Well, if I wanted to cause trouble, I sure succeeded. I lay in bed that night listening to what I’d caused. My eyes were open and I practised keeping my face even and strong and cold. I was determined not to be a baby. But I felt sick at what I’d done.
I feel sick writing about it, remembering it.
After that I started thinking that my family would have been better off if I’d never been born.
Oh, by the way, we actually won the basketball. Can you believe it? I can’t. If ever a bunch of losers went onto a court with no hope at all, it was us. But we battled away, scored a few baskets now and then, and got ourselves out of it whenever we seemed to be heading into a catastrophe. We did it on guts, not class or skill. We won 28-24. I’m still amazed.
MAY 29
It’s getting good and cold. I don’t mind the cold weather, especially when it means snow. I hope it’s a good season. It opens officially next weekend but there hasn’t been a flake so far. Still, ‘late snow is good snow,’ Mr Susanto always tells us. At least we can count on Dad to take us skiing—he loves it so much that he’d go even if he had to ski barefoot. Um, come to think of it, that mightn’t work too well.
Mr Lindell, Rikki told me today that she hands in her Journal every few weeks and you write comments in it. She said you do it for anyone who asks. Now that’s very sly of you—I didn’t know we could do that. The big question is, do I want to do it? There’s a lot of stuff in here that I wouldn’t like to have anyone read. On the other hand . . .
I’ll have to think about it.
We had a proper basketball practice today. What a relief. Just lay-ups and dribbling practice, but boy did we need it. Afterwards Trace and I took a quick illegal and shot up to Bridgland’s for a milkshake and a general pig-out. Putting down incriminating evidence like that is one reason why I shouldn’t hand this Journal in. Self-dobbing. Mr Lindell, how do we know you don’t photocopy the ones you read and hand them over to Mrs Graham or Dr Whiteley? I mean I know you wouldn’t, but still.
Tracey’s a funny kid I reckon. A lot of people have got the wrong idea about her—they go on their first impressions and don’t look any closer. Actually my first impressions of her weren’t too good. I thought she was a bit of a slob. She is big, but it’s more that she’s big-boned, if you know what I mean. At the same time she can be lazy—physically lazy anyway—but she does a fair bit of Prep. The first few days I was here Trace seemed like one of those background people who agree with everybody. Then I noticed that everything she said had a cutting edge to it—she was always hacking a chunk out of me with these little spiteful comments. Then we got put on a PE assignment together—we had to prepare and teach a skills lesson to Year 6—it took ages, because we were a bit hostile to each other, but in the end it worked out really well. We got the giggles when we were demonstrating our lesson to our own class, and we just collapsed after it, and I think that’s when we became friends.
Trace is one of those people who pass through the school without the teachers noticing. She never talks to them. But she’s got a network of kids who know her and who she hangs around with and I think she has a big influence with them, although it’s not that obvious. She isn’t liked much in dorm B, or she wasn’t at the start of the year, but she’s getting more popular now. That’s because people know her better. Actually the teachers are noticing her more too—she’s getting in more trouble. Plus she’s got a man now—Stewart Pace his name is, he goes to Grammar—and I think that’s making a bit of a difference to the old Trace. If she married him she’d be Trace Pace.
MAY 30
Oh golliwobbles, just what I didn’t want. Getting a letter is such a major thrill here. You stand there as they call the names out, thinking, ‘I won’t get one, there’ll be nothing for me,’ hoping that if you say that enough it’ll somehow make you get one. Well, I got one, and now I wish I didn’t.
Dear Lisa,
I thought I’d write to you to say that I hope we can be better friends. I know you love your Dad and I don’t want to come between him and you. But you and Chloe seem to treat me like I’m an enemy, and that’s not very comfortable for me. You know, if you took the trouble to get to know me, you might find I’m not so bad! I’m sure we’d be interested in a lot of the same things. I know your Dad was upset at the way you treated me when you were here in the holidays, and I was upset too. So I hope you make a bigger effort next time.
Yours sincerely,
Lynette.
Aaaghh, yuk, slime, now what do I do? I don’t want to write back. She’s already acting like she owns Dad. Right now I wish I could talk to Chloe.
