John Marsden - While I live

We only just made it to the bus but I didn’t dare miss another day of school. Gavin and I must have had the worst attendance records in Wirrawee. I didn’t like it for me, because I didn’t necessarily want to spend my whole life on the farm. I wanted to go to university, at some stage, and although I couldn’t begin to think how to manage it, I didn’t want to slam the door on the possibility. But I’d have to do a bloody lot of work and get some serious passes in some serious exams.

And I didn’t want Gavin to miss any more school, because he too was way behind. It wasn’t just the war. I don’t think he was the most academic person in the Wirrawee area, and being deaf made it harder because it took him longer to get the instructions. Plus he didn’t get as much information as other students. I got the sense that the teacher would give the class a five-minute speech about something, much of which Gavin would miss, and then she’d give Gavin a twenty-second summing up of his own. So he got about a tenth of what they got. I was too distracted by everything that was going on in my life, most lately of course Liberation, but I kept thinking I had to do something about Gavin and school. The trouble was that it kept getting pushed down the list of priorities.

Anyway, at least this day we arrived on time. I watched Gavin get off first, when we stopped at the primary school. He hated for me to wave to him or acknowledge him in any way. So he usually ignored me. This day though, our eyes met, and I smiled, and he even gave me a glimmer of a fraction of a tiny grin back. That was extremely rare.

I felt guilty that I hadn’t talked about school with him much lately. In the old days, from what he told me, on the rare occasions when he talked about the old days, he had a special aide in the classroom most of the time. Now the government couldn’t afford such luxuries and he was on his own, in a classroom of thirty-five kids. And apart from his naughty little mate Mark, he probably was on his own. He certainly sat on his own in the bus, but there were only eleven primary kids on our bus, and five of those went to Our Lady of Good Counsel, and four of the others were girls. I had a feeling the girls would be cautious of Gavin.

Our Lady of Good Counsel. Catholic schools always have such poetic names. In Stratton there was Saint Joseph the Worker, and Our Lady Help of Christians. In the city I saw a Catholic high school called Star of the Sea. And I went to Wirrawee High School. Why didn’t they rename it? ‘Place of Learning Among the Pines.’ ‘School of Wisdom and Enlightenment.’ ‘Saint Ellie the Irresolute.’

I saw Jess as soon as I arrived. It was my first day back since the raid on the guerilla camp and I could tell the moment Jess looked at me that she knew. She had a little secret smile. ‘Nice one, Ellie,’ she said offering me a Tic-Tac. ‘It’s true what they say about you.’

‘What do they say about me?’ I asked. I was off-balance.

I wasn’t sure these days if I still liked Jess, but I thought I probably didn’t.

‘Oh well, you know, all that stuff about you being such a war legend. I didn’t know how much of it was exaggerated. But you sure saved Homer’s ass.’

‘Well, Lee and Gavin managed to give a bit of help from time to time. So, who told you?’

‘Homer. But don’t worry, I’m safe with secrets.’ She pulled a newspaper clipping out of her pocket. It was already wearing away through being folded and unfolded, even though it was only a day old.

I guessed what it would be about. Unconfirmed reports suggest that missing agricultural consultant Nick Greene has been rescued by the guerilla group calling itself Liberation. Greene, who had been accused of distributing Christian literature across the border, was taken hostage nearly two months ago, and grave fears were held for his safety. Greene is a member of Cross-Country, a group committed to reconciliation between the two countries. A spokesperson for Cross-Country said only that ‘Greene’s circumstances had changed’, and a further statement would be made within forty-eight hours. No comment could be obtained from Liberation, who are a notoriously secretive group. Greene is thought to be recuperating with family members in the Stratton-Wirrawee area.

I shrugged and gave it back to Jess. ‘Did you do the Legal Studies?’ I asked her.

She looked at me. ‘God, it’s true, you do have ice in your veins,’ she said.

It sounded like she was quoting someone else and I wondered who it was. Would Homer have said a thing like that about me? I didn’t have ice in my veins when it came to wondering what other people thought of me, but then I was a teenager after all.

I headed for my locker but just as I got there I ran into Ms Maxwell. She was our Year Coordinator these days and every day she looked more harassed. Her hair looked wilder and her face was thinner and her glasses were further and further down her nose. ‘Oh, Ellie,’ she said, ‘I’m so glad you still remember where your locker is.’

‘Ha-ha very funny, Ms Maxwell,’ I said.

‘Well, I need to talk to you about your attendance, Ellie. What about you come and see me at the staff room at recess?’

‘OK, Ms Maxwell,’ I said. Great start to the school day. As if a cow with a prolapsed rectum wasn’t enough. I wondered how Ms Maxwell would go stuffing a bit of poly pipe up a cow’s bum at seven o’clock in the morning.

The day didn’t get any better. We had double English, which was another reason I’d made an effort to get to school today. I don’t mind the occasional English lesson. This year we had Mrs Barlow. I’d had her in Year 7 for English and Year 8 for Social Studies. That’s another problem with a small school, you get the same teachers over and over again. Still, as you get higher up, things improve. Teachers treat you more like a friend, kids are nicer to each other, the atmosphere improves about a thousand… something. What do you measure school atmosphere in? Kilos? Metres? Degrees? I don’t know.

We’d been doing some quite good stuff in English, including literary archetypes and fantasy novels. Mrs Barlow is a bit of a fantasy freak. She’s always got some twelve hundred page epic under her arm. But this time I got the fatty end of the brisket. ‘Would have been better to stay home and hoe out the early thistles,’ I thought. ‘Would have been better to get involved in another border raid with Liberation. Would have been better to watch reruns of “The Nanny” on TV.’ Because for one hour and forty minutes all we did was listen to a taped interview with a guy called Joseph Campbell. Unbelievable.

I did all the things you do when you’re bored in class. Redecorated my folder. Wrote a letter to Fi. Kicked Homer when he made stupid remarks, which he still did with about the same frequency as he had in Year 8. For example: the guy on the tape is talking about mandalas, and how they represent harmony and balance within the self, so Homer deliberately hears it as Mandelas and announces that Nelson Mandela is so balanced he can sit on both ends of a seesaw at the same time. Like, not very funny, but probably better than listening to the tape.

At lunchtime I sat with Homer and Jess and Bronte. It was awkward having Bronte there because I wanted to talk more about Liberation, and even the raid to get Homer and Nick back. Sure I’d been extra cool with Jess, but that was showing off really. I did want to talk about it. It’s natural: after riding up to the gates of death on a four wheel motorbike and then racing away again, you want to go over and over it with anyone you can. But I couldn’t talk about it in front of Bronte, although for all I knew she could be a member of Liberation too. Watching her sitting there all calm and peaceful I realised how much I really did like her. Even if she was a year behind us at school she seemed as mature as anyone in my year. More mature than Homer, for a start.