Wildlife (14 page)

Mr. Oxley is yelling so we can hear him over the water. Who knew water could be this loud? The outdoor experience never disappoints in delivering ghastly new phenomena. They’ve driven eight of us, and four canoes, to the very loud water.

“Can’t you at least give the poor guy a blow job,” Holly is yelling in my ear.

“I’m not going to start my first sexual relationship here,” I say.

“Will you tune in? I’m not talking about sex—I’m saying a blow job—” She’s yelling so loud that Mr. Oxley stops.

“Would you like to share your comments, Holly, as you consider them to be more important than the potentially lifesaving information I am giving you?” Mr. Oxley is a creep, and probably would like nothing better than to hear the real conversation. Holly stares him down, but leaves me to dig us out.

“She was just reminding me of the blowhole at a beach
we once visited,” I say, frowning at Holly. “It was very loud. Like this.”

The crashing water is making me as cranky as the inappropriateness of Holly telling me to blow my boyfriend. I’d like to find the off switch for both of them.

“Anyway, a blow job
is
sex—ask Bill Clinton,” I shout, when Oxley is back droning on about canoes.

“Bill who?”

“You really need to do politics,” I say.

“So I can bore everyone to death like you do? No thanks.”

That’s harsh. I was telling the Ben brigade yesterday about why I thought the current Greens campaign was right in its intention but wrong in its strategy. God, there were a few glazed expressions now that I think of it. But not Ben’s. I’m pretty sure…

“Tiff gives you two more weeks if you keep banging on about stuff like that without banging him,” Holly says with a smirk.

“Since when are you and Tiff discussing my relationship?”

“
My
relationship? It’s his, too. And you wouldn’t even have it if I hadn’t practically forced you together.” Of course, she’s cast herself in the starring role.

“Typical,” I say. Wrong.

“Typical, how?”

“That you put yourself in the middle of something when it’s really not your business.” Wrong again, but too late. I’ve done it. I’m feeling reckless and why not? I’m about to
break my neck on thundering water smashing its way over a mile of jagged rocks. Well, smooth rocks. But hard rocks.

I see that look arrive on Holly’s face. The look that says
now you’re in trouble.
I strap on my helmet. Talk about appropriate metaphor timing. Bumpy ride ahead. Next up: placating, apologizing, cajoling, soothing, making it all better. I know the drill. I’ve been here—we’ve been here—so many times.

The first time I saw the look was in our first year together. I had no idea what I’d done wrong; Holly wouldn’t tell me. I begged her, but she kept saying,
you
work it out. It was horrible. I felt the unfamiliar weight of doom on my puny shoulders. I think it was the first time I worried. Or even knew what worry was.

I was quiet that night at home but told my mother nothing was wrong. And to be fair, I didn’t know what was wrong; it was more like
I
was suddenly wrong, the very fact and fabric of me.

The next day, Holly had a little posse of girls in whom she had confided, but she still wouldn’t tell me. “You’ll work it out,” she said, with an exaggerated solicitude that made me feel sick. Not sick because she disgusted me, sick because I was so stupid.

By lunchtime, I was so upset I couldn’t eat my lunch. Our teacher, Ms. Yeats—close talker, bad breath—asked me what was the matter. “I don’t know,” I started howling.
“I don’t know, Holly won’t tell me,” thinking, desperately, I’ll do anything to make it right if only Holly will tell me.

Holly came up with her best shiny-bangs good-girl teacher look. “I’m not sure what Sibylla means,” she said, her little voice as clean as a slap. “Would you like me to take you to the bathroom to wash your face?” she asked. I nodded, too miserable to talk.

Aware that I was red and snotty—I may have blown a snot bubble—and everyone was looking at me, I couldn’t look up from the speckled carpeted classroom floor. “Do you need a tissue?” Holly asked. I nodded—I would never disagree with Holly again—and Ms. Yeats smiled when she saw Holly offer me a tissue from the neat plastic pack in her pencil case.

“You go with Holly now. Try to settle down, and we’ll see you both back here in two shakes.”

“I’ll tell you, but only because you’re about to tell on me like a big fat baby,” Holly said when we hit the red-tiled corridor. “What you did was—you didn’t pass around your box of raisins, and a few of us agreed that is pretty bad manners.”

I was bewildered. Who would want raisins? They weren’t lunch box currency, not like chips or cake. Holly gave me her official smile.