MAY 31
Can’t write much—I’m drowning in Crusaders and Moslems. At least I’ve got some good books—Cathy and I are sharing some. Normally Ann gets into the Library before anyone else and corners all the books, but she’s still in Japan, ha ha. She’ll be so crapped off.
Speaking of people being crapped off, Sophie was up a tree, my tree, having a smoke when the branch snapped and down she went. She twisted her ankle and cut her head. I think it was my tree getting its revenge on Soph for poisoning it with nicotine. Soph didn’t think that was too funny when I suggested it—guess it wasn’t really. But I didn’t know my tree was so popular. I reckon Sophie’s accident prone.
We’ve got the topic for the next debate, on top of everything else. It’s ‘Life is Bliss’. We’re saying it is. But I don’t know. I look around me and see Marina huddled in a corner, Cathy writing letters for Amnesty, Soph painting her fingernails with liquid paper and felt pens, Kate asleep at her desk, Emma going through the hymn book singing us verses from her favourite hymns, and Tracey sandpapering her new DB’s to try to make them look old. This is bliss?
JUNE 1
Something very strange is going on with Peter. During the holidays we agreed we’d go to the Mortal Danger Concert in August and I gave him $35 for a ticket. When the tour was cancelled I asked him for my money back and he made some vague excuse. Since then I’ve asked him twice on the phone. It’s starting to bug me—it sounds like he’s trying to sleaze out of it.
JUNE 2
Alex Bear had a particularly bad night tonight. Soph kidnapped him and hid him and wouldn’t tell me where. I turned the dorm and the Prep Room upside down, with Soph going ‘You’re getting warmer’ . . . ‘colder’ . . . Finally I found him—she’d hung him out the window from a long string—and upside down at that. Poor Alex, he has a hard life. I don’t think Sophie’s very kind to Teddies. Cathy’s got a family of Bears and others, so many she can hardly fit in her own bed. Anne’s got a few, Trace has a koala called Ned Good, but all Soph has is a Barbie doll that she’s punkified: she dyed her hair, gave her a mohawk, pierced her ears, painted tattoos on her, and put a ring through her nose.
Trace’s koala is so lifelike, and so big. Miss Curzon picked it up one day and said ‘Goodness Tracey, this koala is so heavy! What’s it got in it?’ and Trace just answered ‘Koala.’
I like that. If koalas are full of koala then I suppose humans are full of human.
I’m feeling guilty about Alex. I forgot to take him for the holidays so the poor thing had to sit sadly on his own in the dorm the whole time. Is this what growing up does to you? You forget your best friends? I know I’ll always love Alex, the whole of my life, but maybe adults don’t have time for Teddy Bears.
JUNE 5
This Crusades assignment is going to end with my throwing myself off the top of the clock tower. It’s too much. I did hardly anything else all weekend. Ann got back yesterday and went white when she realised what she’d missed. She’s started on it already. No doubt she’ll be in front of me by the end of the week.
I shouldn’t backstab her though. She actually gave me a present from Japan—she had something for everyone in the dorm. Mine was a writing pad of the most beautiful handmade paper.
We played basketball again Saturday morning and lost 14-30. It’s a bit of a rip-off—we’re the only sport with Saturda
y matches at the moment. I don’t mind that—I enjoy playing—but it makes it harder to find a team. People get so bitchy about it—it’s not my fault that we have to play.
I tried out for ‘Flowers for Algernon’ on Saturday too. That’s the school play. It looks like it’ll be a good play but I don’t know how I went. It’s hard being Year 9—you’d never get a big part. But at least nearly everyone in this dorm had a go.
But the main thing this weekend was my big fight with Peter. I rang him Saturday night and somehow we got onto the subject of the Mortal Danger $35 again. It’s obvious that he’s spent the money and he’s trying to put me off till he can get some more from his parents. What a low-life. We ended up having a terrible fight and I hung up on him. I just can’t believe he’s done this. Guys really are jerks. They’re such users. Well, he’s used me for the last time. I’d rather talk to his parents than to him. How’d they come to have such a drop-kick for a son?
