The Whole of My World (11 page)

She seemed to understand this, too.

‘When is it?' I whisper. I'm sure Josh has told me but my brain isn't functioning like it should.

‘All being well, first week of the finals.' Mrs McGuire studies me for a long, difficult minute, seeming to read all of my thoughts in that careful look. Her pretty brown eyes pierce my heart like no one else's can.
Could
. Mum could do this to me. My mum could trump anyone's ability to see into my soul in a way that Dad never could. He still can't, even though I've never needed it more. It must be a maternal thing, that penetrating, heartbreaking stare. If there was a championship for this, Mrs McGuire would be second on the ladder, right beneath Mum.

‘Please,' she says quietly.
‘Please.'

That's it. That's all she says. Not the long, excruciating argument, reassurances of innocence, the promise that no matter what I believed it wasn't my fault. Just that simple, ordinary word we're taught to understand long before we can say it. The first of the three big ones that mean so much or mean nothing at all.

Please.

Thank you.

Sorry.

I've been blaming Mrs McGuire all this time for being there; for seeing and knowing . . .
everything
. Now that she's here in my living room, I can't pretend that avoiding her is any kind of answer. I realise it's not about Mrs McGuire at all. It's about me and what I've done.

I nod. ‘I'll try.' My voice catches in my throat. I don't trust myself to argue or refuse; it's too hard and I'm too tired. ‘I'll try.'

Before I can say another thing, before she can say another thing, I tell them I have homework, knowing that none of us believes it, and escape into my bedroom, quietly shutting the door behind me. I need to block out the look of sadness and loss carved permanently in Dad's and Mrs McGuire's ageing faces, working together to accuse me of this unspeakable betrayal.

I survived. My family didn't. And it's all my fault.

 

 

 

Miss Whitecross's English Lit class is always insane. She seems to think it's because we're so engaged in the activities, bubbling with excitement and enthusiasm for
The Great Gatsby
or Robert Lowell's ‘Skunk Hour'. She might have been right about me – if I had anyone to bubble and enthuse with, I'd be quoting great chunks of
Gatsby
. But I've got a feeling that if I so much as hinted to Tara that I love books, she'd never invite me to the footy again. I want to not care about this. But as difficult as our friendship is and as prickly as she can be, she's the only friend I have in this whole school. I tell myself that the other girls are all limp, squealing airheads who cling together, who flick their hair and twirl their skirts with the fakest kind of confidence, too busy obsessing over the pimply boys from St Ignatius Boys' School next door to talk about anything important. To
think
about anything important.

That's what I tell myself.

But it's a tricky thing to tough out, day after day, without a single one of them talking to you, except when they have to for class activities or under direction from a teacher, and still maintain the belief that
they're
the idiots. Not you. After long enough, you start to suspect you've got it backwards.

So I need Tara for all kinds of reasons.

I watch her across the room, stuck at the back as usual – what the teachers call ‘Siberia' – exiled for staring out the window or scratching the Falcons symbol onto a desk, or both. Tara's whole body is hunched over the desk, shutting out the world. I have no idea what she's doing but an intense energy radiates from her. She's like a clenched fist, all balled up and closed off.

‘Shh! Girls, too noisy!' Miss Whitecross's voice barely registers with the class. The main problem is Ginnie Perkins and her clique. They're squealing and laughing like Miss Whitecross isn't even in the room. There seems to be a revolving door into this group, swinging between four or five girls who change depending on who their boyfriend is or who's having a sleepover in the near future, or even what their horoscope says. I can hear them arguing the merits of Jason Donovan's straight blond hair against the sandy curls of the Year 12 Wesley boy who catches the number 6 tram on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. It's a toss-up, apparently – the consensus being that the Wesley boy is better looking, especially when he has a tan, but Jason has the advantage of having a famous father and probably access to every TV and film star in town – even Mel Gibson, who's easily the best-looking bloke in Australia. Cue squeals of agreement.

