that she’d never been allowed to have a pet. The stray cat—an ugly, skinny, black cat, with matted fur and wild eyes—had come visiting a few weeks after they moved in. All cut up and weary, as if it had been fighting, the cat let Nina tend its wounds, drank milk from a saucer and ate a tin of tuna she stole from the kitchen. She tried to hide the cat from Tom when it visited, fearing he’d pull its tail or scare it off for good. Eventually he did see the cat, but he was uncharacteristically timid around it.

Sometimes the cat came every few days, sometimes once a week, but she never named it because it didn’t belong to her, although she doubted it belonged to anyone. It didn’t seem like a creature that could be named, owned, tagged and micro-chipped, but it brought Nina great pleasure to be the cat’s sometimes-carer. That was when the desire to be a vet formed in her mind.

When they moved on, she knew she couldn’t take the cat, no matter how much she wanted to. The cat and Nina were not at all alike—the cat was probably a lot more like her mother: a wild thing, sometimes giving the appearance of normality, of enjoying the care and love of others, but ultimately independent. Nina, on the other hand, wanted stability, and to be loved and to love unselfishly.

Perhaps she had the cat all wrong—it was just a cat after all. All cats are aloof. But maybe this cat was different, maybe it missed her when she left, maybe it scratched at the front door and longed for tuna and milk and a hug and some love?

She thought of the cat during that first robbery—to calm herself down, to distract herself as Sophia instructed her to take the money from the till and put it in the bags, ‘now that’s a good girl’. Nina knew she was too young for this, she would always be too young for this. Right in front of her was a girl her own age, cowering with her mother. Why were they there? Wasn’t everyone banking on the internet these days? They both looked petrified. Nina would learn to distance herself, but never entirely. This was all so unnecessary.

That afternoon, after Nina’s first bank robbery, they did indeed go to the beach. Tom was desperate for details, for stories.

‘Was it exciting?’ he asked. ‘Were there many people?’ He bounced on the spot. The sand was hot beneath their feet. She ignored him. There were too many people lying on the beach for her family to be talking about this.

At twelve, she felt she had entered a different world from the one Tom existed in—maybe this was what becoming a teenager meant? Before, on days when their parents went ‘to work’, they had lazed around and watched TV and made packet cakes. They knew what their parents were doing then, but it didn’t feel real to them.

Now she knew what it was like for people to stare at her in fear, for her to be the cause of that look in their eyes. She had seen her parents transform into criminals. She had seen the other side, and it was awful there. There was no excitement for her, definitely not in the way Sophia seemed to experience it. There was just her own horrible fear now.

Nina’s first bank robbery went perfectly—Sophia had said so, quick and painless and no police—but Nina was still tense on the beach. She imagined a couple of police officers stomping across the sand, knocking her onto her towel, handcuffing her. She couldn’t say this to Tom. She’d have to lie. From now on, it felt like she had to lie about everything.

‘Yeah, Tom,’ she finally answered. ‘It was ace.’

Sophia smiled at Tom. ‘Come on, let’s go for a swim.’ She winked at Nina. Nina could do nothing but stare back.

Nina

Nina doesn’t like starting at a new school, but after being The New Girl seven times, she knows what to expect, what to do, how to deal with it. It isn’t a big deal; it’s only a temporary situation. School was never pleasant, but it needn’t be hell either.

In order to avoid bullies and survive the next four months, she can choose one of two options. The first is to manufacture an image of herself as tough, dangerous—this requires a lot more effort than it’s worth, and can be quite risky. She could start rumours about how she got that scar on her lip in a fistfight as a ten-year-old, or how she was in juvie for the past year. If there happened to be a genuinely tough girl in the school, she would find herself in a fight, when she’s never thrown a punch in her life.

Her second option is to make sure she’s neither too weak nor too strong—socialise, don’t be a loner, but don’t present yourself as a threat to the social hierarchy. Nina knows very well what a delicate system it is: the popular bitches, the sporty people, the hipsters, the people who party, the people who don’t. You mustn’t be too attractive, or too smart, or too funny, and you most definitely must not make eye contact with the most popular group, male or female, because that creates all sorts of issues.

