Posse (3 page)

B
Y
5
PM THE HEAT IS
easing and the flies have changed guard with the mozzies. It's still muggy – you wouldn't want to break into a trot – but the willow tree on the bank of the dam is finally casting some long, cooling shadows. Every girl in Year Eleven, save for the two in hospital, is in the dam or on its banks – lazing, laughing, chewing the fat. And believe me, by the time a girl reaches Year Eleven, there's a lot of fat to chew.

I know it's not the scene Miss Young, our
deputy headmistress, envisaged when she booked the Riveroak Recreation Ranch. Yesterday, about an hour before she passed out, she divided us into groups, purposely breaking up the usual posses, and assigned each group a teacher and an activity. We were to rotate activities throughout the week according to her timetable, without an idle moment.

If Miss Young were with us now, she'd soon fix this picture of easy sloth. Each girl would be paired with her archenemy and marched into the bush. Orienteering. Abseiling. Canoeing. Bivouac. Archery. All beneath the beating, burning intensity of the February sun. At the Methodist School for Girls this kind of torture is known as ‘character building'.

Well, I can tell you I have better things to do with my time than build my character.

Clare, Johanna and I have spent the last two hours selecting the girls' hockey team for the teachers-versus-girls hockey showdown. We've
also been speculating on which of the teachers could get through a whole match without dropping dead of a heart attack. Eventually we decide there are only two: Miss Howell, because she's the former captain of the NSW women's hockey team, and Mrs Kerr, because she doesn't have a heart.

It's all very amusing but eventually we get down to the business of the team. We choose all the girls in our posse except Deborah, who doesn't like sport and is hopeless and bow-legged anyway, and a few other girls who play hockey for the school or are otherwise athletic. Clare vetoes Toni for obvious reasons, and Johanna reckons Joey would snap like a toothpick if someone tackled her. So we leave those two in the dam and head across the paddocks to the sports shed.

‘You'll barrack for us, won't you?' I say as we pass them.

Toni seems put out that I've left her off the team, even though I asked her to play at the outset.
She, like Clare, has the Pretty Girl's Disease. She likes to turn you down twice before reluctantly accepting your third offer. I know that game.

‘It's too hot,' she says. ‘I'd rather stay here.'

Clare mimics her viciously when we're barely out of earshot.

‘
I'm too hot. I'd rather touch myself
.'

The teachers' team is already in the sports shed trying on gear when we arrive. It's not a pretty sight. Mrs Ricci is decked out in the goalie's uniform. She's standing on one foot at the entrance to the shed, stretching her quads. Once she's all limbered up, she shakes her shoulder pads into place, which sends a ripple through her boobs that lasts about five minutes. Then there's Mrs Kerr, who cuts a dashing figure in a pair of long, high-waisted shorts. She's bending over and stuffing shin guards upside down into her socks. What a game it's going to be.

I turn to Johanna, who's already looking at me. She's smiling so hard that her eyes are just slits cut
into her round, fleshy face. Soon we're both covering our mouths, bursting with laughter.

Jo and I get a bang out of the same things. Most of our fun is had at some teacher's expense. But Jo has this amazing ability to stay on the good side of teachers and parents, even the ones she pays out mercilessly in private. Part of her charm for them is the fact that she's the school minister's daughter. It's more than that, though. She adjusts her behaviour depending on who's watching. I've seen her do it.

Once we've composed ourselves, Johanna and I organise the team's gear, making sure everyone's got socks and shin guards and a decent stick. There are no mouthguards, of course, and I run my fingers over my jaw with the worry of it. The last time I played without a mouthguard was when someone tried to feed me a hockey ball. I'm not going through that again. I'd rather sleep with a man than go through that again.

Johanna knows what's going through my mind.
She says, ‘Don't worry. Everyone's going to be taking it easy.'

‘I'm not worried. I'm just thinking.'

The truth is that I'm trying not to think. When I think about the operation on my jaw and all the horrible things that could happen to me now, I can hardly breathe. It's that danger-around-the-corner feeling, the
globus
. It's kicked in, closing its bony fingers around my chest.

