Saving Francesca

But I don’t.

Later, my dad picks us up from No

And I want to tell her everything. About Thomas Mackee the slob and Tara Finke the fanatic and Justine Kalinsky the loser and Siobhan Sullivan the slut. And I want to tell her about William Trombal and how my heart beat fast when he looked at me, but more than anything, I want to say to her that I’ve forgotten my name and the sound of my voice and that she can’t spend our whole lives being so vocal and then shut down this way. If I had to work out the person I speak to the most in a day, it’s Mia, and that’s what I’m missing.

My no

Because I need it to be my badge.

chapter 10

IN HISTORY CLASS, I’m sandwiched between Thomas Mackee and Justine Kalinsky. None of his friends are in this class, so he doesn’t feel the need to be Neanderthal man, although our history teacher has explained that Neanderthal man was very misunderstood and not the boofhead he was reputed to be. As usual, Thomas Mackee is making those frustrated grunting noises that have nothing to do with the Franco-Prussian War. He does what he always does in his spare time. He tries to decipher musical notes from some tabular form. Thomas Mackee has a passionate need to be in a punk band, but from the looks of things he learned music by ear, and now, for some reason, he has to know how to read it. When I can stand it no longer, I grab the book and sheet in front of him and pass them to Justine Kalinsky so quickly that they are undetected by the teacher and Thomas Mackee can’t get to them.

It takes Justine Kalinsky ten minutes to decipher the notes. She’s like this music genius. I hand the music back to him, and he makes one of those grunts that Cheetah makes in Tarzan movies when Tarzan explains something important to him. A kind of “huh” and “oh yeah” mixed into one.

I look at him. “Would you like me to introduce you to her? Her name’s dumb bitch.”

“Why don’t you just take a Midol,” he snarls.

I ignore him, and as we pack up he grunts a thanks to Justine, who glances at me, distressed.

“This doesn’t mean we have to be his friend, does it?”

On the bus, Justine Kalinsky and I sit in the back row making small talk about one of the teachers. When the bus stops at Broadway, about ten Pius girls get on. Two of them are Michaela and Natalia, my Stella friends. As usual, they’re animated, enjoying their lives with those around them. Why do I feel as if something’s missing in my life without them and they don’t feel the same about me? That doesn’t make them bad, does it? My mother’s voice goes through my head. She’s the hoarder of memories. “Remember the time they stayed for the weekend and didn’t even say thank you or goodbye? Remember the time they wouldn’t come to the phone when you were crying and apologizing about something you had no reason to be sorry for? Remember the times they’d come to school and decide they weren’t going to speak to you that day?” No, Mum. Because I chose not to remember the moments that pigeonhole me as one of the top five losers of all time, but hey, thanks for the memories.

Natalia and Michaela spot me instantly. “Oh my God,” they scream, ru

We hug, and a few of the other ex–Stella girls wave from the front of the bus. Others ignore me. Girls like Tina, our archenemy, who’d throw a party and invite everyone in my group but me. The girls would always tell me not to take things personally, but I never believed there was any other way of taking it. Thankfully, they’d be loyal and not go to whatever I wasn’t invited to, except when they couldn’t get out of it.

“So how’s life with the Sebastian boys?”

They tend to ask the same question each time I see them. Thomas Mackee hears the question and turns around, eyebrows raised as if to say, “Go on, what are we like?”

“Pretty pathetic. Well, the Year Elevens, anyway,” I say, giving him a look back. “You?”

“Waverley guys are okay.”

“Are you going to that party?” one of the Pius girls behind us asks them.

They have an animated discussion about who is going to be there and who isn’t and what they’re not going to wear. Then they remember that I’m there.

“Who do you hang out with?” Natalia asks, looking over my shoulder. She’s always done that. Wherever you are, whoever you are, she’ll always look over your shoulder to see if there’s someone more exciting to speak to. It used to make me feel paranoid.

I don’t answer. They haven’t noticed Justine Kalinsky. They never noticed her at Stella’s either, except to make fun of her.

“I rang the other night,” I tell Michaela, changing the topic.

“Really. Did you leave a message?”

“Kind of.”

“Is everything okay?”

I feel awkward with Justine sitting next to me. She takes out a music book and studies it intently.

“My mum’s sick,” I say in a hushed tone, turning my body to face them so Justine Kalinsky doesn’t hear.

“Oh my God, Francis. Is she okay?”

I look at them and I don’t know what to say. It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud, and I find I can’t really describe what Mia has. People want symptoms. They want physical evidence. This thing my mum has is like the X-Files. It can’t be explained to the non-believer, and I’m just not ready to describe it at all right now. Not to someone who’s looking over my shoulder.

Thankfully, the dreaded Tina is walking down the aisle. I’m about to snicker something to the girls, but she arrives first.

“We’re getting off at the Forum for coffee,” she says before walking away, and I realize she’s speaking to Michaela and Natalia.

“Cool,” Natalia says.

This time it’s my turn to look over their shoulders. “You hang out with Tina? We hate Tina.”

“We hang out with everyone,” Natalia says defensively.

“She’s a bitch.”

“Once you get to know her, she isn’t.”

What is it with that argument? Why is it that you have to jump through hoops of fire to find out that someone’s decent? The fact that someone is a bitch on the surface says heaps about them.

“She treated us like dirt.”

“No she didn’t. She only treated you that way. You take things too personally, Francis. You always have.”

Justine’s stop approaches and she presses the button. She bumps past me, but I’m still looking at them.

“Come for a coffee with us,” they plead. “We haven’t spoken for ages.”

They look as if they mean it.

“Another time,” I tell them, and I get off the bus with Justine. I just don’t want to be on the bus for another second. Justine doesn’t ask why I’m following her home. Justine Kalinsky never questions anything. She doesn’t even look smug. She just walks, her bag bumping against her hip, her ginger hair coming out of its clasp.

“Are you okay?” she asks after a while.

“Just having one of those days.”

“No. I mean are you okay in general? You don’t seem to be. You haven’t all term.”