JUNE 7
Chloe rang tonight, in a bad way. It’s funny, we’ve never discussed each other’s problems much, but suddenly she rings me like this and talks and talks, and cries too. Things don’t sound too good. She reckons Dad’ll get married to Lynette, and she can’t stand Lynette. The worst thing for Chloe is that she’s moved back in with Dad, and it was working quite well, but she says she couldn’t live under the same roof as Lynette.
I still don’t like Lynette that much either. She’s OK I guess but if Dad gets married—well, I don’t know, it seems like he’s breaking things up even more. First there were the arguments, and the silences, then they moved to different houses, then they got divorced, then they started making new friends, and mixing with new groups of people . . . now, if Dad gets married again, where will it all end? It seems to go on for ever, further and further away from the life we used to have. I feel myself reaching back for it, like someone being washed out to sea, grabbing at the shore, my fingers leaving lines in the sand as the tide drags me away. I want to be back on the beach, on the hot dry beach.
The thing is, despite everything, I still like to think I’m a fighter, that if I work hard enough at something I can change it, that what I achieve is up to me. But with Mum and Dad, I don’t seem to have any influence over what happens. They keep doing all these things, one after another, and they never even tell me—I find out about them indirectly or by accident, or when someone bothers to tell me.
I’m glad Chloe rang, though. I only wish I could have found something good to say to her. I couldn’t think of anything much.
I’m meant to be preparing for this debate. ‘Life is Bliss?’ Famines, floods, fires, AIDS. On the other hand chocolate, rowing, guys (sometimes), friends, teddy bears, trees, music . . .
It’s Marina’s birthday today, so we all partied on, on her behalf. She had a lot of tuck actually—first time ever—and she shared it round at supper. No-one wanted to take much, because it’s so unusual for her to have anything, but we ate some. She would have been hurt if we hadn’t.
She got such a shock this morning—we all had presents for her, and we sang ‘Happy Birthday’ and all that stuff. I honestly don’t know if she enjoyed it or not but I’m glad we did it. I gave her a Genetic Defects tape, and a poster of Jerome Vary (although that just comes with the tape). She got some good pressies.
JUNE 8
I’ve got so many Crusades books on my desk that there’s hardly any room for this Journal. Mr Lindell, if you ever do read this, I’m sorry it’s a bit patchy at the moment but all my thoughts seem to be in the twelfth century.
We play Crusaders at basketball on Saturday, and they’re the top team, so it must be an omen. Maybe we should dress like the Turks. I don’t think it’ll help though.
Sophie and I both got in ‘Flowers for Algernon’, but I’ve got what must be the smallest part. I say one line: ‘Doctor, may I change the bed?’ Well, it’ll be fun anyway. I’m just glad to be in it. Soph’s surprised everyone by scoring quite a good role—she’s a girl called Gina, who’s a real tumper, rough as guts. Miss Knight-Fox is producing it—I think she likes Soph.
JUNE 9
Soph’s got this stupid new saying, where every time she gets criticised for any little thing she says, ‘Oh, sorry, I’ll slash my wrists.’ She said it this morning when Ann got mad at her for spilling her shampoo; she said it in Maths when she’d forgotten to bring Rikki’s calculator; she said it at supper when I realised she’d drunk all the milk. It’s so annoying. It’s not even funny.
JUNE 11
Dad and Lynette actually visited today. I’m surprised Dad knew where the school was. The first thing I noticed is how he’s trying to look all young again for Lynette. He was wearing these trendy Spike clothes and his new glasses and, I couldn’t believe this, he’s had the BM sprayed black. I mean, honestly. I was just glad none of my friends were around. I suppose he and Lynette looked all right together in a way, ’cos she does dress well—people notice her. She’s quite stunning-looking really—she’s got this short haircut and she’s tall and she was wearing a great Zodiac silver jacket.
I thought she’d be all sickly nice again, but she wasn’t. She was friendly but kept her distance. Maybe she was waiting to see what I’d be like. No-one mentioned the letter—I certainly wasn’t going to bring it up. Maybe I’ll write her an answer one day.
I showed her round the school, with Dad of course, and she didn’t say anything too dumb, except for asking Miss Curzon if she was a prefect. I don’t know, maybe Miss Curzon was flattered.