Miss Whitecross raises her voice again but it's lost in the sea of laughter, and she seems to finally give up. I don't know if she's decided that her absence has a better chance at attracting our attention than her feeble voice or if she's desperate for a ciggie from all the stress, because she suddenly gets up and walks out, slamming the door behind her.

My money's on the cigarette.

For a long second there's a shocked silence and it looks like Miss Whitecross's exit might have actually worked. But a few brave giggles break the quiet, followed by a less brave chorus of muffled laughter and, bit by bit, the noise returns to its impossible level.

The singsong passion of the girls' easy friendship stabs at my heart. The careless way their hands brush against each other, the squeezing of shoulders, the linking of arms, the easy hugs. I've never had girlfriends like these, not even at Glenvalley High. For a second I let myself imagine what it would be like to be a part of it. Just for a second. And then I see Tara frowning at me with a startling intensity. Her clenched body has opened now yet none of the tension seems to have relaxed. Something has shifted, but I'm too far from her to hear what or why. I know Tara hates these girls with a passion only equalled by her love for the Falcons, like a mutant yin and yang. I don't know who spoke first, but Tara is suddenly standing over them all, shouting unintelligibly at a smirking Ginnie Perkins, who is safe in the centre of her flock.

‘Shut the fuck up, you slut! Just shut the fuck up!' Tara shrieks.

Now I can hear her. Now
everyone
can hear her.

I watch, immobilised, knowing I should do something, equally positive that this can't end well – for Tara or for me, no matter the outcome.

‘Maybe if you weren't such a frigid lesbian,
Lesbo Lester
– maybe then you'd understand,' Ginnie sneers, to the strains of pealing laughter from the gaggle around her. Someone opens the classroom door – Justine Deckland, I think – and sticks her head outside before shutting it and nodding the all clear.

Panic rises in my chest. I don't know what this will mean or what I'm supposed to do, but standing there with my mouth hanging open is probably not it. I want to be the sort of person who steps into the middle of this to defend my friend. I think of Mum and what she would have done, of Dad and what he would want me to do, and then I'm moving forward, my head empty of anything that resembles a plan.

The small group has grown. The stragglers from the corners of the classroom have clotted together in the middle. I can't see Tara or Ginnie anymore. I push my way through the crowd. I'm smaller than most of them and not especially strong, but years of tackling practice with the Raiders has paid off. I move steadily through the girls and make my way to the front.

Tara is glaring at Ginnie, her face white with fury. Or hurt. She looks like she's been punched, the wind forcibly knocked out of her, and the energy that radiated from her only moments before has vanished. The impenetrable, invincible Tara Lester looks defeated, while Ginnie has a victorious grin on her face.

I hate that grin. Every part of me wants to wipe that nasty smirk off her face.

I watch as Tara backs away, tears running down her face. She turns and runs out the door, almost tripping over her desk in the rush. I stare after my friend, stunned by her retreat and embarrassed for her too.

‘What have you done?' I shout at Ginnie, turning squarely on her.

‘The lesbo lover, I presume?' Ginnie says, smirking. She doesn't even look at me, her words intended exclusively for her audience. Her skin, tanned from weekend tennis, is smooth and perfect. Her teeth are square and even from her freshly removed braces, and her hair is a silken blonde – the natural, almost-white blonde of a Scandinavian.

I know that among this group, in this class, there are girls who hate Ginnie as much as I do. Girls who are not mean or cruel or eager to impress her. But not one of them speaks up. No matter how I turn this around, I know it's up to me.

