The Crimes and Punishments of Miss Payne (8 page)

Calma:
No.

Mrs. Mills:
Would you say that you are resentful toward men as a result of your childhood experiences?

Calma:
No. I resent my father, that's all. Why are we talking about my father?

Mrs. Mills:
Are you uncomfortable talking about men?

Silence.

Mrs. Mills:
Is your mother a strong woman?

Calma:
Absolutely. Solid steel and enamel. Rusting a bit on the bottom, but that's to be expected. She's not exactly young anymore, let's face it. Well past her warranty.

Mrs. Mills:
What do you mean by that, Calma?

Calma:
My mother is a refrigerator.

Mrs. Mills:
What do you mean, a refrigerator?

Calma:
It's just a joke, Mrs. Mills. I see more of the fridge, that's all. Forget it.

Mrs. Mills:
Your mother works two jobs, doesn't she? I imagine you don't see too much of her. Do you resent that, Calma?

Calma:
I don't know about “resent.” I'd like to see more of her, naturally, but she works hard to provide for me. She's brought me up by herself, doing two jobs and nothing in the way of child support. It's been really hard for her.

Mrs. Mills:
You admire strong women, then?

Calma:
I admire my mother, even if it's at a distance. She's a strong woman. That doesn't mean I admire all strong women.

Mrs. Mills:
Do you think Miss Payne is a strong woman?

Calma:
I'm not convinced she is a woman!

Mrs. Mills:
That is very interesting. Why do you say that?

Silence.

Mrs. Mills:
Do you often think about Miss Payne's femininity?

Silence.

Mrs. Mills:
You told Miss Payne that you loved her, didn't you, Calma?

Calma:
No. Yes. No. Well, I did, but I didn't mean it.

Mrs. Mills:
And you followed her to her house, didn't you?

Calma:
No, I didn't follow her. I just knew where she lived, that's all.

Mrs. Mills:
Do you make it a habit to know where your teachers live?

Calma:
No.

Mrs. Mills:
Do you know where any of your other teachers live, Calma?

Calma:
No.

Mrs. Mills:
Miss Payne said that you were behaving strangely when you came to her house. That you were talking in a disjointed fashion, quite out of character with your normal level of sophistication. That you were nervous. Would you say that was an accurate description?

Calma:
I suppose. But I know what you're thinking. I was nervous, but not because I am madly in love with her. I was nervous because …

Mrs. Mills:
Yes?

Calma:
Nothing.

Mrs. Mills:
So you were nervous, breathing heavily, and then you told her that you loved her. Is that right?

Calma:
YES! But I didn't tell her I loved her because I love her! I hate her!

Mrs. Mills:
It's often said that love and hate are two sides of the same coin, Calma, that there is very little difference between them. What do you say to that?

Calma:
Yes, I've heard that, Mrs. Mills, and I'd say that it is the single biggest heap of crap ever. It's like saying that there is no difference between heaven and hell, or light and dark, or youth and age, or fish and kangaroos. These things are oppo-sites, Mrs. Mills… well, fish and kangaroos are not exactly opposites, but you know what I mean. Saying that opposite things are really the same is just lazy. And wrong. A philosophy that only the feebleminded could accept. When I said
that I don't love Miss Payne, I meant that I don't love her. When I said that I hated her, I meant that too. No confusion, no possibility of misinterpretation. I hate her!

Mrs. Mills:
Do you not think that you might be in denial, Calma?

Calma:
Yes, I am in denial. I deny that I love her.

Mrs. Mills:
So you admit that you're in denial. That's a start, Calma. A very promising start. We haven't time right now to continue this discussion. Under normal circumstances, we would remove you from Miss Payne's class immediately, for reasons that you will probably understand. Don't panic. I'm not going to do that. Mainly because we are so understaffed at the moment that there actually isn't another class I could put you into….

Calma:
Please put me into another class, Mrs. Mills!

Mrs. Mills:
I know that you are worried, but you'll just have to be strong, Calma. You have to understand that what you are going through is a very common experience for girls of your age. It's nothing to be ashamed of and it doesn't mean that you are abnormal or anything. Now, back to class with you. We'll probably have a little chat once or twice a week, just to make sure everything is under control, if you know what I mean. You can tell me anything, Calma. Anything at all. And it goes without saying that anything that is said within this room remains entirely confidential. Just between us and these four walls. When you let yourself out, dear, could you tell Rachael Smith to step right on in?

Calma:
Yes, Mrs. Mills.

“Rachael Smith says you're gay, Calma. She says you've got the hots for Miss Payne.”

“Rachael Smith is a lying pig!”

“Calma's got the hots for the Pitbull, Calma's got the hots for the Pitbull….”

Bugger.

