I'll Tell You Mine

  Sergio Dionisio Mono

  Pip Harry is a freelance journalist who has worked on magazines for many years, including chasing celebrities as entertainment editor for NW and deputy editor for TV Week before turning herself into a yoga-loving frequent flyer as health & travel editor for Woman’s Day. She’s the co-founder of the relationships website, realitychick.com.au and has had short stories published in the UTS Writer’s Anthology and Wet Ink. Pip lives in Sydney with her partner and their gorgeous daughter, Sophie. When not at a keyboard, she can be found competing in ocean swimming and searching for the perfect flat white.

  www.pipharry.com

  For Mary

  1

  I’ve been grounded for sixty-two days this year. That’s 1488 hours of imprisonment. Of sitting in my room thinking about how much I hate my mother. I know I’m not supposed to hate someone who cracked her pink bits in half giving birth to me. But if you knew her, you’d understand.

  We’re sitting in the car. Me, my little sister Olivia and Dad. It’s late Sunday afternoon and he’s driving me to boarding school. We’re in the city, driving past the pale brown Yarra River into Sunday traffic. The car slows down, bogged in red brake lights. Dad leans into the steering wheel, rests his head and starts doing hippy yoga breathing.

  Normally Dad would be at home with the fat weekend newspapers, but seeing as Mum refuses to be anywhere near me right now, he’s had to drive me to school instead. He isn’t happy about it.

  ‘Bloody traffic,’ he says to no one in particular. ‘Should have taken the back way. Stupid.’

  Even with the traffic, it’ll only take thirty minutes to drive from my house to the boarding house gates. I’m not a country girl. I’m not from Traralgon, Echuca, Shepparton, Leeton or any of the middle-of-nowhere places that the other boarders come from. We live in the leafy green suburbia of Glen Iris. I usually take the tram to school.

  Here’s the thing: I’ve been kicked out of home. After the last thing I did, I ran out of chances. Tipped all my parents’ patience out on the floor like the last bit of milk in the carton. They just lost it. Fair enough, I suppose.

  I did do something pretty bad. So bad I can’t even say it out loud. Neither can Mum. We both just . . . Don’t. Talk. About. It.

  After that thing we’re not talking about, Mum and Dad went to see my school principal, Miss Knowles. They asked if I could do the last term of the year as a boarder. And Know-It-All said yes. I had no choice but to pack my bag and move out. When I asked how long I had to stay, Mum said, ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.’ That answer is a little open-ended for my liking.

  I wind down the window and breathe in the exhaust fumes of a hundred cars, letting a blast of cold air into the hot, sticky car.

  ‘Can you put that window up, Kate? It’s freezing,’ says Dad.

  ‘I’m not cold,’ I say, sliding the glass down a little further.

  Dad punches at the window controls and gets it closed. He’s been trying to be nice to me but I’m starting to get on his nerves.

  ‘I know it’s a tough day for you,’ he says. ‘But you’re behaving as if you’re Liv’s age.’

  Liv, by the way, is seven.

  Dad finally makes it to Lidcome Road, cruising past oak trees and polished-up Range Rovers and BMWs. It’s scary to think I’m not going to be able to leave here at 3.15 pm on the final bell. I’m stuck here all day, every day. I have to SLEEP AT SCHOOL. When I was thirteen, Mum got me this joke gift for my birthday – a giant eraser for ‘Big Mistakes’. I wish I had that stupid eraser now.

  The worst part is, after all that fighting and screaming and slamming doors, my parents have gone really quiet. They’ve totally given up on me. Mum says they just need a break, time to ‘re-group’ as a family. Apparently my behaviour lately has affected everyone – even Liv.

  Only Mum would use the word re-group . . . like she’s talking to a bunch of reporters.

  On one side of Lidcome Road are the locked iron gates of the Billabong Gardens, a huge parkland stuffed full of twisting gum trees and native plants. The gardens aren’t part of my school, Norris Grammar, but I can usually slip out at lunchtime. I just have to watch for Year Twelves, who are allowed out on pass-outs.

