Wildlife (6 page)

We need a gossip away from other ears, so Holly and I make our forbidden way to the laundry/drying room. Bennett House is the closest dorm building to this utility building, and we’ve worked out that we can latch the drying-room door open late in the afternoon and escape
the house via an easily unscrewed ventilation panel behind the hot-water tank in our own little Bennett House airing room. My pocket knife has already earned its keep. Our spy-movie exit plan includes getting the others to cover for us by pretending we are asleep if a teacher comes snooping, checking for teachers once outside, breathless dash to drying-room door, and suppressing explosive laughter once we get inside. It’s worth the risk of dire punishments just for the blissful absence of other people.

While I unwrap our contraband and only slightly soggy stash—tomato and cheese sandwiches from lunchtime—Holly is straight on to her favorite topic: Ben. “You have to get him alone.”

“I don’t think so. I can’t think of anything more embarrassing.”

“Well, unless you completely screwed it up, he’ll probably want to kiss you again.”

“He doesn’t even seem to recognize me.” I wasn’t kidding. I seemed as invisible as ever to him in class. And chances are I did screw the kissing up.

“That’s crap. He’s been staring. I’ve seen him staring three times at least.”

I can’t help smiling. Because Michael was right about Holly having Ben under surveillance. And because if there wasn’t any drama on offer, Holly could cook it up out of nothing. I mean, three stares? That’s it?

I lift the sandwich-squasher lid and put the sandwiches
in. Our friend Maddie who was here last term left the squasher hidden for us.

“I could not eat that carbonara tonight,” says Holly with a significant eye roll.

“Why not?”

“Why do you think?” An in-the-know look.

“I don’t know.”

“The sauce—it was so slimy—like snot or… worse—that’s the gossip, anyway: Brian.”

“As if. That’s gross. And stupid. And whoever said it is twisted.”

“Well, I’m never going near it again.”

“Why would you—who would even think that?”

Holly gives me the
how naive can you be?
look. “My auntie in Queensland had a holiday job once, working at a pineapple-juice factory? Guys used to piss into that.”

“Into the juice? Are you sure?”

“Yep. I’ve never had that again, not since I heard.”

“But isn’t food production regulated these days? Isn’t it?”

Holly looks dubious. The sandwiches are turning themselves into a sizzling cheesy heaven. “Enjoy,” she says, with a dark nod, as I slide them out. “We might end up living off these.”

Holly has decided that the cook, Priscilla, a former prison cook (true), though she referred to it as “a state-of-the-art remand facility for white-collar criminals,” and her boyfriend, Brian, are raking it in—catering for us with poor-quality ingredients and keeping the change. Brian
drives our minibus and is a former prisoner (probably not true, but he looks the part).

We refer to them as Cilly and Brain. We speculate about their sex life. This is how conversation degenerates in the absence of TV and Facebook. We’ve been giving Brain a hard time from the get-go, clapping and shouting out songs all the way into Hartsfield yesterday when he wouldn’t put the radio on Triple J. When we called him Brain, he yelled, it’s BrIan. BRIAN. We pretended to settle until someone said, Sorry, Brain.

“Do you think Ben regrets it? Or just doesn’t remember?” I say.

“He remembers. You just need to get him alone.”

Holly strolls up to Ben’s table after dinner the next night for a long chat. She carries a dishcloth, which is her token and total Slushy contribution for the night. I’m looking at them, trying not to make it obvious, and wondering whether paper napkins are supposed to be composted. Someone had said something about it.

Michael brings his plate over and follows my eye line.

“She’s talking to him about me,” I say, taking his plate.

“I never hear her talk about anyone except herself.”

“You’re cynical for one so young.”

Back in the house, Holly reports back: Ben likes me. She is static with excitement. I’m still skeptical.

“What did you tell him to get him to say that?”

“Just that you liked him.”

“But that’s virtually forcing him to say what he said.”

“Don’t you notice anything? Force? Ben Capaldi? You’re kidding, right?”

