Have You Seen Ally Queen? Read online

  ‘I just...’ I catch her eye briefly, and say, ‘I’ll go to see him if I need to.’ Then I move down to my bus stop, number 47.

  I prepare myself mentally for the usual bus suspects. The Three Kinds Of People.

  I was thinking about this yesterday, and I worked out that there are only three types of people here: bogans, surfies and organic spinach-munching hippies. Even members of my own family are going psycho now, though maybe it’s not that surprising, after all. I mean, anyone who calls feeding worms food scraps and then chucking their wee into the garden vermiculture has got to have a few skeletons in the closet, let’s face it. Worse: no one who sees a car accident suddenly freaks out about it twelve months down the track! No wonder Jerry’s such an odd little tacker. He’s got those weirdo genes in him—though I guess with all his electronics sets and chemistry experiments, he’s more like Dad, which is bloody lucky for him. Knowing my luck, I’ve got Mum’s genes. What a bonus. I’m not like her, please! I’m not into organic vegies and aromatherapy and all that crap.

  When I get off the bus, I go straight to the beach. My spare bathers are in my bag, just for days like this. I change quickly in the dunes. The water’s so quiet, it’s almost spooky. I try not to splash as I swim. Shark weather, some people say: kind of overcast and humid, with that still, still water they reckon confuses the sharks. That’s what Dad told me after that guy died at Cottesloe Beach a few years back. The pointers come right into shore but think they’re still way out, and that’s when people get munched. Dad says when they close the beaches a sort of low panic spreads out; people laugh when you meet them in the car park but you know they’re terrified. Dad didn’t go surfing for ages after that, said things like Kids need their parentsmore than sharks do. That’s true, I reckon. But we could sure do without their baggage.

  DARKNESS

  ‘How has email and the internet changed our lives? Has it changed the way we think about things, the way we do things? And what are some examples of those changes?’

  It’s this communications thing Ms Carey’s into. She’s collaborating with the information technology department so we integrate our studies. She reckons it’s interdisciplinary.

  ‘Fire away—anyone.’ She’s got her whiteboard marker and she’s ready to brainstorm. She loves brainstorming, writes all sorts of things up and then draws arrows and links them all together, like everything in the universe is linked.

  Everyone’s still-as in their seats, knowing things to say but not saying them. That’s what I reckon, anyway. No one ever wants to start things off, it’s just way too embarrassing.

  ‘Alison?’

  Jeezuss. ‘Um...’

  She looks straight at me and I can’t help but notice the olive-green linen shirt she’s wearing. And those bangles. Concentrate, Ally.

  ‘Um ... well, I guess it’s meant that we have access to information from all over the world that we wouldn’t have been able to get to before.’

  ‘Right,’ she says, and writes access to information.

  Someone else’s voice fills the gap while she’s writing. It takes a few seconds for me to realise they’re talking to me.

  ‘What would you know about information, suckhole, when you weren’t even here yesterday.’

  My heart stops for one long, loud moment. Who was that? I turn around.

  ‘Yeah, where were ya, Queenie?’

  Then I see Rel swing around to take in the clowns.

  I blanch and blush darkly at the same time.

  ‘Hey!’ That’s Ms Carey. She’s loud.

  And then stacks of voices, all jarring and saying different stuff, a queue of insults just for me:

  ‘Your mum having a bit of a nervy turn is she, Queenie?’

  ‘Missing double English—it must have been bad, whatever it was—isn’t English your favourite subject? Got an apple for the teacher, have you, to make up for being away?’

  ‘You weren’t at the school psych yourself, by any chance, were you? With Mr Taylor.’

  ‘Hey—’ Ms Carey tries again.

  ‘Yeah, Queenie, what’s going on upstairs, eh?’

  A couple of kids cackle grubbily like they’ve got all the dirt on me and are just gunna keep dishing it out until I’m wrecked.

  I can’t believe this is happening.

  Rel pushes his chair back and stands up, to a sudden chorus of Ooooohhhhhhh.

  Everyone around me is cacking themselves, saying, School psych, Mr Taylor, counselling, yeah, what’s wrong with ya, Alison? Ya brain going a bit twisty? What’s wrong with your mum, Queenie?

  ‘SCOTT BRAYSHAW!’ Ms Carey fully bellows, choosing just one of a classload of kids saying all this crazy shit about me, and she is dark, her eyes are firing. ‘Leave this classroom now.’

  ‘It wasn’t just me, Miss—’

  ‘OUT NOW!’

  There’s quiet laughing, and fear, it’s thumping in me, and Ms Carey’s eyes on me, or what’s left of me. And Rel is still standing, ready, ready for something.

  After the longest time, when everyone has wound themselves down a notch and it’s become so quiet you can barely breathe without being noticed, she starts talking in a low whisper; she’s writing names down and calling people out and the whole class is over, the whole class is over because of me.

  Everything is over.

  In those next moments, everything shrinks down to a narrow tunnel ahead of me, with black all around, just this long, dark alone place—and that’s the last I remember, other than Rel bending down beside me. Next thing, I’m waking up in the nurse’s office, with Dad’s voice in the next room.

