Wildlife (12 page)

Not even three weeks in, less than a third of the term gone, and we’re getting up each other’s noses to the point of brain injury.

Annie and Eliza are in a state of escalating open war about killing versus not killing bugs and spiders. Annie has decided we should all be vegetarians, lectures us about all the horrible aspects of meat-eating, and insists on rescuing every insect or spider that finds its way inside. Eliza is a savage bug killer and an unapologetic flesh-eater.

Though she defends and saves ants, Annie has decided that one might crawl into her ear and eat its way into her brain. She can’t be persuaded that there’s no connection between her ear canal and her brain.

In classic Annie fashion, even when confronted with diagrammatic proof, she said, “Haven’t any of you losers watched
Home Renovation
? Walls can be knocked down. Or chewed through.”

Our menstrual cycles are slowly converging. Six starting-to-overlap waves of PMS is a lot to deal with under one roof. God help us all when we’ve got PMS at the same time. We’ll have a genre leap from “coming of age” to “schlock horror.” Hide the knives. I can see the crime-scene tape now.

We are all over Pippa doing nothing around the house.
Being sweet doesn’t cut it when you’ve left the cutting board out for the thousandth time for someone else to rinse, wipe, and put away. Or when your contribution to any rostered work always sits in the range of zero, token, and decorative.

And someone still smells. It’s a constant low-grade waft of body odor. Hard to pinpoint because we all come in reeking and soaking and muddy after various hiking, camping, running activities. But whose smell is lingering? Or is someone stashing dirty laundry? At our last house meeting, Holly burst out at the end of a list that included pull your own hair out of the shower drains, close the screen door, don’t leave used tissues and cotton balls around, wipe up your own kitchen mess, and WHOEVER STINKS, CAN YOU PLEASE TAKE A SHOWER AND USE DEODORANT! So, whoever it is, she must have the message after that.

But of all the simmering animosity in the house, the real hot spot is Holly’s growing annoyance with Lou. She hates it when people are impervious to her withholding of approval. She likes them to squirm. And she doesn’t like it when people are so private that there’s nothing to talk about behind their backs.

She was needling Lou a few days ago and ended up, after getting either silence or one-word responses, saying, “Oh, I get it, you’re a zombie.”

To which Lou responded in a monotone, “I am, indeed, a zombie. You are insightful and perceptive.” That got a laugh from Pippa, which made Holly snarkier.

Holly jumped up and sat down next to Lou at the table. It was deliberately aggressive, right in her grill. “What’s this shit?” Holly had picked up one of the fat Blu Tack caterpillars Lou is always fiddling with.

“It’s Blu Tack.”

“What’s it for?”

“It’s for a project I’m working on.”

“What project?”

“Project Gee, It’s None of Your Business.” Lou made an effort to keep reading. Holly stayed sitting right next to her.

Lou stopped reading, put her bookmark in, and said,
“What?”

Holly grabbed the end of Lou’s bookmark and pulled it out of the book. “Oh, dear. You’ve lost your place.”

Lou stared at her with a completely blank expression. Holly smiled at her, and flipped through the book. “What have we got here?
The Lost Estate
. It looks like crap.”

“Well, it’s fantastic. But I don’t think you’d like it,” said Lou.

Holly stood up, still holding the bookmark. Lou went to grab it back, and Holly sensed a pressure point. She jumped up and danced out of Lou’s range. Lou’s face was red.

I told her to give it back, but Holly was not about to turn away from the only chink we’d ever seen in Lou’s armor. She looked at the bookmark for a long time.

“Well, isn’t that sweet?” she said, holding it up so Pippa and I could both see it—a laminated photo-booth strip.

“Cute pics,” said Pippa. “Is that your boyfriend?”

“It was,” said Lou, not taking her eyes off Holly.

“Aw, what happened? Did he dump you?” Holly pretended to look again, more carefully. “But he’s such an ugly gimp, maybe you dumped him.”

Lou stared at her, not saying a word.

“What’s the story, Lou-Lou? Love gone wrong? But how’d that happen when your glasses and your zits look so damn compatible?”

“No story. Just give it back,” said Lou.

“Give it back,” said Pippa.

I walked over and took the bookmark from Holly, glancing at it as I handed it back to Lou. I was shocked. Here was a different Lou: someone I’d never seen, eyes full of happiness. The guy looks just like her, and just as happy. Both of them have long dark bangs and geek-chic thick frames, and yes, some pimples. But who cares, when you’re making each other laugh like demented drains in a photo-booth?

“He looks nice,” I said.

“Are you seeing him on exeat weekend?” Holly asked. “Maybe you can patch things up.”

