Riggs Crossing (21 page)

Chapter 52

Ernie drops by to see me every few weeks. Ray gets a job up north training the horses for a movie, so I have two months break from the stables. I start playing tennis at the Community Centre, sometimes playing against someone, sometimes just smashing balls over the net, practising my serve. My shoulders get broader and my waist gets smaller. Guys start to look at me. Every morning just after I wake up, I lie in bed for a while thinking about guys I see at the Community Centre, guys I see on the street, guys I make up in my imagination.

Allie is caught shoplifting and gets the usual round of scoldings from the usual collection of dickheads. We get a new kid named Stuart who arrives with the usual baggage: doona, backpack, junkie single mother, alcoholic stepfather, scars from beltings he’s been given and scars from razor blades that he gave himself. Karen and Shane stay the same.

The new season of
Clarissa Hobbs
starts. I still watch it every week, when I don’t have too much homework. I still go to see Miss Dunn twice a week, and once a week I go to see someone in the mathematics department. I start to wonder why Miss Dunn is teaching me. I know she likes me, but it obviously takes up a lot of her time, and I know she’s busy. One day, when I can see she has dark circles under her eyes from staying up late working on something, I ask her.

‘Why am I teaching you?’ Miss Dunn says, seeming surprised that I asked.

‘Yeah. I mean, you obviously have a lot of stuff of your own to do.’

Miss Dunn hesitates a moment, then gets up. ‘How about we discuss this over a pot of tea.’ She puts the kettle on, and we wait in silence for it to boil. Then she puts three bags of mint tea into a pot and brings it to the desk, along with two cups.

‘Why am I teaching you? Well, it’s like this. As you know, Paul, that’s Mr Brentnall – the education officer who gave you tests – is my partner. He knows I’m doing research on highly intelligent kids from disadvantaged backgrounds, trying to figure out how to get them to do their HSC and get them into university even if they don’t have much support at home. After testing and interviewing you, Paul knew you’d get bored in a public high school. He approached me with the idea of teaching you, I got approval from the university, he got approval from DOCS.’

Miss Dunn rolls her eyes and shakes her head. ‘Don’t repeat this, but DOCS were the biggest obstacle. They were all worried that you wouldn’t get enough “interaction with your peers”. Paul and I convinced them that you got enough interaction with your peers at the Refuge.’

Miss Dunn doesn’t know how right she is. I get more than enough interaction with my loathsome peers at the Refuge. Any more, and I’d commit suicide.

Miss Dunn pours the tea and sets a cup in front of me. ‘So, in a way, I suppose I’m using you for my research project. But I think that I’m giving you a better education than what you’d get in a public school.’

I can’t think of anything to say. I take a sip of my mint tea and look around. I see a picture on the wall that I’ve noticed before. It’s Asian writing, kind of like the writing on Allie’s duvet cover. It’s painted on a creamy white background, and framed in black.

‘What does that picture mean?’ I ask.

Miss Dunn looks to see which one I mean. ‘That one by the window? That’s Japanese calligraphy. That character means “eternity”.’

‘How do you know it doesn’t mean, “Screw you, white trash”?’ This comes out of my mouth before I can think about how it sounds.

Miss Dunn chokes on her tea, flushes red and starts howling with laughter.

‘I mean, what I meant was . . .’ I’m confused and embarrassed, trying to figure out where to start explaining about Lucy Grubb or Allie’s duvet cover.

‘I know, Sam, I know.’ Miss Dunn is still laughing, searching through her bag for a handkerchief and mopping up the tea that she sprayed over her desk. ‘That’s just the point. Most people who buy calligraphy can’t tell good calligraphy from bad, and they wouldn’t have a clue what it meant unless someone tells them. They really wouldn’t know if it said “Screw You, White Trash”. They just want something exotic-looking to decorate their walls.’

‘But you do know what this picture means?’

‘Yes. I know that it means “eternity” because I studied Japanese language and lived in Tokyo for a year. And I know that it’s good calligraphy, because I took calligraphy lessons.’ Miss Dunn takes out a piece of paper and pencil. ‘Here’s how you write it.’ She demonstrates. ‘It’s similar to the sign for water,’ she says, counting out the strokes of her pencil, ‘One, two, three, four. But to write “eternity”, the middle stroke is slightly different, and there’s a small stroke over here.’ Miss Dunn draws a second character. One, two, three, four, five.

I watch Miss Dunn as she writes. She looks like Ingrid Bergman, an actor from old black-and-white movies. Daddy liked the sort of women you see in old movies. He said that back in those days, movie stars weren’t all silicone and collagen and botox.

‘But if you go back to the character for water, and put that last stroke over
here
,’ a tiny flick of the pencil, ‘it means “ice”.’

Water, ice, eternity. Miss Dunn folds up the paper and hands it to me. ‘But we don’t need to worry about teaching you Japanese just yet.’

‘Can I learn Japanese if I want to?’

Miss Dunn thinks for a minute. ‘Well, I’m not a qualified teacher of Japanese language. But I’d be willing to teach you the basics, providing it doesn’t take too much time away from your compulsory subjects. You’ll need very high marks if you’re serious about veterinary medicine.’

‘Can I learn calligraphy?’

Miss Dunn looks at me and takes a sip of her tea. ‘Why would you want to learn that?’

‘So I can make signs that say, “Screw you, white trash” and sell them at a stall at the markets.’

Miss Dunn bursts out laughing again. Fortunately, she doesn’t have a mouthful of tea this time. ‘Then I’d get fired and you’d get sent to Ramsay. No, you will not get any calligraphy lessons, at least not from me. Anyway, calligraphy is for little old ladies.’

As I walk back to the Refuge, I start writing a kind of TV episode in my mind. This time it’s not a
Clarissa Hobbs
episode. It’s a daydream where Renate Dunn is my older sister, or maybe even my mother. I won’t ever write it down, though. I’d be too embarrassed if someone found it.