Bugs Read online

  ‘Bugs. What have you got next?’

  Stone Cold sits behind me. So it turns out that she’s in my classes, not Jez’s; wasn’t that a pleasant surprise? They have home room and we all have life skills together, but for the rest of the day I have his monkey on my back. Awesome.

  ‘Bugs …’

  I can feel her breath on the back of my neck. I want to lift my shoulder blades up, push my collar up to my hair and protect that little strip of skin from her mouth, but I don’t want her to see that she affects me.

  ‘Chem.’

  ‘Oh cool. Me too.’

  ‘Bugs, Charmaine.’ Miss Shaw loves it when she can break out her authoritarian voice. ‘Are you two going to be gossiping for the rest of the class?’

  ‘Oh we weren’t gossiping, Miss. We were discussing what will happen next, y’know, in life? I thought that’s what we were meant to be doing, thinking about the future Miss?’

  That shuts Miss Shaw right up. Stone Cold has this way of talking to adults like she’s their equal. It’s kind of cool, I guess. Me, I think that kind of stuff but don’t say it, because however stupid or misguided an adult is, they’re still an adult. I’m still going Yes Miss No Sir Take one pass them back – that’s what I’m programmed to do.

  ‘Bugs, do you ever listen?’

  Stone Cold is standing at my desk, her books held against her flat-as hip.

  ‘The bell? Chemistry? Come on.’

  Me and Stone Cold walk ‘together’ to chem. I say ‘together’ like that because we’re not really ‘together’. To be ‘together’ kind of implies that it’s voluntary for both of us.

  ‘It’s just so good to have someone to hang with. In class.’

  We walk past the common room. Jez is sitting on the big overstuffed armchair that the dean brought in from her bach. Jez raises his eyebrow at us. I nod back and Stone Cold does a strange little flutter with her fingers, one of those toodle-oo waves they do in TV shows from the olden days.

  In chem we have assigned seats, so I take my place way back in the back row by the window while Stone Cold sits by herself at the front. At least I’ll have chem to myself.

  Our teacher, Mr Young, is anything but. He’s one of the teachers who remembers my mum from when she went to this school. In my first class with him, he called me by my mother’s name. For once I was glad for the chorus that followed me: It’s Bugs Sir. BUGS. Even then it took a couple of terms before he got used to it. Maybe it’s the years of teaching that’s done his memory in. Too many Kellys and Marcias and Fionas, too many Bretts and Garys and Justins: our names have faded and thinned like his old pink shirt tucked into his brown polyester pants.

  ‘All right class. As you know, we have some year eights touring around the school. That means today’s class is going to be less about me and more about you. Yes, welcome to the exciting world of revision.’

  Stone Cold puts her hand up. Mr Young looks at her as if he is unsure if she is really there or if she is a trick of his memory.

  ‘Sir, I can’t revise something I haven’t learnt.’

  ‘Indeed. You cannot know what you do not know …’

  Mr Young writes the sentence in big letters on the board up the front and stares at it.

  ‘Sir!’

  Mr Young turns around and seems startled to see us. I make the mistake of laughing.

  ‘Bugs.’ He clicks his fingers at me. ‘You and the new girl …’

  ‘Charmaine.’ Stone Cold says her name like she’s sick of hearing it.

  ‘Right, sit next to Charmaine and get her up to speed, OK?’

  I just look at him, like he’s in some foreign film and I’m having trouble with the subtitles.

  ‘What’s wrong? This will be good practice for you, for when you’re a teacher.’

  A teacher? Why on earth would he think I’d want to be that? Has anyone noticed anything I’ve done in the past four years that I’ve been here? Has any of it screamed I want to be a teacher? To rub it in, Stone Cold says, ‘I can see you as a teacher,’ and her smile is a hard slash across her face, her lips pressed tightly together, and I know what she really means is: I can see you as a loser, as a peddler of rules and outdated ideas. I can see you stuck in this hick town, I can see you Bugs – a tiny little insect just waiting to be squashed.

  ‘Ow, that hurt!’ Stone Cold pulls her hand to her chest and rubs where my textbook connected with her hand.

  ‘Sorry, it slipped.’

