Motion: a Novel of Young Adult Fiction and an Accompanying Exegesis

By Trina Denner

Doctor of Philosophy

2016 Abstract

This practice-led PhD is comprised of a Young Adult Fiction (YAF) novel entitled Motion, and an accompanying exegesis. The artefact is set in contemporary times, following the journey of a 16 year old girl with a passion for running who is determined to find a place for herself in a world of poverty and domestic violence. The two together examine the ways in which an author employs discourse and technique during the creative journey and the resulting impact of these choices upon a work of fiction. This project reports the evolution of these two components of research, detailing the challenges and inspirations that have come about through the continuous interchange between creative practice and academic investigation. Central to the project is how meaning is made through the combination of various narratological techniques and how authorial choices take form within a genre aimed at the adolescent reader. Young adult culture has, and continues to, undergo significant change due to the increasingly global, digital, and participatory nature of society. This research aims to capture and explore the changing world of young adults and their experiences in a meaningful way. It attempts to answer the question of the relevancy of fiction for adolescents within this culture, and the role it can play in identify formation and support for teenagers. Within this overarching exploration lies the issue of the female teenage experience, specifically, how the ways in which girls relate to sport is changing and how this shift can be represented through fiction. Alongside this is a discussion of the capacity of YAF to act as a platform for investigation into controversial issues, such as violence and poverty, in narrative form, and questions how representations and stereotyping can both add to and detract from story writing. The project takes a Practice Led Research (PLR) methodological approach, recognisng issues and ideas arising from practice and responding with an exploration into existing academic discourse to find solutions to writerly questions. This project began with a story idea and developed through planning and writing a resultant novel, together with a study of the YAF genre and the practices of writing by academics and authors. In this way, it uses creative process and scholarly research to generate further knowledge relating to the artefact. Within this PLR framework, the project accesses new scholarly insights through the application of theoretical lenses, using them to reflect upon practice and academic inquiry. The artefact and exegesis are explored using gender theories as a frame, including feminist standpoint theories (FST) and Social Dominance Theory (SDT), both of which open up the project’s discussion of the ways girls coincide with modern western society and the consequences of such.

2 Acknowledgments

My inexpressible thanks goes to Mark Denner, Mackenzie Denner, Emerson Denner and Boston Denner for their unwavering support, understanding, and belief. I also respectfully thank Carolyn Beasley and Josie Arnold for their insight, patience, encouragement, and willingness to challenge me to reach higher at every turn.

3 Declaration

I certify that the thesis entitled ‘Motion: a Novel of Young Adult Fiction and an Accompanying Exegesis’ submitted for the degree of PhD contains no material which has been accepted for the award of any other degree or diploma; to the best of my knowledge contains no material previously published or written by another person except where due reference is made in the text; and is not based on joint research or publications.

Full name: Trina Denner

Signed:…………………………………………………………….

Date:………………………………………………………………

4 Table of Contents

1. Artefact – Motion …………………………………………………………… 7

2. Exegesis – Writing Young Adult Fiction ………………………………….. 227

I. Positioning the Exegesis …………………………………………. 228 i. Aim of Project ……………………………………………… 228 ii. Applying Theories to Practice ……………………………… 229 iii. Representations and Stereotyping ………………………….. 230 iv. Making Meaning …………………………………………… 230 v. Navigating Controversial Issues in YAF …………………... 231 vi. Girls and Sport ……………………………………………... 232 vii. In Summary ………………………………………………… 233

II. Methodology ……………………………………………………... 234 i. Exegetical Methodology …………………………………… 234 ii. How Does Creative Work Lead to Data for Scholarship? … 235 iii. Creative Methodology ……………………………………... 235 iv. The Snowflake Method and PLR ………………………….. 237 v. Diversity of Technique ……………………………………. 248

III. Applying Theories to Practice …………………………………. 240 i. Feminism – Commonality of Thought? …………………... 240 ii. Feminist Standpoint Theories …………………………….. 242 iii. Social Hierarchy/Social Dominance Theory ……………… 243 iv. Bambi as an Outsider Within …………………………….... 244 v. Girls ‘Doing Girl’ ………………………………………….. 245 vi. The Individual or the Group? ………………………………. 247

IV. Representations and Stereotypes ………………………………… 249 i. Using Gender Theories as a Frame …………………………. 249 ii. Representations ………………………………………………. 250 iii. Character Portrayals and Stereotypes ………………………… 250 iv. Writing an Abusive Father Character ………………………… 253 v. Figuring Forth Characters ……………………………………. 254 vi. Violence – Why is it a Male Issue? ………………………….. 256

5 vii. The Role of Patriarchy ………………………………………. 257 viii. Domestic (Family) Violence …………………………………. 258 ix. Violence in the Novel ………………………………………… 259 x. To introduce Mental illness? …………………………………. 260 xi. Male Power and Agency ……………………………………… 261

V. Making Meaning …………………………………………………… 265 i. Voice in YAF Narratives …………………………………….. 265 ii. Relevance and the Generational Gap ………………………… 266 iii. Voice and Imagery …………………………………………… 268 iv. Narrative Intimacy and Point of View ………………………. 269 v. Narrative Space and the Question of Current Youth Culture ... 270

VI. Navigating Controversial Issues in YAF …………………………. 275 i. The Ideal Reader ……………………………………………… 276 ii. Are There Limits? …………………………………………….. 277 iii. Representing the Experience of Poverty ……………………… 278 iv. Writing Violence ……………………………………………… 281 v. When is it ‘Too Much’? ………………………………………. 284

VII. Girls and Sport ……………………………………………………… 288 i. Empowerment Through Sport ………………………………… 288 ii. How Adolescents Understand Gender and Sport ……………... 289 iii. ‘The Sporty Girl’ ……………………………………………… 292 iv. Girls Can Sweat, But They Must Remain Beautiful ………….. 294 v. Media Influence on Teens …………………………………….. 296 vi. Can Bambi be Sporty and Girlie? ……………………………... 296 vii. Adolescent Self-Acceptance and Esteem ……………………… 298

VIII. Conclusion …………………………………………………………… 301

3. References ………………………………………………………………………. 304

6

Motion

Trina Denner

7 Prologue

Bambi crashed blindly through the under-scrub of Hannigan’s paddock, dodging the very darkest patches of shadow. She ran as fast as her legs would go but she urged them on, faster still. The storm at her back was real. And imagined. Either way, it drove her forward. Her muscles screamed but she kept moving, ignoring the fire in her lungs, through the clawing twigs that were invisible in the shadows of evening. Momentum. It kept her moving forward and away. If only she could get far enough away. She didn’t stop when she reached the lip of the dam. She couldn’t. Her motion dragged her on and her legs breached the water. She sucked in her breath. It was cold. She couldn’t see its brown murkiness but she knew it was there; felt it bleeding between her toes. It lapped around her thighs, heavying her dress. She dived in. The filthy water washed over her, rippling in recognition. The dam was her sister, together in their resignation. Rain fell, quietly dragging dirt with it into the dam. Bambi broke the surface of the water and rolled onto her back. Spread-eagled. Clothed. Eyes wide to the night sky. Was she born like this, with dirt under her nails and a greasy film coating her skin? Had she ever been free of it? She suspected not. She couldn’t remember feeling new. Bambi opened her mouth to the rain hitting her face and caught the drops with her tongue. They slid down into the secrecy of her insides. The storm was arriving, seemingly just beyond her arm’s reach. The clouds churned with rain and fury but silence filled her ears, punctuated by her pounding heart. The small circle of her face was the only part not swallowed by the water. Her hair hung in weightless strings beneath and around, her open mouth only centimetres away from drawing in liquid instead of air. Ice-blue lightning lit the sky with its jagged bolts. She blinked slowly, blurring the dark and the light together. Bambi let the forces of nature find equilibrium. Her legs were sinking ever so slowly. She wondered if there was enough buoyancy in her body to keep her up. Did she have what it took to float? Did it really matter if she didn’t? The dirty water pulled at her legs, wanting to drag her under. Stars twinkled and winked from above Bambi, the not-quite girl, not-quite-woman floating on Hannigan’s dam. Something brushed her leg. Probably an eel. She didn’t move. She’d known worse things than that.

8 1.

She peered through the shop window, angling herself behind the wall so it hid most of her skinny body. The glass was cool against her cheek and a clump of hair hung across her eye crowding her view, but she did not raise her hand to push it aside. She leant unmoving. A gaggle of women stood gossiping inside. She knew them, of course, which was just one of the crappy things about a small town. Everyone’s business was tied with invisible string and even a slight tug from one thread sent the entire web into a frenzy. Denise White had her back to the glass, but it was unmistakably hers. No one within a day’s drive had shoulders quite so narrow coupled with a backside quite that broad. She was pointing a column of Butternut Cookies at round, ruddy Linda Gardener to emphasise whatever undoubtedly nasty point she was making. She thrust and stabbed with the biscuits fiercely as if fencing an opponent. Jennifer Frost stood as a needle between two balls of wool, gnawing at a hangnail as her attention flitted between the two. The topic was obviously fascinating. Linda’s bottom lip hung open slightly, reminding Bambi of a mullet. The woman must have heard the girl’s thoughts as black fishy eyes turned in her direction. Linda’s lips pursed together momentarily before they let go of a single word: ‘Bambi’. The others swung in unison towards the window. She drew back behind the bricks, cursing. Why did they bloody-well give her that damn stupid name. Bambi knew the story behind her name but she had never told a soul. Even when Angela Lester had her straddled in the Kindergarten playground with her face mashed into the dirt. It was one of those things that hovered at the back of her mind, but she batted it away before it could meld into something tangible. Such thoughts poured heavy molasses into the pit of your stomach. They were dangerous. Bambi shifted uncomfortably, feeling the women’s scrutiny blasting through the plaster and mortar. She didn’t have to watch to know what they were saying. They hated her guts, simply because she was a Hall. The grubby, revolting Halls. And who was she to say they were wrong? If her family were just poor then that would be okay, that could be forgiven. In fact, it would have been a welcome chance for the bored housewives to wage a silent charity-war. But they had other issues. Well, some of them did, which meant in a roundabout way, they all did. Bambi was in an orbit, with the unrelenting hand of gravity chaining her to her family. Her dad at its centre. She shut the thought down quickly. She leant in again, which sent the old broilers into a spasm of clucking, and looked past them at the willowy woman behind them at counter. She wasn’t beautiful, Bambi knew,

9 with her too-high forehead and cowlick planted smack-bang in the middle, but she had something. Or so Bambi thought. Her mousey waves were pinned in a style that was fashionable about fifty years ago and her blue eyes had the appearance of faded denim; tired, stretched, a glimmer of former glory. She carefully placed items in a brown paper bag. Organic bananas; quinoa; kale chips; and a loofah on a stick. She deserved so much better. The fact that she didn’t take what she was owed confused Bambi. Why didn’t she lash out at those who deserved it? Bambi’s lips tightened, knowing it was the very thing that made her special. The woman knew she was there, but she didn’t look up. She handed the customer her bag with a ‘have a nice day’ and retied her already neat apron. Bambi pulled away from the window and waited. The bell above the shop door jangled. ‘Bambi.’ Wanda said. Her voice was soft and clean, and wiped over Bambi like a warm washcloth, cleaning off the sticky residue of the day. ‘You can’t be here smudging up that window. You know I’ll be cleaning it again in the morning.’ Her forehead folded into a frown. Bambi looked at the green and brown letters on the window that spelled out: ‘The Flowering Mung Bean’. It was a stupid name for a shop, and they had all laughed about it when Wanda had picked up the job there, but Bambi secretly liked it. It seemed to be laughing at itself, mocking the modern bloody Paleo, Vego, and Vegan hippies. Bambi didn’t care whether food was ‘certified organic’, she cared that it was food, and that it filled the gaping hole in your guts. She nodded. ‘One of these days your hanging around here is going to get me fired.’ Bambi dropped her eyes to the pavement, focussing on a blob of purple gum that had been flattened by countless feet. She wondered how many feet, exactly. A thousand? Ten thousand? ‘Do you want me to take Kevin home?’ A pencil stuck out of the grass, angled like the rigid body of a water dragon. Wanda shook her head. She reached out and faintly brushed her daughter’s cheek with her fingertips and tucked the stray piece of hair behind her ear. ‘Go now’. Picking up the green Woolworths bag that held her schoolbooks, she stepped and bent, scooping the pencil into her pocket with her free hand. ‘See ya, Mum.’ They gave each other the same small smile before Bambi turned and walked away. ‘Do you have money for the bus?’ Wanda called after her. Bambi nodded. She didn’t. She walked until she heard the bell telling her that her mother was no longer watching and she broke into a run. She wrapped the handles of the bag

10 around the books and gathered speed, darting sideways to miss a man who was texting instead of watching where he walked. He looked up, shaking his head. Like she was the one with the problem. She shook her mind loose and let her legs lead. They knew the way. She followed the familiar pattern of streets and the thoughts fell out of her head one by one as she moved. They were replaced by the stretch of her lungs as she drew breath and the feel of another blister forming where the hole in her sock was. She fell into a rhythm and the minutes passed, only aware of the slight camber of her body as she rounded into a left- hand corner, then a right. She had a stitch piercing under her left rib. She pushed a little harder. She rounded the sweeping corner of Bottlebrush Drive and eased up before the steep descent that was coming. She was clear of the town and its busyness and the road now dropped away into the bowl of farming land to its east. Bambi did a quick check to see if she was alone. A smile tugged. She stretched out her stride. ‘Time to fly,’ she thought. Bambi let her head fall back and held her arms out wide, palms up, as she moved. Her eyes slid shut and she submitted to the pull of the valley. Each footfall stretched further from the last, hitting heavily on the sloping road. The thrill of knowing she might fall buzzed in her gut, but she relaxed her shoulders and reached out to the heavens, beckoning them into her open arms. And she flew. With every step came a few seconds of air where no part of her touched the earth. She felt slightly giddy as her body wrestled to find balance as the road fell away. Her mind soared, ignoring the periodic jolts of her feet landing. She could almost believe her soul was a heartbeat away from departing, rocketing into the forever of the sky, never to look back. Almost. Almost. The bellow of a car horn broke into Bambi’s trance. Her eyes snapped open. ‘Get off the road, you friggin idiot!’ Bleep, Bleep, Bleep. The sunshine-yellow Volkswagon did a little swerving dance in front of her as it regained a straight course. The driver’s rude gesturing made a lie of the cheery paintjob. But then again, Bambi already knew that the outside and inside of most things were at odds. Her gallop down the hill slowed to a trot even though her heart still raced, and she moved off the bitumen. She veered into the overgrown paspalum grass on the road’s shoulder, catching her breath and calming the tingling she felt on the underside of her skin. Tiny black seeds clung to her skirt as she swanned through the thigh-high growth. The grass smelled of

11 summer. Its pungent aroma encased her like humidity. Its sharpness made her screw up her nose. She hated it, but it felt like home. Acacia Road was drawing to an end, the T-intersection made it clear that she was almost there. Her steps shortened. She slowed. She stopped at the right-angled corner. Before her was the now empty schoolyard of the primary school. The metal gate was closed and padlocked, keeping out intruders who couldn’t climb higher than eighty centimetres. Her eyes tracked down the path, past the flagpole – the Australian flag taken down for the day and folded neatly on the edge of the principal’s desk – the steps leading down past the bubblers and to the dunnies at the back. The classrooms loomed left and right. Fragments of coloured artwork peeped through shadowed windows. She missed being there. It was simpler. She turned left and counted sixty eight reluctant steps. The neat steel railing of the school ended and the semi-rotten dilapidated fence of the Hall house began. A riot of purple Pig’s Face blossoms attempted to escape her front yard, which might have been a glorious display of nature had it not been infiltrated by fireweed and choked by spreading clumps of grass. A faded orange chip packet stuck in the lantana that had overtaken the front yard. In effect, the overgrown vegetation was all that kept the fence vertical, and in places it was failing at that. A shadow passed the window. Bambi took a step back and dropped down into a squat and out of sight. She knew he’d seen her, but she wasn’t ready to go inside yet so she pulled her bag under her tail and sat. The sweat was cooling on her skin leaving it tight and shivery. She closed her eyes and felt it brush over her face and arms and she willed her stomach to unknot. She began picking blades of grass, pushing her thumb down as far as she could into the roots in order to pluck the entire length, right down to the colourless end that had not yet seen the sun. She chewed on it. It tasted like fresh air and herbs. Footsteps inside the house. The creak of the front door. Footsteps on the porch. ‘Come in, girl.’ Jonathon Hall rubbed the two-day greying growth on his lower face. ‘Come and tell me about your day.’ Bambi stood reluctantly, her head appearing above her green blockade. ‘Hi Dad.’ He wore a once-white singlet and brown belted shorts. In his left hand a felt hat, which he wore both inside and outside the house. He repeatedly smoothed the creases of its twin peaks with his right. She nodded but didn’t move.

12 He had a glass jar in his hand. He’d been euthanising butterflies. He pushed his hat down onto his head and gave her a wide smile. ‘Come on, little deer.’ Her legs twitched, eager to run some more, but Bambi brushed aside their nagging doubt. This afternoon he seemed okay. He seemed fine. Working with his butterflies tended to soothe him. She took eight steps around the fence, three through the broken hinged gate, and four along the crunchy gravel path. She stopped at the bottom, looking up at him, checking that he was still smiling; that the dark clouds hadn’t been blown in from sea while she journeyed her fifteen paces. This was dad: all sunshine and shadows. It was easy to soak him up when the sun came out, but when the shadows blew in, well, it was dark and stormy. Jonathon sat down stiffly on the top step and adjusted his hat, fishing out two rectangles of gum from his pocket. He held one out to her. Bambi slipped in beside his knees on the middle step. She felt the sun-blistered paint crackle under her weight. She took the gum and they opened the wrappers simultaneously and folded it into their mouths in tandem. Then they chewed as they watched a magpie – head cocked to the side - scanning the grass for insects. It pecked periodically, always watching with one eerily intelligent eye. ‘How was school?’ She was silent for a second. ‘Alright.’ ‘D’ya learn anything?’ Bambi shrugged. ‘I guess.’ More chewing. ‘What?’ ‘Ummmm.’ She rubbed at her nose with her palm. ‘In geography, Mrs Baxter’s teaching us about famous explorers.’ Mrs Baxter wasn’t, actually, talking about explorers. But Bambi had tuned her out for most of the last period, so she wasn’t quite sure what they were studying. She shifted her eyes sideways to watch him scratch under his hat. ‘I see. Real practical like stuff, eh?’ Bambi allowed herself a smile. Jonathon could be all right when he wasn’t taken by the mood. When he was ‘himself’, as her mother called it. This afternoon he was himself. So Bambi sat and chewed with him, past when the gum had lost its sugary flavour and had gone furry in her mouth. ‘Yeah, real important.’ ‘I guess you never know when you’re gonna need to know how to chart some unmapped territory, now do ya?’ Jonathon looked away. ‘I guess not.’ Bambi stared at her shoes. ‘Where’ve you been?’

13 The magpie startled and flew away. ‘Around,’ she shrugged. ‘Around, huh?’ She felt his eyes drilling into the side of her face. ‘Around, as in ‘at your Mum’s work’ around? She doesn’t need that, Bambi.’ Bambi kept staring at her shoes. With heels glued, she danced the toes together and apart. Would this bring the clouds? ‘I know,’ she whispered. Jonathon pressed his lips together and readjusted the hat. He opened his mouth, and then shut it again. Instead, he gave her a playful nudge with his knee. She put her hand down to stop from toppling over. ‘One of my Blue Triangles hatched today.’ He was smiling. Bambi’s attention was drawn to the coin that was now spinning expertly through his fingers. It was his lucky coin. ‘A good one?’ ‘Yep, perfect.’ he grinned. ‘You should see the colours in its wings. Turquoise as the Aegean Sea. I put it straight in the jar.’ Bambi hated the jar with its poison-drenched cotton wool, where the birthing journey, from caterpillar to cocoon, ended abruptly in death. The brown penny kept spinning. It was too old and tired to be bothered catching the light. ‘It’s not the biggest I’ve got, but she’s definitely a beauty.’ He folded the coin into his palm and then away into his pocket. “I’ve pinned it out on the board, if you want to see.’ She stood. No, she wanted to say. I do not. ‘I’d better start peeling the potatoes for tea.’ She avoided her father’s eyes as she stepped past him. ‘Bambi,’ Jonathon stood and grabbed her by an ankle. His hands were enormous and her leg was a stick. She looked down at him. Whatever he saw, he looked away. ‘Off you go then, girl. And don’t peel off too much skin, or you’ll know about it.’ She had no doubt. Bambi scooted around the veranda, dodging the weather-worn patches where nails had worked their way out of the timber, waiting to catch an unwary foot. She winced as she remembered how much that hurt. Adam, one year older, was out the back. He had sweat sticking the shirt to his back as he chopped timber pallets into firewood for their prehistoric stove. It was the original one from when the house was built. Jonathon had bought a second hand electric oven from some

14 guy from the pub, but it didn’t work and he hadn’t gotten around to fixing it yet. It sat proudly next to the refrigerator - an empty plastic butter container filled with miscellaneous parts in the oven cavity – in all of its unserviceable glory. At least it didn’t add to their electricity bill. ‘It’s the 21st century, not the bloody Dark Ages’ Wanda had frustratingly declared. That conversation had not ended well. Her mother knew what set him off, but sometimes she seemed to forget. Or maybe she had moments where she didn’t care. Adam glanced up at his sister and turned back to his work. Bambi knew he would be tired. He was up before dawn helping old Mr Jung milk his two hundred Friesians. ‘Hey Bamb,’ he said. Swing, chop. ‘Hey.’ She slipped through the swinging screen door gently. It was one of the few things in the house that remained functional. Wanda had fixed it herself. Bambi set to it. She lit the coals in the stove, blowing gently on newspaper and a pinecone until it erupted into flames, and then stacking in some fine pieces of wood. Moving around the kitchen with practiced movements, her fingers peeled and sliced, the familiar tasks muting the din of her mind. She liked the kitchen; the way everything had a purpose. Where anything could be chopped and blended, and added, to become something greater than itself. Something new and unrecognisable, and often better. She placed the vegetables – potato, beans, and twisted carrot stumps that Adam had grown – in boiling water and finished trimming the meat of fat. Pog the cat waited impatiently for scraps to be dropped and snatched them up in single gulps. Bambi hummed a little, but quietly, barely aware that she was sounding it aloud. The cat interrupted periodically meowing hoarsely as it asked for more. The screen door banged, knocking Bambi out of her thoughts. Wanda was well past gentle entries. Kevin was perched on their mother’s hip. His pudgy legs bucking to be let down. Wanda let him slide off as she placed the bag of groceries on the bench. He immediately crawled to Pog and grabbed his fur in two handfuls, trying to pull them alternately into his mouth. The cat’s eyes grew rounder and its maw stretched into a silent cry, but it didn’t retaliate or try to escape. ‘I could have taken him with me.’ Bambi checked the temperature of the pan by flicking water into it. It hissed and spat, flicking stings of hot oil onto her arm. ‘No,’ she replied. End of conversation. The woman and girl moved in unison without speaking. Bambi cleared the bench and set out the plates, ready for the meat Wanda was now placing in the pan. Bambi watched her mother concentrating, biting down on her bottom lip as she worked, noting the double frown lines that were working overtime between her eyebrows.

15 Bambi took the tub of dirty kitchen water outside, dumping it on the garden and refilling from the tank. The internal plumbing didn’t work and the outside pipe running down from the tank thumped noisily as it engorged with water. It was on Jonathon’s to-be-fixed list. She lingered a little, watching Adam stack the cut wood, drawn to his rhythmic sway. Adam’s dark eyes skipped across to where she stood. They were grey eyes, as charcoal and sooty as the old stove’s belly. He blew the hair from them with a puff and went back to stacking. Bambi saw the storm roiling inside of him. She could see it in the way he held his shoulders and wondered how long he could keep a hold of it, whether he would subdue it everlasting, or if it would crack him into bits. Bambi re-entered the kitchen with the tub just as Wanda placed the last chop on the plate with the crazed blue Elizabethan pattern. Her mother turned and dropped the pan sizzling into the water Bambi had delivered. Kevin was whinging and swinging at her dress so the neckline cut fiercely into the flesh at her collarbone. A sigh escaped Bambi’s lips, unnoticed or unremarked upon, as she plucked the baby off her mother. ‘Come for tea!’ Wanda closed the sash window behind her. ‘I’m almost fifteen, Mum. I legally don’t have to go to school, you know.’ Bambi looked in all seriousness at her mother. ‘Who’s not going to school?’ Jonathon filled the small room. ‘No-one, Dad. I was just saying…’ ‘Well, I’ll be buggered if one of my kids doesn’t finish school properly.’ Bambi held onto her breath trying to quieten it, to calm the blood that was pumping faster around her body. ‘I will Dad, I was just...’ Wanda stepped quickly to his side and placed her hand on his shoulder. ‘She’s going to school, Jon, no question.’ ‘No-one’s gunna say that Jonathon Hall didn’t give his kids every chance.’ Sweat was beading on his temples. He was a protective, dangerous bear. He could hurt them, but he also wanted to keep them safe. It was hot in the kitchen. The air was sticky in her lungs. Wanda stepped between them. Bambi took a step backwards. She hadn’t meant to. She tightened her arms around the baby, but he was trying to wriggle free. ‘Did you hear me?’ Jonathon’s voice bent around her mother, cutting through the beat racing the blood through her eardrums. Kevin stiffened for a second before redoubling his efforts to get down.

16 Adam had snuck in the door – another body practiced in the art of obscurity. Bambi couldn’t tear her eyes from her father and she loosened her grip on Kevin. He slid to the floor. Adam moved towards her and she felt the brush of his arm as he stood alongside. She wondered if his timing was purely unlucky, or entirely intentional. ‘You hear?’ Jonathon turned to yell in Adam’s face, including him in Bambi’s mistake. She felt her brother’s arm on her back. ‘I hear,’ Adam responded. If not for the slight tremble in his body giving the lie, he achieved an appearance of control. Jonathon stared at his son; left eye twitching. He turned back to Bambi, flicking his glare back and forth between the two. Whatever he was looking for, thank God he didn’t see it. Wanda placed her hand on his back and he turned and looked at her blankly, thrown. His scowl softened into a frown. ‘Let’s sit and eat,’ Wanda pulled out a plastic covered chair and guided him into it. ‘Don’t nag at me, Wanda,’ he bit at her, but the heat had left his voice. His eyes were cooling. Bambi judged it safe enough to slip into her seat and unclenched her hands, but she could not stop them shaking. She stared at Adam’s back as he washed in the bucket of water beside the bench. She wiped a stray tear with her fingertips. They waited in silence for Adam to sit and then for Wanda to pry the piece of newspaper from Kevin’s hand and hustle him into the makeshift highchair, fastening the HK Holden seatbelt and pulling it tightly across his lap. Kevin reached again for the newspaper, his squawk of frustration the only voice as he leant across the table. They sat still and waited for Jonathon. He sometimes said ‘Great meal, Wand’, or ‘I’m starvin’, let’s eat!’ It was always an unknown, which way it would go, but it was never ‘Thank you, God’, as was done at the neighbours’ table. Tonight, he picked up his cutlery and inspected his knife for any offensive marks. He stabbed his chop with the fork and began to eat. Wanda sat with her knees to the side, as if she expected her visit at dinner to be fleeting. It made Bambi edgy. She shifted in her chair. ‘How was your day, Jon?’ She asked. She hadn’t yet touched her food. Jonathon grimaced as he chewed the lamb. He grunted: ‘It’s a bit tough’. Wanda’s chin dropped the tiniest of margins but she said nothing. ‘I need a drink.’ Wanda jumped up to get him a stubbie, twisting the top off with the fold of her skirt. He took a long draught and slammed the bottle on the table.

17 Bambi realised she was staring and quickly turned to cut Kevin’s food into small chunks before starting on her own. She ate her beans, carrots, then potatoes, in order. Same as every night. She looked at the lamb chop for a minute, imagining it as it once was: a moving, breathing animal. Adam nudged her with a foot under the table, his look saying just eat it. She poked at it a bit before she skewered it and let the fork wobble there on its own, watching to snatch the handle when the chop threatened to topple off her plate. Still giving Bambi the evil eye, Adam reached for the tomato sauce. Jonathon went to plonk the salt down. They connected mid-air which sent the shaker sailing across the table. It dropped dead-centre in Wanda’s plate, spewing a heavy white slash across it as the lid came loose. Bambi’s fork fell, catapulting her chop into the middle of the table. She knew her mouth hung open but she had no words. Jonathon’s chair scraped back and slapped onto the floor and he stood above them all, blocking the light bulb and casting a shadow dark and long across them. His hands stretched the length of the table in a Cobra strike at Adam’s neck. Bambi’s mouth remained wide and noiseless. ‘Jonathon!’ Wanda pleaded. Quietly. But not quiet enough. He shoved her. Adam’s face was reddening and he pried at the hands around his throat. His strength was not a match for his father’s. But then again, who didn’t go to jelly when they were petrified? Maybe Adam was stronger but just didn’t know it. Bambi’s thoughts scattered uselessly in several directions and she couldn’t scoop them together. Jonathon was yelling in Adam’s face, one knee on the table, ‘Bloody, bloody useless…’ Spittle formed at the edges of his mouth, flying off in tiny wet orbs. Bambi’s hands leapt into action even though her brain stayed a step behind. She deftly unbuckled the screaming Kevin and retreated to the edge of the room with a protective shoulder facing outwards. She bobbed him up and down, repeating ‘it’s okay’, over and over into his ear. Wanda stood shakily and made another dash at them. ‘Please, Jon, let him go.’ Her voice pitched higher with every word. Her hand stretched out futilely towards them. Jonathon threw Adam, his face connecting with the wall. He picked up Wanda wholly, shaking her with the contractions of his anger. Bambi could see the glassiness in his eyes and wondered whether he could even see what he was doing. Adam was crumpled on the floor with his hand to his head. Bambi rocked herself and little Kevin, not going to Adam. Nor her mother. Shame burning because she didn’t want to and was glad that today, he ignored her. ‘Why do you do this, woman?’ He threw her onto the table, sending more plates and food smashing onto the floor.

18 Kevin took up a wail. Bambi had backed up against the window, eyeing the doorway but helpless to leave through it. Tears curtained her eyes, distorting everything. She turned from the sight of her mother who was bent over, collecting broken crockery from the floor. Her blood dripped from a sliced finger. What the hell was she doing? She wanted to scream at her father to leave them alone. What did he want from them? What kind of person was he? Bambi caught sight of Mrs Taylor from next door who was staring at her through her own kitchen window, a phone to her ear. Their eyes met before Bambi let hers slide away. ‘Stay out of it,’, she whispered. Adam was on his feet and had manoeuvred himself between his parents. Jonathon’s eyes were untamed as he picked up a chair and threw it to the ground. The two front legs folded at an abnormal angle, breaking something irreparable inside the dovetailed joint. She pressed her eyes shut, wishing she could do the same with her ears. It was the noise she couldn’t escape. The sound of anger. And quiet whimpering, which she recognised as her own. It only took a few minutes for the local cops to arrive. They knew the house. They all knew the drill. But how incredibly long those minutes seemed on the inside looking out, when safety is suspended. In such a moment many things can happen; when delicate things, like bones, can be shattered. The baby was heavy. Bambi slid down the wall onto the floor and became a cave for him. They dragged him away like a fallen puppet. The anger had gone and he sagged in their hold. In the wake stood a huddle of bruises and new blood, a pale, skinny girl, and a now quiet infant. Adam stood by watching, hands on his hips, a mini-Jonathon. Bambi had stared. As she did so, she realised for the first time that he looked just as broken as the rest of them. The sound of stillness was always confronting after the patrol car had gone. They were left alone in the eat-in kitchen with the quiet noises of breathing, crying, statues. Wanda broke away first, patting down her hair before starting the clean-up. She wiped the saltshaker and refilled it, pausing to suck the blood from her cut finger then screwing on the lid and returning it to the shelf. The table was wiped, the floor scraped, washed, and buffed. Wanda scratched drying splatters of sauce off the wall with her fingernails. Adam left with the door banging behind him, marking a new phrase in the proceedings. The sound of him chopping wood added a layer to the aftermath symphony.

19 Bambi still huddled over Kevin. She squatted with him between her thighs; arms encircling him until his writhing body eventually escaped to inspect something eye catching across the kitchen. She continued to sit amongst the company of her numb thoughts. She tried to empty them from her mind. If she sat perfectly still, she could concentrate hard enough to catch the suggestion of a thought and kill it before it took hold. She imagined them as her father’s butterflies, and with a net, she could scoop them up and empty them into the formaldehyde jar, screwing the lid shut as she watched their wings flap once. Twice. Stopped. Her mother moved off to bath the baby and to put him in his cot. Bambi sat still for a long time. Adam returned with an armload of kindling which he dropped beside the stove. Splinters of timber sprayed across the newly clean floor. He knelt and swept them with his hands. He had wiped the blood from his nose. His cheek was split and swollen. He was prodding her. ‘Up’ he was saying. ‘It’s time for bed’. She let him take her hand and lead her into the room they shared. A makeshift wall fashioned from a moth-eaten quilt hung, delineating their areas, affording them visual privacy, if nothing else. The space between their beds was walking room only. They changed simultaneously on their sides of the wall. No bath tonight. She could smell the reek of sweat from her too-warm body. Neither spoke. Bambi slipped under the covers and Adam tucked up the corner of the hanging quilt so they could see each other. He flicked off the light and got into his own bed, facing the ceiling. He reached his hand out to find hers. Her body curled on its side to face him. ‘Remember that day Mum packed the picnic basket and we all took off up to the swimming hole?’ His voice cracked. ‘Yeah, I remember.’ Bambi whispered. ‘And you had those purple togs that Dad bought you from the shops because he thought you’d love them?’ She nodded into the darkness. ‘And you did a big bombie next to Dad,’ she added. ‘And he laughed so hard…’ ‘Yeah. That was a good day.’ ‘Yeah,’ Bambi closed her eyes against the moonlight. ‘Night Bamb.’ Adam squeezed her hand before taking his back, placing them both under his head as he braced for a night of sleeplessness. ‘Night.’

20 2.

She hid behind a camphor laurel. The massive tree whispered to her in its scratchy voice as she fidgeted with its foliage. They lined the edge of the sporting field – a straight row of green giants hunkering down between the road and oval. Bambi fingered the dark waxy leaves before systematically pulling off the berries. She didn’t watch for them to fall but moved from one to the next in a process of mindless destruction. There was something about them that drew her. Smooth and flawlessly round; black pearls of the bush. She had passed the health food shop after school, partly out of habit, partly to confirm what she already knew. She’d glanced in the window at the familiar figure of her mother before her eyes found the flyer with the purple ink, stuck to the glass with sticky tape. Running Squad Meets Friday at 4pm Rogerson Oval All welcome Staring at it - heart beating, legs twitching – she’d been nervous. It had been on the window for three weeks, next to the advertisement for Magnum ice creams. The purple was fading but she knew the words by heart. She read them a second time, and a third. She’d stood glued to the advertisement, undecided. No, she would not go. Her legs had an invisible shiver in them and she knew they would betray her. She knew they wanted to run. She hesitated. Anxiety bubbled within her. Just for a look, she’d told herself. They won’t know I’m there. Bambi let her legs go. They led her two streets across, and three blocks down. The mugginess of the day had held tight, despite that it was late in the season and autumn should already have begun beating the heat into submission. Beads of perspiration hampered her as she ran, skidding downwards into her eyes, stinging with their salty tang. She wiped at her hairline, but the droplets reformed and ran the length of her face. As she approached the oval she measured the scene with squinting eyes. She dropped back to a walk. The gathering was large by the town’s standards. Mums and toddlers; rugs and thermoses. The chatter was excited and the air held a festive hum. The sun was hot, pouring more warmth atop the already scorching temperature. Snatches of discussion wafted across to her, debating whether or not the sky would hold, or if the brewing storm would crash down on them before the end.

21 Bambi had arrived late. She would sooner poke a stick in her eye than join the horde, so she had scurried toward the cover of the trees before she was noticed. The coach had sorted the mass of children into a block of lines from youngsters through to adolescents. They sat cross-legged on the oval. The neat rows at the front dissolved into a jagged mess of teenagers at the back. Bambi eyed their uniforms: a red and white singlet with black shorts. ‘Northside Motors’ was printed in bold black lettering across the shoulders with a picture of an engine, and on the front was a rabbit in full flight. The singlets declared: ‘Racing Rabbits’. Despite the humidity, the sweat-sticking singlets, the team looked crisp and new and she believed they would be every bit as fast as the picture promised. She tried to get comfortable sitting on a tree root to watch. The smallest girls began the racing. The coach signalled for the girls in the first heat to move. Two immediately scrambled up to the line, prompting three others to follow with vigorous hand gestures. The last, daydreaming girl copped a nudge from a foot in the row behind: ‘Get up there!’ The whistle signalled the start and the girls were suddenly moving. Gradually at first, gaining speed as their legs and arms remembered how it was done. Their efforts caused some giggling and smiling from the onlookers. Bambi watched as the pre-schoolers, giddy with excitement and somewhat uncoordinated, catapulted across the finish in waves. ‘Go, Molly. Run!’ ‘Come on, Sarah. Come on!’ ‘Gooooooo, go, go, go!’ The parents jiggled with nerves. They were a collection of storm clouds willing their children on to greatness. Only one woman sat in her folding chair, Woman’s Weekly in hand, with her hat shading her eyes against both the slanting afternoon sun and the behaviour of the others. Some of the kids sensed the parental need. They jittered around, wild-eyed and anxious. Others had heard and listened to their own inner whispers and responded with grim determination. But most hadn’t quite got the hang of racing yet. One boy, looking backwards, crashed into another, which resulted in a snowball of arms and legs and crying. Watching mothers scrambled onto the track to console their little darlings. Bambi smiled. Although amused and entertained, she found her eyes skipping across to the older racers. They were a collective statement proclaiming: ‘I belong’. She watched two girls sitting back-to-back, their club singlets knotted above their stomachs, leaning against each other to stay upright. One flicked her hand against the leg of a spiky-haired boy. Neither girl nor boy looked at the other. She kept flicking, the occasional sideways peek the only indication she was interested in his response.

22 The girls chatted, taking turns speaking into the empty air and sometimes swinging their head around in an attempt to spy the other. What were they talking about? How they kept their hair looking glossy and soft? How they made their bodies appear so slim and full at the same time? They made Bambi’s throat dry and she turned from them, focussing on the coach. He had long, hard limbs that erupted from his round middle, which suggested an athletic body in a past life. He moved through the races quickly, scribbling periodically on his clipboard and blowing the whistle that hung off his lips like a cigarette. Girls with long legs, easily a head taller than Bambi, were moving up to the starting line. She inched out from behind the trunk to get a better look. She saw Tammy Frost from school at the same moment Tammy saw her, nudging the freckled girl beside her. One giggled, the other pulled a face and pointed in her direction. ‘Damn.’ Bambi withdrew sharply but not before the coach swung his pot-bellied torso around. His legs remained static, giving him the impression of a pregnant woman. His ginger moustache formed an unmoving line in his blank face as he eyeballed her, and then he retracted his attention. She plonked her forehead against the tree trunk and groaned. Bloody Tammy Frost. Bambi wanted to smack the smile off her smarmy face. She waited a moment before risking another peek, standing and leaning against the tree. Lined up, the older girls settled into their bent starting poses with their bodies coiled and eyes focused ahead. Bambi’s chest pressed against the laurel’s thick trunk. Her cheek squashed on the bark, it scratched and poked as she craned for an out-of-sight view. The whistle blew. The girls sprung into life. Their legs were fluid in their speed, graceful in their oscillating progress. Bambi crushed down on the berry in her hand, only releasing her grip when the girl with the honey pigtail crossed the chalk line and her legs slowed in clunky jolts. Bambi blew out her held breath, plucked off another branch. She wanted a better view. She weighed the need to watch against the danger of being seen. Stuff you, Tammy. She edged around to sit on a root, sinking backwards into the tree, willing her body to fuse with it. The line of boys –although they looked mostly like men to Bambi- readied themselves. One was jumping on the spot and swinging his arms like a windmill before shaking himself, one leg at a time, and crouched into position. They were older than Bambi by a smidge; broader and taller than the girls and muscled like horses. She looked at them, shiny with possibility. They were exciting, and terrifying. And when they ran, she was not disappointed. The balls of their feet kissed the ground with each step as their knees drew up hard, ankles flexed and pointed. And they were fast. They were arresting.

23 And then it was over. The boys clumped together, clapping each other on the back. They playfully jostled around; the winner was rewarded with a headlock and a noogie. Their beauty popped with reality’s pinprick and Bambi slunk back behind the tree. Her thoughts sped ahead as the images replayed in her mind. She could feel the wind on their faces and the blood coursing through their bodies. She knew that feeling. The meet ground to a halt. Rugs and containers with half-eaten snacks were packed away and toddlers were wrestled into seatbelts. Bambi waited as the buzz slowly subsided. She spied on them, watching as parents claimed their children, hustling them into cars as they relived the failures and successes in technicolor. They all looked so together. So normal. The last of the parents disengaged from the serious business of sucking up to the coach, trying to provoke him to cough up chunks of praise for their child. Then they left. Bambi studied him as he set about packing away the bright orange markers. Perhaps he wasn’t as ancient as she had first thought. His hair was greying and he was wrinkled, but his eyes were sharp and he stepped lightly, with the agility of a young boy. Perhaps it was the sun that had aged him early. The coach carefully packed the back of his station wagon with his gear, his whistle remaining around his neck to signify to the world his unspoken allegiance to all things sport. He gently clicked the boot shut and drove away. Bambi waited before she left her hidey-hole. To be sure he was gone she waited until the sound of the station wagon was lost, and then she counted to one hundred. The numbers settled her, even though she wasn’t quite sure why she was nervous. She gave her legs a mindless rub. They had been still for too long and were, yet again, itchy on the inside. She sprung onto the oval, unable to contain herself any longer. She double-checked behind her. The place was definitely abandoned. She carefully jogged around the perimeter of the field, warming her muscles and building her nerve. Sweat swamped her and her school uniform was a dead weight. Her shirt stuck to her back and the sleeves pulled at her arms. But it felt good to be moving. Her heart rate was up a little, but not really, and her muscles buzzed with a pleasant warmth. She stopped. She looked around again. Checking. She went to the starting position and lined up. Bambi crouched down as she had seen the others do, weight balanced between hands and forward right foot, ready to spring. The power in her legs was pulsing. She waited for the sound of the whistle. Out she shot, as if danger was raking her heels, driving her forward. Pressure built in her thighs - 40, 50, 60 metres. Her cheeks billowed -70. Nostrils flared – 80. She smelled the finish, heard the people screaming for her, and she blocked every thought and felt the throbbing of her blood and counted the metres to victory – 90. 100.

24 She doubled over with hands on knees, gagging as the bile rose in her throat. She pushed it down and sucked air into her heaving lungs. It had felt amazing. ‘Keep moving, or you’ll seize up.’ Bambi yelped, jumping. There stood the coach, whistle hanging, hands on hips. ‘Ouch.’ He made a show of sticking his finger in an ear to rub his offended eardrum. ‘You could break something with those lungs.’ He appeared serious, offering no smile to soften his sudden appearance. ‘A good sign, I’d say. One thing a sprinter needs is a good set.’ She was frozen. In his hand was the clipboard he’d left behind. ‘Lungs,’ he answered her silence. ‘You’ll need a good pair. If you want to sprint.’ Bambi’s head swung from side to side, and her mouth worked wordlessly. ‘I’m sorry. Coach Ben.’ He stuck out his hand. She stepped backwards. He raised his ginger-grey eyebrows at her in question. And she took off; a rabbit recovered from the glare of headlights. Coach Ben walked back to his car, got in, and drove away a second time. Bambi ran on adrenalin until her legs complained, arguing that they needed to stop, and then jellied when she refused. She didn’t stop moving, if she did, she’d be forced to think, and she most certainly did not want to do that. Her speed dwindled as she chewed through the kilometres and she flung herself into the open gateway of home before she collapsed. Lying on the grass, she stared up at the darkening sky. She thought about the encounter and her stomach pumped itself full of acid with embarrassment. She had run away like a complete moron. She swore she’d heard him laugh as she bolted. Her instinct had driven her blindly away. What did she think she was doing? She didn’t belong there. She should never have thought… She punched the ground with her fists and rolled onto her stomach, planting her hot face in the grass. She let the sharp blades draw her mind away. Burying her face in deeper, Bambi inhaled the earth’s musk. She had no right to try to be the same. She was not the same. She belonged here, in the dirt, in the unmown grass. ‘Bambi,’ Wanda leaned over the balcony handrail. ‘Where’ve you been?’ Bambi didn’t budge. She heard the tired footsteps on the stairs and felt her mother lower her body down onto the lawn next to her. One girl with her face down, one woman sunny-side up. Their arms and legs touched on one side, tying them together. They lay, both imagining they could read each other’s thoughts, imagining that they knew. They listened to the birds chitter their last

25 messages before they settled for the night and the chorus of frogs calling to each other from their secret places. ‘Look Bamb, see how the sun makes the clouds glow around the edges?’ Bambi resisted a minute longer before rolling over, placing a body’s distance between them. ‘It’s magic, isn’t it?’ Wanda sounded breathy. They watched the sun play with the colours in the sky before it gracefully bowed away out of reach. The croaking and chirping faded for a moment, as if the animals too had paused to take in the sight and to contemplate the passing of another day. The frogs started up again. ‘He doesn’t mean it, you know,’ Wanda whispered. Bambi couldn’t imagine why she would say something like that. Of course he meant it, or he wouldn’t do it. ‘It’s complicated,’ Wanda went on. ‘Being a grown up, is, well, complicated…’ Bambi shrugged at the dark. ‘Whatever’. They watched as the things around them turned to shapes, and shadows of shapes. ‘It will come up again tomorrow.’ ‘What will?’ Bambi questioned. ‘The sun, Silly.’ She laughed gently. Bambi turned her face to her mother but didn’t respond. She did not think anything was at all funny. ‘And nothing will have changed,’ she thought.