“And I didn’t say you could. And I don’t even know if I do.” I’m brushing my teeth, and in my indignation, froth dribbles down the top of my pj’s.

“ ’Course you do.” Holly looks satisfied, until she catches Lou looking at us.

“What are you staring at?”

“You.”

“I’m not available.”

“Neither am I,” Lou says. She looks bored, not intimidated, not embarrassed.

“Ignore her,” I say to Lou. “She’s just like that.” Holly treats anyone new with a presumption of dislike. They have to prove themselves likeable. Jump through some invisible hoops.

“I noticed,” says Lou. She looks down again, unperturbed, and keeps writing.

“What’s everyone doing for the myth essay?” asks Annie.

“Dunno,” says Holly.

“Icarus,” I say.

“Persephone,” says Lou.

“I was going to go Minotaur, but now I’m thinking
Dinosaur, only I can’t decide which one,” says Annie, nibbling the green rubber fingergrip on her pencil.

There is a small hush. Holly looks around, gathering the collective disbelief with a smirk.

“Only, they’re not myths,” Lou says.

“O
kay
, myth
ological
,” says Annie, as if Lou is being difficult or splitting hairs. “Same thing.”

“She means they were real, retard,” says Holly.

“Very funny,” says Annie.

“Don’t you remember—evolution?” I ask.

“That’s monkeys, you doofus,” says Annie.

“What about trips to the museum, all those bones?” says Eliza. “Seriously, think back.”

“That’s a re-creation of a
mythological creature
,” says Annie with exaggerated patience. “What do you idiots think? That
Jurassic Park
was for real? Wake up and smell the fucking daisies.”

She is so indignant, everyone cracks up. We howl. Even Lou smiles, a very small smile.

Annie keeps saying, “What! What is so funny? No one’s supposed to go mental until week four. What?” Then she starts laughing, too. “What? Was I away that week?”

Every time we stop laughing, it bubbles up again, and we’re off.

Nothing like a good laugh to take the spotlight off the Ben speculation.

monday 15 october

My first mail, letters from Dan and Estelle and Janie. Precious. I’ve promised Janie I will make a film up here that will make her laugh. Was I crazy? But I’ve already decided what it will be. My subject is chosen. I will kill two birds with one stone. May take forever; should start soon.

Holly noticed the French stamps on my letters, and I could see her sticky beak curiosity whetted. But she can rot before I volunteer any information.

Dan sounds okay from his own letter. And Estelle is watching him like a hawk for me (and for herself) and is very happy to report that Dan’s French family has not only Henri, his same-age counterpart, but also three younger sibs, so Dan is surrounded by busy family activity, which is a good thing. The mother is impressed that he knows about food and can cook a bit. And Henri runs, like Dan. I am relieved and reassured.

He asks me what a typical day looks like, and I write back:

Even though we are not supposed to be alone together, it is completely possible to arrange, and the easiest time to manage it is when you’re officially out running after classes and before dinner. You can run in twos, but you have to hike in threes. Because hiking means being farther away from the campus, worst-case-scenario logic is—one person gets injured, one person stays with them, one person goes for help. Which you’d only need to do in the other worst-case scenario of losing or breaking your sat phone.

For time alone you just need partners who are prepared to disappear for a while. I have Holly, with her hand firmly planted between my shoulder blades. She is like a relationship stage mother. Determined is an understatement, and she wants all the details afterward.

Holly arranged the time and the place, and here he is, waiting for me.

I feel shy and stupid walking toward him, still wearing my so-called pretty self like a shirt that doesn’t fit. No, more like doesn’t exist. Exactly: so it feels like being naked, unprotected. And we’ve been up here for a whole week, and he hasn’t exactly rushed to see me alone. But he is the most relaxed person you can imagine. He holds out his hand and kisses me right away, on the cheek. An unequivocal sign of what—affection—possession—intimacy?