  Mr Young is putting on his lab coat. It is dark blue, so he looks more like a mechanic than a mad scientist.

  ‘Here’s the scene, folks. You all try to look intelligent and studious …’ He fills a balloon with hydrogen, ties it off and lets it float to the ceiling. ‘And I’ll provide the theatrics.’

  I remember this. When I did my tour, I remember shuffling into this classroom, still reeling from the size of the school. And the students! I honestly would have thought that some of the seniors were teachers if it weren’t for the uniforms. We’d shuffled into chemistry straight from physics (where you could put your hands on a plasma globe and have your hair stand on end – that was really like a sci-fi movie) to … a balloon. Whoop-de-doo. Then Mr Young lit an ice block stick and attached it to the end of a long ruler and inched it close to the balloon and …

  BANG!

  We’d all jumped, and the senior kids behind us snickered. It had all been over in seconds, but in my mind it had slowed right down – I could see the flame touch, the gas ignite and expand, the rubber of the balloon collapse as the flames stretched out and around and under and then nothing – exhausted, spent, gone. What impressed me most was that something ordinary, something that you played with as a child, had the potential to be something else, something deadly. Yeah, potential.

  I was suckered into chem by parlour tricks and flame licks and now I’m revising molarity calculations with a bitch.

  ‘What are you laughing at, Bugs?’ Stone Cold has an annoying way of saying my name; she kind of pops the B.

  ‘Nothing. This is boring. Do you want to do an experiment?’

  Stone Cold follows me as I walk up to the supply room behind the board.

  ‘What are you doing, Bugs and …’ Mr Young snaps his fingers at Stone Cold.

  ‘Charmaine, Sir.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘I’m getting some magnesium and a Bunsen burner, Sir.’

  ‘Ah! I cannot let students just help themselves, I will get the supplies you ... hello young chemists.’

  The first group of year eights walk in and Mr Young is no longer interested in us. We have the supply closet to ourselves. I grab a Bunsen burner, the gas hose, some tongs. I find some magnesium and snip a bit off from the roll. Stone Cold lingers by the glassware.

  ‘Grab one of those dishes so we can weigh the magnesium …’

  Stone Cold grabs a few test tubes instead.

  ‘These would be awesome for shots.’

  She shoves a test tube down between her breasts.

  ‘Here,’ she says, handing me two, ‘Put these in your bra.’

  I look at the test tubes and then back at Stone Cold – two?

  ‘Your tits are bigger than mine. Just shove them in while he’s not looking.’

  She rolls her eyes at me. She’s opening the buttons on my shirt and before I can protest the cool glass slides between my bra and my skin.

  ‘Look, if Sir catches us then he’ll be in bigger trouble for looking at our tits then we’ll be in for taking a couple test tubes.’

  BANG! The flame has finally met the balloon, and I scramble to do up my buttons as Stone Cold, cool as, goes out of the supply cupboard to smile and clap with the rest of the class.

  ‘And now one of our students will perform an experiment for you. Bugs?’

  I struggle out of the supply cupboard with the equipment clutched to my chest. Everyone in the room is looking at me. Stone Cold is no help; she just stares along with them.

  ‘Hands up who
likes fireworks?’ Every hand goes up. ‘Come along, Bugs, set it up on my station, where everyone can see.’

  Mr Young takes the Bunsen from me and I pull my chest away just a fraction in case he brushes my breasts by mistake. I want to fold my arms and hide my chest, but he holds out the tongs and the magnesium to me.

  ‘Dazzle them.’

  I light the burner and adjust the flame so that it burns a clean blue.

  ‘Don’t look directly at it,’ I say as I plunge the metal strip into the hottest part of the flame. It burns so brightly white that even from the corner of your eye it flashes behind your eyelids for longer than the actual reaction.

  I put the tongs down on the pile of magnesium oxide as the class claps, and I notice that Stone Cold is beside me taking my bow.

  ‘Chemistry, folks. It can explain many of the world’s mysteries. Thank you, Bugs …’ Mr Young looks at Stone Cold. Don’t acknowledge her, Sir, she didn’t do anything.

  But before he can say anything, Stone Cold’s big-arse lips are flapping. ‘And Char-MAINE.’ Each syllable dripping with sweet venom.