26 3.

‘Where is it?’ ‘I….I…’ ‘I….I…’ He imitated her. His womanish voice twisted on the word. Bambi flushed. ‘I haven’t done it because I’m lazy?’ The thin, middle-aged man placed one hand on his hip. ‘I haven’t done it because I’m stupid?’ The maths teacher tapped his foot. A total show. ‘Well, what is it?’ ‘I didn’t have the chance.’ Her eyes didn’t leave the ‘AB ♥s HC’ scratched with blue pen into her desk. ‘You didn’t have the chance?’ He threw his hands up in mock horror. ‘Of course, because there are so many more important things for you to be doing rather than your maths homework! ‘Maybe your problem is that you don’t realise that this is your chance?’ He swept his arms in an arc. ‘School might just be your big chance to crawl out from under your rock? Do you think?’ A muffled snigger. After a fleeting look at his loose-fitting face, his grey hair hanging in his eyes from the agitation, Bambi retreated into the back of her brain where his voice dulled to a distant squeaking. Warming to his speech, Mr Butler began a well-worn rant. ‘Seriously, girl. Why do you bother coming to school anyway? You may as well not.’ He picked up her exercise book and threw it at the waste paper bin. It fluttered to the ground two metres short. A note was being passed along the grid of single file desks. It reached Tammy. She started unfolding. ‘Not that it’s entirely your fault, I suppose. Why they bother sending some of you girls to high school is beyond me. Especially putting them in a Mathematics classroom!’ He puffed out his piddly chest. ‘In five years time you’ll probably all be bare-foot and pregnant.’ A boy laughed. Mr Butler threw the chalk duster, missing his head by millimetres and bouncing off the desk behind. ‘Quiet! All of you!’ He then engaged in some eyeballing. ‘I’ve been teaching for thirty nine years and I’ve never had so many no-hopers in one room!’ He rubbed his temples. He wasn’t a good actor, not by a long shot. He was Dame Edna playing at Sylvester Stallone.

27 Tammy scribbled on the note, refolded it and passed it back. Although the transition appeared smooth, it still caught Butler’s hawkish attention. He strode two steps, intercepted the note and read: ‘Bambi is a loser. Yeah, and looks like a stick insect!’ Bambi felt it as a punch in her solar plexus. ‘Brilliant, girls. Just brilliant.’ Sarcasm was one thing he did well. Bambi tried to be a statue. Her eyes, face, mind, body, heart – all stone. There were no audible laughs, but a few smothered mouths and bitten knuckles. Tammy’s smile was mix of smug and embarrassed but she held her spine straight and still managed her signature look of self-importance. ‘That is, I assume you were trying to spell insect, Tamara? I-n-s-e-c-k-t.’ More sniggering. Tammy kicked Thomas in front of her. ‘Shut up!’ ‘All right, Tamara, go and stand facing the wall near the blackboard. I have had enough!’ His pitch had risen well into the ‘high and loud’ vicinity. Tammy’s face burned scarlet and her look threw daggers at Bambi’s downturned head. ‘You too, Bambi. One on each side of the board!’ Bambi’s head snapped up, her face asking: ‘me?’ Tammy mouthed: ‘You’re dead.’ She could feel the heat in her face and neck and a prickling in her eyes as she walked to the front to the room, which had finally fallen into silence. Mr Butler was scribbling problems on the board with meticulously formed numbers, the assumption being that the students would begin copying and solving. The show was over. Bambi could hear books being opened and paper settling as she faced the wall. And then nothing. She imagined twenty eight sets of eyes boring into the back of her, all blaming her – the loser – for provoking his temper. ‘Breathe, Bambi.’ She tried to focus on the in and out of the air rushing into her lungs and the way they expanded and contracted like a balloon. She liked how they did that. It was actually pretty amazing. She caught her thoughts as they bubbled to the surface, putting them in her mental dis-box. She wrestled with her humiliation. It was trying to drag the mortifying images back out where she had to see them, forcing her to own her failure. Bambi closed her eyes, squeezing out her close-up view of the wall. She tried to visualise herself running through the grass, but the image kept careening away. Mr Butler dropped the textbook onto his desk from a height designed to startle. Jonathon’s fist came down hard into Wanda’s jaw. Bambi’s eyes broke open, inches from the wall. She pushed away her mother’s crying and the dead ‘thwock’ that sounds when flesh hits flesh.

28 ‘You have ten minutes to complete numbers one through fifteen…’ Mr Butler settled at his desk near her, his presence smothered her like a wet towel. Bambi scrambled to think of something else. Anything else. ‘Stop, Jonathon, please!’ he stood over her mother – crumpled on the floor- breathing hard. His shadow cast over her with a raised fist. She was silent and still, watching. Jonathon stood near his wife but his attention was directed towards the black doorway, where she huddled with the baby. Bambi gripped the sides of her skirt. She tried to relax her hands but they were shaking. She blinked furiously. Where’s Adam? Mum needs you, Adam. Help. Please. She watched him kick her mother in the side. Telling the baby to stay and be quiet, she stepped out of their cover and flung herself at her father, scratching and swinging her flimsy arms. He threw her away. Another ragdoll. His eyes were piercing. Who is responsible? His eyes demanded. Who? She grabbed the baby and was running. Out the door. Help. Mrs Martin. She needs help. Please. ‘No!’ Bambi whispered. She was looking at her own house from the neighbour’s kitchen. A ginger ale frozen mid air, forgotten, in her hand. Condensation beaded on the glass. It was slipping, smashing. Shards scattered, flying under the table and refrigerator, into the open pantry. Why did his clouds make him hurt them? Why did they have to stay? ‘Stand up straight.’ Mr Butler. ‘Get your head off that wall and stand up properly.’ Bambi turned her face to look at him. Tears streaked her face. He shook his head at her, disgusted. ‘Goodness me, girl.’ The class was silently working, some on their maths problems, some on complicated scribbles in their margins and trying to text on their mobile phones under the desk. They ignored her. Bambi tried again to find a happy place. She scrambled after her favourite things: the fresh smell of Hannigan’s paddock, the way that clouds could cast shadows of dragons onto the grass, the gurgling of a creek, the puppies in the pet shop window. But they kept slipping from her mind, crashing onto the carpet of 11C Maths. She let out a sob. She hadn’t meant to, but the tears were choking her, blocking off her throat, and the sounds had nowhere else to go but out.

29 4.

‘Okay, give me some laps, people. Get the blood moving.’ Coach Ben blew his whistle and pointed at the oval. ‘Go on, get warmed up!’ He watched them move en-masse in the direction of his pointing finger. The littlest seized upon the opportunity to be at the front of the pack, momentarily believing they were, in fact, the fastest of the fast. And for a glorious moment, it was actually true. Ben stifled a smile. The longer the legs, the more motivation appeared to be needed, which explained why the coach found it necessary to give a few severe blows of the whistle immediately behind the tail-enders. ‘Aww, Coach!’ Jonah, with the spiky hair, screwed up his face. But he picked up his dragging feet, and led the adolescent posse in a charge against the already slowing legs of the leading children. The senior runners weaved through the progressively smaller ones with an unexpected delicacy, inverting the group; rightful places established. ‘Pick up your feet, Lacey!’ Coach Ben hollered. He finished marking the roll and tucked the clipboard under his arm. He turned and contemplated the row of camphor laurels. ‘Coach…!’ One of the mothers was making a beeline for him. Linda Gardner waved her hand at him and performed a little half-run, half-walk, like she was hailing a taxi that she expected would drive off at any second. She was swooping down on him, but she did it in style, maintaining her chicness in her white three quarter pants and apple-green polo shirt. And she managed it all with a wiggle in her hips. ‘Oh, I’m so glad I’ve caught you.’ She placed her hand on her heart in the open space between her shirt buttons. Whether its noticeable beating was due to the impromptu physical activity or the proximity of the coach, it was difficult to tell. ‘I actually…’ He started. She flipped her dark brown, bobbed hair out of her collar. ‘It’ll just take a second.’ Her best winning smile. Ben’s eyes shot across the trees before resting back on Linda, which she took to mean she had just been raised to the number one priority. He could see she had expected nothing less. ‘It’s Lisa,’ she began. ‘She’s just so…’ she minced her hands around in a roly-poly motion. He raised a tired eyebrow. ‘…delicate,’ she finished. Coach Ben smiled. ‘Lazy’ had been the word to pop into his mind. Linda mistook it for understanding, stepping closer to place both her hands on his forearm.

30 ‘I would really appreciate it if you could just be a little….’ Eyelash batting. ‘...gentle with her.’ Coach Ben shifted his weight between legs. ‘Let her experience some success against some of the….sturdier girls…’ ‘I don’t ask any of my runners to be here against their will, Mrs Gardner.’ He removed her hands, treating then as he would blue-ringed octopus tentacles. ‘But if they do choose to be here, I expect them to do the work. And I certainly don’t hand out easy wins.’ She made strangled noise. ‘Of course, I didn’t mean…’ ‘Same rules for everyone.’ Linda’s neck blotched red: ‘I understand that you…’ ‘Now if you’ll excuse me.’ He turned and walked away, towards the trees. ‘Where are you going?’ She huffed, hands on hips. Ben gave a dismissing wave over his shoulder. ‘But...’ she fumbled. He’d already moved on. ‘Shouldn’t you be watching the kids?’ She muttered under her breath: ‘My kid!’ She stalked back to her chair, hips shedding all traces of their previous swing, and was about to plonk into it when she remembered herself. She smoothed her shirt and hair, smiled, and lowered her regal self down. ‘What are you looking at?’ she snapped at a small boy; hand poised between his open mouth and container of grapes. Coach Ben gave a cursory check of his squad before he moved into the shade of the laurels. No movement. He knew she’d heard him coming. He stood still, and waited. On the other side of the tree, the girl also waited. ‘Do you think it might be time to come out of hiding and actually join us?’ He heard her shifting against the bark of the tree. ‘This is the third week.’ No response. ‘Can you at least come around here, so I can talk to you?’ He could be patient. ‘Please?’ ‘I can’t.’ ‘I know all about ‘can’t’,’ he responded. ‘And ‘won’t.’’ The girl stepped out. Up close, she was spidery thin in her shabby school clothes, with her bulging, petrified eyes set deep in their sockets and pinched upwards at the sides. He took in her skinny legs with their socks puddling around her shoe tops, and he knew the girl could

31 run. It was clear that she was tough; a lean hardness that was part born, part bred. She could run, alright. He could feel her potential and the excitement welled in him. ‘Give me a sec.’ He held up his palm, willing her to ‘stop’ as he jogged a few metres away, gave two short puffs and one long blow on his whistle and beckoned his runners in, pointing towards the car park end of the oval. He jogged back. Bambi had stayed. They looked at each other, measuring. ‘I want you to come to squad next week.’ She looked at the ground again. Her finger found a hole in her uniform at her stomach, the site of a missing a button. ‘Do you want to run?’ Her head nodded, but it was a weighty movement and Ben knew the admission had cost her. ‘Good.’ He crossed his arms in a satisfied way. ‘What’s your name?’ She looked him in the eye, narrowing hers. They were slitted and pale. ‘Bambi,’ she said. It was her first word offered directly to him and it was full of spine. It was her personal badge of shame thrown at his feet as a challenge. ‘Hmmph,’ he responded. She looked away. ‘Well Bambi, I expect you to be here on time next Friday, ready to run.’ Her elven eyes returned to his rusty ones. In the exchange, Ben saw something fleeting, something significant. They had plugged in. ‘Follow me.’ He didn’t wait to see if she would. She obeyed, and he led her to the mouth of the crouching lion. Bored of waiting, the runners had found their own entertainment. The five year olds played tag, weaving between people, squealing and bumping, eliciting annoyed shoves and ‘get lost’ comments. The teenagers’ behaviour was gender divided and lazy; a mix of idle gossip and periodic horse-slapping. Ben glanced at the parents and couldn’t help but feel irritated. That Linda Gardner woman wore an annoyed expression, now standing at the outer edge of the spectators with her arms crossed, mumbling to herself about God knows what. With yet another hair flick, she spun and stalked across the grass –high heels sinking into the ground – and began pumping her toxins into the closest huddle of women. Ben had moved into the middle of the chaos, waiting quietly for his presence to be felt. Bambi was a frozen Fish Finger at his side, completely out of place. His runners slowly folded into order, creating a semi-circle around him. The whispering wound down and all gazes were fixed on Bambi. Some curious, some nasty, all waiting for the show to begin. ‘Who’s that?’ asked Evan, his missing two front teeth giving him a lisp.

32 Ben paused while he assessed them. ‘This is Bambi. She’ll be joining us next week.’ He scanned the group, inviting someone to object. His face read: ‘Warning. Enter at own risk’. Bambi stood rigid and looked straight ahead with her fingers balled into fists at her side. Evan grinned at her, his tongue evident in the toothless gap. The pigtailed girl next to him smiled shyly. Most wore blank expressions: ‘Whatever’. Ben noted the faces with the screwed up edges and knew he would have a battle on his hands. Coach blew his whistle. ‘Drop where you are and give me 25.’ He looked at his latest recruit and gave her a flick with his hand to dismiss her – better she was gone now. ‘Off you go, people. Push-ups. Now. Look alive.’ Bambi turned to go but paused. He watched as her attention skidded to a halt on one of his star runners, who responded by straightening his back and flicking his hair in that ridiculous way he always did. It drove Ben nuts. He’d like to take the clippers to it. ‘Jack Arnold!’ Coach barked. ‘Are you having a nice time standing there?’ Jack smiled and turned away. Jack morphed back into an athlete, his lean brown muscles doing double time to catch the others. The balls of muscles in his shoulders flexing as he pushed his body up again and again. Bambi was staring. She brought her palms to her cheeks. Ben watched as she hightailed it out of there wondering how much trouble this girl was going to cause him. He suspected it was going to be a whole bundle. ******* Bambi fled the oval in a tangle of limbs and confusion, breathing and excitement. She jogged beside the road. Excitement and horror warred in her, disrupting her usually regular pulse and making it tricky to get into her groove. She was giddy with the events of the afternoon; they shifted in whirlpool fashion through her brain, sucking in everything in its path. Her anchoring fear dragged behind her this afternoon, its chain around her waist tugging and releasing in turn as it bounced and towed behind her. At least she wasn’t nursing it in her arms. ‘Want a dink?’ It was Adam on his way home. He rode his pushbike alongside her, grinning. She shrugged, shimmying out of her thoughts. ‘I reckon I’ll probably beat you home, anyway.’

33 His laugh carried back to her as he sped off, standing on the pedals and tilting the bike from side to side as he ploughed ahead. He performed a huge circular skid, ending in an impressive spray of gravel. When the dust settled, he raised one eyebrow at his sister. She caught up. ‘Okay, let me on.’ Bambi did a backwards hop onto the handlebars as Adam took off – a practiced performance. She shifted, adjusting her backside so the bolt in the middle of the bars wasn’t sticking into her. ‘Don’t wanna hurt your ego, or nothin’.’ ‘Hold on, loser.’ ‘Whoooa-ho…’ They wobbled threateningly. ‘You’re getting fat, Bambi!’ She smiled, unable to swipe at him, unwilling to take a hand off the bar behind her. They rode together, enjoying the bustling noises of late afternoon without feeling the need to ruin it with yabber. Bambi glanced into the houses as they cruised by, catching snatches of mothers with saucepans and fathers with television remotes and cold beers. The neighbourhood had its own kind of rhythm; everyone here had a place, a part to play. ‘Did you smell that?’ Adam stood on his pedals in an attempt to get a closer whiff of someone’s dinner. ‘Roast lamb.’ Bambi’s stomach ached. A man watering his lawn squirted them with his hose. ‘Off the lawn!’ he bellowed. They weren’t on his lawn. ‘Bloody hooligans.’ Adam laughed and Bambi gave a half-hearted squeal. The cool water actually felt rather nice. They had reached Bottlebrush Drive. Adam slowed and Bambi jumped off. ‘I’ll wait for you at the bottom,’ Adam suggested. ‘Nah.’ Bambi was already running. ‘See ya at home!’ Adam watched his sister disappear over the crest of Olive Rd, his face impassive. ‘Last one’s a rotten egg,’ wafted back. She flinched as he sped past down the hill on his second-hand bike, daring gravity to dump him on his face at the bottom. He vanished around the corner before Bambi was even half way down. Alone, Bambi’s thoughts returned to the afternoon at Rogerson’s Oval. She knew squad was a bad idea for so many reasons. She didn’t have any proper shoes to run in. She couldn’t afford to buy a uniform. And there was no way in hell she was going to tell her father where she’d been. And then there were the others. And the issue of her other-ness.

34 ‘Have you got the guts?’ she murmured. Her words sounded small and girlish and were quickly swallowed by the all-pervading sound of the evening crickets. She didn’t know the answer. And she was quite sure she didn’t want to be around when it was time to find out.

35 5.

Bambi tucked her feet under her thighs; legs crossed, skirt forming a tent across her knees. She unspun the plastic shopping bag that held her lunch and opened it in her lap as a makeshift plate. Sitting on a cement block – her personal pedestal – she overlooked the basketball courts and adjoining courtyard area where the popular girls lounged on the grass. She pulled out half a vegemite sandwich. There was no butter in the fridge this morning, so she’d plastered a slice of bread with the dark spread and glued a crust to it. ‘That’s gonna be one fierce sandwich,’ Bambi had grinned to herself as she’d twisted her lunch bag up and placed it in her eco-friendly supermarket school bag. An apple and a few Arrowroots had been located this morning, so she wasn’t complaining. In fact, she was looking forward to lunch today. And she was ravenous. It was a bonus when her sandwich was fresh, and it certainly wasn’t today. She forced down a mouthful of dry bread and vegemite, with a burning-dragging sensation, deciding it would be best to chew the next bite longer. ‘Hi.’ It was Jodie Farrell. She dropped her heavy body down half onto the neighbouring cement block. She never perched herself on it as Bambi did, she sat on the path with her back leant against the concrete, giving Bambi a bird’s-eye profile view of her tiny nose and long lashes. ‘Hi.’ Bambi kept eating. They rarely said anything beyond that initial greeting; an acknowledgement that they each existed in a place where that simple fact was easily overlooked. Bambi finished the sandwich and moved onto the apple. She crunched, savouring the sweet and tart mixed and tingling on her tongue. She looked over at Jodie. The girl’s thick hair was pulled back into a severe ponytail and tied at her nape, exposing the gentle arc of her forehead. Jodie’s glossy pink lunchbox was open, displaying a Nutella sandwich, a bag of chips, a Mars bar, and a slice of cake. She unscrewed the cap from her bottle of Coke and swigged at the sweet black liquid. Her tiny petal lips sealed off the opening as she guzzled, the fat folds in her neck stretched to smooth as she strained upwards to drink the nectar. Bambi swallowed; an involuntary mix of envy and disgust. She turned away from the oversized girl, nibbling at the hard core of the apple. She spat a seed on the ground. She could hear Jodie rummaging through her food, weighing up the selection and deciding which she would eat first. She chose the chips. The bag popped open with a crack. Most of the students had abandoned the necessary motions of eating and had moved on to more important matters. Like flirting. And squealing. And generally being idiots.

36 A clump of girls gathered at the edge of the basketball court to watch the boys play. They had rolled their skirts up several folds under their blouses, exposing their legs and want for attention. Strawberry gloss added to their pouts and their hair was arranged purposefully around their faces. The ball, chased by a sweaty, barrelling boy, missiled towards them. They scattered squealing. They were a flock of lorikeets, startled but unwilling to abandon their prize. One girl tried to kick the basketball back, clipping the side and sending it dribbling uselessly away. She held up her hands in a helpless gesture, which earned her a smile and comment from the boy. She performed a pathetic pose that Bambi assumed was supposed to be sexy, holding it for just the right amount of time so all could appreciate her before she spun and rejoined the others. Bambi recognised Lacey from squad and felt a twinge of identification. That is, until she stood up and took a selfie with the boys in the background, undoubtedly destined for some lame Facebook status update. Bambi, taking it all in at her safe distance, snorted. She watched them every day. They were boring and stupid. Today, her eyes kept coming back to one particular figure. The boy with lithe limbs and hair hanging in his face. He chased the ball; bouncing, darting, smooth as a leaf careening down creek rapids. Jack Arnold. He pushed back the hair from his eyes. The sweat at its roots helping it to stay where he’d shoved it, for once. Bambi imagined she could see the tiny beads of perspiration sprinkled across the bridge of his nose and the shirt sticking to his back. She wondered what it would be like to lean in close to him, lingering long enough at the place where his neck met his shoulder to inhale the giddy mix of sweat and boy. Not just any boy. This boy. Bambi pinched her own thigh. Hard. ‘Ouch!’ Jodie flashed her a look. It could have meant: ‘Are you okay?’ Equally possible, the translation might have been: ‘Must you interrupt me? I’m eating here!’ ‘Stop it, Bambi.’ She silently reprimanded herself, pinching her leg a second time to ensure her brain really had the picture. Talking to herself had become quite a normal thing to do at school. She gave her head a shake and tied a knot in her lunch bag. She took a shot at the bin with her apple core, missing. She unfolded her legs, dropping to her feet and stooping to pick up the broken pieces, sending them into the rubbish on the second attempt. She had seen enough for one day. She waited for the bell in the shade of B-block. It eventually rang, bringing with it a tide of students all chatting and laughing, most overflowing with the enjoyment of the lunch break.

37 The afternoon class was uneventful. Bambi sat alone in her regular spot at the front, left desk. Her head bowed so close to the open exercise book that her breath sent out ripples across the page she was writing on. They were studying anatomy. Despite how it looked, she was keenly attuned to everything being said. The teacher was explaining the procedure for dissecting a rat; an activity the class would undertake the following week. Lisa squawked at the horror of it all. The barbarism! Her friends were being ridiculous, dramatising how disgusting it would be, declaring that they would certainly not be cutting into any euthanised rat with a scalpel: ‘The poor tiny things.’ Mrs Van Der Whyte tiredly repeated that no one would be required to carry out the experiment, permission to stand outside the room would be granted. Bambi sighed. It was all so tedious. She drew circles upon circles in her margin. Bambi listened as John Mellton announced that he’d seen a rat’s lungs blown up with a popper straw, so big they’d exploded. What he neglected to say was that he had done it himself in the same class last year – since he was forced to repeat grade eleven for his poor progress and excessive truancy. He had been sent to the Head of Department for making Tiffany Blescoe faint, which allowed the class to see up her dress, revealing her apparently- pink underpants which had gone into the school annals of classic moments. Bambi shot out the door when the final bell rang, part of the reason she sat where she did in every class. She broke free, grabbing her bag and weaving through the human debris in the rapidly flooding corridor. She rounded the D-block building, stomped down the oversized amphitheatre steps that led to the back gate of the school, and she was gone. Leaving no traces behind. The Flowering Mung Bean was pretty quiet this afternoon. But it was Thursday, pension and Family Assistance payment day, and Bambi knew that Wanda would be bringing groceries home tonight. They’d have eggs, and bread. Honey. Possibly even tomato sauce. She wondered if her mother would pick up some fish and chips and she would feel that stuffed, slightly nauseous feeling that came with a belly full of potato scallops and greasy battered Cod. Unlikely. But it could happen. She could hope. Bambi took a quick peek in the window before opening the door. The bell jangled. Bambi threaded through the shelves, and shot a look at her mother who was with a customer and ducked out the back through the synthetic hanging curtain. She loved the way the heavy plastic fettuccini wrestled with her as she ruptured their barrier; the way it all plopped back into place with a dull slap of resignation. The slight tremble in the tendrils was the only sign she’d been there. They were dually her accomplices and foes, her silent sentries. ‘Hiya, Kevvie!’ Kevin’s face lit up when he spotted his big sister.

38 ‘Come to Bambi?’ She held out her arms and the baby abandoned the empty ice- cream container and did his two-handed, one-knee-on-the-ground crawl over to the edge of the playpen. She scooped him up. ‘You want to come home with me, buddy?’ He gave a happy-squealy noise, burying his face in her neck, shaking his open mouth from side to side as if she was a rusk that needed a thorough chewing. ‘Come on, let’s go tell Mum, and we’ll get you out of here!’ Kevin grabbed her school shirt in his sticky fists, holding on as they went into the front shop. Bambi caught Wanda’s eye. ‘I’m taking Kevin home,’ she mouthed across the people, pointing at him from above like a neon Vegas sign. Wanda continued ringing up items on the cash register, a frown folding her eyebrows closer together, which Bambi took as an agreement. ‘Off we go, little buddy.’ Bambi kissed his head. She never tired of touching the impossible softness of his hair and skin. She thought he was like custard. He even smelled like it. Satiny, milky, deliciousness. The walk home was long but Bambi didn’t mind. She let Kevin down when he squirmed, and got low with him as he inspected the things he could see at baby-height. Except the dog poo on the footpath. She stopped him before he could get his inquisitive fingers into that, swooping him up high in the air to make him laugh. She swung him around onto her back and clamped his waist with her hands. She jogged a few steps, his tiny arms dangling, not old enough to realise they should be around her neck. His miniature body banged against her and she shifted one arm under his nappy-clad bottom to keep him from slipping. The house was empty when they got home. ‘Hello?’ Bambi called in the open door. No answer. Bambi felt lighter. He wasn’t here. She felt around for the concealed spare key in its hidey-hole behind the dying pot plant by the door. As if anyone would want to steal from them. As if they had anything worth taking. She checked the house, making sure they were really alone. ‘Cool, little man. Give me a sec and we’ll play out the back?’ Kevin had spotted Pog and had scooted over to the rug-covered lounge, smooshing his face between it and the wall, trying to see exactly where the cat had gone. Bambi went into her room and retrieved the sketchbook and charcoal she kept between her bed and the wall. Her mother had saved up for them, a gift for her 15th birthday. She reached her arm into the crevice and pulled them out, brushing the dust from the cover and unwrapping the charcoal to make sure she hadn’t broken it when she had last stashed her treasures. She shut the bedroom door on her way out. Kevin was gone.

39 She followed the rustling noise coming from the kitchen. He was standing, holding onto the open cupboard door for wobbly support, plucking things off the shelves and unceremoniously dumping them on the floor. ‘You’re standing!’ Bambi exclaimed, clapping her hands together in a rare display of girliness. ‘Clever boy!’ The baby looked at her, unperturbed, and went back to his task of destroying the kitchen. With Kevin occupied, Bambi dropped into a chair at the table and opened her pad at the next clean page. She ran her hand over its newness, marvelling at the pearly perfection. She was reluctant to mar it with her charcoal, but she touched its tip to the page and dragged it across in a deliberate line. There. It was scarred now. Let the drawing begin. Her hand moved, marking the page with soft and hard lines, stopping to smudge occasionally, but mostly making short, fervent gestures across the page. She bit on her bottom lip in concentration, squinting and achieving the same brow-furrow that she had seen on her mother countless times. Kevin banged two cans of soup together, screwing up his face every time they hit as if he expected them to explode upon impact. A picture was emerging on Bambi’s page. She unhooked her consciousness, letting it float away, up to the mouldy ceiling like a helium filled balloon, bobbing gently. Her school art teacher had told her to: ‘act on instinct, independent of the bondage of reality’. As far as she was concerned, anything that distanced her from ‘reality’ was worth a shot. The two cans smashed together, trapping Kevin’s finger in between. ‘Owwwwhhhh!’ he screamed, dropping the cans on his legs as he stacked it onto the ground, causing more screaming and abandoned sobbing. Bambi ignored him. He was okay. He crawled to her chair and pulled himself up to standing. She stared at what she had drawn. Her hand absently stroked Kevin’s head, who still insisted that he was mortally wounded. It was a boy. A long, lean boy, reaching up to shoot, a basketball rocketing from his hand towards a hoop. She had detailed his long hair curling over his ears, a clump of it in his dark eye. She touched the drawing gently with her fingertips. She sighed. It really looked nothing like Jack. The angles were all wrong and his legs looked like they’d be more suited to a goat. She really loved to draw but she had to admit that she was crap at it. Someone was fumbling with a key at the door. Crap. Dad.

40 She slapped the book closed, with no time to return it to her room. She did not want him to see her ‘wasting time’ as he would put it. And she most certainly did not want anyone to see what she had drawn. She swiped up Kevin and exited out the back door. The screen shushed softly behind them, keeping their secret. ‘Wait here a sec.’ Kevin had already begun to wander. Bambi ducked under the back steps into the shadowy underbelly of the house. She followed the sloping ground until she was crawling; the house stumps were simple outlines as she moved into the darkness. She found what she was looking for with her groping hands: a box. She could hear footsteps moving about the house. Flicking the cardboard flaps apart, she slid her drawing pad inside – a fragile egg in its new carton. She resealed her treasures and scurried back, towards to light. She raced against the thudding on the timber flooring above her. Reaching the stairs, Bambi paused. Feet, followed by trousered legs, were coming down. Too slow! She couldn’t see Kevin; she was stuck. She could wait her dad out, but where was Kevin? She couldn’t sneak away. She was supposed to be watching him. The feet stepped down onto the ground. If she stretched out, she could touch them, she dug her fingers in the dirt and felt the grains wedge up under her nails. She could hear Kevin now, he was babbling. The legs didn’t move. They were rooted like saplings. Bambi’s mind hurtled through her options. She needed to get to the baby. She had to find a way out. The sloping block meant the front of the house was flush with the ground, so escape that way was impossible. Maybe she could belly-crawl out the side? She hoped he’d just go back inside. Please, please go back inside. Kevin was crawling towards the steps. He gave out a squeal. He had seen her. Oh bugger. The knees were bending, his body folding at the waist. Kevin broached the boundary between shade and light and crawled to her. ‘What are you doing under there, Bambi?’ ‘Adam?’ ‘Come on, get out.’ ‘I thought you were…’ Bambi slumped in relief, and then nudged Kevin, prompting him to crawl out of her way. Following, she squinted as her eyes adjusted. Adam screwed up his nose. ‘You’re filthy. Even for you.’ She looked at her dirty hands surprised at how black they were, then wiped them down the sides of her school skirt. ‘Wanna go to Hannigan’s dam?’

41 ‘Nah,’ Bambi shrugged. ‘It’s gonna be cold.’ ‘So?’ ‘We can’t take Kevin.’ ‘Mum’s home.’ ‘Oh.’ Bambi raised her eyebrows. How had she missed that? She was slipping. Dangerous. ‘Okay. Let me get my swimmers on.’ They ran to the dam with their towels around their necks and their bare feet dodging the cowpats. She wondered why Adam was home so early. They slowed up to get through the barbed wire fence; Adam gingerly placing his foot on the bottom wire between the angry barbs and placed his hand on the middle wire; pulling them apart so Bambi could skim through the open mouth. She returned the favour. ‘You’re getting fast, Bambi.’ She stared at him. ‘Your legs. They’re longer.’ She didn’t respond, but scanned the paddock, looking at the fireweed. It needed clearing so the cows didn’t eat it. ‘Last one in’s a rotten egg.’ Adam took off towards the caramel-brown water, throwing off his towel into the grass. Bambi looked down at the sticks extending from her faded swimmers. They looked the same to her. In fact, if anything, they looked skinnier. She dropped her towel and careened after him, crying out as the wall of cold hit her. She dived in and swam to the middle; head out of the water, arms beating. They trod water. It was freezing. Adam splashed her in the face. ‘Stop it!’ She splashed him back. ‘I enrolled in TAFE today.’ ‘You what?’ Bambi stopped swooshing her arms and legs and momentarily sank below the water. She bobbed there for a stunned moment, staring after her brother. His eyes skidded away. He swam back to the edge of the dam, his smooth strokes barely rippling the surface. ‘Adam!’ Bambi turbined after him. Her toes scraped the muddy bottom and she sank a little into the slick mud as she dragged herself out of the dam. Adam had already spread his towel and was lying on his stomach in the remnant of the afternoon sun. His back twinkled. Bambi stood over him, dripping and shivering. ‘Why?’ He swung his charcoal eyes around. ‘I want to go to uni, Bamb. You know that.’ ‘Have you told Dad?’ He shook his head. Bambi’s teeth were chattering.

42 ‘Get your towel and sit down.’ She didn’t. ‘But how are you going to work and do TAFE?’ ‘Somehow.’ His eyes squinted at the pattern on the towel. ‘Dad’s not gonna like it.’ She was shivering. She wrapped her arms around herself. ‘He’s not going to let you.’ ‘Then I’ll have to leave home.’ He wouldn’t look at her. He lowered his forehead onto his arms. ‘What? No…’ ‘I wish there was another way.’ She realised that he’d already decided. He wouldn’t look at her but he continued to explain, promising that it was the best thing for them all, she should just wait and see, they’d be fine without him. Adam’s words were lost to her. She had already started to run. Bambi headed for the fence, scratching her back as she blindly scrambled through it. She was off through the paddock, running chaotically this time, indiscriminately letting her feet land on rocks and secret hollows beneath the grass. How could he? Their mother had stuck it out for years to keep them all together, and he thinks it’s okay to leave, just like that? I give up on the rest of them to save himself? ‘Bambi, wait!’ Her heart beat savagely. No. No. No. No.

43 6.

Bambi forced herself onto the field. Her school uniform screamed: ‘I’m a loser!’ She’d told her Mum she needed shorts and a singlet for school sport and Wanda had promised to take her to the St Vinnie’s store. Dad had beaten them to her purse and had lost the last twenty bucks on Cracka-Lackin, who was the sure-to-win filly in the fifth. So here she was, a tartan beacon in the sea of red, white, and black. They parted before her. There was an invisible force field separating her. No matter where she moved, it followed. Even Toothless Evan had picked up on the unspoken protocol, and shimmied out of her way. She moved to the edge of the group and pretended to study the coach jogging around the oval, setting out orange markers. She leant on the copper-log fence; her bum pressed against it, her bare feet planted on the ground. Todd Arthurs - spiky hair gunked with too much gel - sauntered close. He dumped his foot up to the log, untying and retying his Nikes, one at a time. Carefully. Purposefully. She tried to ignore him. ‘I think you’ll find the losers squad actually meets on Thursdays,’ he said. She could hear Lisa and Mandy laughing from somewhere behind. Bambi clenched her jaw and watched Evan doing somersaults on the grass. ‘I’ve heard they don’t wear shoes.’ Todd looked to the girls. ‘I guess they’re more like animals.’ More laughing. ‘Just leave me alone,’ she muttered. ‘What? What was that?’ Todd was standing up now, facing Bambi directly, hands on his hips. ‘Does it speak?’ Heat flooded her cheeks. ‘Please just go away.’ She stared at the ground thinking it was time to take off. ‘Shut up, Todd. Leave her alone.’ Bambi’s eyes jerked up. Jack had plonked onto the log between her and Todd and was adjusting his own laces. Her cheeks flushed a deeper red. ‘Bite me, Jack,’ Todd said. ‘I’m gonna kick your butt today, Bogan.’ Jack grinned. ‘Get real, Arnold.’ Todd gave him a shove, pushing him backwards off the fence. ‘Get bent, Arthurs!’ Bambi’s mind raced. She stood up to move away, they were ignoring her anyway and wouldn’t notice. She just couldn’t believe he’d stepped in and saved her… ‘Thank you,’ she blurted. They all turned to stare at her. Oh no, did I really just say that?

44 Jack’s face screwed up as if she had stamped on his foot. You stupid, stupid idiot… ‘Oooh, my knight in shining armour,’ Todd batted his eyelashes at Jack and tried to grab and kiss him. ‘Piss off you idiot,’ Jack kicked at his ankles and grabbed his head into a headlock. Bambi spun around, passing the coach as she pushed through the runners. ‘Hey! Leave off, you two.’ Ben’s voice sliced through the noise of the wrestling boys. Bambi walked away. ‘Let’s get to it, people.’ She risked a look back. The coach stood watching her, braced in his regulation position: arms crossed high on his chest, legs slightly apart, back bowed with belly protruding. He turned his attention to the group. ‘Grab a partner, we’re going to do some pair work.’ Kids grabbed at each other, those without a buddy buzzed around in a frenzy. Bambi bumped into one of the smaller kids. She didn’t stop. ‘Ingrid, pair up with Bambi. Show her the ropes.’ ‘What? But…’ Bambi could hear Ingrid’s complaint. She stopped and turned. ‘I’m not staying.’ The girls moved away from Ingrid; she had just contracted a horrible disease. ‘Yes. You are,’ said Ben. Ingrid looked at Bambi, her mouth wide open, her eyes pleading with her to make good with her promise to leave. But the coach had moved on, leaving in his wake the expectation that his command would be obeyed. Bloody hell. Why would he do that to her. She took a deep breath. I can do this. ‘One from each pair needs to collect a baton,’ Ben indicated towards a plastic crate with vertically organised tubes. ‘Then line up. One of you at the start line, one at fifty metres.’ Ingrid was about to say something, but changed her mind, closing her mouth with pressed lips. Grabbing a shiny green baton, she gave Bambi the ‘come here’ gesture and headed towards the track. She didn’t have a choice. Bambi quickstepped to catch up, knocking the box of batons over with a metallic splash. Everybody paused long enough to stare as Bambi returned the crate to upright. ‘So graceful,’ said Mandy. More laughter.

45 Bambi shriveled. ‘So witty,’ she responded under her breath, angry with herself for being a klutz, wishing she had the guts to stick it to these dumb people who had nothing better to do than laugh at her. If she left now, she would never come back. ‘Come on!’ Ingrid had paused, waiting for Bambi; impatient with her and the show she was putting on. Bambi waited for the smart comment from her, but it didn’t come. She followed. Ingrid glanced at her as they walked: ‘You know how to baton change?’ ‘Ah, I’ve…’ Bambi swallowed. ‘I’ve seen it done, but never myself.’ Ingrid nodded. Her blonde hair slipped from its band. She stopped, placing the baton between her knees. She regrouped her waves into a tight clump before taking the tie from between her teeth, taming her hair with vigorous twists. ‘The trick is, firm, confident movements, okay?’ Bambi nodded. ‘When you pass it to me,’ she went on, ‘hold it steady and slap it into my hand in one, solid action. No mamby-pamby wobbly stuff.’ She did a silly enactment of what that might look like. Bambi’s mouth curled up at the edge, tinged with a smile. ‘And when I pass it to you, keep your back hand as still as you can, and don’t look back. Never do that. You’ve got to trust me. I’ll whack that baby in there, and you snatch it and run like hell. Get it?’ Ingrid’s wide eyes were intense. All business. Bambi nodded. ‘Okay, you pass to me first.’ She moved off towards to the fifty metre line and left Bambi wavering. ‘Don’t embarrass me,’ she called back. Bambi knew there was a greater chance that she would embarrass her rather than not, but she was determined to have a go anyway, forgetting that moments before she was about to nick off. She had a challenge. ‘People at the start, line up, youngest to oldest. Pairs…’ – Coach called to the others – ‘you make sure you’re in the matching position. When the runner gets to the twenty-five mark, the next person goes. Then loop back to the beginning for another go. Then swap.’ The runners scrambled into formation; Bambi held back, unsure. Who’s position was she supposed to match? What did that even mean? The coach’s hand appeared on her arm. He guided her into the line with a not-so- gentle tug. Two girls parted and she found herself sandwiched between Tammy and Mandy. Ben blew the whistle. Mandy sneered at her. She smelled like peppermints and perfume.

46 The drill was a moving clock. Every few seconds a runner would take off from the starting position with the whistle, forcing Bambi to take another step closer to the front. Her palms were sweaty on the cool metal. Slippery. Five to go before her. She placed the baton under her armpit and tucked the hem of her school skirt up into her undershorts, letting it fold back down at half length – she had to run her fastest; couldn’t have it flapping around under her knees. ‘You are such a freak,’ Tammy hissed from behind. Mandy turned and recoiled at the sight of her skirt. ‘You completely gross me out.’ It was her turn. She ran off with the baton pumping up and down in her fist. Bambi’s face was on fire as she tugged her skirt back out. Half the hem stayed in, half hung down. She stood at the line and watched Mandy running towards her partner. She couldn’t think. The whistle blew. She couldn’t move. Coach Ben yelled: ‘Go!’ She’d waited too long. Bambi didn’t have a good grip on the baton but the moment to correct it had passed. Lisa shoved her from behind, but she had started running anyway. Her first few steps were unbalanced; she couldn’t find her equilibrium. Her feet seemed to belong to someone else: uncontrolled and slipping. She knew she looked like a retard. At the ten metre mark, she focused on Ingrid. She was calmly waiting to make the change, half turned to watch her with serene eyes. Mandy was trying to talk to Ingrid but she was too focused to answer. She was intent on Bambi, counting on her to hit her mark. ‘Get. It. Together.’ She gave herself a mental slap. She shoved down her doubt and nerves – she didn’t have room for them right now. She smacked the baton onto her thigh mid swing to reposition it and poured everything she had into her legs. Almost to Ingrid. Ingrid turned away, hand outstretched. Her legs slowly moved into a jog as she prepared for the transition. Waiting. Expecting. Slap. The metal hit down hard into the centre of Ingrid’s palm. Her small fingers were a vice, pulling the baton from Bambi as her arm swung forward, leaping from a jog into a full- blown sprint. It was clean. She’d made the pass. A smile spread across her face as she slowed and trotted back to the start. She had really done it! ‘Nice,’ said Jack as she passed. She smiled shyly at him; all possible responses were glued to the roof of her mouth.

47 His eyes slid down to her bare feet and promptly looked away. She took her place in the line, wishing like hell she had a team uniform and a friggin’ pair of shoes. Was that too much to ask? She caught her runaway brain with a deep breath. It was pointless getting tangled up trying to please these people. Being accepted here was not an option. Making friends wasn’t even a remote possibility. ‘I’m here to run,’ she silently reminded herself. ‘And that, I know how to do. So stop sucking your thumb, and just do it.’ She ran through the drills seamlessly with Ingrid without a single error. Sweat beaded on her forehead as she concentrated, and ran down between her shoulder blades. The polyester blouse stuck to her making it difficult to move her arms freely. She ignored it. She concentrated on making every run count, every baton change perfect. They didn’t leave her alone, but she ignored them. ‘Good job, runners.’ Coach Ben had blown the whistle, a sign to gather. ‘I saw some fine baton changing out there.’ He looked at Bambi, connecting for a second before looking away. Was he silently congratulating her? She knew she had done well, probably better than anyone had expected. His thoughts were closed to her. ‘We’re going to finish off today with a 1600 metre run, then a couple of cool down laps.’ There was groaning. ‘Settle down! That’s what you’re here for. It’s not a race, but I want to see some sweat none-the-less. Under 12s can cut it short at 1200m, but the rest of you, I want to see some effort! Give me a taste of what you’re made of.’ He released the runners in three groups. Bambi waited at the back with the older kids, wondering if she should try to get out early, or to hang back and stay out of the way. No, it was best to stay inconspicuous. ‘Do you really want to embarrass yourself more, Bambi?’ sneered Tammy. Bambi knew that Tammy was fast: the fastest girl in the squad by a long shot. ‘Isn’t it time for you to get lost?’ That was all Bambi needed to change her mind. She raised her eyebrows at the stuck- up girl who had been snipping at her all afternoon, which she hoped Tammy took as a big, fat ‘get stuffed’. The whistle blew. Tammy gave Bambi a shoulder-shove, pushing her off balance before she shot off. You dirty little…

48 She took off at the heels of the pack. She tried to jostle the inside line, attempting to make up a few positions, but was boxed out. Her breathing was rapid and her stomach anxious. She couldn’t catch her breath and her eyesight was getting foggy as the blood rushed to her legs, away from her brain. She was going to come last. I can’t come last! Panic latched and held on. She had to compose herself. It’s just lap one. You’ve still got three to go. Get a grip! Bambi knew the voice was right. She backed off the pace and let her lungs catch up. She was a few metres behind the tail end, but so what? She focused on her stride and aligning her breathing, arms, and legs. She imagined herself in a quiet space, and found her centre. There was a weird feeling in her gut; an underlying confidence in herself that was so unfamiliar that she almost didn’t recognize what it was. Calm… She clicked her focus back into the here and now. She increased her speed. Her breathing was more comfortable now; her legs began their familiar itch. ‘Push me,’ they begged. ‘See how fast I can go.’ She hit the midway point. Two laps down, two to go. She loped past the tail-enders. Her arms swinging strongly, her thighs pushing her body forward. She came up behind the middle pack, then alongside Lisa, who was red-faced and labouring. She passed her. Lisa’s face contorted in pain and perhaps shock. Bambi didn’t respond. She was digging deep, rummaging around inside herself, finding her strength and pouring it into her stride. But she was stuck again, boxed in behind too many bodies unwilling to let her through, denying her need to push beyond comfort, to find her limits. They were pushing hard. Coach Ben was wrong. This was a race. And she had a strategy. She went out wide; working double time to keep up as they rounded the corner beginning the final lap. Her breath was coming in ragged puffs. She tried to find a speed somewhere between throwing up and pushing at her maximum. She still had 300 metres to run and her legs were burning and a tingling numbness was setting in. She swooped passed a couple more runners and slipped in front of them, alongside Ingrid. They were right behind Tammy, who trailed Todd and Jack by a decent margin. She’d made it to the pointy end of the pack. Ingrid’s face registered surprise. The two girls were matching stride for stride, neither giving ground. Bambi sensed she was pushing her along, urging her into an uncomfortable place. They were closing the gap on Tammy, who was yet to realise they were on her tail.

