Mrs Wang hands me a piece of cardboard with the number 4 on it and claps my gross sweaty back. Your choice, lady. I’m going to die.
‘What’s this?’ I gasp. Then I’m leapt on by two screaming girls in purple wigs.
I wash and change as quicky as I can after the race and rush towards the main building, trying to balance my PE bag and Art folio. There’s barely time to eat my sandwich before fifth period. I want to write down the ideas I had while running, before they float away.
Fairytales. Tangled hair. Blue lips. Beauty.
‘Chloe Cardell!’
Ms Hammond chases after me, sans clipboard but sporting her trademark whistle around her neck. Once she reaches me she gets straight to the point.
‘I want to talk to you about joining the cross-country squad. We train three times a week, starting at 7.30 a.m.’
I shake my head straight away, but Ms Hammond either doesn’t notice, or chooses to ignore it.
‘Every year we go away for a training camp to Swansea, it’s a lot of fun. It’s not all training. We go whale watching and cook big dinners together. It would be a good way to make some friends—some more friends—’
It’s clear she thinks I’m a social pariah in desperate need of help.
‘I don’t think so.’ I’m pretty sure Sarah is on the team, and she’s not the kind of friend I’m looking to make. Also, I don’t see any way to add ‘runner’ to ‘mediocre artist’ and ‘person who gets As in Maths’. There’s nothing that Balmoral won’t turn into a cut-throat competition.
‘I’m pretty busy with schoolwork actually.’
‘But you ran so well today, Chloe. You looked great out there, your form was perfect. With the right training you could improve astronomically.’
I force myself to be brighter and bubblier than usual, to soften any possible offence. ‘Oh, thanks for asking, Ms Hammond, but I don’t think I have the time for it.’
I clutch my folio tight to my chest, like armour, and hurry away.
DAY 12
Mum does a pretty good job of parking Ron and Pearl’s car, even though she’s only driven it once before. The Barina hatchback is a dung beetle in a school car park full of four-wheel drives and shiny gold sedans.
We get out and put our jackets on.
‘You sure?’ I’m probably asking myself this question as much as I’m asking Mum. ‘You never wanted to come to another school thing ever again.’
‘This is different.’
Mum was short with me the whole way here, which means she’s nervous. I spent the drive catching her up on the week’s events at school. Mostly that there were a suspicious number of substitute teachers in rotation, but that only male teachers were missing class. Petra also told me at morning recess that she’d seen a group of four detectives after orchestra practice. And there were the police searching the creek next door, of course.
We join the stream of parents flowing through the main doors and into the Great Hall. There are a few students loitering in the foyer, mostly Year Sevens and Eights with violin and cello cases in hand.
It’s petty, but I note that Mum is younger and prettier than the other mothers. She’s got on her good jeans, heeled winter boots that boost her several inches, dangly gold earrings and a silky shirt. I’m the slobby giant next to her, as usual.
‘You look nice,’ I whisper.
‘I’ll try not to embarrass you, baby.’ She lets her eyeballs roll and flops her tongue out. I’m not sure we should be joking, but I smile.
There are a lot of parents already in the hall as we file in, rows and rows of navy jackets and cashmere jumpers, bald spots and helmet-bobs. No students, even though the letter didn’t say anything about students not being welcome.
After a brief moment of panic I notice a handful of girls sitting right at the back, in the dark corner where the spare chairs are stored.
I point in that direction and Mum continues into the centre of the hall. I feel guilty for putting her through this.
‘Hi,’ I nod to the small group of girls. I climb over a few rows of fold-up chairs and perch up high, to see better. I spot Mum’s dead-straight black hair in the audience.
There are at least four people sitting in a row on the stage, but I’m too far away to figure out who they are. The velvet curtains are drawn behind them, there’s a lectern and plain lights. I can at least recognise Mrs Christie by the puff of grey hair worn extra high. She steps up to the mike.
‘Thank you for coming this evening. This has been a difficult couple of weeks for everyone in the school community…’
My attention drifts as Mrs Christie introduces the people on stage. The metal bars of the chair are already digging into my bum. I realise the majority of the girls are international students from my year, most of them boarders. Some have their homework with them, others play with their phones.
Bochen from Art class waves and comes to sit with me.
‘I thought there would be police here.’ She holds up her phone, with the recorder running. ‘I promised my father there would be police. I told him we have security guards on all the school doors.’
Bochen is chattier than some of her friends, maybe because she’s spent time in the States and is more confident with her English, maybe because that’s just the way she is. If I could pick who will win the art prize, it would be her. Give Bochen a pencil and a piece of paper and she can turn out photorealistic portraits.
‘It’s even in the Chinese media, so everyone is scared for us,’ adds Cherry, then zips it, returning to her notebook. The page fills with tiny characters written in mechanical pencil.
Despite Cherry’s words, none of the international students look that worried. Maybe, like me, they feel one step removed from what’s happening.
Bochen picks up a strand
