Preloved (7 page)

I gave my late pass to Ms Davies. I covered one side of my face, expecting everyone to point and throw spitballs at me, but no one could even be bothered to look at me. Belle, the girl who always had her nose in a book, looked up briefly and then went back to reading.

I trudged to my usual spot at the back in Accounting, next to good ol’ motivational poster, my overenthusiastic friend. Logan followed me.

It wasn’t until I got closer that I realised someone had replaced the motivational poster with a
de
-motivational poster. I stared at it in disgust. FAIL, it said to me, in big block letters.

Why did everything have to be so negative? Why was everyone always so sarcastic or snarky and depressing? Couldn’t people be just a little bit positive? Was it too much to ask?

Maybe I was talking about myself. Maybe I hated being inside my own skin. Please, God, take me out of this sick sad world and take me to 1987, when
The Princess Bride
came out.

I plonked down onto my seat and tossed my bag aside.

“I don’t see this being the future, Amy. Where are the robot servants? The giant computers? The tight-fitting silver and neon spacesuits?” Logan crossed his arms and sat on the edge of desk.

I wished I could poke him with my ruler.

Actually, I noticed he wasn’t technically sitting on my desk. He was hovering above it by a few millimetres.
Oh my God, Amy, why are you staring at his arse?

“Look at the whiteboard. I don’t know if you had them in your day. Maybe you had blackboards or stone tablets, but this one is an electronic whiteboard,” I hissed. “Ms Davies is going to use it any sec now; just wait.”

Ms Davies didn’t. She just sat there on top of her desk, reading from the text as the boys in the front row ogled her stockinged legs. Man, there were so many things I wanted to hit with my ruler.

“I know what a whiteboard is,” said Logan. “Whoopee.”

“Fine, whatever,” I whispered. “Look at this.”

I leaned over and pulled my mobile phone out of my bag.

“I’ve seen enough movies to know that back in your day, phones were like huge black bricks with antennae coming out of them. Look, this is what they’re like now.”

I placed it on the desk for him to see.

“That’s a phone? Get outta here.”

“No, I’m not going to ‘get outta here’. I’m staying. And yes, this is a real phone.”

“But it’s so small. How do you listen into one end and talk into the other at the same time? If you had it up to your ear it wouldn’t even reach your mouth.”

“It’s because of, er … the radio waves. Wireless. Bluetooth. Blu-ray. Something like that.”

“Grouse,” said Logan.

“My phone is actually a few years old,” I whispered. “Not really that ‘grouse’ any more. If you want to see ‘grouse’, you should see one of the really new models like …”

Did I dare?

I looked down in front of me. Florence Kwong’s schoolbag was slumped behind her chair. She was staring at the ceiling and chewing gum. Obviously making new rumours in her head to circulate during recess.

Slowly, I lowered myself down again, as though I intended to take something out of my own bag. Then I slid my hand inside Florence’s bag. Hmmm. Books, books, lunch? Stick of deodorant, wallet … aha! Phone.

“Look at this,” I whispered, excitement in my voice as I held the sleek, silver thing in my palm, even though I didn’t understand new technology. I didn’t get why people camped out overnight to buy the latest gadget. As Mum said, people used to camp out for romantic things … like tickets to see Bananarama in concert.

“Sick to the max,” said Logan.

“Does that mean good?” I asked him sheepishly.

“Duh!” replied Logan.

“Great,” I whispered. I was going to lower myself down and put the phone back when … it rang.

The whole class turned to see where the noise was coming from.

“Didn’t I say all phones off during class?” Ms Davies’s voice came sternly from the front. “Whoever owns that phone is spending their recess with me.”

“Hey, that’s the theme from
The NeverEnding Story
. Choice,” said Logan.

Florence turned around to face me, a look of horror on her face.

“Do you want to answer it? It’s your mum,” I said weakly to her.

Florence’s mouth formed itself into a shiny, lip-glossed ‘O’.