Lou looked at Holly for a few seconds. “You can’t possibly think I’m interested in talking to you.” She picked up her book and left.

Up till then, I’d just thought Lou was a low-key girl. A private girl. But seeing the way she looked in the photos, compared to how she looks now, makes me think there is a story there. Something has gone way wrong. She sleeps just a couple
of feet away from me every night. She could be hemorrhaging from heartbreak. She might be crying silently into her pillow every night. And I don’t know a thing about it.

I should have known that the minute she heard about Beeso’s “party” at Snow Gum Flat on the river, Holly would find a way to go and make me come, too.

In order to go, we’d have to pretend we were having a legit two-day hike, and talk someone else into making up a three.

The whole idea made me want to puke. Hippy heaven with the jocks? Give me a break—worlds colliding, and not in a good way, but resistance was pointless.

Holly’s response to all my objections was: “Well, I’m going anyway.”

I gave up. “Fine. Just remember: Don’t drink if you’re smoking, because it makes you vomit. And stay away from fast streams and cliff edges.”

“Why do you have to be so smug?” Holly burst out.

“I’m not. It’s good advice. Those guys are tools. You’ve seen them at parties. What other girls are going?”

“Tiff and Laura and some others.”

“And you’re really still chasing Tiff?”

“Don’t be a bitch.”

“I’m trying to keep you out of trouble. Snow Gum Flat is only a few hours’ walk away. It’s within teacher prowling range.”

“Well, I’m going anyway. And Ben’s coming,” Holly said.

“No, he’s not.” I hoped.

“Well, maybe you don’t have the most up-to-date information about that.”

The force of her determination is overwhelming. She will do anything, say anything, to make me do what she wants to do. It is honestly as though she hears
maybe
or
try harder
when I say
no
.

When I was little, Mom used to give me workshop practice in saying no. Concrete examples of what Holly might suggest, and how I might refuse diplomatically.

Holly is such a wanter. It mostly means more to her that we do something than it means to me not to do it.

Which probably makes me a wimpy invertebrate. But I honestly don’t care sometimes. I am genuinely easy. Easygoing. Don’t mind one way or the other. A pushover.

In this case, I just got tired and gave up. And I figure that it will count as one of our compulsory overnight hikes, providing we don’t get caught, so I get to cross a hike off my list without actually having to hike far. A free pass. That’s how I’m rationalizing caving in, anyway.

We get permission for our hike and drag Eliza along. She’s perfectly happy to get a hike credit, ignore the party shenanigans, and get some extra time for running training.

wednesday 24 october

So Michael told me something.

I like the way he works. No
getting to know you
, no graded intimacy or social niceties, no worry about, Does she like me? Are we friends now? More like: 1. trust, 2. full disclosure.

He loves Sibylla. Not in a teen crush way. He loves her in a soul mate/destiny way. She just hasn’t cottoned on to the destiny thing yet. That is how he sees it, anyway.

Sibylla does not love Michael. She likes him. She gets him. She even values him, but she doesn’t love him. I think he is heading for pain, but he takes the long view. He believes that they will be together one day. He cannot imagine a world in which that won’t eventually happen. It is appealing that Mr. Implacable Logic has a blind spot.

He is so lovely. He’s not jealous that Sibylla is with Ben. He’s worried. Because he doesn’t think Ben is sufficient in any way for Sibylla. Not good enough.

Sibylla is besotted with Ben. She also gets him. And that makes her cautious. Caution means she is holding something back. And Ben still finds that intriguing, but there are so many girls here who would hold nothing back that I wonder how long “intriguing” will hold up.

Michael has known Sibylla since the kindergarten era.
He invented Sibylla tablets around this time. One (shiny, magical) strand of Sibylla’s hair, twisted and rolled until it is a tiny little nuggety ball, swallowed when one is feeling anxious or unhappy. Will alleviate said feeling.

Crazy, hey? But it worked. He says it has given him complete faith in the placebo effect.

He is worried now because he’s aware that he is becoming overly preoccupied with Sibylla. He’s been there before.

How lucky is he that I am his new friend? I told him to write it all out in a letter to Sibylla: the letter you never send. All that therapy, ready to be regurgitated at will. I have a catalogue of strategies as long as my arm, longer than my patience.

He’s going to give it a shot. His only worry is will one letter suffice? He thinks it might require a few volumes.

Holly and Eliza and I arrive a bit later than everyone else, because Holly forgot to bag some grass clippings for Grounds, so we got slammed with sevens as punishment, an extra house weeding job.

I wish I’d trusted my instincts. I look around. It’s the crème de la crème of my least favorite people. Except for Ben, who I can’t see.

