The Yearbook Committee (22 page)

         
Charlie Scanlon
feels like she's journeyed to the ends of the earth.

         
Katy Coolidge-Brown
Nope, just Sydney. #comehomecharlie

I didn't think I could hate this school any more, but then I found out about the year 12 retreat: a three-day weekend in the mountains that's supposed to be ‘spiritually and mentally nourishing', in preparation for the barrage of exams we're about to take. And much as I hoped it would be cancelled, the day finally came for us to board the buses and set off.

We've now been here for three hours. Meditation sessions aside, it's clear this is going to be three days of personal hell. Here I am spending every waking moment — well, every moment really — with people I wish lived on another planet because I sincerely believe they don't belong on Earth.

And as usual, I seem to be the only one feeling miserable. Everyone else seems so happy.

‘I can't believe there are only a few weeks left of school!' Sally Parsons screeches next to me, using her oar the wrong way even after I've explained how to do it twice.

‘Can you please concentrate, Sally?' I ask her. ‘You're not paddling how I told you to.'

‘Oh, please,' she says. ‘As if we're going to beat them anyway.'

‘Not with that attitude we won't,' I mumble.

Sally Parsons — a girl who has come to camp with long acrylic nails, false eyelashes and a curling tong for her blonde hair extensions — is probably one of the last people in the world I would want to be alone on a raft with. And yet here we are.

We've just made the raft out of barrels, and are now racing the boys around the lake in it. None of the girls actually wanted to get on said raft, so Sally unfortunately drew the short straw. And now she is driving me insane.

‘They're really good, aren't they?' she says. Ryan and David are already at the halfway point; we've moved about three metres.

‘Because they're focusing.'

‘God, how hot are Ryan's arms,' she says, staring. ‘Even maimed, he's still amazing.'

‘He's not maimed, Sally,' I say. ‘He hurt his knee, but surgery fixed it. He's fine.'

‘Is it true you guys hooked up?' she asks in a hushed tone, even though there's no one around to hear us.

‘No,' I say, bluntly.

‘Are you going to?' she asks. ‘Lauren will be so jealous.'

‘I won't have a chance to hook up with
anyone
if I have to remain on this raft for the rest of my life because you won't paddle,' I tell her. ‘And I have other concerns in my life beyond Lauren Pappas, or any other girl for that matter.'

‘I'm sorry,' she says, sticking her oar in the water again. We move another metre, but I think it's the water that's moving us.

‘Are my undies poking out of my pants?' she asks, looking behind her.

‘Sally, seriously, does it matter out in the middle of a lake?'

She shrugs.

Another two metres. We're now about a quarter of the way. The boys have reached the bank and are dismantling their raft.

‘Are you sure my undies aren't —'

But she can't finish her sentence because my hand has just taken on a life of its own and pushed her into the water.

‘Charlie, I am going to kill you!' she says, spitting water. ‘There are eels in here — and my hair is ruined!'

‘Oops,' I say, biting my lip and ignoring her scrambles to get back onto the raft.

The whistle blows from the bank. Ms Richards looks so stern I'm actually afraid for my life. One of the camp activity organisers comes out in a canoe to tow us back to shore.

‘Charlie Scanlon, I am really getting fed up with you,' Ms Richards says, as I put my shoes on. ‘What a ridiculous stunt.'

I try to ignore Sally, as she squeezes water out of her hair, and her friends, as they surround her in solidarity. I am literally being communally death-stared.

‘It was just a little water,' I mumble.

I would bet that payback is just around the corner.

Lesson #1 in life: Always trust your instincts. Especially when the next day's activity involves a waterfall jump and people who want revenge on you. We're in the middle of listening to the instructions
from the guide, when I notice one of Sally's best friends hovering nearby.

Slowly, she comes up behind me. Then she whispers an ‘oops' into my ear, and pushes me with all her might into the freezing water metres below. As I'm falling, my foot clips a large rock, but before I can cry out from the pain, the force and iciness of the water knock the breath out of me.

Seconds later, the guide that dived in after me (in an entrance a lot classier than my own) carries me out of the water.

‘She's hurt her foot,' he calls out, as a crowd gathers around us.

‘Eww, her foot's all swollen,' one person says.

‘Maybe it's sprained or something?' another says.

‘Should we take her to the hospital?'

‘Perhaps,' the guide says, looking at Ms Richards who has just come over.