“Ms Davies,” Florence said loudly and she turned to face our teacher. “Amy is trying to steal my brand-new, expensive phone!”

I wasn’t surprised when I couldn’t think of a creative excuse for why I was holding Florence Kwong’s phone. To show my technologically challenged invisible friend? Despite what your parents tell you, sometimes telling the truth is not the answer. That’s how I got the detention slip to match my late slip.

“Nice move, McFly.”

“Please shut up. I’m beginning to believe you’re more a mental condition than a ghost, because I’m beginning to get a massive headache.”

“It’ll be just like
The Breakfast Club
,” said Logan.

“I have never, I repeat, never, done detention before.”

I can’t believe Florence got a get-out-of-jail-free ticket. Wait till she tells Nancy and Valerie all about this. I wondered how fast the toxic rumour spill would spread in the Asian community.

So much for my dream of going home early to help Mum unpack those big goodie boxes of ball dresses. Especially that mysterious box under the stairs.

I wanted to smash my fist through the glass library door, but instead I politely heaved it open by the heavy silver handle. Logan slipped in behind me before it closed. I wondered why he just didn’t walk thought it. Ghosts were supposed to be able to go through walls, right?

“Hi, Mrs Marshall,” I said to our librarian, who was too busy to look up from her women’s mag.

“Go through, sit down, try to keep the noise level down and then you can leave,” she droned at me.

Okay. I guess detention sounded … easy?

“I know you’re gonna spew again about stereotypes, right, but have you ever thought that they exist for a reason? People like forming little groups. It’s all cool bananas,” Logan was saying to me.

“Stereotypes are so 1990s,” I replied, walking around the lending and information desk. “And you didn’t even live through the Nineties. People are individuals these days.”

I could hear voices coming from the centre of the library, and they sounded mighty familiar.

Oh no.

“Okay, dudes, the next question is: ‘Is this character – AKA the Bexter – exceptionally beautiful’?”

“Hell yeah. Tick.”

“Does anyone fight over this character because of her good looks?”

“Only, like,
all the guys
. Tick.”

“Do other characters see this character as a threat?”

“Only like,
all the girls
.”

“Except Amy.”

Silence.

“But Amy doesn’t count, ’cos she’s not a threat herself.”

“Okay, tick.”

What?

Logan hurried on ahead of me and looked around the corner towards the main library floor.

“I rest my case,” he said, throwing his arms out. “Look at that. They still exist after the Eighties, after
The Breakfast Club
. I present to you Miss Amy, a pack of nerds!”

He bowed and stepped to the side as I approached.

“Does this character have unnatural hair colour that stands out from the norm?”

“Dude, did you see it this morning? It’s pink!”

Fanboy sniggers all around.

“Does this character believe that their beauty is a curse?”

“Hmmm, don’t know. Might have to get an outside opinion on that one …”

“I’m your outside opinion,” I said to the table. “What are you pack of nerds doing?”

Did I really just say that?

Michael Limawan and his two idiot friends, Matthew Pickering and Mark Earnshaw, last seen dressed as a pack of wild, marauding Jason Donovans, looked up at me in shock. They were sitting around a library table looking at a large piece of paper that was spread out in the middle.

“What the hell is this?” I snatched up the paper. “The Universal Mary Sue Litmus Test?” I said, reading the heading. “Is this some perverted game? And you’re using it on Rebecca?”

“Yes, I mean no, I mean–” Michael stood up. “You asked a lot of questions in succession. I got confused.”

I scanned the hundred questions in disgust. I could sense Logan hovering behind me.

“It’s just for fun. We kinda asked ourselves the question of whether the Bexter was actually a real human and then Matty suggested she probably fulfilled more of the criteria of a fantasy woman character that existed inside our heads and … we got curious. I’m sure the Bexter wouldn’t mind.”

“Because one of the questions is ‘Is this character especially kind and empathetic even to her enemies’ and we answered ‘yes’,” said Matty.

