Swann

Chapter 1-3

I slip in through the door and make my way to the change rooms. There’s no one about and I don’t hear any noises or anything but I’ve got that feeling, you know the one, where like your hair stands up on end and your body feels, you know, ready. I try to keep my feet quiet even though I’m quickly starting to think I’m all alone. In the change rooms, my bag is right where I left it, lit up like some treasure from heaven in a fat ray of sunshine, and it even still has my keys and wallet inside which is kind of a miracle unto itself. My school might be full of rich kids but for some reason that just gives them even more reason to steal. The biggest thieves I know are probably the richest guys and girls I’ve met.

Only when I’ve finished rummaging and I swing the bag up and over my shoulder do I hear her. I don’t know how I didn’t hear her as soon as I walked in, but maybe she wasn’t there then, maybe she came in after me, I don’t know. But when I pause, bag at the ready, positively charged with my victory over the locked doors that had barred my way, loosely preoccupied by how I need to take a s***h, I hear her and it’s not like she’s making any effort to be quiet.

There’s like different kinds of screams, yeah? There’s angry screams, and sexy screams, and terrified screams, and frustrated screams. This isn’t just a scream either. There’s words. I can’t make them out but whoever she is, she is pissed. She’s pouring absolutely everything she’s got into those garbled words. I move towards the sound, all cautious-like because the last thing I want is to end up on the receiving end of whatever has made her so angry. I pass the pinboards with all the team lists and the cabinets that house the trophies and s**t that the school has won, making my way towards the voice. Whoever she is, she’s in the gym and, now that I’m closer I can make out more sounds, she bouncing something or jumping, maybe. But no, it can’t be that simple. There’s the clunk of metal and I’m certain I hear something crash onto the floor. I stand at the door uselessly for a few seconds, wondering what I’m meant to do. Wondering what she’s doing. Wondering if she’s meant to be there. Wondering if I’m gonna be told off for being there.

Eventually I suck up my fears and uncertainties and generally weak constitution and turn the handle, pushing the door open a little. She’s still screaming away but I can hear her words clearly as I step into the room.

“f*****g pig! Bullshitting lying piece of s**t! f*****g love he says! Bullshit! Pig-f*****g motherfucker!”

She goes on.

It gets more profane too. But not really any clearer. Just the same words in different combinations. I mean, obviously she’s pretty upset. The room is a big mess too.

I mean, like, gyms are never the tidiest of places because there’s always stuff everywhere. But if you’ve spent any time in one you start to get a feel for the madness – the stuff all has a place and we’re constantly being told to make sure it all goes back to where it should be. There’s no chance of that now though. The girl has trashed the place. Stuff is not just everywhere like it’s been used, it’s everywhere like that’s as far as she could throw it. But I’m no damn help am I? I stand there, useless as a signpost watching this girl try to heft the punching bag off its hook. She’s spitting at it and crying and swearing and just the embodiment of rage.

I’m kind of shocked by the whole situation. It doesn’t really make any sense to me. I try to think of how to let her know that I’m there. I think about calling out, but figure that will probably scare her. Same goes for coughing or tapping on something - both of which have a kind of arrogance about them that I don’t really think suits me. So, instead of telling her I’m there I fall into this whirlpool where I try to convince myself that I’m not eavesdropping while desperately telling myself that there’s no harm in me hearing that she’s upset at some shmuck.

She’s facing away from me so it’s difficult to place who she is and she has what looks like a tattoo on her left arm that goes from her wrist all the way up to her shoulder. She’s familiar, I mean, she’s in a school dress and stuff so I figure she’s got to be in my year or the one above, but she’s not familiar enough that I can place exactly who she is, and the tattoo throws me a curve-ball because if she’s a student and she was caught with one she’d be in all sorts of s**t.

I decide to lead in with a question.

“Are you okay?”

The words are meant to sound manly, like I’m there to help, like maybe I could somehow fix whatever the problem is, but it doesn’t come out like that. Instead I sound kind of terrified, my words kind of choked and flat.

The girl jumps at my squeak and then slowly turns to see me, her eyes bloodshot and swollen and narrowing with suspicion.

“What do you want?” she says, through gritted teeth before turning away dismissively.

I mean, I’m just trying to help, right? I’m not trying to pick her brain or tell her off or anything. As she picks up a school bag I recognise her. She’s the daughter of one of the maths teachers, Mr Swann. I pick my brain for a second trying to remember if she’s in my year level or the one above it. Kids of teachers, right? It’s never obvious ‘cause they’re always around and they hang out with all sorts of random people.

Evelyn Swann.

That’s her.

