The Chrysalis Key, page 3
Henry watched Arnold trot towards the year seven building before he made his own way inside to the year ten corridor. By his locker, the usual group was hanging about. There were five of them in total from the AV club. Freddy and Hamza were shoving at each other and laughing, Thomas Cheng was showing the recently blue-haired Nate a shiny new VHS. Henry came up to them, grinning.
“Do you think we’ll get to watch Macbeth today?”
Thomas Cheng clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s a big fat no if Tallingway has anything to say about it.”
Hamza moaned, “Why can’t we just add it to our weekly list?”
“Because I refuse to watch it twice,” Thomas scoffed. “And besides, look what I got yesterday.” He brandished the VHS.
“The Truman Show?” Henry exclaimed, seeing the title. “It’s out? We have to watch that this weekend!”
The boys cheered in assent.
“The best thing that came out of this year,” said Freddy, grabbing the tape from Thomas and holding it up in the air.
“Is everyone ready for the last assembly of the year tomorrow?” asked Nate, scratching at his blue hair. “We can’t screw up this new machine. Eversong will kill us.”
They all looked at each other.
“No,” they droned in unison.
Nate groaned. “Come on, guys. We’ll meet at my house after school then. I’m cooking.”
It was everyone else’s turn to groan now.
“I’m not eating your food,” laughed Henry. “Remember that time you put salt in those cupcakes instead of sugar?”
The boys gagged at the memory.
“It won’t be like that this time,” droned Nate, studying the handwritten recipe on an A4 sheet of paper. “It’s chicken Alfredo, you can’t get it wrong.”
“I’ll be there with this,” said Hamza flapping the hundred-page text in front of them: Davidson LED Projector Manual. “Anything to get out of listening to my sister practice her saxophone after school.”
They all nodded in agreement. They’d all heard his little sister practice at the last meeting.
“You’ll have to give me a copy of the plan after,” said Henry. “I promised mum I’d help at the restaurant on Wednesdays.”
Thomas slapped him on the back. “I hope you get paid for that gig, Jolteon.”
Henry grinned at his friend, who’d been calling him by his Pokémon name since grade three. “So do I, Snorlax.”
The bell rang and the six of them grabbed their things, slamming their lockers shut.
“Ready for Algebra?” Henry asked, leafing through his maths notes. A couple of them swore as they made their way down the corridor to their homeroom, but they abruptly shut their mouths as Mr Stanway’s angry voice came from behind them.
3
Hugh
Hugh thoroughly enjoyed being pulled along by Mr Stanway. He had a strong grip, and Hugh respected that in a man. Also, the way the vein in his forehead had popped out when he saw the fountain made it all worth it.
Stanway hauled him down the corridor, past gaping students and into the admin office. Hugh winked at the pair of stern-faced office ladies as Stanway pounded on the glass beside Principal Eversong’s open office door.
Mathem Eversong sat behind his heavy mahogany desk. He bore the easy authority of a man who had been teaching for a very long time. He had snow white hair and a clipped beard to match. You did not talk back to Principal Eversong unless you were clever about it. Eversong rose from his chair as Stanway spat angrily.
“He’s been at it again! The fountain is a mess!”
Stanway dragged Hugh inside the office, and Principal Eversong came out from behind his desk. “Ah. Naturally,” said Eversong, eyeing Hugh.
“This is defamation of school property!” stressed Stanway, his face growing scarlet by the second.
Principal Eversong scratched at the corner of his white beard, hiding his upturned lips in the process. “Yes, yes, of course,” he said, waving his other hand.
“You could see it as cleaning school property, sir,” said Hugh reasonably, content that the principal’s mild response would mean he’d get off without suspension this time.
“A couple of detentions, Hugh,” said Eversong. “I’ve booked a session tomorrow morning, 7 a.m. Sign the register on your way out.”
“That’s so early, sir!” cried Hugh, affronted. He usually got out of bed ten minutes before the first bell. “And it’s the end of the year!”