49 Jack, then Todd, sped across the finish. Tammy flicked her eyes backwards, sensing the impending threat, putting in a final burst to beat Ingrid and Bambi convincingly as they crossed the line in tandem. Bambi stopped dead, doubled over and quietly gagging. The others walked slowly, hands on hips, calming their fired blood. Tammy paused in front of her until she looked up. ‘You don’t belong here, loser. You’d better not be here next week.’ Bambi let her head drop again. ‘Walk it off, Bambi!’ Coach yelled. ‘You’ve gotta ease off slowly.’ Bambi obeyed. Her legs had already begun to solidify. She didn’t want to walk, she wanted to throw herself onto the ground and lie there. ‘Amazing run.’ It was Ingrid, she had moved into step with her. ‘Thanks,’ Bambi hesitated. ‘Ingrid, why are you talking to her?’ Mandy hissed, arms up behind her head in a stretch, showing her flat stomach to anyone who cared to look. Ingrid shrugged and moved off with Mandy towards the huddle of finished runners: ‘Well, it was an amazing run.’ ‘She’s just a skank,’ Mandy ignored her. ‘I wish she’d just curl up and die, or something; leave us alone.’ Bambi stopped walking. Her great sprint forgotten. Were they right? Is that why her couldn’t stand her? The piranhas were going to eat her alive.

50 7.

Bambi cut the corner as she rounded the street, bumping into a guy who was also late for school. He kicked a rock along the footpath. “Geez, watch it!’ ‘Sorry,’ Bambi mumbled, but she was past him. She couldn’t afford to be late again. She’d already had an afterschool detention last week. She’d be in major trouble if they sent a letter home. Jonathon would hit the roof, and Bambi would be too gutless to point out that it wasn’t actually her fault. She hadn’t wanted to deal with a ‘surprise nappy’, compliments of Kevin, while her mother organised herself for work. Or to clean up the baked beans Pog had knocked off the bench while he’d been licking the tin, while her dad had been reading the paper. She was clenching her jaw. She let it relax. She didn’t want to think about him. ‘No point getting angry,’ she thought, crossing the road into the school grounds, jumping up the curb. ‘Hey! Bambi!’ A group of girls were standing behind the bus shelter, passing a cigarette between them. Tammy. Lacey. Mandy. Ingrid. Lisa. ‘Great,’ thought Bambi. ‘It’s Barbie and the gang.’ Bambi slowed. Her pulse flickered. Lacey was whispering behind her polished fingernails, into Tammy’s ear. Ingrid shifted from foot to foot, looking straight at her, looking for something. ‘Come here!’ Tammy giggled. Bambi stopped where she was. ‘What is it?’ She fidgeted with the handles of her bag. ‘No, come over here.’ Tammy gestured, and then whispered, barely audible: ‘Moron.’ Bambi came closer, eyelids blinking. She stopped just outside spitting distance. She hesitated. ‘Just thought you might want to hang with us,’ Tammy offered. Lisa sniggered and Tammy gave her a solid nudge in the ribs. Did they really think she was that stupid? ‘Wanna drag?’ She held out the stub of the almost finished smoke, pink gloss was smeared across the nub. ‘Nah,’ she shook her head, raising her eyes skyward to avoid making eye contact. The grey sky was threatening rain; the clouds were thickening and the smell of a storm was clotting the air. She didn’t want to get wet. Among other things. ‘I’ve gotta go.’

51 Bambi scurried away, wondering if she really was the cockroach they said she was – hiding in dark places: filthy and disgusting. Her schoolbooks felt heavy against her stomach as she passed through the admin building. The office lady frowned at her. Late, late, late. She entered her roll class, wordlessly taking the late slip from the semi-comatose teacher’s outstretched hand. The woman barely glancing at her as she continued to drink the latte she’d made in the staffroom kitchenette from the ‘World’s Best Teacher’ mug which Bambi was pretty sure she’d bought for herself. ‘Sit down,’ she demanded, a cloud of stale coffee breath clouting Bambi in the face. She slipped into the seat; front, left, closest to the door. Tracing invisible patterns on the desk with her fingertips, she waited for the bell to signify the end of roll call. What was Tammy’s deal? Something was brewing. Some foul concoction she would have to swallow. She had enough going on without their crap. Her parents couldn’t seem to look at each other, let alone speak civilly. Mostly, they pretended the other one was invisible. Except maybe mum. I guess she tried. She walked around with tears in her eyes, even though she denied them. It was always ‘dust’, or ‘onions’. She thought of Adam. Things had been icy between them since the dam. He’d brought her home a huge doughnut yesterday as a peace offering. He’d placed the brown bag on her pillow, waiting for her: its icing leaking grease, creating little transparent windows in the paper. She had taken it out onto the back deck, struggling with the first mouthful. It stuck in her throat. She’d picked off bits, throwing them at the magpies until the butcherbirds came and bullied them away. Vultures. She threw the remnant as hard as she could into the yard. It hit the clothesline before the ground, rolling, collecting debris in its stickiness. Bambi was into the corridor before the bell had finished bleating. She threaded her way to her first lesson, the throng of students getting thicker as she worked her way through the buildings to her class. She ploughed through with her head down and shoulder forward. Lightning cracked in the sky. A light patter of rain started on the corrugated tin covering the walkway. Its slanted droplets hit at her ankles. She hoped it would pour down. She hated Mr Butler. She didn’t want to see him this morning, with his ugly face sliding downwards into his tightly buttoned collar. Tammy was waiting at the port racks. She must have skipped roll call altogether. She eyed Tammy as she approached but she seemed to be taking no notice of her. But apparently she had noticed. Bambi wasn’t fast enough to react when Tammy threw her bag in the walkway, directly in front of her feet. There was no time to correct. The bag slid under her foot as it came down. Bambi slammed into the ground; a catapult with a faulty trajectory. Her hands skidded along the concrete, leaving a trail of invisible skin. ‘Whoops.’ Tammy said, one hand hidden behind her back. ‘Let me help you up.’

52 She grabbed Bambi’s elbow, reefing her to her feet, slapping her on the back as she did so. Thomas kicked her bag towards her, not wanting to touch it with his hand in case he caught cooties. Bambi felt warm blood moving from her palm down her middle finger like a glacier. Tears burned in her eyes. She picked up her bag with a shaking hand, and collected the pen that had skittered across the floor, and held it to her chest in a feeble gesture of self- protection. She ignored the sting of the bag on her grazes and the slick feel of blood against it. The second bell rang. Mr Butler materialized. ‘Inside.’ Always, that hand on his hip accompanied by an exasperated tone. ‘Is that blood, Bambi?’ He looked pained. ‘Good Lord, what have you been doing? Get to the bathroom and clean yourself.’ Bambi slid her bloodied bag atop the port rack and retreated, thankful because the tears were coming quickly now. She stared at her hand. Spellbound by the blood, viscous and dark, clinging to her skin. In the bathroom she held it under the tap, watching it swirl around the basin, turning the water a transparent pink. It ran clear but she lingered, watching the rushing water tug at the jagged edges of skin, needling the uncovered tissue. What’s wrong with me? Bambi stared at herself in the mirror. She looked at the girl with the blue eyes - still glossy with tears – pale as if they’d be washed and hung out too many times. Her hair hung straight and uninteresting at the sides of her face, dragging the length of it downwards, extending its oval into something sad and long. She collected her hair in her hands, pulling it onto the top of her head. She liked how it seemed to make her eyes wider and drew attention to her cheekbones and fine neck. She turned from the left, to the right. Surely she was normal enough looking? Was she really that ugly? She smoothed down her school blouse with her good hand, wondering when – or if- she was going to grow any real breasts. And if her hips would round out like an expanding balloon, like they were supposed to. Or if she was to be forever a child, with her unshaven legs and bony bovine hips. She did look a bit like a stick insect. Maybe she belonged in her dad’s collection. No – they were beautiful, and she wasn’t. No wonder he loathed her. She deserved to be pinned to a board far more than they did. The bathroom door slapped open against the wall. Bambi dropped her hair and quickly turned on the tap to splash water on her face. She peeked between her fingers into the mirror. It was only a pair of grade 7 girls, buzzing at the excitement of being out of class, even if it was an adventure that had brought them to the toilet. They spoke quietly. Giggling and pointing at her back before disappearing simultaneously into separate cubicles.

53 Bambi twisted her body, exposing the note in the mirror, witness to the look of horror contorting her own features. “Freak”. She snatched the word and tore it into pieces, forcing the lump in her throat back down. ‘No more crying.’ She clenched the remnants of the note in her fist. It stung her scraped hand. She stared fiercely at her reflection. She wanted to scream and kick at the cubicle doors. What sort of people laugh at such cruelty? These girls were just as bad as the rest of them. They muttered to each other between the toilet dividers. ‘Stupid toddlers,’ Bambi thought. She left the girls to twitter, letting the door close against their cheery togetherness and stepped out into the rain. It washed through the drainpipes, drowning out the usual noises of the synthetic landscape. She let her feet take her back to her classroom. She didn’t knock, but slipped inside and into her chair. Bambi skimmed through Maths, carrying out the expected motions, flying under Butler’s radar. And then English. Ms Parrot, who normally interested her with her frizzy orange hair and bohemian clothes, wasn’t making any sense. Whatever she was going on about, Bambi couldn’t make it out. She sketched a not very good bird on the back of the photocopied Robert Frost poem. Its head and body had merged into a single blob and she couldn’t figure how to give it a neck. What did a bird’s neck look like, anyway? She screwed it into a tight ball and flicked it at the waste paper bin. It missed. Figures. She left it there. A double period of art before lunch was bearable. The clouds had wrung themselves out and had courteously moved out of the way for the sun to have a bit of sky-time. Bambi stared out of the window, wondering at the way everything green sparkled after it rained, while all things concrete turned a shade duller. Jodie didn’t show at their lunch spot. She’d probably gone in search of somewhere dry. Bambi’s cement pedestal featured a collection of tiny water pools but she spread out her lunch bag on it anyway: a banana, two slices of bread, and a boiled potato. She started with the potato. It was grey and waxy. Worst first. She nibbled at it. It was floury and slippery, but it was food. She needed a drink. ‘Oh, there you are, we’ve been looking for you.’ Bambi looked up from the bubbler. Her hand, skin off, still held the tap. Water rushed onto the ground and splashed through the hole in her shoe.

54 They stood around her in a semi circle. Ingrid stood slightly off to the side and chewed on a fingernail, her brow crinkled up. ‘I’m glad we found you.’ It was Tammy. ‘I was so worried about your little fall.’ Bambi instinctively put her hands behind her back. She looked at Ingrid. Ingrid’s eyes skipped away. ‘…and I can’t help but feel somehow responsible.’ Bambi’s eyes narrowed. ‘Leave me alone’. She looked into Tammy’s face, then at the others in turn. All smiled pleasantly as if they had not heard. Tammy grabbed her arm and pulled her hand from behind her. ‘Ooh, that looks sore. Does it hurt?’ Lisa flinched as the hand came near to her. ‘Eww!’ Bambi snatched it back. ‘It’s fine.’ ‘Anyway. We wanted to make it up to you. I guess we haven’t been all that friendly.’ Tammy shrugged like it was no biggie. ‘And now you’ve joined our running squad…’ said Mandy. ‘…it’s important we make you feel welcome,’ finished Lacey. ‘Why don’t you grab your…stuff,’ Tammy wrinkled her nose as she looked at Bambi’s plastic bag spread with her lunch. ‘…and come and sit with us?’ For a fleeting second, Bambi considered that the girls might actually be genuine. Perhaps they really were concerned. Sorry? Her instincts responded with a healthy snort. Just maybe? Maybe. She allowed herself to be shepherded by the girls. They flanked her, smiling and chatting, asking Bambi whether she thought loose fitting was out, and tight was back in, or if it was still okay to go with the slouch look. Were pleat-waisted skirts going to take off, or did they just make your hips look huge? Bambi didn’t have a clue. She mumbled something about how she’d let them know when she got some hips, and they all laughed. With her? At her? She couldn’t quite tell. Bambi looked hard at Ingrid. She was hanging back from the others and her forehead was wrinkled all the way up to her blonde waved fringe. She wouldn’t make eye contact. Bambi frowned. They arrived at the ‘cool’ hangout – the place Bambi spent her lunch times watching from her not so distant perch. She was so near the basketballers. She stood at the fence, her fingers curled through the wire as she watched the boys playing up close. ‘He’s pretty cute, huh?’ Tammy stood beside her. ‘Who?’ Bambi winced.

55 Tammy laughed. ‘Don’t be like that. I’ve seen you watching him.’ Bambi could feel the heat rising in her cheeks. She said nothing. ‘You’re only human,’ she said. Her mouth twitched. ‘But he is a god!’ chipped in Lacey, pretending to swoon, placing the back of her hand to her head as her knees buckled. ‘You want to talk to him?’ Tammy was already waving at him, trying to get his attention. ‘Jack!’ ‘NO!’ Bambi grabbed at her arm. Tammy shook it off. ‘Jack! Come over here!’ She jiggled her hand at him, and her breasts and backside followed. ‘No, please. I don’t want to talk to him.’ She tried to back away but Tammy pushed against her, blocking her like a netball opponent. She spun Bambi by the shoulders to face him directly. ‘Sure you do!’ It was Tammy’s voice in her ear: the humid whisperings of a devil. Jack was walking towards them, ball under his arm. Tammy was beckoning to him excitedly. ‘What?’ He gave his head a flick to the side, momentarily dislodging the dark clump of hair. He looked bored. ‘Bambi wanted to say ‘hi’.’ Tammy shoved her and she stumbled forward. Jack looked at her, then back to Tammy. One arm was slung over the ball at his hip. He was not impressed. Bambi shook her head dumbly, eyes to the ground. He raised his eyebrows at her. Impatient. ‘Jack, the ball!’ Chucky called at him from the court. Bambi didn’t know the guy’s real name, but she had to admit that with his orange hair and freckles, he did look eerily like the possessed doll out of Child’s Play. Jack turned away from them and passed the ball to his mate with a one handed bounce, flicking the game back to ‘on’. ‘Ahh, don’t worry,’ said Lacey, grabbing her by the arm and guiding her over to where the bigger group had collected. ‘He’s out of your league anyway, so you shouldn’t be surprised that he dissed you.’ Bambi wanted to slap her and scream in her smug face. Even more, she wanted to beat herself for being sucked in. She couldn’t breathe, she was being smothered. But they had her boxed in with their hands and their semi-veiled lies. ‘I’m leaving,’ she said, disgusted by the sound of her whiney voice.

56 ‘Don’t be silly,’ responded Tammy. ‘You just need to sit down over here for a while. Take your mind off him.’ ‘Don’t,’ said Ingrid quietly, but Bambi heard. The others ignored her. Two girls parted on the bench seat, leaving a gap wide enough for several Bambis. Tammy twisted her around, nudging her knees to get her to sit. She felt like a guest at The Mad Hatter’s Tea Party. The girl to the left placed a slice of half-eaten pizza onto the seat, snatching her hand away just before Bambi’s backside smooshed into it. It took a brief second for her to register. The warmth and oil seeped through the thin material of her skirt, onto her thigh. She stood, cheese and toppings sticking to her bum, stringing out long, then dropping to the ground at her feet. She twisted to see the back of her skirt – it was ruined. The girls howled and shrieked like old hags. Bambi shoved through them, not caring that she had pushed one on her butt with an ‘ooof’ sound, or that Jack Arnold stood at the fence and watched as she bolted off the school grounds with her skirt smeared with pizza remnants. She didn’t show at her science lesson after lunch. And she didn’t plan on ever going back. ****** The phone rang at The Flowering Mung Bean. Wanda’s forehead bunched up in a frown as she responded to the Principal of Bambi’s school. ‘No’: she was not aware that Bambi wasn’t at school. ‘No’: she had no idea where she would have gone or why. ‘No’: it certainly wasn’t like her to do such a thing. And, ‘Yes’: she was on her way home and would let him know as soon as she found her. Wanda clicked the phone back into the cradle, her hand over her mouth. She offered her apologies to Maggie Wagner as she pulled her apron off over her pinned hair, assuring her that she didn’t expect to be paid for the afternoon. ‘No, you most surely will not.’ Maggie pursed her lips together. Wanda’s heart rate blipped at the rudeness of the woman, but she had long ago lost the strength to hold up her pride. ‘I’m sorry, Maggie. It’s just so unlike her. I’m worried.’ Wanda disappeared into the back, returning with Kevin, groggy with sleep. ‘I just can’t imagine what could have happened to make her do this.’ She’d been speaking mostly to herself but Maggie didn’t miss the chance to roll her eyes. ‘Go,’ Maggie waved her away, bored with the tedious details of Wanda’s life. Her face said she had been sucking on a lemon.

57 Wanda caught the bus home, scanning out the window for Bambi but certain she would find her at home. But her chest was tight – not from a fear of today, but tomorrow. And the day after that. She was stretched so thin she wasn’t sure she was substantial enough to protect her children anymore. Her exhaustion showed, in her eyes and posture, and in the way she sighed without realising she’d made a sound. In the beginning, Jonathon was easy to love. He was always rigid but she had thought him so strong, so masculine. If she was honest, she had always thought him selfish, but Wanda easily forgave him. Her feelings for him were so strong. And he loved her. He didn’t say the words, but she knew he did. He made time for her, didn’t he? Even though he had better things to do. Surely, that meant he loved her. But now, she wasn’t sure her logic had been sound. It had become difficult to defend him, and that whisper that she should be scooping up the kids and running far away had become a scream. She was stuck fast, her feet in set cement. She stayed and forgave, and she did not understand why. Kevin stood on the seat beside her, his face smearing the glass; he bobbed up and down, his knees pistons pumping excitement around his body. He was so lovely. Perfect. This world was no fit place for a child. The bus dropped the pair at the corner of Olive and Bottlebrush. Wanda paused to wrap Kevin into a papoose-style wrap fashioned from an old sheet. It made carrying her wriggly burden easier. She found Jonathon on the front verandah, asleep in a wicker chair with one boot on the railing and his hat pulled low over his face. She used to find this man irresistible. She had to admit that he was still beautiful. But the sparkler had been lit and had burned and fizzled out. There was no re-lighting; she had tried. All that remained was char on a bent stick of metal. Was it ever love? Or had she just been a fool? ‘Hey Wand.’ He gave her a slow, lazy smile as he lifted his hat so he could see out. ‘Where’s Bambi?’ He shrugged and dropped his hat. ‘Dunno’. Wanda trotted up the steps. ‘Bambi,’ she called in the front screen. ‘Are you in there? Bambi!’ ‘What’s your problem?’ He sounded irritated. Wanda walked around the side of the house, calling, letting Kevin out of his pouch. Jonathon held out his hands to Kevin. ‘Hey, boy!’ Kevin sat on his nappied bottom for a second and stared at him. He crawled after his mother.

58 ‘She’s not here.’ Wanda reappeared, Kevin once again on her hip. ‘What’s the big hoo-ha?’ ‘Bambi took off from school. They phoned me at work to say she’s missing.’ Wanda started to cry. ‘I thought she’d be here.’ ‘What’d she do that for?’ Jonathon stood up. His clothes were crumpled and the musk of man-sweat lingered around him. ‘I don’t know.’ Wanda was losing her calm. ‘I’ve got to find her.’ ‘Why aren’t you at work?’ ‘I’ve got to find her, Jonathon. Anything could have happened.’ His eyes turned a shade darker. ‘You should be at work.’ Wanda went still. ‘That stupid little…’ He shook his head slowly. Wanda felt a surge of anger. ‘I’ll make up the hours, Jon,’ she snapped. ‘I always do.’ He glared at her, reaching for his pocket, feeling for his Tally-ho wrappers. ‘I’m going to look for her.’ She repositioned Kevin. ‘What? Walking the streets?’ He snorted. ‘What else can I do? Jonathon sat back in the chair and watched her leave. He rolled his cigarette, licking the edge of the paper. ‘She’ll be back,’ he mumbled with the smoke hanging from his lips, sticky with saliva. Wanda gave him a look before heading next door to see if Mrs Taylor would watch Kevin for her. She rushed off down the road with quick steps, heading for Hannigan’s dam. It was night by the time Bambi came home. She came up the steps sedately, approaching the tiny burning circle of Jonathon’s cigarette that hovered in the darkness. He waited for her. Wanda was out onto the veranda as quickly as she could move, but she was not fast enough. She couldn’t help her daughter anyway. Her husband’s open hand came out of nowhere. Even though she had expected it, it was still a surprise. His hand landed hard on Bambi’s cheek bone, jarring her neck as it bent sideways. She did not make a sound. Wanda cried out as flesh met flesh. Her flesh and blood. Her daughter. She wanted to shake him. He loved them so fiercely in a moment that it would swallow him whole; confuse him. Up became down, and the boundary between crazy and reason smeared. He wanted to save them all, but he was fighting the wrong enemy. Bambi silently received the slap, absorbing the desperation of a father out of control.

59 8.

The night air was snappy and the moon hid deep in the folds of the sky. The only sound of life was the possum on the roof, its claws periodically sliding across the corrugated tin. Bambi stood at the outside laundry, her fingers red and angry and the scabs on her palms were soggy from the cold water. She bent over the metal tub, rubbing the material of her second-hand school uniform skirt against itself, the Sunlight Soap’s yellow freshness arguing with the pizza stain. Bambi felt old: crumpled and used up. She couldn’t see much in the thrown-off kitchen light, just grey on shadows. She didn’t know if the material was clean or not. She stopped scrubbing, rinsed the skirt and moved to the clothesline to peg it next to her already hanging shirt. Bambi clipped the pegs in place, feeling second-hand herself. There was despair in her bones, leaching from them into the pathways of her body. She used her wrist to shove a strand of hair out of her eye, wincing as she brushed her bruised face. ‘At least that’s something new,’ Bambi thought. She gingerly tested her cheek where it swelled with tenderness. ‘That’s something all of my own.’ Wanda came into the back yard, striding silently to her across the grass. Bambi didn’t turn around, but she hid her face in the shadows. ‘Oh Bambi,’ Wanda’s voice cracked as she placed her hands on her back. She turned her daughter to face her, wrapping her into her arms, letting the sobs wet through her shirt onto her skin. ‘Why do you do this to yourself?’ Wanda pushed her to arms-length, searching her face for an answer. ‘You shouldn’t make him angry, darling. You know that.’ Bambi dabbed her dripping nose with her fingers in answer. Her mum said this to her every time. She knew it was pointless arguing. She knee she meant well. ‘Come inside, and I’ll get you some ice, okay?’ ‘Where’s Dad?’ ‘Watching tele,’ Wanda smiled thinly as she began to walk her inside. Bambi clung to Wanda, aware that her mother was clinging back. She had been picking Bambi up for as long as she could remember. She feared that Wanda was losing strength. Bambi panicked at the thought, and instantly guilty. But what if her mother finally couldn’t take it anymore? What then? By the time they reached the back steps, Bambi was unsure who was supporting whom.

60 Bambi was shivering. The breeze had picked up and her thin pyjamas were an inadequate barrier against the shift towards autumn, and the inevitability of the coming winter.

61 9.

‘What’re you making?’ Jonathon sauntered into the kitchen, dropping the newspaper onto the table. Bambi stood at the stove, stirring. ‘Tuna Mornay.’ If they had a computer like regular people, he wouldn’t need his dumb paper. He screwed up his nose. ‘Ick!’ He smiled at her. She turned to look at him squarely, briefly smiling back. The bruising on her face had percolated through the angry stages of red, blue and purple, and was now transitioning into the green quadrant of the colour-wheel. Soon she’d arrive at yellow. Jonathon’s smile vanished. He grabbed an apple out of the crisper. The fridge door shut with a sucking noise. ‘I’m going out.’ He took a large bite. ‘Goin’ to have a look at a car.’ ‘A car?’ Bambi stopped stirring. ‘Yep,’ Jonathon grinned, showing white chunks of apple, making him look like he had too many teeth. ‘It doesn’t go.’ He swallowed, and then took another bite. ‘But I reckon she’ll be a beauty if I could get her working.’ ‘Oh.’ Bambi turned back to the saucepan. ‘I’ll be home by dinner.’ He looked over her shoulder, sniffing at the pot. ‘Then again, maybe I won’t.’ He reached into the pantry, digging around its dimness until he found what he was searching for: Wanda’s emergency stash. ‘Bingo,’ he muttered. Bambi stared at him as he pinched the curled notes out of the coffee tin. He took them all, hesitated, then placed a couple back. His upper body disappeared into the cupboard again, wedging the canister back between the soup cans. Bambi wished she hadn’t seen. He was worse than a stupid kid. He just didn’t seem to get it. In his mind, he owned everything. Including her. The afternoon dragged. Bambi couldn’t settle. She tried sketching Kevin, who had fallen asleep face down, cheek squished on the carpet in front of the lounge, but she couldn’t get it right. He looked more like an elephant foetus than a baby. She rubbed out the sketch but the page was left smudged and creased; faint traces of grey indented the paper. Good for nothing pink-parallelogram rubbers. She went outside and threw a tennis ball against the side of the house. Thwock. Thwock. Thwock.

62 Wanda stuck her head out the window. ‘For Pete’s sake, Bambi! Come inside and clean up for dinner.’ Jonathon, true to his word, skipped out on the mornay. He was probably at the pub, enjoying a steak and chips, Wanda’s shout. Adam was at TAFE. Not that anyone in the house but her knew that. So many secrets all tearing around her innards, clawing at her guts to get out. She pushed a chunk of fish flesh around her plate, wondering how the layers of flakes stayed together in the shape of a ‘once fish’. Wanda stood between the table and kitchen bench, folding washing into fragrant apple-blossom piles, eating the occasional bite from her dinner plate. ‘It was nice of Jeremy’s mother to ask Adam for dinner,’ Wanda said, leaning over to put a spoonful into Kevin’s mouth. He spat it out. She wiped it off his chin and tried to force it between his pressed lips. Bambi shoved a large mouthful in and nodded, looking at the table. ‘I think it may have something to do with Jeremy’s sister, actually.’ She gave a knowing ‘mother’ smile, and tried again to get the spoon near Kevin’s mouth with her free hand; an unfolded towel under her arm. ‘She seems a nice girl.’ There was a hint of a question. Bambi had no answer. She let it hang in the air. Kevin knocked the food off the table and onto the floor. ‘Oh, Kevin!’ Wanda massaged her temple. ‘I’ll get it, Mum.’ Wanda watched as Bambi cleaned the splatter pattern off the lino. She sighed deeply, turned back to the washing. She pushed aside some junk on the bench to make way for another pile. ‘How was school today, Bambi?’ Bambi stopped wiping and pushed the hair out of her eyes with the cloth still clutched in her hand. ‘Okay.’ Her voice was soft, and fragile around the edges. ‘How did Kevin go at the shop?’ ‘A bit of a handful. No wonder, after a couple of days at home with you doting on him.’ ‘That’s cause we have fun at home, don’t we Little Man?’ Kevin banged his hands on the table, babbling ‘Dad-da-da’. Wanda, seizing the opportunity, swiped up the spoon and jammed it into his mouth. It cut off the noise. He swallowed. She grinned in triumph and tried anther spoonful, which he pushed away with a pudgy hand and squealed in protest. ‘Did anyone say anything to you?’ Wanda pushed the mornay around the plastic bowl with the spoon.

63 ‘About what?’ Wanda gave her a pointed look. She touched the bruise on her cheek with her fingers. ‘Not really.’ Bambi rinsed the cloth, watching the particles of food swirl around in the water before hanging it over the tap. She thought of the open stares and whispering, the teachers that frowned and the ones that looked away. The way Jack had blanched when he saw her, his mouth gaping a little as she walked past; the students parting before her like fabric at the edge of a knife. She wondered what it would be like to be a part of another family? What would it be like to have a normal father? Wanda moved between the baby and the washing in a serrated dance, her dinner forgotten as she moved about. The swooshing of her jeans rubbing together irritated Bambi. ‘Tomorrow’s Friday,’ Wanda offered. A statement that could have meant a million different things. ‘Yep.’ ‘Maybe we could do something together after I finish work?’ She paused from both tasks, studying Bambi. Squad was on a Friday afternoon. Did she want an excuse to skip it? ‘Like what?’ she asked. ‘By the time you’re done, it’s time to get tea.’ ‘I could try to get off early…’ Wanda folded a sun-crisped tea towel into neat rectangles. ‘Don’t worry about it, Mum. You’d have to make up the extra hours somewhere.’ Bambi reached across the table for Wanda’s hand. ‘I’m fine.’ Tears welled in Wanda’s eyes. ‘I know you are, Bambi. You’ve always been fine.’ Bambi swallowed the uncomfortable feeling that had made its way into her throat. Had she? Was she? ‘That’s right, isn’t it Kevie,’ she pulled a silly face at him, and poked him gently in the side. ‘I’m one tough chick.’ Kevin giggled at her and pulled against his restraint. The laugh quickly mutated into a whinge. ‘You may as well take him out.’ Wanda threw the spoon in the bowl. ‘He’s not going to eat anymore of that.’ ‘What a naughty baby,’ Bambi teased, blowing a raspberry on his neck. He smelled of cheese and tuna. ‘And that’s my world-famous signature dish!’ He grabbed a handful of her hair in his gummy fingers. ‘Ewh!’ She wiped at the mess in her hair.

64 ‘Come on, you gross kid. Time for a bath.’ The jobs were done, but the evening hours had evaporated. The pillow was soft and comfortable under her head as Bambi started her homework. The numbers blurred as her eyelids dropped closed, only to bump open again when they hit the bottom. What the heck was a polynomial, anyway? And who bloody cares? She had to concentrate. She wanted to be asleep – or at least pretending - before Adam arrived home, dragging the sheet across to peek in on her, bursting to tell her details about TAFE she didn’t want to hear. ‘I just have no idea,’ she thought. ‘I really am a halfwit.’ Her hand, with the pen still between her fingers, propped the book open as she fell into sleep. She dreamed. She was high up on a hill – a mountain – and it was snowing white flakes, but she wasn’t cold. She held her arms high as they gently landed on her face and tongue and disappeared into her warmth. And then she was running. Quickly. Down the slope, which was getting steeper and steeper. And then she was falling… Her body jerked as she braced to hit the ground: ‘No-’ She woke. Her orange eyelids told her it was morning. They didn’t have a curtain so the sun shone fiercely into the room, not discriminating between the two halves divided by the sheet. Someone had drawn the blankets over her. She gave her groggy brain a shake to dislodge the residue of the night. She remembered her unfinished homework. Crap. She was going to cop it from Butler - again. She groaned and rolled onto her side. Maybe if she burrowed down further into the bed the rest of the world would go along its merry way, forgetting she was a part of it. She resisted for a moment longer before throwing back the covers with a groan, leaving herself nowhere to hide. She dragged a pullover on against the morning chill. How quickly the season seemed to have turned. Bambi tucked up the divider. Adam’s bed was made, complete with hospital corners, as if he hadn’t slept in it at all. She pulled up her sheet and blankets, arranging them in an exact copy of Adam’s. Her exercise book dropped off the end of her bed, the pen rolling onto the floor. She picked them up, flicking the pages open so she could wedge the pen on them. ‘Oh, you cheeky bugger,’ muttered Bambi. Her homework was done, her own handwriting mimicked in the squashed circles of her sixes and nines, complete with smiley face at the end. She grinned, hugging the book to her chest. I still haven’t forgiven you, Adam Hall. Bambi hummed a Stones song her dad liked to sing as she fixed her lunch and grated apple into a container for Kevin to snack on. She was determined to focus on the positives

65 today, regardless of the crap anyone dished out. And she would talk with Adam tonight about Dad, and ask him straight out why he thought he was the way he was. They needed to sort this thing out. He only had one sister, after all, and he needed her. Her satisfaction wore down across the breadth of the day. As her bruises faded, so had the sympathy. They were back at it again. She took it all in silence. The emotional yo-yoing was making her giddy. By the time she arrived at training - late again - she’d had enough. She had stopped in at the op shop on the way only to leave again empty-handed. They had no running shoes even close to her size. Damn it, this was all so unfair. The sour taste in her mouth set her lips into a tight line. ‘Ah, the Amazon Princess returns.’ Tammy nudged Lacey. Bambi locked eyes with her, narrowing them slightly as she contemplated the girl. Tammy’s hair was hot ironed into apparently-casual curls that fell half way down her back. Bambi felt envy pecking at her. She satisfied herself by noting how the red of her club uniform clashed with her burgundy hair dye, giving her skin an uncomfortable hue. Gold hoop earrings dangled at her ears, matching the heavy gold bangles on her wrist; a strange counter-balance for the Nike sweatband on the other. How could she run in all that? ‘Fashion is stupid,’ thought Bambi. She reached up to touch her un-pierced ears and wondered whether earrings would hurt. ‘What’re you looking at?’ hissed Tammy. Bambi turned away without answer. The coach started the runners on some warm up laps. Bambi took her place as they loped around the oval. She could hear the cars humming along the main drag running alongside the tall trees, all dashing home at the end of another long week. She wondered what that would be like. A family with a normal dad, with a regular job, bringing home a bunch of flowers for mum. Would it make her happy? ‘Yeah,’ she thought. ‘It definitely would.’ But life wasn’t like that. Well, at least hers wasn’t. One day she would have those things. In the meantime she had running, and that had to count for something. ‘I may not fit in with them,’ she thought. ‘But I do belong here.’ Bambi loved the track and knew it should be navigated with respect. She had her own private markers, each reminding her that the loop wasn’t endless but each lap was a ring of completion, bringing its own resolution. At zero, the grass was hushed and flat from the always nervous feet of runners lining up. The white lines were crisp, standing between you and the run, whispering lies about how great it was going to be to have started. At 100 metres the coach stood so you couldn’t let on that your legs were starting to tire. The pothole on the

66 inside track at the 150 metre mark was to be dodged. The slight wobble in the white lines at the second corner told her she was halfway, so hang in. The storm-water drain at the edge of 325 screamed: ‘Pick it up! You’re nearly there.’ Back to the starting line: a complete ring. One tiny success. But Bambi wasn’t concerned about speed or racing at the moment. She relaxed into the easy pace, concentrating on the rhythm of her body, feeling it stretch as it moved. She let her stride smooth and flatten, her movements became one fluid motion, of water gliding over rocks, refracting, tracing her environment. ‘You look like magic, you know. When you move.’ Bambi hadn’t noticed Ingrid coming up beside her, her pixyish body bobbing steadily. ‘I feel like magic,’ she responded, lost in herself, feeling ethereal in that lovely place between imagination and reality, the place where only running could take her. Ingrid nodded. Her pale waves bounced on her head. ‘Or at least, like nothing can touch me; bring me down.’ She looked away, wishing she hadn’t said so much. ‘I think it’s just plain hard work!’ ‘So why do you do it?’ ‘Oh, you know,’ Ingrid frowned. ‘My Dad used to be some gun runner, winning every damn race from here to friggin’ Botswana. So…’ She shrugged. Bambi was always startled to hear her swear. She really was beautiful, and the contrast between her face and mouth made Bambi smile. She noticed the flawless olive of her shoulders peeking out of her singlet. With her blonde mane, Bambi wondered if she was a descendant of a wild Scandinavian princess. ‘Oh.’ Bambi tucked an imaginary strand of lank hair behind her ear. ‘I don’t hate it, really,’ she added. ‘I just have to work hard at it to stay just ‘okay’.’ ‘What do you want to be doing?’ asked Bambi? ‘I dunno. Nothing, I guess.’ ‘What do you like doing?’ ‘I dunno,’ Ingrid repeated, as if she had been mulling the question herself for a long time. ‘That’s just it. I don’t know. So I may as well run, right? It keeps everybody happy.’ Ingrid gave her an efficient smile. The warm up dissolved into further instructions and a series of speed intervals. Bambi found herself alone again, but she watched Ingrid, taking in the way she moved. She wasn’t half bad. She underestimated herself. Bambi turned the conversation over in her mind as she ran the 400 metre drills. She couldn’t remember having such an intimate conversation before. Well, at least, not with

67 someone outside of her family. But she did know what it was like to not quite know who you were. The whistle pulled the group back together at the centre of the oval. The grass was longer there, tickling her legs as she sat down with the others. ‘As you know, it’s only two weeks until the district competition.’ Coach Ben stood rocking on his feet with his arms crossed over his chest. A feeling of excitement pinballed through the runners. ‘Most of you know your events, but I want each of you to check in with me by next week so I can register you in the appropriate races. Some of you will need to have a very serious think about where you’re at and what’s realistic for you at this point. If you’re struggling, I’m happy to offer you a healthy dose of reality.’ Bambi leant back, shifting her weight to her hands behind her as she raised her face to the sky. The cool breeze caught up her loose strands of hair, tickling her face as she listened. She shivered. ‘The bus will be leaving here on the Saturday morning at seven-thirty.’ Ben gestured at the bitumen parking area. ‘You will be left behind if you are late.’ He pulled a wad of papers from his clipboard and handed them to Sarah. ‘Take a permission slip and pass them on, you’ll need to return them next week with your money for the bus.’ Vanessa was nudging Bambi with the notes. She took them from the girl and peeled one from the pile before handing them on. She stared at it. $12.50 for the bus! ‘That’s about it. Good effort today, people. See you all next week.’ Bambi folded the note roughly and got up to walk away. ‘Stay back will you, Bambi?’ Coach Ben asked. He didn’t look up from his clipboard until the rest of the squad had moved off towards the parents. The humming noise moved off with them and everything seemed uncomfortably quiet. She hovered. His eyes locked onto hers. ‘How’d today feel?’ Bambi nodded. ‘Good.’ ‘Well, it shouldn’t have felt good, it should have hurt like hell.’ ‘That’s why it felt good.’ He grinned at her: ‘And that’s why you’re one of my best runners.’ She flushed and looked at her bare feet. Ben eye’s followed hers. ‘You need some shoes and a uniform.’ Bambi didn’t respond. ‘You can’t run at the Districts without them.’

68 ‘I don’t have the money.’ She spoke quietly but the words travelled, bouncing off the trees and clouds, coming back to hit her in the face. ‘Okay,’ Ben responded. He drummed his fingers on his folder. ‘Your parents?’ Bambi shook her head. ‘Look at me,’ he said gently. Bambi tilted her head so she could just catch his eyes from under her brow. ‘I think you’ve got something.’ She stared at him and muttered: ‘Yeah, loser’s disease.’ He ignored her. ‘When you run, I see something I’ve never seen before. And I’ve trained my fair share of talent.’ He ran his hand through his thinning hair, shaking his head. ‘It’s hard to describe, Bambi. It’s like you become running.’ Bambi was not sure she was hearing him properly. How embarrassing. ‘I know that probably doesn’t make a lot of sense to you.’ He bent down to her height and drew in closer. She could see the freckles on his face, all swimming into each other in a mass of nut-brown. ‘Do you want to run?’ He’d asked her that before. He was intent. She sometimes sensed a thawing in him when he spoke with her; he wasn’t ‘Coach’ anymore. She wasn’t sure who he was. ‘Are you prepared to fight for this?’ His hands rested on his thighs as he bent towards her. She felt uneasy, popping open at the seams. He was drawing something out of her that was hidden. Protected. She breathed rapidly as he rummaged through her thoughts with his gaze. ‘I think you are,’ he said. ‘But I have to be sure?’ Bambi drew herself up, sucking air into her lungs until they filled to maximum. She held it there until she couldn’t any longer and then exhaled in a gush. He was waiting for her answer. ‘I can fight, if that’s what you want to know.’ She stated. ‘I want to run.’ He nodded sagely and returned to his full height. ‘Okay, Bambi.’ She wasn’t sure what she had agreed to, but she knew the deal had been done. She was nervous about what the price was going to be, but she would pay it. Whatever it was. ‘You can help me pack up the field, and then I’ll drive you home. I want to talk to your folks.’ She stepped toward him with her hands out, stopping barely short of grabbing his arm. ‘No.’

69 Ben raised her eyebrows at her. ‘No,’ she tried to sound clam. ‘I can sort this out myself.’ ‘I need to talk to them. We can work something out together. They should know you’re talented.’ ‘They won’t care. It’s nothing to them.’ ‘But if I explain it, they might see that it isn’t nothing, it’s something. And I have an idea about how you can pay for some gear.’ ‘Please,’ she pleaded. ‘Just let me sort it out.’ The whine in her voice sounded pathetic and desperate. She hated that she always did that. She wished she could be like her mother, cool and serene as a gum tree. They stood still, looking at each other with the Friday afternoon traffic vibrating beyond the trees. ‘How?’ ‘I’ll work it out somehow. I’ll have shoes by next week.’ ‘And your uniform? And your bus money?’ he paused. ‘Lunch money?’ ‘Please….’ Bambi couldn’t talk anymore. She had said too many words already, words that shouldn’t have been said. She couldn’t process any more of this. He was getting too close, and the panic was welling up. She ran away from him then; left him standing in the middle of the oval, staring after her. She knew she was acting like a child. She knew how bad it looked, but she had nothing else, nowhere else to go but away. Through the trees. Beyond the cars. Away from all those people who were in a hurry to get to somewhere worth arriving at. She brought herself to the edge of her pain threshold, pushing her body away from the oval, away from the Coach who wanted something from her, something she wasn’t sure she actually had. She ran until she couldn’t feel anything else but the sharp ground on her feet and the different parts of her that were burning. ‘This is why you run,’ she told herself. ‘Not to impress some stupid coach. Or some dumb teenagers.’ She was confused by the pull of competition and the excitement she felt when she ran against others; the need to hunt them down, the faster they went, the better. The thoughts dissolved as she reached the place where her body shut down her mind. It was a place where she felt distilled, entirely herself. Her real self, the one that nobody knew. She ran the whole way home on the edge and stood catching her breath at the front gate, escaping one discomfort, trading it for another. She glanced at the windows, looking for a sign that her mother was home. ‘Stupid,’ she thought. She is always at work.

70 Bambi secretly hoped Wanda was stashing money somewhere, working out her grand plan to escape this prison. She smiled grimly at the thought of her father as a warden. That was exactly what he was. She walked inside the house, determined that she would not be defined by the walls around her, but wondering if it was a battle she could ever win.

71 10.

Ben pulled the station wagon up outside the house next to the primary school. He unfolded the scrap of paper; double checked the address and refolded it. He closed his car door with a heavy push. He didn’t believe in slamming things; they either fit together, or they didn’t. Slamming was a sign of desperation. Striding through the front gate, Ben noticed the top hinge was broken, leaving the gate to lean awkwardly inwards. It set the tone for the rest of the house, warning the visitor at the threshold of things beyond. A shuffling inside caused him to take pause with his foot resting on the bottom step of the veranda. A woman emerged from the dim interior with a broom in her hand. She was dressed in a violet dress, cinched at the waist; white flowers were splashed across the fabric. It seemed to Ben it had been washed endlessly and yet looked after all the same. In places the purple had given way to the white, the two colours merging together to make a new pattern. ‘Hello,’ she greeted him, friendly, but with a measure of wariness. She smiled as she moved forward into the light, squinting slightly as her pupils adjusted. Ben’s heart beat faster. She had to be Bambi’s mother. The narrow frame, the same upturned eyes, the way they squinted into the light as if everything was too bright and overwhelming. ‘Can I help you?’ He cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry; I’m Benjamin Shirley. Ben. Bambi’s running coach.’ He reached out his hand in greeting. ‘Oh.’ She let go of the broom with one hand to take his and he shook it mildly. It was tiny in his large one, and insufferably smooth to a man unaccustomed to the feel of a woman. ‘Wanda Hall.’ She moved her hand to her lips, stowing her surprise behind it. Ben watched a series of emotions flick across her face, unable to catch them before they were gone and replaced with practiced calm. He realised he was staring. It was the way she moved her weight from one hip to the other, drawing his eyes to her slender curves, up her waist toward the smooth white neck upon which her face waited patiently. ‘I’m sorry,’ his eyes snapped back to her face. He felt the blue of her eyes weighing as she considered him. ‘I wanted to talk to you and Mr Hall about Bambi.’ ‘Please, sit down,’ she indicated towards the wicker chair as she leant the broom against the wall. He sat. She stood. Seeing there was no other chair, he stood again, hovering uncomfortably.