“In that case, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if I threw this away.” I scrunched the paper up. It was so big that it wouldn’t fit into the little wastepaper bin, so I had to cram it down the big blue recycling bin.

“Why are you in detention?” asked Michael.

I squeezed onto the table between Michael and Mark. I watched Logan as he wandered around the room, inspecting it.

“The three of you have asked each other enough questions, so I think I’m entitled to ask one first. Why are all
three of you
in detention?”

Michael looked depressed.

“We snuck into Metalwork to finish a secret side project and we got caught,” said Matty.

“What exactly were you making?” I asked.

“A medieval sword,” said Mark. “And the principal took it away.”

The three of them exchanged woeful looks.

“Fair dinkum, how many years did you say have passed, Amy?” said Logan. He looked amused. “Have I gone into the future, or back into the Bronze Age?”

“You know what–” started Michael.

“Um, how long is detention?” I said, turning to face him.

“Two hours.”

“Good. Then I want you to zip it for two hours, if you don’t mind,” I said. “I’ve got a headache.”

The detention crew exchanged looks. I sighed and rubbed my forehead. My eyes followed Logan as he bent over to look at a display cabinet of old school memorabilia. He put his hand tentatively against the glass, and then I saw him push. His hand went right through and I almost gasped in fear.

He was okay. I repeat: he was okay! I breathed a sigh of relief. I watched as he looked at his hand, still on the other side of the glass, in surprise. He waggled his fingers.

“What are you watching?” asked Michael.

The question should be why was Michael watching me?

“Nothing,” I said. I folded my hands in my lap. I wasn’t going to fall for this girl baiting.

Michael was okay on his own. We had that moment yesterday in the Metalworks classroom. But in the presence of his gang, the testosterone was obviously too much for his brain cells to take.

“You’re lying. You’re watching something like a hawk. With the look that mothers have when they’re looking at their children, or that look girls get when they’re crushing on a boy.”

“Of course not!” I said. I had intended to sound unfazed, so naturally my voice came out extra loud and high-pitched. Logan turned to look at me. He motioned furiously for me to come over.

“And you’re still wearing that locket.” Michael raised his eyebrows. Mark and Matty sniggered. “Did your boyfriend give it to you? Who is he? Some bogan from the ’burbs?”

“He’s not, okay?” I actually stood up. I surprised even myself. I knew that Michael was just trying to annoy me, since the two of us were mortal enemies on opposite sides of the Rebecca War. But I didn’t mean to sound so angry.

Was I actually defending Logan?

“I didn’t mean it that way. I’m sorry, Amy.”

I turned back to Logan, who was still beckoning for me to come over.

“Michael, you suck. I’m going to go over to that corner to sulk.”

I quickly walked over to where Logan was, too aware of the three pairs of confused eyes burning into my back. I positioned my body so I was angled towards Logan and they couldn’t see my face.

“What?” I said under my breath. “Please make it quick so they don’t catch me talking to myself. Or else it’s going to be the longest two hours of my life.”

“Look, Amy.” Logan pointed to the picture of the 1988 Girls’ Volleyball team in the display cabinet. That was the last time our school had won the state championships. You could say it’s been a while.

“There’s Stacey, right there.”

I leaned forwards. I scanned the faces carefully. And there, at the very front, kneeling on the ground with the trophy and a dazzling smile on her face was … Rebecca. My friend Rebecca Starling. But it couldn’t be.

Rebecca’s never had bangs and a body perm. And she’s never had blond hair. Too commercial.

I looked at the names across the bottom. It said, “Team Captain, Stacey Gibson.”

“See, I told you she’s Stacey,” said Logan with a triumphant look on his face. I just wish his triumphant face wasn’t so good-looking.

“And that locket you’re wearing belongs to her. Go on, open it.”

I didn’t want to look away from Logan. I was too scared. I had the sinking feeling that, in terms of Michael Jackson songs, things were about to go from “Bad” to “Off the Wall”.