Principal Eversong chuckled but still pointed to the counter behind them where the detention register sat. He leaned back on his desk while Stanway shook his head and, giving Hugh a dark look, stomped out of the office.
Smirking at Stanway’s back, Hugh shouldered his rather heavy black backpack, which really only had food and a hammer, and made to leave.
“Hugh,” said Principal Eversong.
Hugh raised his eyebrows at the patient tone in the principal’s voice. “Sir?”
“Have you considered what I discussed with you earlier this year? About starting a trade? I can’t put you back into year eleven for a third time.”
“Nan doesn’t want me to be a tradie,” he shrugged. “She wants me to finish.”
“And you? What do you want?”
Hugh was starting to get annoyed. “Nothing, I guess.”
“You really are better than this.”
Hugh groaned inwardly. He was going to get the talk. He’d been getting the talk since grade five, and it wasn’t any more fun than it had been back then. The only thing was that this time it was coming from Principal Eversong. Hugh considered himself a good reader of people, especially men. And Principal Eversong was a man who stumped Hugh’s keen eye. He could never quite place it, but the man was different. And not the weird sort of different downtown crazies were. It was a sharp type of different that made Hugh tread carefully. And Hugh did not like to be careful. So when he replied, he made sure his expression bore his usual nonchalance.
“You reckon, sir?”
Principal Eversong shook his head sadly. “You’re clever, Hugh. If you just applied yourself..."
“Yep.” Irritation prickled at Hugh, but he made sure he kept his face bright. Why did adults constantly need to tell you what you were? Perhaps Eversong wasn’t as different as he thought. He had no plans for anything. He didn’t want plans. Plans were for people like Julia De Clemont who probably had her whole life planned out year by year. “Gotta get to class, sir.” Hugh turned and headed out of the office, and hearing the principal give one last sigh, Hugh pulled the door swiftly shut.
Pointedly ignoring the detention register, he made his way down the long corridor and towards the library building. As the first bell rang, he sauntered down the hall, enjoying the bustle of the tiny kids around him as they scuttled to their homerooms. As he passed a recess in the wall, the burly back of a large senior boy made him pause mid step. He recognised the AFL Brisbane Lions jersey and the distinct smell of greasy hair that announced Toad straight away. There was a squeak as Toad held what looked like a grade seven against the wall.
“I know your mum gave you money this morning!” Toad demanded
Hugh smirked, noticing the small square wallet poking out from Toad’s back pocket. He leaned forward and plucked it out with his ends of his fingers.
“Oi!” Toad rounded on him like an angry rhinoceros, letting the kid go. And then, seeing who it was, lowered the fist he’d been about to throw. Hugh smirked at him and waved the wallet in the air. It was one of those Velcro ones from the dollar store. Hugh thought for a moment, turned, and lobbed it into the bin on the other side of the corridor. It landed inside with a satisfying rattle. Toad roared in dismay while, behind them, the grade seven shot out of the corner and darted away. Hugh adjusted his backpack and continued down the corridor as Toad ran to the bin, his greasy hair flying.
Hugh only went to the library to do one thing, which was to get his homework done. And this morning, a rather large maths assignment was due. Nan only had two requirements: that he passed Maths and English and that he gave some semblance of respect to his teachers. He happily did both. Just in his own way.
He reached the library and strode past the rows of shelves to the back, ignoring the probing looks of the old librarians in their granny cardigans and ankle-length skirts. The seniors had their own study room at the back of the library, and a tall, dark-haired boy stood in there by himself next to a large black duffel bag. He wore a tattered, black t-shirt and pants and an annoyed expression. He scowled when he saw Hugh, snatched a stapled set of papers from the desk, and strode towards him.
“Late much?” he said irritably, holding out his other empty hand, palm side up.
Hugh gave him a lazy smile, slapping forty dollars of cash into his waiting hand.
“You’ll be right, Aiden mate.”
Aiden took the cash and begrudgingly handed him the papers.