72 ‘Sit,’ she waved him back down, leaning against a beam. ‘Jonathon’s running some errands this morning. Can I get you something to drink?’ ‘No, thank you.’ His throat was as dry as Lake Eyre, his words taking wing like migrating birds fleeing its parched bed. ‘What’s this about Bambi?’ ‘Well,’ he stumbled. His rehearsed opening line had abandoned him, leaving him with a difficult topic and nowhere to begin. Roosting tentatively on the edge of the chair, he decided to be blunt. ‘Bambi needs running shoes and a uniform if she’s to race at the district carnival.’ Wanda nodded as if she knew exactly what he was talking about: ‘I see.’ ‘I would like to take her on as an assistant. She can help me set up and pack away at training, that kind of thing. I’ll advance her what she needs to get her kitted out, then she can do odd jobs to pay me back.’ He looked at her expectantly, unused to being confused by someone’s signals. ‘I don’t think so, Mr Shirley.’ ‘Really?’ he questioned. ‘You might like to hear me out first.’ Wanda nodded in a distracted way. They heard the rumbling, missing engine before they saw Jonathon careening around the corner in a howling cloud of dust. He was driving the car at a crazy speed with one wheel in the dirt that edged the side of the bitumen. He hooked the tail out, spinning it into a parked position behind Ben’s vehicle, the crazed paintwork of the cherry-red Monaro screaming defiance at the ever-so-average station wagon. Wanda’s expression froze. Jonathon’s grinning face emerged from the window: ‘I told you she was a beauty! Gotta drive her in the high revs at the moment, otherwise she just conks out, stops dead right where she is.’ He threaded himself out the window – with some difficulty – Dukes of Hazard style. Not because the door was sealed, or even broken, but just because he could, and he thought he would. Holding onto the turret, he swung his legs out, and dropped his thonged feet onto the ground, the bottoms of his jeans dragging under them as he bounded up the steps. ‘Jonathon Hall,’ he said, shoving his hand into Ben’s face. He leant over and kissed Wanda. She moved her face so his mouth only nicked the corner of hers. Ben could smell stale beer. ‘Benjamin Shirley,’ Ben responded, shaking his hand as he stood up. ‘What d’ya reckon?’ Jonathon nodded towards the beaten-up car.

73 ‘I’m definitely a Holden man,’ Ben responded. His gaze shifted to Wanda, who had stiffened, and he wondered at the change in her. ‘I know it doesn’t look like much now, but when I’m finished…’ Jonathon shook his head in wonder. He gave a low whistle like he was appreciating a woman. ‘I don’t want to intrude on your Saturday morning, Mr Hall.’ He looked to Wanda, the whites of her eyes now showing. ‘I was just talking to your wife here about...’ ‘Wouldn’t you like to go and freshen up before you talk to Mr Shirley?’ Wanda cut in, moving to stand between the two. ‘I can organise some drinks, and…’ ‘Freshen up?’ Jonathon mocked. ‘What are you on about?’ He turned his attention back to Ben. ‘Talk about what? ‘Ahhh…’ He watched Wanda’s fingers fluttering around her collarbone, knotting and threading an imaginary necklace. He frowned, turning back to Jonathon. ‘I came to offer Bambi some odd jobs, so she could afford to buy her squad uniform.’ ‘What?’ Jonathon screwed up his face. ‘Squad? What the hell are you talking about?’ His happiness appeared to teeter. ‘Running squad.’ He flicked between Jonathon and Wanda. The silence dragged out. ‘She has told you she’s joined my squad?’ Jonathon’s neck was turning crimson and the atmosphere around him had turned crisp. ‘Did you know this?’ He glared at Wanda. ‘I…, ah…’ He remembered the look on Bambi’s face when he mentioned interfering. What Pandora’s Box had he opened? ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ Ben held his hands up in surrender. ‘I can leave you two to talk about this in private’. Ben went to leave. Should he walk away from this? ‘But the offer still stands regarding the work for Bambi.’ He forced a smile and turned to leave. ‘She won’t be doing anything for you,’ Jonathon directed at him. ‘Everything she needs, she already has.’ Ben halted. ‘But she needs running shoes, and a squad uniform,’ Ben responded, standing solidly with his hands by his sides. ‘She’s not going to your squad. Not anymore. And I’ll tell her what she needs.’ ‘But she’s talented, Mr Hall. Very,’ returned Ben. ‘I’ve never seen such talent.’ Jonathon’s nostrils flared. ‘If you’d just hear me out. I’ve been watching her train for some weeks now…’ ‘Weeks?’ He pointed his finger at Wanda. Right up close in her face. ‘Weeks!’

74 ‘I think we should all just calm down…’ She moved her hands in a patting-down motion like she was facing a wild animal. Ben could see the woman was shaking from where he stood. Jonathon moved into Ben’s personal buffer zone, cutting her off from view. ‘It’s my decision.’ ‘That’s pretty unfair. She’s not a kid.’ The two men were stallions pawing at the ground, snorting their annoyance. ‘Jonathon, I…’ Wanda stepped forward. Jonathon’s look shrank her back down. ‘Like hell I’ll buy her a bloody uniform.’ He spoke slowly. Deliberately. ‘And there’s no way on God’s earth she’s going to be doing any odd jobs for some puffed up, red-haired baboon.’ Ben moved his face so close to Jonathon’s that their noses went close to touching. ‘There is no need to get personal.’ ‘It doesn’t get any more personal. Leave. My. Daughter. Alone.’ ‘As far as I can see, she’d do well to make up her own mind.’ Jonathon grabbed Ben by the front of his shirt. ‘What are you saying?’ Ben stared hard at Jonathon, daring him to test him. ‘I’m saying, you might do well to think about what’s actually best for your daughter.’ ‘Get off my property.’ Jonathon hissed in Ben’s face, releasing his shirt with a shove before turning away. Ben straightened his shirt, narrowing his eyes at Jonathon’s back. He was barely able to contain his fury as he stalked across the lawn back to his car. Ben would have liked nothing better than to knock the sneer off his face. Pretty boys always grew up to be bastards. They think the world owes them something. ‘If you go near her again, I’ll call the cops,’ Jonathon called out. ‘And I have no doubt they know you by name,’ Ben muttered to himself as he got into his car, slamming the door before he drove away.

75 11.

She sauntered along the side of the road, nibbling at the corner of the pastry Mrs Evie had slipped her when she’d dropped off the old lady’s mending. As far as Bambi knew, Mrs Evie didn’t actually have a surname. And if she ever had, she must have forgotten it a long time ago, when her hair was one colour or another other than grey, and was perhaps worn in a style that touched her shoulders rather than tightly wound in a bun. For a long time, it was always the same: ‘Call me Evie, my dear. Just Evie.’ Bambi had given up arguing with the bent-over lady, thinking that her father wouldn’t like her calling an old woman by her first name. Especially one so crippled with arthritis that her standard view was of the floor. So they had silently agreed on ‘Mrs Evie’, both giving an inch, settling them as equals in the smallest of ways. Today Mrs Evie had given her a watery smile, money for her mother in payment for taking up the hems of two skirts, and a warm pastry into her hand, straight from the cooling rack. Mrs Evie’s days in the kitchen were long ago spent, her knotted hands made the simplest of tasks a difficulty, but her daughter popped around every other day to help out, and Evie had no problems claiming the baking as her own. ‘A pastry for you, my dear.’ As much fuss as was made over what to call Evie, Bambi was sure the woman didn’t remember her name. ‘One of my specialties!’ Bambi took the pastry – which, to her, looked remarkably like a scone – with a solemn ‘thank you’. She had nibbled on it as she walked, making it last, very nearly overwhelmed by an urge to skip. Good food rarely failed to make her happy. As she walked through her front gate, the impulse fled. Her nose twitched. She smelled something familiar in the air. She stopped at the bottom stair and looked up at Jonathon sitting in his chair. In the shadows, he was the bluish-gray of steel. Bambi’s cells solidified. ‘What do you have to say for yourself?’ The words were slanted, the meaning sliding off before Bambi had a chance to take hold. The only part of her body capable of movement was the involuntary twitch of her fingers as they dropped the baking onto the ground. He placed the case containing his most rare butterflies from his lap onto the floor. He’d been waiting for her a while. Jonathon pulled a packet of tobacco from his shirt pocket. Unfolding its envelope, he balanced it on his knee and fished out the papers, licking his finger before trapping one and dragging it away from its brothers. He looked sharply at her, ‘Well?’

76 ‘About what, Dad?’ Her lips felt bee-stung swollen. They struggled to form the correct shapes and the words dragged sticky-like-toffee across her teeth. Placing the paper on his other leg, he tugged at the mass of shrivelled tobacco leaves, removing a pinch, balancing them carefully on the white square and deftly rolling them together into a tight spring roll. ‘I’m not sure…’ She was sweating. ‘Does he touch you?’ ‘What?’ ‘Does he do things to you?’ ‘Dad…’ Bambi could only get air into the top part of her lungs. She was feeling light headed. ‘No… Who? No! I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Jonathon’s face buckled into a distorted smile. He broke off a cardboard match from a matchbook that read: Golden Dragon Takeaway. Bambi’s eyes locked on the picture of the red dragon, watching it flicker in and out between his fingers as he lit his rollie and tucked the booklet, two-fingered, back into his pocket. He stood. The veranda boards creaked as he moved towards her. He leant against the supporting pillar. ‘Your running coach paid us a visit just now.’ He blew smoke in her direction. It didn’t reach her. His voice was quiet and low. Oh, God. A chill ran over her body like a breeze, freeze-drying the clamminess, leaving her skin with the feel of dried saltwater. She thought it might crack and she would shatter into a puzzle of broken shards at his feet. One heavy step at a time, Jonathon strolled down the stairs towards her. He was close. He spoke softly. ‘I told him I’d kill ‘im if he went near you again.’ Bambi’s breath came in pants. He took another drag, holding it in for a moment, letting the nicotine race from lung walls to bloodstream, smoothing the raw edges of his temper down. Bambi hadn’t moved. She was a flagpole. A monument. A carving. The blood had drained from her extremities, her heart drawing it back to itself. It pumped wildly, thrashing around in the excess blood, drowning in its attempt at self-preservation. Jonathon flicked the stub onto the pavers and mashed it with his boot. He looked at her for a moment, watching as panic overwhelmed her. A fine stream of urine ran down her inside leg. He left her there - a panting cur waiting for the boot - and went inside to see what Wanda was making him for lunch.

77 She stood frozen even after he had gone. Bambi tried to run but her legs folded beneath her. She sat on the lawn, staring at the chaotic pattern of clover but not seeing; her life was a spool of cord slipping from her hand, unravelling as it rolled away out of her reach. Wanda came to her and sat, tucking her dress under her calves, but not caring about holding her in the dirty state she was in. ‘He’s only trying to protect us, Bambi. He’s showing you love in the way he knows how.’ Bambi chocked on her tears, making a hiccupping sound. ‘He loves me?’ She couldn’t believe what her mother was saying. Wanda, nodding, smoothed the hair off her forehead but Bambi flicked her hand off with a snap of her head. ‘He doesn’t love us, Mum. He only loves himself.’ ‘Of course he does. Where he sees danger, he rushes in to stand between you and it. I know it might seem…’ ‘He rushes in to belt us when he thinks he’s losing control!’ Bambi cut her off. ‘He hits us and kicks us, and calls us foul names.’ Wander opened her mouth to speak again, her hand fluttering around her neckline. ‘He hates me, can’t you see that? And if you loved me, you’d leave him and take us with you.’ ‘Bambi, don’t say that. Don’t you ever say that.’ Wanda was crying, too. ‘Where would we go? What would we eat? We have nowhere, and no-one, else.’ She couldn’t believe that her mother couldn’t see the truth. How could she not see? He was choking the life out of all of them. Bambi felt herself dying somewhere deep down. Bambi stood, her dress sticking to her leg, and turned to go inside.

78 12.

The stone skipped once before sinking into the water. Adam had spent plenty of afternoons trying to teach her, demonstrating the required wrist action to get two, three, four bounces out of the rock before it dropped into the water’s depths. ‘It wants to fly, Bambi,’ He had explained to her when she was five. ‘It wants to work with you, you’ve just got to feel it, connect with it, and let it free.’ Bambi had nodded at him solemnly, no idea what he was talking about, but certain that it was the most sensible thing in the world. There actually weren’t many rocks around Hannigan’s dam; possibly they were all resting at the bottom. Adam always seemed to have a few in his pocket. Smooth, flat ones he’d noticed and slipped in there. She found a misshapen chunk – it could have been a stone, but more likely hardened mud – and threw it. Plop. It disappeared on entry. ‘Stupid game,’ Bambi thought, kicking at the ground with her foot. Her heart felt so heavy she was sure it was resting on the inside of the soles of her feet. It was always exciting when Adam played. The way he sometimes managed to skim the entire width of the dam, and then looked at her expectantly, as if she, too, had what it took to make her stone take wing. It was Friday. She sat on the ground, tucking her knees under her chin, wrapping her arms around her shins. She imagined the squad training. Coach Ben would be watching the drills with his stopwatch in his palm. Missing nothing, noting times down on his clipboard. Bambi wondered if he had forgiven her yet? Whether he understood that she couldn’t control her father? Whether he’d realised that getting mixed up with her family was a bad idea? A very bad one. She dropped her head onto her knees. They fit neatly in the eye-cavities of her skull. Her kneecaps pressed a little painfully into the orbs of her eyeballs. She couldn’t ever go back now. She couldn’t handle the disappointment on his face. And what if everyone else had heard about it? She shivered. She got to her feet. She couldn’t think about that. It was history. There was no going back so she may as well forget it. Her dad was never going to change his pig-headed-mind, and there was no point asking Wanda to step in. She had seen Adam butt against Jonathon time and time again, only to end up sorry. She brushed the stray grass from her skirt. No, she was too smart to think she could change anything. Squeezing through the fence, she slipped off her school shoes and tucked the socks into them. She chose a point in the distance, picking her line, and took off at full tilt. Ben

79 would have bellowed at her to start easy and to ease into her speed, but a warm-up was not what she wanted. She needed speed. She ran to the Poinciana tree, scattering the grazing cows, but they didn’t move far. They cavorted several metres away, turning sidelong to stare at her with their black liquid eyes. She looped around and headed back to her starting point. Her foot tipped sideways into a hole under the grass but she kept moving, taking light steps, spying the terrain fiercely so she could dominate it. She ran laps until she couldn’t do any more. The cattle had given up their wariness, glancing occasionally mid-chew to monitor her progress. She dropped into the grass, heaving. The urge to vomit had gone when she stopped. She sucked in air. Bambi collected her shoes. She pulled her foot up onto her knee in a triangle, to inspect a cut. Her soles were leathery and stained from the red dirt. For a short while, she had thought and felt nothing. That made it a good day. She wondered if that was how her mum got through each day? For how many years now? She tied her laces together and slung her school shoes over a shoulder and started the trek home.

* * *

Bambi got up early and ran again. She rose with the sun, ranging into the sleeping town before the people emerged from their houses to scurry around, doing whatever they did on a Saturday morning. When the sunshine greeted her on Sunday, she didn’t get out of bed. She just lay there, hearing Adam breathe heavily. She slid out from under the covers to tie up the divider before retreating back into the warm harbour. Bambi studied him. She watched his lashes flicker on his cheeks. It was the last piece of boy in him. The dark shadow of hair growing on his face announced he was a man, sleeping in a shared room with his little sister. She rolled her eyes to the ceiling, embarrassed, then back to him. Bambi wondered what he dreamed about that was making him twitch. Was he being chased? Was he kissing a girl? Was he falling 20 storeys, down, down, about to hit the rock- hard bitumen? She abruptly felt awkward, guilty that she was an unauthorised witness. How many mornings had he studied her? Scanning her, reading things she kept secret? Dropping the sheet again, she shimmied into her shorts and t-shirt. She sat on the end of her bed to braid her hair. She resisted the thought that Adam was laying the footings to a

80 bridge that was going to take him far away from this room; this family, this life. Away from her. Bambi snapped the tie around the end of her hair, and left the house. She stood at the front gate, her skin goose-pimpled from the cool air, and she listened to the soft bell-like call of the Honeyeaters. ‘Why couldn’t I have been born a bird,’ Bambi mused. She had startled them. Free…their wings snapped-out the word as they flew off, and it rained down on her, tinkling and teasing as it fell. She shook it off as she started running. The dew glinted on the grass in beads, bending the blades until they stooped like old men. They chilled her feet painfully as she ran through them, collecting them on her skin as she left a dull snake-trail in her wake. She didn’t know where she was going, or what her parents would say when they found her gone again this morning. Jonathon’s eyes had been following her; peering over the newspaper, around the side of the form guide. He didn’t need to comment. It was clear she was on probation. With Adam missing in action, Bambi retreated further into herself, contemplating whose side she was on - hers, or theirs? Was she a Hall? What would it mean if she decided she didn’t want to be? She took her time with her run. She padded softly around the countryside before turning towards the town, following the tug of her curiosity. She had travelled a fair distance by the time she came to the main street. She passed the families arriving for mass at the Cathedral, mothers licking fingers to wipe smudges off faces, and scolding children for getting grubby, and they’d only just stepped out of the car. Was her family so different from them? She tried to picture her dad dressed in long pants and a tie, smiling and shaking hands with other people in ties and high heels, nodding in agreement. Smiling. Nodding. Her mum beside him, smiling and nodding. She wanted it, and she didn’t. She wanted them to be themselves, just a better version. She pushed down her disappointment. She passed Mr. Chang the baker leaning against the wall in his floured shirt having a quiet ciggy after his night at the ovens. She had to dive sideways, out of the way of the paper- boy arriving back from his route with an empty basket. He poked out his tongue at her. She pulled a face back at him. Little pipsqueak. She crossed the road, out of the way of the guy hosing down the walls and footpath in front of the pub at the corner. No doubt Saturday night had been a big one. She tried not to think about the foul things that were being washed down the storm water drains, but her

81 nostrils caught a whiff. She held her breath until she thought she was far enough past and exhaled with an audible gush. Running allowed Bambi to be an observer, of both the façade of the town, and its disappointingly quiet underbelly. She felt somehow invisible; that by moving quickly she blurred, metamorphosing into something unnoticed. She was surprised when she heard her name. Ben rolled down the window of his station wagon and waited for her to spot him. He was sitting with the newspaper open across the steering wheel, wearing reading glasses, ones Bambi had never before seen, at the very tip of his nose. He looked over them at her. She stopped, standing on the opposite side of the road. He held his pose, not looking away, not calling her again. She checked the sleepy road for traffic – right, left, right – and dragged her feet across to him. He folded the paper and removed his glasses. ‘Hello.’ He wasn’t a smiler, but he managed to lace the terse greeting with layers of warmth. ‘Hi.’ She scanned for marks on his face, looking for evidence that Jonathon had punched him. Nothing. ‘You didn’t make it to training,’ he stated. Had he not heard what her father had said? Did he not understand that he meant it? ‘I can’t come anymore,’ she responded. He raised his eyebrows in his usual way of question. ‘He’ll really hurt you next time,’ she offered by way of explanation. ‘Will he, now.’ Bambi’s throat blocked up. ‘I’m not telling you to defy your father, Bambi. If I had kids, I would expect them to obey me.’ She nodded. ‘But…’ ‘What?’ ‘Maybe we can work something out, so we can get you on that track next weekend? I’ll try talking to your dad again. Or your mum.’ ‘Why?’ Bambi scanned his face for an answer. ‘There’s no point.’ She wiped the sweat that was accumulating at her temples with her palm. ‘Because, I think you’ll do well. And you deserve a chance.’

82 She snorted. ‘I can’t, Coach.’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t even talk to you. Someone will see, and he’ll…’ Bambi looked up and down the street, half expecting Jonathon to leap out from behind a shrub, running towards them. ‘I gotta go.’ She jogged away from him, hearing the thump as he slammed the steering wheel with his hands, wondering why he was even bothering. He saw her flinch, jumping slightly in response to his anger. She did not turn around, and he swore she sped up. He rested his head on the steering wheel, kicking himself for his outburst. He was slowly becoming aware of the damage that had been done to this girl. She was stoic, but she was afraid of him. He blanched. That man did not deserve to be a father.

83 13.

‘Hey, wait up!’ Bambi was out of the school grounds in record time. She couldn’t get out of there quick enough. The girls had turned up the heat today, taking every opportunity to put her in her place, which was apparently underneath Tammy’s size seven Doc Martens. She listened to the rapid jingling-bang of a backpack hitting the body of the hurrying person. ‘Pencil tin,’ thought Bambi. ‘Has to be a girl.’ She sped up. She wasn’t in the mood to listen to girlie chatter when ‘Backpack Girl’ finally caught her friend. Hairstyles, boys, and ‘what should I wear to Teegan’s party on Friday?’ may just push her over the edge. She wondered what awaited her ‘over the edge’? Anger? Tears? She had always held herself just short. ‘Gosh, Bambi. Is it always a race with you?’ ‘Huh?’ Bambi’s eyes widened as Ingrid fell into step beside her. ‘And I’m carrying a million kilos in this stupid friggin’ backpack,’ Ingrid complained, readjusting the straps. ‘And a pencil tin.’ Ingrid grinned. ‘Yeah, and a pencil tin. Nothing gets past you, Sherlock.’ Bambi smiled at the ground, uncertain of what to say. They walked together down the street in silence. Bambi trailed her fingers along the fences as they walked. She liked the feel of the metal ones, the way her fingers ran across the wires in staccato bumps. She was careful of the timber railings. She ran her hands ever so lightly across the paint, knowing splinters were hiding underneath, ready to bite. Bambi wanted to speak, but everything that came to her sounded stupid. Ingrid seemed content with the lack of conversation. She jangled along beside her, the crashing of the pens in her tin cut across the sounds of a Jack Russell going ballistic at them through a gate and the Bold and the Beautiful theme song floating out of houses. They passed a woman retrieving her mail in her slippers. She gave them the hairy eyeball. Bambi assumed they must look ridiculous. Her lanky body dwarfed Ingrid’s. Her rumpled uniform and knobby knees starkly contrasted with Ingrid’s smooth perfection. Even her unruly hair looked like it waved out of its clip on purpose, confidently suggesting she was beautiful and unconventional. Bambi tucked her plastic bag up tighter to her chest and smoothed her hair into a low pigtail with her other hand, twisting it into a thin waterfall before letting it go. ‘You know they’re just jealous.’ Ingrid had pulled a twig from a Poinciana tree and was plucking at the tiny leaves.

84 ‘What?’ Bambi blinked at her in surprise. ‘Yep,’ Ingrid responded, chucking the branch onto the ground, brushing her hands on the side of her skirt. ‘No…’ ‘They know you’re going to kick their butts at the carnival. Tammy hates to lose. Especially when….’ Her voice trailed off. ‘Especially when what? It’s to a loser?’ Bambi finished for her, her mouth curling at the edge. ‘No,’ Ingrid stumbled. ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’ The comfortable conversation skittered off; a kite that had been let go, its tail slapping across the tile roofs of the nearby houses as it escaped with the breeze. Bambi picked up her pace. Ingrid followed. ‘You are different,’ Ingrid offered. ‘But not bad different.’ ‘Yeah right,’ retorted Bambi. She stopped, turning to stare at her, ‘Cause being like this is such a good thing!’ She gestured to her whole herself. Ingrid stopped and studied her for a moment. Bambi imagined herself through Ingrid’s eyes. She wore a uniform that Ingrid wouldn’t be seen dead in. Her socks had long ago ceased to be white and looked more like the caramel lattes Ingrid undoubtedly drank with her mum when they went shopping. Her hair had the dull lank of locks washed in soap instead of salon products, and the ends which petered off into crispiness desperately needed cutting. There’s no way in the world Ingrid would switch places with her. There was nothing about her of which to be envious, nothing she had that any teenage girl wanted. They silently feared being like her. By rejecting her they could somehow ward off the stain of unpopularity. So why was she here with her? ‘Well?’ Ingrid shrugged. ‘You’re different. And it can’t be fun being poor.’ Bambi snorted. ‘But who cares what they think, right?’ ‘You do.’ The comment was intended as an observation, but its barb nestled into Ingrid’s chest between her ribs. She dropped her mouth open in shock. ‘Ouch.’ Bambi shrugged. It was the truth. Ingrid nodded slowly. ‘You’re right,’ she breathed out slowly. ‘And I’m trapped by it. But you, you’re free.’ Bambi laughed, not that she found any of it funny. Was life really a black comedy? Like that movie she’d seen where the kid walked out onto the street and was hit by a bus. And she had laughed. Out of shock.

85 They walked a short way further together, each lost in their own thoughts. Were they all just trying to escape? Maybe Dad, most of all? She wondered if Mum loving him was all that was holding him back. ‘This is my street,’ said Ingrid. The houses were big, and the lawns were pretty. She adjusted her backpack once more with a clatter, clearly uncomfortable with its bulk. ‘Might see you ‘round.’ ‘Sure.’ Bambi didn’t linger, afraid of being left standing alone. She kept moving. Her conversation with Ingrid had taken her well past Wanda’s work so Bambi kept moving for home. She was halfway there, and her head craved the space of her empty room to process their conversation. She needed to get a start on her chores, anyway. The early mornings over the weekend had taken their toll, and she had found it impossible concentrating in class. She just wanted to go to bed. She saw Adam’s bike leaning against the front of the house. Her spirits spiked. She would bounce her conversation with Ingrid off him. He understood people in a way she never could. As she got closer, she heard the raised voices laced with the harsh bite of anger. ‘It’s a fool-brained scheme. You’ll end up with a stupid bit of paper and no job.’ It was her dad. Bambi slowed. ‘But it will help me get a better job. One that pays more, with less hours,’ Adam’s response was tired. ‘And what about all the hours of lost wages? What about them?’ She stopped moving. Gosh, Adam was finally fessing up. She was equal parts relieved and petrified. Bambi slid down onto the grass, camouflaged by the green uprising of plants on the front fence. Listening. Waiting. ‘What about them, Dad? I need to do this. I can’t be stuck in this hell-hole forever.’ Silence. Bambi could imagine Jonathon’s face. ‘You can’t leave the burden of it all on your mother. You’re going to march yourself back down to that bloody TAFE in the morning and tell them you won’t be back. You have responsibilities.’ Another pause. ‘Don’t talk to me about responsibilities.’ Adam’s voice was low. Bambi strained to hear. The bang of the screen door and footsteps on the veranda caused Bambi to shrink further back into the hedge. Adam grabbed his bike and wheeled it out the gate, glancing briefly at her before throwing his leg over the bar.

86 Jonathon’s appearance stopped her from calling out to her brother. ‘Wait,’ she wanted to yell. ‘Wait for me!’ Instead, the words that followed him belonged to their father. ‘If you leave now, don’t bother coming back!’ He threw his hat, the nearest thing at hand, after him: ‘Ever!’ Fear skidded around Bambi’s stomach like a marble skating around a bowl, slipping up and back, around the sides. She waited and watched as Jonathon moved down the steps and out of the gate, into the unregistered car like a dark shadow. Bambi shrunk back further into the foliage. The engine fired into life. Its lumpy growl a warning to stand clear. Bambi watched the red car flash around the corner and out of sight and the stillness she had craved earlier settled around her, its presence cloying and clawing at her. He was driving like a lunatic. She wanted to go after her brother, but she stayed put. How could she side with Adam and stand against him? It would be suicide. Without Adam, the dam would burst. And she was afraid they would all be washed away.

87 14.

Wanda bounced off the curb in her favourite clogs. She liked to wear them. She enjoyed the tuneful clop as she moved across the pavement. Lingering a little as she strolled along the shop fronts, she felt the early sun on the back of her legs. She knew she should go back, but a few minutes wouldn’t hurt. Mornings had always been her most loved time of day, when everything was new and fresh; a mini New Year’s Day, where yesterday was wiped away and you could make even the most impossible of resolutions, believing good things could happen. Anything was possible when the sun was cresting the horizon. Nothing could stop it from rising. It came up regardless. This morning had been a particularly pleasant one, having shop errands to run which took her outside. She’d been to the post office and the bank, and past the coffee shop to collect Maggie’s long black. A calico bag of till-change banged gently against her thigh as she walked. Her hand felt sweaty where she gripped it too tightly, aware that if she were to lose it, it would come out of her wages. Balancing the coffee in one hand and the bag in the other, she pushed her weight against the door to the shop, sending the bell into its customary frenzy as she went inside. ‘Here it is, Maggie, nice and hot,’ Wanda held up the cardboard cup as evidence. An annoyed noise escaped Maggie. She was always grumpy until she got her caffeine hit, and even then she mostly decided to stay piqued as if the world owed her something grand but was holding out on her. ‘Did you get the change?’ Maggie frowned. ‘Yep,’ Wanda chirped, holding up the other hand as she placed the cup on the counter. ‘I’ll sort it out if you like, while you relax with your coffee.’ ‘I’ll do it myself, thank you,’ Maggie replied tartly. She pulled the rolls of coins from the bag, making a show of counting them twice before she released them from their brown paper cocoons into the cash register. She looked up to see Wanda watching her. ‘What are you waiting for? The windows won’t clean themselves!’ ‘Oh, of course.’ Wanda retreated out the back, dumping the squeegee into the bucket as she ran the hot water. Stupid cow. Kevin lay asleep in the corner of the playpen, his head resting on the mattress and his worn red blanket gripped loosely in one hand. She paused for a moment to stare at his full cheeks bobbing up and down as he sucked his thumb in his sleep. She silently offered a prayer of thanks that he was such a good baby, and that he slept a lot.

88 She regretted her angry thought about Maggie already. She had a job. She was thankful. She lugged the bucket of hot water and metho outside, careful to leave the backroom quietly. Kevin would be awake soon enough, and the more she could accomplish before then, the easier her day would be. She had no idea being a mother was going to be so demanding. It was tough being responsible for so many, when on the inside, she still felt like a little girl. She dunked the squeegee in the water and raised her arm high to scrub the window with the bristly side. Hot water ran down the sleeve of her cardigan, causing her drop the mop back into the bucket. ‘Oooh!’ She shook her arm to flick off the water, but it had already drenched her sleeve. She stared at it in dismay. ‘I recommend shaking the water off before you try cleaning the window.’ Wanda spun around. Ben Shirley stood there, amusement plastered across his face. The sun picked up the ginger highlights in his greying hair giving him a distinguished appearance that Wanda hadn’t noticed before. ‘And you would be some kind of window cleaning expert, I assume?’ she responded. ‘Of course not! But I am an excellent back-seat driver.’ When he smiled, she could see the perfect alignment of his teeth. ‘Braces,’ she thought. She smiled. ‘I suppose that would make you a good coach, then?’ ‘Yeah, I’ve thought about leaving my day job to start coaching,’ he said shrugging. ‘I was thinking, synchronized swimming might be a good sport for me. I’ve dedicated the last 10 years to fine tuning my style.’ An image of Ben in a flowered swimming cap and nose clip made Wanda laugh out loud. Ben beamed and leant up against the window with his hand. ‘Oh, sorry,’ he said, snatching it away. ‘That would be counter-productive.’ Wanda picked up the squeegee mop and began the process again. This time giving the squeegee an exaggerated flick. She peered through the window as she swiped the rubber blade across the glass. Maggie sat at the counter reading her New Idea, sipping her coffee. Her eyes then flicked back to the reflection of Ben in the window, his shoulders filling out his black polo shirt. ‘So, how have you been?’ Ben ventured.

89 Wanda wondered at his tone, suspecting he was asking something more. She cringed at the memory of their first, and last, encounter. She searched his face, but couldn’t detect any bitterness. She kept working without looking at him. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I’ve been fine.’ Ben took a step towards her and placed his hand on her moving arm to stay it. It felt hot on her skin. ‘Wanda…’ She flinched away from his touch. She was married, damn it. For better or for worse. ‘I said I’m fine.’ She levelled her faded blue eyes at him. They held all the loveliness and alarm of a lioness, and no invitation. ‘Are you sure?’ he said softly. ‘Because there are people that can help you.’ ‘I don’t need help,’ she snapped. Ben folded his arms across his round stomach, his gaze unperturbed. ‘It’s not what you think. Jonathon is good to us. I know people talk….’ Her voice trailed off weakly. He went to touch her shoulder but decided against it at the last. ‘Please leave,’ she stared at the window. She couldn’t face him. This kind man whom she barely knew. Ben hesitated, moving to let a pedestrian past. ‘Bambi came to see me yesterday.’ ‘What?’ She turned. ‘Why?’ He stepped over closer to the window beside the wall to let another person past. He leant against the bricks, the sun cutting across his face made him squint. Concern was fixed in his eyes. ‘She wants to get serious about her running. She wants me to write her up a training program that she can do on her own.’ ‘No,’ Wanda said, alarmed and shaking her head. ‘She can’t.’ Ben raised his hands in a gesture of defeat. ‘I don’t think you or I can stop her, actually. I think she’s going to do this, with or without our help.’ Wanda scanned his face, trying to read the rest of the story in it. She dunked the mop and scrubbed the next portion of glass before flicking it over, scraping the water off with the rubber blade. She worked for a moment in silence. Ben watched her arms trace deft patterns on the transparent canvas. ‘It will end badly,’ she said eventually, having moved further from Ben as she progressed across the window.

90 He nodded at her back. ‘It may,’ he conceded. ‘But that’s no way to live a life, is it? Afraid of what might happen?’ She looked at him for a long moment, her lived years leaning heavily against her. ‘She’s got such spirit.’ He took a step forward. ‘She is afraid, but she’s also not afraid.’ Wanda blinked away tears, turning her face away from his. A car horn honked at a man crossing the street too slowly for the impatient driver. He waved his hand in a flagrant dismissal, and threw a look at Wanda and Ben before entering the shop. Oh no, Joe Stegg. He wouldn’t have missed her talking with Ben. Wanda started on the last stretch of window to be cleaned. She watched Maggie through it, fawning over the customer. ‘I’m going to help her,’ Ben stated. ‘I’ll buy her a uniform and shoes, and see that she gets everything she needs.’ He waited for Wanda to object. He gave her the space to tell him he was wrong and to butt out. He wanted her approval. He wanted her to agree that he was right, even though he was doing everything wrong. He wanted an accomplice. She didn’t turn to face him, but nodded. She knew she was going to regret it. He stepped in closer again, looking like he was about to reach out to her and whisk her away from this place with its dirty windows and angry doorbells. She gave her head a tiny shake. She must not let her imagination run wild. He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ he said to the curve of her back. His eyes lingered. ‘And here, take this.’ He held out a slip of paper that was folded into perfect squares, a phone number written neatly on it. ‘Put it somewhere safe. Make sure you call me if you need anything.’ Wanda took the note and slipped it into the top of her bra. The warmth from his hand was still in the paper. Ben stared. ‘Thank you.’ Her voice was low. He watched her take the bucket inside, leaving the last square of glass unfinished. She hurried out the back through the plastic strappy doorway and dumped the dirty hot water into the sink in a flood. It splashed against her, the drops tiny pinches at her arm. She picked up the now awake Kevin, and cried softly into the crook of his neck. She pushed the thoughts of this other man away. She was a good person, a good wife. That was all she had in her favour, and she was not going to give it away.

91 15.

The nervous energy was apparent. Runners trickled onto the field, wobbling their legs to warm themselves against the chilly morning air. ‘You’ll want fresh legs for Saturday,’ Coach was lecturing. ‘You need to taper this week. Keep it light and easy. No extra runs!’ Had he looked directly at her when he said that? ‘You won’t get any fitter in the next day,’ he said. ‘The training window has closed!’ Tammy’s Dad ventured out of his car with his hands tucked under the armpits of his business shirt. He jogged on the spot: a slower, older, better-dressed version of the runners. He had a kind crinkle to his eyes that surprised Bambi and was caught out when she stared at him a second too long. He gave her a quizzical look, taking in her outfit in a blink. She was wearing her bulky black school shoes with her shorts – she had opted for them since the grass was freezing on her bare feet and left them feeling numb and blue – and she had worn her fleecy pullover with her hands pulled up into the sleeves. She had no cap, or gloves, or windcheater. She knew how she looked. Her eyes skittered away from his. Tammy finally flounced out of the car, shoving a thermal mug at her father, expecting him to understand that she was done with it and he was required to take it from her. She zipped up her bright orange running jacket. He took the mug without comment, tucking his hand once again into its warm spot with it sticking out of his back like it grew there. ‘Knock ‘em dead, Panda Bear,’ he grinned at her. ‘Dad,’ she hissed back, checking to make sure no one had heard him. ‘Over here, Panda!’ Todd called to her and twiddled his fingers in a wave. Lisa and Mandy collapsed on each other, smothering their laughter between them. Bambi watched the way the girls stood together with their hands on one another’s arms, connecting their bodies together at different points in affectionate familiarity. She looked out at them from her sterile bubble, internally rolling her eyes at their need to touch each other constantly. Tammy glared murderously at her Dad and stomped off. He gave Bambi a wink before turning to greet Linda Gardner, who had decided that his appearance might just warrant getting out of the Range Rover. She patted down the fake fur collar that was tickling under her ears, and readjusted her neckline to ensure it was arranged in the most appropriately tantalising position. ‘Hello Linda,’ he grimaced, but pretended not to. She was too stupid to notice. Bambi took the opportunity to edge out of view, ducking behind some of the taller boys.

92 She dropped down onto the low railing and watched snatches of colour flick through the line of trees as cars raced behind them. They hummed like flies in an outdoor dunny. She wondered at the number of them. Who were all these bodies clambering into vehicles every morning and afternoon, zooming to who-knew-where and back again? The engines growled as they passed; one crescendo fading as another emerged. She shoved her hands into her pocket. She fingered the coins there, which added up to exactly twelve dollars and fifty cents. ‘Hi.’ Jack was standing in front of her. His voice sliced through the hum of the traffic. His eyes wandered over the yellow marks on her face and he gave her a tight smile. ‘Oh.’ He had surprised her. ‘Hi.’ Her eyes widened at the sight of him up close. His skin was caramel against the pale blue of his coat; he didn’t look like he had just dragged himself out of bed like everyone else. Her glance flicked to the other girls. They were preoccupied, trying to convince Tammy that they hadn’t actually been laughing at her. Jack was calm amongst the agitated bodies around him, unaffected by the chill. ‘Do you want to meet up later and grab a Coke or something?’ He stood with his hands in the pockets of his nylon track pants. The zip of his jacket was open, exposing the stratum of shirts underneath. The top layer read: ‘Bill Gates…’ in a sloppy red font, with the rest of the message lost under the layers. Bambi’s mouth fell open. Was he blind? Her heart ceased beating and the mad tingling in her stomach bordered on painful. ‘Seriously?’ she breathed. ‘Is this a joke?’ He gave his half-mouthed smile, which kick started her circulation back into gear. Her cheeks flushed with heat despite the goosebumps on her skin. She withdrew her hands one at a time inside the ends of her pullover. The fleecy inside felt like warm butter on her stiff fingers. He shrugged. ‘I just thought we could hang out a bit. Talk about your race strategy for tomorrow. You’re fast, but I might be able to give you some pointers.’ ‘Oh,’ she managed. His calm intensity fuelled the chaos inside her. And the way his brown lashes seemed to beat like the wings of lazy spring butterflies was almost painful to watch. ‘Not like a date, or anything,’ he frowned at her. ‘Of course not,’ she managed. ‘I just didn’t think you had many friends around here,’ his gaze swept around.

93 Hers followed and she scanned the scene before her, looking for the trick, watching for the pixilation at the corner of her vision telling her she had tripped inside the television and had morphed into some fictional character, someone else entirely. ‘I’ll pay,’ Jack added. Bambi’s cheeks flamed like beacons. ‘That wasn’t what I…’ her sentence ended abruptly, leaving them standing together, but a thousand lives apart. ‘It’s no big deal,’ he flicked his hair. ‘Don’t worry about it.’ ‘No,’ she interjected before he could move on. She wrapped her handless arms around herself. ‘I’ll come.’ ‘Okay.’ His expression said he didn’t care if she did or didn’t. ‘I’ll be at the Fish ‘n Chip shop in the middle of town at six.’ He strode away. The undone zips at his ankles flapped against his bare skin as he walked back to his friends. Bambi drew her sleeves up to her mouth, covering a smile that threatened to consume her entire face, and breathed warm air down into where her hands nestled. Jack had lit a firework in her chest. It crackled and bounced off her ribs with crazy, fizzling explosions. Her nose was numb. She realised it was probably red and glowing. She ran a hand over her hair, feeling the messy bumps with her fingers, regretting that she hadn’t bothered to smooth them when she yanked it back into a pigtail. She must look like a train wreck. ‘What just happened there?’ Ingrid appeared and hovered. Bambi shook her head. ‘I have no idea.’ She leant in close. ‘He asked me to get a Coke with him. At six tonight.’ Bambi swivelled her torso from side to side, hugging herself for warmth. ‘No way!’ Ingrid exclaimed, screwing up her nose in Jack’s direction. ‘Serious?’ Bambi rolled her eyes at her, which didn’t seem to be the correct response, but she was incapable of connecting her body with her brain: ‘That’s exactly what I said!’ ‘Wow!’ Ingrid looked impressed. ‘Way to go.’ Bambi gave her a shy smile. ‘He made sure I knew it wasn’t a date.’ Ingrid grunted. ‘Boys are idiots.’ ‘No more than girls,’ Bambi frowned, thinking of Adam – the best person she knew. ‘Besides, Jack seems different to other boys.’ ‘I can guarantee you, he’s not!’ Bambi squinted at Ingrid as the whistle blew, wanting to ask her exactly what she meant. She obviously knew things about boys that Bambi didn’t.

94 Ingrid had already turned toward the Coach. Her neatly fitting long sleeved shirt and three quarter tights made her look every inch the running star; every bit the everything-star. Bambi stood behind her, able to see clearly over her head. Her pigtail had been curled into a single ringlet. Bambi grinned: it actually looked like a pig’s tail. ‘It looks like some people have had a bit of trouble getting out of bed,’ Ben looked around at the diminished numbers of the group. ‘Across the oval and back, until I say stop. Off you go, nice and steady.’ Bambi waited until every last runner was on the field and walked up beside Coach Ben. He looked outward. His eyes following his flock as they flowed back and forth like a snake shedding its skin. ‘Your Dad know you’re here?’ He didn’t shift his gaze. ‘No,’ she responded. ‘But I’m here.’ She held out her hand to him. ‘I have my bus money for tomorrow.’ He pivoted, his legs forming in a scissored pattern. He frowned. His skin was extra blotchy, with blooms of red on his cheeks and neck. He didn’t move to take her fistful of coins. Instead, he went to his equipment crate and picked up a red backpack, throwing it at her. She caught it by the shoulder strap with her change-free hand. ‘You’d better find a good hiding spot for that.’ He nodded towards the backpack in her hand. She looked down at it as if she had never seen one before. ‘What’s this?’ Ben answered by blowing the whistle, twice quickly, then a long note, dipping at the tail to signal the end of the warm up and their private conversation. ‘Star jumps,’ he roared so even the furthest person heard, stopping where they were to obey immediately. Bambi was still standing in the same spot, wondering if she should look inside it? Did it actually contain what she thought it might? Was it rude to look, or was it rude to pretend it hadn’t happened? He glared at her: ‘Get moving!’ ‘Yes Coach,’ she had an apricot sized lump in her throat. She wasn’t sure where to put the bag, but decided on leaning it carefully against the railing so its bottom stayed clean on the grass. She trotted back to the group, the coins doing a swoosh-chink dance in her pocket as she star-jumped with the others. ‘Loose coins, Spastic,’ mumbled Todd. Bambi flushed and jogged back to the new bag. She slipped the coins into the front pocket. She felt an overwhelming excitement as she did so. She had her own sports bag.