  3

  Remember when you were a kid and all you really needed from someone to be their friend was for them to be there? And I don’t mean ‘there’ like all supportive and shit; I mean ‘there’ as in ‘close’. Back in the day friendship was as easy as proximity. If someone was in your class, or lived on your street, they were your mate. Bonus if they were in your class and lived on your street. Best mates forever.

  Then when you get a little older you start to break off into groups. People you hang with are interested in the same shit you’re interested in. Or that you say you’re interested in, anyway.

  And then those groups are split into smaller groups within groups, like everyone is a card in that game Memory and we’re just trying to find our match. Not like in a love way, just someone you can be totally real with, you know? Someone that is worth the time you spend with them.

  You get more picky the older you get. You get, what’s the word? Discerning.

  Mum reckons at her age it’s hard to make friends – What with work, the house, and looking after you, Bugs – but maybe she’s just too damn discerning. Maybe she should just hang with some random from work; have a coffee, have a wine and see what happens. Leave Picky Nikki at home for the night.

  Although, maybe she has a point. Maybe I should start being a little more discerning myself. Maybe proximity is just not enough.

  ‘Charmaine. Char-MAINE. What kind of name is that?’

  Stone Cold is standing in front of her fridge looking for something to eat and going on and on about her name.

  ‘Charmaine. It’s like the name of a hooker …’

  ‘Or a porn star …’

  ‘Exactly. Who would name their kid Charmaine?’

  Right on cue – as if Stone Cold’s life wasn’t script-perfect enough – enter Mrs Fox, carrying bags of groceries.

  ‘Finally.’ Stone Cold looks through the bags. ‘Something decent to eat.’

  ‘There’s plenty of good food in the fridge. Can you help me put these away instead of just rooting around like a pig?’

  ‘A pig, mother? Way to embarrass me in front of my friend …’

  Wait, friend?

  Me and Mrs Fox are both startled. Mrs Fox didn’t clock me as she walked in; she has a sort of dazed look like she’s just survived one tour of duty only to find that she’s been signed up for another.

  ‘Oh, hello Bee … tle?’

  ‘BUGS, Mum. Jeez, you’re totally useless when it comes to names.’

  ‘What do you mean, Char?’

  ‘That’s what I mean. Charmaine. It’s a whore name. Bugs said it was a porn name.’

  I shrink down, wishing that Mrs Fox was still unaware of my existence. But she locks me with her eyes and I know for sure that she ought to have her daughter’s nickname because those eyes, man, are cold.

  ‘It is not a porn name. I knew a girl called Charmaine who was pretty and smart.’ She fixes on Stone Cold, who meets her mother’s eyes with that annoying chin tilt of hers – so it’s not only me she looks down on. ‘… And I wanted you to be the same. For God’s sake, your father wanted to call you Samantha.’

  She looks at Stone Cold and me as if we should react.

  ‘Samantha Fox? Ah, forget it.’

  The kitchen is quiet. No one is sure if anyone has won the … it wasn’t even an argument, not really. Has power shifted? Something has; Mrs Fox has sort of pulled into herself as if she is far away from this time, this place. She cradles a loaf of bread as if it was the baby that would not be called Samantha.

  Stone Cold grabs a packet of baby carrots – yuck. ‘OK, whatever, Mum, we’re going to my room.’

  I follow behind. Something about Mrs Fox reminds me of my mum. I don’t know what it is; a sort of yearning, I guess. Whatever it is it makes me feel … it makes me feel, and I gladly follow Stone Cold just to get away.

  Duke is on the deck and greets us with a wag of his little stump of a tail. Poor Duke, your tail snipped off because it didn’t meet with some stupid ideal of what you should look like.

  ‘I think he likes you. He doesn’t like anyone.’ It is an accusation, not a statement.

  Me and Duke bonded, I guess. I’m the girl who pukes out marshmallow for Duke to enjoy. He chomped on it the way that Blue eats horse shit, knowing that he’d have to get it down fast before he was told off. The worst part was when Duke licked my cheek after he’d munched out on it. Thanks Duke, nothing like bile and dog breath to settle your stomach.

  Duke follows us from the house to the sleep-out and whimpers as Stone Cold shuts the door.