  BLUE

  If I could, I’d get up. But I feel a big spew coming on, so I decide to wait a bit—reckon I probably don’t need any more stories for today. There’s a whole lot of people talking quietly in the next room and I only need one guess to figure out the topic of conversation.

  Above me is a window to a bit of blue sky, for my nerves. (Mum reckons blue is calming, says it’s what all the yogis use when they’re meditating.) I try to concentrate on it. It’s a beautiful, middle-of-the-day, early summer blue. At its edge, I can just make out the pale peeling bark of a lemon-scented gum. I love those trees—I always pull off a handful of leaves when I walk by one and fill my nose with that intense oily lemon smell they give off when you crush them.

  Lying here, I can only wonder: how did this happen? Why did it happen? If only we’d stayed in Perth, everything would have been cool. I never used to feel like this in Perth. Not this bad. Here, I’m lanky-flat chested-suckhole-mental-patient-Ally, who everybody hates, me included. There wouldn’t have been any of this if we’d stayed. And now I can’t face the kids at school again—now it’s like they know everything about me, like they’ve read my deepest, darkest thoughts, and I’m naked, exposed, for everyone to see.

  I lean up on to my elbow, gently, just in case there’s a herk coming from somewhere. It feels okay. I breathe, slowly and not too deeply, and stay like that for a while. It’s actually a really good listening position for what’s going on in the next room, which is a series of silences with sighs in between. They’re Dad’s sighs; I’m getting used to hearing how they sound. Then they start talking again.

  ‘You should tell her, really. She’d want to know,’ the nurse says.

  Tell who what?

  Dad’s kinda hoarse. ‘I know, I know, it’s just that she’s quite ... fragile, emotionally, at the moment, and I don’t want to make it any worse.’

  I’m not fragile. Well, I wasn’t.

  ‘She’s getting treatment, you know, but the whole thing has taken its toll on everyone—Ally in particular, I reckon.’

  Oh, right. Mum.

  ‘I just don’t want to give her anything to feel guilty about, or to worry about. It’s not good timing for her to hear something like that.’

  ‘Maybe it’s exactly what she needs,’ I hear the nurse say in a tight voice. ‘A diversion from herself.’

  There’s a hell s
ilence then, and I stop breathing in case they remember that I’m in here. A quick gust of wind comes through and I watch the lemon-scented gum catch it like a baseball mitt.

  I don’t want to hear anymore. I don’t want to think about anything anymore. I want to be in that wind, that’s all. On the beach, on the top of my dune, with the water ahead.

  It’s hard to breathe in here; it smells of Mercurochrome, and vomit.

  I swing my legs over the side and wait for the blood to do its rounds. After a few woozy-free moments, I slide off the bed. They can’t hear me, they’re all talking again. And I don’t wanna know what they’re saying. I couldn’t give less of a toss. I dunno where my schoolbag is, but where I’m going, I won’t need it.

  My decision takes a nanosecond. Rel will be into it, too, I reckon, though maybe I should just go on my own. I just wanna get away from all this hassle. Everything feels like it’s getting out of control; it’s total shite. I need to be around some normal people, not all these small-town hippie ‘tell-me-how-you- feel’ organofreaks and crazy bogan bus losers and frizzo gossip merchants.

  That’s why I’ve gotta split for a while. It’s easier with camp coming up. Easier to disappear.

  The door is open; I use it.

  SHINING KNIGHT

  When I was younger, I used to go to sleep at night dreaming about a gorgeous, kind man who would come to rescue me from some horrible situation—and for some reason, he was always on a horse, and I was on the beach, and he was about twice my age.

  Rel’s not twice my age and there was no horse, but I reckon what he did in English today—well, that’s about as close as you can get to a real knight. I thought he was going to go over and clock someone. I mean, he was fully sticking up for me in front of everyone, despite being on the losing team. That takes guts—what a champion. But now he’s sidelined himself, and all because of me. It’s like he’s been contaminated with the same toxicness that I must have, whatever that is. Sick Mum toxicity. Good at English toxicity. Queenie toxicity ... I dunno, and I don’t freaking care, to be honest. I’m just glad he was there.

  It takes me a while, but I find him. He’s in the library. I have no idea what time it is; it could be last period, for all I know. I don’t want to hang around; I don’t want to see anyone from English. I just wanna tell Rel my plan and then head home.

  He follows me out, and waits a bit before saying, ‘When’re you gunna do it?’

  ‘The same day you all go on camp.’

  ‘How are you gunna get there?’

  ‘The bus.’ I roll my eyes. ‘Or I could hitch.’

  He looks worried, and says, ‘Nah, too many freaks out there. Don’t do it.’

  Yeah and I’m one of them, so what’s the big deal? I think.

  Instead I say, ‘Yeah. You’re right.’

  There’s a really long pause. He lets himself fall back against the wall. ‘That was ... awful, what happened this morning.’

  I don’t have anything to add to that, really. We can barely look at each other. Lord knows why he’s even talking to me still, now that it’s universal knowledge I’m a complete loser.

