The Whole of My World Read online

  ‘Welcome to our class, Michelle,’ she booms. ‘I hope you’re happy here.’ She has the largest – not just the loudest, but the largest – voice I’ve ever heard on a woman, let alone someone the size of an eleven-year-old.

  I’m about to correct her when Mrs Brandt steps forward and says, ‘Shelley. She likes to be called Shelley.’

  I smile at Mrs Brandt gratefully. She nods twice, pleased with herself, then leaves.

  The door closes and silence falls.

  I look at the class.

  They look at me.

  Then we all look at Sister Brigid.

  I wonder if I’m supposed to speak. Then, because it’s killing me, I find myself doing a weird kind of dipping curtsey to fill that space. Even as I’m doing it, I’m wishing the ground would swallow me up, but there’s no way out, so I finish with a red-faced nod.

  Everyone laughs. All thirty of them. Even Sister Brigid seems alarmed.

  I stand there, scarlet cheeks probably visible from the moon, thinking, Please let this end.

  Finally, Sister Brigid points to a seat near the back of the room, then turns towards the class as though nothing has happened, dismissing me in the same instant. ‘All rise!’ she intones.

  There’s a muffled scraping of chairs and everyone stands up. I take the moment to escape to the back of the room and slide into an empty desk.

  ‘Heads down!’

  As one, the girls bow their heads and wait in silence.

  I watch from the corners of my eyes, doing my best not to be too obviously confused by this series of commands.

  ‘Hail Mary, full of grace . . .’ The whole class recites the ‘Ave Maria’, their voices blending into a flat, rumbling chant.

  I can’t remember the words. My blush has hardly faded before it creeps back right where it’s most comfortable. I move my lips as vaguely as I can, my head dipped lower than everyone else’s in an effort to hide my crappy lip-syncing. Dad started taking me to Mass more regularly after the accident, trying to play catch-up on all those years of neglect. But a few months later he stopped completely. He stopped doing a lot of things after the accident. That’s probably the one I miss the least. I’m not sure he really believes in it all, anyway. Sometimes I think he just doesn’t know what else to do with me.

  ‘Amen.’

  Everyone sits and Sister Brigid asks us to open our textbooks to page forty-two for ‘quiet reading’. I scan the classroom, the buzz and chatter lifting with every passing minute. I try to concentrate on the chapter in front of me but there’s too much happening – in the classroom and in my head. And I’m clearly not the only one struggling to focus. Within minutes, Sister Brigid’s harsh voice cuts through the din and a girl I haven’t noticed before – ‘TARA LESTER!’ – is sent to the back of the room, to the seat right next to me.

  And in that instant I learn two important things about my new school: the back row of desks is a punishment at St Mary’s, and Tara Lester has spent a lot of time in the desk I’m currently occupying. I know this because she’s scratched her name into it. All the scribbles and scratches, indecipherable before, begin to take shape; far more interesting than the chapter I’m supposed to be reading on Australia’s participation in the First World War. Beside Tara’s name in small, crooked letters are the words ‘Falcons for Premiers!’.

  My heart does another flip. Only, this is the good kind.

  I look sideways at Tara and catch her watching me. We both quickly turn away. For five long minutes we feign interest in the Diggers at Fromelles, carefully ignoring each other before she finally breaks the silence.

  ‘I’m Tara,’ she says, her voice low.

  ‘I’m Shelley. Hi.’

  Tara shrugs, meaning either she already knew or doesn’t care. Or both. She’s scribbling away on her folder, the contact paper disappearing under doodles of gold and brown stripes, squares and circles, with a football-shaped blob in the centre. There is no doubt what it represents.

  ‘You barrack for Glenthorn?’ I whisper.

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘Me too.’ Probably too loud for quiet reading, but I’m determined to be brave today. Dad once said I was ‘terminally optimistic’. At the time, it wasn’t meant to be a compliment.

  Tara rolls her eyes. She’s stopped doodling now, which I decide to take as encouragement.

  ‘Who’s your favourite player?’

  ‘Killer Compton,’ she offers, her voice matter-of-fact like she’s said this a thousand times before.

