As much as I try to act normal, the fact remains that I can’t meet Grace’s eye. And it’s not because she’s caught me talking out loud to a book, or because I spotted her with Andrew, it’s because of what else happened on Friday night.
Let me paint the scene:
It is the aforementioned birthday party, a massively exaggerated affair attended by almost the entire year level, including the boarders who were bussed in and kept on a huge leash made from hundreds of school ties knotted together. No one has stopped talking about it all week: who hooked up with who, who spewed on one of the family cars, who was rejected by which Grammar boy and who smoked pot in the laneway out the back.
Is it abnormal to obsess over a party while someone you know is imprisoned in a house somewhere far from home? I think we all know the answer to that question.
We, by which I mean my lady squad and I, arrived fashionably late. Despite the fairy lights and the gazebo and the waiters with bow ties and the sparkling turquoise pool, the Chapmans’ backyard did not so much resemble a sophisticated soiree as a scene from a zombie film where the zombies can’t decide whether to eat brains or hump each other on the dance floor. As one of the few responsible non-zombies present, it was I who went to inform the adults that the bathrooms were fresh out of toilet paper.
It was I who followed Mr Chapman upstairs to fetch the paper, and it was I who was diverted into the study so Chapman could fetch more whisky, which he’d clearly had quite a bit of already. This was sketchy but ideal because I may or may not have remembered from my Balmoral brain catalogue that Grace’s dad is a detective and this may or may not have encouraged my very attendance at the soiree that evening. Do not underestimate my ability to focus on my goals.
Me: Is it true you’re a detective?
Chapman: Have you girls been talking about me behind my back?
Me: (Vomits a little bit inside my own mouth but carries on.) Haha, yeah of course. You’re all we talk about.
Chapman: I used to be, I’m in security consulting now. I was in the force for twenty years. The drug squad, then the homicide squad.
Me: So, do you still get access to inside information then?
Chapman: (Vagues out slightly while pouring whisky before snapping to.) You mean about the Mitchell case? You two were—
Me: Yes, of course, about Yin. Have you heard anything?
Chapman: I’ve heard they’ve sought advice from the FBI, so they’re taking it very seriously. (Leans sloppily on desk.) They’ll make another announcement soon, I think.
Me: What kind of announcement? Tell me.
Chapman: Be patient, it’ll come. It’s normal to be concerned. You’re very mature for your age, aren’t you Natalia? (LITERALLY X-RAYS MY TOP WITH HIS EYES.)
Me: Can we get the damn toilet paper, sir?
Or something like that. Maybe I didn’t say the last bit. But think about it—Grace has to live with that slimebag every day of her life. And I didn’t learn anything useful. Everyone else might be moving on, or pretending they’re not still counting the days Yin has been missing, but not me. Under the surface I’m not just paddling, but kicking anything in sight.
‘Great party last week, Grace.’ I back away fast, clutching my book.
If I needed further proof that the library is a nightmare if you don’t want to run into people, around the very next corner Art Class Chloe is practically living in the stacks, confirming several of my suspicions about her. She is kneeling on the ground, surrounded by folders and pencils and looking at several million art books.
‘Please save me from an awkward situation,’ I say, with maybe too much desperation. I’m too weird for my own good sometimes. Too weird for even the official weirdos. I sit near her on the floor.
Chloe looks startled and more than a little wary. I decide right here and now, looking at her geeky glasses and her high ponytail, that she’s so uncool she has come out the other side as very cool.
‘What awkward situation?’ She cranes her head, trying to see who’s nearby.
‘Never mind. It’s not important.’
I take a look at the scatter of books she’s pulled off the shelf.
‘Ms Nouri recommended these,’ she says. ‘I’m struggling with our self-portrait. And our main assessment too. All of it really.’
I have no reason at all to talk to her. I clutch for what we have in common. I’d better not mention accidentally blinding Petra in PE and how Chloe swept in like Mother Teresa and nursed her back to health.
‘Art prize. Are you doing it?’ I say.
‘I don’t know. No. I don’t think so. Why does everyone keep asking that? Are you?’
I snort. I took Art because it’s easier than taking politics or another language. I clock Chloe’s list of artists, written neatly in her exercise book, and the ripped up pieces of scrap paper she’s using as bookmarks, and her bulging sketchbook and the photocopies she’s made. For someone who isn’t entering the prize and says she’s struggling, she sure is doing a lot of work.
There are people like Sarah, who think they have something amazing to offer the world, and who do not in fact have anything to offer, and simply want to be internet famous. And then there are people like Chloe. She has plenty of interesting things to say, and yet she persists in acting like a creature lying at the bottom of a lagoon covered in mud, like a mythical mega-slug. Am I the only one who notices these things?
‘You should enter,’ I tell her. ‘I can tell you love that class and you love Ms Nouri. God knows why, but you like that sad, hairy lady. And you’re actually talented, so you should. I’d go for it myself if I