  The gardens are my oasis from the burning fires of Norris hell. It’s the only place I can go to read in peace during lunchtime besides the library. I sit cross-legged on my blazer by the lake, pretending I don’t have to go back to school. Sometimes I don’t. I wag and go into the city to meet up with my friends Annie and Nate at the Flinders Street steps. I got fourteen days’ grounding for that. One of the Year Eleven prefects, who was going to a dentist appointment, reported me for ‘loitering in the city in my uniform during school hours’. I hate prefects.

  Here are ten other random things we’re not allowed to do at Norris:

  Eat hot food (pies, curries and so on) in our uniforms. It’s not ladylike to get sauce on our chins.

  Not stand up for old people and pregnant ladies on the tram.

  Wear any shoes except regulation black lace-ups. I tried to get away with my calf-high black boots, but Mr Gregory forced me to take them off and wear a dorky pair of Clarks from lost and found.

  Hitch up our skirts above the knee. All skirts must be knee length or below.

  Shave our head (unless it’s for one of those cancer fundraising days and then you practically get a medal). Hair that’s cut in a ‘radical style’ is not acceptable.

  Not wear our blazers when we’re outside school grounds or at formal occasions. (Unless you have a ‘white jumper’ for excellence in rowing, debating or sucking up to teachers.)

  Wear extreme jewellery (that includes the skull-and-cross-bones ring my geography teacher, Mrs Alexander, with her Peter Pan collars and yellow teeth, confiscated and never gave back). A watch, necklace with a cross or plain earrings are the only accessories allowed at school.

  Leave school grounds at recess or lunchtime (unless you’re running around the gardens or are a Year Twelve girl).

  Have more than one piercing in your ears. No piercing in irregular places such as eyebrows, tongues or noses (I put a Band-Aid over my lip ring but someone dobbed me in for it and I had to take it out). Four days’ grounding for that.

  Wear make-up that’s not ‘consistent with natural colouring’ – including lipstick, eye shadow or extreme nail polish colours. Just about everyone ignores this rule . . . especially me.

  Dad turns into Norris and I grip the side of the door with my fingers. I’m sweating buckets now and my lungs feel like they’re Glad-wrapped. I can hardly breathe. I take a hit of my asthma puffer and concentrate on not screaming, ‘Let me out! Let me out!’ like a psycho, and pushing the door open while the car’s still moving.

  I could roll, commando style, onto the road, scale the rusty, spiky Billabong Gardens gates and run deep into the bushes. Nobody would find me because I’d climb up a tree and live like a hermit on berries and bush food. I’d make fires and become friends with the possums and bats. But I don’t do that. I just sit in my seat, feeling like my skin’s peeling off, leaving all my muscles and veins exposed.

  It feels weird being at school on a Sunday – especially not having to wear my uniform or fight the crowds. I feel naked.

  Mum forced me to come to Norris after primary school, so I’ve been here for four long years already, making absolutely no effort to excel in anything except for being the school recluse. Every time the school fees roll around my parents get grumpy and tell me I better start pulling my weight – that the fees are ‘crippling them’, and I have ‘no idea how expensive my educa
tion is’. They shouldn’t waste their cash. I was more than happy to go to Glenferrie High and hang out with my mates from primary school. At least I had mates then.

  Bet you think Norris is stuck up and snobby because it’s a private school. Newsflash. It looks like every other school around: red brick, ugly, depressing. The gym’s schmick, the library is awe-inspiring and there are eight tennis courts and a 25-metre pool, but the rest of the place is tatty and curling around the edges, like a day-old sandwich. Dunno where all those big alumni donations end up.

  This was my mum’s old school. My grandmother put my name down before I was even born. There was a family tradition to uphold. No question I would one day follow in my ancestors’ regulation black lace-ups. In the Great Hall there’s a photo of Grandma playing tennis when she was wrinkle-free and seriously hot for someone who now resembles a mauve Shar Pei puppy. I once found a photo of my mum playing hockey on the lower field in an old year book. Her ponytail swished in the wind and she snarled at the opposition through a white mouthguard. I asked her – did she used to play hockey? And she struggled to even remember wearing spikes and smacking a ball across a pitch. ‘I did but that was years ago,’ she said vaguely and kept checking emails on her BlackBerry.

