White Lady (3 page)

“Mick,” I half-whisper, adding a touch of grit from the rear of my throat, “what the
fuck
has gotten into you lately?” The taste of that rancid word contaminates my mouth like Mavala Stop—a polish to stop nail-biting, which my mother forced me to lick. I wasn’t a nail-biter. But she wanted me to stop the biting, in general, so I’d make some Aussie friends.

For a very short instant, Mick looks taken aback, but then that devilish smirk of his melts into his cheeks like cream.

“Wow. That musta took some sorta effort.” He sneers, puts his hands into his pockets, switches the weight from one foot to the other.

I, despite the intense uncertainty of using such language in the school corridor, am adamant not to be stepped all over. I grab him by the collar, push him to the wall, and attempt to lift him off the ground with one hand.

Not quite. Getting rusty?

I lower my voice to a guttural purr. “You disrespect anyone in my classroom again and I will show you what effort looks like, you hear?”

He laughs and nods repeatedly, feigning fright. I let go of his collar and step back, keeping my posture upright, remaining impassive to his mockery.

“Just go home,” I say, returning my voice back to normal. “There is food in the fridge.” I straighten my shirtsleeve and avoid eye contact. “Drop by the nurse, tell her you are not feeling well.”

Mick’s bottom lip moves as if about to speak.

“Probably best you do not say anything else at this point,” I say, crossing my arms in front of my chest. I point in the direction of the nurse’s office, look at the floor, tap my foot, visualizing Ibrahim beating him to a pulp.

Darn it.

It all started when he saw the blood on the back porch. I am sure of it. Something changed in the way he’d look at me. As though he knew it wasn’t an accident.

When I look up, he is gone.

I iron out the front of my skirt with my hands and step back into the classroom with a smile on my face. Two students are poking each other with the corners of their set squares. I groan under my breath.

It’s the only downfall of being a mathematics teacher—my constant exposure to pointy objects.

Chapter 7

Mick: Fuck her. Fuck them all.

Forgot me fuckin’ key. Again. Gotta go in through the back door. Again. Can’t stand the back door. The first place me eyes go is the dark patch. It’s not even that big. Me foot could probably cover it up. But it’s there. And every time I see it, the memory zaps me between the fuckin’ eyes, ’n’ me head starts to pound with hate.

I don’t even know who I hate.

I know it wasn’t me mum’s fault. She said she had to help clean it up. I remember it so fuckin’ clearly. I didn’t see nuthin’ until it was just a stain. But I heard ’n’ felt everythin’.

Me mum’s squealin’.

Me dad’s calm.

And then that fuckin’ silence that lasted so long I swear to fuckin’ God I thought they were both goners. I sat in the corner of me room. Tryin’ not to cry. Because I knew that cryin’ wasn’t allowed.

I take a deep breath before I enter me house. ’Coz I know it looks like fuckin’ shit bombed it, and it reeks like yobbo puke. Me mum keeps refusing to clean up until I start to “chip in.”

I go inside and kick the bin outta me way. The kitchen looks like a fuckin’ tornado hit it. If Mum comes home and it’s still like this, she won’t shut the fuck up about it.

I can hear her now, in that whiny fuckin’ housewifey voice:
“If you enjoy living in a pigsty, then that’s exactly what you’ll get.”

But fuck her. Fuck everything.

All I want is Metallica. I turn it up. Earsplittin’ loud.

And pray to Allah for everythin’ to come good.

Chapter 8

Mia: Can’t I throw up in peace?

I spend recess in the toilets. I enter a cubicle, lift the plastic seat, and sit on the cold porcelain bowl. Just in case I crack the seat like last time. Not that I care about destroying school property. My pride? Maybe. After that shit with Mick I’m not sure I have much, but I’m sure as hell certain I’m gonna hold on to whatever I have left.

Yelling from the playground filters through the gap below the door—the gossip of girls whispering in front of the fractured mirror that’s glued onto the beige brick like an afterthought; the yelling and screaming of wrestling boys, debating whose turn it is to fill the principal’s fuel tank with water; basketballs bouncing against concrete walls, Anglo football jocks pretending they can dribble better than the black dudes who have already proved their status in the basketball tournament the previous week.

I spread my legs and lean forwards to open my schoolbag. My stomach pokes out from the bottom of my T-shirt and touches the cold toilet bowl. I know I shouldn’t be doing this. But I can’t help it. It’s the only way I know how to self-medicate.