  ‘I have no idea how that kind of stuff gets around.’

  He looks at me—well, tries to, but I just can’t meet his eyes.

  I scan up and down the corridor, checking for teachers. ‘Yeah, you know, whatever.’

  I don’t even feel angry about it now, just very, very weary. ‘I don’t really wanna know. Who cares how they know? They know. Everyone knows all this stuff about me. That’s all.’ And how are you meant to go to school every day with that going down?

  ‘Are you ... feeling okay?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, fine, just my head’s a bit...’

  He nods. We stand there, looking down at our feet.

  ‘Camp’ll be shite without you.’

  I’m kinda surprised by that. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah! Remember? We were gunna hang out together.’

  ‘What about the guys, though? You’ll still have a good time.’

  ‘Yeah, but...’

  I know. Isn’t it weird? I’d been almost beginning to look forward to it, too. Well, the Rel bit.

  My head starts to throb. I’ve really had enough of school for one day. ‘I’d better go,’ I croak pathetically. ‘But I’ll see you down at the beach or something later on ... I don’t think I’ll be spending much time at home this arvo.’ I can’t face them.

  He twists his shell up towards his Adam’s apple, lets it spin free. ‘Okay, see ya. Get some Killer Pythons on the way home, or something.’

  I smile. That’s pretty big of the guy who’s just found out that my Mum has got some kind of mental disorder that his mates—actually, the whole school—knows about. I’m glad he still wants to talk to me. That’s really why I had to find him before I went home. To be sure.

  CRAYGIRL

  I wake up really early. It’s one of those incredible fruit sunrises—strawberry, peach, lemon, apple. Everything is still and quiet, but you know it’s all there, just hiding, all the cicadas and crickets and roos and the wind. It’s like everything’s waiting.

  My head is some kind of pumpkin and I’m sporting golfball eyes. Lucky it’s Saturday. I need a whole year to get over yesterday, though, not just a weekend.

  I’m all set up: wettie, booties for the reef, snorkel and mask, craypot and rope. All I need is to put some of Dad’s stinky bait in the bait cage and I’ll be right. I avoid thinking about how cold the water’s gunna be and how much weed I’m gunna have to swim through. On a weedy day down here it can feel like you’re in a scene from Creature from the Black Lagoon, or something.

  Today, peelers are crashing right outside the reef, which means I’ll not only get hammered but will have to put the craypot further out. A few people have already been out; I can see their floats bobbing beyond the waves, where it’s totally calm. There are a couple of tinnies further out, crew trying their luck on the morning herring run. Herring’s fun to catch. They put up enough of a fight to let you know there’s something on your line but they’re not too hard to bring in. You just need three or four for a feed. We always fish for herring when we go camping. When we went camping.

  A boat crosses in front of me. It’s a painted tinny with a couple of guys in it. I can just make out the words on the side, and it takes me a while before I’m sure of what it says: Fish ‘n’ Chics. I shake my head and try not to laugh. Fish ‘n’ Chics. It’s so stupid, it’s funny.

  I’m hoping to get a cray today, not because I’m particularly into crays but because I wanna do something on my own, and because I like the rest of it—getting the craypot out there, exploring the reef, the early-morning swim, and then going back to collect the catch later on. It’s always cool if you’ve scored something. You get crabs a lot of the time. But they’re good, too. Dad does them for lunch—you can have a feast if you get enough. Or chilli crab for dinner—heaven! Anyway, I’ve been wanting to do it since we got here, but haven’t had my shite together enough to actually get out there. It’s a pretty long swim, especially with a craypot—the lead weights are a killer. Okay, yeah, I’m nervous, mainly because I haven’t done this here before. But that’s something I’m actually good at—swimming. I’m a really strong swimmer and don’t get scared in the ocean. I think it’s from all those times Dad took me to the beach. First it was to do some bodysurfing, but later we’d go beyond the waves to that quiet darker bit. I love that. Duck-diving your way through the surf can be really tiring, so to get to the deep, still water beyond is like a prize for working so hard. Whenever we went out there, just me and Dad, we’d turn around and look back at the shore and almost everyone else was hard up against the sand, and getting hammered a lot of the time. It’s pretty funny to watch, especially the little kids. If people just swam out a little bit further, they’d be able to relax. But it’s a long way if you’re not confident in the water. I remember the first time I did it I was worried about rips and things. I used to like the fa
ct that we were the only ones who went out that far.

  The surf here at Melros is generally further out, anyway, so it’s not really the same as Perth or right down south; you don’t have to go out that far here to be in calm water; the reef takes care of that. It’s funny, I reckon we went to the beach together more when we were in Perth than we do down here. In Perth, Dad’d swing by in the car after work, and we’d be waiting. He wouldn’t turn off the engine, or anything; we’d jump straight in and head off to Leighton or the dog beach or wherever. But not Port Beach, normally, ‘cos there are too many stingers, and all the tourists go there. And not Cottesloe, either—Dad can’t stand the bikinis.