The Protected (9 page)

Fifteen

I am up to song two-hundred and forty-six: ‘The Lost Art of Keeping a
Secret'
by a band called Queens of the Stone Age. When I walk around the corner of the ag building, Josh is already there. He is down on the grass, next to the veranda, crouched beside the paddock fence. A goat has its head through the wire and is eating grass from his hand. He goes to scratch it behind the ear and the goat startles. He waits, holding still while the goat watches him, decides he is safe and reaches forwards again to take more grass. Josh looks over his shoulder and sees me. I pull the earphones from my ears.

‘I gotta go, Goatee. Or Jane'll get jealous.'

He stands and vaults up onto the veranda, takes a seat on the edge, feet dangling over.

‘This is my spot,' I say.

‘Um, this is out of bounds, Jane. So it's nobody's spot. You can't own it, I'll dob you in. And I think after the whole Maths prank you pulled you would be in a lot of trouble.' He opens his bag and pulls out a sausage roll and a carton of chocolate milk.

‘Where's your lunch?' he asks me.

I produce a no-name brand muesli bar.

‘Oh man. That's your lunch? That's all you've got?'

‘There was no food left in the house. Again.'

‘Someone tell World Vision. You could be a sponsor child. Here.' He breaks the sausage roll in two and hands me half.

‘No, it's okay.'

‘It is not okay. You need some saturated fats, girl. You'll fade away.'

I take the sausage roll from him. We sit there eating our bits of sausage roll. He is done in two bites.

‘How come I get a nickname?' I ask.

‘Nickname? What nickname? I have no idea what you're talking about, Jane. Why's it called that anyway? A nickname? Was there some dude called Nicholas and one day someone couldn't be bothered and called him Nick instead? Is human invention fuelled by laziness?'

‘Couldn't say.'

‘Always ducking around the hard questions, Jane. Very elusive. Drink?' he holds the chocolate milk in my direction.

‘No. Thank you.'

He shrugs and takes a swig from the carton. ‘Ahh, that's the ticket. Doesn't your mum make you lunch, Jane? Oh shit. She is around, isn't she? She wasn't in the car accident? Sorry.'

‘No. She's around. Just.'

‘Phew. Man, I get all “Gah!” when I'm around you.' He shakes his hands crazily next to his head. ‘Scared I'm going to say the wrong thing and traumatise you.'

‘You won't traumatise me.'

‘Good. Let's talk about something else. Anything you'd like to discuss?'

‘Um. How do you like being at St Joseph's? Do … do you feel you are getting a quality education?'

‘Ha ha. Nice reporter voice. Oh man. What is with the teachers here? They're all so concerned. Mr Black's like, “How are you settling in, son?”' Josh puts on a fake deep voice, furrowing his eyebrows. ‘This is right after he gives me a detention. So I'm like, well it would help if you didn't give me all these detentions. And he gives me extra “tasks” for D&T. I don't even know why. I'll be in class and he'll hand me a lump of wood and say, “Go and sand that for me, son”. I mean, is that supposed to be a reward or a punishment? I won't lie, Jane. I find it confusing. And the uniform rules piss me off, I'll be honest. What's with the ties? In summer! Man, it's not a freakin' business college. I'm not here to learn to become a banker.'

‘What do you want to do? I mean after Japan.'

‘You remember that, very observant, Jane.' He stretches up, puts his hands behind his head and leans back against his bag. ‘I don't know. I was thinking of design or something. Not graphic design but like, furniture or something. Like I'm making this cabinet thing for my D&T project. I like furniture.'

‘It's a reward.'

‘What?'

‘When Mr Black gives you something extra to do. He's probably noticed you're good at D&T.'

Josh raises his eyebrows. ‘You think? I was talking to him about Japanese architecture once, that was cool.'

‘You're his protégé.'

Josh laughs. ‘But I'm shit at Maths. He's told me if I want to do design at uni I have to “pull my socks up”. But it's just so boring, like who cares about the value of “x”?'

‘I know.'