Clare skips by me in her little shorts and Gucci sunglasses. She runs up to where Bevan, John and an instructor called Donna are hitting balls to each other. Hooking her stick through Bevan's she drags him away from the group. He lets himself be dragged even though he could easily unhook his stick and let her fall. Eventually he does and she hits the ground lightly with an irritating giggle.

Ricci and Kerr are watching this horseplay along with about twenty girls who have gathered at the sideline. I recognise the tight, serious expression on their faces. It's the same look
Marina and I get from them when we walk through the school corridors with our arms linked or lie facing one another in a quiet corner of the oval during recess. It's disapproval. Neat, sneaky disapproval. Foot-tapping, arm-folding, tongue-clicking disapproval. It makes me so cross that I forget about my jaw. I'm playing.

Jo and I help Miss Howell set up the witch's hats to form the sidelines and goals. My chest loosens gradually. By the time we're ready to start, I feel almost human.

Miss Lackie, a new PE teacher, is appointed referee. She's all pink-and-blonde and very pretty, but she looks about fifteen. She directs us to our positions.

‘First team to score three goals wins.'

I look over my shoulder and nod at Patricia, the only girl on our team prepared to be goalie. She waves back. I see Clare at the wing slouching with her hand on her hip.

‘Is that your ready position?' I yell.

Elegantly, she gives me the finger and then grabs her stick with both hands.

At the sound of the whistle, I belt the ball into the wall of teachers and instructors and chase it down.

Within about thirty seconds it's clear that this is a game between Johanna and me on one side and Bevan and Miss Howell on the other. Everyone else just trails behind us, swinging their sticks at the air. No one except the goalies seems to know what their position is.

Bevan intercepts a pass from me to Johanna and thumps the ball up the other end of the paddock. Johanna trips him with her stick and shoots towards Patricia, who flicks the ball away from the goal.

I can see Patricia's big red jaw glistening with sweat under her mask from twenty metres away. She's a real candidate for heat exhaustion in all that gear, but she paces the goal area with her stick poised, her broad, fleshy body stooped and ready. Like a loyal terrier.

I'm in centrefield trying to break from the crowd to receive Johanna's pass. Bevan's on me, guarding me, matching my stride as I dodge back and forth. Our eyes meet. I'm going to fix him.

‘Don't trip over,' I say, before streaking behind him, stopping suddenly and tripping him with my stick.

This time he falls with a flourish and a forward roll.

Miss Lackie blows the whistle and orders a penalty.

‘Bloody show pony,' I say, standing over him.

He stays flat on his back, smiling up at me. I notice how his eyes match the bright blue of his shirt, and how a little tuft of his chest hair is sticking out. Then I notice his arms – long, brown and lean, with bulging veins. There's no doubt about it, he's a pretty boy. I can see why Clare's attracted to him. Now if he were a girl, I'd be in serious danger of falling for him.

Conscious of having looked at him for too long, I tilt my head and raise my eyebrows.

‘Do I have to count to ten?' I ask.

‘Didn't know you could,' he says, finally sitting up.

‘There are a lot of things you don't know,' I say.

He smiles. ‘Well, I know that you can play hockey.'

In a few seconds a crowd has gathered around us.

Clare's laughing high and loud. She can be very silly when she's trying to attract attention.

‘Does Amy knock you off your feet?' she says, and turns on her heel dramatically. She shoots a glance over her shoulder to make sure he's watching her in her little shorts, but he isn't. The whistle blows and the match continues. We play on.

Bevan and Miss Howell don't hold out against Jo and me for much longer. After a few minutes of flat-out running in this heat they're sluggish and no match for us at all. We're fit and we've spent
the last four years honing our dirty tricks. We weave and pass, duck and smash. No one can mark us or even keep up with us. Without really exerting myself, I send the ball whistling past Mrs Ricci's box perm into the goal. When I turn around, I'm annoyed to see that some of the girls on the team, including Clare, have decided to down tools. Mrs Kerr's on the sideline too, bent over and breathing hard. I'm so high and pumped I feel like kicking her fat, freckly arse on the way past.