‘Wow. So eloquent, Ginnie. Let's see how you go with more than two syllables . . . You are the most disgusting, repulsive excuse for a human being. It's a shame the Wesley boy and Jason Donovan don't know you exist because I'm sure they'd be really turned on seeing you gang up with your gutless bimbos against a girl on her own.' I swing around wildly, scanning all the faces for a sign of support, but instead I see fear and, among some of them, shame. I want to shout at them to say something, to help me, to help Tara, but that's not how it works. It occurs to me then that I have nothing to lose. ‘You think they're your friends?' I ask, my arm sweeping widely to indicate the stunned girls. ‘No one here likes you, Ginnie. No one. They're scared of you. That's all.' I suck in air, stepping away from them just so I can breathe. ‘One day, they won't be,' I say quietly, ‘and you'll be the one on your own.'

I don't have to look at the girls' faces to know I've completely isolated myself. The air is suffocating, and the silence hangs thick and heavy. So I run out just like Tara did, feeling the weight of my words drive me further away from the other girls than any slammed door could. I hurry through the length of the building, trying to make as little noise as possible. I don't know if I'm more afraid of running into Miss Whitecross or running into Tara.

But as I put the long corridor between myself and the classroom and I remember Tara's tear-streaked face, her silent retreat, I know absolutely that I'd rather have to deal with an indignant Miss Whitecross any day.

 

 

It's a week before Tara comes back to school. I still don't know what Ginnie said but Tara obviously took it to heart. She finally showed up yesterday, right before Sister Brigid called the roll. She walked in and handed a note to Sister, then took her seat at the back of the class.

She didn't talk to me all day, disappearing to the toilets or the office – anywhere that I wasn't – first at recess and then again at lunchtime. So I let her do this, and didn't attempt more than a half-smile when we passed each other at the lockers. I don't know what she did the week she wasn't at school. I'd tried to call her a couple of times but no one answered the phone. Apparently she was at the footy on Saturday. I waited at the Burke and Wills statue for half an hour before deciding she must have gone on ahead. Jim-Bob said he saw her at half-time outside the girls' toilets, so I know she's all right. She just doesn't want to talk. She'll speak to me when she wants to and not one minute sooner. I can wait. I'm good at waiting.

At least Ginnie Perkins has backed off. She hasn't apologised or tried to talk to me but she's stopped laughing every time I speak in class. In fact, she doesn't even look at me, like she's decided I don't exist. It's kind of a relief. Apart from being nasty, she's also very creative in ways that go well beyond the limits of my imagination. But if I think too long about it, it makes me nervous. I can't match her, not that I'd want to. I know it's not over.

Incredibly, some of the girls from Miss Whitecross's class have been really nice to me. Rose DeLillo and Elena Irving walked with me to the tram stop that night, and Anna Barnes asked if I was planning to stick with the athletics team. I told Anna I won't know for sure until after the footy season ends, which is still a couple of months away, but suggested we meet for the morning sessions just in case. At least Tara seems better today. She nodded at me on her way to Siberia this morning, and after recess she sat next to me during the library research session for our Australian History project. She hasn't really spoken to me properly, but her mood is shifting. I can feel it.

In the meantime I've decided on a topic for my project – I'm going to write about the history of the Glenthorn Football Club. We're supposed to choose a Melbourne institution, so it seems as good a topic as any. I'm supposed to have spent all term researching it, so making the deadline will be tricky. I haven't even asked Sister Brigid if I can do it yet. But at least it's a subject I care about.

Tara actually smiles when I show her. ‘I wish I'd thought of that,' she says.

‘You can do something about footy too,' I offer. ‘As long as it's your own story.' But she just frowns at me as though I'm an idiot. Rather than be offended, however, I'm secretly pleased. It feels a lot like things are back to normal.

When the bell goes at the end of the day, I know they are. Tara grabs her bag and waits for me to get mine and, without a word, we head straight for the 69 tram, sprinting the last bit to get there in time. Just like any other Thursday after school.