  Kevin ‘Killer’ Compton is probably the greatest player to have ever pulled on a boot. Dad says maybe the greatest player we’ll ever see. Three-quarters of Glenthorn supporters would pick Killer over anyone else. Probably a good number of non-Glenthorn footy fans too, if they were honest. They’d never admit it, of course. They say they hate him – the other fans. But no one bothers to hate an opponent unless they’re something really special.

  Tara is watching me now. ‘Who’s yours?’

  It feels like a test. ‘Peter Moss.’

  Tara snorts. ‘Too showy. Besides, he’s just about gone.’

  I almost roll my eyes but manage to hold back. Nothing is more exciting than seeing Mossy go up for a mark, despite all his injuries. If you love football even the tiniest bit, you have to be impressed with his mighty leaps, if nothing else. Maybe it is showy but, boy, what a show. Still, I’m seriously thinking about adding to my favourites. Now seems as good a time as any. ‘Chris Jury and Buddha Monk. Gavin Black, too.’

  I want to add Mick ‘Eddie’ Edwards, but he’s too new and a Western Australian. He’s only played a couple of practice matches so far and he’s a long way from proving himself here, but I have high hopes for him. I saw him in a Night Series match a couple of years ago – South Perth versus the Falcons. Eddie blitzed, kicking eight goals. We won the game but Eddie just about beat us all by himself. Even Dad was impressed. Eddie is probably closer to the end of his career than I’d like but he’s got more football left in him than Mossy.

  ‘You’re not a bandwagon supporter, are you?’ she asks, narrowing her eyes with suspicion.

  ‘What – the Falcons?’ I’ve forgotten about Sister Brigid now. This is way more important. This is where I live. ‘My granddad barracked for them.’ I want to add that my mum did as well, but I hate the past tense too much to say it out loud.

  Those swimming-pool-blue eyes almost close as she assesses me. ‘Even when they sucked?’

  I shrug, happily on safer ground. ‘I had to. They never gave me a choice.’ I don’t mention Mum’s hand-me-down Glenthorn jumper that her dad had given her when she was a kid. She gave it to me when I was five, Mossy’s number 24 stitched newly on the back. The jumper was easily four sizes too big but that didn’t stop me from wearing it. Every single day. Mum used to sneak it out of my room at night just to wash it. I wore that jumper until the sleeves barely covered my forearms, and even then I tucked it away in my drawer. I still have it though I’m not really sure what I’m keeping it for – I have a new jumper that fits properly. But I just can’t give the old one away. The new one doesn’t have a number on it yet. I’m pretty sure I know who I’ll choose but I haven’t said it out loud before . . .

  Suddenly I want to. The brand-new, line-drawing side of me wants to, just to hear the words. ‘But my favourite is Mick Edwards,’ I say, my terminal optimism refusing to shut up.

  ‘He’s a bit old for a recruit. Must be almost thirty.’ Thirty-one, actually, which is pretty old, I admit, but he’s got plenty of great football left in him. You can just tell with some players. I’m about to protest when she continues.

  ‘Still, if he does what he did last year at South Perth, he could be a good buy,’ she says slowly. ‘Shame he’s a sandgroper.’

  ‘No one’s perfect.’ I try on a smile. Not a big one – that would only scare Tara off. Just a twist of the lips that I can easily cover up if I need to. Although I want to be brave, I’m not a masochist.

  ‘I
have his autograph,’ Tara announces proudly.

  I finally get a proper look at her as I gawp at this stunning revelation. She has glossy brown hair, darker than mine and long. It hangs all the way down to the small of her back. It’s neatly gathered in a ponytail, except part of her fringe kicks out in the opposite direction to what it’s supposed to, as though in defiance of the rest of her haircut. Her skin is fair – sickly, even – except for the pinkest lips that look almost bruised. Her eyes are a startlingly crystal-clear blue. Individually, her features could be pretty but, somehow, in the process of constructing a face, the bits don’t quite seem to match. I remember reading in Science that the human face is not symmetrical, but Tara’s seems to be almost lopsided. ‘How’d you get that?’

  ‘Easy, just go down to Fernlee Park and watch them train. Sometimes you even get a sausage at the barbie.’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘Yeah. Really.’

  ‘And the players are just wandering around?’

  ‘At the start they are, then they train. What did you think they’d be doing?’

  I don’t know how to answer that. It had never occurred to me before. I watch the games on TV, and we used to go to Valley Park a lot. We’d play kick-to-kick on the oval after the game when Mum and Dad weren’t in a hurry – ignoring the thousands of other kids recklessly doing the same thing all around us. But I’ve never seen a player up close. I’ve never met one of them. ‘So anyone can go?’

  ‘Of course anyone can go. It’s just training. It’s just around the corner from here, down Fernlee Park Road.’

  I think about my accidental tram ride along Fernlee Park Road this morning care of the smug Barbie doll in St Mary’s uniform, and wonder if I passed the oval without realising. I take a deep breath. ‘Next time you go, can I come with you?’

  ‘Maybe. I don’t go every week.’

  Sister Brigid shoots us a warning glance. ‘I hope you two aren’t talking!’ she thunders.

  We both smile weakly.

  ‘Good,’ Sister Brigid says, turning back to the blackboard.

  We bow our heads and pretend to concentrate on our books. Time ticks over, the classroom hum grows, and soon I’m actually reading the words in front of me, the stories of the Diggers and the ANZACs, the war widows and the kids left at home. But all the while I’m praying that Tara will say something – anything – about watching the Falcons train.

  And then, after I’ve given up completely, she hisses at me. ‘Probably next Thursday,’ she whispers.

  I nod and smile, feeling something rise inside me. Something good. Something big. And I wonder if this is what it feels like to start again.

  I don’t get a chance to talk to Tara about Fernlee Park again after that because we’re separated into different classes for most of the day, but I run into the sneering Barbie doll and her posse at lunchtime. There’s nowhere to go in this tiny school – an open courtyard, a small quadrangle and some tired-looking tennis courts that also serve as netball, basketball and volleyball courts are my only options – so when I see these girls I have to stand my ground.

  They don’t say anything that I can hear, although there’s plenty of whispering and nudging going on. I imagine their jokes about my weird curtsey in Sister Brigid’s class, my complete inability to speak when introduced and my general lack of coolness all round. But they don’t speak to me directly, offering nothing more than hard stares and a deliberately wide arc of concrete between us as they walk past. I’ve discovered that the blonde girl’s name is Ginnie Perkins, and that she’s easily the nastiest girl I’ve ever met. Also, unfairly, the prettiest.

  I barely open my mouth again after the conversation with Tara, except to lie to Mrs Brandt about how friendly the girls have been when she corners me in the hallway outside her office. I even remain quiet in English Lit with Miss Whitecross despite her announcement that we’re reading The Great Gatsby next, one of Mum’s favourite novels. The fact that the Perkins girl is in my best class is enough to nearly kill my enthusiasm for books and reading. But by the end of the lesson, I decide to never let her stop me from joining in again – not in English Lit anyway.

  The trip home isn’t much better. Tara disappears to catch the tram up High Street, opposite to where I have to go, so I’m on my own again. On the tram, a noisy group of Year 7 girls are giggling and exclaiming over each other and occasionally breaking into song. One girl starts singing ‘Love is a Battlefield’ at the top of her lungs, performing a theatrical mime of a shooting gun and fainting – cue explosive laughter from her friends – and I’m forced to sidestep her final lunging pose on my way through the messy pile of schoolbags that blocks my way. I manage to find a discreet corner in the back of the tram and sink heavily into the last empty seat, the weight of the day’s pressure finally lifting from my shoulders. I wish I could curl up and go to sleep right here but am afraid I would never wake up.

  I get off the tram at Glen Malvern Station and am about to cross the street when I see the Perkins girl and her mates clustered on the Glenvalley-bound train platform. I try to measure my chances of slipping by them without being seen, but they’re basically blocking the ticket barriers. There’s no other way through. I consider my options – I’m so tired and just want to flop down on my bed and read. Or cry. Or read and cry. But that’s not going to happen. I cross the street and disappear into a milk bar with a clear view of the station through its window, and wait as the train pulls up to take them away.

