The Gaps

our tiny, plant-filled bathroom huddle in one corner. The lounge is separated from the kitchen by the bench, and beyond that, the door to Mum’s bedroom.
From my bed I stare at the photos and drawings and magazine pages I’ve blu-tacked to my bedroom walls in one big chaotic collage. Normally I love to lie here and look at it. Maybe this is what the contents of my brain would look like if you tipped it out. Colours and patterns and shapes and faces. Memories and wishes and plans for the future. Like the answer to me, the sum of me, is up there on the wall.
Tonight, though, I can’t stop my eyes from sliding left, to the window. It’s fitted with a flimsy plastic handle that winds it open and closed. There’s no lock.
I think through the logistics.
Force the window open, drag me out. The window opens onto a narrow side passage. You’d have to haul me past Ron and Pearl’s unit, but they’re ancient and no threat. Then I’d have to be dragged over the low dividing wall, kicking and screaming, into the front yard. It’d be difficult. Not impossible, but maybe not easy enough.
The detective that spoke on the late news seemed to be deliberately avoiding mentioning Karolina Bauer.
When I was deciding whether or not I was going to take the scholarship to Balmoral, Karolina’s kidnapping was mere trivia. I was more interested in poring over the school prospectus, reading about subjects and results and awards, trying to understand what it all meant in real-life terms. Trying to decide if I should do my final three years at a brand new school.
None of it prepared me for the harsh and dizzying reality of Balmoral Ladies College.
I’d actually talked to Yin in my first week. She was one of the first girls to pay me any attention at all.
I had been in the bathrooms near the science labs, in a cubicle. Not to pee, but to buy time away from the maelstrom of new faces and hard-to-find classrooms. I wasn’t the only new student. Lots of families couldn’t afford the full six years at Balmoral, so plenty of girls started in Year Ten. But those families at least paid three years’ tuition. I wasn’t supposed to be there at all.
I’d gone into the bathroom alone, but soon several pairs of feet came in and set up at the mirrors and sinks. The taps turned on and off, and I remained deathly quiet. Someone used the hand dryer, there was quiet chatter interspersed with silence. I held my breath.
‘Gimme that,’ someone said. Laughter followed by spray-can sounds.
‘Wang is better than Doolan.’
I was in Mrs Wang’s form but I had no idea who was speaking. Now that I’d waited those extra moments I couldn’t come out of the cubicle. I’d been too quiet; it was obvious I wasn’t in there to use the toilet.
‘Liz says Scrutton is the best form teacher. He lets you do anything as long as you don’t bother him.’
‘There are four new girls in our form, including two scholarship students. That’s a lot, right?’
‘It’s so funny how we’re not supposed to know who the charity cases are.’
‘God—so obvious. Can I borrow some?’
‘First,’ the loudest voice said, ‘there’s the uniforms. Second-hand and huge. And also the shoes, those ugly Mary Janes they recommend even though no one wears them.’
‘To be fair, some Year Sevens have them.’
‘Secondly,’ the lead hyena continued, ‘they’re such try-hards. They join literally everything—orchestra, choir, volunteer squad, debating…’
‘But they have to be good at everything or they’ll lose their scholarships. And then where would they be? Back in the ghetto.’
‘I feel sorry for them,’ a new voice says. ‘No one has told them yet how shit Balmoral is.’
There was laughter before the bell rang, and everyone cleared out.
I waited until the bathroom was quiet, already worried about being late to Maths. I was sure I was alone, but when the door swung open, Yin was there, a Ventolin puffer in her hand.
We looked at each other in the long mirror that stretched from window to wall. Me in my too-big uniform, carrying my new textbooks, a highlighted map of the school sitting on top. My face was bright red in some parts and ghost-white in others. Tears had made two obvious tracks down my cheeks.
Yin handed me some paper towel.
‘I think we had English together first period. Do you need help finding your next class?’ she asked.
I shook my head.
‘Are you sure? This place is huge. It takes a while to learn your way around.’
Even though taking up her offer would have made my life easier, I refused again. Humiliation had glued my mouth shut.
Yin gathered her things and left, smiling sympathetically at me on the way out.
I splashed my face with cold water, patted it dry, and forced myself to go outside into the corridor. Like I’ve been forcing myself ever since.
DAY 2
I’m always nervous walking into school on a Monday morning, but today it’s especially weird. There’s a sick buzz flowing through the Year Ten corridor, and it’s littered with whispered scraps:
Small groups huddle—there are tears, hugs, wide rabbit eyes.
I have to fill five gaping minutes before form room, so I sit in front of my locker and colour in my knee with black texta to hide the hole in my opaque tights. I imagine a clear, wobbling bubble, separating me from everyone else.
No one comes to talk to me, to ask if I’m scared, did I sleep, how I’m feeling, and I’m relieved. Yin was—Yin is—a Junior Schooler, and some of these girls have known her since they were six years old. Nothing I’m experiencing could possibly compare with what they’re going through.
I only lift my head when I hear the traditional morning bitchnami crashing down the hallway. You’d think they’d take the day off, but no.
Natalia et al march four across like teen witches in a movie, and everyone gets out of their way, as