I pull out a Lamington. Shove the whole thing in my mouth at once, squash it and swallow with barely a chew. I pull out another one. Shove that in too. I chew, mash, push the cake through my teeth with my eyes closed, making sure I can taste every single bit.

Because this is my last one.

Forever.

I promise.

When I swallow the last bit of Lamington stuck under my tongue, I feel a strange sense of relief.

I stand up and stare at the toilet bowl. I can do this.

I’ve seen how fast girls lose weight this way in those stupid ’80s documentaries they play in Health class.

I zip up my bag, gulping pockets of air, deep and fast and heavy, to try to make myself feel sick. I feel a little dizzy and lean my shoulder against the right cubicle wall.

Let’s do this.

I have to just do this. Not think about it. If I think about it, I’ll back down. But I am thinking about it now, aren’t I? Thinking about it by telling myself to not think about out.

Man …

I jam my fingers down my throat, convulse and heave as if I were vomiting the intestine of a cow. The whole thing has made me so ill that I keep dry-retching even when there is nothing left to spew. I close my eyes and my mouth, try to breathe through my nose to calm the hurricane in my stomach, to ease the throbbing in my temples.

Gross.

No way I’m doing this shit three times a day.

I knock the lid down, and it echoes like one of my mum’s “motivational” cheek slaps.

I rip off some toilet paper to wipe my mouth, when someone knocks on my cubicle door.

The handle jiggles.

Silence.

Another knock.

“Leave me alone,” I mumble. “I’m fine. It’s just a stomach bug.”

“No. It’s not.” The girl’s voice is husky yet soft.

I straighten my back and look at the gap at the bottom of the door. The girl’s presence hovers in a shadow.

Is she serious? “And how the fuck would you know that?”

The girl shifts her feet. The tip of her sneaker peeks through the bottom of the door.

“I can help you lose weight.”

What the hell? “Huh?”

“Just open the door. It’s Kimiko. I’m alone.”

Chapter 9

Nash: It’s all Celeste’s fault.

During recess, I sit at my desk to play FIFA 13, sweaty and hot after joining the boys in a rough game of basketball. The girls were whiny today, so I just let them sit on the sidelines to file each other’s nails. Except one girl who insisted she “get down and dirty.” The honorary boy of the class, who I want to help apply for an AIS scholarship. For a moment I wish I had a daughter like her, then withdraw the thought, queasy with guilt.

Teachers’ footsteps fill the staff room with the mental weight of dealing with classroom misbehaviour, their noses in manila folders, fingers hooked around cups of coffee, as they walk by my desk. Thank crikey for the cubicles. If it wasn’t for this antisocial static mass of plywood everybody complains about, it would be damn impossible to chill out here. At all. “Sometimes goodness comes in mysterious ways.” Yeah, Celeste was right about that. She was often right about a lot of things.

She was right about Mia too.

I glance at the time in the bottom-right-hand corner of my screen. Sonia should be back any minute. I open my drawer and pull out a pear. As I bite into it, I catch sight of my Drum. And groan.

I should quit. Mia and I should quit our addictions together. It would give her something to nag me about at the same time. Maybe it would help her. I did force a lot of fruit onto her this morning, but for all I know, she’s chucked it in the bin and bought junk with the cash Celeste keeps putting into her bank account. Guilt money.

How the hell am I supposed to help Mia like this?

Sure, Celeste’s heart might be in the right place. But she doesn’t know about Mia’s gaining weight. It’s been over a year since she’s seen her.

Gotta tell her.

Mia will kill me.

It’s for her own good.

“You are kidding me. FIFA?” Sonia knocks me over my head with a stack of papers.

“Ow! The principal should file those papers as a prohibited weapon,” I say.

Sonia snorts and rolls a chair over from another cubicle. She rests her papers in her lap and folds her hands on top of them with a tight-lipped smile.

“We must talk.”

I smirk and wobble my head as I pause the game before facing her.

“Sounds serious.”

“Cut it out.” Sonia squints.

“Ah.” I nod and scratch my beard. “You mean
serious
serious.”

Sonia looks into her lap and licks her lips. My left foot starts to twitch.

“Okay, out with it. What she do now?”