“I don’t know what Holly said…”

“She said lots,” he says. “But I just remembered the important stuff—time and place.”

“Because—I hope you realize—I did not want her to arrange this.” I’m finding it hard to remember what I wanted to say, despite having prepared it so carefully. I sound so wrong, as pompous as a little old lady, or a teacher. Who says
I hope you realize…?

“But—here you are,” says Ben, smiling. He’s got me there. “Is it just to say you don’t like me?”

“No,” I say.

“You do like me?”

“I don’t really know you that well…” This is a white lie whose objective is to make me appear more socially normal and not as stalkerish as I am, because I actually know him as well as it’s possible to know someone without their participation.

He shrugs. “I know you—at least from class. I’ve heard your opinions about… stuff.”

“I guess.” I bet you couldn’t tell me a single one, though.

“And you’ve heard mine.” Whereas I could quote him back to himself pretty much verbatim. That’s only about half as Ben-obsessed as it sounds—I do just remember what people say.

But knowing what he thought about
Romeo and Juliet
last year, or climate change, or how creative his excuses were for being late to first period after rowing practice doesn’t really constitute “knowing” him.

“And I know you’re off the planet at least half the time,” he says. It seems a bit early on in the (not even) relationship for insults—surely that could wait until day two.

“No, I’m not.”

“I’ve seen you reading—sometimes you open a book, and you’re just… gone,” he says. “Even with your friends—it’s like you disappear.” Maybe, okay, certainly true, but the thought of being observed by Ben, or anyone, when I’m not aware of them makes me squirmy.

And now I have no idea of my line. But I’m pretty sure it isn’t what I am thinking, which is, unaccountably,
stare stare like a bear
… not only what he had just confessed to doing, but also what I am doing right now. I look away, hoping I appear thoughtful, or sensitively observant of our surroundings, not simply moronic. This boy/girl one-on-one stuff is super strange. I am casting about for something to say—something light and witty, and drawing blanks.

I picture Holly, careless and relaxed, always ready with
a one-liner or smart retort. Why can’t I be like that? Why am I stuck here with no idea of what comes next? Maybe I could ask Ben if he’s smelled the dirt? Or maybe not.

“Why me?” I blurt.

At least he doesn’t pretend not to know what I mean.

“Versus… a party girl?” We both know that’s who he should be going out with—one of the out-there girls, the officially hot girls. The Blondes. Girls with labels and high-heel walking skills. Girls like Pippa and Laura and Tiff and Gabi and—Holly, for that matter.

“Yeah.”

“Because…”

“Tell me it’s nothing to do with the stupid billboard.”

“Nothing.” His face is as open as the sky, and I believe him. He shrugs. “Maybe it’s because you’re not like them. Maybe it’s because when you zone out—I dunno—I’m kind of curious to know where you are.” He bends down to look at my face properly. “Do you want some more reasons?” He’s within kissing range. I try to keep breathing, shake my head. “So, when Holly said I should meet you here…” he continues.

“I did not say that I wanted to…”

“Yep. We covered that already. I figured that you might not follow things up—from the way you’ve totally ignored me since we got up here. But why don’t we do a little risk/benefit analysis?” He picks up my hand. The giddiness is colliding somewhat with the… accountancy terminology? Okay, not so promising. Breathing easier. “So—is it worth
it—while we’re up here? We’re in major shit if anyone catches us. And there’s nowhere to actually ‘go out.’ ”

What is he talking about? Everywhere is “out” up here. It’s more like there’s nowhere to be “in.” Or am I being “obtusely literal,” as my father sometimes says in an impatient moment? Is this a boy code I need to interpret—a rhetorical negative, perhaps—my cue to say no? Let him off the hook, no hard feelings? Formally call quits to something that has not really even started?

His look has a disconcerting hint of mockery in it. “So, do we play by the rules, or have some fun?”