  Dad isn’t so keen on Norris. He’s suss of private schools in general. I once overheard him complaining to Mum that he didn’t want his daughters to become ‘stuck-up rich kids with silver spoons in their bloody mouths’. He went to some down-and-out state school near Torquay, the little surf town on the Great Ocean Road where he grew up. I think he spent most of his time skipping classes to catch waves. I once asked him if I could go to his old alma mater but he just laughed and said, ‘They tore that place down years ago.’ Then Mum sniffed, ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Kate. We can afford to send you to a very good school. You’re very lucky.’ Funny. I don’t feel lucky right now.

  Liv will be yanked out of Glenferrie Primary and enrolled here in Year Seven. She’s actually looking forward to it. I’ve caught her trying on my school clothes and checking herself out in the mirror. She’s squishing her pug nose against the glass window – frothing at the mouth with excitement at seeing inside the boarding school where the big girls live. She has no idea what’s in store for her. How Norris can suck the will to live right out of you . . .

  Dad parks out front as usual. ‘Rock star park,’ he says proudly, edging into the tiny space.

  ‘No chance I could go in by myself?’ I ask.

  ‘No chance whatsoever,’ Dad says cheerfully.

  I really want to arrive quietly. I don’t want anyone to know why I’m here. The kicking out of home thing is mortifying. I’m enough of a freak already without having this new tag hanging around my neck.

  I look up at the boarding house and for the first time I notice there are bars on all the windows high enough to jump from.

  Everyone’s pulling suitcases and backpacks out of cars. All smiles – no tears or long hugs. They’re just casually heading inside, gossiping and giggling. I catch a few floating whispers from a group of boarders and my nervous neck rash flares up.

  ‘Why is Kate Elliot here? I thought she was a day girl?’

  ‘Does she know it’s not Halloween?’

  ‘Looks like she’s been dug out of a grave.’

  I’m not going to be able to fly under the radar. The rumour mill has cranked up already. Why am I boarding when I live so close to the school? Junkie? Sex addict? Psychopath? All three? Maybe if I look scary and sinister enough they might leave me alone all semester.

  I feel even more out of place than normal here. No one is dressed like me. I guess nobody ever dresses like me. Today I’ve got blood-red fingernails, a purple velvet jacket, black petticoat dress and lace stockings. My skin is white and my hair is dyed the colour of a vinyl record. Everyone else is either straight off the farm – work boots, trackies, jeans, ponytails, freckles and clean, tanned skin – or they are sporting up-to-the-minute designer gear (possibly designer rip-offs if you look closely enough) from somewhere exotic and Asian.

  I’ve got to be honest: I’m scared. I’ve never lived out of home. Sure, my parents have taken us on local holidays, even the odd overseas trip, but they’ve always come with us. I don’t want to let Dad see me cry, so I act tough, slam the car door and don’t let him help me with my bag.

  ‘This can be easy or this can be very hard,’ he says under his breath. ‘Let’s try not to make a scene.’

  Dad’s as laidback as Mum is highly strung. He works two days a week as a graphic designer at Drop Zone, a surfing magazine. The rest of the time he’s a stay-at-home dad. I think he’s pretty good at it. He tries to help me with my homework and he plays Barbies with Liv. The problem is he’s hopeless at keeping the house tidy – mess just follows him around. Mum comes home from working in Canberra and yells at him because there are wet towels on the floor and he got takeaway again. I don’t know why they bother staying married. They hardly see each other and when they do, they end up fighting. When Mum is home she’s so stressed out and distracted she usually ends up glued to her phone, frantically running around the house cleaning up after us, or waging battles with me.

  Lately our mother–daughter time has been spent locked in squabbles about my clothes (too black, too weird, too second-hand), my friends (too spooky looking, not enough manners), homework, curfews, chores, world views, music volume, time spent on the computer and listening to my iPod (too much) versus time spent exercising in the fresh air (not enough). There’s really nothing we agree on.

  I stomp across the courtyard wheeling my heavy bag behind me. Liv and Dad go in first and I loiter at the entrance for a minute. I’m in no hurry to submit myself to a full cavity body check or whatever happens when you enter into a maximum-security boarding house.

