Have You Seen Ally Queen? (12 page)

She smiles when I’m nearly there.

I try to be cool (hey, I don’t need to try, I
am
cool—right?), roll my eyes and sigh, ‘Camp, camp, camp.’

She laughs in surprise. ‘Don’t you want to go?’

‘I wouldn’t mind; it’s just who else is going that’s a worry.’

She looks over at the kids carrying on. We can hear
them from here. ‘There are plenty of others going, Alison.’

‘Yeah,’ I sigh.

Basketballs whine on the court like they’re pumped up too hard, and there’s that background sound of lots of kids’ voices, and the occasional scream.

‘Have you met Mr Taylor yet?’ she says after a bit.

‘The school psychologist? I’ve seen him around, but—’

‘He wants to meet you.’

‘Meet
me?’

‘Yeah, because you’re new. He always has a chat to new kids.’

I’m thrown. ‘But I’m not new anymore, am I? I don’t have anything to talk about, either—I don’t have any
problems,
if that’s what he thinks.’

‘No, Alison.’

I feel scared. What does he want to see me for?

Ms Carey smiles. ‘That’s not what I mean. It’s nothing like that. All schools have counsellors; it’s their job to make sure all the kids are okay. It’s only because you’re ... newish that he wants to see you.’

The sun’s coming right into my face, making stuff go black. I can’t see part of Ms Carey’s head.

‘You can go next period.’

‘But that’s English! Can’t I go in maths, or something?’

‘Next period. I’ve told him to expect you. You’ll like him, Alison, he’s a good guy.’

Yeah,
sure.
She gets up before I can say anything more, her white skirt moving around her as she goes. There’s a silver beaded anklet on one leg. Maybe, if Ms Carey likes him, he’ll be okay. But I don’t know any other kids who’ve been to see him—so why me? And I’m
not
new anymore!

Rel jogs over. ‘What’s going on?’

Before I can think about whether or not I really want him to know, I blurt out, ‘I have to go and see the school
psych.’

He widens his eyes at me. ‘That Taylor guy? That’s bizarre. Why?’

‘’Cos I’m new, or some crap. Have you ever had to see him?’

‘Nah.’

I let out the air that’s been trapped in my lungs the last five minutes. I didn’t think so. I’m probably the only kid he
has
seen. Ms Carey must think I’ve got
issues,
or something, to make me go and see this guy. Only complete
freaks
see school psychs, as far as I’m concerned—which confirms my long-held suspicion
that I am, indeed, a complete freak. That’s what Ms Carey must think, and probably Rel, too, now. If only I hadn’t gone and opened my whale-sized mouth. Again.

‘Anyway,’ I say, struggling to appear normal while my head buzzes with the info that I’m a fruit loop, ‘have you heard what Ryan and those guys are blabbing about?’

‘Yeah, base camp and stuff. Morons.’

‘Base
camp!’ I snort. ‘Maybe we should bring our
crampons.’

The bell wails.

‘Are you gunna go on this camp, or what?’ he says.

‘I dunno, haven’t asked the oldies yet. You?’ I look at him. He’s squinting into the sun.

‘Think so.’

Oh.
I nod. ‘Cool.’

Shite.

There’s a wall of kids crowding the door of the sports shed, chucking in footies and basketballs and softball mitts.

‘Better go, then, hey,’ I say. ‘This should be fun. Fun, fun, fun.’

‘Yeah.’ He looks at me like he wants to say something, but doesn’t.

I wait a bit and then say, ‘Do you wanna go down
the beach after school?’

He looks surprised. ‘Yeah. Yep.’

As I’m walking off, he flings me a yellow snake and calls softly, ‘Good luck, Queenie.’

I stick it in my gob and chew it, head first.

Nice Ally, Nice Ally, Nice Ally, Angelgirl, Angelgirl
is pealing through my head like a song riff. The corridors are dead quiet. Everyone else is in class. My shoes on the floor sound straight out of a horror movie. I go past Mr Williamson’s maths class. He’s full-on bellowing at someone, and the door flies open and slams shut again, and then Rory Mills is standing outside, looking like a complete loser.

‘What’d
you
do?’ I grin.

‘Piss off, why don’t ya?’

Nice. I feel my cheeks burst into red.
Angelgirl.
Right.

Mr Taylor doesn’t have a couch, or anything made of black leather in his room. He’s just got daggy old school chairs like everyone else. He indicates for me to sit down on one.

‘Is this going to take long?’ I blurt, and then,
meeting his eyes, I say, ‘Sir,’ like I was going to all along.

‘Well, that depends on you, Alison.’

Inner groan. I already hate him. I take a slow breath to compose myself and put on my best angel eyes ... I hope. I wait for him to start.

‘So, Alison, we’re trying to make sure all new students come to see me after they’ve been here a couple of weeks, just to see how they’re going.’

‘I’ve been here longer than that.’

He smiles. ‘I know. Better late than never.’

If you say so.

‘So. How’re you finding Peel Senior High?’

‘It’s fine.’

‘And how does it compare with your old school?’