  Except they don’t get on. Instead, they join up with a group of Celtic College boys who leap off the train to meet them. The group virtually doubles in size, with a handful of kids from other schools I don’t recognise appearing from other carriages. There’s more than fifteen of them now, and none of them seems in a hurry to go home.

  I look at my watch: 4.10. Another train comes and goes without the group thinning. I watch four more trains pass, the whole time pretending to study the bread selection as if agonising over white or wholemeal, evading the weird looks from the woman behind the counter. She asks me several times if there’s anything I want, but when I finally turn to her, my eyes moist with the tears I refuse to shed, I see her hesitate then smile grimly. She nods, her expression softer, and I know she’ll leave me alone.

  Almost an hour later, the girls get on a train and the Celtic boys and their mates head off, and I’m left to face the long ride to Glenvalley alone. Which is what I wanted all along, really.

  The house is quiet as I approach the driveway. It looks empty in a way that it never used to before the accident. Even when Mum wasn’t home, the house seemed to hum, as though her energy alone was enough to light the windows for hours after she left. Maybe it’s the tired, neglected garden or the washed-out colour of the beige brick veneer in the dusky light, but it has the look of a place abandoned.

  The heaviness presses in on me as I take the stairs one by one. I can hear the telly on inside. Dad’s home after all. The flickering images reflecting on the front window, ghostly and erratic, tease me with glimpses of life happening somewhere else. Snatches of canned laughter deliver short stabs of something nameless inside me, stopping me from opening the door. It’s just the TV, I remind myself. It’s not even real. But these snatches of sitcom happiness make the silent and lifeless house even more depressing than usual.

  I stand there a long minute, wishing that the last couple of years hadn’t happened. Wishing that the house could be warm with cooking smells and the sound of Mum humming along to West Side Story or The Sound of Music – it didn’t matter which because they both sounded the same in her tone-deaf rendition. She used to sing loudly and passionately, so lost in the words and the music that she wouldn’t hear us come in. And then she’d see us and her already-sparkling eyes would light up impossibly brighter, just because we were there. And she’d grin at my disgusted ‘Mum! Please!’ as though she knew that, no matter what I said, she could always make me smile.

  I let myself into the house but avoid the
living room where Dad is watching Hogan’s Heroes repeats. He probably wanted to be home early because it’s my first day. Before the accident I would have rushed in there to see him, let his arms enfold me and hold me tight. Hear his warm, deep voice tell me that everything will be all right.

  ‘Hi, Dad!’ I call out on the way to my bedroom, my enthusiasm as empty as the house feels. Not ready to relive the day, I’m counting on him to leave me alone until I come out for dinner. I shut my bedroom door and lean against it, careful not to catch my bag on the Falcons premiership flag draped across it. My whole body feels heavy with the day’s disappointments, as though they’ve been carved into each limb. And I don’t know how to shake it off.

  ‘Shell?’ The sharpness of Dad’s voice right outside my room startles me.

  ‘Yes?’ I manage weakly.

  There’s an impossible silence. ‘Everything okay?’

  I stand by the door, my breath loud and uneven. I don’t have the strength to withstand his concern – not now. I need to warm up before I can face him. ‘No big deal,’ I say to the closed door. ‘I have a headache. The train was packed, no room to breathe.’ The lie comes easily enough – I just picture what might have happened had I stayed with the St Mary’s girls and caught the train I was meant to. I can hear my heart thumping in the silence that follows. Surely he can hear it too?

  ‘Okay,’ he says eventually. ‘Dinner will be ready soon.’

  I can’t imagine my stomach dealing with anything that even remotely resembles food right now but I thank Dad anyway, because it means I’ve bought a little more time until I have to face him.

  ‘She barracks for Glenthorn, too?’ Dad asks, chewing slowly on a piece of schnitzel. He has this thing about chewing everything twenty-one times. Literally, twenty-one chews per mouthful. I used to count him doing it, much to Mum’s amusement. She used to defend him, saying it was good manners and excellent for your digestion. Her eyes used to sparkle when she’d say this though and he’d give her that quick, sheepish smile that meant he knew she was making fun of him but was also oddly pleased by it.