95 The training seemed like little more than a warm up. Her eyes were homing missiles locked in on Jack, despite her best intentions to look elsewhere. He knew she was watching her – she knew that he knew – but he didn’t return her glances. He looked everywhere but. The session was over before Bambi had even considered taking off her jumper. After a week of resting her legs, they were bristling with impatience. She wondered if it was worth it, the structured training schedule which seemed to hold her back from the part of running she loved so much. Bambi brushed the thought aside. She knew she was stronger. Faster. And tomorrow she would find out exactly how she measured up. She walked off the oval, watching the usual scenario of kids dissolving behind car doors as their parents did a five second drive-by to collect them, just in time to deliver them to their next destination. Jack walked with Tammy, sliding into the back of her dad’s car. She must have offered him a ride. He still hadn’t as much as glanced in her direction. ‘See ya tomorrow, Bambi,’ Ingrid waved. ‘Bye,’ she gave a half-hearted wave as she scolded herself for behaving like a five year old. ‘Do you need a lift?’ It was Tammy’s dad, one leg in the car, leaning out at an unnatural angle like he was about to be launched out of a cannon. ‘Uh, no thanks,’ she forced her face into an upturned expression she hoped would pass as a smile rather than a death rictus. ‘Okay then,’ he returned warmly. She jumped off the road as the Gardner’s four-wheel drive took off out of the parking area. Lisa sat in the passenger seat applying lip balm. Bambi watched the Range Rover turn onto the side road, followed by a series of other cars all with flashing indicators stating the obvious. As the car park emptied Bambi saw her mother and Kevin standing on the bitumen on the far side of the road where the bus had probably dropped them moments before. ‘Oh no…’ she whispered. She took in her mother’s good peppermint-green dress and cream cardigan, sturdy stockings and shoes. She paused at her hair. Its usual precision had been abandoned. This morning it flowed smoothly, sweeping around her neck at the front in two soft arcs. Bambi frowned. Her mother began to move towards her. She knew it was too late to run and hide. ‘Ba-ba!’ Kevin shrieked, wriggling to get down so he could go to her. Wanda clamped down tighter: both her arms and lips.

96 ‘Mum…’ Bambi started when they were close enough to talk. She wasn’t sure where to go after that, so she left the word to hang between them, still and crystallizing in the breezeless autumn. Kevin leaned into the gap between them and filled it. She took him from her mother’s arms as he chatted baby nonsense. He giggled and kicked to get down immediately. She let him slip to the grass and he scooted across to the timber bench where he was able to pull himself up onto his legs. He inspected a line of ants that were weaving a loose trail across the painted wood. He watched so closely his nose bumped against the wood. Bambi turned back to Wanda. She stood silently, the sun highlighting the subtle lines in her skin. Bambi swore there were more than yesterday. The shame of her deceit weighed heavily and her head slumped forward onto her chest. Wanda reached out an arm and pulled Bambi into her. She pressed her face into her mother’s hair, which smelled like lavender and baby. Tears slipped from her cheeks and were lost in their collectiveness. ‘I’m so sorry, Mum,’ she spluttered. ‘Shoosh, Bambi.’ Wanda soothed. She pushed her off so she could look into her face. ‘Your father wanted to know where you were this morning.’ Bambi let go of a sob she was holding in her throat. ‘He asked?’ She had assumed he wouldn’t have noticed. ‘I told him you had work to do for me at the shop in the back room.’ She paused to let the statement sink in. ‘That gets you a free ticket out the door early tomorrow as well.’ Wanda continued to hold her by the shoulders, connecting with her, silently imparting the gravity of what they were doing. ‘You know about tomorrow?’ Bambi pulled away and wiped her eyes, looking across to see Ben standing close as if he felt he somehow belonged in the conversation. She looked at her mother who was watching her coach with an unreadable expression. ‘Yes. I know,’ she said softly, not shifting her gaze away from him. Bambi looked from one to the other, trying to read the encoded messages that were sparking between the two at lightning speed. Wanda broke her eyes away from Ben’s. ‘You’d best come with me now to work,’ she directed at Bambi. ‘I do actually need some help.’ ‘Wait a sec.’ Bambi hesitated and then jogged over to collect the backpack – her backpack - and swung it over her shoulder. Wanda frowned at it but said nothing. Something hard poked into her back through the rough nylon material. She tried to hold it away from her body, not quite

97 willing to claim ownership over something so perfectly new. She suspected it contained objects that were going to redirect her future. The bag chose to curve into her back like it belonged there. Ben stepped in. ‘Let me drive you,’ he said to her mother. The gentleness of his voice melted the statement into a question. ‘No,’ Wanda answered. Ben nodded easily, expecting her refusal. Kevin had crawled back to Wanda and was trying to climb her via her dress. She positioned him on her hip, smoothing the side of her skirt down with her other hand. She was lovely. Bambi wondered what it was like to be beautiful. Wanda took Bambi’s hand and led her towards the road without so much as a goodbye. Bambi turned back, wondering if Ben would be upset by her mother’s slight. He stood alone at the edge of the oval where he blended so well with the dew-damp grass and sharp air. His face had unfolded in petals, and within them, the most tender of smiles blossomed.

98 16.

Wanda dunked the tea bag, gave it a quick squeeze and pulled it out of the boiling water. She shook her stinging fingers. Stamping on the bin pedal, she dropped the bag in, all without watching. Her eyes hadn’t left Bambi, who sat at the table in the back room of the shop. She opened a new carton of milk, fumbling with the waxy cardboard spout, annoyed at the way it bent in the wrong place. She used her fingers to pry open the glue. She mangled the spout, which meant it poured a little wonkily. She snapped it closed and returned it to the fridge door. She was sure she would hear Maggie’s peeved complaint about it later. Bambi pulled a pair of plastic wrapped socks out of the backpack, and then another. Wanda stirred her tea mindlessly. The tinkle of the metal against the side of the mug mingled with the sound of Kevin throwing wooden alphabet blocks out of the playpen. Her daughter’s face was impassive as she removed each item and placed them carefully on the table. A singlet, and shorts – the actual squad uniform, not cheap or second hand imitations – complete with advertising logos and team name. She refolded them and arranged them next to the unopened socks. Carefully. A running cap, a rain jacket, tracksuit pants - all came out of the red bag, and it still didn’t appear to be empty. Wanda watched as her daughter’s face changed from serious to pale. She shook her head slowly as she pulled out a pair of running shoes. They were white at the back, blending to black and ending in red at the toes. They were laced in red. Fire engine red, bright and alarming. They were pristine and absolutely nothing like Wanda had ever been able to buy for Bambi before. Wanda realised she was still stirring. She tapped the spoon on the edge of the mug and placed it in the sink. Bambi ran her fingers lightly over the shoes and looked at Wanda, who gave her a quick smile before hiding her lips by taking a sip. ‘Can you believe this?’ Bambi asked, bringing her foot up so she could measure the length of the shoe against her foot. Perfect. ‘How would he know?’ Wanda cleared her throat, turning to run some hot water into the sink. ‘He obviously made a good guess, Love.’ As Bambi turned the shoe over, something fell out onto the floor. She bent to pick it up. Wanda squeezed the detergent into the stream of water then pulled a plate off the bench and released it into the sink. It disappeared under the suds. ‘Mum!’ Bambi jumped out of her seat. ‘It’s a watch!’ Her mouth hung open in a way that only kids seem able to manage. She was a picture of utter astonishment and delight.

99 Wanda moved the sponge in slow circles around the plate, not quite knowing how to respond. Bambi madly pressed the buttons on the corners of its face, flicking through different screen displays. ‘It’s a GPS watch!’ She said, hopping excitedly on the spot. Her face lit up in a way that simultaneously warmed Wanda’s heart and made it plummet. Bambi moved to the table, then back to her mother’s side, aimlessly, excitement stealing away any sense of purpose. Kevin had picked up on the energy and was bobbing up and down, holding onto the wall of his enclosure. ‘Ba-ba, ba-ba.’ She stopped dead still. ‘I can’t accept this, can I?’ Her forehead crinkled into lines. Wanda lifted the remaining dishes with red fingers and sank then into the water. She considered what to say, wanting her words to be the right ones. She nodded carefully. ‘I think it’s okay to keep them, Bambi.’ She placed a plate onto the drainer. ‘But you will need to pay Mr Shirley back, doing jobs for him. And it might take quite a while by the looks of things.’ Bambi put her arms around her waist and gave her a hug from behind, squeezing her a little too tightly. Wanda chuckled: ‘Enough!’ ‘I’ll ask him how much it all cost, and I’ll make a chart with all the jobs I do and keep a tally of how much I still owe’. Wanda smiled at her joy but worry gnawed at her. ‘You do that,’ she said. ‘But right now, I need you to change Kevin’s nappy and then we’re going to get stuck into stocktaking this backroom.’ Bambi’s eyes scanned the two walls stacked to the ceiling with all sorts of healthfoody-type items with a sigh. Details were not Bambi’s thing. She wasn’t so unlike her dad. Wanda felt a pang as she watched Bambi pull Kevin out of the pen with all the skill of a mother. She undid the pins and cleaned his bottom with damp cotton wool, their eyes were connected and they communicated with each other in their own private language. Wanda was aware that the bond between her children was unique, and born of trouble. She was proud of them. They knew how to struggle and to fight. They were strong. She just hoped that someday, they knew how to win. Alongside her pride, a thread of desperate want ran through her. A thin cord woven in and out, that pulled against the life they led. She had wished, and hoped, and prayed so hard over the years. But she still couldn’t give them more. It was pitiful. It had almost broken her. With nappy fresh and new, Bambi leant down to kiss Kevin on the head. He reached out for Bambi’s hair as it fell towards him, his plump fingers skating through the slippery

100 strands. Wanda added the snap shot to her memory bank. She swooshed the tea towel over the last plate. ‘How’s it going in here?’ Maggie’s round face emerged through the door. ‘Good, good,’ Wanda responded, placing the clean crockery into the overhead cupboard. ‘Just about cleaned up here, then we’re moving onto the stock count.’ ‘Hi, Mrs Wagner,’ Bambi said politely. Maggie frowned at the children before silently extracting her face back through the curtain. Bambi raised her eyebrows. ‘Pleasant,’ she mouthed. ‘Come on,’ Wanda flicked her with the tea towel. ‘Let’s get to it.’ Bambi placed Kevin in his playpen again, which made him scream. He dropped to the ground and kicked his legs like menacing scissors. ‘Awh, don’t be like that Kevin,’ Bambi said to him. ‘How about Mummy gets you a rusk?’ Kevin continued to cry as Wanda fished through her handbag, her fingers finding the small plastic bag in its darkness. ‘Here, Kevie.’ Wanda pulled one of the two hard bread sticks from the plastic and held out her hand to him, like she was coaxing an untamed animal. He stopped flailing but continued to cry, even as he reached out his hand. Wanda leant in further. Into his mouth it went. Quiet again. Bambi was holding a clipboard in one hand, pencil in another, looking expectantly at her. She sat on a low box in her favourite position: knees up near her face. ‘Okay then, let’s start with Musgrave’s tinned lentils.’ Wanda bounced her pen over the tins on the shelf. ‘Fifteen.’ Bambi scribbled the details down. ‘Musgrave’s tinned chickpeas.’ ‘Mum.’ ‘Uh, huh... twenty...what is it?’ ‘There’s this boy. At running squad.’ ‘Dried figs, one hundred grams.’ Wanda kept counting. Her eyes scanned the packets with squinting eyes. ‘He asked if I wanted to hang out with him tonight?’ Bambi’s voice wavered on the upward inflection at the tail. ‘Fourteen. And fifteen of the two hundred gram packets.’ She stopped counting and gave Bambi her full attention. She was taking her time writing down the details. ‘And do you want to go?’ In that moment, Bambi looked small, squatting down on the box, looking up at her with hopeful eyes. She nodded.

101 ‘What’s he like?’ Wanda retrieved the stepladder from behind the door, rustling Kevin’s hair as she passed him. He squawked at her. She popped open the ladder, fixing the stabilising bars into place. Bambi bounced the pencil against her softly smiling lips. ‘He’s nice, Mum.’ ‘Nice, or nice?’ ‘Mum!’ She gave a nervous laugh. ‘Both, I guess. Really nice.’ ‘Ahhh, I see.’ Wanda climbed up to reach the next row. ‘Coconut milk, 430ml tins. Nine.’ ‘So, can I go?’ ‘Have you written that last lot down?’ ‘Yep.’ ‘You know that’ll be another thing to keep from your father?’ Bambi’s eyes sought out the running gear on the table. ‘I know.’ ‘Okay then.’ Wanda felt heavy. ‘You can go for a short while. We’ll have to think of an excuse.’ ‘Thanks Mum,’ Bambi said gravely. The shared deceit weighed heavily. Relating with Bambi had always been like dancing; delicate, smooth swirls of movement, each watching the other, anticipating. Knowing. But the dance was getting unpredictable, and their feet no longer skimmed effortlessly across the ground. Wanda saw such determination in her child, and she was strong in a way Wanda had never been. She had felt fragile as a girl, but this one was fearless, and Wanda was not sure she was the right woman to guide her. Their exchange had felt weighty and solid to Wanda, like rock. Her only daughter was becoming a woman. It was her first date. It should have been something else entirely. It should have been airy, like fairy floss. Like meringues with whipped cream. But Wanda felt powerless to make it anything other than what it was.

* * * * * Bambi wiped the petrol off her hands with a rag, knowing the oily stench had soaked into her pores and would follow her for days. She walked up the back steps and waited at the door, looking through into the kitchen. ‘Dad, I’ve finished,’ she said through the screen. She could see the clock on the wall. 5:15pm. Jonathon looked up from the manual he was reading, checking the drawings against the confusion of car parts spread out across an open newspaper. ‘Did you clean them all? Scrub right in the cogs with the toothbrush?’

102 ‘Yep, they’re all shiny.’ Bambi looked at the clock again. Still 5:15. ‘You’d better get cleaned up then,’ said Wanda, who was emptying a measure of frozen peas into a saucepan. ‘I did say you could take some money into town and buy a milkshake, and I meant it. ‘She worked so hard today,’ Wanda directed at Jonathon. ‘I couldn’t have done it without her.’ ‘She’ll have to go tomorrow,’ he was shaking his head, looking at the mass of steel shapes. ‘I want to get this gearbox back together tonight.’ ‘Surely she’s done enough?’ ‘Fine.’ He gave an agitated flick of his hand. ‘Right after you clean this lot, you can go.’ He scooped a bundle of parts and held them out towards Bambi, who opened the door, propping it open with her foot as she put both hands out to accept them. Her heartbeat slowed as she took in the number to be cleaned. She kept her face smooth. Her mother watched her with lips pressed together. She let the door bang closed on her back. There was no way she would make it on time. Tears dammed in her eyes. She teetered, wondering if it was worth trying or not. She jumped over the old towel lying on the grass. It was covered in the clean parts she had laid out in organised lines. Kneeling at the old Milo tin, its green label long ago peeled away, she dunked her hands once more into the petrol, trawling around for the toothbrush. She scrubbed, balanced somewhere between speed and accuracy, falling occasionally into one or the other. She glanced up at one point to see her mother staring at her from the kitchen window. Bambi quickly looked away. She didn’t know how long it had taken her, but the job was finished and she dared not go back inside to tell Jonathon. She picked up the cracked yellow soap that lived on the frame that braced the water tank, and scrubbed her hands. The skin on the tips was new-pink; they would start peeling tomorrow, and her nails would flake off, shedding themselves until the end of each digit was raw. She washed her face, splashing it with biting water. Petrol fumes ripped at her nostrils. She grabbed the cardigan her mother had lent her off the veranda chair, rolling up the sleeves so they didn’t hang down over her hands. She tapped once, lightly, on the window to the kitchen. Wanda’s face appeared. Bambi waved and took off without waiting for a response. She knew she would have missed the half past five bus. ‘Excuse me,’ she asked a woman with tortoise shell glasses and a friendly enough face. ‘Would you tell me the time, please?’

103 She looked at her watch: ‘the six o’clock is late. Should be here any minute.’ She looked past Bambi, as if something very interesting was just beyond her shoulder. Her head was swimming. Petrol fumes always sent her funny; nauseous, flimsy like aluminium foil. She leant against the bus shelter, wondering if it was worth the two dollar twenty to ride into town, just to see that Jack had already gone. The man sitting on the bench looked at her and screwed up his nose. Bambi put her hands behind her back as she stepped away. The bus arrived with the sound of swooshing air brakes. She handed over her coins to the driver and sat on the blue vinyl seat, scooting across to the window. Her thigh squeaked as she moved, sticking and suctioning, squelching with bad manners. Bambi’s head found the window and she let it rest where it fell. The bus trundled at what felt like walking pace. Bambi considered jumping out with each stop, but was held in check by her need to keep her legs rested. She would not disappoint Ben. And realistically, it was travelling way faster than what she could run at any rate. The bus arrived at the stop in the centre of town and she joined the line of exiting passengers. She could see the fish and chip shop across the street, the boldly coloured montage of sea creatures sprawling the cerulean walls made it difficult to miss. People moved within. She already knew that Jack was not amongst them, but she crossed the road anyway and went inside. Nobody looked at her. It was chaotic on a Friday night. The staff buzzed behind the counter, a mass of windmilling arms, whirring milkshake blenders, and the sizzling of battered cod hitting the ocean of oil in the deep fryer. A short woman shut the glass-faced fridge with a clunk and squeezed past her, followed by two small children: ‘But I wanted the chocolate milk!’ ‘You do not need any more sugar, Benjamin….’ She scanned the faces. They were all wrong. The old guy with wrinkles like a peach seed. The man with the humpty-dumpty belly and belt. The kid, the teenager, the man. They weren’t him. Jack wasn’t there. Bambi left and stood outside the shop front, breathing in the fresh air in gulps, as a cartoon octopus grinned wide-eyed above her shoulder. She wiped angrily at the tears. The fuel on her hand made her eyes sting. What an idiot. Why had she bothered coming? She knew he never actually liked her. Who would? That was the last time she would contemplate getting involved with a boy. They would just break your heart, She started the lengthy walk home.

104 17.

Ben fell in behind the last student, glancing at his watch as he bounded up the bus steps. He reached down and rubbed his knee. It was stiff this morning. His body took a lot longer now to get warm, longer than last winter, and even more so than the year before that. He shook his leg to get the blood moving as he did a head count. His two fingers bobbed up and down, figuratively tapping heads as they danced in the air. The temperature in the bus was rising. Windows blurred with body heat. The noise irritated Ben. He hated being in a confined space with so many bodies. Kids capered from seat to seat, sorting themselves into a specific arrangement ordained by a complicated social order. Ben placed his forefingers to his temple and adjusted the bag of equipment on his shoulder before realising that he was still holding onto it. He lowered it to the ground. He checked his watch again. Five minutes past leaving time. His fingers drummed on the metal pole. They were going to have to leave her behind. Squinting through the front window of the bus, Ben willed Bambi into sight. ‘Come on,’ he said under his breath. ‘You ready, Ben?’ Ben looked at Bill the bus driver. He smiled, partly because Bill was a nice guy, but mostly because Bill was rather comic to look at, and his facial expressions always tickled the edges of Ben’s sense of humour. The driver looked at him expectantly, his broad mouth covered much of his tiny face as he smiled in return, leaving nowhere for his nose to go but out, and causing his eyes to slide up somewhere into his eyebrows; or back into his head, it was difficult to tell. ‘Two secs, Bill,’ Ben said. Bill shook his head. Ben swore his large ears flapped forward and backwards, ever so slightly. ‘We can’t wait much longer. Won’t be there on time.’ ‘I thought we weren’t waiting for anyone, Coach,’ Todd hollered from the centre of the backseat, his legs splayed the width of the aisle. ‘Oh great, here she comes.’ Tammy let out a dramatic groan. ‘We should have left already.’ Ben’s gaze skimmed past Tammy, slumped in her seat with a scowl on her face. ‘Get rid of the gum, Tammy.’ He scanned the row of windows. Where was she? Bambi crashed onto the bottom step, her eyes wide in apology, and her mouth open, ready with an excuse. ‘Let’s go!’ Ben called loudly. The door concertinaed shut behind Bambi, bumping her backpack as she made her way up to the platform.

105 The bus hummed with excitement. It was always the same. The carnivals were the highlight of Ben’s year. The anticipation, the hard work paying dividends, even the tears, all combined into a sense of satisfaction for him. ‘Coach, I’m sorry, I…’ Ben held up his hand to silence her. Her hands were strangely pink, but the rest of her was scrubbed to shining. Her face glowed against the red jacket, and her hair was pulled carefully into a sleek, thin waterfall. ‘Sit down, Bambi,’ he said more gruffly than he intended. She lowered her eyes, and slid into the front seat – opposite to where he stood next to Bill. The engine fired to life, coming to rest at a deep rumble. Ben’s body rocked as they rounded sharply out of the car park. He reached up to hold onto the high bar. Vanessa, seated immediately behind Bambi, leant forward and squealed. ‘We’re off,’ she said to Bambi, bouncing up and down until she spotted the bus driver glaring at her in his oversized mirror. She sat back. ‘It’s going to be so cool!’ Bambi threw the girl a friendly look over her shoulder, looking at the others on the bus as her head swung around. Bambi’s mouth tightened at the corners as her gaze found Jack. Ben sighed inwardly. He’d seen that look before. Countless times. He watched kids dance around each other, exposing their raw idea of love. It never changed, just new faces longing, and bodies manoeuvring to get noticed. Hearts soaring. And hearts turning cold. And hearts breaking. He was a silent observer, watching the games unfold in all their heart-wrenching horror. But he had seen enough to know it was a rite of passage that must be weathered. It was a lesson that couldn’t be taught. ‘And it just gets more complicated,’ thought Ben. He shook his head to dislodge the caravan of thoughts. His mind ruffled, and settled on Bambi like a hen on an incubating egg. Bubbles of memory worked their way upwards into Ben’s conscious mind; of the past life he’d lived, an eternity ago. Perhaps it was another existence entirely. Maybe none of it was real. Youth had evaded him, and age had invaded his bones. It was easier to forget he had been young once; in many ways that time no longer existed. For a long time he searched for ways to do unpick the threads of his life, believing there was a way to fix things. Now he just accepted. He had tried everything, but nothing could change the past. He had been young and hot-headed, but amidst all of the mess, he had also happy. He’d had a family, but no real understanding of how lucky he was. Now he went home to an empty house and ate frozen

106 meals from the microwave. He was wiser now, for all the good that did him. He would trade all the wisdom in the world to have his daughter back. He readjusted his cap. The thoughts were uncomfortable in his head. Ella would have been the same age as Bambi, but he saw in his mind the baby-curls of a toddler. Fingers sticky with jam, and eyelashes so sweet and long they fanned his heart further aflame with hurt at every blink. He looked hard at Bambi and wondered if there really were similarities between her and his daughter, or if it was just his imagination. Whether he needed it to be true. Bambi’s face was waveless. It was a pale pond, serene. But Ben could feel the vibrations of activity in her; the schools of darting fish and masses of whispering seaweed that hid below the surface. He wanted to listen, to hold his ear up close to her, and to hear, and know. But he wanted to tell her things too, of what he knew, of the dangers that lurked. He glanced at Jack and felt an urge to stand between them. You’re a good kid, Jack, but you’re not good for her. He sent the telepathic message through squinted eyes before turning away, watching cars heading in the opposite direction skid past his vision. He lowered himself onto a vacant seat. The kids bustled behind him. ‘Ingrid,’ Bambi called out. Ben watched as Ingrid ignored her, and as Bambi caved in on herself. ‘I’m getting too old for this,’ he thought, wondering when he had let softness leak into his regimen. Ben watched his charges with sleeping eyes. His pupils flicked over them but didn’t bother sending the information to his brain. His thoughts had turned to his own days of track racing. They drove on. The voices of the present hummed monotonously, spiking periodically, disturbing his conversation with the past. Ben glanced at Bambi sitting alone, trying her hardest to look casual. She dared not look around, and he felt a pang of sadness for her. She was as jittery as a rabbit in an open field, but Ben knew there was a tiger inside of her; he just had to somehow coax it out. One might guess that she needed the other kids to accept her as one of their own, but Ben wondered whether this mounting pressure was exactly what she needed. He rubbed his chin as he thought, and tapped his foot absently on the leg of the driver’s seat. The bus wobbled as it mounted the driveway to the sports complex. A half eaten apple rolled down the aisle, bumping into his foot. Ben looked down at it, then back up the bus in time to see Chucky barrelling after it, swaying as he went. ‘Sorry, Coach. It slipped out of my hand,’ said Chucky sheepishly, his orange hair bobbing as the bus staggered.

107 ‘Yeah, right,’ yelled Todd. ‘More like you tried to shove it down Mandy’s shirt!’ Chucky snatched the apple up, and backed away from Ben, who frowned in warning. ‘Good one.’ Chucky hissed as he swung into his seat, almost landing in Mandy’s lap. Ben stood up, ending their game. ‘We’re here, gang.’ Ben watched all eyes sway to the left of the bus where the track fields teemed with students in all colours and combinations of sporting attire. Bill handled the bus into a bay; they were a row of metal sardines, top to tail, with mouths open and children belching out. ‘I’ll be erecting the marquee near the main grandstand.’ He waited for the giggling at his word choice to subside. ‘I expect you to use it as a base. Bring your belongings with you when you get off the bus, and leave them at our area before you take off,’ he scanned the faces. All waited quietly but Vanessa had set to bouncing up and down again in her seat. ‘And I don’t need to remind you that we are representing our club today.’ He paused. He wasn’t one for too many words. They weren’t monkeys. They knew what they needed to do, and what would happen if they didn’t. ‘Did he look at us when he said that?’ whispered Lisa to Todd. ‘Doubt it.’ Todd shrugged and slumped down further in his seat with his shoulders rolled forward, arms hanging crossed between his legs. ‘Why would he?’ The door whooshed open and clicked still. They started filing off the bus with their bags bumping into seats, poles, and people alike. The noise emptied like a bucket with a hole. Ben stood in close to the driver so as to not be trampled as they moved out. The bus was emptying quickly. Bambi stood and shrugged on her bag in the small space between the seat and the safely rail. She waited for Jack to look at her as he approached. He was trying very hard to avoid her. ‘Hi,’ she said quietly. He turned away. ‘Hey, Todd,’ he threw over his shoulder. ‘I hope you brought a couple of extra bucks so you can buy that pie you owe me!’ ‘Get lost, Arnold. I don’t owe you nothin’!’ Bambi dropped to her seat again, the backpack catching on its way down. The boys jostled. Ben stopped them as they reached the doorway. ‘Can you lads give me a hand with the marquee?’ ‘Sure, Coach.’ Jack flicked his fringe out of his face. They bounded off the bus, rocking it as they barrelled down the steps. Ben waited. Bambi sat very still; the last body in the empty cavity of the bus.

108 ‘Bambi?’ She nodded: ‘I’m coming.’ The four boys had already dragged the canvas bag out from the storage compartment under the side of the bus. Four blokes, one on each corner, they carried it across to the grassy area near the main stadium. They had it up with minimal fuss. ‘Thanks, fellas,’ Ben said to them. ‘No probs, Coach.’ Todd tipped his imaginary hat. They dissolved into the mass of kids. He surveyed his domain. Some of the quieter kids sat on their own, or in huddles, picking at the grass and chatting quietly. One of the smaller girls sat on her bag and chewed on her thumbnail, her mind somewhere else entirely. Tammy and the gum-chewers had nicked off in the direction of the canteen. No doubt to do a fly-by of the other schools, to ‘check out the talent’ as they called it. He stood with his feet apart and unzipped his windcheater - ‘COACH’ emblazoned across the shoulders – before folding his arms across his chest. Bambi stood at the corner pole nearest to the grandstand. Her face was split down the middle, half in the shade, half in the golden stream of the sun, like she was from two different worlds, but belonging to neither. She stared at the scene before her with her hands clasped in front, as if she was in the presence of royalty and about to be invited to tea. Her features were blank. Her body was motionless, not a twitch of an eyelash. She sensed Ben observing her and turned her head slowly to face him. Their eyes met and he tasted her fear and exhilaration. It was a bitter metallic tang in his mouth. He knew that feeling well. She was about to put it all on the line. She was about to race, and she knew it was bigger than winning or losing. She turned back to the track and he could hear the cogs in her brain clicking and whirring as she visualised herself running, hurting, winning. He moved to stand beside her and she accepted his presence silently. He rifled through all the possible things he could say to her – the words he reserved for first timers and those who were scared or overly excited – none of them were right. Nothing was suitable, for this girl with the sinewy limbs and powerful heart that seemed to beat in time with the centre of the earth when she moved. As if reading his thoughts, she said to him: ‘I’ll be fine, Coach. I’ll just run the best I can.’ He nodded at her, wondering how this wisp of a young woman could pierce him so effortlessly.

109 ‘Don’t expect too much in the two-hundred,’ he offered. ‘Use it as a warm up. Save it for the four and eight.’ She gave him a wide grin and lifted her eyebrows in salute, or question, he couldn’t tell. He looked at his watch. ‘Go warm up,’ he gave her a gentle nudge. ‘You’ve got ten minutes before you’re on.’ Tammy and her pack were making their way back. ‘Tammy! Ingrid! Get rid of the gum, and get your tails out there to warm up. Your race is in ten minutes.’ The girls dumped their gum into the black-crusted bin as they followed Bambi onto the warm up oval. They made no attempt to catch her, and she none to slow down. He watched them circle the oval in lazy loops before he made his way to the main field near the finishing line. The day’s program had kicked off and rays of runners were being released, spraying over the finish line in jagged lines. The cheering came in ripples with the crowd responding reflexively as human missiles shot towards the line. Ben had kept his vision fixed on the three red and white uniforms as the girls cut across the main oval. Their race was about to begin. Regardless of how many times he watched races, he was always nervous for his kids. They had worked hard and he wanted them to do well. He could see the officials orchestrating the 200m runners on the other side of the track. Their arms alternated between sweeps and staccatos as they organised the eight girls into their staggered start. Two of his girls were in the first heat. Ingrid had been placed in the line up for the second. A few of the older squad members had materialised beside him, keen to see how their first runners would fare against the big-city kids. Feeling for the whistle around his neck and finding it missing, Ben’s hands fidgeted for want of an activity. He shoved them in his pockets. His fingers hammered up and down on his thighs. His eyes found his watch again. ‘Jack – no, Chucky, you can do it – go tell Nicole and Jessica to get warm, they’re up in 10.’ ‘But…’ Ben glared at him. He took off in the direction of the marquee. He watched Bambi and Tammy, their awkwardness together evident even at this distance. He wished it were easier. ‘They’ll be right, Coach.’

110 Ben looked up from his introspection. It was Jack, leaning with his hand on a star picket strung with miniature orange flags. ‘They don’t care about anyone else in this race. They just want to kill each other.’ This cocky lad was spot on. He laughed loudly, throwing his head back. It felt good. ‘I think you’re right, Jack.’ Jack tried not to look pleased but it shone at the edges of his closely fitted cool-guy persona. He shrugged. ‘Doesn’t take a brain surgeon...’ He returned his gaze to the starting line. ‘Coach, they’re off.’ They saw the smoke from the gun stream upwards a moment before they heard its crack. The girls were moving in a blur of colours. ‘What’d I miss?’ Chucky asked, breathing heavily. ‘Shhh, they’ve started!’ Jack waved him away. ‘Come oooooon, Tammy.’ Chucky screamed. The woman he’d squeezed in next to gave him a ‘do you mind’ look over her rectangular glasses. He ignored it. Ben could see Tammy in one of the middle lanes, holding her own against the girl next to her and gaining on the girls in the outside lanes. The girl at her side slipped into her rear view mirror. Ben’s nerves buzzed. Bambi had landed herself the inside of the track – lane one – the unforgiving lane, where the runner began metres behind the others. Ben knew it could send inexperienced runners into a flurry. He had a sinking feeling as he watched her that he couldn’t shake. Ben rubbed his hands in an attempt to dispel some nervous energy. Bambi trailed the pack at the first corner, and still at the second. Ben couldn’t tell if she had lost ground, or just not gained any. She wobbled on the track, veering way too close to the runner in lane two. He shook his head, knowing what was about to happen. He kicked himself for not having gone through this possibility with her, and dreaded what it was going to do to her mindset for the rest of the meet. ‘Come on, girl,’ He muttered under his breath. Jack appeared to be holding his in beside him. It was Tammy’s race. It was hers from the beginning and Ben knew she would win it. He just wanted Bambi to hold her own and come mid-pack. As Bambi entered deeply into the second corner she seemed to find some traction. She accelerated, and caught the girl in lane two. Bambi looked at her opponent as she passed. ‘Don’t look sideways!’ Ben exclaimed. ‘What are you doing?’

111 She was starting to gain ground. Bambi entered the straight with a lead on two other girls, but was a way behind Tammy and the girl in blue that she tussled with. One lap down, one to go. Ben knew he couldn’t possibly have seen such a thing, but he swore later that Bambi’s eyes had locked onto the back of Tammy’s head and the look that passed over her face would have stopped Genghis Khan in his tracks. She was digging deep, her legs turbined, and she flew, like only Bambi could. She sprinted the final lap like a steam engine stuffed to overflowing with scalding hot coal. Her arms pumped quickly, but in a controlled way, which made her speed seem effortless and super-human. The runners were approaching the finish line, so close to where they stood. Ben was yelling, his voice mingled with Jack and Chucky’s and the rest of the squad who had gathered. The lines between Tammy and Bambi supporters blurred beyond recognition. They called for them both; for Tammy who had broken free of the tall girl in blue, and for Bambi who had blown away the rest of the field. She was so close to Tammy as they hit the line announcing they had ten metres to go. Ten metres, an eternity and an eye blink. Tammy sensed her approaching on her left and she spared a split second to glance across, to confirm the threat. Seven metres. Bambi’s eyes were locked ahead. She drove on. Four metres. They were inseparable. Ben knew the agony of burning muscles and lungs they were experiencing. He braced. Tammy made a surge, ducking her head forward as she approached the line. But Bambi ploughed straight over the top, crossing before Tammy, who had doubled over, gags convulsing her body. The gathering of squad members at the finish line went crazy, infected with the burning competition between the two girls. Ben heard the gun signal that the next group of runners had been released. ‘Off the track, you lot!’ He bellowed: his voice loud with animation. Mandy went straight across to Tammy and linked her arm through hers. She shook her off. ‘Get off me.’ She grabbed her arm away. Tammy kicked at the temporary fence as she went past, red faced and still breathing heavily. ‘Great run, Tammy,’ Ben said to her as she walked.

112 She looked at him briefly. Tears shimmered in her eyes. ‘I lost,’ she spat. ‘It’s just a heat,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘You still have a final to run, and the 100s. Don’t let it rattle you.’ He patted her on the shoulder as she passed. He could feel an angry burning radiating from her skin. She didn’t look back at him, but disappeared into the crowd to find a quiet place to lick her wounds. Bambi had been walking the race off, exactly as Ben had taught her to do. She walked towards him with her hands backwards on her hips, sweat edged her hairline but her cheeks were only the palest of pinks, as if she had been out for a jog. Her features were passive. Ben mirrored her calm. ‘How’d that feel?’ She brought her shoulders up to her ears without taking her hands from her hips, shrugging. Her eyes found Jack. He had his back to them, cheering the next group of squad girls across the line. ‘Pretty good,’ she said. ‘Took me a second to get going.’ ‘I noticed,’ Ben said dryly. Half her mouth curled up into a smile, the other half remained under control. She looked again towards Jack. ‘I’ll try to fix that in the next race.’ ‘You do that.’ He nodded. ‘Although, I have a sneaking suspicion you like to hunt ‘em down.’ Her mouth widened into a proper smile. ‘You’re the coach!’ Ingrid trotted up beside them. Ben opened his eyes wide in question: ‘How’d you go?’ He was sheepish that he’d missed it. ‘Third,’ she puffed. ‘Not sure if I’ll get through to the final, will have to wait and see what the times are. Probably not.’ Bambi was staring at the ground. ‘Not racing against this greyhound,’ Ingrid smiled at her. ‘Congratulations, Bambi.’ Bambi mumbled something inaudible. ‘Let’s get a drink.’ Ingrid began to move off, stopped, and waited for her. Bambi didn’t move. ‘You coming?’

113 ‘No, thanks.’ She squinted at Ingrid, into the sun, but it wasn’t enough to hide the accusation in them. ‘Okay,’ Ingrid pursed her lips. ‘Suit yourself.’ She and Ben stood quietly, watching the crowd of coloured singlets cheering in their teammates. Ben waited for Bambi to speak, but she had wrapped silence around herself like a blanket. He had to get back to the marquee. He shouldn’t be standing here, getting caught up in all this. ‘What was that about?’ He finally asked. ‘I thought you two were getting along?’ Bambi ran her hand over her head and along her pigtail, twisting the end around her index finger before letting it go. She crossed her arms. ‘We were. I mean, are.’ She shook her head. ‘I dunno. She’s friendly enough when it suits her.’ Ben listened but his eyes followed Nicole as she crossed the line second from last. She won’t be happy with that run. ‘I think I’m better off without the drama.’ He understood well enough. It was certainly safer that way. But also hollow. And lonely. He was sad to think this slip of a girl had come to the same conclusions about people as he had. ‘A friend is a good thing to have,’ he offered. ‘Yep,’ she returned. ‘But they’re impossible to find.’ ‘True.’ He rubbed the bristles on his top lip and chin with flat fingers. ‘But they don’t always fall into your lap. Like anything worthwhile, they can take quite a bit of effort.’ He left her rolling the idea around her head, hoping he had planted a kernel of hope, and walked back to the marquee. He moved in a straight line. Mixed clumps of adults and children parted before him, giving way like ice to the bow of the Titanic. He was unbreachable. He was comfortable behind his well-engineered barriers of steel. It was that trickle of water, the cool feeling of something long forgotten lapping around his ankles that made him uncomfortable; made him question whether his hull had been punctured by the most unlikely of icebergs.

114 18.

Bambi alternated between pushing herself into a swaying motion with the tips of her scuffed shoes and doodling patterns with them in the powdery dirt under the swing set. Ingrid sat in the swing beside her, neatly rocking back and forward with her toes firmly planted. ‘You have to be happy,’ Ingrid was going on. ‘You annihilated everyone.’ Bambi’s head hung forward, her hair flopped down the sides of her face in two angled sheets. ‘That wasn’t my main objective,’ she responded. ‘Still,’ Ingrid kept on. ‘You did blow everyone out of the water. It was pretty cool.’ ‘Not everyone thought so.’ ‘Ha!’ Ingrid smiled. ‘Not Tammy.’ Bambi pushed herself into a low swing; back and forth, feeling the gentle shunt of air in her face with every downward motion. She had always loved the swing, the way you could pause for a split second in the air, weightless, before gravity snatched your body back towards the ground with its greedy fingers. ‘I thought you two were pretty tight?’ Bambi’s voice grew quiet then loud as she pendulumed past. ‘I guess so.’ Ingrid didn’t sound so sure. ‘She can be a bit fickle.’ It seems to be catching… ‘And she can get angry. She just explodes. For no reason.’ Bambi remained quiet. ‘I mean, there is a reason, but…’ ‘What?’ Bambi pulled her swing up short. ‘What reason?’ Ingrid stopped swaying as well, and grabbed hold of her bottom lip and squeezed it into a weird ‘u’ shape. ‘I probably shouldn’t say.’ ‘Okay,’ said Bambi. It really was none of her business. ‘She just has a bit of a problem. Well, I think it’s a problem…’ ‘You really don’t have to tell me,’ Bambi cut in, sorry she’d shown any sort of interest. ‘I think she’s hungry,’ Ingrid ignored her. ‘Huh?’ ‘Hungry! You know, not enough food,’ Ingrid said sarcastically. ‘Oh crap, I’m sorry.’ Bambi brushed the comment away. ‘Why is she hungry?’ Ingrid gave her an are-you-completely-daft look.

115 ‘She doesn’t eat!’ She said, exasperated. ‘She pretends to sometimes, and she’s pretty good at hiding it from her parents. And everyone. She chucks her lunch in the bin on her way to school and then makes up some lame excuse when she’s asked. But everyone’s stopped asking.’ ‘She throws it away?’ Bambi struggled with the idea. She’d heard about girls dieting to stay skinny, but that seemed insane. ‘It’s not that ridiculous,’ Ingrid metered. ‘But it makes her cran-ky!’ ‘Why?’ ‘You really live on another planet, don’t you?’ Ingrid said lightly. ‘No offense.’ ‘None taken,’ Bambi replied sarcastically. ‘Everyone does it a bit.’ ‘What?’ ‘Starves themselves. Just a little.’ ‘Do you?’ ‘Sometimes, I guess.’ Ingrid shifted her body in the swing. She scanned the street across from the park, watching the people move in the distance. ‘That’s pretty dumb,’ Bambi blurted. Ingrid laughed: ‘Don’t hold back, Bambi. Tell me what you really think!’ ‘Well, you’re not exactly backwards in coming forwards, are you?’ ‘Huh?’ ‘Just something my Dad always says.’ ‘Oh.’ Ingrid stood up, turned and rested one knee on the thick plastic seat. ‘So while we’re being honest, what’s the story with your name?’ Bambi flinched. ‘What?’ ‘I’m just curious, that’s all. It’s not your average name, you’ve gotta admit?’ ‘It’s just a name,’ Bambi muttered. ‘A family name.’ ‘Yeah right!’ Ingrid placed her second knee onto the swing and turned from side to side, twisting the chains with a creak. ‘So, do you have a brother named Thumper? Unlucky!’ She giggled at her own joke. ‘Any other woodland creatures in the family?’ Bambi stood abruptly and stilled the chains of Ingrid’s swing with her hand. ‘Just stop it, okay.’ Bambi glared at her. Ingrid stepped backwards onto the ground. ‘Settle petal,’ she said lightly. ‘It was just a joke.’ Bambi appraised her, taking in the privilege oozing from her posture. She was so sure of herself.

116 ‘Just forget it,’ Bambi turned and walked away. ‘Bambi, come back. I didn’t mean it…’ She made it to the road before she broke into a run, her feet following the groove in the gutter where the bitumen and cement edges butted against each. She didn’t push too hard, but needed to feel the rhythm in her legs to help unravel that knot that seemed ever-present in her gut lately. The anger had begun to seep away from her as she rounded the back of The Flowering Mung Bean. She banged on the screen door with the side of her fist. Being Saturday, her mother would be out the back. Maggie’s daughters manned the counter on the weekends. The door opened, and Wanda stuck her head out. ‘Bambi! What is it?’ ‘Nothing.’ A cloud sailed across Wanda’s features, leaving a taint in its wake. She checked over her shoulder before joining Bambi outside, pulling shut the security screen behind her. She turned over two plastic milk crates, sitting on one and patting the other. Wanda waited her out. Bambi sat down and stretched her legs out in front, exposing her bare, goose-bumped legs to the flimsy winter sun. She was glad they were behind the building, out of reach of the breeze. It seemed like it had been blowing through her all morning. She pulled up her ankle length socks as far as they would stretch. ‘So, what’s this all about?’ ‘I want to change my name to Bianca.’ Bambi shrugged. ‘You can’t change your name from Bambi,’ Wanda said, shaking her head slowly. ‘That’s who you are.’ Her shoulders slumped forward with the weight of it. ‘But he was drunk, Mum.’ Bambi inspected the blue tinge that had crept into the moons of her fingernails. ‘Why did you let him fill out the forms?’ Wanda pinched her lips together. ‘Some things you just can’t change, Bamb,’ she responded softly. Bambi closed her eyes against the tears that were building and lifted her face towards the sun. ‘But I was supposed to be Bianca. That’s who I’m supposed to be.’ She kept her eyes shut even though a tear slipped out. She didn’t move to wipe it away, but let it burn a hot streak over her cheekbone and onto her neck. She wondered why one eye always had more tears than the other, why one always spilled first? It was the same side as her heart. Perhaps the pain travelled between the two more rapidly. ‘Bianca Eve doesn’t exist, Bambi. It was a dream name.’

