Read Online The Best Thing by Margo Lanagan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Margo Lanagan
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half-bricks on my legs and arms, my eyes closed, my stillness. Melanie Dow, martyr, Patron Saint of Defection from the Group. Well … I wonder how far they
would
go, though?
That acne-splattered geek Bruce Denman sits near me at lunch-time. A bunch of people are watching from under the camphor laurel on the far side of the yard, though not when I look up. I keep on eating. He eats, too, but keeps
staring
over at me. I’m supposed to be intimidated, I guess.
Finally he chucks his lunchbag and can in the bin and stands over me. He’s a stupid guy, a real blockhead, but also very, very big. ‘Wesley says you’ll do it for $20.’ Brenner Wesley, that is.
I look up and up and up, and then I say in this really mild voice, ‘Well, he’d know, wouldn’t he?’
‘Guess he would,’ Bruce says uncertainly. ‘So, will you?’
‘With you, you mean?’
‘Yeah,’ he says, with a real
nonchalant
little
swagger
.
‘Oh,
sure
, Bruce,’ I exclaim. ‘You’d better show me your money first, though.’
Can you believe it, he tugs the corner of a $20 note up out of his jeans pocket so I can see it?
I’m so cool. ‘Okay. Good. Now show me what you’ve got,’ I say.
‘Huh?’
‘Show me the goods, buster. I’ve got to check you over for diseases, haven’t I? I’m not going to ruin my professional life just because of your herpes, or crabs, or whatever you might have.’
‘Well, I will show you. In private, but.’
‘No way. Right here, mate, or the deal’s off.’
He stares, backs off. ‘You’re crackers,’ he says. ‘You’re raving mad.’
‘Oh no.
Brenner Wesley’s
mad, and
you’re
mad, and all the other
shitheads
in this school are mad, but not me. And you can take your $20—’ Here’s where I see Mr Toohey standing at the corner of the building ‘—and stick it in your fat hairy
ear
hole!’
Some Year 7 kids are staring. I throw my rubbish in the bin, then head inside. I don’t know why until I get to the locker room and realise I’m getting out of that school.
But uh-oh, Mr Toohey’s there at the door, watching me get my bag out, and the few books I keep pushed right to the back. I get ready to stand up to him the way I just did to Bruce.
But he says, ‘You’re having a hard time this year, aren’t you, Melanie?’
Oh God, don’t be understanding. Tell me off, give me an excuse to shout at you
. ‘I’m okay,’ I say, my voice stiff, not looking at him.
‘School counsellor?’ he says tentatively.
‘Oh, no.’ I’m able to smile. ‘Telling people things is what started it all off.’
‘Counsellors have codes of practice. They have to keep thingsprivate, not like normal, free, individuals.’
Curse them
, he seems to be implying. It’s funny, the way he isn’t bothering to chat, to soften any of this. It’s like an emergency bulletin, as if he hasn’t got much time to get through to me. He’s being nice, really. I glance at him as I shut my locker door and for the second before the tears arrive he looks like someone I might have talked to, if it wasn’t already too late.
‘Thanks. No.’ Head down, I go past him. I bash the tears away before I get outside, and then I go across the yard with my head up. No-one calls out anything. I know Mr Toohey has come out after me and is watching. I also know he won’t stop me.
I walk home. Dad’s car is outside.
Here we go. He’s finally cracked up from overwork and been sent home to recuperate
.
He’s left the gate open, even though he always goes on at me to close it.
I put my key in the door.
From inside, Dad yells out, ‘Don’t come in!’
I come in.
There he is,
at it
on the couch with Ricky Lewis. Her little white shorts tossed aside on the carpet. One bare foot hooked on the couch back. That couch really isn’t quite long enough; Dad’s legs slew off to the floor. His white bum parked between Ricky’s bent knees, his trousers halfway down. Beyond the shadow of his balls, parts of Ricky
glisten
,
would
go, though?
That acne-splattered geek Bruce Denman sits near me at lunch-time. A bunch of people are watching from under the camphor laurel on the far side of the yard, though not when I look up. I keep on eating. He eats, too, but keeps
staring
over at me. I’m supposed to be intimidated, I guess.
Finally he chucks his lunchbag and can in the bin and stands over me. He’s a stupid guy, a real blockhead, but also very, very big. ‘Wesley says you’ll do it for $20.’ Brenner Wesley, that is.
I look up and up and up, and then I say in this really mild voice, ‘Well, he’d know, wouldn’t he?’
‘Guess he would,’ Bruce says uncertainly. ‘So, will you?’
‘With you, you mean?’
‘Yeah,’ he says, with a real
nonchalant
little
swagger
.
‘Oh,
sure
, Bruce,’ I exclaim. ‘You’d better show me your money first, though.’
Can you believe it, he tugs the corner of a $20 note up out of his jeans pocket so I can see it?
I’m so cool. ‘Okay. Good. Now show me what you’ve got,’ I say.
‘Huh?’
‘Show me the goods, buster. I’ve got to check you over for diseases, haven’t I? I’m not going to ruin my professional life just because of your herpes, or crabs, or whatever you might have.’
‘Well, I will show you. In private, but.’
‘No way. Right here, mate, or the deal’s off.’
He stares, backs off. ‘You’re crackers,’ he says. ‘You’re raving mad.’
‘Oh no.
Brenner Wesley’s
mad, and
you’re
mad, and all the other
shitheads
in this school are mad, but not me. And you can take your $20—’ Here’s where I see Mr Toohey standing at the corner of the building ‘—and stick it in your fat hairy
ear
hole!’
Some Year 7 kids are staring. I throw my rubbish in the bin, then head inside. I don’t know why until I get to the locker room and realise I’m getting out of that school.
But uh-oh, Mr Toohey’s there at the door, watching me get my bag out, and the few books I keep pushed right to the back. I get ready to stand up to him the way I just did to Bruce.
But he says, ‘You’re having a hard time this year, aren’t you, Melanie?’
Oh God, don’t be understanding. Tell me off, give me an excuse to shout at you
. ‘I’m okay,’ I say, my voice stiff, not looking at him.
‘School counsellor?’ he says tentatively.
‘Oh, no.’ I’m able to smile. ‘Telling people things is what started it all off.’
‘Counsellors have codes of practice. They have to keep thingsprivate, not like normal, free, individuals.’
Curse them
, he seems to be implying. It’s funny, the way he isn’t bothering to chat, to soften any of this. It’s like an emergency bulletin, as if he hasn’t got much time to get through to me. He’s being nice, really. I glance at him as I shut my locker door and for the second before the tears arrive he looks like someone I might have talked to, if it wasn’t already too late.
‘Thanks. No.’ Head down, I go past him. I bash the tears away before I get outside, and then I go across the yard with my head up. No-one calls out anything. I know Mr Toohey has come out after me and is watching. I also know he won’t stop me.
I walk home. Dad’s car is outside.
Here we go. He’s finally cracked up from overwork and been sent home to recuperate
.
He’s left the gate open, even though he always goes on at me to close it.
I put my key in the door.
From inside, Dad yells out, ‘Don’t come in!’
I come in.
There he is,
at it
on the couch with Ricky Lewis. Her little white shorts tossed aside on the carpet. One bare foot hooked on the couch back. That couch really isn’t quite long enough; Dad’s legs slew off to the floor. His white bum parked between Ricky’s bent knees, his trousers halfway down. Beyond the shadow of his balls, parts of Ricky
glisten
,
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