JUNE 12
Glory be, we’re having a Year 9 dance! This is the biggest miracle in 2000 years. Mrs Graham announced it at Roll Call—the words were squeezed out of her like juice out of a peanut. You could tell it wasn’t her idea. I’ve been here a year and a half and this is the first time anything like this has happened. It’s four schools—boys from St Patrick’s (Emma’s happy) and St Luke’s, girls from Girls’ Grammar and Warrington. At least it’s not Walford College, so I won’t be seeing good old Pete. But no doubt Huw’ll be there. Oh well, I’ll survive.
We’re even getting a band—Mrs Graham didn’t know who, needless to say. Wonder if Genetic Defects are free that night? If it was left to Mrs Graham we’d have the 2nd Mt Sandon Boy Scout Tin-Whistle Orchestra.
Cathy and I did Marina’s hair tonight, or as much as she’d let us. It was like trying to touch a wild deer. But we brushed it out and cut it a bit shorter. She wouldn’t let us touch the fringe, which I think’s too long, but I can understand why she might want it that way. She has got nice hair, though. It’s frustrating that she won’t let us do much with it.
Soph and Emma have got a craze for aerobics at the moment and every night they do all these exercises. They do them just before lights out and it always ends in a mess: they beg the teacher not to put the lights out till they’ve finished, and the teacher gets impatient and makes them get into bed, then two minutes later they’re out of bed and doing them in the dark, then the teacher comes in and catches them and sends them downstairs. Almost every night that happens. Anyway, they’re doing them at the moment during Prep. Emma’s doing snapbacks and chanting, ‘I must, I must, increase my bust.’ Good luck Em. She’ll get caught sooner or later.
JUNE 13
Oh, Mr Lindell, there is so much I didn’t know before this Crusades assignment. Did you know the first Crusade was led by a couple of beggars? (They got wiped out.) Did you know Richard the Lion Heart was a pretty slack King? Did you know Robin Hood mightn’t even have existed? Did you know the Christians used pictures of Saracen horses pooing in the Holy Sepulchre to get the other Christians mad?
They all died in the worst ways. King John ate too many peaches and drank too much new cider. Barbarossa drowned because he went swimming straight after a meal. King Richard got shot in the shoulder and died of gangrene after they cut the arrow out. The guy who shot him was flayed alive. That is really utterly absolutely disgusting. It wasn’t his fault—he was only doing his job.
&nbs
p; I still don’t like the Crusades much. I’m sick of them. There’s nothing that interesting about them.
JUNE 15
I hate assignments. I hate tests. I hate the Crusades. I hate Prep. I hate History. I hate Science. I hate French. I hate Divinity. I hate Chapel. I hate School food. I hate boarding. I hate all the stupid rules and regulations. I hate Mrs Graham. I hate Dr Thorley. I hate Mr Hardcastle. I hate Matron. I hate the way the school doctor makes you take off all your clothes when you’re only there for a sore toe. I hate the kind of music Kate plays at full volume every chance she gets. I hate the way Sophie spits all the time. I hate how fat and disgustingly ugly I am. I hate the way the seniors keep pushing you off the phone. I hate the way even the dogs are kept on chains all the time in this school, and any time a stray comes on campus and all the kids start feeding it and looking after it Matron calls the Pound straight away. I hate it how the Year 11s and 12s never talk to you and treat you like dirt. I hate the way everyone here dresses the same, and anyone who dresses differently is treated like she’s infectious. I hate how Ann makes herself vomit so she can get out of basketball practice. I hate myself for being so vague (I took a shower tonight with my headphones still on). I hate the way my parents never take me out on weekends. I hate it how Mum and Dad never tell you what’s going on and when you ask they just say ‘nothing’ or tell you something that’s about one-tenth of the real story and sounds harmless. I hate this feeling of endlessly going through the same jumble over and over again, in my mind and my life. I feel like I’ll never get anywhere till I sort it all out. I hate what I nearly did just over a year ago. I feel like it’s a big dark shadow inside me that I’ll never get rid of. I hate wasting so much time writing in this Journal when I could be doing something useful. I hate how slack our basketball team is. I hate how Marina never talks. How can she hope to get anywhere if she won’t talk about it? I hate the way I’ve written all this ugly stuff. I hate how I’ve sat here all night and got nothing done.