‘And what about the textbook questions? If Johnny has to eat eighteen hot dogs, and he's already eaten one-third, how many hot dogs are left? For starters, who the hell is making poor Johnny eat eighteen hot dogs? Secondly, why doesn't Johnny just count them himself? And thirdly, as if that's a problem I'm ever going to have to solve in real life. But I need good marks. So I guess I gotta figure stuff out. Get my shit together. Start giving a crap about Johnny and his hot dogs.'

‘My dad's an architect.'

‘Oh yeah? He happy?'

‘No. I don't think that's because of his job, though.'

‘Fair enough. I'd like to become an awesome successful designer mainly so I can stick it to my dad.' He laughs. ‘So I can be all like, “You said I'd never do anything useful, look at me now!” That makes me really screwed up, doesn't it?'

‘I think revenge is a perfectly good motive.'

He looks at me and narrows his eyes. ‘Oh yeah? And who would you like revenge against?'

I don't reply.

He looks at me, waiting. ‘Hmm, very mysterious, Jane. Let me know if you want me to hurt someone for you. I mean, I can give it a go.'

‘Your dad wouldn't be happy if you did design at uni?'

‘My dad is permanently not happy, but yeah. He wants me to be like my brother – wear a suit, make heaps of cash and then spend every Friday getting plastered so I can forget how much I hate my life.'

‘That's what your brother does?'

‘Yeah. And you know, Dad doesn't give a shit about being happy. It's not about that, it's about looking good to everyone else, having an investment property, a nice car, all of that crap. Who cares if you want to slit your wrists every waking moment.'

‘What about your mum? What does she think?'

‘Ah, you see, that's irrelevant because he'll be the one paying the uni fees.'

‘Oh.'

He is quiet for a few minutes. We sit and watch the goats. Eventually the bell sounds for the end of lunch. He turns to me. ‘Well, it's been swell. Ha. That rhymes. What do you have now?'

‘Ah, I have a thing over in D Building.'

‘A thing, hey? Mysterious.'

‘Yeah.'

He laughs. ‘I'll walk you.'

***

The tourists that bypass our town are usually headed to a village called Leura, it's one of the ones with boutiques and cafés. It also has a bookstore – the kind I could live in, burrow myself away amongst Austen and the Brontes. Nestle between Dickens and Hardy. Not a vampire in sight. I was there one Saturday, must have been a month or so before the accident, I remember that because Dad was away at the conference in Switzerland and I felt outnumbered at home without him.

I found a hardcover edition of Hemingway's
The Old Man and the Sea
, printed in 1962 – the year my dad was born. It was one of those ones with gilt-edged pages they used to print books on, as if to signal that the words between the covers were important, significant. Useful.

I sat in the corner, between book-lined shelves and leafed through the book. Whoever had once owned it had treated it as though it were precious. My dad had stacks of books in his study, lots of Hemingway. But I hadn't seen him with a book in his hands for years. His birthday wasn't for another three months but I bought the book, cleared my bank account. Merilyn, the shop-owner, wrapped it in moss-green tissue paper. It's still in that tissue paper, wrapped up and tucked in my bottom drawer.

I left the store and lingered for a moment on the footpath, near some tables of the café next door. I was trying to fit the book in my bag when a waiter came out to take an order from a table. It was Jensen's voice that I first recognised. Pathetic, really. (Me, that is. Not his voice, it was somewhere between Hugh Jackman and ultimate fantasy Heathcliff.) The woman on the table said something to him and he laughed, tucked a lock of hair behind his ear. He was wearing black jeans and a black T-shirt which, can I say, fitted him quite well. Jensen finished taking the order and slipped his notepad into his back pocket before turning towards me to clear a pile of empty plates from another table. I like to think there's a chance I wasn't actually drooling when he saw me.

‘Hannah!' That smile again. Warm doesn't quite cover it. ‘How you doing?'

‘Hi. Good.'

‘What you up to?'

‘Bookstore. I was in the bookstore.'

‘I love that place. Bit dangerous working right next to it.'

‘Ha. Yeah.'

‘Hey, you want a coffee? I'll make you one. On the house. Sit down.'

I sat. He went inside and re-emerged a few minutes later with two squat glasses of coffee. The truth is I had never even drunk coffee before. It was creamy, rich, bitter and sweet all at once. Jensen sat opposite me. Sighed and rubbed at the back of his neck.