If you want to know the truth, there is one thing that really drives me insane: diaries. I hate them. Now, just before you start to think, “Hang on, has this person only got one oar in the water or what?” I should explain that I don't mean the physical diary itself. I have nothing against someone publishing a whole series of books with blank pages. That's business. I don't even object to people buying them. I mean, it's not my money. In fact, for about sixty years my aunt Gillian has bought me one every Christmas and I've always smiled, thanked her very much and stuck the damn thing in the bin the moment I've had the chance. But it's not the sight, the touch or the smell of a diary that is liable to start me foaming at the mouth. Hey, I'm not unreasonable.

No. What I hate is the way teachers think that diaries are, in some mysterious fashion, the cutting edge of educational
practice. What is it about diaries that excites them so? Do they really think that by setting a diary entry for homework they are somehow tapping into genuine adolescent interests? That we are all going to go, Wow, that was one really dull lesson, but now that I've got the chance to write a diary entry on it, the adrenaline is really pumping. This is fantastic, inspiring, brilliant … oops, I've wet myself with excitement!? That's only the girls, of course. The boys will, without exception, plan to write
dairy
entries, in which cows, milk and the churning of butter figure prominently. I've a theory about boys and spelling. I think that most of them are born with only half a brian!

And I know the answer to why we are subjected to the mind-numbing routine of diary entries. Laziness. That's what it is. Sheer laziness. And that's something else. Use your imagination, class. I want fresh ideas and fresh expression. Now, what can I give them to do? I know, I'll trot out that old standby, the diary entry. Double standards. It makes my blood boil.

I'll tell you another thing. Sometimes—no, probably most times—the diary entry is completely inappropriate. I remember last year our English teacher did
Macbeth
with us. Now, I don't know if you know the play but it has this woman, Lady Macbeth, and is she a real cow? This woman is completely evil. She pushes her husband into murdering the king just because she wants to be queen. Initially, he agrees, but later when he says he doesn't think he can do it, she tells him that she would have plucked her own baby from her breast and beaten its brains out if she had sworn to do it. You know, that nothing
would stop her from getting what she wants, even if it meant killing her own baby in cold blood. And you believe her! She is one cold, unfeeling woman. So her husband murders the king and gets the crown and she becomes queen and all. And it's very bloody. Our teacher told us to write a diary entry from the viewpoint of Lady Macbeth after the murder of the old king, who was called Duncan. Can you believe that? This is Shakespeare we are talking about here. High tragedy. And we are expected to imagine that in the middle of all the bloodshed, Lady Macbeth is getting out her Kmart diary every night and jotting a few things down! So this is what I wrote.

I was expecting a detention for that. I
wanted
a detention! But do you know what happened? I got a big check and a B grade. She hadn't even read it. Sometimes teachers make me sick.

Look, sorry about all this. I know I'm rambling. It's just that I had a hard time after Rachael Smith had finished spreading the hot news about my supposed love affair with the Pitbull. Not content with telling the entire school within twenty-five minutes—not a bad effort when there are over eight hundred kids at the school—she then gave the full rundown to the parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, second cousins twice removed, neighbors, casual acquaintances, newspaper-delivery kids and the bag lady who spends her time gibbering
and drooling in the city center. I'm surprised she didn't take out a full-page advertisement in the local paper. I couldn't watch
60 Minutes
for months afterward without worrying that my face would appear accompanied by a breathy voice-over: “Pervert Student Stalks Kindly Teacher.”

I don't know if you have ever been in a similar situation. Unlikely, I guess, unless you are, like me, gifted with a talent for inviting disaster. But it's hell. Yeah, okay. I know what you're thinking. It'll pass. Worse things happen at sea. Bit of teasing never hurt anyone. Was that what you were thinking? If it was, please go at once and stick your head in a large bucket of pool acid. I know all about treating misfortune with dignity. In theory. But in practice, you wish you were dead. Everywhere I went, there was giggling and immature remarks. Girls would leave the toilets if I went in. I was pathetically grateful that Vanessa still sat next to me in class. She continued to wear boredom like a badge, but there was a subtle change in her attitude. Difficult to be specific. Little things, like the way her body was slightly more closed, as if she was desperate that our legs wouldn't touch under the desk. Maybe it was my imagination, but I thought that even the teachers looked at me slightly differently.

I went straight home from school that day. To be honest, I needed my mum. I wanted to talk things through with her,
the way they do on soap operas. You know. All that stuff where the girl says, “Mum, I'm pregnant by the local heroin addict, my best friend's topped herself and the police want to interview me in connection with the arson at the high school.” And the mum strokes the girl's hair and says, “It's okay, Charlene, you know that I'll always be here for you.” I needed that kind of thing.