117 Bambi felt her mother’s hand slip around her fingers and squeeze. The silky skin of her fingers was cooler even than her own. ‘And I’m glad,’ Wanda continued. ‘You are so much more than a ‘Bianca’ could ever be.’ Bambi tried to laugh, but it came out as an angry snort. ‘Bianca would have new clothes and would eat off unchipped plates with matching cutlery!’ Bambi exclaimed. ‘And she’d have cashews. And cake. And those round doughnuts with the strawberry in the middle. And her own room.’ She swallowed hard at that last comment, missing Adam, wishing she didn’t have her own room. She pulled her legs up, bent at the knees. ‘And she would have friends.’ Her mother blanched and she regretted her words. ‘I’m sorry.’ Her voice was layered and thick. Wanda shook her head, but struggled to find anything to say. She had no idea how to fix things for her daughter. How could she not feel responsible for her heartbreak and disappointment? Saying sorry was empty; meaningless without action, yet what could she possibly do to give Bambi what she needed? What exactly did she need? She stood and fixed a button on her cardigan that had found its way undone. Leaning down, she kissed her daughter and twisted the door handle. She had nothing else to offer. ‘I have to get back.’ ‘I miss Adam,’ Bambi blurted after her. Wanda swung sad eyes towards her. ‘Me too,’ she mouthed the words soundlessly. Wanda disappeared inside, leaving Bambi alone on the concrete square facing the industrial garbage bin that was overflowing with empty cardboard boxes. She sat in the sun a moment longer, trying to empty her mind of all the rowdy thoughts. But they hung on, and argued with each other, until her head hurt. She would run home, she decided, and scrub them out, for a short time, at least. Bambi paused at the security screen before she left. The smell of floor cleaner rushed at her through the holes in the mesh. Wanda knelt on the floor, rubbing circles of bubbles across the tiles. She changed direction to give a good scrub at the grouting. Wanda looked up as her shadow fell. She lifted her hand against the screen in an unmoving wave, a silent salute. Wanda responded in kind with a dripping brush. Walking around the corner and onto the street, Bambi cautiously scanned for Ingrid. She thought she might have hung around, wanting to smooth things over. She hadn’t. The

118 hopeful bubble burst in her chest with a pop. Bambi didn’t want to face her right now, anyway. She meandered slowly through the people sauntering along the shop fronts. Saturday morning was a favourite for families. She watched a small boy in a neatly ironed blue shirt smear his fingers and mouth against a shop window. ‘Get off there, David,’ his mother was saying. The child wailed about something he could see that he wanted her to buy. The mother stopped and waited for him to finish. Bambi watched the mother say ‘No’, and then allow herself to be dragged into the store by the arm. Her eyes bounced about randomly. She was too flat and squashed to even run. She glanced along the line of oncoming people. She was walking directly towards Jack, Todd, and Chuckie. ‘Oh, you are kidding,’ Bambi thought. It was too late to change course and they were all staring at her. She stopped in her tracks before them. ‘Hello,’ she managed. The word fell at the feet of the group. Nobody bent to pick it up. Todd looked at Jack: ‘Is she talking to you?’ ‘Nuh, not me.’ He looked at Chuckie who shook his head. A man carrying too many shopping bags banged them across the back of Bambi’s leg as he tried to manoeuvre past her. Her knee buckled and she took an involuntary step forward. ‘Sorry,’ he threw back at her with an apologetic squint. He kept moving. ‘Don’t be sorry,’ quipped Todd. ‘This one’s always in the way.’ The man was already off in the distance. Todd smiled meanly. She felt small pieces of herself smashing down onto the pavement in slow motion, in front of everyone. She hated Todd. She hated herself. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe. ‘Come on, let’s go,’ said Todd. ‘Standing on the same street as her is ruining our cred.’ Not until the group had moved away did she let go of the sob she had been clutching in her throat.

119 19.

‘Bambi, can you come in here for a sec?’ Wanda’s voice had lost potency by the time it reached her, but she heard it anyway. She reluctantly shifted from the fire she and Jonathon had going in the lounge room’s pot-bellied stove. The orange flames shifted in its open door, calling her back. Jonathon didn’t acknowledge her departure, but reached to shove several more pinecones into the stove cavity. Bambi had ventured out into the frost-crusted morning yesterday to collect a bunch of them. They were almost gone. He watched them burn red hot. The fire crackled as it consumed the offering, the shingles of the pinecones curled and shrivelled before disintegrating. Soon all that would be left would be a white-hot core glowing amid the inferno. Jonathon twisted the handle as he closed the door, glancing indifferently at Bambi frowning from the doorway. He was lost again, with those private thoughts that he spent so much time with. They stole him and danced for him, engaging him in a way Bambi felt she never could. The pinecones were for starting the fire going, not once it was cranking along. She pulled herself away from the comfort of the lounge and headed towards the rustling sounds coming from her parent’s bedroom. The chill met her as an unwanted friend in the hallway, encasing her body, stealing from it the warmth the fire had given. She knocked on the door and heard a ‘come in’ sail out over the top of a long scraping noise. She twisted the dinged brass doorknob; it flopped loosely in her hand, but it gave way and permitted her into the room. It was gloomy in the bedroom. It was one of the only rooms in the house that wasn’t enclosed by a veranda. It was usually bright and cheery, but today the winter clouds smothered the sun and the rain slid down the window, running across the glass in a frenzy as it tried to find its way inside. Wanda hadn’t bothered to flick on a light. She stood on the edge of the chenille- quilted bed and leant across the open air, dragging a large brown suitcase from the top of the wardrobe. The weight of the burden shifted onto her arm and she lost her balance. It slammed onto the ground with a mushrooming dust cloud. Bambi stared upwards, wondering how she had missed the case nestled up there for obviously many years. When she was smaller she’d been fascinated by the inlaid pieces of pale wood on the wardrobe’s rich, deep coloured doors; perhaps why she had never looked up. She remembered Jonathon squatting next to her explaining that it was: ‘French Polished and very

120 expensive’. It had belonged to his parents, and if any either she or Adam were ever to put a mark on it, well then, they’d better watch out. Wanda had dragged the suitcase on top of the bed and had brushed the bigger chunks of dust and insect dirt off with her palm. She leant to blow. Dust billowed up and resettled onto its surface in a new arrangement. She unclipped the lid with two chunky clicks. It was bowed in the middle, sagging with age and neglect, its plastic corners scraped and channelled from being dragged rather than carried. Bambi took a step closer. ‘What’s inside?’ Wanda smiled at her as she revealed its contents. She pushed the lid to perpendicular, which cut out most of the already dim light. She swung it around to face the window and Bambi saw for herself. The smell of camphor was strong but Bambi didn’t pinch her nose against its unpleasantness. Her attention was locked on the case’s contents. There were all sorts of colours; red, mauve, and powdered blue so softly coloured that Bambi had to squint to decide if it was actually blue, or really just white. Her fingers reached out to skim across the rainbow. They lingered on a dull ivory fabric that slipped out from beneath her fingers. She looked questioningly at Wanda. In answer, Wanda took the dress by its shoulders and pulled the length of it free of the others. It was lovely, long and smooth in simplicity, with a complicated lace covering the shoulders and arms, peaking at the hands in petite triangles. Bambi reached to touch the loops of elastic at its ends and Wanda slipped her middle finger into one, the lace sleeve covering the length of her forearm like delicate skin. It was peppered with rust. She could see that the dress had once been white, but had discoloured with age. Patches of yellow across the bodice were like blobs of ink spreading in water. She caught a glimpse of her mother at nineteen, dewy cheeked and vibrant, painted in colours that had long ago washed away to pastel. ‘Wow,’ said Bambi. ‘You must have looked stunning.’ ‘Your father thought so.’ Wanda placed the dress to the side, letting her fingers glide lightly across the bumpy lace. ‘Why did you marry Dad?’ Bambi wanted to know. She looked surprised at the question. ‘Because I loved him,’ she answered.

121 ‘Oh.’ Bambi tried to imagine her parents as teenagers, as lovers, snuggling up to each other and whispering words of undying love. She drew a blank. ‘But that’s not why I brought you in here,’ Wanda was saying as she pulled another dress from the case. ‘When I was pregnant with Adam, I put all of my clothes in here. The ones I couldn’t fit, anyway.’ Bambi watched as she held a red dress against herself. It was spotted with white coin sized dots. ‘But I never got the chance to wear them again.’ ‘Why not?’ Bambi sat down on the end of the bed and it sagged under her weight, causing the suitcase to slide closer towards her. ‘Because of these,’ she pointed at her hips. Bambi looked away shyly. Wanda sensed her daughter’s embarrassment and bunched up the dress in her arms as she sat down next to her. The suitcase slid across to them, their backsides stopping it from shifting any further. ‘Your body will change soon enough,’ Wanda patted her leg. ‘I know most of the other girls have developed their hips and breasts already –‘ ‘Mum,’ Bambi stood up abruptly. The suitcase bucked. ‘Stop, okay.’ ‘But yours are just taking their time,’ she continued calmly. Bambi flushed a deeply. She was thankful for the dim lighting. ‘It will happen, though.’ ‘I don’t want it to happen,’ lied Bambi. ‘I like the way I am now.’ Saying the statement out loud made her wonder what she actually believed. She had desperately wanted to be like everyone else for so long, but the concept had grown furry and lost its edge. The way Wanda was looking at her needled. Was she such a sad-case that her own mother pitied her? She made a move towards the door. ‘Wait. I didn’t bring you in here to show you my dresses.’ Wanda tucked a loose piece of hair back into place, weaving it amongst the others. Bambi halted mid stride. She didn’t ever walk out on her mother. Wanda brought the spotted dress over to her and held it up against her body. ‘I wanted to give you these.’ She looked into Bambi’s eyes, scanning. She nodded. ‘I think it’s time.’ Bambi looked down at the dress, stiff with age and embedded with the stench of mothballs.

122 ‘Why?’ She croaked. ‘So you can wear them, silly,’ Wanda chuckled. ‘Why else?’ Bambi bobbed her head up and down in what she hoped came across as approval. She tried to smile, but her face was cracking. ‘Here, try this one on. The blue will work nicely with your beautiful eyes.’ Bambi took the dress and stared at it, as if she had never seen one before; and in a way, she hadn’t. ‘The zipper’s here in the side,’ Wanda leant over to unzip it for her, and then busied herself sorting the contents of the case into two piles. Realising that was all the privacy she was going to get, Bambi slipped off her jumper and jeans, dropping them to the floor. The chill air caused her to shiver. She left her singlet on. She wrestled on the dress in several convulsed movements, losing herself in its volume momentarily before her head found its way out like a baby chick from its shell. Wanda was already there, zipping her up and fluffing and primping the skirt. ‘Let me look at you.’ Wanda opened the wardrobe door, exposing the mirror that ran down its length, and spun Bambi so they could both see her reflection. The fabric hung limp from her shoulders like she was a human coat hanger. The bust darts pointed out weirdly, empty and accusing; the waist sagged low onto her hips, fitting her snugly in the wrong place. It fell away into a length that couldn’t rightly be called long or short. She was celery dressed as eggplant. Wanda’s mouth was made a small ‘o’ shape. She grabbed two handfuls of material from the back of the bodice and dragged the dress taut across her torso. ‘That’s better,’ she mused. ‘I can just make a few adjustments and it will fit you perfectly.’ Bambi stared hard at the girl in the crazing mirror. She narrowed her eyes. It was all wrong. Her arms looked overly long - gangly and skinny - and her legs stuck toothpick like from the bottom. It didn’t matter how tightly her mum pulled the fabric, she was never going to fill the dress. ‘Don’t worry about it, Mum,’ she said, wriggling to dislodge Wanda’s hold. ‘I don’t want them anyway.’ ‘Oh?’ She watched her mother gather the clothes she had pulled out, her lips tight and rigid. She began packing them away, her jerky movements the only clue she was upset. ‘Maybe I can use some of the material to sew you some other things. Things you might like.’

123 Wanda spoke calmly, but the words stung Bambi. ‘I didn’t mean that,’ she said to her mother’s curved back. Wanda’s hands stopped folding and she shook her head. ‘No,’ she sighed. ‘You’re right. They’re old, and you deserve better.’ Her chin dropped further towards her chest as if her neck could no longer hold up the weight of her thoughts. Bambi moved to take the dress Wanda had in her grip. She resisted, but Bambi gently pried it from her. She held it against her chest. ‘They are beautiful, Mother,’ she stated solidly. ‘I would like to keep them. I was just a bit surprised, that’s all.’ Wanda wiped the tears from both their eyes with her fingertips. She looked at Bambi uncertainly. ‘You don’t have to.’ ‘No. I want to.’ Bambi finished repacking the suitcase and clipped the closures shut. Bambi dragged it off the bed. It dropped to the floor. It was heavier than she’d expected. What was she supposed to do now? An uncomfortable feeling swelled inside her. She needed to be alone. ‘Thank you,’ Bambi said, kissing her mother on the cheek. She left Wanda sitting on the edge of her bed and travelled down the hall dragging the case with a lopsided tread. Bambi thought of the path Wanda had travelled, and wondered if she would go back and change her fate if she could. Would she return to her life of safety and plenty, or would she choose Jonathon again? Knowing what she did now, would she have turned and walked briskly away? She closed the door to the room she had shared with Adam and leant against it to calm herself. Her head fell back and banged against the door. She stared at the bubbled pattern creeping its way across the plaster ceiling. Somewhere above, the roof was leaking. Hitching up the curtain that still separated the two beds, she heaved the case onto Adam’s narrow mattress. She had left the divider there so she could fall asleep at night; so she could escape the sensation that she was alone in an empty cavern. She shucked off the blue dress she was still wearing, not bothering with the zipper. It surrendered without complaint. She held it in her hands and stared at it. Then she dropped the dress onto the ground. She opened the lid of the case and began to dump the blouses and dresses onto the floor. She threw them in frustration. Out came stockings and camisoles, yellowed bras with rosettes clustered daintily between the cups, slips, and a hideous pair of pastel green knickerbockers.

124 She emptied them all, stricken by the sight of the clothes from an era long ago deceased and buried; salvaged from a body she was destined never to replace. With the case now empty, Bambi surveyed the mess she had made. Exhausted and breathing hard, she slumped onto the floor. She rested her face against her bedspread. It smelled of soap and dust, with a hint of the musty perfume of things both worn and old. Bambi cried until she was empty. She sat, cold in her singlet and knickers. A draft snuck upwards between the cracks, curling around her, making her shiver. She stared at the mess and felt ashamed. And so she smoothed. She folded, arranged, and carefully tidied. She ferried the items to the chest of drawers Adam had left empty. She found one of his t-shirts wedged up the back of the bottom drawer, stopping it from closing properly. She folded it into a square before placing it with the other clothes. Sliding the drawer closed, Bambi chose a pair of jeans and a pullover from her own cupboard. She looked out the window into the rain, the crack running down the glass pane cut the image in two. Bambi pushed down the scream that wanted to escape and unclenched her fists. She took a deep breath, filling her chest and stomach, and held it until she couldn’t any longer. She breathed it out. She walked out of the room and closed the door silently behind her.

125 20.

Ripples of laughter reached him where he sat at the kitchen table. The rain had finally stopped falling but the day still felt soggy. It didn’t stop the kids bolting outside after breakfast, carrying on in the still damp grass under the thin sun. ‘Kids don’t feel the cold,’ he mused to himself, adjusting his hat on his head. ‘Hardy little things.’ Jonathon ignored the ache in his back. That damn bed. He was only forty two and yet he hobbled around in the mornings like he was a hundred. He licked his finger, and turned the page of the newspaper. He smoothed it down with his palm but the crease where it had been folded popped back into its original position. He ignored its rebellion. ‘I’m gonna get you!’ Bambi’s voice sailed through the window. Wanda had left it open an inch for ‘fresh air’ as she called it. Well, she had left for work now. The air in the house was certainly fresh enough. He’d call Bambi inside in a sec to light the fire for him. Jonathon grunted as he stood. He walked to the window to pull it closed. Now satisfied, he flipped the lock across to punctuate his opinion. He looked out as the kids rolled around together in the yard. Kevin had climbed onto Bambi’s stomach as she lay facing the clouds. She grabbed him under the armpits and held him up high into the air. He kicked and giggled and she pretended to drop him before placing him down gently beside her. Jonathon smiled. Crazy kids. He liked knowing they were carefree, able to enjoy their childhood without a worry. Not at all like how he had grown up. Bambi caught Kevin’s ankle as he tried to crawl away. He squealed with excitement, plopping himself spread-eagled onto his front. Jonathon frowned. The noise bored right into his brain when the kid screamed like that. He lifted his hat with one hand, roughing up his scalp through his wiry hair with the fingers of the other, trying to dislodge the irritation. He pushed it back on. He felt naked without it. He gave his head a slight shake. ‘Ahhh, they’re good kids,’ he mumbled to himself, picking up his coffee mug, swilling the crusted cold brew, bringing it up to his lips. He got a whiff of its cool milkiness and registered that it was past drinking. He felt annoyed at Wanda, even though it had been hot from the kettle when she had placed it next to his newspaper.

126 He dumped it in the sink, peeved that she wasn’t there to make him another one; mildly unsettled that he could be so unreasonable. He pushed the feeling aside and sat back down at the table with a squelch from the vinyl chair. He snapped through the pages of the paper until he reached the end, wondering how he had arrived there. He thumbed backwards through it, slower, but still paying little attention to the black words whirring past his vision on almost-white pages. He stood again and went to the fridge. It was probably too early for a beer. ‘Bloody empty again.’ He shut the door with force, causing it to vibrate with an aftershock. ‘Don’t know why I bother paying for the electricity to run the thing.’ He stepped a few paces, and then back again. ‘Useless,’ he muttered, about nothing or nobody in particular. The agitation was getting harder to control, and it was becoming more difficult to find ways to release the pressure that built up in his brain like steam. He dumped himself down in the chair. The kids were yahooing still. The waves of giggling and squealing pummelled him like he was caught in the whitewater of the ocean. His mind did an involuntary switch. He resisted the image of his mother that was knocking on his consciousness, but it came to him anyway. It was a five second movie reel. She smacked his brother Shane, over and over with a wooden spoon. Her face red and exploding, her eyes glossy with anger. It played on a loop. His hands gripped the edge of the table. He stood abruptly, knocking away the vision, forcing it to leave. I’ve got this under control. Jonathon moved to the bench and picked up the shoebox containing his caterpillars. Time with his butterflies helped. He lifted the lid gently and counted two new chrysalises hanging from the cardboard. He smiled. What an amazing process. ‘Adam!’ It was Bambi’s voice shrieking this time. Jonathon’s head snapped towards the window. It had been weeks since they’d argued and Adam had left in a dark cloud of defiance. He hadn’t seen him since. Even though he’d tried a few times to ‘accidentally’ bump into him, Adam had all but disappeared. He carefully put the lid back on the box so as to not upset the delicate chandeliers. He thought about Adam’s growing rebellion. He should have nipped it in the bud well before now. He had been too easy on that boy. He peered out the window. Bambi threw her arms around his neck and he swung her around. Kevin sat on his thickly swaddled bottom watching cautiously as Bambi’s feet sailed past him. He put her back down.

127 Jonathon clenched and unclenched his fists. Relief and resentment tugged him in opposite directions. ‘Where have you been?’ Bambi was asking. Her voice was dulled by distance and glass. She shoved him off balance with an annoyed push – he pretended to stumble - and then linked her arm through his arm in fondness, like a typical woman. Jonathon noticed the growth on his son’s jaw and grunted. He was looking even more like Shane. ‘I’m sorry, Bamb.’ Adam looked stricken. ‘Really, I am.’ But he offered no explanation. Adam looked towards the house, his eyes lingering on the kitchen window. Jonathon stepped out of sight. ‘I’ve got something for you,’ Adam was saying to his sister. Curiosity led Jonathon back towards the window. He eased himself into a good spot where he could see out but not be seen. Adam had his back to the house, cutting off his view of their interaction. Bambi said something that was subdued and lost. Kevin had recovered from his brother’s sudden reappearance and was crawling across to him, warming to him. He grabbed hold of Adam’s ankle – momentarily distracted by his shoelace, and an attempt to get it into his mouth – before climbing his leg with clutching, chubby fingers. Adam bent down and picked him up, exposing the sight of Bambi with a hand at her mouth, every bit the younger version of her mother, captured by an emotion he couldn’t quite decipher. She was eclipsed again when Adam stood with the baby in his arms. Jonathon’s mind whirred with uncertainties. What was he doing here? Was he challenging him? He looked bigger – an adult - had he grown? An uncomfortable feeling scratched at his insides. He wanted to see Adam, to talk with him, and throw his arm across his shoulders and take him around the front to show him under the tarp; show him the new Monaro. Adam could help him get the gearbox back in. He was good with stuff like that. He took several steps and stopped. Jonathon hovered by the door. His mind raced in tandem with his pulse. It was impossible to think clearly with all the noise. Blood and thoughts throbbed in his brain and left it feeling tender. He stepped abruptly out onto the veranda. The door slammed shut behind him, which made him flinch and his children look up in surprise. A pair of crows on the corner of the roof startled – annoyed and cawing - and flew off with wings flapping with the sound of a mainsail snapping in a stiff breeze. A dried leaf

128 dislodged from the gutter and floated down in their wake. Jonathon watched as it scooped left, and then right on its descent. Was it ever going to reach the ground? Adam cleared his throat. Jonathon met his eyes, reading the intention beneath the smoky irises. ‘You’ve got jobs to do, Bambi.’ The growl was in his voice again. It was there unbidden, but it was there all the same. Jonathon knew he couldn’t deal with Adam at that moment. His mind had the fragile feeling again. He strode quickly inside. He would outrun the clouds brewing within, dark as lead pencil shavings and already thundering. He walked, unseeing, down the hallway that lead from the back to the front of the under lit house. Straight through. He found himself standing on the front steps, blinking in the sun. Not quite far enough. His vision tingled at the edges. He continued down the stairs and through the gate. He paused, leaning his hand on the Monaro, on a patch of paintwork peeking out from the tarp. He took a breath deep into his lungs and felt the heaviness lifting. ‘Dad.’ It was Adam. He stood with his feet shoulder width apart, facing him head-on. No. Not now. ‘We need to talk.’ Jonathon rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. ‘Well. Talk.’ Adam hesitated, shifting his weight between his feet. Realising how it looked, he squared himself again. ‘How are things with the family?’ Jonathon looked at him from the corner of his eye. What kind of a question was that? Adam cleared his throat again. ‘Have you got a cold, boy?’ ‘I’m not a boy.’ Silence. ‘How’s Mum?’ Moving slowly around the car, Jonathon unclipped the occy-straps holding the tarp in place. It was cold. He wished he’d grabbed a coat on the way out the door. ‘Didn’t think you gave a stuff anymore.’ He leant in the open window and flicked the bonnet lever. It popped open with a dull twang.

129 Jonathon imagined he could see the hair on the back of Adam’s neck bristling. He couldn’t help but smile. His son had never liked being laughed at. He snuck a look at Adam and his eyes caught a thin movement beyond his shoulder. Bambi was leaning against the house. ‘You know that’s not true,’ Adam snapped. Jonathon shrugged. He felt with his fingers for the latch holding the bonnet down. Bingo. He popped it open and hooked the metal rod in place to keep it open. ‘What do ya reckon?’ Jonathon asked with his head lost in the engine cavity. ‘I reckon she’s working too hard.’ Jonathon looked at him. ‘She’s not working at all.’ ‘Mum?’ He looked puzzled. ‘Nah, eedjit, the car!’ ‘Forget the stupid car, Dad!’ Adam raised his voice, slapping his hand on the car. The resounding noise sounded excessive. Jonathon’s hands trembled. ‘Do not touch my car like that,’ he said carefully. Quietly. ‘The car’s a bloody waste of money, and you know it,’ Adam yelled at him, warming to his anger. ‘You’ll never get it going again. It’ll just sit here and rot!’ Jonathon’s neck was hot with exertion of holding it together. He moved around the side and ran his hand over the panel Adam had slapped. Adam didn’t move out of his way. ‘It’s a piece of crap.’ Jonathon’s eye ticked. ‘Did you come here looking for a fight, Son?’ ‘I came here, looking for a man who was ready to be my father.’ Black and red exploded behind his eyes. He knew his arm was swinging - from his shoulder, just as his Pa had taught him – but he couldn’t see it. He saw nothing but the brutal colours smashing through his brain like a hurricane carrying debris. His fist met flesh. Bone. He felt it give way beneath his curled fingers as his arm swung through the full arc of movement. Rage travelled through his body as fire, tearing at the walls of his veins as it rushed. He punched again, clipping Adam but finding metal. He’d somehow hit the car. Pain seared through the back side of his knuckles. He felt flimsy hands pulling at him. He shook them off. A voice from somewhere inside whispered: It’s Bambi. Be careful.

130 A fierce blow to his stomach doubled him over. The drunkenness of his rage began to drain away; seeping slowly, it was replaced with aching. Jonathon was stunned into stillness. Adam had struck him. His son had hit him back. Adam punched him again, lifting his face skyward with the uppercut. He tasted blood. His eyes raced past the treetops and stopped on the sky spread out before him. It was blue, and clear, and unblemished. ‘Stop, stop!’ It was Bambi. She was screaming and clawing at them. Don’t, Bambi! Get out of the way. He wanted to say. But his mouth wouldn’t move. Jonathon stood dumbly, watching the rage play across his son’s face; it twitched and contorted with it. He had given himself over to the flood. The apple never fell far from the damn tree. And then he saw Adam’s fist moving in towards his face: a bullet train, about to switch his lights out for the night. Jonathon felt the beginnings of regret as he passed out.

131 21.

Training hadn’t gone well today. ‘You’re not picking your feet up, Bambi. You’re running all weird.’ Jack’s lip curled up slightly at the edge. ‘I’m running exactly how I always do,’ she retorted. ‘No. You’re not. You are totally off your game.’ Bambi glowered at him. ‘What is wrong with you?’ he threw up his hands. ‘What is wrong with you?’ Bambi and Jack squared off in heated conversation. Anger nibbled at the edges of their words, leaving them jagged and sharp. She was tired today, too tired for this. She hadn’t run all week. She couldn’t seem to drag herself out of bed. Her legs were heavy, and her very bones felt to be aching with fatigue. The last thing she wanted was Jack giving her advice, and she certainly didn’t need him to discuss it with Ben on her behalf. ‘Why don’t you mind your own business?’ The comment was harsh, she knew, and entirely out of character for her, but she was finding it hard of late to keep her feelings in check. Her nerves were frayed and raw, which made it almost impossible to keep her outsides smooth, which had always been her saving grace. And now it was failing. Since Adam had left home her jobs never seemed to end. And Jonathon was agitated, unhappy unless she was bent to one task or another. He wore a storm as a cloak, and lightning flashed from his lips. Bambi was as stiff and bent up as a cat set to brawl. Who did Jack think he was? ‘Bambi!’ interjected Ben. ‘Back off a little, will you! Jack is only trying to help.’ ‘Well, if she’s too stupid to take advice…’ Jack threw in. He scowled at her with his arms folded across his chest. Ben looked between the two, shaking his head. The squad had finished training for the afternoon. A few runners still sauntered around the oval, gossiping more than warming down, but Ben had been in a cruisy mood today and didn’t seem to mind their lack of focus. A parent waved to Ben across the car park, her hand resting on the shoulder of her son: ‘Thanks Coach, we’ll see you next week!’ Ben returned the wave. Bambi and Jack avoided looking at each other. Her stomach resembled the giant plastic ball they used on tele for the Lotto draw. Jack was turning the handle and 45 different coloured emotions tumbled around waiting to be singled out and recognised.

132 Ben stood thinking. Bambi had come to know his thinking pose: his index finger and thumb forming a Nike-style tick across his chin. ‘Thanks,’ he directed to Jack. ‘It’s good to see you taking an interest in other squad members. See you next Friday.’ He was dismissed. Jack kicked at the grass as he walked away, mumbling angrily at the ground. ‘What was that, huh?’ Ben demanded, raising his palms in question. Bambi slumped. Her cheeks were hot. ‘Who does he think he is?’ she muttered. ‘Your teammate? One who’s showing an interest in your running?’ Bambi knew he was wrong. She watched a girl stretching out her hamstring on the low fence as she waited to be picked up. The low clouds were threatening rain. ‘Maybe even your friend?’ ‘He’s not my friend.’ Her pigtail brushed against her shoulders as she shook her head, and she pursed her lips critically. She knew she was being churlish. The thought of Jack criticising her running had made her so mad. She watched him standing with Tammy, waiting for her Dad to pick them up. Tammy was yabbering on about something. Jack nodded occasionally and pulled at his collar as if something itched him. Bambi’s mouth tasted sour. ‘He was making some good observations, actually.’ Ben was saying. Bambi turned her attention back to him. ‘You’ve been a bit lazy with the kick-back at the end of your stride.’ The sweat was beginning to dry on Bambi’s skin. She unzipped her backpack and pulled out her jacket. She immediately felt guilty. Ben had stuck his neck out for her and she was being difficult. He had stuck his neck of for her, and she was being a brat again. How long before he realises she is a lost cause and stops trying to help her? ‘I’m just a bit tired, I guess.’ Ben nodded: ‘Of course you are. You’re bound to be exhausted after a big meet. Just try to keep your form tight. Drop back on your speed and keep those feet kicking neat and high.’ If only it was that simple. ‘Okay, Coach.’ She slung her bag over her shoulder. ‘Only three weeks till Regionals.’ She wasn’t quite ready to think about that yet. She doubted she’d be going at all. ‘I’ll gather in the cones.’

133 Ben glanced at the darkening sky. The days were getting shorter. The sun was setting to dip below the horizon. ‘Not today.’ He shook his head. ‘I did most of the packing up while you warmed down.’ Bambi scanned the oval. She hadn’t noticed the absence of the bright orange cones. She moved to pick up the equipment crate. ‘I’ve got it, Bambi. You can go home.’ He frowned. ‘Do you want me to drop you to your Mum? I think it’s going to rain.’ ‘No thanks. Adam’s picking me up.’ She felt her mood shifting. The thought of Adam calmed her. ‘Really?’ Ben picked up the crate and they walked together towards the station wagon. ‘Yeah, his new flat mate lets him drive his car. If he pays for the petrol.’ Linda Gardner honked her horn at Ben and waved as she sped out of the car park. Bambi tried to hide her enjoyment at his grimace. He nodded his head at her, even though the four-wheel drive was already turning out onto the road. ‘Here he is!’ She flashed a smile at Ben before jogging over to the beat-up turquoise Datsun that was pulling into the car park, P-plates boldly fixed to front and back. ‘See ya!’ Bambi tried the latch twice before it gave way and the passenger side door swung open with a long squeak. She slid in, kicking aside the mess of old rubbish on the floor to make room for her feet. She rested her bag on her lap - she wouldn’t risk it getting dirty – and reached across her body to grab the seatbelt at her shoulder. ‘It doesn’t work,’ Adam grinned. ‘Just hold on.’ ‘Oh,’ she frowned, and grabbed the sides of the seat under her thighs with both hands. ‘Isn’t that illegal?’ Adam shrugged. He kangaroo-hopped the car a few metres before he gained control of the clutch and pulled smoothly onto the bitumen. Bambi was thrown forward and back, narrowly avoiding head-butting the windscreen. She braced herself with a hand on the faded grey dashboard. ‘When did you learn to drive, anyway?’ Bambi furrowed her brows at Adam hunched over the wheel. He shot her a grin. ‘Couple of weeks ago.’ ‘Oh, great.’ She looked around for something better to hold onto. The interior of the car was equally as tatty as the outside. Beneath the rubbish on the floor the carpet looked like it belonged to the rump of a dog with the Mange. The door skin on the driver’s side was

134 cracked; hers was missing altogether, exposing the metallic guts of the door. She recognized the locking mechanism and shoved it closed. Adam paused at the intersection connecting the side road to the main drag. He watched intently for a break in the traffic before he stamped on the accelerator and snapped out the clutch in a single move. They launched onto the road like a dragster, planting Bambi back into her seat. Bambi laughed. It was mirth born of incredulity. In hindsight, she wasn’t quite sure why she had agreed to let Adam drive her anywhere. Let alone in a death-trap with no seat belt. Regardless, they were on their way. It was getting dark. The lights from oncoming traffic bounced off the metal that framed the windows. ‘Are you going to put your headlights on?’ He flicked a lever and the windscreen wipers dragged their way across the dry screen in a jolty arc and back again. She needed a seat belt. She climbed over into the back, her foot slipping on the handbrake and her backside waved crazily in the air before she burst through. ‘What are you doing?’ Adam shoved at her angrily as she got in the way of another shoddy gear change. ‘That was your fault,’ he called back to her. All she could do was laugh again, as she fumbled through the t-shirts and magazines on the back seat, looking for the buckle to connect the belt into. She caught Adam’s grin in the rear-view mirror. ‘Shut up,’ he said. She found a guitar plectrum down between the seats. She chucked it onto the ground with the rest of the garbage. Safely clipped in, she shrunk back into the seat. A spring had given way and pressed the vinyl uncomfortably into her spine. Bambi leant forward onto her knees to escape it. ‘Nice ride,’ she said into Adam’s ear. ‘Can’t believe he let you borrow it.’ Adam didn’t answer. He was concentrating on wrestling the car back down through the gears as he approached a corner. He sent the windscreen wipers wildly into action again before he found the indicator lever, which took him a few attempts at before he figured out right from left. He got it sorted, but at the expense of his change from third to second gear. The crunch made Bambi wince. ‘Something’s wrong with the synchro-mesh.’ Adam threw back at her. ‘Well, if there wasn’t before…’

135 They crossed the town, skipping most of the busy centre and the bulk of the early evening traffic, and entered an area that Bambi was not overly familiar with. The houses were small and neat, ordered tidily into rows of pastel yellow, green, and blue timber boxes. Some had flowerbeds, one had a kelpie watching the traffic from behind the fence. She saw kids, bicycles, cars and garden hoses. Bambi stared. Her eyes greedily absorbed the normality. Adam pulled into a smaller street, and then slowed beside the driveway of a small block of units. The blonde bricks stood out amongst the timber homes awkwardly, but they were clean and neat, and the garages that lined the base of the units were painted in various shades of subtle colour in an attempt to belong. ‘Are you going to drive it into the garage?’ Bambi enquired. ‘Ah, that might be a bit tricky,’ he rubbed his forehead with his fingers, messing his hair as he did so. ‘Haven’t mastered the precision side of driving yet.’ Bambi bit on her lip to avoid laughing outright. Adam brought the car to a stop. The hubcaps crunched along the gutter. They literally ground to a halt. ‘Right then,’ he said, handing her the backpack from the front seat. ‘Let’s see the pad, shall we?’ ‘Yep,’ she said, wondering whether to bring the bag in or not. Even though thieves were unlikely to target the Datsun, she decided she wouldn’t risk it. She tucked it safely under her arm. The door refused to open from the inside. She waited for Adam to walk around the car and let her out. She shrugged the bag onto her back and stepped up onto the grass. Adam had parked the car so close to the curb that the door missed the cement by millimetres. Bambi smoothed down her hair back into her pigtail, before deciding it appeared babyish, and pulled the band out in a single movement. Adam leant against the car and watched her ruffle the underside of her hair, fluffing it up, and then smoothing down the top layer, tucking it behind her ears. He rolled his eyes, but she was too intent on her preening. ‘He’s really not worth impressing.’ Adam looked amused. The way he leant against the dodgy car, and that ‘knowing’ smirk made Bambi want to biff him one. ‘Shut up, Adam!’ She crossed her arms tightly across her chest. ‘It gives me a headache when it’s pulled back too tightly.’ He chuckled: ‘Yeah, right.’ Before she could retaliate, he was bounding down the driveway and up the open stairs of the first unit. He held onto the steel tubing that acted as a railing and he turned to check she was following.

136 Small tungsten lights guided her way along the garden wall to the bottom of the stairs. Insects had collected in their crazed plastic covers; they were dead, numerous, and trivial as grains of sand. Bambi was too excited to be genuinely annoyed at her brother, but she held onto her scowl until he had turned away again. She couldn’t help but feel grown up. A grey cat jumped onto the low brick garden wall with a jingle of its collar bell, sitting daintily in front of Bambi. It wrapped its tail neatly around its paws and offered its head for her to rub as she passed. Its reflective eyes flashed in the remnants of light. ‘It’s pretty quiet here,’ she commented, reaching down to stroke the cat under its chin. Several feeble looking pansy plants were dying in the untended garden bed. They looked poignant in the grey shadows of the units. At the top of the stairs, Adam jammed his key into the lock with a scrape. He looked around at her. ‘Huh? Quiet?’ He pushed the door inward. ‘Yeah, sometimes. It has its moments.’ He vanished. Bambi followed him up the stairs. ‘What is that stench?’ She paused on the landing. ‘Adam, is something burning? Adam waved his arms vigorously around his head in an attempt to shoo the smoke that was amassing around him. ‘Pete!’ Adam called out, as if his name alone was accusation enough. Bambi had not stepped over the threshold of the apartment. She couldn’t see any flames, but the smell of burning was strong. It held a twist of sweetness, which made her wonder if Adam’s flat mate was actually on fire himself in the next room. Summoned by his name, Pete appeared. He wasn’t on fire, but he dragged an intensely smoky smell with him, which clogged Bambi’s throat from where she stood and was beginning to make her eyelids raspy. Pete grinned at them, frying pan in hand, smoke billowing from it like a nuclear mushroom. His smile wasn’t overly large, but it was warm in a way that made Bambi feel welcomed and like she was included in a joke that was yet to be revealed. She liked how his brown hair matched exactly with his freckles. It was pulled back into a pigtail, its curliness sticking out in a pompom at the back of his neck. Bambi felt suddenly shy. He wasn’t the boy she was expecting. Actually, she wasn’t sure what she had expected. But he was definitely more man than boy. ‘Burned the steak!’ He shoved the pan out in Adam’s direction, his lilting tone made it seem like a great joke. “Awwh, man!’ Adam was clearly unimpressed. ‘What’d you do that for?’ ‘It wasn’t on purpose, man!’

137 The billowing cloud of smoke had eased into a smouldering fizzle. Pete poked the black remnant of steak with his finger. He flinched, and shoved it in his mouth. ‘It’s hot,’ he said to Bambi, the finger still in his mouth distorted the words. He pulled it out and wiped it on his flannelette shirt. ‘You two gonna come inside, or what?’ Bambi walked into the room and stood conspicuously, uncertain if she should sit on the brown and orange weaved lounge, which didn’t look entirely sanitary, or continue to stand awkwardly in the middle of the room. Pete retreated into the kitchen. ‘What are we going to eat now?’ Adam called after him. ‘It’s all under control!’ Pete’s voice sailed out over the sound of fast running water. His head popped back out: ‘I’m going to order pizza!’ Adam rolled his eyes at the silly dance Pete did with his upper body. ‘You are a complete idiot.’ Adam shook his head and laughed. ‘I don’t care what you order, as long as you pay for it.’ Pete seemed to be a bit of a lad, but Bambi suspected that Adam had worked out how to manoeuvre him to get what he wanted. Pete had finished dumping the steak in the bin and soaking the frying pan in the sink– which Bambi suspected may have been considered ‘cleaning up’ – and had propped himself up on the armrest of the lounge. ‘Only the best, for our delightful lady guest!’ Pete smiled at Bambi and wiggled his eyebrows up and down. ‘Hey, that rhymes!’ Her cheeks had become warm with the attention, and had no doubt given her embarrassment away with their redness, but she beamed anyway at his lame joke. Pete drummed out a tune on his jeans with his fingers and he held the phone up to his ear, waiting for someone at the other end to pick up. ‘Come and see the place,’ Adam said, shifting Bambi by the arm from her rooted position on the ratty carpet. The kitchen was small and colourful. Orange bench tops lined with a chocolate tiled splashback stuck out like a racing stripe amidst the natural pine cupboard doors. The floor was a kaleidoscope of autumn colours, squared together in regular patterns of irregularity. The 70s were a decor disaster. ‘Dizzying, isn’t it?’ Adam commented, staring at the room as if he was confused as to why anyone would condense so much intensity into one compact area. ‘It’s not that bad,’ Bambi smiled. ‘It’s very 70s, though.’ ‘But it all works!’ Adam added, opening a drawer to reveal a collection of silver utensils, before closing it again.

138 ‘I’m going to have a totally white kitchen when I have a house,’ Bambi said. ‘A three storey house. And a pool.’ Adam glanced at her sideways without comment. ‘I will,’ she refuted his silence. ‘I didn’t say a word!’ He grabbed her hand and led her back into the lounge area, past Pete who was fingering the tassel on a cushion as he discussed toppings into the receiver. They entered the short hallway. ‘Even the phone is prehistoric!’ Bambi exclaimed. Adam just grinned. ‘Bathroom,’ he pointed at a half closed door. She caught a glimpse of an ocean-creature-themed shower curtain hanging over a square bath, big enough only for a child, and a pile of what she could only assume were dirty clothes on the floor. ‘Nice,’ she said, trying to feel only happiness for her brother who deserved an inside bathroom with, no doubt, a hot running shower. Adam stood at the door to his room, holding it open with his extended arm, waiting for her to enter. The bed was single and neatly made up with a navy quilt and white pillow. A rectangular Turkish rug sat at its side, protecting his feet from the cool timber in the mornings. He had a desk; it featured a pen, pencil, a well-thumbed copy of Contemporary Mathematics and a brand spanking new The Old Man and the Sea by Hemingway. The only decoration was the sporadic pattern of Blu-tack residue on the walls left by the last occupant of the room. ‘Any good?’ Bambi picked up the novel. Adam grimaced. ‘I’m doing good with my maths,’ he offered. ‘That’s cause you’re a genius,’ Bambi teased, sitting down on the edge of his bed. She traced the stitching pattern with her fingers, nursing her thoughts. Adam leant against the wall with one arm. He was so handsome. She felt a rush of pride. If only she was more like him. ‘Are you happy?’ she asked softly, trying to watch his reaction without staring at him outright. ‘Yes,’ he said, moving to sit next to her on the bed. ‘And no.’ She nodded. ‘You?’ She could feel his eyes searing into the side of her face, willing her to say she was, to absolve him of his crime of abandonment.

139 She nodded again. She couldn’t remove the lump in her throat. It hung there, like a child in a well, arms outstretched and clinging with all its strength for fear of all that was dangerous in the darkness below. ‘Yes,’ she finally croaked. ‘I’m happy.’ He waited for her to look at him. She smiled. Her face ached. ‘And… ah…’ He couldn’t spit it out. ‘How’s Dad been since….’ Adam shifted nervously on the bed. Its springs squeaked in protest at the movement. ‘Since you belted him?’ she asked. ‘You were a bit…’ She let the sentence hang. How could she possibly finish it? Scary? Wild? Exactly like Dad? He winced. His face contorted in pain. ‘Yeah. That.’ Unable to sit still, he stood and moved to his desk. He picked up the pencil and began his trick of threading it back and forth through his long fingers. ‘We’re good, Adam. It’s all good,’ she lied, filling the silent gap. She touched his arm with her hand. Just for a second, brushing it with understanding. Forgiving him. His eyes had latched onto hers. They scanned, and dredged. They narrowed. ‘It’s the truth.’ She said simply. She punched him lightly on the arm and stood. ‘Come on. Let’s go see what Crazy Pete’s ordered us. Nice room, by the way.’ She was met in the doorway by a can of Tooheys flying past. She reflexively reached out to catch it, but clipped the edge and it crashed and rolled onto the carpet and into the door frame. Adam scooped it up as he entered the room behind her and placed it on the edge of the lounge chair. ‘That’s for your sister,’ Pete said, moving to pick it up and re-throw. ‘She doesn’t drink.’ Adam was shaking his head. Pete raised his eyebrows in question at Bambi. ‘No thanks,’ she sat tentatively on the lounge opposite Pete. ‘I’m only fifteen.’ Pete laughed as if Bambi had said something hilarious, and then made to throw the beer at Adam. Adam held up his palm. ‘Nah mate.’ Pete shrugged and pushed the aluminium ring into the beer. Dirty foam exploded from the can. He spread his legs and held it out to avoid getting it on his jeans. It surged over his hand and onto the carpet. ‘Where can I find a cloth?’ Bambi made to stand.

140 ‘Sit back down, Bambi.’ Pete waved her back into her seat with his dry hand, switched the beer into it and wiped the bitter wetness onto his shirt. ‘I’ll get it later.’ Bambi scanned the swirled pattern of the carpet, marvelling at its propensity for disguise; wondering how many other spilled secrets it had soaked into its pile. ‘What did you order?’ Adam asked, sliding onto the lounge next to Bambi. ‘Two ‘giant size’ from The House of Pizza.’ He put on a dramatic voice and moved from his perch over towards the two-seater lounge on the other. ‘Pepperoni and Supreme.’ Bambi couldn’t help but smile. Again. ‘Okay with you?’ Pete asked Bambi as he tapped her lightly on the knee, wordlessly asking her to move over. ‘Sure,’ she responded. ‘Any pizza is good pizza.’ ‘What a woman,’ he chuckled, and squeezed onto the seat next to her, forcing her and Adam together like a double-yoked egg. Bambi tensed, squished and uncomfortable; no space for thoughts of anything other than the feel of the bodies she was compressed between. ‘Get off, Pete!’ Adam reached across Bambi to shove him, knocking her in the back. Pete didn’t shift. He drank from his can, the curve of the metal hiding his amusement. Bambi popped out of the arrangement like a cork from a pressurised bottle. They fell into the gap she had left, bringing their faces close together. ‘She’s cute,’ Pete whispered in a voice entirely intended for Bambi’s ears. Bambi took a step back as Pete made eye contact with her, troubled by the heat that was spreading through her. Pete gave a yelp. Adam had grabbed his ear lobe and was twisting it between his thumb and forefinger. ‘You touch her, and you die.’ Pete was amused, chortling and twisting himself in an attempt to release the hold Adam had on his ear. ‘Get off me, ya big lout!’ Adam smiled menacingly: ‘When you promise me you’ll leave her alone.’ They writhed in mock-battle while Bambi stood watching on with her hand flittering. She wanted Adam to twist his ear right off, but she couldn’t ignore the tugging inside her that was asking permission for a little more attention. ‘Okay!’ Pete yelled, shoving Adam off him with two hands on his chest. ‘Okay, I’ll leave her alone.’ ‘And you’ll never lay a finger on her?’ Bambi winced. ‘Never, you friggin’ moron! Get off me!’ Adam gave his ear a final twist before he threw his arm across his shoulder.

