I draw my legs in, but not quickly enough.
‘Out of my way, new girl,’ says Natalia. But her expression is empty; her heart’s not in it.
I don’t mind what she calls me: it’s the truth. Six months at Balmoral still makes me the new girl. I don’t go skiing with them in winter; we didn’t ride ponies together as kids. A lot of the new girls in my year are boarders and they bonded quicker than survivors on a desert island. The ones that aren’t boarders still have the right parents, live in the right postcodes.
Sarah, always a step behind Natalia in every way, gives me the finger as they pass.
‘Goth,’ Sarah mouths. Her hair, straightened this morning, swings beautifully behind her. There’s a lot of maintenance required to be a Blonde. The other two betas, Ally and Marley, look sheepish. Their foursome is simultaneously beautiful and ridiculous, like an ad that you know is airbrushed to hell but you still can’t look away.
My bubble breaks open and corridor noise spills back in. Someone’s left a banana in their locker over the weekend and the smell spreads far and wide. I spin my combination lock.
‘Fingernails, Chloe!’ a teacher barks. ‘Gone by recess.’
My nails are chipped metallic blue; a hangover from the weekend. If I wanted to answer back—and I don’t—I wouldn’t be able to, because Mr Scrutton is already nothing but a distant speck.
Instead of normal morning assembly with the whole school in the Great Hall, they quarantine Year Ten in the Performing Arts Centre. Our teachers hover at the end of rows, their faces tight. Mrs Wang and Ms Nouri have clearly been crying. I think they’re aiming for a ‘safe space’ vibe, but instead it feels like punishment. The whole year level is infected.
The principal, Mrs Christie, is belted tight in forest green and booming as usual.
‘…some of you will want to speak to the school counsellor or the chaplain, and we encourage you to do so.’
I tuck my blue nails inside my jumper sleeves as our year level coordinator, Mrs Benjamin, sweeps the gathering with her laser eyes. Someone in the row behind me is swallowing sobs.
‘Miss Starcke will be available all day. You can sign up at reception. Mr O’Connor will be running a pastoral care session at lunch.’
Miss Starcke stands before us and nods, but seems seconds away from bolting. Mr O’Connor, on the other hand, looks good and ready to ram a little Jesus down our throats.
‘We have been reassured that the police are making extraordinary efforts to ensure your classmate is returned safely.’
A crackle rises at the mention of the police. Mrs Christie meets it head-on. She grips the edges of the lectern in full power-stance mode.
‘You would have seen the media at the gates this morning. I don’t need to tell you that we expect every student here to demonstrate their maturity and refrain from talking to reporters. If you have any important information, you are urged to talk to the police. Reception will take your names, and they will contact you directly. LET. US. PRAY.’
Hundreds of heads drop. Mrs Christie prays in the same voice she uses to talk about skirt length and bags left out in the corridors. She hasn’t said Yin’s name once. I suppose she wants to keep us under control, more than anything. As if we’ll erupt into hysteria at any moment. Which we might.
I keep my head up and my eyes open as the prayer drones on.
Most girls lower their heads and close their eyes, even though I don’t believe for a second that all of them are religious. The fence-sitters drop their heads but keep their eyes open. Only a small number rise above the crowd, and they’re not the popular girls or the chronically rebellious. They’re the nerdy girls and the quiet girls, girls who practise other religions and atheists like me. Yin was one of us.
I glance down my row and see Petra’s lips moving frantically. Her eyes are squinched shut; she’s praying as if her life, not someone else’s, depends on it. Even though I’m not a believer, there’s something beautiful about how her faith shows in her face, like there’s a small light inside her. If it wasn’t completely inappropriate and intrusive, I’d like to take a photo of her now, capture that look.
I try not to act surprised when Petra speaks to me in the corridor, as if she somehow sensed me watching her during prayers. The first bell rings around us. Our lockers have been side by side all year, yet we’ve never done much more than nod hello.
‘They didn’t even like Yin,’ Petra whispers around her locker door. ‘I don’t know why they have to make such a scene.’
The scene is most of 10S sitting on the floor in a red-eyed, sniffling heap. Teaghan is hiccup-crying loudly. They look genuinely upset, although I notice one or two girls looking up occasionally to check that everyone is noting their distress.
I wedge my foot under my locker door to stop it from swinging too far open. My phone jitters on the top shelf. I don’t even need to look at the screen to know that it’s yet another episode in the Morrison High meltdown. Liana and Katie have even got the boys messaging me, telling me to come back.
‘They never paid any attention to her,’ Petra says. ‘And now they’re carrying on as if she was their best friend.’
I don’t know enough about school politics to judge if what she says is true.
The inside of Petra’s locker is plastered with timetables, flyers for school societies, inspirational quotes, a list headed ‘Yearly Goals’, and a photo of Ruth Bader Ginsburg. Her textbooks are stacked neatly in a tower, from largest to smallest.
‘Are