With Tara beside me, I watch Fernlee Park Road pass by at varying speeds – slow at the beginning, the tram wheels shrieking and whining, then faster as we top the hill down past Riverglen Road. Mansion after mansion, some old and pretty, some new and square. Enormous plane trees line the side streets off Fernlee Park Road, their vast branches hanging heavily across the width of each street and their roots breaking through the footpaths. The weird mix of old and new, nature and architecture, jostle for space, neither winning outright but neither ready to surrender. The boring geometric streets of Glenvalley couldn't be further from this place if it were another country. I look at Tara and smile without having any reason other than I'm glad she's back. I can't wait to disappear into the sweaty chaos of the Fernlee Park gym.

We get off at Fernlee Park Station and walk under the bridge, our bags knocking against each other as we make our silent trek through the Coles car park. We haven't mentioned Ginnie once. It's like nothing has happened, even though it feels like, in some way, everything has. This is as good as it's going to get. I doubt she'll ever tell me what Ginnie said, and I haven't mentioned what I said to Ginnie, either. There's a reason we all keep secrets. Sometimes it's safer that way.

The regulars are all waiting in their spot, and after the arrivals and autograph-signing has taken place, the players run onto Fernlee Park. Tara and I find a seat along the boundary, tucking our Glenthorn scarves tightly around our necks, their brown and gold stripes clashing horribly with our blue-grey tartan winter uniforms. My grey stockings itch like crazy and the cotton blazer is too thin for mid-August in Melbourne. I wish I'd changed into comfortable clothes, but that would mean arriving late and explaining it to Dad.

The weather is miserable as we huddle on the boundary line. I'll have to make my own way home tonight because Mick had to visit the physio. He told me after Saturday's game that he was a bit sore. He didn't score any goals and was pretty stiff around the ground, but at least we won – we beat the Devils by thirty-two points at Queens Park, ensuring we keep second spot. We can't drop any more games, though. Mick has to get his knee right – and soon.

After training, Tara and I find a corner of the gym to sit down and eat our steaming hot sausages care of Blackie. There are only two players apart from Mick who'll do the sausage run for us: Blackie and Brendan O'Reilly. I don't know if they're just being friendly or they're too nice to say no, but they never blow us off and have taken to grabbing extras snags when they get their own.

I slurp my Coke and wipe my mouth with a torn serviette, then notice that Tara is watching me strangely, like she wants to say something but doesn't know how to begin.

‘I could easily go another,' I say, finishing my last bite of sausage.

‘I hate going to Errol Street,' Tara says eventually.

‘Seems a bit of a hike,' I agree, although I've never been there and only have a vague idea of where North Yarra is. Other than, well,
north
. Of the Yarra. My hand is like a block of ice from gripping the can of Coke. I tuck my fingers between my thighs to get the feeling back.

‘You could stay at my house after the game. Maybe go to the social club straight from the ground.' It's not a question exactly, more an observation. And yet the words seem to require a response.

‘Um . . . yeah? Okay.' Dad will let me sleep over. I used to do it all the time before the accident – with Sam and Julie, and even at Josh's. Another thing that stopped after that day. I'm not sure how Dad will feel about the social club part, but I don't really know what happens there anyway, so he probably doesn't either.

‘Bring your clothes to the footy. I've got a sleeping bag and a spare pillow.'

‘Cool, thanks.'

Tara shrugs. ‘I'm going. See you at school.'

I watch her walk away, her schoolbag slung over her right shoulder, a slight stoop in her back to account for its weight. Her stockings have a small hole along the back seam and her skirt is hitched up unevenly on one side. She looks tired, as if she's had a long day. Or a long life. I'm struck by an unexpected stab of pity as I watch her leave the gym and disappear into the darkness behind the double doors. I wonder about her family. She barely mentions them – apart from her dad giving her the duffle coat, I don't think she's said a single other thing about them. I have no idea what to expect at Tara's house, even from Tara.

I breathe in, long and slow. Too late now. I squash my empty can and toss it into the bin beside me, already full with discarded strapping tape, serviettes, beer bottles and soft drink cans, and decide that whatever happens at the social club, I've always got Mick for back-up in case Tara flakes. Like Josh, he's never let me down.

I can't even say that about myself.