Sonia shakes her head. “It is not what she has done. It is what she is not doing. She has stopped sticking up for herself, Nash. She used to be so confident and outspoken, rude sometimes, but rude was better than
this
—”

“I’ll speak to her,” I say, and face my computer again.

“Nash. Look at me.” Sonia emphasizes her words with a couple of knuckle-knocks on my desk.

“Sonia. Look—” I clench my teeth, take a deep breath, hold it for a second, and let it out with my next words. “I can’t get through to her. I’ve tried and tried and tried to get her to stick to a diet. I even suggested forking out some cash to get her stomach stapled, but she—”

“Her stomach stapled? Oh, I—” Sonia hangs her head in her hands.

“What?”

“You suggested
what
?”

“I—”

“No, no, no!”

I crane my neck a little and pucker my brow.

“You might as well have told her she was not good enough.”

I
tsk
. “Nah.”

Sonia sighs. “Someone spat at her in class this morning, and she hardly even flinched. She wiped it off her face with her sleeve and just got back to work. It was as if she thought she deserved it.”

I roll my seat back a few inches and rub my hands over my face. “Which little shithead was it?”

“It does not matter. I have dealt with the kid. Now you need to deal with Mia.”

I nod and sniff.

Sonia pokes me in my chest with her index finger. “Tonight.”

“I will.”

“I mean it.”

“I know, mate. I said I will, alright?”

Sonia looks at her feet. “What are you going to say?”

“Don’t know. I’ll think of something.”

Sonia squeezes my knee and stands up. “Just going to fetch a coffee, and I will be right back.”

I nod, watch Sonia walk out, stare in the direction she left, in some sort of trance. I
will
say something to Mia tonight.

Right after I’ve spoken to Celeste.

Chapter 10

Mia: To take or not to take.

I’ve never spoken to Kimiko before. You know, I can’t even remember seeing
her
speak to anyone since year seven. And the only time I’ve ever heard her name was from the roll call in last year’s Social Studies class.

Once.

But I remember her nevertheless. Because every time I pass her in the schoolyard she looks like she’s in some sort of Japanese punk music clip, looking thoughtfully towards nothingness, ciggie lodged in the corner of her mouth that never seems to go out, dressed in something like black faded skinny jeans, a purple Sonic Youth T-shirt, and dark-grey Converses. Kimiko should be in the collage on my bedroom door, not smoking ciggies in this shithole high school pretending not to exist.

The shadow of Kimiko’s foot lingers a little longer by my cubicle door before I open it. I open the door, and she’s staring right at me. Her black eyes stand out against her pale skin and dark silky hair like black diamonds in white sand. Envy darts through my chest. God, I wish I looked like her. That exotic beauty is rare. Especially in this school rampant with the offspring of white trailer trash.

Why didn’t I ever notice how pretty she was?

Because you were a slut-face bitch, remember?

In silence, Kimiko swivels round to reach into her back pocket, and her T-shirt shifts slightly upwards and reveals a scar along her hip bone, jagged, bumpy, not at all a clean cut.

I want to touch it.

Kimiko holds out a small Ziploc bag of pills. “Here.”

I stare at them, eyes locked on to the bag like a magnet. My top lip twitches. Kimiko laughs and scratches the corner of her mouth with her ring finger, her bitten nails painted a deep matte maroon.

“No biggie, hun. Just caffeine.” Kimiko smirks and tilts her head to the side. Her Cleopatra fringe sits firmly in place.

Sure, I used to be the school slut, but I have never touched drugs before. Maybe they’re only caffeine, but to take them on purpose freaks me out a little. But I shouldn’t turn them down. It would be rude. Right?

Yeah, man, keep telling yourself that.

I snatch the bag off Kimiko and push the small white pills around the plastic with my thumb. The bag is new. As if she had packaged them especially. Maybe she’s a dealer. Wouldn’t surprise me.

“And these are gonna help me lose weight?” I say, my tone rising a little too high at the end of the question. I must sound like such a dork.

“Yeah. Just make sure you drink lots of water.” Kimiko squeezes her petite fingers into her tight pockets so her knuckles are still showing. Her elbows stick out like flamingo knees. She flicks her head, as if trying to remove hair from her face, and raises her brow. A cue for me to respond, I guess, but I’m tongue-tied. I don’t want the drugs, but I don’t want to lose the opportunity to form a new friendship either. She might be my last chance at having a decent go of my final year in high school.