“That’ll get you a C. Like you asked.”
“Cheers,” Hugh said, folding the paper without looking at it. “You still living up there?” He nodded to the rafters above the library.
Aiden raised his hands and shushed him, looking around frantically. “Dude! Try not to make it obvious!”
Hugh shrugged and turned to leave, grinning and wriggling his fingers at the library ladies who were eyeing him with suspicion. “Don’t worry. These old birds have no idea about anything.”
Aiden followed him out, hauling the large duffel bag with him. “Yeah, well I’m going back to the old man’s tonight. Stops them from getting too suss. Anyway, we’re late for homeroom, just make sure you read that through in case you get asked questions.”
Hugh waved at him, and they parted ways at the exit of the library. He sauntered back into the middle grade building, flapping his maths paper about and wondering if he should cut his hair this week. He liked it long at his shoulders, though, and women seemed to like it even more. No, he’d wait another few weeks.
He was walking past the administration office again when a voice came for him. “What are you smirking about, Mr Carter?”
Hugh turned and saw Principal Eversong striding out of the office, pointing to the counter inside. “I won’t tell you again. Sign the detention register. I want to count your signatures and present the evidence to your lovely grandmother next week when we talk about your future.”
Hugh rolled his eyes at Eversong’s receding back but tucked his maths paper under his arm and strode into the office anyway. He approached the counter, but a round girl in a black poncho was already there.
Hugh sidled up next to her, inspecting her form and consulting his mental database. She looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place her. Hugh found this very unsettling. He turned around to prop an elbow on the counter and squinted at her as she wrote.
“Hello,” he drawled, “are you new?”
“No, I’ve been here since year seven,” she replied in a deadpan voice, not lifting her eyes from the register.
Her hair shielded her face from him. Hugh frowned. “I know every girl in this school above year ten. I make a point of it. How did I miss you?”
She ignored him, and having finished writing in the ledger, she bent to pick up her bag and left. Hugh watched her leave, frowning. Her hair was black and long and shone in a satisfying way. He turned to the ledger and read her name.
“Melanie Kumar?” he said incredulously.
Melanie paused on the threshold of the office without turning around. Then she strode right out.
Hugh stared at the detention ledger. Next to Melanie’s name, she had written Skipping Sixth Period Chemistry.
Nerdy, perfect-grades Melanie from year eleven was walking around wearing a black poncho and skipping classes? What had the world come to?
He shook his head as he picked up the pen and wrote his name. And then in the “Reason for Detention column” he wrote: “Gave the fountian more spirite.” Pleased with his penmanship, he casually made his way to woodwork class.
4
Melanie
Melanie Kumar walked into the year eleven corridor, feeling like a sack of potatoes. She let out a short, humourless laugh at the thought. She probably looked like a sack of potatoes. Even Hugh Carter, whom she’d known since primary school, hadn’t recognised her. Didn’t know her. But then she couldn’t really blame him. She didn’t really know herself, either.
Between this year and the last, she had felt the walls of the world press in on her. Her life hung over her as if it meant to smother her being until there was nothing left. How long until she was just a ghost that nobody could see?
She slung her backpack down to her feet and turned the combination to open the lock. She swung open the locker door and stared at her orderly locker for a moment. Neatly stacked on the shelf was her biology textbook. There was the chemistry text and psychology and maths. All bought second hand at the end of last year. There was To Kill a Mockingbird, and her set of exercise books full to bursting with the year’s notes.
But they were full of nothing meaningful. Those exercise books were filled with words, and yet they were blank. Melanie’s eyes burned as she bent down and unzipped her bag, and one by one, took each textbook out of her locker and placed it in her bag. Then she came to her second shelf. There was a stack of papers, a form for enrolling in next year’s subjects, a form for year twelve camp, and a collection of her assessment tasks from the year. Each of those assessments were labelled with a big red mark and corresponding letter of the alphabet. They started with bold red As and the stack ended with snaking Ds. Those papers had meant so much to her at the start of the year. So much to her mother and her Nani. But like a song that had been played on an endless loop, these things had lost their meaning to her. Like her filled exercise books, she was full, and she was empty at the same time. She was achingly blank.