141 ‘If you’d just learn to see things my way from the beginning, you’d be in much less pain.’ ‘You spilt some of my beer!’ They began battling again. ‘You two are worse than children.’ Bambi’s voice cut through their wrangling. They stopped and looked at her with her hands now on her hips, mildly startled as they remembered she was there. ‘He’s like this a lot,’ Pete said as he adjusted the collar of his flanny, refastening the top button. He winked at her. ‘He thinks he’s my Dad.’ Bambi grinned. She’d half expected him to scoff in her face, but he appeared to be taking her seriously: like she was a real person. ‘Mine, too!’ Adam snorted. ‘Let’s throw some plates on the table. This pizza will be here in a sec.’ He paused long enough to give Pete a meaningful look. An I-was-playing-this-time look. It held an unspoken promise. Bambi watched Adam as he positioned himself between Pete and herself. The tension left her body. She hadn’t realised it was even there. Pete crashed around the kitchen cupboard. Bambi was quite sure Adam’s unspoken threat had been wasted on him. He seemed oblivious. Her brother was being absurd anyway. Bambi watched him move around the small space. She got the feeling that he did everything with a decided lack of precision. He was a tornado. She wondered how Adam coped with that, considering how much he liked neatness. From where she sat, Bambi could see through the cut-out window between the two rooms. The stool wobbled as she cupped her face in her hands and leant on the bench. Her eyes followed her brother as he moved around the kitchen with his friend. Patient and quiet, he followed Tornado Pete’s lead. He moved behind, readjusting the plates and pushing the glasses away from the edge of the table where Pete had all but hurled them. Adam sensed her watching him. He gave her a smile. She didn’t think he was sharing any joy with her, but a quiet confirmation that they were going to be fine: that they would survive all of this, and that it would be okay. In that moment, she remembered the way her father used to look at her when she was small. When she felt safe. Way back when the sun was shining. She smiled back. She wasn’t sure if Adam was right. But more than ever, she wanted to believe. She couldn’t shake the feeling that things seemed to be going pretty well for both of them, which meant that disaster was undoubtedly crouching, just around the corner.

142 22.

She pulled out a protein snack-bar from her pocket, tearing the edge of it with her teeth as she walked with her school bag loaded under one arm. She probably shouldn’t be eating it now. Ben had told her to eat them after her training, but she hadn’t had anything for breakfast, and she didn’t know if she could survive the day on the dry packet of two-minute noodles she had brought with her. She was starving. Chewing on the dense little bricks took time, and the flavour was weird in her mouth, all powdery, bland and strangely unlike real food. But they filled that empty spot, and Ben had assured her she needed them if she was training hard. She obeyed, chewing until her jaws ached. Her bare legs were also suffering, exposed to the breeze that howled along the road with her. It brought with it the heavy fragrance of Jasmine, which she breathed in deeply. Bambi was barely in the school grounds when she heard the raised voices. Laughing. Or was it crying? Or both, perhaps? Putting her head down, she made her way up the steps leading towards the school hall, out of the breeze, but also out of the sun. It was crying. She shivered. It had nothing to do with her. She would stay out of it. She dropped her wrapper in the bin. There was something familiar about the voices, though. Something magnetic that pulled at her. Her brain instructed her body to turn right, away from the voices, towards a patch of sunshine somewhere that she could warm herself before the first bell. But her legs went left, further into the dark shade of the school buildings. She rounded the corner into a small courtyard area laid with mossy pavers. It had a square arrangement of timber benches assembled to face a pathetically maintained garden feature. It smelled earthy and unused, accompanied by a sharp citrus melody, compliments of the mangled orange someone had thrown at the bin, but had missed. Sitting on a bench was Jodie Farrell with her head hung forward, and chin touching her chest. Her lunch box was open on her lap. Bambi could see pink colouring the side of her cheek as Tammy sat beside her, hovering like a vulture as she picked up and inspected items from her lunch box. ‘What’s this, Jodie?’ Tammy was saying. ‘A lard bar? An extra dose of fat for your already humongous butt?’ Lisa sat on the other side of her sniggering. Mandy shifting nervously behind them, looking like she wanted to be elsewhere. They had Jodie cornered like an animal, frightened, and crazy-eyed like a calf pinned in the stockyard.

143 Bambi stood at the entryway, understanding that Jodie would have been seeking solace when she holed up in here, and would have been taken totally by surprise. It was an ambush. She watched Tammy’s hair – painstakingly straightened to perfection – sway mane- like as she ridiculed Jodie. Her stomach rolled over once. Twice. It wouldn’t stop churning. Mandy saw her standing there mute and unmoving. Bambi wanted to leave without comment. She knew she should turn around and walk away, without seeing or knowing. But she stayed and watched. Tammy looked up at her and dumped the food back into Jodie’s lunchbox. She stood. ‘Well, look who we have here.’ She stalked, leopard style, towards Bambi. ‘Little Miss 1970s Fashion.’ She released a marvellous smile. Bambi stiffened. The hair at her nape bristled. ‘I’ve heard you’ve been quite the belle around town,’ she continued. ‘Geared up in some fine dresses!’ As usual, Mandy and Lisa giggled like twits. Jodie seized on the opportunity to exit. She got up from the bench abruptly and the contents of her lunch showered from her lap onto the ground as an avalanche. Tammy glossed her attention over the girl on her hands and knees, collecting the food, placing it back without brushing the debris from the plastic wrap. She turned her gaze back to Bambi. Her nostrils flared as Tammy approached. The shame she felt for Jodie careened through her blood, heating it with the flame of humiliation. She thought about how Adam had always stood up for her. There’s no way he would let this happen. She dived in. ‘Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?’ She realised too late what she had said. The words were out of her mouth; an arrow already released from its bow. Her mind desperately scrambled, but the words and their suggestion couldn’t be retrieved. Jodie looked up from her lowly position on the ground with the pain of Bambi’s betrayal plain on her face. The tears that had gathered in the skirts of her lashes fell in chunky blobs onto her cheeks, rolling across the valleys of her rounded face. The girls laughed, goading each other on. Bambi knew that her words had hurt her more than anything the other girls had said. Bambi looked intently at Jodie, trying to communicate everything she felt in that single look. If only Jodie learned to like herself, she could become a woman who was proud of herself: one with a pretty smile and the confidence to let people in.

144 If she just believed in herself, she would get past this. If she was given the chance. ‘Shut up!’ Bambi howled at them, dropping her bag as she moved. Her exercise books splayed out onto a damp, brown patch on the ground. She pushed past Tammy and was at Jodie’s side in three steps. She bent down with her and picked up her frozen drink bottle, which was wrapped in a face washer and secured with a rubber band around its middle. ‘Here,’ she gave it to her almost-but-not-quite-friend. She placed her hand gently along the length of Jodie’s forearm and looked into her wet eyes. ‘You really are special, you know.’ Bambi heard Mandy scream out: ‘lesos!’ and the others added their disgust. Hearing it all, she still refused to let go of the connection. She would not break her eye contact with Jodie until she saw her accept the words. Their link glazed over, and fizzled into nothing. Which left them crouched on the ground side by side, awkwardly still connected by Bambi’s hand on Jodie’s arm. Jodie stood abruptly, which caused her stomach to joggle gently up and down in front of Bambi’s face, and shoved her belongings back into her bag. She shuffled out of the quad with a cumbersome run, with tears still streaming down her face and quiet sobs interspersing grunts of exertion. ‘Your girlfriend’s left.’ Bambi picked herself up off the ground and met Tammy’s smug grin. ‘Lovers’ tiff?’ Bambi tiredly ran her hand across her face. The mix of fear and anger had begun to melt away, and she stood bare before the girls, holding nothing but a handful of sadness. ‘What is wrong with you people?’ Bambi asked quietly. She felt strangely calm. ‘Do you only feel good about your own pathetic lives when you are making other people miserable?’ A small squeaking noise escaped Lisa’s throat. Mandy reached over and grabbed her hand in comfort, as if Bambi had struck a vindictive blow to Lisa’s body. ‘There is nothing clever about being bitches,’ she bent down and collected her strewn exercise books. Her library book had spilled open and she brushed the dirt off the open pages and tried to smooth the bent angles from them. Tammy was watching her dumbly, her face red and her eyes narrowed. ‘You’re such a…moron…’ Mandy spluttered at her. Bambi raised her eyebrows at her: ‘Is that all you’ve got?’ She was watching it all unfold around her, as if in slow motion, as if it wasn’t her acting and moving the way she was. They were so pathetic. She packed her books back into her plastic bag, which was developing a significant gape in one corner, so she wrapped the handles as best she could, conscious that Tammy’s

145 steaming furnace was about to blow. The shock wouldn’t last forever. When Tammy found her tongue, Bambi didn’t want to be within a bull’s roar. Bambi held Tammy’s glare for a long moment. ‘It’s pretty sad, actually,’ she said. ‘You’re pretty sad.’ She walked away, conscious of the way the sole of her disintegrating shoe flopped with a slapping noise with every step. But she didn’t really care. ‘Let them talk about it,’ Bambi thought. ‘Let them make fun of my clothes, and my family, and how I don’t have anything to eat today. She rounded the corner, heading for a slice of sun before class. She heard Tammy call out: ‘I hate you Bambi Hall. Everyone hates you!’ She knew what it was to feel hate. Bambi smiled bitterly.

146 23.

‘I heard!’ Ingrid dropped her books onto the desk beside Bambi. She startled. She was sketching Ms Parrot’s frizzy hair on the back page of her book, captivated by its wriggliness as she wrote on the blackboard. She looked up at Ingrid. She was excited about something. Bambi sighed inwardly. Did she always have to look like a million dollars? Bambi dabbed her dripping nose with the tissue she had balled in her fist. ‘Heard what?’ Bambi glanced across to where Ingrid usually sat, but Ingrid was settling into the chair next to her. She whipped open her pencil case and dug around amongst the rainbow of colours and shapes until she found a basic blue ballpoint. A mix of fruity smells wafted across to Bambi. She had an urge to reach over and grab the glittery felt pen that was sticking out of the corner. It was purple and speckled with pictures of grapes. She wanted to smell it but she went back to doodling. Ingrid sat the selected pen at the top of her book and gave Bambi her full attention. ‘It’s all around school.’ Bambi’s pen stilled. ‘What?’ ‘Duh. How you stuck-it to Tammy Frost. How you called her a bitch, and walked away with your head still attached to your shoulders!’ Ingrid’s eyes were wide with excitement. Bambi’s mouth fell open. ‘Alright students, as you can see, I’ve detailed an overview of today’s work on the board for you…’ Ms Parrot was saying. Her expression did a surprised hiccup as she took in Ingrid sitting with Bambi at the front desk, but she smoothed it over quickly with a smile. She continued on with her instructions. Bambi tried to concentrate on them, but her mind reeled like a fishing line that had jagged a runaway marlin. Ms Parrot paced across the front of the classroom, chattering away. The bells stitched into the hem of her skirt sang sweetly in Bambi’s ears. Reaching Ingrid’s desk, Ms Parrot turned and headed back across the room. ‘What?’ Bambi hissed. ‘Who told you that?’ ‘Zoe Gray.’ ‘Who?’

147 ‘She lives in my street. She’s only in 8th grade.’ Ingrid shrugged. ‘What did she say?’ ‘Exactly what I just told you!’ ‘Oh.’ Bambi’s brain raced to take it in. ‘How did she find out?’ ‘Who knows?’ Ingrid rolled her eyes. ‘Everyone knows.’ Bambi felt tight. She was glad Tammy was in a different English class. She bit down on her fingernail. This was bad. Very bad. Ms Parrot twittered on. ‘…think about how you would feel if you were Sally Morgan and you discovered that you weren’t actually Indian? How would you have gone about resolving the mystery of your existence?’ Bambi wondered about her own lineage. Was she cursed? Did she hail from a long line of wretched people? Was being a loser in her blood? Ingrid leant close. ‘I’ve also heard that Tammy’s spitting mad.’ She gave Bambi an apologetic look, but managed to grin at the same time. John Preston was handing out A3 pieces of paper. He winked at Bambi as he put one on her desk. She glowered at him. Did everyone know? Bambi stared dumbly at the blank paper, wishing it were large enough for her to crawl under. Ingrid nudged her and pointed at the whiteboard with her pen. Ms Parrot had pulled down the blind and had aimed the projector at it. A growing list of questions appeared as Ms Parrot madly typed on her laptop. People around her were starting work; rulers were whipped out to draw margins, bubble letters with their swollen bellies were being formed for fancy headings. They were mostly filling in time, avoiding any real thought for as long as they could stretch it. ‘Wanna borrow mine?’ Ingrid nudged Bambi’s elbow with her ruler. ‘Huh? Oh yeah, sure,’ she took it, still unsure what she was supposed to be doing with it. ‘Thanks.’ She squinted at the list of questions. There was a knock at the door. Bambi placed the ruler on her page and drew a margin in blue ink. “Quiet, please!’ Ms Parrot glided across to the door with her palm up in a stop-signal gesture. It was Mr. Joe Carton, the Student Advisor. Or as he was more widely known amongst the students: ‘A Six-Pack Short Of’, or just ‘Six-Pack’.

148 Ms Parrot stepped half out the door, letting the cold air in, looking every bit the tropical bird against the unshaven figure in the dark-green t-shirt with the permanent sweat patches at his armpits. Six-Pack spoke quietly to their teacher, his eyes scanning the room as he scratched his grey and black beard. They came to rest on Bambi. She could hear them murmuring. She was seated right in front of them. Ms Parrot nodded, and swung her eyes around also. She looked grave. They were both staring at her. Hadn’t anyone told them it was rude to stare? Bambi shifted in her seat. Ms Parrot had moved from nodding to frowning as she stepped back into the classroom. She rubbed her arms as a draft worked its way in through the open door. ‘Bambi, would you collect your things please?’ The class made the ‘oooh’ noise that all kids learn in kindergarten but never seem to outgrow. ‘Bambi’s in trouble,’ came a taunt from up the back. Shut up. Just shut up. ‘Watch out, or she’ll call you a bitch,’ someone added. Laughter. She didn’t turn around. She felt sick in the stomach. It swirled like a kaleidoscope. She placed her pen and exercise book in her plastic bag and stood up. ‘You’ll be fine,’ whispered Ingrid. Bambi didn’t respond. She moved around the desk to the doorway. Ms Parrot gave her arm a squeeze as she stepped out of her way. Were they tears glinting in her eyes? ‘Oh no,’ thought Bambi. ‘I’m on Death Row.’ The door closed behind her, cutting her off from the thin cord of warmth issuing from the heated room. She uncomfortably met Mr Carton’s eyes. They were black. And beady. His expression was scrawled across his features in unreadable writing. He didn’t look at her unkindly; he was just sort of, empty. Her eyes dropped downwards. She scrolled over the thick woolen scarf he had wrapped around his neck, which he had teamed with his t-shirt and jeans, down to his slip on black canvas shoes. Fifteen dollars from the Army Disposal store in the main street. The outfit might have worked on somebody cool. But Six-Pack was no cooler than she was, and it fell flat on its face. ‘Walk with me, Bambi.’ He said. His voice was gravelly. He reeked of cigarettes. She waited for him to move and she followed a half step behind. They were out of sync. Her feet fell a second behind his. He wasn’t aware of the discrepancy. Her steps were silent behind his clopping ones.

149 He glanced across at her. They headed past the library in silence. A class of seventh grade kids was pouring out the double glass doors, snavelling up bags and hats, jostling like seagulls. Bambi was coiling tighter inside as her thoughts wound themselves around each other. Why wasn’t he speaking to her? Was he waiting for her to confess? Apologise? She couldn’t handle the suspense. ‘Look, Mr Carton,’ she stumbled. They had reached the doors to the main office building. He didn’t respond. ‘I’m sorry. I was just so angry with Tammy…’ she let her sentence fade and drop off at the end. Mr Carton screwed up his face in confusion. He shook his head at her, shooing away her words like annoying flies. He wasn’t even properly listening. He stopped walking then. He opened his mouth to say something, but closed it. He moved on two steps, and then stopped again, pausing with his arm outstretched and his hand grasping the long silver door handle. He went to speak a second time, but didn’t seem to know what to say. He pushed the door open. She made a move towards the door. ‘There’s been an accident,’ he finally blurted. He cleared his throat. She froze. ‘What?’ Bambi started to shake, deep down on the inside. ‘Who?’ He wagged his head in silence and she felt a weight pressing down on her, wanting to push her to the floor. He moved through the door, but her legs wouldn’t follow. They wouldn’t budge. He reached back for her and led her by the elbow into the building. Her body obeyed with out complaint. They left the sharp air of winter outside. The temperature inside felt tropical, like a greenhouse. It cloyed and clutched at her nostrils as she dragged it in, where it lay heavily at the bottom of her lungs. He towed her past the line of offices that made up the school administration. Bambi had never been through this blue-carpeted corridor before, which would normally have been of great interest, but her panic was too great for her to care. It was off limits to students, unless they were summoned. Like Her. Like today. Adam was sitting in the foyer at the opposite end of the walkway. He was balanced at the very tip of the waiting lounge, his weight poised forward, studious, but with the promise of instantaneous flight. He saw her and was by her side in two inhuman-length strides. He had her by the hand.

150 ‘Come on, Bambi. It’s Kevin.’ And with those last two words, her heart stopped beating altogether. It seized shut, refusing to pump. The blood began building up inside it. They were moving. She had passed from one set of hands into another. Adam’s grip on her was a vice, whereas Mr Carton’s had been all marshmallow and warm milk. She looked at Adam helplessly, his clamped jaw was set rigid under his sketchily bristled cheek, and his eyes had turned from steel into something darker and harder, and more fragile. ‘Charcoal,’ she thought. ‘They’re just like my drawing charcoal.’ ‘What?’ she said aloud. ‘What? Is he…’ The room was swirling beneath her feet. She was stumbling out into the car park, into the turquoise Datsun that had seemed such a lark only days before. Adam had shoved her into the passenger seat, shutting the door behind her. He was around the car and into the driver’s seat before she realised he had moved. ‘He swallowed cleaning fluid at Mum’s work. He climbed up the side of the pen and pulled it off the table. He’s at the hospital.’ He turned the ignition and jammed the car into gear in a single step. He was choking the steering wheel. ‘No,’ Bambi wagged her head in disbelief. She didn’t want to hear this. Her hands were trembling uncontrollably. ‘No.’ She grabbed for the seatbelt, forgetting it was broken. She wanted to run. She tugged at the broken door lever, which wouldn’t open. She had to get out of the stupid car and get to Kevin. She couldn’t breathe. She was taking in air in the shallowest of gasps, her lungs refused to open beyond the tiniest amount. She was going to be sick. She clamped her hand across her mouth and gagged. She didn’t want to ask the question that was burning her: Will he be okay? ‘Adam?’ she said. She didn’t ask it. But he understood the question anyway. He drove furiously. He didn’t answer. Did he even know the answer? She knew he was running from it. Burying it in a cloud of frantic driving, of turning and weaving. Bambi was thrown around without the seatbelt restraining her body; her arms were rigid as they held on, her body paralysed. Her eyes were only working in flashes, or was it her brain? Snatches of scenery skidded through her mind without meaning. They pulled up outside the hospital. She clutched at her chest. There was pain there. ‘It hurts,’ she whispered. Adam rounded to her door and dragged her from the car by the hand. ‘It’s just panic,’ he told her. ‘Come on.’

151 Up the stairs - millions of them – and through the corridors. It was a warren for rabbits; bunnies in white uniforms with stethoscopes, pushing wheel chairs and trolleys and people lying flat-backed on gurneys. They moved quickly, racing with their folders and grim expressions. They followed one rabbit to the waiting room. The scent of bleach was crushing. But even it was not strong enough to mask the smell of suffering and distress. A woman slumped sideways in her seat, her face flattened against the glass window she was using to keep her upright, her eyes were blank and a child played quietly at her feet. She looked like she’d been waiting forever: a permanent fixture. Bambi skimmed past her, and past the man bent in half like the Harbour bridge with his face buried in his own lap. They found Wanda curled in on herself, weeping, on the very end of a long line of seats welded to a metal beam. Jonathon paced forward and back behind her, his shoulders bumping the supporting column, which appeared to be his cue to turn his lap. He adjusted his hat, and paced again. He saw them, but continued moving in the rut he was wearing into the carpet. The fluorescent lights beat down into the room, stealing colour from the faces of the waiting people. They were insubstantial ghosts. ‘Where is he?’ Bambi asked Wanda. Seeing her all crumpled loosened the stuck tears. Wanda’s chest surged with her sobs. ‘Mum,’ Bambi grabbed her by the shoulders. ‘How is he?’ She wobbled her gently, trying to shake free some sense from her. Wanda dropped her face into her hands and cried dry tears. ‘Dad?’ Jonathon’s hands were dug deep into his pockets. His face was screwed up beneath his hat in an unreadable expression. ‘We’re waiting for the Doctors.’ He pulled his hands from his pockets and rubbed them together nervously. ‘They were going to pump his stomach. We still don’t know.’ The words slipped off her and slid down, puddling at her feet. ‘How could this happen?’ Bambi felt so incredibly tight. Beneath her skin, her muscles ached with the effort of standing still. Her pulse beat hard and fast: run, run, run. Adam grabbed her around the shoulder. She could hear him talking at her. His voice was muffled by the thickness of her skull: ‘It was an accident….nobody’s fault….he’ll be fine, fine fine fine fine……’ ‘Nothing’s fine!’ She wanted to scream at them all, sitting and standing placidly. Motionless. Static. Not doing a thing. Did she scream, or not? She wasn’t sure. ‘Somebody do something!’

152 Bambi took her Dad’s place, and began pacing. Until he started up again, and they got in each other’s way. She felt vaguely annoyed, dropping into a chair to wait. Time became distorted. The scene sifted through a series of still photos. Bambi standing, sitting, hunched, crying. Adam pacing, mumbling, comforting, leaning. Jonathon pacing. Wanda slumped in a chair. They had been there forever. A woman entered the waiting room. Her dark hair was braided tightly away from her face, away from her dark almond shaped eyes. Blue paper shower-caps covered her feet and she held a white facemask in her slender brown fingers. The room snapped to attention. The sagging other woman sat up hopefully. The Harbour Bridge unfolded himself. ‘Mr and Mrs Hall?’ She scanned, looking for a response. The woman collapsed again, rupturing into quiet tears. Jonathon helped Wanda out of her seat and they stood with his arm around her waist before the Doctor. She met each of their eyes in silence. The air was clogged with it. ‘God, please, no….’ Bambi pleaded in her mind. ‘Good news. He’s going to pull through.’ Relief hit Bambi like a king tide. She stepped backwards. Feeling the chair hitting her legs behind her, she sat, grateful that they didn’t have to hold her weight anymore. ‘He’s a tough little fella,’ the Doctor said. She didn’t smile. Her face was passive, but Bambi read in it a silent reprimand: How could you people let this happen? ‘He is stable. We successfully performed a gastric lavage, and have him on a respirator and an IV.’ Wanda slumped into Jonathon and her tears started again. ‘He is a very lucky little boy,’ she added. It rolled easily off her tongue, like she had said it before, and would say it again. Bambi wondered if that was how the doctors divided up their patients: lucky and unlucky? Were they charted as such on a whiteboard in the staffroom? Written in impermanent ink in case one was to sail from right to left, or plummet from left to right? ‘We don’t know yet if there will be any permanent damage to his oesophagus or stomach. But he’ll live.’ ‘Thank you, Doctor.’ Wanda grabbed her hand and squeezed it, crushing the paper mask. The Doctor nodded sagely. Bambi watched her parents hugging and crying. Adam stepped forward to embrace their mother.

153 Warmth flooded through her but her skin remained cold. Her heartbeat had calmed, but it lilted irregularly. She couldn’t quite catch the offbeat, to bring it under control. It was like chasing a leaf on a blustery day. They were behaving like it was all okay. But nothing was okay. Kevin was in a hospital bed, fixed there with needles and tubes. She couldn’t change it, she couldn’t stop it happening; didn’t stop it happening. She should have been there. The woman was right. It should never have happened.

154 24.

Bambi sat with her legs stretched out long in the morning sun of the back yard. Grass tickled the backs of her calves and the rough wool of the blanket itched the tops. She had tried to keep Kevin still, make him sit there quietly with her in the warmth, but she had given up on wrestling him back into place and had let him have his way. She watched him potter, inspecting everything and anything, trying to place whatever he could into his mouth until Bambi leapt up in panic to knock it out before settling back into her comfortable possie again. Bambi wondered if he was warm enough. She wasn’t one to fret, but since the accident and as she was at home in charge of his safety, everything looked dangerous. He had refused the slightly-too-small jumper she had tried to pull over his slightly- too-big head. He had screamed at her as she dragged the ribbing down his forehead, and kicked wildly when it caught on his ears and wouldn’t budge any further. She had sighed heavily, giving up. She needed to take him outside while the sun was shining. Otherwise she’d spend the entire day cleaning up the shambles in the house he left in his wake. ‘He’s just at that age, when he’s into everything,’ Wanda had said. ‘Isn’t it wonderful that he’s walking!’ Easy to say when you weren’t cleaning the mess! But Kevin was happily cavorting around outside, destroying anthills and ripping the yellow flowers off fireweed instead of pulling wools out of their mother’s knitting basket. Bambi had used his blankie as a makeshift coat. It looked more like a cape, pinned at his neck with a safety pin. Flannelette Peter Rabbits shivered in the breeze of his wake as he moved around the yard. It did zilch to keep him warm, but his cheeks were pink with excitement, and if he was cold, it didn’t bother him in the slightest. Bambi smiled, plucking a piece of grass and tucking it between her lips. She liked watching him, it sure beat going to school. It felt safer here at home. The family had closed in on itself since the day at the hospital. Adam had come around a few times, bringing food, which he watched Wanda and Bambi cook together and he chatted about TAFE and the things he was learning. It was almost like normal. Jonathon and Adam had made a sort-of silent truce. Bambi wasn’t sure how long it would last. They spoke to each other in sporadic, stiff bursts. The atmosphere congealed when they were together in the same room, making everything careful and laborious - thick and weighty with unspoken words. The air told of a storm that was to arrive, and by the smell of it, it would be soon. Twirling the stem of grass with her fingers, she bit the end of it between her teeth and let the sharp juice prickle the buds on her tongue. It tasted of the land that she had grown up

155 on. She wanted to stay in the country forever, to never leave the deep red soil, where you could upend bone-white witchetty grubs if you dug for even just a moment. She rolled onto her side and rested her head on her hand, her eyes following Kev as he wandered to the edge of the house and picked at a circle of lichen with his tiny fingers. There was serenity to be found here: the feeling of belonging. She rolled onto her back. But there was also something else, too, something lying flush alongside the pleasure of being at home. She stared up at the fast moving clouds, too distracted to look for hidden pictures within them. Maybe she did want something more? Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of shoes crunching in the gravel down the side of the house. She sat up and folded her legs into a ‘W’ in front of her body, readjusting the blanket across her knees. ‘Dad’s back early,’ she thought. He’d caught the bus with Wanda this morning and headed down to the dole office in town to have an interview ‘with some boffin’ about his job prospects. Kevin toddled towards the footsteps but trod on the edge of his cape and crashed to the ground, lying in a stunned heap like an upended turtle. ‘Hello,’ called a cautious voice. That’s not Dad. Bambi stood abruptly, letting the rug fall to the grass. She stepped over it and scooped Kevin back up onto his feet. ‘Hello!’ the voice called again. Bambi reached the corner of the house at the same moment Jack Arnold did. ‘Oh!’ Bambi let out a surprised gasp and jumped back like she had received a jolt of electricity. ‘Someone is home!’ He said, flicking his hair from his eyes. ‘What are you doing here?’ Bambi demanded. He flinched. She cringed. She hadn’t meant her words to sound quite so harsh. Why did she do that when he was around? Abruptly spit out whatever came to mind first? ‘I just dropped by to say hello.’ He looked out of place standing in her yard in his Vans and Quiksilver shirt, and with nothing to say. His eyes strayed away… Jack surveyed their outside laundry and bathroom shed. He took in the corrugated tin roof and the timber slats that were so old and porous they resembled smooth grey sea-sponge. Bambi watched the surprise register in his eyes, the shock as he glanced at the side window

156 with the old newspapers stacked high behind its armour of yellowed age; the way the back of the house tapered towards the ground as the back stump sank at a rate of millimetres per year into the ground. His stare lingered on the open door on the back veranda. Standing with her arms crossed tightly, she tried again. ‘Why are you here, Jack?’ She was not going to ask him inside. No, never. He looked at her intently. His eyes were liquid black, shimmering with colours like crude oil. ‘I heard about your brother,’ he said gently. Oh. She nodded. ‘I’m really sorry.’ She nodded again. ‘I’m glad he’s okay…’ His words wandered off at the end. She wanted to pour out all of her doubts, to say: ‘it’s my fault! I nearly killed him. I should have been there, not at school, where I don’t belong, where I’ve never belonged!’ But instead she remained silent and watched his sentiments scamper all over his face. ‘You’re not making this easy, you know.’ He ran his hands through his hair, exposing his smooth brown forehead for a second before it flopped back into his eyes. ‘Making what easy?’ She questioned. ‘This!’ he threw his hands up in exasperation. ‘This whole thing?’ She still didn’t get it. What ‘whole thing’? He shoved his hands into his pockets and leant back against the side of the house. The smidgen of buff-toned paint that remained on the boards crackled quietly beneath the weight of his shoulders. Bambi was sure the house had been white when it had first been painted. When the then-owners had a brass-razoo to their name, and things like paint – and clothes, and furniture, and food – weren’t considered a luxury. Jack stared at his feet. ‘Can’t we just forget about everything and start again?’ ‘Everything?’ Her voice peaked high on the last syllable of the word. ‘You mean, all the times you’ve been cruel me?’ ‘Bambi,’ he studied the grass in between his shoes. ‘I just want to be friends.’ Bambi’s stomach was on fire. She tore her eyes away from his and watched Kevin tipping the basket of pegs over his head. ‘I don’t know if I can,’ she responded in a quiet voice. ‘How do I just forget everything? Just like that?’

157 They stood side by side, watching the baby slobber and suck on the ends of the pegs. He clutched as many as he could in his hand and tried to shove them holus-bolus into his mouth. Bambi moved across and took the pegs from his grip, causing him to squeal. ‘Why?’ She swivelled her head towards him. ‘I dunno,’ he shrugged. ‘I guess I like the way you don’t care what anyone else thinks.’ Bambi snorted. ‘…and the way you live. I don’t care about that.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘I mean, you can’t help it if you’re poor…’ ‘And I live in squalor?’ ‘Yeah, exactly! It’s not your fault. You’ll be able to leave this all behind one day. Make something of yourself. You’ve got the guts to, I reckon.’ He looked around with his mouth pinched at the edges. ‘I’ve got to go,’ Bambi grabbed Kevin and made for the veranda steps. ‘What? What did I say?’ She swung around to face him, hurt etched into her face. ‘Just leave, Jack.’ She said darkly. ‘I can do without friends like you.’ She flew up the steps and let the door bang loudly behind her, leaving Jack to wonder what had just happened. Bambi watched secretly from the front window as he rode off on his bike. It was new, and trendy, and perfect. Exactly the right bike for him. She was positive she’d made a mistake pushing him away. She was being an idiot. But she watched him go, knowing that she had just spoiled any chance she was ever going to have with him. She closed her eyelids slowly, as if that simple movement was greatly painful. ‘Better now than later,’ she thought. It seemed that all her imaginings about relationships were dreams. Her parents didn’t love each other. Bambi had worked that out a long time ago. Why they stayed together was beyond her, but she had hoped that they were the exception and that people could really, truly, totally love each other. Well, if it was true, she was beginning to realise that it wasn’t going to be true for her. She leant against the wall next to her brother and watched him drag the newspaper off the table. He plonked his nappied bottom down, and began peeling its pages off, one by one.

158 25.

Wanda smiled. She wrapped the sliced free-range organic ham in a square of waxy paper before she handed it across to the lovely old dear. ‘That’ll be five dollars and thirty cents please Evie,’ she spoke to the top of the woman’s head as she dug around in her glow mesh purse. Her voice sounded loud and tinny as it bounced back at her. Evie dropped coins into Wanda’s open palm, turning her upper body sideways like a bird to see what she was doing. ‘Thanks Lovey,’ she said as she lowered herself back down into her hunched position. ‘Here, let me get that,’ Wanda rounded the counter and picked up the old woman’s walking cane that had slid to the ground at her feet. ‘I’ll just put this parcel in your bag here, too.’ She helped the old woman to the door, holding it open for her as she guided her down the step. ‘Will you be okay to get home on your own, Evie?’ She tutted at Wanda: ‘Of course I will. I’ve been doing it for the last sixty years!’ She took two brisk steps away from the door as proof. ‘And don’t forget to send that girl of yours over to me this week. I have some jobs for her.’ ‘Okay then, Evie. I’ll do that.’ Wanda let the door close with a jangle. She leant against it briefly. Lord, she was tired. And since Kevin’s accident, she’d lost something. She could barely force herself out the door in the morning. If it wasn’t for Bambi staying at home, she wasn’t sure what she would have done. She felt stuck and she had no idea how to yank herself free. When Jonathon had lost his job, working at the health food shop had saved their tails. Wanda had been able to put food on the table, somehow finding the energy to cook it before hand, and to clean it up after. She just had to carry them through the rough patch. She had stretched herself thin across the divide in order to get them to safety. But Jonathon hadn’t gotten any better after the initial incident with his boss. If anything, he was slipping further down the very smooth slope of whatever demons he grappled with in his mind. Wanda had tried to drag him upward with every ounce of her strength. But now, she resignedly listened for the thud as he hit bottom. She had tried everything in her strength, and had failed. The job had become a rod for her back, which both fed her children and deprived them.

159 She pushed down the uncomfortable feeling she got when she thought of leaving Bambi home with Kevin. She knew she should be at school. She knew there was a price being paid. Wanda wrung her hands in her apron as she walked back to the stepladder. What was she supposed to do? She had been over it a thousand times in her mind and was no closer to an answer. She picked up the static duster and took a step up. She felt the acid pumping into her stomach, wearing at the already tender lining. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the roll of antacids, peeling the silver paper back, and popping two chalky tablets onto her tongue. The noise of the bell punctured her thoughts and she turned to smile automatically at the doorway. There stood Ben Shirley with his cap in one hand while the other patted down his ginger hair, which sprung back up into exactly the same position it had started in. He smiled at her shyly, in a way that made his eyes brighten: today they looked olive green against his black shirt. She stepped back down. ‘Hello Wanda.’ When he said her name, his voice glided over all the rough edges left by the hectic morning. She couldn’t stop her heart from beating faster, even though she tried to calm it with stern words to herself. ‘Ben. Hello.’ She tried not to notice the way his freckles danced across his nose when his expression shifted, or the way his shoulders filled out his jacket, leading down his sturdy arms and long-fingered hands. He was by no means a handsome man, but there was just something about him… ‘What are you doing here?’ Her eyes shifted from side to side nervously as if she was in disapproving company. But they were alone. Ben chuckled at her. ‘I came to buy sugar and flour.’ ‘Oh, really? Sorry.’ He laughed again. ‘No. I came here to speak with you.’ ‘Oh,’ she flushed, and began fidgeting with the nut bar display on the counter, fluffing at it with the duster. ‘About?’ She looked out at Ben from under her lashes, not quite sure she wanted to meet that hazel gaze head on. ‘Bambi hasn’t been to Track on Fridays.’ He shifted out of the stream of warm air that was being blown at him from the air conditioner and moved closer to Wanda. He looked at

160 her for a response, and when she didn’t, he pushed on. ‘The word is that she hasn’t been to school, either.’ What did he expect her to say to that? She remained silent. ‘So….’ He let his thought trail off. His eyes skipped around the shop, taking in the neatly dusted and arranged shelves. ‘You want me to explain in a single sentence? A paragraph?’ She ran her hand across her face. ‘I can’t, Ben.’ ‘I don’t want you to explain anything,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I just wanted to know if there was something I could do to help get her back on deck.’ She looked at him then. Her eyes were moist, and his narrowed and softened with genuine concern. ‘Back on deck?’ Wanda’s voice sounded strained to her own ears. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Back into life.’ ‘Why, Ben? Why do you keep on interfering with our lives?’ She saw that she had stung him. He recoiled. Part of her was sorry. She wanted his attention, wanted him to snatch her up onto his white horse and gallop her miles and miles away from who she had become. But she didn’t back down when he turned his wounded eyes away from her to earnestly study the display of fresh bread. She stayed silent, waiting to see where he would go next: poised to take flight, but equally ready to stay. ‘I…’ he looked up at her and she could see that he was teetering. He weighed and measured and his eyes narrowed as he did so. She wasn’t sure; he wasn’t sure. He must have seen in her what he had been scanning for. He took an obvious breath, held onto it for a moment, and leapt, right off the ledge. ‘I had a wife once,’ he said. ‘A long time ago.’ When she didn’t say anything, he ploughed on. ‘She left.’ He said matter-of-factly. ‘Took our eighteen month old daughter with her.’ Wanda drew in her breath and held it. Her hand found its way across her body and rested on her heart. She leant against the counter and her floral skirt spread against the glass as she waited for him to tell the rest of his story. The words sounded polished and neat, as if he had rehearsed them in his head, but he could not hide the jagged edges of his voice from her, or the way the careful sentences were catching in his throat. ‘I couldn’t find her,’ he shook his head, as if he still couldn’t believe it. ‘And no one was talking. It was like they had just disappeared from the face of the earth.’ ‘Did you contact the police?’ she interrupted.

161 ‘Yeah.’ He continued shaking his head, back and forth, the only movement that wouldn’t betray him. He fell silent then and looked at her expectantly, as if his story had explained everything instead of creating an enormous pile of further questions to be answered. ‘I stopped running. I gave up my place at the Institute of Sport, and spent the next two years searching for them.’ Ben stood before her with his arms by his side and his vulnerability sketched across his face. The silence leaked and spread, finding its way over and under the shelving, and curling into the corners of the shop like smoke. ‘And you think if you help us, in a way, you’ll be helping them?’ He looked confused. ‘No.’ He took a step towards her, which brought him close enough to reach out and touch if she chose to. She marvelled at the skin on his face. It was fine and white like china, but crazed with red cracks around his nose and cheeks, and a map of faint blue roads peeking from under in places. It was unexpectedly delicate, and Wanda was unsure how she felt about it. At the very least, she was intrigued. He took another step and shifted next to her; his hips brushed the side of hers as he leant against the counter with her. He turned his face towards hers. The smell of soap skated across her senses. ‘I want a family again.’ Wanda picked up the words to examine them, and dropped them immediately. They were hot, burning her fingers. ‘No!’ she stepped away with an abrupt swoosh as she broke the still air that had settled around them. ‘No,’ she said a second time, softer, more determined. ‘I already have a family.’ ‘I don’t mean right now, Wanda.’ He was unruffled, like he had expected her to react forcefully. ‘I mean, maybe we could grow into something...’ ‘I have a husband, and I love him,’ she hissed back at him. In some ways it was a lie. But not in others. ‘I’m happy there.’ That was a blatant lie. ‘I barely even know you!’ She threw at him. And it was true. He looked at her sadly. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to come on so strong, I just thought…’ ‘And besides, what kind of woman do you take me for?’ she demanded. She tried desperately to hold onto her anger. It was slipping out of her tired fingers.

162 He allowed a slow smile to take over his face. It cut through the defensive wall that Wanda had been able to manufacture against him. It crumbled, and she watched it fall. She had no armour against his final arrow. ‘An amazing one,’ he said quietly. She read in his eyes a thousand warm feelings and she had to turn her face away from him for fear that she would run into his arms and demand that he take her away. ‘You should go, Benjamin.’ She spoke without facing him. She couldn’t. ‘And please, don’t come back.’ She waited, hoping her resolve would hold out. Hoping he would just go and leave her alone. A small part of her hoped he would ignore all she’d said, and stay. ‘Bambi needs to go to school.’ That was all he said. And with it, she heard his steps receding and the doorbell jingle in merry contrast to the sinking of her heart into the deep swamp within her chest. He was right, and she knew it, damn him. Why did he have to turn up in her life and make her question everything?

163 26.

Bambi bounced gently on her toes. She had completed her warm up laps, which had done only a small amount to shake the nerves from her muscles. Her pulse raced and she couldn’t seem to catch it, no matter how reasonable her self-talk was. She had never imagined she would be competing at a Regional Carnival. She watched the girls milling about at the edge of the field waiting to be called to line up for the start of the race. They were a different crew to the Districts. They were sleeker, more muscled, and looked way more dangerous. And Bambi suspected that it all added up to ‘faster’. Her baggy running shorts flapped against her thighs as she jiggled her legs. Most of the other girls had ditched their tracksuit pants, shedding them like snakeskin to reveal their streamlined competition bodies. They wore small pants that looked more like swimsuit bottoms to Bambi than running gear, and crop tops to match. She wondered how much was due to practicality, and how much was good old fashioned showing off. All she knew was that she was thankful for the singlet covering her, protecting her body from the surrounding eyes. Bambi slowly tilted her head left and right, stretching out the muscles in her neck, feeling ridiculously out of place. She shouldn’t be here with these girls. She didn’t recognise several of the stretches they were doing. Man, they were flexible. She was captivated by a girl cleaning the clumps of soil and grass out of her Mizuno Tokyo spikes. She eyed the spiteful looking shoes warily, wondering whether they were more shoe or weapon. A loud grumbling noise sounded in her stomach. She covered it with her hand and passed an apologetic look to the girl next to her. The dark haired girl’s gaze skimmed over her, returning to give her a brief smile, clearly too caught up with her own thoughts to have even recognised the impolite carry-on of Bambi’s digestive tract. She thought back to her breakfast: a peanut butter sandwich hastily shoved into her hand by her mum, who had made the excuses to get her out of the house without Jonathon noticing anything. She wished it hadn’t been so long ago. She realised now she’d been foolish to turn down Ben’s offer of fruit on their quiet drive in to meet the bus. She had screwed her nose up at the thought of eating then, with the nerves darting around her stomach like tiny neon fish. Ben had been weird during the drive. From the moment she jumped in the car where she met him at the corner of Olive and Bottlebrush. Bambi couldn’t figure it out. He had been all curt and distant, and had slumped visibly in relief when they had pulled into the car park where they met the mini-bus. His normal carnival morning excitement was missing. They drove the two hours to the carnival. Ben stared from the bus window, Bambi wondered what she had done to upset him.

164 She was surprised to feel a pang at Ingrid’s absence on the bus. She was so used to doing everything alone. But they had taken to hanging out together – not always, Ingrid worked hard to keep herself connected to the in crowd – but enough that they had settled into something that resembled a comfortable society of two. The loudspeaker sliced through Bambi’s thoughts, the crackling voice announcing that the competitors for the female under 16s 400 metres must report to the marshalling area. The white-shirted, red-faced official herded them onto the track. Bambi gave her head a shake, and tried to gather herself. She took breath deeply into her chest as she fought to find her centre. The air was cold in her lungs but she drew it in, accepting the burn. The noise of the track was incredible. The stands were chocked with people, the hum incessant as they waved and cheered. Bambi tried to block it out. She concentrated on her legs, focusing on each muscle and tendon, shaking them out, willing them to be strong, telling herself they were fast and could fly like the wind. Bambi could sense the girls on either side of her but she chose not to look at them. She deflected their presence. She saw only the track, and the smoothed grass stretching out in a curve before her, waiting for her to vanquish it. She hesitated. These girls beside her were good runners. Probably great runners. What was she doing here? The official held the megaphone up to his mouth, which made him look like an unusual water bird with a conical orange beak. She had no more time for thinking. No more psyching herself in or out. ‘Take your marks.’ All that was left to do was run. Bambi stood in lane five. She had qualified as one of the fastest for the final. She squatted and placed her right toe at the line, carefully positioning her fingers on either side, ready to push up into the starting position. The girl in lane four let out a flood of nervous breath. Bambi looked at her; the girl smiled. ‘Good luck,’ she said. ‘You too.’ Bambi returned. Luck. Is that what she needed? Was this race going to be won and lost on chance? Was her future to be decided by accident, on the track and off? Like Kevin’s? For that matter, was she just unlucky to have been born into the family that lived in the ramshackle house next to the primary school on School Road? Bambi could not believe that. ‘Get set.’