‘Started at six this morning. Hectic.'

‘Ha. Yeah. I hate that.' This coming from someone who had never even had a job at Maccas.

‘You buy anything?' He nodded towards the bookshop.

‘Oh. Um. Yeah.' Use your words, Hannah. ‘A Hemingway, old hardback copy. For my dad.'

‘Lucky him.'

‘Ha. Yeah.'

‘Been reading a fair bit of Hemingway at uni. We're getting well acquainted.'

Seriously, what guy uses the word ‘acquainted'?

‘Yeah, Kate said.'

‘She mentioned you were into reading. Well, she used the word obsessed, if I'm going to be honest.'

‘Yeah. I guess.'

‘What you in to?'

‘Oh. Me? Austen, the Brontes. If it was written by someone wearing a bonnet, I've probably read it.'

He laughed. ‘What's your fave Austen? I've always been a
Persuasion
man myself.'

If Jane Austen herself had come and sat down with us at that point I'm not sure I would have noticed. What guy reads
Persuasion
?

‘How is Kate? I know she's stressing about doing the HSC this year.'

‘The HSC?'

‘Yeah.' He looked at me, a little crease formed between his eyebrows. ‘She's doing the HSC this year.'

It took me a beat too long. I wasn't as good at it as she was.

‘Oh, um …'

The frown progressed. I sipped my coffee. I would have changed the topic except anything more than yes or no answers seemed beyond me.

‘Hannah?' His mouth curved into an almost-grin that didn't match his eyes. ‘Kate is in year twelve, isn't she?'

‘She's in year eleven. She'll be sixteen next month.'

He dropped his gaze to the table. ‘Well, I bet you think I'm just about the creepiest guy in the universe. Fifteen. In my defence, that's not what she told me.'

Fourteen was clearly out of the question, in that case.

‘No, I don't think … you're creepy.'

‘Well, I'm starting to … Hey, I've got to get back to it. It's been a pleasure, Hannah. As always.'

He stood up, gave a quick smile and cleared away the glasses.

***

Sixteen

Katie's role models (from pictures stuck on her corkboard):

* Tavi Gevinson

* Vivienne Westwood

* Kurt Cobain

* Karen O (Yeah Yeah Yeahs)

* Kate Moss

* Alexa Chung

* Our mum (I'm not sure I believe that, she probably added Mum's picture to make herself seem less superficial)

I know she's gone, of course. But it's those little reflexes that get me. Scanning for her face on the bus after school, or expecting the bathroom door to be locked for ages in the mornings while she did her hair and make-up. I can only imagine what it's like for Mum. When she actually cooks dinner she always makes enough for four. I've seen her standing at the sink after dinner, staring at the remaining portion on the bench, like she wants to cover it in clingwrap and put it in the fridge for Katie.

Anne asks me to tell her what exactly the Clones used to do to me. I tell her how the graffiti about me being a lesbian went on for months and months, then everyone got bored with that and found new ways to hate me. It was still going at the start of year ten. Once you're targeted like that it just sticks. I guess every year group chooses someone to heap their crap on. They chose me.

***

The morning that changed everything started out like every other. Katie and I left home to walk to the bus stop at twenty to eight. She was pissed at me because she thought I had told Mum she hadn't eaten any breakfast.

‘You're a suck up.' She walked up ahead, yelling at me over her shoulder. ‘Like it's any of your business, anyway.'

‘Katie, I swear, I didn't say anything.'

‘Yeah? How did she know I threw it out? She was upstairs. You think she went through the rubbish?'

‘Katie, I didn't say anything.'

She stopped walking, turned around.

‘Listen, you want to screw up your life by being a suck? Go for it. Just don't sabotage me while you're at it.'

‘I didn't. But, you should eat breakfast, Katie.'

‘And what would you know, lard arse? You know, she's going to sit there from now on and watch me eat it. Because of you. Coach says I should slim down. What do you want me to do?'

We both knew that was bullshit. Her expression had changed from one of fury to something else, something softer. Really, I should have guessed what was coming next.

‘Look. You have to cover for me with Mum and Dad. I'm not going to school.'