Did he really just claim that he knew me, even a little bit? What I don’t like is being the one to decide. I’m a go-with-the-flow girl. A girl who prefers not to rock the boat, unless absolutely necessary. Definitely not a rule-breaker. Not much of a fun-haver. Or a risk-taker. Too careful. More like a killjoy, if we’re getting technical. A bit of an approval-seeker. And a massive scaredy-cat, as well.

I look at my feet. What am I hoping—that my toes will fly me a semaphore answer? Who am I again? The billboard model; the gangly, pimple-faced uggie-pie buried in my books; the would-be feminist who is always in trouble with her best friend; the nerd; the sulky but affectionate daughter; the girl who wants to kiss the boy? Can it really be like Holly said: now I get to choose…? It can’t possibly be that easy. I must seem like a selective mute by now, which at least forces him to continue.

“Anyway,” he says. “The benefits are obvious, to me…”
Is he too smooth to be true, or naturally this charming? “So what do you think?”

“What do
you
think?” Ha—when in doubt: deflect. He just looks at me. “I mean—aren’t you like super boy, everyone’s pick for prefect next year, head boy the year after, captain of rowing, the world is your oyster, et cetera?”

He smiles his big smile.

Oops, I’ve kind of just handed to him on a plate the extent to which I have been keeping track of his school career trajectory. I pull out a businesslike summary to throw a bit of cold water on that impression: “What I mean is—it seems that you’d be the one risking something. So logically, therefore, perhaps you should decide first.”

“Let’s go for it.” His smile shines with the pleasure—the power—of defiance.

“Okay, then.” Okay—so that’s who I am? I’m a pushover.

“Okay,” he says. “You know when you smile, you look like someone else?”

Oh, right: that must be the girl who wants to kiss the boy. “I got my braces off in the holidays.”

“That is not what I mean.”

“I guess I am someone else,” I say, leaning back against a tree. “I haven’t really been me since we got here.”

He leans in and kisses me. I get a little flash of old-time news footage, girls getting hysterical about the Beatles. My mind is screaming
aaaaaaaaagh
as Ben Capaldi’s lips move from my mouth to the intersection of my earlobe, jaw, and neck, making me shudder.

“Cold?” He looks at me as though he really notices, and cares. His eyes are hazel with very white whites. His skin is olive; his hair dark, as long as he can get away with at school, it hangs in loose curls that he tucks behind his ears. He is ridiculously good-looking. Maybe he thinks I can get him modeling work? No, he’s not that superficial. Hey, check me multitasking: I’m kissing, prosecuting, and defending—and truly I’ve had him under covert surveillance for long enough to know he is not self-conscious about the way he looks.

“No, just—no, not too cold.” Just terrified. Because you (Ben Capaldi!) are kissing me, and it feels like I’ve given you the keys to my body before even checking that you have a license. Although on this, our second outing, it’s clear to me that your learner’s permit must be a distant memory, whereas I only just got mine. And for the record, I’m the very opposite of cold: burning, melting.

“Maybe we don’t tell people about this,” he says, now kissing the inside of my wrist. I’m seriously relying on the tree for support now, and hoping there aren’t ants or sap oozes.

Because my mother is Dr. Sexpert, I have seen more than my fair share of material about all manner of things sexual in sometimes grossly graphic textbooks, in dull reports, and in lots of work stuff that hangs around our house. But I have never seen a chart that shows direct links between the neck or the wrist and the clitoris, with a flow-on effect causing a dissolving feeling just above the
knees, and severe breathlessness. But I am living proof that these links and flow-on effects exist. I am raw human biology data. I am an experiment in train.

“Except Holly? She already knows,” I remind him, trying to regulate my breathing.

“Yeah, except Holly.”

We’re not telling anyone? Secrecy. He doesn’t want anyone to know? Shame? Denial? I’m not good enough to be the official girlfriend? Halt! Don’t get paranoid. We’ve already canvassed the fact that this will be a covert operation, in light of the school rules about boy/girl activity up here.

Breathe in. Breathe out. And again.