‘Well, the nearest hospital is over an hour away,' she says. ‘She just slipped — I'm sure she'll be fine. We can ask Mrs Hendershott's opinion when she arrives tomorrow.'

‘Are you sure?' the guide asks, looking concerned. ‘We could drive her . . .'

‘She'll be fine,' Ms Richards says again. ‘It was just a little water.'

It's the early hours of the morning and I'm fast asleep, having taken three Panadols before bed, when a knock at the cabin door wakes me with a jolt.

I ignore it and try to go back to sleep, but there's another knock. I sigh, limp out of bed and open the door to find Ryan Fleming hovering tentatively in the hallway, as if he can't decide whether to come in or not.

‘Ssssshhhhh,' he whispers, holding his hands up in front of him, as if to placate me.

I look out in the hallway to make sure the coast is clear, then motion for him to come inside. He's fully dressed, but only in shorts and a t-shirt, even though it's pretty cold outside.

‘What are you doing here? Are you crazy?' I ask, not entirely sure which question I'd like answered first. I glance over to Gillian who is sound asleep, her light snores muffled by the pillow that she has her head buried in.

‘Batshit crazy, I'm thinking,' Ryan replies, ‘But it's too late for me to stop now.'

‘Stop what?' I ask.

‘I'll tell you when we're no longer in earshot, OK?' he says. ‘You're going to need to change your . . . err, outfit.'

I peer down and realise I'm in my nightie, and redden. Ryan has the decency to pretend he wasn't looking at my boobs. I motion for him to turn around, throw my denim cut-offs on underneath my nightie, and slide on a tank top and a jumper.

‘Well?' I ask.

He nods and motions for me to follow him, and, against my better judgement, I do.

Out in the corridor, my limping is not helping with the creaky floorboards. He turns around and gives me a death-stare, and I shrug. As if I can help it! He rolls his eyes, then puts his hands out in a permission-seeking gesture. I nod, and he lifts me up effortlessly into his arms. I swallow. That scent from his jacket — from that night out in Melbourne — is even stronger on his skin, and it's making me nervous.

He carries me down the corridor and outside into the clearing. Instead of stopping to explain, he continues towards the car park.

‘Ryan Fleming, if you're thinking you can take advantage of me while I'm in this sorry state, you have another thing coming,' I hiss.

He keeps walking.

‘I mean it, what are you doing?' I ask, peering up at him.

‘I'm trying to keep quiet, but as usual you're insisting on making things difficult.'

He reaches a black hatchback, sets me down and fumbles in his pocket. He pulls out a set of keys, then opens the passenger door.

‘I suppose I better explain before I expect you to voluntarily get in my car with me at 3 a.m.'

My face says it all.

‘I didn't like the way Ms Richards fobbed you off today when you complained about your foot hurting,' he says, looking down at the floor.

‘She didn't fob me off,' I say. ‘She didn't look my foot properly to see how bad it actually was.'

‘Well, if it's as bad as you say it is, we should get it looked at.'

‘Looked at by koalas and wombats?' I ask, puzzled. ‘Or are you going to go all new age on me and ask the forces of nature to heal me underneath a black sky and crescent moon?'

‘I'm taking you to the hospital, you idiot,' he said. ‘I had to wait until everyone was asleep . . . and for my phone to charge.'

I give him a quizzical look.

He exhales loudly, opening the door. ‘I need the GPS,' he admits. ‘Now will you get in the car?'

I let him help me into the car and he turns on the engine — but he only switches on the headlights when we're a safe distance away from the cabins.

‘I can't believe I'm running away from camp,' I groan, burying my head in my hands.

‘Relax,' he says. ‘We might be back before anyone realises.'

‘Seriously, we should go back now before we get caught.'

The dark road is suddenly illuminated by blue and red flashing lights. Ryan looks in the rear-view mirror and swears under his breath. ‘What could be worse than cops?' he asks.

He pulls over and rolls down his window just as a young cop approaches us.

‘Evening, guys,' he says politely. ‘Licence please.'

‘Evening, officer,' we reply in unison. Ryan hands over his licence and looks over at me with a half-smile as the officer returns to his car.

‘If I make it out of this alive, Fleming, remind me to never go along with any of your plans again, OK?' I tell him.

‘Fine by me,' he says, shrugging. ‘I'm not the one in need of medical care.'

I turn and look out my window.

The officer returns and shines his torch over the back and front of the car.