  I’m fiddling with my phone when a battered ute pulls up and Maddy Minogue, a boarder in my year, hops out, flashing her knickers. She’s scowling at an old, wrinkled guy behind the wheel.

  ‘Don’t I get a kiss goodbye from my daughter?’ he says.

  ‘No way,’ she says. He looks disappointed and she relents, giving him a peck on the cheek.

  ‘That’s better.’

  A young guy throws Maddy’s bag over his shoulder like it’s a sheep ready to be shorn. He’s so not my type – he’s too tanned, square jawed and wholesome – but I can’t help staring at him as he runs up the stairs, two at a time, and throws the bag down next to me. I’m guessing he’s either Maddy’s brother or her latest boyfriend.

  He looks up and smiles and I swear he gives me a cheeky wink. Does he? Not that many people dare wink at me. Especially when I’m in full Goth gear. I’m so stunned I just stare at him solemnly.

  I’m not sure if he winked at me or not but, for a second, I don’t feel as miserable.

  The Year Tens are still gossiping but the possible winker has caught their attention.

  ‘Who. Is. He?’ says Emma Cobb.

  ‘Lachlan Minogue,’ says Harriet Barker. ‘Can you believe skanky Maddy Minogue has a brother that is so delectable?’

  We all stare at Lachlan and let out a collective schoolgirl sigh as he leaps back into the ute, waving at Maddy.

  ‘Totally gorgeous in every way,’ says Harriet.

  Silently I agree with her. Another unlikely event.

  Dad finally gets sick of waiting for me. He flies out of the boarding house and grabs my bag – knocking me out of my fantasy about moving to the country and letting this strange farm boy take me on picnics.

  ‘Kate? Come on!’ Dad says, irritated. ‘Everyone’s waiting.’

  Inside the boarding house it’s chaos – girls everywhere, bags, noise. I want to crawl into a corner somewhere but we’re swept up by some girl called Gabby, who’s my ‘boarding coordinator’. She’s about twenty and dressed in ironed jeans, a crisp, striped shirt and Converse. �
��I live on campus,’ she says with a big cheesy smile that’s aimed right at Dad, ‘so I’m here for anything you might need, Kate. Even just a chat or a cuppa. Life in the boarding house isn’t always easy. I should know: I used to be a boarder here a few years ago.’

  ‘Okay, thanks,’ I mutter. But I’m pretty certain I don’t want a cuppa and a chinwag with Gabby.

  ‘Are you here full time?’ Dad asks Gabby.

  ‘Part time,’ says Gabby. ‘I’m studying at uni. Second year med.’

  I bet Mum would love that little revelation. She’d think Gabby’s wholesome geekiness might be contagious.

  ‘Okay,’ Gabby says, clapping her hands enthusiastically. ‘Before we settle you into your room, Kate, I’ll give you all a quick tour.’

  My room. I start to feel better, imagining locking myself away for a few hours and talking to Annie about how much of a prison this place is.

  Of course Dad and Liv tag along. They don’t want to miss a moment of my humiliation. We trail Gabby down a narrow corridor into an echoey dining hall with long wooden tables and benches. It reeks of disinfectant.

  ‘Breakfast is at seven, lunch at twelve thirty and dinner at six thirty sharp,’ says Gabby. Ladies in hairnets potter in the kitchen preparing dinner. I’ve heard the boarding house food is inedible and have brought a stash of chocolate and lollies with me so I don’t starve.

  ‘All the boarders help with serving and clearing. Rosters are put up on the noticeboard every week. I know what people say about the food at boarding schools, but it’s actually pretty good,’ says Gabby to Dad. She’s trying to impress him.

  Girls like Gabby think my dad’s cute with his cool jeans and surf T-shirts. Revolting.

  ‘The girls particularly enjoy pizza night on Saturdays. Kate, you can also come here anytime and make yourself a hot drink and grab a bikkie or a piece of fruit. Okay. Next stop, the TV room . . .’

  Gabby moves on to the TV room, a sad little box filled with beanbags and limp couches with mystery stains. There’s also a sterile study area.