‘About the same, really, just a few more bogans and a lot further away. School’s school.’

That gets a laugh out of him. ‘Have you been back to Perth at all since your family moved down?’

I think of the long road over the bridges, the fishermen and tinnies at the Cut, the tall yellow streetlights of the Mandurah bypass at night, and the road into Perth, with all the shops and places I know.

‘No.’

‘Do you miss it?’

I look at him through my old eyes. Shut up, I think.
I don’t answer him for a while. Then I say, ‘Why are we talking about this? Why do you need to know if I miss Perth or not?’

He leans against the arm of his chair. ‘Well, like I said before, we ask all new kids how they’re going when they start here. It’s a big deal for a lot of students—it’s not only a new school but a whole different lifestyle down here. Some kids have trouble adjusting, which is fair enough. It’s a big move.’

‘Well, I’m not having any trouble, if that’s what you want to know. I don’t like it here—and I’ve adjusted to that already, okay? Now can I go?’

He doesn’t blink. ‘If you must.’

I can’t believe I can be so rude to this guy and get away with it. He doesn’t even
care.

Someone comes to the door. He gets up and says, ‘Excuse me just for a minute,’ and then heads out, leaving the door wide open.

I sit there, a bit stunned. He said I could leave, so why don’t I? I stare at the gap into the grey corridor. It looks so much more exciting out there, I think sarcastically, and go back to staring at the whiteboard behind his desk.

He walks back in, like Mr Super-Casual, holding a packet of chocolate biscuits and a cup of coffee.

Bribes.

‘No, you can’t have any,’ he says. ‘Still here, then.’

I raise my eyebrows inadvertently.

‘I said you could go if you wanted. You’re missing ... English, right?’

I nod.

‘With Ms Carey.’

‘Yep.’

‘She’s a great teacher.’

He opens the biscuit packet but doesn’t take one out. Instead he says, ‘You’re allowed to ask me questions, you know. This
can
be a conversation.’

A maggie swoops past the window.

‘Am I really here because I’m new?’ I say, watching the powerline bow under the bird’s weight.

‘Partly.’

‘What’s the other part?’

He holds his mug with both hands for a moment and then says, ‘The other part is that if kids have some troubles at home, we like to keep an eye on them.’

I keep my gaze on Maggie’s tightrope skills so I don’t have to look at him. But he doesn’t say anything, not for the longest time, until I look to see if he’s still alive. He is.

And then I ask if I can go.

I sling the bag over my head. I’m trying to concentrate. Things I need: towel, thongs, snacks. I’ve got some lavash chips and a tub of tzatziki for munchies, though Rel could hate tzatziki, for all I know.

I feel like I need the beach—just sand and water, those two simple things, nothing else—but I know it can’t take all this shit away.

I check my phone. No messages. What did I expect? I turn it off, shove it down to the bottom of my bag.

The sand stings my legs as I hit the beach. I dig my feet in, grind them down. I look to either side of me. Rel is sitting hard up against a scrubby dune, avoiding the windblast. This was a bad idea.

I go over to him and grin a bit. ‘Nice conditions,’ I shout into the wind.

He nods. He looks disappointed.

‘I’ve got snacks and everything!’

More disappointed now.

I look back over the dunes, see the stumpy chimney for our pot-belly stove. No one’s home.

I wave vaguely at our house. ‘Do you wanna go to my place? It’s nasty out here.’

Rel’s eyes lift. He grabs his towel and we head up the skinny track, me first, my thongs dragging over the loose limestone, my toes getting the chalky, dusty look of hot summer days that seem far from here.

‘Where’s the rest of the mob?’ he asks as I reach for the key in its super-secret hiding place (i.e.
not
under a pot plant or in the meter box): buried under the second pylon to the left of the carport.

‘Still at work,’ I say evasively, ‘and McJerry—my brother—he’s probably at a friend’s place.’

Rel’s forehead moves away from his face. ‘Man, so you get the joint to yourself after school? That’s
very
chilled. My old duck’s at home every arvo.’

My mum usually is, too,
I want to say, but keep my mouth shut. We’re seeing her tomorrow—Dad’s set it up. It feels weird, to have to
arrange
to see your mum.

It’s silent once we’re inside, out of the wind. It’s like being in a vacuum. I relax my eyes—didn’t realise they were so screwed up against the sand. I click the door shut and realise we’re looking directly into my
room, and it’s hell messy. Mum would call it a
bombsite,
in that shocked voice of hers.

‘Where’s the Barbie wallpaper, then?’ Rel grins. ‘Man, are you a grot.’

‘It’s not normally this bad.
Barbie?
Nah, she’s a plastic bimbo,’ I giggle. ‘What do you think I am? I bet
you
played with action figures—those little guys with chests the size of fridges. Why are they always naked, except for really big jocks?’

He’s laughing.

‘And a belt—what’s that for, to hold up their Y-fronts?’ I put on my Yank cartoon voice. ‘Hello, Icebuster. Gunna kill some baddies today, and flex your
huge
muscles? Or shall we wash your underpants instead? You’ve been wearing those things for
weeks
now. You pong, dude!’