As we reached the bathroom, she said, “So why don’t you wash your face, and if you remember your manners next time, there won’t be any more problems.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

She handed me a paper towel. “You’re forgiven.”

*     *     *

But I’m not sorry this time. Sulk all you want, I can’t be bothered with the game playing. I’ve got enough to deal with up here.

Holly intercepts Lou giving me a half-curious, fleeting look of approval, and that sets the steel even harder. Oh, well, it will take some time for the thaw to come. I’ve lived through this before, and I can do it again.

I can see my mother somewhere in this picture. Really, Sib? Is this what friendship looks like? And me giving the usual answers: you don’t understand, it’s none of your business, you’ve never liked Holly—and thinking, sometimes, sometimes this is exactly what friendship looks like.

saturday 27 october

It was raining, so we ate lunch inside. Michael and I ended up sitting right next to Sibylla, Holly, and Ben.

Ben had two hamburgers, two buns, four cheese slices, and a pile of salad.

Michael had hamburger buns but had acquired grilled chicken. He finds it hard to come to terms with pulverized anything.

Holly had one hamburger, no bun, pile of salad. She ate her salad and perhaps a quarter of the hamburger.

Sibylla sat with her burger and her bun and her condiments. She had tomato sauce, tomato relish, peach chutney, hummus, whole seed mustard, regular Dijon mustard, pickled cucumbers, pickled onions, and beetroot dip. And salad. But that is beside the point.

I was staring. Michael was unmoved. He’s seen it before.

She layered it all together, lidded up, and started eating.

I couldn’t help it; I asked, would you like a burger with your condiments?

Michael: She likes the condiments best.

Ben: Isn’t it a bit… disgusting?

We watched the steady leak onto her plate. Sibylla’s mouth was overstuffed with the concoction. She couldn’t talk.

M: To Sibylla, condiments are to a hamburger as icing is to a cake.

Ben would be incapable of looking annoyed, or unwilling to; it would give too much away. But he has what I have decided is his annoyed equivalent, which is neutral, with a half smile. He doesn’t like that Michael has the inside running on Sibylla.

Michael went to take another mouthful, then added: They are the good bits. They make eating the hamburger worthwhile.

B: I got that. Thanks.

M: Sorry, hard to tell, Benjamin. (snap!)

Holly was looking on with great interest. Just as Ben
doesn’t do annoyed (too exposing), Holly doesn’t do eager (too uncool).

But I know her eager; it is an extra shine of bloodlust in her eyes. She smelled conflict and she had a front-row seat.

B to M: Why do you always say people’s full names? He was carefully still not showing his annoyance.

Michael shrugged, not showing his pleasure in annoying Ben: No reason. It is just an idle preference.

In the
actual
wilderness, these two would have come to blows by now.

We all spend a lot of time together. They are together a lot. They get along really well, and it’s lovely when your best friend and your boyfriend are friends. It can be a big problem if they don’t get along. All the magazines say so.

The wooden slats of the shutters slice them up, pieces of a boy, pieces of a girl. Ben, my boyfriend, is laughing. Holly, my best friend, is making him laugh.

I flip the shutters up and they’re gone. Open. Slice them up. Flip the shutters down and they’re gone.

Open.

Holly leans in. She touches Ben’s shoulder. She is
emphasizing something. Emphasizing that she’d like to touch his shoulder.

Jealousy.

Shame. It’s a shame. I feel shame.

I would say that Charlotte and I hate each other from time to time, but jealousy is not something that happens in my family as far as I can see; my parents trust each other. They like each other’s friends.

Though, I guess, what do I know?

I look at them as parents to me, not partners to each other.

But they are big on generosity—I know they enjoy their friends’ good fortune.

It’s not like that at Holly’s. The Gorgon is competitive about everything. And so nosy about what other people have and how it compares to what she has. Is she thinner, richer, prettier? Is her car, personal trainer, hairdresser, beach house, ski trip better? If not, why not?

It’s why our parents aren’t friends, even though we are. I used to ask my parents if we could have Holly’s family to dinner. We had lots of families over for dinner. Why not them? My mum used to fob me off with, We don’t know them all that well, which developed over time as I got older to, We don’t have all that much in common. By the time I knew what that meant, I’d stopped thinking it was a good idea anyway. A little Gorgon goes a long way.

But Holly and I stayed friends.