She took the stack of papers and shut her locker, now empty, and left it unlocked. Slinging her bag over her shoulder, she clutched the papers and walked over to the rubbish bin in the corner of the corridor. She tipped the lot of them in and stood there for a moment, staring at her year’s work lying useless amongst the muesli bar wrappers and old apple cores. Wiping her cheeks, she loped down the corridor to homeroom. Everyone stared as she walked in, but she ignored them and slung her bag down and took her seat beside Terrence, the boy who smelled like onions. Melanie wondered for the hundredth time why he smelled so bad before her homeroom teacher, Mrs Gibbs, called her name.
“Do you have a reason for being late, Melanie?” she said, her meaty arms crossed, looking at her disapprovingly over her fluoro orange spectacles.
“I was talking to Principal Eversong,” she shrugged. “I have detention tomorrow.”
The girls across the room whispered behind their hands. Mrs Gibbs levelled her with a disgusted look before turning back to the rest of the class. Melanie thought she’d get used to people looking at her with varying forms of disgust or pity. But it never got old. It hurt every time. She wasn’t sure she deserved it either. She wasn’t sure if Mrs Gibbs didn’t like her being Indian or if she just didn’t like her in general. But being different meant that people stayed away from you. So what else could she do but fold further into herself every year?
Mrs Gibbs brandished a sheet of paper at the class. “We’re organising year twelve camp accommodation on this sheet,” she said, indicating the ruled boxes with her pen. The class went silent. “No more than six to a cabin.”
The class immediately started buzzing as each person scrambled to organise a cabin with their friends.
“I want this done before you leave!” Gibbs shouted above the din.
Melanie sat silent at her desk, watching as Charlotte Montgomery ran up to Mrs Gibbs and snatched the paper, quickly taking it back to her desk. Her strawberry blonde curls brushed the paper as she leaned over it, quickly organising her friends into groups. She then stood and walked up to Teddy Longmire’s table, perching on his desk as he leaned back in his chair, nodding as she pointed at his friends and put their names into a box. Charlotte worked her way around the room. She wrinkled her nose when she got to smelly Terry but wrote his name into a box with the other boys who played Pokémon cards and Tazos at lunch time.
She paused in front of Melanie and smacked her pink glossed lips.
“Oops,” she said, voice sugary sweet. “The only space left is with Terry and the Pokémon boys.” She shrugged her small shoulders, hitching her tight dress up dangerously high. “Oh well.”
Melanie said nothing. The eyes of other twenty students bore into her. Most she’d known since year seven. She glanced around the room, but no one met her eye. Mrs Gibbs was writing furiously into her purple heart diary, oblivious to the problem.
Melanie was a problem. And problems, if they couldn’t be solved, were put away. The backs of her eyes burned like a brand as an image came unbidden into her mind. In the dark of night, watching as her father left their house, and she, clutching a wad of cash in her hand. He had never looked back. Not once. The air around her had felt so empty. Leaving her empty. Her hand sought the necklace that sat hidden below the neckline of her poncho. The amethyst butterfly set in gold, would forever remind her of Nani’s words at the time of her parents’ divorce. “You are more than this,” Nani had said as her mother sat on their lounge stony faced. “You are more than what happens to you.”
Teddy murmured something to his burly friends, and they sniggered, breaking the spell of her awkward reverie. Melanie shot him a scathing look, but Teddy wasn’t looking at her. He was looking at Charlotte, who laughed prettily and turned on her heel. For one fleeting second, Melanie wondered what it would feel like to punch Charlotte right in the nose. But the feeling quickly faded, replaced with guilt. She knew what it felt like to be hurt by someone. She felt it so deeply, the very thought of inflicting pain on someone else made her feel sick.