“Are you alright?” I say with renewed confidence. I even take it upon myself to use my arms to direct her attention to the mess she’s made. As I do it I realise that I probably look like an air hostess pointing out exits.

My arms fall back to my sides, their confidence shot.

She’s moving without looking at me and I’m trying to get a better look at the tattoo. Does her dad know about it? How does she keep it hidden? Maybe it’s just pen or marker. Maybe she’s actually part of some secret club that sneaks around the school smashing things up and hides behind the fact that their parents are teachers and that they’d never be lumped with suspicion.

Maybe I’ve got no damn idea.

My eyes drift.

She looks good in the school dress. You know how it is, right? Some girls, even some guys, are just cursed by being sent to a private school that has a specific hideous uniform that is just not in their colour or not flattering to their figure. Evelyn Swann isn’t one of those girls. She manages to look cute and sexy without looking slutty which is quite an achievement I suppose. Maybe I’m not looking at her the right way. Maybe she does look a little trashy, but maybe that’s ‘cause her mascara is all messed up and she looks like she’s about ready to gouge someone’s eyes out. Hopefully not mine. She’s exactly what I was thinking about earlier though. I’m hypnotised by her. I’m like putty in her eyes - useless shitty putty. The only thoughts I have are about what might have upset her so much and how I might go about sacrificing myself to make it all better. I’m such a dunce.

She has her bag up and over her shoulder and she’s at the door before she turns to me again with her witty retort. I’m a little distracted though so I miss it at first and I just keep looking at her with this totally glazed expression. I’m a little self-conscious too when she looks at me ‘cause I was looking at her legs and it wasn’t like I was perving on her it’s just that’s where my eyes went. Maybe that’s the social conditioning that feminists are so frustrated about.

“What?” My face feels like it moves independently of my words, delayed, stupid.

“I said – f**k off, Rueben!” She gives me the finger and pushes through the door out of the gym.

I’m stunned for a second.

Why does she know my name? How? I mean, I’m a nobody! Maybe she knows Wong and has asked her friends who the fools are that he hangs around with. That must be it because I am one-hundred-percent-certain that there is not a single person in the school who knows me for no particular reason.

“What?” I mumble the word as the door shuts. I’ve totally lost my mind. I must have imagined it. It can’t have been my name it was probably some insult and I just turned the word into my name ‘cause I’m a closet narcissist.

I start to work my way across the gym to follow her into the hall but just as I reach the door Mr Cranly pushes it open. He stops. His eyes pass over me and he looks like he’s about to ask me why I’m still in the building.

But then his eyes drift.

And they widen.

And his expression starts to change.

And I look back behind me, momentarily forgetting how Evelyn Swann, teacher’s daughter – totally protected species – trashed the place before I arrived.

“It wasn’t me...” I start lamely, knowing that I’m cooked. There’s no chance that I’m not going to wear this.

He reaches out and grabs me by the arm.

“Then who did it, Connor? The tooth fairy? I’m calling your parents right now to discuss this little act of bullshit. Just because you’re not as good as the other boys in your class... This is utterly pathetic, Rueben. Path-et-ic!”

The emphasis is all his and as much as he thinks I’m totally feeling his rage I’m still kind of distracted by the thought of Evelyn Swann, you know? Sometimes girls are so damn hard to get out of my head. It’s like they set up this totally unassuming camp where they smell great and look pretty and basically work away at making me feel completely sub-optimal.

“I thought we were just starting to turn a corner,” Cranly continues. My brain has glazed over. “I thought you had gained some understanding about what it means to be a man! But you’re just a little liar aren’t you. You’re just here to drag those friends of yours down. Start cleaning this up. You’re not going anywhere until it’s all back where it should be! And if you think this is a good time to f**k with me, you’re wrong. I’m going to have a talk with your parents about your appalling attitude!” I sigh audibly and his eyes attempt to pin me to the spot with laser beams of frustration and disappointment. “Shush! I don’t want to hear whatever story you’re trying to sell. You listen closely, Slim: clean up this mess and I might consider not suspending you!”

He turns and storms from the room. I watch him go feeling like someone is pouring a never ending bucket of s**t on top of me. What an arsehole, right? I can’t believe he called me Slim. I mean, what a total blockhead. There wasn’t even an opportunity for me to explain. Not that I’m sure what I would have said. Would I have ratted Evelyn Swann out? Would it have mattered if I had? I probably would have copped it either way. I was standing there, she wasn’t. My hands were as metaphorically red as they could be.

I look around the gym and drop my bag, my shoulders slumping, my feet dragging as I start to put the room back together.

I hate Cranly.

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