I mean, people are not their parents, are they?

sunday 28 october

Annie came in saying, look, for all you doubting Thomas fools: “A significant astrological event.” See, they’re even teaching it in school now. We are studying it. It’s official. So who’s been totally outed as right? Me. Line up and kiss my Sagittarian arse.

She was waving a piece of paper from class; there’s a big astronomical event (lunar eclipse? I think) coming up that we get to observe, and she thinks for this fleeting glorious moment that they’ve put astrology on the year-ten curriculum.

Astronomy is a legit science, bozo. They’re not talking about star signs, Holly told her. Of course it would be Holly, the one who enjoys pricking bubbles more than anyone else.

Oh, right, Annie said, disappointed. But it’s still stars, right? Constellations and whatever?

You will discover new depths of dumbness even you have not dreamed of
, said Holly, being a horoscope.

Annie laughed, but you could see her little feelers were hurt. Plus, she’s genuinely disappointed we’re not studying horoscopes. Beam me up, Fred, any time you like.

I climbed up for a short read before the dinner gong and realized someone had been into my shelf. My heart skipped
a beat. My box was locked. Okay. But my books were in a different order. I picked up
Perfume
, which I’ve nearly finished. She’d wrecked my bookmark. She. Who else would it be except Holly? Mean little red spots liberally applied to my face and to yours. Marker pen all over our zits.

I climbed down, taking a breath, and walked over to her. Why did you do this? I asked. She didn’t even pretend to deny it. Where’s your sense of humor? she asked.

I use it for things that are funny, I said. Not for maliciousness, or vandalism.

I turned away, horribly afraid I was about to blow my cover and cry, when Sibylla came over to me. She lifted up my hand and took my bookmark.

Why did you do that? Sibylla asked Holly. But she looked fed up, and didn’t expect an answer.

Holly shrugged with affected nonchalance.

By now they’ve all speculated about who the boy on the photostrip is. There’s not so much going on that it could be ignored as a major issue for discussion and interpretation. I think the consensus is that I’m still cut up about the breakup with my ex. Good enough.

Pippa came over, too, and looked at Holly’s handiwork. Gee, you’re a bitch for no good reason sometimes, she said. (Is there ever a good reason to be a bitch?)

Wah, wah, lighten the fuck up, kids, Holly said as she strolled to the door and left as though nothing had happened.

I’m sorry about your bookmark, Sybilla said.

Me, too.

Looking at it, I wonder why I didn’t have a thousand copies made and wallpaper a room with them and lock myself in there and refuse to come to the godforsaken wilderness with these tedious people.

Sibylla took the bookmark from me and said, I think I can get rid of the dots.

I sat down. I must have looked as sick as I felt, because Eliza got me a glass of water. I took it and drank reflexively.

Sibylla had a small bottle and a cotton ball. It’s my sticky-goo orange oil, she said. We use it to get sticky stuff off… stuff.

I nodded. She dabbed and gently rubbed. It was working. She was chattering to make me feel okay, to put some “normal” back into the nasty afternoon. And that was working, too.

After making her way over the whole surface of the bookmark, all that is left of Holly’s red pen are the ghosts of pink smudges and a smell of orange.

I can live with that.

Sibylla smiled and said, The scanner in the art room is really good, do you want to make some backups?

I was using all available energy to get the breathing and the shaking under control, but I managed to say, why not?

It only took the twenty minutes before dinner, and we’ve got a heap of scans of Lou’s photostrip. As much as I’m inclined to like Lou, I can’t say I’m getting to know her. She has an arm’s-length wall around her so strong, I didn’t even ask her about the boy in the photos.

When we come out, there is a commotion of some sort—we don’t realize at first because there was no siren, but parked alongside the assembly hall there’s an ambulance.

And someone is being stretchered out to it from Falkner House.

“Jesus,” says Lou.

We hurry over. Pippa is there with the scoop. Cassie, one of the “bulimia for fun” girls, has pulsed out after doing twenty straight coffee shots, also “for fun.”

“They’ve resuscitated her,” says Pippa. “But it was close.”

Pippa folds her arms to impart sister-knowledge. “The ambos are under strict instructions not to use the siren—it happened in Steph’s year, and caused mass hysteria. They were overwhelmed—couldn’t treat all the girls.”

Lou looks at me. “And I was worried about the snakes.”

We head back to Bennett.