She has already decided on option two. To endure the next four months, she just needs to manipulate other people’s perceptions of her. This is easy during a bank robbery but at school, without the benefit of a balaclava and a gun, it can be more difficult. More nuanced.

So far she’s had a good run in schools—managed to evade bullies, hang around the fringes of large friendship groups, and spend plenty of time in the library, trying not to appear like someone worth taunting.

There are things that are the same at every school: the principal who endlessly praises the school; the uniform (always too bright, too stiff, and usually itchy); the bubbly girl who either self-appoints or is appointed as Nina’s buddy (but quickly deserts her in favour of more interesting lunchtime companions); legions of kids who all look the same and whose friendship-group pecking orders are dictated by the alphabetical order of their surnames; roll-call being done in Homeroom and the teacher calling out ‘Pretty, Nina’, and everyone turning and looking at Nina and appraising her prettiness (or lack thereof) with a lack of subtlety only teenagers possess. The checklist could go on.

The principal of Evandale College is elderly and rotund. She looks more like a librarian than a principal. Her first name is Caroline, and she lets the students address her as Caro. She’s sort of manic and praises her school endlessly, but she’s pleasant enough. No doubt it helps that Nina’s father is working at the school.

‘Let’s find you a buddy, someone to look after you.’ Caro opens the door of her office and ushers Nina into the hall. Every time someone is nice to her, Nina suspects a conspiracy. Caro, however, does not seem the type to be an undercover cop.

Walking past at a swift clip is a short, plump girl, her hair a dark, stick-straight bob. She wears thick, winged eyeliner and a much-shortened school dress, and has a takeaway coffee in her hand. She is very tanned.

‘Bridie McGregor,’ says Caro, in a voice that demands attention.

The girl freezes and turns around.

‘This is Nina,’ says Caro. ‘Nina, this is Bridie. She’s one of our brightest.’

Bridie beams. ‘Hello!’ She is unusually cheery.

‘Nina’s a new student in your Homeroom,’ says Caro. ‘I was wondering if you’d be her buddy for the day—give her a tour, make sure she settles in.’

‘I’d love to,’ says Bridie. ‘I’m just off to Homeroom now.’

‘Wonderful,’ says Caro. She steeples her fingers and taps them against each other like Mr Burns when he says ‘Excellent’. ‘I hope that’s not caffeine, Bridie. I don’t want you getting addicted to substances.’ She winks; she’s joking. She has to be, thinks Nina. ‘Have fun, Nina. Come visit me if you need anything. I’m always in my office.’ With that she disappears back inside.

Bridie starts talking, very fast: ‘The Caro has always been a big fan of buddies. In Prep we got a Grade Six buddy; in Year Seven we got a Year Twelve buddy. On every camp every student in the school ever goes on, they get a buddy. I have had a number of buddies, but I’m yet to actually understand what the term buddy means. I’m thinking it’s something like “a person you are obliged to spend time with and be nice to because a teacher told you to”. I’m totally a nice person anyway, don’t worry.’

‘That’s good to know.’

‘Still, I can’t believe she told you to have fun,’ says Bridie, staring at the now-closed door to Caro’s office. ‘I bet she sits in there watching YouTube videos of cats on skateboards all day and forgets this is a school.’

Nina smiles.

‘She tried to retire about five years ago. They got this young bloke in as principal and it just wasn’t the same. It lasted all of two days before everyone demanded she come back. I never found out her surname until last year,’ Bridie says.

‘What
is
her surname?’

‘Robinson. Terribly mundane. “The Caro” suits her much better.’ She sips her coffee.

‘A mundane surname is preferable to a weird one. I’m Nina Pretty. Other people remind me of that quite frequently.’

‘Oh, how delightful. Sounds like a surname for a Barbie doll. Mine’s McGregor. My great-grandfather was Scottish. I am not particularly Scottish, obviously, but everyone thinks I can do a Sean Connery impression.’

‘And can you?’

‘Not an outstandingly good one. I’m still working on it.’

‘I won’t ask for a demo then. So you address the principal as The Caro? And she’s okay with that?’

‘She loves it. I tend to drop “the” when speaking directly to her. It’s a bit too formal.’

‘She seems nice.’

