The Whole of My World (2 page)

 

 

I stare at St Mary's Catholic Ladies' College as if the bricks themselves will tell me my future. Iron gates block the entrance, the points like sharp spears aimed at heaven. The red-brick building looms behind them, more like a jail than a girls' school.

Dad fought to get this ‘good Catholic school' to accept my scholarship application after the deadline. He'd never seemed happy with Godless Glenvalley High, especially now I was a teenager. Or as he says, ‘becoming a woman'. I guess he'd counted on Mum for all that. St Mary's probably saw me as a soft touch – no mum on the scene or anything they'd call a ‘family' around to keep me grounded. A soul they could save. Of course they didn't
say
that's why they accepted me. They said it was because I blitzed the English test.

‘You have to know when to draw a line,' Dad said that last extra-horrible week at Glenvalley High, when the silences had seemed longer and the loneliness beyond anything I could imagine, ‘between last Saturday and next.'

I'd thought Year 10 would be better, not worse. But no one could forget, and neither could I. In their eyes Shelley Brown was broken. Half the person she used to be.

In my eyes too.

So I gave in to Dad, even though the school year had started, because I couldn't face another day there. That's what I'm doing halfway through Term One of Year 10 and already late for class.

I'm drawing a line.

I heave the new, creaky schoolbag onto my shoulder, weighed down with books I haven't opened. I pass the main entrance to follow the six-foot-high red-brick fence to an open gate further on, half wishing the fence barring entry would never end.
Sorry, Dad! I would have gone in but I couldn't find the gate
. . .

Not likely.

I keep going, my legs heavy as I make my way through the deserted school grounds. It's quiet. Eerily quiet for a school. I almost give up. Let the tide that seems determined to pull me home take me away, back to the things I know. But I don't. I keep wading, pushing against the force, knowing there's no point putting it off. I'm as ready as I'll ever be.

I follow a sign pointing towards reception, where a plain, pasty-skinned woman asks who I am and why I'm there. I give her my name and she directs me to a seat in the waiting room. After a few minutes a tall woman with burnt-orange hair approaches me, her lipstick a crooked pink gash across her face. She wears a skirt just like one I saw my mum give to the Salvos years before, and her cheeks each have a pink spot. This, I discover, is my new principal.

Mrs Brandt smiles and shakes my hand. ‘We've been waiting for you, Michelle. I'm glad you could make it.' She keeps smiling but her voice has a briskness, a note of warning.

I'm late and she isn't happy.

‘Um, the tram takes a long time . . .' I start, thinking about the blonde sun-tanned St Mary's girl at the tram stop. It took me five minutes to gather the courage to ask her for directions and I almost didn't, except getting lost seemed an even worse idea than looking stupid. But the girl pointed me to the wrong tram heading the wrong way, so I ended up feeling both lost
and
stupid. I picture her safely in class, telling her friends about the dumb new kid
who's probably halfway to the city by now
.

‘Found your way all right then?' Mrs Brandt's voice is a mix of light and dark – ready to go either way. ‘I know those trams can be tricky the first time.'

The blonde girl's smug directions throb in my head. I nod and smile, trying to think of something to say that won't sound idiotic.

Mrs Brandt waits for me to speak like she's deciding whether I'm simple, and she has a kind of ready concern in her eyes just in case I am.

‘Has class started yet?' I rasp, burning with humiliation.

She gives me that same unsteady smile, as though she doesn't know what she's dealing with. ‘Let's go and meet your new classmates then, shall we, Michelle?'

‘Shelley.'

‘Sorry, dear?'

‘Shelley. I like to be called Shelley.'

‘We don't much encourage diminutives here, Michelle. You were given that name for a reason.'

‘Still . . .' I persist. I
really
hate my name.

‘There's nothing wrong with Michelle,' she says, eyeing me up and down, measuring me. ‘From Saint Michael, of course. A very honourable saint to be named after.'

I wonder if she thinks there are any
dis
honourable saints, and if there are, whether it would be okay to change my name if I were named after
them
? ‘I don't like it,' I reply, smiling to make sure I don't seem impolite.

‘Not for you to decide, dear. Your mother thought it was perfectly suitable or she wouldn't have named you after him.'

‘She didn't, Dad did. She used to call me “Shelley” with an “e”, like the writer.'

‘You're familiar with Shelley's poetry?'

‘Actually, she's better known for her novels.'

‘
She?
'

‘Mary Shelley.'

Mrs Brandt sniffs a little, as though she's just smelt something unpleasant. ‘When people talk about Shelley, they usually mean the poet, Percy.'

‘Not my mum. She said Mary Shelley was a genius. Ahead of her time.'

‘Yes, well. Be that as it may, I'm sure if that were her preference she'd have indicated so in your application.'

‘She didn't write my application, my dad did. My mum's dead.' The words seem to leap from me without my permission, but they stop her in her tracks, her smile freezing on those bright pink lips.

‘Of course. I'm sorry, your father mentioned that.' And while her face matches mine in its ruddy shade, I don't feel the satisfaction I should. Or want to. It still feels new, saying it like that, even after all this time. Because everyone knew. The whole of Glenvalley, anyway. That's the point of changing schools, I remind myself: I get to start again.

‘Shall we go?' she continues, but gently now. Her whole attitude has shifted – the way she carries her head, how she looks at me. It hits me then, like it always does, what I'm seeing: Concern. Sadness. Sympathy. A hard knot sits in my throat, the blood runs thick in my head. It actually hurts, sometimes, to have someone care.

I raise my chin, meet Mrs Brandt's gaze with a strength I don't feel and fight the tears that sting my eyes. ‘Please call me Shelley.'