And they’re all in party mode. Holly is immediately on the prowl for weed so she can catch up. Eliza is getting into her running skins and shoes the minute we arrive, itching to dash off.

Unfortunately, Ben “my body is a temple” appears to be as much out of it as everyone else. He lifts a languid arm as I approach, but I don’t really feel like joining the girl queue surrounding him.

The
flat
in Snow Gum Flat refers to the grassy area next to the river.

I decide to play mother and pitch our tent. Holly and I are in a two-person tent, and Eliza has brought a one-person tent, because she will be spending the whole time sprinting around like a maniac. Like me, she won’t do any drugs, and she’ll be in bed early and up early. She is so self-sufficient. I asked her this morning while we were yanking out weeds if there is any boy she likes. She said, “Boys are idiots. I’m going to wait till they turn into men, and have another look then.”

The river here is a swimming hole, quiet and dark. Mountains slip their shadows deep into the water. Farther downstream, the water spreads out over rocks, shallow, loud, and racy. Old gum trees crowd the edge. Maybe, just maybe, at the height of summer, on the tenth consecutive heat-wave day, you’d be tempted to swim. The water temperature would still be melted ice cube.

Smooth pebbles every shade of gray, from nearly white to nearly black, and pink and yellow run their muted
rainbow down to the water. When the rock grinds into coarse clean riverbed sand, it is the color of brown sugar. Standing at the edge, looking down, it’s hard to see exactly where the water begins.

About sixty feet farther along the river’s edge, there’s a bloody mess sending swiveling threads of red into the water. A small pile of trout guts someone couldn’t be bothered to clean up.

I get my trowel and start digging. I can’t see anyone else here bothering, and the job isn’t going to smell any better in the morning.

Holly comes over with the smallest joint I’ve ever seen, acting like she’s stoned and offering me a spitty end—which I don’t take.

“Can’t you ever take a day off from goody land?” she asks, but doesn’t really want to know.

“Just think of me as the designated driver.”

“Why aren’t you over there?” she asks, nodding in the direction of the boyfriend.

“He seems to be occupied.” I really don’t like the way Laura and Georgie are reclining on Ben, but it is his body.

“You need to hustle yo’ bustle, hon.”

“That doesn’t even mean anything,” I say. “Don’t just copy them all the time.”

“Jeez, kidding.”

I start a new installment of my ongoing rap language rave—how I hate the sexist language, the sexist clips, how I think Lupe had it half right with “Bitch Bad.”

But Holly has glazed over. She wonders why I care and is looking much more interested in Ben’s friends Vincent and Hugo, who have wandered within range, just as I am realizing I’m going to have to move farther away from the water. The pebbles are just sliding back when I dig them.

“What’s this? Not Sibylla, the
model
, complaining about sexism?” says Hugo. They are barking with laughter. It’s not taking much to amuse them in their current state. They’re wearing headbands they’ve made from blue-checked kitchen towels. For a nanosecond, I’m actually impressed they even know what sexism is.

“But—trrrragedy has struck,” says Vincent, looking at the fish guts. “Her brain has dropped out of her ear hole.”

More barking. But maybe I’ve got traction with guys like this these strange days, and I decide to use it, instead of pretending to be a good sport and let them say any dumb thing they find amusing while I give what I hope is an ironic, or noncommittal, smile.

“Being gross doesn’t make you funny.”

“And being on a billboard doesn’t make you pretty,” Vincent says.

I catch the briefest flash of triumph in Holly’s eyes.

“Yeee-owzer,” snorts Hugo. I guess he wonders if the blow was too savage.

“You
know
the one thing I can’t tolerate is being told I’m not funny,” says Vincent in defense of the meanness that has made me go red. So much for traction.

Holly opts for popularity-longing over friend-solidarity. “Lighten up, Sib.”

She heads back after the boys, and it’s just me and the fish guts.

There’s a much bigger fire going than we’re supposed to have. Our objective up here is “small footprint.” These guys interpret that very loosely, i.e., for “small,” read “yeti.” It worries me. Why me, but no one else? Holly’s right: I am a goody-goody. I should lighten up.

Kevin Trung is here. His dad is a famous TV chef, and Kevin actually knows how to cook. There’s a small amount of cooking we can do in the houses, and every boy in our grade was hoping he’d get Kevin. He’s got a coal pit organized and is doing good things with the trout fillets. I smell lemongrass and ginger.

After dinner, everyone is in a circle around the fire. People start calling out their numbers, a ripped safety drill accompanied by spurts of helpless laughter.