‘I know she
seems
lovely, but she’s got the potential to turn nasty,’ Bridie whispers dramatically. ‘And she’s so old that when you get called into her office for doing something terrible and she’s got that scowl on her face and that growl in her voice, you worry she’ll whip out the cane. She’s been teaching long enough that she probably did cane kids when she started out.’

‘Wow. Not what I expected.’

‘You’ll be glad to hear everyone else at this school is exactly what you expect,’ says Bridie. ‘It’s all soulless teachers, over-privileged schoolkids, and shockingly bad canteen from here on in. Do you want me to show you around? What’ve you seen already?’

‘Sure. Nothing.’

‘You must have gone on a tour before you enrolled,’ says Bridie.

‘My dad’s teaching here,’ explains Nina. ‘Upper Primary History, I think. Substituting.’

Bridie nods. ‘Gosh. Teacher’s kid. You must get hell for that.’

‘Not really. I don’t advertise it.’

‘Must be tricky, starting at a new school. I’ve never changed schools—I’ve been here since Prep—except for when I left and then came back, but that doesn’t really count, because it’s the same school, and it didn’t change at all while I was gone. Andy Warhol or Gandhi or somebody said something wise about changing the world yourself. Which I find I have to do a lot. Shake things up a bit. People here are terribly boring. I’m rambling now, aren’t I? I know everything that goes on here, so tell me if I’m overwhelming you. I’m not really omniscient. Did you feel okay about coming to a school you hadn’t even seen the inside of?’ Bridie is speaking even faster now.

‘Oh, well, I won’t be here too long,’ says Nina.

‘That’s what I always say,’ says Bridie. ‘Here for a good time, not a long one. Everyone’s gotta go sometime. Oh, wait, you didn’t mean
that
, did you? Of course not. Sorry. I interpret things weirdly.’

Nina laughs. ‘It’s fine.’

‘Uniform suits you, by the way. I looked like a blueberry in mine until Year Ten, when I discovered tailoring. A cute blueberry, my mother assured me, but a blueberry all the same. And your hair is great. I appreciate a good blonde. I used to work at a hairdresser’s but it drove me insane. Well!’ says Bridie, clapping her hands together with a dangerous amount of enthusiasm for half-past eight on a Tuesday morning. ‘Let’s go to Homeroom!’

Spencer

Spencer Jack loves words. Interesting words and beautiful words and strange words and especially words in other languages. Untranslatable phrases. Currently his favourite phrase is
l’esprit de l’escalier
. It’s French for the feeling you get after leaving a conversation, when you think of all the witty things you should have said. The literal translation into English is ‘the wit of the staircase’.

Spencer loves it because it’s the story of his life. He’s terrible at conversation—no one has ever told him this, they’re far too polite, but he knows it. All the smart retorts, the funny remarks, come to him long after a conversation has ended, usually in bed late at night, where he writes the phrase on the back of his hand, so he doesn’t forget it. It’s a shame he isn’t as motivated to memorise stuff for school. But just because he has a head full of words doesn’t mean he can drop them into conversation. He gets by with nodding and smiling and mumbling. The harder he tries not to be awkward, the more awkward he is.

Right now, for example, where is his wit? Why can’t he be cool for once? He’s getting his books out of his locker—it’s a difficult task, considering the maelstrom that whirls through the Year Eleven locker room at every bell—when Bridie McGregor appears at his side out of the blue. Rattled, he drops his bag. It’s quickly trampled by some kid who reeks of cheap deodorant and badly-disguised body odour. Spencer picks his bag up off the floor and mumbles, ‘Thanks a lot. Really appreciate that.’ He’s not sure who he’s talking to. Possibly God. Bridie has that effect on a lot of people.

Bridie left school at the end of Year Ten to find herself. Spencer, her best friend, didn’t see why she couldn’t find herself while she was still at school, considering that she didn’t actually leave their town to do so. She never even moved out of home.

‘
Spencer
,’ Bridie had said, when he’d questioned her on this. ‘The fact that you even
ask
demonstrates
why
I have to leave in order to find myself. The school system is
not
a place for
individuals
. It produces
conformists
. Conformists who are
totally
unable to think outside the square.’