‘What?'

She dropped her backpack and released her hair from the clip that was holding it up, shook it out over her shoulders. ‘Jensen's picking me up.'

‘Now?'

‘Yeah. Don't look at me like that, Hannah. He's picking me up. You're going to write me a fake note next week and say I was at the dentist. Thanks. So I'll see you this arvo, okay? I'll meet you here at the bus stop. I'll walk home with you.'

I stood alone at the bus stop until the bus came up the road. When I got on there were only a few seats left up the front. I chose one, stowed my bag on the floor, by my feet. The bus doors closed and we lurched onto the road.

The bus drove down the street and rounded a corner. It pulled into another stop. Amy got on, her pixie hair newly bleached, tiny pearl nose-stud. It looked like a ripe pimple, not that anyone would ever say that to her. She looked at me and smirked as she walked past, down the aisle. She was followed by Jared, the year twelve guy whom Tara and Amy seemed to share between them. He casually stooped down and picked up my backpack as he went by and carried it with him up the back of the bus.

‘Did you try asking for it back?' my mum would ask later, exasperated. As if Jared had picked it up by mistake. I didn't ask for it back, if you've ever been in a situation like mine, you would know that. I stared straight ahead, the leaden swell of dread growing in my stomach. Maybe they would give my bag back. Maybe they would just drop it on the ground when they got off the bus, maybe they wouldn't go through my stuff. Maybe if I just concentrated hard enough I could squeeze my eyes shut and just cease to exist altogether.

There was laughter from the back of the bus.

‘Awwww, gross!' said Jared loudly. I made the mistake of turning around. Jared had opened my bag and was holding up a packet of Libra pads. ‘You got your period, Lezzo?' he asked. The whole bus cracked up. Jared put the packet back in my bag, zipped it up. ‘Don't worry, Pig Dog. All safe and sound.' He gave my bag a little pat.

When we got to school everyone filed off the bus. Jared, Tara, Amy and the little back-seat posse were the last to get off. I stood next to the bus, waiting for them; maybe they would just give me my bag back and be done with it. Amy, Tara and Jared got off. Jared held my bag high over his head as he went past me. Another bus had pulled in and was spewing out students. The bus bay was crowded and Jared had successfully made sure all eyes were on him. He and Amy started their walk up the path, towards the gates, ahead of the pack. I could see him, still holding the bag up, reaching in, grabbing each item one by one and tossing them on the ground by the path.

I trailed along after them, picking everything up. Science textbook, Science exercise book, pencil case (contents scattered), school diary, History textbook, History exercise book, wallet, mobile (screen shattered), keys, lunchbox (contents scattered). There was too much to carry. Things slipped from my arms, falling back to the ground. I didn't cry. Maybe it was like when you go into shock after an accident and can't feel any pain. There was no feeling inside of me.

They hadn't left my bag so I had to carry all my stuff to the school office and ask the office ladies if I could have a plastic bag. I told them mine had broken. When I arrived at my locker, there were all the pads, opened, stuck all over the locker door. Aside from the humiliation, I was left with a practical problem. My period was heavy that day. In my mind I saw a picture of me, blood all over my skirt and my seat. Maybe then they'd all stop the crap about me being a guy.

I peeled all the pads from my locker and put them in the bin.

I was in the corridor – after Science, on my way to English – when I passed Charlotte. (I had just finished explaining to my Science teacher why I hadn't done my Science homework. I didn't tell her my Science homework had been spat on and was now on the path to the bus bay.) I didn't even bother looking at her as we passed, but she grabbed my hand and pressed something into my palm, so fast that I barely understood what had happened. I turned and saw her walking away amongst the stream of students without a look back.

I went to my English class and took my seat. When I opened my hand I saw that she had passed me a tampon.

At lunchtime – in a toilet cubicle with ‘Hannah McCann has a dick' written on the walls – I tried to remember the instructions I had once read in
Dolly
magazine.

‘Try to relax, otherwise it will be more uncomfortable.' Otherwise it will be more uncomfortable. Otherwise it will be more uncomfortable. More uncomfortable.

And the pain was the sharpest thing I had ever felt.

***