Mrs Brandt studies me as though deciding something important. And then, like a light has switched on, her whole expression shifts. ‘Okay, Mich–' She stops herself and clears her throat. ‘
Shelley
. Let's go to class.'

Thirty girls' faces look up as one when we enter the classroom. Some look bored, some look curious, others just stare blankly. Thirty different girls with three different hairstyles. A lot like my other school except everyone is in uniform and no one with hair longer than their shoulder wears it down.

Sister Brigid stands by her desk, a small dark-skinned woman with large thick reading glasses and a plain green dress. She isn't wearing a habit – a lot of the younger nuns don't – and her hair is short, straight and neat. Her hands are clasped in front of her, and when she steps down from the platform, she almost disappears she's so tiny. But when she opens her mouth she seems enormous.

‘Welcome to our class, Michelle,' she booms. ‘I hope you're happy here.' She has the largest – not just the loudest, but the
largest
– voice I've ever heard on a woman, let alone someone the size of an eleven-year-old.

I'm about to correct her when Mrs Brandt steps forward and says, ‘Shelley. She likes to be called Shelley.'

I smile at Mrs Brandt gratefully. She nods twice, pleased with herself, then leaves.

The door closes and silence falls.

I look at the class.

They look at me.

Then we all look at Sister Brigid.

I wonder if I'm supposed to speak. Then, because it's killing me, I find myself doing a weird kind of dipping curtsey to fill that space. Even as I'm doing it, I'm wishing the ground would swallow me up, but there's no way out, so I finish with a red-faced nod.

Everyone laughs. All thirty of them. Even Sister Brigid seems alarmed.

I stand there, scarlet cheeks probably visible from the moon, thinking,
Please let this end
.

Finally, Sister Brigid points to a seat near the back of the room, then turns towards the class as though nothing has happened, dismissing me in the same instant. ‘All rise!' she intones.

There's a muffled scraping of chairs and everyone stands up. I take the moment to escape to the back of the room and slide into an empty desk.

‘Heads down!'

As one, the girls bow their heads and wait in silence.

I watch from the corners of my eyes, doing my best not to be too obviously confused by this series of commands.

‘Hail Mary, full of grace . . .' The whole class recites the ‘Ave Maria', their voices blending into a flat, rumbling chant.

I can't remember the words. My blush has hardly faded before it creeps back right where it's most comfortable. I move my lips as vaguely as I can, my head dipped lower than everyone else's in an effort to hide my crappy lip-syncing. Dad started taking me to Mass more regularly after the accident, trying to play catch-up on all those years of neglect. But a few months later he stopped completely. He stopped doing a lot of things after the accident. That's probably the one I miss the least. I'm not sure he really believes in it all, anyway. Sometimes I think he just doesn't know what else to do with me.

‘Amen.'

Everyone sits and Sister Brigid asks us to open our textbooks to page forty-two for ‘quiet reading'. I scan the classroom, the buzz and chatter lifting with every passing minute. I try to concentrate on the chapter in front of me but there's too much happening – in the classroom and in my head. And I'm clearly not the only one struggling to focus. Within minutes, Sister Brigid's harsh voice cuts through the din and a girl I haven't noticed before – ‘TARA LESTER!' – is sent to the back of the room, to the seat right next to me.

And in that instant I learn two important things about my new school: the back row of desks is a punishment at St Mary's, and Tara Lester has spent a lot of time in the desk I'm currently occupying. I know this because she's scratched her name into it. All the scribbles and scratches, indecipherable before, begin to take shape; far more interesting than the chapter I'm supposed to be reading on Australia's participation in the First World War. Beside Tara's name in small, crooked letters are the words ‘Falcons for Premiers!'.

My heart does another flip. Only, this is the good kind.

I look sideways at Tara and catch her watching me. We both quickly turn away. For five long minutes we feign interest in the Diggers at Fromelles, carefully ignoring each other before she finally breaks the silence.

‘I'm Tara,' she says, her voice low.

‘I'm Shelley. Hi.'

Tara shrugs, meaning either she already knew or doesn't care. Or both. She's scribbling away on her folder, the contact paper disappearing under doodles of gold and brown stripes, squares and circles, with a football-shaped blob in the centre. There is no doubt what it represents.

‘You barrack for Glenthorn?' I whisper.

‘Obviously.'

‘Me too.' Probably too loud for quiet reading, but I'm determined to be brave today. Dad once said I was ‘terminally optimistic'. At the time, it wasn't meant to be a compliment.

Tara rolls her eyes. She's stopped doodling now, which I decide to take as encouragement.

‘Who's your favourite player?'

‘Killer Compton,' she offers, her voice matter-of-fact like she's said this a thousand times before.

Kevin ‘Killer' Compton is probably the greatest player to have ever pulled on a boot. Dad says maybe the greatest player we'll ever see. Three-quarters of Glenthorn supporters would pick Killer over anyone else. Probably a good number of non-Glenthorn footy fans too, if they were honest. They'd never admit it, of course. They say they hate him – the other fans. But no one bothers to hate an opponent unless they're something really special.

Tara is watching me now. ‘Who's yours?'

It feels like a test. ‘Peter Moss.'

Tara snorts. ‘Too showy. Besides, he's just about gone.'

I almost roll my eyes but manage to hold back. Nothing is more exciting than seeing Mossy go up for a mark, despite all his injuries. If you love football even the tiniest bit, you have to be impressed with his mighty leaps, if nothing else. Maybe it
is
showy but, boy, what a show. Still, I'm seriously thinking about adding to my favourites. Now seems as good a time as any. ‘Chris Jury and Buddha Monk. Gavin Black, too.'