  ‘You’re not allowed in, you dumb dog.’

  Maybe Duke doesn’t have a problem with humanity; maybe he has a problem with you.

  ‘Fuck it’s cold in here.’ Stone Cold switches on a fan heater and we’re blasted by the smell of burning dust. I sit down on her bed, which is kind of awkward in a skirt.

  ‘I can’t believe she called me a pig.’ Stone Cold looks at herself in the mirror – front on, side on, from the back. She faces the mirror again and shrugs. She strips off her uniform with her back to me and I think of lining up those clean pork bones on my plate – click, click, click. She pulls on jeans so tight it makes her legs look like pipe cleaners, a long T-shirt that skims over her non-existent bum, and over that a cardie hoodie thing. Last she puts on some Ugg boots so she looks like some sort of wannabe celebrity or something. She pulls the hair tie from her plait and runs her fingers through her hair, making it boof up around her head. She’s ready to get snapped by paparazzi while out shopping and I’m still in my scratchy kilt and jersey. Awesome. Stone Cold chews on a carrot that hangs out of the corner of her mouth like a cigarette, and offers me the bag.

  ‘Nah, I’m all right.’

  She chucks the bag on the desk and a couple of carrots fall on the floor – ‘Open the window, Bugs’ – and with one swoop of her skinny arm she scoops them up and throws them out. Duke munches on the carrots – noisy, wet bites with his mouth open.

  Stone Cold looks for music to play on her computer. You might think that it is the easiest thing in the world to pick music, but I reckon that’s how we sort ourselves into tribes these days. Last time we were here Jez took over the sounds. He put on the slow jam beats that suit him. Even without music on he moves around the world with a heavy bass line and a Jamaican lilt – Jez is island time personified.

  Me, I’m a little more … all over the place. I like a lot of things and nothing. Sometimes I need a song that I can just go hard out on, use up the energy that seems to burn inside me. I lock my door, close the curtains and dance and dance until the white hot flame consumes itself.

  I don’t really get into hip hop. And not just because everyone else does. If the break is good you can’t help but move to it, head nodding, fingers tapping, feet shuffling – whatever. But listen, really listen to the lyrics. Do I really need that shit in
my head? Most of the world hates me – why would I find refuge in the arms of men who clearly hate girls?

  Stone Cold looks to me like a girl who will put on the latest boy band and expect me to screech along, pretending our hairbrushes are microphones in a pastel-coloured, airbrushed, sitcom fantasy of what a teenager’s life is like. All lip gloss and prom dresses and … boys.

  But she surprises me.

  ‘You know The Smiths?’ She asks because it is impossible that some small-town hick has heard of a band that’s been around for like thirty years. We’re not that behind here. But instead of gushing about the contrast between the happy riffs and the sad-arse lyrics, instead of connecting over a shared love of a band long gone, instead of saying Yes, I’m part of your tribe, I say: ‘Yeah, my mum listens to them.’

  She deserved it. She’s playing ‘Some Girls are Bigger than Others’, and if that isn’t passive aggressive then I don’t know what is.

  I open my chem notes. ‘Should we just get started?’

  ‘Oh.’ Stone Cold munches on a carrot. It is crushed between her teeth, and little bits of carrot fly out when she talks. ‘You want to actually study?’

  ‘I thought that’s why you invited me here, so you can catch up?’

  ‘Oh no, that will be fine. The olds will get me a tutor or whatever if I need it. I thought we should just hang. Get to know each other because of you and Jez … and me and Jez.’

  ‘You and Jez?’

  ‘Well, not me and Jez exactly, but y’know there’s …’

  Do not say it, do not say it …

  ‘Chemistry.’

  She seriously just said it. Like she’s on a lame sitcom and she’s waiting for the laugh track to crank up. God, I wish this was a TV show, then I could groan and throw something at the screen before I switched channels; but there she is, that stone cold cliché, looking at me thinking that we’ll bond because of our X chromosomes or something.

  ‘So what’s the deal with you and Jez?’ Stone Cold says.

  ‘What do you mean “the deal”?’

  ‘Are you together?’

  ‘Together?’

  ‘Because if you are together, I won’t go there, because you know, chicks before dicks or whatever … Why are you laughing?’