I do a lap of the group with my hockey stick raised above my head. The girls on the sideline cheer. Johanna hugs me hard.

‘Good job, Gillespie.'

Clare walks over to us, slowly. God, she's lazy.

‘It's too hot to be playing hockey,' she says. ‘Let's get back in the dam.'

‘I'm not hot,' I say.

‘Your clothes are soaking wet, Amy,' she says. ‘You are
ob
viously hot.'

‘I'm finishing the game. You go if you want.'

Miss Lackie blows the whistle.

‘Get out to your wing,' I say to Clare.

‘Don't bloody tell me what to do.'

‘Don't be such a bitch, Clare.'

‘Don't be such a
butch
, Amy!'

I don't know how we got into this fight, but I suddenly feel like taking a swing at Clare. I tell myself to back off, turn it down, but I stay angry. I follow her back to her position.

She doesn't realise I'm right behind her and she jumps a mile when I tap her shoulder. I like to ruffle her. She's usually so cool.

‘If you're too hot, go back to the dam.'

‘No.'

‘I'm serious. Get lost. I don't want you on the team.'

She looks away from me and catches Bevan's eye. Her face is hot and her green eyes are boiling.

‘Hey, Bevan,' she yells. ‘Amy's a dyke. She's a big, fat
les
bian.'

She throws her stick to the ground and storms across the paddock to the huts.

There's some muffled laughter and a few gasps. I look at my feet.

‘Clare! Clare, come back here.' Miss Lackie's thin, high voice dissolves in the heat.

She stands motionless for a while, staring after Clare. She's certainly not the most commanding teacher at the Methodist School for Girls. Perfectly likeable, though. And very pretty.

She looks to Miss Howell with a shrug and blows the whistle weakly. I take my position, but I don't look anyone in the eye. Clare is definitely the worst best friend I've ever had.

I try to concentrate on marking Miss Howell, who starts with the ball and sends a pass to Bevan. He runs right up the centre line, and passes to John. John swings at the ball like he's teeing off in a game of golf and it soars towards Patricia.

I smile as I realise that Patricia has moved the witch's hats together to make a smaller goal area.
She hasn't been too subtle about it either. It's about half its original size! Good old Patricia with her big, sentimental heart. Who but Patricia would care enough about a silly game like this to cheat?

My smile breaks into a laugh as I pursue Bevan down the centre towards the new, shrunken goal area. I'm right behind him, at his heel, laughing. I'm laughing as he approaches the ball and swings back high and wild. I'm still laughing when his stick hits me square in the face. It hits me so hard I fall backwards rather than forwards. The firm, dusty ground rises to wind me with a thud. I stop laughing.

I can't believe it. It's happened again. I'm on my back, my eyes clouded and stinging with tears, blood pissing out of my mouth.

‘Jeez. Oh, jeez,' says Bevan, kneeling at my side.

I start to cry.

‘I'm so sorry. I just got carried away.'

‘Someone go and fetch Mrs Lovas,' says Miss Howell. ‘Tell her to bring the first-aid kit and a bottle of water.'

Bevan's puffing next to me. Miss Howell's wiping the blood away with her t-shirt.

‘Check your teeth, Amy,' she says.

I run my tongue around my mouth. I can taste blood, but I can't feel any broken or loose teeth.

‘How are they?'

‘Ow!'

‘I think your front teeth have gone through your lip.'

‘Hm-mmh.'

‘But your teeth are okay?'

‘Hm-mmh.'

‘There's a lot of blood. You might need a stitch. What about your nose?'

‘It hurtsh.'

‘It's not broken, though?'

‘Uh-uh.'

When Mrs Lovas's wide shadow is cast over me and I see her kind, round face looking down at me, I cheer up a bit. She's the school nurse, a real softie. She lets you go home in the middle of the
day with any old complaint. A sneeze. A cramp. A paper cut. One day when I wanted to go home I lay in the sun during lunch and got sunburnt. She discharged me right away.

She's still wearing her tasselled black one-piece cossie, and her long white boobs and pendulous stomach are practically hanging in my face. She puts a plump, bejewelled hand on my forehead and asks her favourite question.

‘Have you got your period, dear?'