I want to go to bed. I was hoping there might be some alone time with Ben, but he’s still surrounded, stoned, and showing no sign of trying to escape. I’m cold, and either he picks up that signal or, more likely, he’s getting up anyway and sees me hugging my knees. He unwinds his scarf and wraps it around my neck, to a chorus of
awwww
s from the people nearby who notice.

Music blasts into the night, fracturing the lassitude. I’ve got so mean about carrying anything extra in my backpack
over the last couple of weeks I can’t believe that someone bothered to bring iPod speakers. Everyone is up on their feet. It feels primitive dancing next to the fire. The moon is close to full, the fire bright, and in the freeze and burn, I’m soon as uncut as the next person, despite being sober. We warm to hot in a frieze of twisting shadows, and people start throwing off layers of clothes as the beat goes on and the dancing builds an intense life of its own. I shut my eyes, reckless and happy.

We dance till we drop, and Ben pulls me down so we’re lying together, right next to the fire. I sit up again and see we are somehow in the middle of a make-out cluster, so I lie back down again. Why not?

The black sky is sprayed with bright stars, an abundance we never see through the city’s competing light. We kiss till it gets unseemly—there’s no Ben and no me, just a breathless tangle of wanting. And we have to stop, or go somewhere private. We haven’t exactly had this conversation yet.

The fireside crowd has thinned, and I didn’t even notice. Someone has put on parent music, “Helpless” by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, and it pulls me inside out. I have tears in my eyes, and I’m not sure if they’re for happy or sad or if I’m just overflowing.

“Hey, check it out, you can see the frying pan,” says Ben softly, eyes to the heavens.

“You mean the saucepan?”

“No, frying pan—and look, there’s the electric kettle.” I stare up until the stars start showing me their secret pictures.

“There’s a unicorn with three legs,” I say.

Ben follows my eye line and tries to see what I see. “Yes—either a unicorn or—a giant
B
.”

“A letter
B
? As in
B
for barramundi?” I do see some looping script like waves forming a kind of
B
.

“
Bee
, like
bzzz, bzzz, bzzz
—with a stinger.” He bites my arm.

“Ow!” I laugh weakly, and I’m cold again, out of his arms, and shivery with wanting. “Bed,” I say, regret and desire and tiredness combining to make me feel like crying properly. Why can’t we be somewhere warm and alone?

He rolls back on his side, up on his elbow, and gives me a mock sleazeball, “Your place or mine?”

“Good night.”

He tries to hold my hand, but I pull away. The other me drags Ben to my tent and tells Holly to Keep Out. That’s the me who doesn’t think about consequences like pregnancy, i.e., the anti-me.

Actual me remembers the hideous sex ed person who came to school last year to tell us how satisfying “outercourse” could be, and knows that is about as far as I want to take things for now. I wonder how many people jump straight to “inter,” purely because you can just do it, no matter how inexpertly, whereas “outer” must involve some potentially embarrassing conversations, explanations, demonstrations, and maybe a pointer, or flow charts.

“Are you okay? You look like something hurts.”

“Just—remembering something—sad.” It was kind of sad
how that one sex educator potentially put a whole grade off the idea just by using the word
outercourse
.

Imagine if I’d answered, “Just remembering the whole ‘outercourse’ scenario—sounded like fun, don’t you think?” That word! Who would ever be able to say it out loud? Outerloud.

Holly chooses now to come over with a major need for food and a bag of marshmallows from somewhere. I thought they were all eaten long ago. “You going to bed, Sibbie?” she slurs. “Bad luck, but all the more for me and Benjo.”

It’s half awkward—I’ve got no reason to change my tiredness or my plan for bed, so I leave them trying to find a long enough stick for toasting their marshmallows.

I look around—some people have dragged their sleeping bags to the side of the fire. Others have disappeared into tents, their own or others’.

It’s a miracle with all the dancing and jumping and staggering and laughing that someone hasn’t fallen in. I get a stab of anxiety imagining that happening, the pain, the seared, blistering skin, the screaming, the panic, and how hard it would be to get airlifted out of here, or to try to carry someone out through the dark tunnel of the night.

I must look worried, because when Kevin meets my eye, he smiles. “It’s okay—I’ll be fire warden. I’m not even tired.”

So I walk away, climb into the tent, too cold to get undressed. I’m a babushka—thermals, outers, sleeping
bag, tent. I am hammered by the tiredness that comes after so much fresh cold air, after a long walk with a heavy pack, after dancing, after desire that builds and builds and has nowhere to go. I get off quickly—the relief of being alone—with a few hungry pushes into my knowing fingers, and hear the voices of dreams pulling me down as I come. I’m asleep before I even register having settled into my bag.