165 She felt the power in her hamstrings as she pushed her backside into the air. The muscles in her left leg relaxed, the muscles in her right coiled tightly and were ready to spring. ‘This is no accident,’ she thought. ‘I am here because I’ve trained hard. And I’m good.’ She heard Ben’s voice mixed up somewhere amongst her thoughts. ‘Who cares what position you come in at, Bambi? Not me!’ Ben had said to her, and she had looked at him quizzically that afternoon under the camphor laurels by the oval. ‘If you race with your heart, and you leave it all on the track – save nothing for ‘just in case’ – then you have won in the way that really counts.’ She had thought he was being a bit dramatic at the time, handing her a guilt free ticket to mediocrity. Like he expected she’d come last. But here, at the centre of the buzzing, she wasn’t so sure. She felt on the brink of understanding what he meant. Although she expected it, the sound of the gun was always startling. She felt its vibrations painfully in her ears as she shot off the line. But its loudness did not distract her. It registered somewhere in the periphery of her mind, and had the desired effect of propelling her body into motion. Its noise quickly dropped away. So did her awareness of the people lining the makeshift fence, and the thunder of the grandstand. It was just Bambi, and the track. The sound of the air rushing in and out of her lungs was loud in her head, as if her ears were submerged under water. She was sealed against the outside world. She felt the ground drum in time with her footfalls, rising to meet each strike as her feet flicked up neatly in her wake; singing in their aliveness, burning with strength. Today she wasn’t running from, she was running to. No, she had decided, she did not believe in luck. She believed in other, more substantial things. And when she flew across the line ahead of the other seven girls, she knew that it had been all her. That she had fought and she had won. Bambi Hall was going to the State Championships - and they had better watch out.

166 27.

Bambi rolled onto her side, towing the blankets with her and feeling them pull out of the bottom of the mattress. She adjusted the pillow under her, folding the corner beneath itself so her head was propped up slightly. Her pillow was so flat, if she didn’t, she otherwise felt to be lying downhill. The tip of her nose told her it was cold in the room and she was in no hurry to get up today. She had slept through her morning run as a present to herself on her birthday. She wasn’t sure at the logic of that thinking, as the morning escape was her favourite part of the day, but it somehow felt special to not drag herself out of the comfort of bed into the raw day that awaited her. The empty bed across from her stood silent and sterile. Her mother had said they could push it up on its side, out of her way, so she could have some space to herself. But she didn’t want the floor opening up in front of her like a ravine. She wanted to be met with the familiar woolly smell when she shut the door to the room: of soap and blankets and her brother. So she left it where he had on the day he’d moved out, a stinging reminder every morning when she opened her eyes. But the pain was something that was real. It was a sign that she was alive and awake, and living a life, even if it wasn’t a very good one. The knock at her door was a question. ‘Come in,’ Bambi said, her morning voice crackling as she tuned it in like a radio station. Wanda’s face peered in around the door. ‘Happy birthday, Sweetie.’ She smiled at her, and for a moment the muscles in her mother’s face relaxed as she appreciated the daughter she had birthed sixteen years ago. ‘Thanks, Mum.’ ‘Are you coming out soon? I have something special for you for your birthday breakfast!’ Wanda grinned at her. ‘Yep,’ Bambi said as she threw back the covers. Food was worth getting out for! She pulled on the thick socks she had left by her bed, and the burgundy dressing gown that had come out of her mother’s chest of clothes. She tightened the cord around her waist. She was the last one up this morning. Kevin sat in his baby chair, alternating between sucking on the piece of orange in his hand and smashing it on to the table. Random droplets of juice squirted from it. He looked at her but didn’t break from his game, it formed part of his wordless greeting. Jonathon flicked back the paper he was reading so he could see Bambi. He had his hat on and he was dressed, looking like he had somewhere to go and something to do. ‘Morning Bambi.’

167 He returned to his newspaper. Bambi felt a pang of hurt. Had he forgotten? He snapped the paper in half, and in half again, folding it and placing it on the table next to his cutlery. ‘Hmm, there’s something mildly important going on today, if I recall.’ Bambi relaxed. Of course he remembered. She sat down in her chair next to Kevin and tried to not stare at the blank seat opposite her where Adam usually sat. Jonathon drummed his fingers on his chin in pretend thought. ‘Hmmm, now if I could just recall what that vaguely important thing is?’ His eyes twinkled at Bambi and she continued to smile. She saw the red rims of his eyes and the equally red spidery cracks in his eyeballs, which told her that he had been on the grog last night. If that were the case, this good mood would run its course quickly. She forced the thought aside. He was making an effort, and she would enjoy it. ‘Oh that’s right! It’s Kevin’s birthday!’ Bambi giggled, and Kevin turned towards the sound of his name and smashed the orange harder in response. ‘Jonathon,’ Wanda scolded mildly. ‘Wish your daughter a happy birthday.’ She leant across the table and placed a folded tea towel in the centre. ‘Ohhhhh!’ He slapped his forehead. ‘It’s Bambi’s birthday!’ Bambi heard the bump of the oven door, and turned to see Wanda placing a plateful of steaming pancakes onto the towel. ‘Happy birthday, Bambi,’ Jonathon grinned at her. Wanda presented a jar of maple syrup, holding it out to her as a trophy to be received. ‘Mum,’ Bambi’s voice flicked up at the end in excitement. ‘My favourite!’ She rubbed her hands together like she had as a small child and her mother kissed her on the head. ‘It’s the real stuff, too,’ chimed in Jonathon. ‘None of that fake, imitation stuff for my best daughter.’ ‘Your only daughter!’ Jonathon waved the comment away with his hand, almost knocking the pancake from the fork as Wanda divvied them up. Bambi had cracked the seal on the syrup and was pouring some onto the pancake in Kevin’s plastic bowl. She was cutting his breakfast into small pieces. Jonathon picked up the bottle and began swirling the brown liquid around his own plate. ‘And in a day or two, you’ll be getting the best present you’ve ever had!’ Jonathon announced.

168 Bambi’s stomach dropped in time with the bottle descending onto the table. Jonathon’s fist clutched its neck, reminding Bambi of a pirate holding a flagon. Wanda ceased moving. A pancake hung in suspension above her plate. ‘What?’ she questioned. ‘ What do you mean?’ Jonathon shoved a forkful of food into his mouth. Syrup dribbled from the corner of his lips. ‘Yesterday, you said you’d collect the lay-by?’ Wanda had forgotten the pancake. Her face was pale and taut. Jonathon chewed, wiping away the sticky syrup from his face. ‘Ran into Bill at the pub last night,’ he said. ‘Said the part I needed for the Monaro was in, so I paid him.’ ‘But that was after you were supposed to collect the parcel.’ Her voice was barely audible. She turned her back to the table. Jonathon shrugged. ‘Good pancakes, Love.’ Wanda didn’t respond. ‘Have to pay the man, or he won’t do business with us. We don’t want to be a bad credit risk.’ He cut another chunk of his pancake with the side of his fork and scooped it into his mouth as if he was using a spoon. He hadn’t noticed that he and Kevin were the only two eating. ‘You don’t mind, do you Bamb?’ He looked at her but didn’t wait for an answer. ‘We’ll get your mum’s lay-by soon enough, and you can even have a few extra bucks to buy yourself a nice doll, or something.’ The saliva had dried in Bambi’s mouth. It was a desert. A doll? Her horror must have shown on her face. ‘What, you too old for dolls now?’ he teased. Bambi could see the flashes of breakfast in his mouth as he spoke. ‘Maybe a training bra then, eh?’ He grinned at his own wit. ‘Caw, don’t look at me like that! I’m just joshing!’ As if that excused everything. Bambi pushed her chair back from the table with a loud scraping and stood. She couldn’t hold back the torrent of tears that came as she dashed outside. ‘What did I say?’ she heard Jonathon ask. She could imagine his stubborn chin held high. ‘Where’s she going?’ Wanda didn’t respond. ‘A man’s entitled to a little respect,’ he mumbled. ‘But do I get any? No. No, I don’t.’ No one called her back to the table, or commented that she hadn’t touched her breakfast. They left her in peace: the only gift it looked like she was going to get today.

169 She allowed the tears to flow freely. The instinct to run was strong, but she was sixteen now. She was practically a woman, even if she didn’t have breasts. She forced herself to sit and recover herself. There was no way she was going back in there, but at least she had had the strength to stop herself bolting down the paddock. Being outside was calming. The universe continued jauntily along, oblivious to the chaos in her life. It was a constant. The conversation of the birds soothed her a little, dulling the sharp edge of pain in her chest as she listened to their chatter. Wanda eventually made her way out to Bambi, to where she had half curled herself around the beam at the top of the steps. She bent down and used the corner of her apron to dry under Bambi’s eyes. ‘Why do you wear an apron, Mum?’ Bambi asked. ‘Nobody does that anymore.’ She knew she was being a brat. Wanda raised her eyebrows at her: ‘is that so?’ She smoothed the apron and skirt in one movement; an action so familiar to Bambi that she barely noticed it. ‘And your dress, Mum.’ She couldn’t help herself. The ball was rolling. Wanda nodded in understanding and her hand surreptitiously found its way to her out- dated hair. ‘They say everybody gets stuck in an era at one point or another,’ Wanda said as she sat daintily on the step with the toes of her shoes neatly together. ‘People decide that they won’t move forward with fashion, or trends, anymore.’ Bambi fiddled with the cord of her robe as she listened, aware that her mother wasn’t biting back at her, as she deserved. ‘I think we subconsciously dig our heels in at a time when we’re the most happy, and stubbornly refuse to change as time scoots along.’ Wanda placed her hand on top of hers. She felt the goose bumps on her mother’s arm. She was cold. ‘It’s a small act of rebellion, I guess.’ Bambi’s mind cartwheeled along beside Wanda’s words. ‘Are you unhappy?’ Bambi turned her hand palm-up and laced her fingers through her mum’s. ‘Ahh, of course not, Bambi.’ She gave her hand a quick squeeze. ‘Things are just a bit complicated now. They used to be simpler, that’s all.’ Bambi couldn’t quite manage to return her smile. ‘Besides,’ Wanda continued. ‘Fashion aside, an apron keeps my dress clean!’ She looked pleased with herself as if she had made quite a witty statement. She had always been lousy at jokes.

170 Bambi wriggled her hand free of Wanda’s and was tugging at a burgundy thread that had come loose on her gown. ‘Speaking of which,’ Wanda stood and headed to the door. ‘The day is not lost!’ How could she forgive him, just like that? She hated him. Bambi looked back over her shoulder, but her mother had already disappeared inside the house. She slumped back against the pole. She hadn’t expected a lot from today. Without Adam, everything felt different – less, somehow. But she hadn’t anticipated her father’s back stab. What a selfish bastard. She shook her head. She should have guessed. And what was her mother going to do about it? Nothing, that’s what. She watched a penny lizard dart out onto the cement patch in the sun at the bottom of the stairs, but it disappeared as quickly as it came, leaving her to examine the dirty, pocked concrete. She wondered where it had come from and to where it had urgently run off. When Wanda returned, Bambi was staring at the dust motes dancing in the shaft of light that cut through the shadow. Her mother hid her hands beneath her apron, silently proving to her daughter that aprons did, in fact, have many practical uses. From it she withdrew a dark grey knitted beanie and held it out to her. ‘I unravelled one of your dad’s jumpers,’ Wanda apologised. ‘He won’t wear it, says it itches his neck.’ ‘Oh Mum,’ Bambi took it from her hand and pulled it onto her unbrushed hair. ‘Thank you.’ ‘I thought you could use it, getting up in the freezing with the birds every morning as you do.’ As if on cue, a Magpie sang out several phrases of its morning melody. Bambi hugged her mother, trying to keep her tears behind her lashes. ‘It’s great,’ she said. ‘I’ll get heaps of wear out of it.’ She didn’t know how she did it, but her mother had the power to single-handedly turn everything around. They sat a while longer together, Bambi’s head snuggly warm, enjoying the sunshine and talking about little things that mean nothing and everything all at once. When they returned to the kitchen, Jonathon was gone and had left the baby alone. Kevin grinned at them from his chair, head to toe in pancakes and juice. They cleaned the kitchen and the baby together, and Bambi carried Kevin on her hip as they walked to the bus stop.

171 Children were screaming and cavorting around the primary school yard. Their game swooped near them as they passed along the front fence. Kevin stared at them, uncertain, clinging a little tighter to Bambi’s jacket. A little girl with blonde plaits and eyes that matched her cobalt uniform looked at Bambi as she passed. They’d seen each other before. They had a weird connection. The girl let out an extra ‘whoop’ purely for Bambi’s sake, before turning sharply from the fence line and running off into the tumult of other kids. Bambi smiled. She missed that schoolyard. She was glad Wanda had let her stay home from school, even though the talk in the house had been about sending her back, the agreement being that she could stay home until after her birthday. She pushed thoughts of tomorrow aside. She hoped that if she were quiet about it, the deadline would pass unnoticed. Bambi wore the beanie on the bus, feeling a mix of ridiculousness and pride; part fisherman, part hobo, she grinned to herself. But it had been made with the purest of motives, and Bambi refused to give in to the childish part of her that wanted to pull it from her head and tuck it away from the curious eyes, stuffing it into her backpack. She smiled across at Wanda with Kevin on her knee, sucking on the handle of her handbag. Really, what did she have to complain about? The trio bundled off the bus at the stop in the centre of town. They waited as the bus dragged itself away slowly with its engine roaring and the air hazing hotly around them with a mist of castoff diesel. They crossed the road and strolled to the front of The Flowering Mungbean where they were to part, but they were in no hurry to break their easy companionship. Bambi kissed her mother on the cheek and readjusted her grip on Kevin, who was tiring rapidly of being contained. ‘We’ll come by later to see you,’ she said to Wanda. ‘I’ll take this monster to the park!’ ‘No, not today,’ Wanda said as she reached across and pulled Kevin from her. ‘He’s coming with me, and you’re going to have the morning to yourself.’ Wanda looked pleased with herself; another of her series of birthday surprises was coming into play. Bambi did not, however, miss the tension tugging at the edges of her mouth that said she wasn’t really ready to take Kevin back to the shop. ‘No, Mum.’ Bambi said. ‘I want him with me.’ In response, Wanda leant Kevin’s head towards her. ‘Give him a kiss,’ she instructed. Bambi obeyed and Kevin was whisked away through the door. Wanda stuck her head back out. ‘Wait here a sec.’ Bambi scuffed her shoe on the pavement while she waited.

172 True to her word, she was only gone for what seemed like seconds before she emerged again with a five dollar note in her hand, which she shoved into Bambi’s and closed her fist around it. ‘Morning tea!’ She exclaimed. ‘Go. Enjoy yourself.’ She gave Bambi a mild push. And with that she was gone again, leaving Bambi feeling uneasy, as if she had been behaving selfishly. She readjusted the beanie on her head. Jonathon was right. The wool was as itchy as all get out. But she would not take it off. She went in to see Mr Chang at the Bakery, uncharacteristically announcing to him that it was her birthday, and that she would have a cream bun, please and thank you. He grinned at her and nodded dumbly, a self-rolled cigarette tucked behind his ear like he was the small-town-Australia version of James Dean. She knew he understood every word, but he liked to pretend his English was poor, when it suited him, at least. But he handed her a paper bag with the largest of the buns behind the glass, after stopping to carefully consider them all, making a show of measuring each of them against his stretched out fingers. She held out the purple note across the counter, Queen Elizabeth’s young face poised grimly in an almost smile, but he waved it away like he was batting flies from his baking. ‘Not today, not today,’ he said in his clipped-English. Bambi hesitated with the note shaking minutely in her outstretched hand. She pulled it back and tucked it into her pocket. She’d give it back to her mum later. ‘Thank you,’ she said uncertainly. But his back was already turned and she left the store feeling guilty about Kevin, and now about Mr Chang’s gift to her. She sat on the bench seat in the main street with the bun sitting on the flattened bag, balanced on her knee. She ignored the conversations of the people passing by, heading left and right, but never bumping into each other. The bench was across from a clothing shop, where pasty mannequins posed stiffly in the windows. They were dressed in matching casual outfits complete with necklaces and handbags, but without a stitch of hair on their round white heads. Bambi thought they looked ridiculous. She stared at the young woman at the front desk of the shop who was fiddling with the quick of her thumbnail with the greatest of interest. She looked as bored as. Bambi looked away. She pulled the bun apart and wiped the cream from side to side until it was even between the two halves, smearing the bright red jam in vibrant slashes against the white. She took a bite. A big one. The sweetness jolted, then rolled across her tongue as a tropical wave.

173 ‘That was a huge mouthful.’ Bambi flinched as Jack plonked down next to her. She choked down the half chewed bun in her mouth and wiped the cream that had smudged her top lip. It smeared across the back of her hand. She stared, wondering what she was going to do with it. She felt completely uncomfortable, but Jack didn’t seem to notice. ‘Dentist,’ he answered her unasked question, and pointed vaguely along the street in the direction he had apparently come from. ‘Having your own private picnic here, instead of being at school?’ He pushed his Oakleys up into his hair. The collar of his school uniform poked out from beneath the NSW Origin jersey he’d pulled over it. ‘It’s my birthday.’ She decided to lick the cream off like a cat. Why did she keep blurting that out? ‘Cool! Happy birthday, Bambi.’ He reached across and punched her lightly on the shoulder. ‘Seventeen already!’ The discomfort of their last encounter hung, tender, at the edge of her thoughts. He pushed on unperturbed. Was he over it, or had forgotten it? Or was he merely doing a spectacular job of pretending to be okay? ‘No, sixteen. I’m young for the grade. Parents thought I was gifted,’ she said dryly. ‘That’s what I like about you, Hall, you crack me up.’ She raised her eyebrows at him, and his eyes skittered away; the first crack in his bravado. He lifted a Nike up onto his knee and held onto his ankle with both hands. She relaxed. She preferred humans to superheroes. ‘Want half?’ she handed the handled piece of bun out to him, which he took without hesitation. ‘Nice hat,’ he said, his mouth full. A grin tugged at Bambi’s mouth. She took another bite: ‘Mum knitted it from an old jumper.’ He looked measuringly at her before he laughed. ‘Looks hot,’ he said. Bambi ruptured with laughter, the sound muffled by the fullness of her mouth. She choked and spluttered, which made her dissolve further into amusement, sending Jack also into spasms of laughter. ‘Stop making me laugh, it hurts!’ Bambi clutched her stomach, her giggles dissolving. ‘Pretty sure you started it,’ he slung back at her. He dropped his foot back onto the ground and leant forward with his hands on his knees. Bambi went quiet. He was so close. She gave herself a mental shake. To him, she was just a charity case.

174 His hair flopped onto his forehead in its usual manner, but it fell short of his eye instead of landing in it like it usually did. He flicked his head anyway out of habit. Bambi’s pulse picked up as she looked at him. His lashes flicked up and down as she watched. She had no idea how she could feel two exactly opposite things about the one person. It was like having toes so cold you thought they were burning. ‘Got a haircut, huh? Nice…’ Which started them both laughing again, but not so heartily as before. Bambi’s giggling stopped. ‘Are you heading back to school?’ she asked him. Maybe he didn’t pity her? And so what if he did? Didn’t she feel sorry for herself at times? Was it possible that he understood what it meant to both love and hate someone? Someone like your own father? ‘Supposed to be,’ Jack sounded non-committal. ‘Do you wanna go for a swim instead?’ Gosh, what was she doing? She held her breath and waited for his answer. Jack squinted his eyes at her, pursing his lips as he considered. ‘It is winter, you know?’ ‘Yep,’ she said. Half his mouth turned up in a smile. ‘I know this dam,’ she said. ‘Okay then,’ he said, standing up and grinning. ‘What are we waiting for?’

175 28.

They jogged along together at a slow pace, like they had all day. Which, they kinda did. She pulled her beanie from her head and balled it up in her hand. Bambi found it surprisingly easy to chat with Jack when they were side by side. They ran the kilometres to the dam in seemingly no time at all, covering topics from Regionals to the best and most appropriate way to layer ingredients in a taco. They laughed a lot and Bambi felt a warmth in her that she wished would never end. They glanced at each other occasionally, but mostly, they took in the scenery and their footfalls, and the sound of rhythmic feet hitting the road. Bambi ran in her school shoes, which were also her everyday shoes, but she was used to it and was not bothered. They made their way off the road and into the high grass when they came to the fence of Hannigan’s paddock. Bambi led him to the section she knew was the loosest, and pulled the barbed wire for him to duck through. ‘Don’t hurt yourself,’ he said as he bent down. Bambi snorted. ‘Good one. I’m the Paddock Queen.’ ‘The Paddock Queen?’ He laughed. ‘You get a shot at giving yourself a title and you come up with The Paddock Queen?’ ‘Shut up,’ she laughed back. ‘There’s nothing wrong with knowing my way around a paddock.’ They stood on opposite sides of the fence. ‘Yeah, but it’s hardly glamorous!’ ‘Let me through, Glamour Boy,’ she said. ‘Prince of all things Glittery.’ ‘Oh, that’s just nasty!’ He said. ‘There’s no way I’m letting you through if you’re going to be like that.’ ‘Fine.’ Bambi grinned. ‘I don’t need you anyway.’ She put her foot on the bottom strand of wire, and lifted the one above with her arm, throwing herself through the gap, trying to time the ‘let go’ at exactly the right time. She’d done it a thousand times before. The twanging wire snagged the back of her jumper, and she found herself on the ground on the other side but awkwardly half-caught in the fence. Jack was too busy laughing at her. ‘The paddock Queen,’ he repeated a few times before Bambi growled at him to untangle her. ‘Just shut up,’ she said as they walked the last few metres to the dam. ‘At least I didn’t need a babysitter to get me through the fence.’ ‘Oh, I beg to differ.’ He replied. Bambi gave him a shove, amazed at how natural this really, really bizarre scenario felt.

176 She grinned to herself and thought, ‘best birthday ever!’ They stood at the edge of the water. It looked brown and disgusting with Jack standing next to her. She hesitated, aware that maybe this wasn’t the sort of thing rich kids did for fun. She glanced at him, and he turned his head to face her. ‘I guess it doesn’t look too appealing,’ she mumbled. ‘It’s a dam,’ he said. ‘How appealing do they get?’ He shrugged off his jersey and began unbuttoning his shirt. Bambi stared at his chest, aware that she was gaping but unable to look away as each button undone revealed further his smooth brown skin. ‘Coming in?’ He asked as he threw his shirt on the ground, and with a loud whoop, ran to the edge and threw himself sideways into the water. He emerged seconds later flicking his hair as he shot out of the water, sending droplets flying in an arc above him. Bambi kicked herself for not thinking this idea through. What was she supposed to swim in? Her underwear? She shuddered. What a complete idiot she was. Now she looked like a knob standing full dressed at the edge, undecided whether she jumped in fully clothed or not. ‘What would look the most ridiculous,’ she wondered. She hopped uncomfortably between her feet as she watched him swim the length of the dam and back again. He was swift and strong. She stared, mesmerized. Deciding she looked ridiculous standing at the edge of the water, she picked up Jack’s shed clothes and settled back onto the grass where Adam had told her he was leaving home. She crossed her legs. Her jeans resisted and she felt a gap at her back where they pulled down lower than her jumper. She pulled the beanie back onto her head, over her ears. She held his shirts up to her face and breathed deeply. Oh… Jack had enough of the freezing water quickly and bolted out in a mad hurry. She quickly placed his clothes next to her. He stood dripping; his torso and limbs splotched red and blue. He then shook like a dog, spraying her. ‘Eewh!’ ‘Thanks for dragging me down here and tricking me into diving into a freezing cold dam, while you sat like Paddock Queen that you are, over here in the warm sunshine.’ ‘A pleasure,’ she responded, throwing his shirt at him. He caught it in one hand. ‘Hang on,’ she said. She tugged off the beanie and threw it at him. ‘Here, dry yourself with that.’ ‘Are you kidding me?’ She shrugged. He began wiping his body with it and Bambi felt herself tingling and lightheaded.

177 ‘This,’ he held out the hat before him, ‘is not only the ugliest thing I have ever seen, but it is also the most prickly substance known to man.’ Bambi grinned at him. ‘You don’t say?’ ‘I think NASA may find a scientific use for it…’ Jack put on his clothes and ran his fingers through his wet hair. He put out his hand and pulled her to her feet. They stood facing each other, closer than they had before. Bambi scanned his face involuntarily – she tried to look away but she was too close to him and the smell of his shirts still lingered in her mind. He stood unmoving and his eyes followed hers. She bit down on her bottom lip and his eyes took it in, staring at her lips for a second before his gaze flicked back to her eyes and locked in. They were locked together and both breathing rapidly. Bambi stepped back abruptly, wobbling slightly as her foot found uneven ground. Emotion flicked across his face before the curtain dropped. Bambi had no idea how to read him. ‘We had best be getting back,’ Bambi said, wrapping her arms around herself. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘It’s bloody cold in these wet shorts.’ She looked away from him. ‘Thanks to you,’ he added, trying to make a joke but all Bambi felt was a sting. He smiled. ‘Come on.’ He knocked her on the shoulder as he launched into a jog. ‘Last one to the fence has to get through without any help!’ Bambi watched him jog away, taking a few seconds to muster the courage to pick up her feet and follow.

178 29.

There was a strange car parked outside the house when Bambi got home from school. It was white and practical, but shiny. She baulked at the sight of it sitting boldly outside: whole, spotless, and functional. She walked alongside the car, peering in the window at the collection of manila files banded and piled on the backseat. It was unsettling. People who visited their house did not drive cars like this one. She hovered at the front fence, suspended in indecision. She ducked down so she couldn’t be seen and pondered, squatting there, holding the fence beam as she considered. Something felt wrong. She did not want to go inside. ‘I can’t keep acting like this,’ she thought. She stood and walked the fifteen steps to the bottom of the front stairs. Her resolve wavered and she considered taking off down the side of the house. She willed her leg to take a step up, and then the next, until she found herself looking in through the front screen into the barren passageway of floorboards. The murmur of voices was faint, but unmistakable. Bambi could make out Wanda’s voice, its alto tones playing flute-like in the lounge off the main hallway. But it was low and serious, and intense, in a way that her mother reserved for the most serious of conversations. It was punctuated by the deeper sound of male speech, but only in single words, and not many at that. She stepped into the house and let the screen door bang shut behind her, to let them know she was there. Their voices cut off. She braced herself. Bambi entered the lounge room and sat neatly beside her mother with her hands in her lap, in imitation of Wanda, as if she was expected to arrive at that exact moment. The man sitting opposite, straight and tall, was golden. He reminded Bambi of a teddy bear with his yellow brown hair – a single shade darker than his skin – which curled tightly around his head in a cap of tight, small curls. He was large, but not overweight. His hand, it appeared to Bambi, could cover half a basketball; two hands, and the ball would disappear entirely. He smiled at her, flashing her his white teeth. But as warm as he looked, his expression called it a lie, and his eyes remained blank, like he was acting out the gestures of greeting but feeling none of them on his insides. The adults looked at each other and the man indicated to Wanda with a curt nod that she was to be the one to start the speaking. ‘Bambi,’ she began. ‘This is Mr Halicott. He’s from Family Services.’

179 Bambi nodded as if she had expected this exact scenario when she walked in. ‘Hello Mr Halicott,’ she said, looking him in the eye as she spoke, showing him none of the trembling she felt. ‘Mr Halicott is here to talk to us about your school attendance.’ The way Wanda kept saying Mr Halicott, made Bambi nervous. Her leg began jumping up and down rapidly until she placed her hand on it, forcing it to stay put. She could feel the vibrations of its quivering through her palm and up her arm, into her chest. Wanda’s hand reached for her neckline, desperate to fidget with a necklace that wasn’t there. ‘I’ve just come from school,’ Bambi said. It felt like such a bizarre thing to say. What a peculiar conversation she was having with the Teddy-bear Man and her mother in their lounge. None of it was real in the dim room. She felt like a character from an Enid Blyton novel, all manners and propriety, and ridiculously long socks pulled up to the knees. She looked down at her own yellowed socks. They had slouched southwards, slipping down to touch the laces of her shoes because the elastic was shot. She was definitely not one of Blyton’s characters. The bear man nodded. The collar of his shirt seemed to cut into the skin of his neck. Bambi wondered how he could breathe properly. She wanted to reach over and yank at it with a finger; loosen it so she didn’t feel so claustrophobic from looking at him. ‘It appears so,’ he said. She shouldn’t have been surprised, but she was. His voice rumbled with the sound of far off thunder – of rocks and sticks and mud – all the things one would expect to hear in the voice of a bear. ‘But that hasn’t been the case lately, has it?’ He glared at her. His eyes seemed to stare through her at the pattern of the cushion at her back. ‘You have been known to truant, have you not?’ Bambi looked at Wanda. Didn’t truant mean her parents had thought she was at school? But her parents had known. ‘And what’s more,’ he continued in his gravelly monotone. ‘We have had a written complaint stating that you, in fact, have coerced and bullied another student into wagging school with you.’ It was a question and a statement rolled together. ‘Well?’ he growled the word. Bambi blinked rapidly, clearing her eyes. In the weak light of the front room, for a split second, he had been a bear. A great grizzly bear. An Ursus arctos horribilis. She’d heard that on a David Attinborough documentary. Mr Halicott Horribilis.

180 ‘I didn’t coerce him!’ ‘But you did encourage another student to skip school to go swimming at a dam?’ ‘I…’ ‘Hmmmm?’ Bambi looked at Wanda who had her eyes downcast and her fingers clamped on her mouth. Mr Halicott snapped his folder shut with a crack. He lifted his black briefcase up beside him and flicked the latches open simultaneously. He placed the folder squarely in the case. ‘Let’s put it this way,’ he said, pushing down on the open case until it clicked once more, this time with the announcement of a conclusion. ‘The department is keeping a very close eye on your case. And if we don’t see a vast…’ He paused to glare at Wanda and then at Bambi. ‘…vast improvement in your school attendance, we will be taking action.’ He stood, which acted to punctuate his speech as an exclamation point. ‘There’s nothing else I can do here today.’ He gave a slight bow. ‘Good day, ladies.’ Perhaps he was the Blyton character. ‘I shall see myself out.’ And with that, he retraced his steps, and was gone. Wanda followed him to the door anyway, and closed it behind him, watching him unlock his centrally locked white sedan with a click of his button and drive away at a sensible speed. ‘Mum?’ Wanda rested her head against the doorframe. ‘What did he mean by ‘taking action’?’ Wanda didn’t respond. ‘Mum?’ ‘You had better not miss any more days,’ was all she said. Wanda’s reaction made Bambi queasy. She didn’t like the way the walls pressed in on her, making the hallway an incredibly small space. Wanda turned to face her. ‘What were you thinking, Bambi?’ She was shocked to see the anger in her face. It pierced her in a way that was unfamiliar. ‘Mum…’ ‘Of all the kids to encourage to wag with you? You had to pick the Arnold boy?’ ‘But Mum…’ ‘His Dad’s our bank manager, for crying out loud!’

181 Wanda barely blinked. She just stared at her. ‘I didn’t know that,’ Bambi whispered. ‘You know better, Bambi!’ Her mother was right, and she had nothing to say. She couldn’t argue with her. She deserved to be resented and yelled at. She wanted to get away. Bambi couldn’t stand to see the disappointment on her face. ‘Can I go see Adam?’ she asked quietly, staring out the door. ‘It’s getting late,’ Wanda’s voice was thin. She had collapsed bodily against the frame. ‘No.’ ‘But Mum.’ She never argued. ‘Please.’ Wanda said nothing. ‘If I ride his bike I can get there before dark,’ she said. ‘And I’ll call you when I get there.’ Her mother frowned at her. ‘Fine,’ she said, her eyes swung outward to the flattened marks in the grass where the social worker’s car had been parked. She snapped them back to her. ‘But take your things for school tomorrow and stay overnight. At least that way you might be on time in the morning.’ Wanda was miles away from her. Bambi held out her hand to touch her arm, but let it fall back to her side. She felt unreachable. Bambi panicked. She really needed to see Adam. ‘What will Dad say?’ she asked quietly, afraid Wanda would change her mind. She brushed away her concern with a swish of her hand. ‘He’ll just have to deal with it. You can take your brother half of the muffins I made today.’ Bambi thought they would be better off keeping the muffins themselves, since Adam didn’t really need them, but she kept her mouth closed and went to grab her backpack from her hiding spot under the house. ‘Where’s Dad?’ she called out from the veranda, as a second thought. Wanda’s muted reply came back: ‘Not here.’ She scooted down the steps and around the side, shimmying under the slats and into the dirt to get her backpack out from behind the old box. She headed back inside in several bounds, retrieving her pyjamas and toothbrush and meeting Wanda in the kitchen to take the baking which was wrapped in a recycled bread bag with a knot tied in its end. ‘Here,’ she said and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Go. And straight home from school tomorrow afternoon.’ It was a clear warning. ‘But, training?’ Wanda’s face tensed. ‘Fine.’ That was the second time she’d said that. And in that resigned kind of way.

182 Bambi knew they could only hold off her father’s suspicion for so long, and what then? The guilt of dragging her mum into it weighed heavily on her. She had to get out of there to think. After wrestling with the rusted sliding-bolt, she grabbed Adam’s bike from the shed and took off up the road in a blur of wheels. She thought about the peg-motors she and Adam used to make by clipping bits of plastic cut from margarine container lids to the spokes. But the memory did little to warm her as the breeze cut through her clothes. Those kids seemed to have existed an entire lifetime ago, and she wasn’t sure she recognised them anymore. They had been beaten out of shape. Shrunk back on themselves, hiding from their dad’s anger. Not kid shapes anymore. The need to get away was thick and dark in her chest like bushfire smoke and she pedalled hard in an effort to escape.

183 30.

She banged on the door with the side of her fist. The unit absorbed the racket like a black hole. Still, nobody answered. The sun would be setting soon. A shaft of bronze sunlight had dropped anchor on the landing. Bambi huddled in it, trying to make her body jut at the same angle so as to not waste a skerrick of its warmth. She gave one last thump, more out of frustration than any expectation, and gritted her teeth together. She leant out over the railing and saw Adam’s bike leaning against the wall of the garage where she had left it. She didn’t fancy riding it home again. It would be past dark by the time she got there and she was already chilled to the bone. She pulled her blue-tinged fingers back into the ends of her sleeves and blew warm air down onto them. She started her way down the stairs, each step echoing her reluctant exit. It had been a stupid idea. Well, a stupid idea not to call ahead, anyway. She didn’t know why she had thought he would just be hanging around. It was hard to get used to him having his own, very separate life, to which she was merely an optional extra. The hanging stairs vibrated under her feet. She was losing Adam. She was losing Jack. She had already lost her dad. She swung her leg over the bike, wishing as her skirt snagged on the seat she had changed out of her uniform. She was standing – one leg on tiptoe, the other suspended in mid- air – trying to dislodge her skirt, when the Datsun pulled into the driveway. Its headlights swung across the grass, shimmering over Bambi, before coming to rest on the concrete. The light carried a short way from the headlights and then gave way to the aged glow of the sunset. Bambi sighed in relief as she managed to wriggle free of her entanglement. All thoughts of the cold on her legs and face were forgotten, and she wheeled the bike back against the wall. ‘Adam,’ she called as she ran back to the car. ‘Oh.’ ‘Hi there, Bambi!’ Pete gave her a huge smile. ‘What are you doing here?’ He laughed then, as he got out of the car. ‘That sounded a bit rude, didn’t it?’ He left the door hanging wide open as he sauntered across to the garage door. After a moment of fishing around in his pocket, he produced a small key, which he stuck into the handle. The door swung open with a screech; slowly at first, but gaining momentum as the springs gave way. It crashed to the top and wobbled there like a diving board.

184 Bambi waited uncomfortably as he drove the car into the dark cavity of the garage. He bounded out excitedly, and reached up to the door with both hands. Bambi couldn’t help but notice his shirt lifting to show a strip of stomach. He slammed the door closed again, brushing his hands together like a lumberjack removing sawdust. ‘You don’t say much, do you?’ He asked, placing his hands on his hips. He smiled when she didn’t answer. ‘Come on, let’s go inside, we’ll freeze our…ah, backsides off standing out here.’ Bambi hurried behind Pete to keep up. ‘Do you know where Adam is?’ ‘She speaks!’ he laughed, shooting a look at her over his shoulder. ‘Nah, it’s Thursday,’ he said, as if that explained everything. He jiggled his bunch of car keys before finding the one to fit in the door lock. ‘Probably at TAFE still. Should be back soon, though.’ With that, he swung the door inward and gestured for her to go inside. Just as her eyes adjusted to the dim house, Pete switched on the light. She blinked. She waited self-consciously, not sure quite what to do with her body, or her hands. He moved into the kitchen and rummaged around in the dark. He returned with two cups; one a plastic picnic glass, one a squat coffee mug with brown squares featured on the side. He had a bottle of soft drink by the neck in his other hand. He dropped onto the lounge. She sat down opposite him. ‘Sorry, need to wash up.’ He pushed the coffee mug at her across the low table between them and unscrewed the lid. He waited for a second to allow the gas to hiss its way free before undoing it all the way. He reached out and poured the orange drink for her before filling his own, downing it in one draft with a wince, then filling it again. ‘More?’ ‘No. Thank you.’ She hadn’t picked it up yet. Pete leant back into the seat, letting his back relax into the unnatural curve, pushing his head too far forward to be entirely comfortable. ‘Big day?’ Bambi asked, taking a sip. It was way too sweet. She sat wondering if she should excuse herself and leave. But the thought of the cold and dark glued her to her seat. How long could Adam be? He reached his hands back behind his head and stretched. A triangle of stomach peeked through this time. ‘You could say that.’ ‘Adam said you’re a plumber?’ She was completely out of her depth. ‘Apprentice,’ he corrected. It was clear to Bambi that he was proud of the fact. ‘Second year, though. Two and a bit more, and I’d be a full tradesman. Might leave this hole of a town and get a job somewhere special. Queensland, maybe.’ ‘Oh,’ Bambi said. She had never been bold enough to dream about leaving and seeing the great beyond.

185 ‘Yeah, I reckon I could live in Queensland. Somewhere on the beach, surf every morning, even in winter.’ He downed the second cup full of soft drink. Bambi covered her smile with a drink from her mug. She was pretty sure that only hard-core nutcases went surfing in winter – even in Queensland! Pete didn’t really strike her as an average guy, and would probably do exactly what he was suggesting. ‘So, you’re a surfer. Wow.’ ‘Nah, not really. But it would be cool, don’t you think?’ He didn’t wait for her to respond. ‘What about you? What are you going to do when you leave school?’ The question surprised her. No one had ever asked it before. It was more of a foregone conclusion that she had no prospects worth discussing. No future, no hope of cracking free. ‘Um,’ she tried to think quickly, to dredge up some long suppressed desire to fill the gap of the yet unanswered question. ‘You know, I haven’t really thought about it much.’ ‘No way, you’ve got to have thought about it!’ He threw his hands up in the air, and then clasped them on to the side of her head like she had said something crazy. He was so animated. It was impossible not to like him. ‘What do you like doing? That’s a good place to start.’ Bambi bit her lip, remembering the similar conversation she’d had with Ingrid. But she had been driving that conversation. She shifted in her seat. She stared at him for a long moment. Were his eyes green, or were they blue, Bambi wondered? She couldn’t decide; but green, if she was pushed. And kind. They were definitely kind. Her eyes wandered down his neck, taking in the tiny bumps in the skin under his jaw, and the stiff grey collar of his apprentice’s uniform that peeped out from under his red over shirt. When her eyes returned to his face she realised she had been daydreaming. He waited patiently for her to finish her perusal, the touch of a smile at the corner of his mouth. Bambi felt the heat rush to her cheeks. ‘I’m sorry, what was the question? What do I like?’ He brushed away her embarrassment, his voice soft and forgiving. ‘Yeah, what do you like doing? Adam tells me you’re a super athlete?’ His eyebrows shot up with the question. ‘No. No way.’ She shook her head. And after a second of thought: ‘I do run, though. And I do like it.’ ‘Olympics, then?’ he teased. ‘Why not? Bambi replied, warming to the game.

186 He swung himself over to her lounge – stepping his boot on the coffee table - and twisted to face her with his knee bent up on the seat between them. Bambi’s body went into lock-down mode: her limbs froze. ‘Well, you look pretty athletic to me,’ he shrugged. ‘It might happen.’ She searched his face for any sign of sarcasm. He looked back, simply waiting for her to respond. ‘Maybe I could be a P.E. teacher.’ The idea had appeared from nowhere, taking her by surprise. ‘Cool,’ he said. ‘My sister’s a PE teacher! They’re usually hot, you know.’ Bambi watched his face screw up as he realised what he’d said. ‘Not that my sister’s hot,’ he raced to say. Bambi smiled at his discomfort. ‘She has got some good looking teacher-friends, though.’ He said, losing interest in the topic. He tacked on the end: ‘You’d be good at it, I think.’ Bambi’s heart was thumping wildly, trying its hardest to crack free of her ribs and fly out of her body as he moved his knee to slide closer. She could hear his breath arriving and departing with lazy ease. Pete stretched his arm out across the top of the lounge chair. His fingers picked up a length of her hair and twirled it lazily around his finger. ‘You know,’ he said softly to her. ‘You really are pretty.’ His lips were cracked and dry from working outside. They were pale, not much darker than his skin, and she could see the deeper shade of crimson beyond them when he spoke. Her mouth was completely dry. She tried to swallow, but it turned into an awkward gulp. He leant in closer to her. He was so close, they almost touched, but didn’t. His face lost perspective. She was staring into one green, calm eye. Yes, they were definitely green, with flecks of gold and brushstrokes of blue. They were dragon’s eyes, she thought. Beautiful, and serene. Bambi’s lip trembled. His fingers touched her lightly on the cheek. ‘You are lovely,’ he said. Oh my gosh. He’s going to kiss me. She waited for him to lean the final inch, to feel his lips, which she expected to be soft and rough all at once. She hovered, her eyelids lazy with the moment, drawing themselves closed in anticipation. The air around her shifted, snapping her to attention. He was standing up, and had stepped away. The moment shattered like a glass onto tiles.

187 Bambi saw the confusion on his face before his expression closed off. She was certain he could see the surprise and hurt in hers. ‘That was a bit dumb, sorry.’ He had shifted to ‘sheepish’. ‘I can get a bit carried away.’ Bambi couldn’t find a single word to say. She sat alone on the lounge – a castaway on an island - feeling ridiculous. What had she done to make him react like that? ‘Why don’t you make yourself comfortable in Adam’s room,’ He said. He smiled warmly at her, but it did little to bridge the gap that had opened between them. ‘He should be home soon.’ The last statement sounded more like a wish than anything certain. Bambi was aware that he wanted her gone. She didn’t wait to see if he turned to look at her again. She didn’t want to see pity, or embarrassment, or apology etched into his features. She picked up her bag where she had dropped it and made her way to Adam’s room. She lay on his bed, his pillow under her head as she stared at the ceiling, feeling the world rock and sway uncertainly as if she was at sea. She wished the floor would open up and swallow her whole. What did she think she was doing? Her carefully constructed safety barriers against the outside world were collapsing. Wherever she turned to hide, she found another crack – and mostly, she was breaking all of the rules of survival, all on her own. She was losing control. Of everything. Is that what it was life for her dad? Her mum? Was this normal, or were they really freaks? She tried to ignore the strong sensation of seasickness. She squeezed her eyes shut, and with an arm draped across them. She refused to be like her dad. She refused to lose control. She lay back and waited for her brother to arrive, so he could wake her up from this nightmare she was caught in.

188 31.

‘Thanks Mrs Campbell,’ Bambi said, bending her head down so she could speak through the open car window. ‘I really appreciate you giving us a lift.’ Ingrid had Bambi by the arm, bored with the conversation she had been having with her mother, pulling her in a hurry to be away. ‘Not a problem, Bambi,’ she smiled. Bambi was struck again by the likeness between mother and daughter. To Bambi, they looked like pixies. ‘She could be your sister,’ Bambi said. The car moved off, quietly humming. Bambi waved as she walked; her face in one direction, her body following in another. She had never been in a Volvo before. She had liked it. They were called ‘bread boxes’ in her house. Anything that wasn’t a Holden was generally considered unworthy. Except Mustangs. And MGs. And Corvettes. Ingrid still had hold of her arm and was leading her across the road. ‘You are such a daydreamer!’ She scolded. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t been run over. It’s a miracle, in fact, that you’re still alive.’ ‘Probably.’ Bambi agreed, enjoying being the centre of Ingrid’s attention, even if she was sometimes a bit prickly about it. ‘Now,’ she added impatiently. ‘Get back to the story you were telling me before my mother rudely butted in and took over – like she always does.’ ‘She was just being kind. And she saved us the walk!’ ‘Story!’ Ingrid demanded, walking through the doorway of the café. ‘Are you sure we’ve got time for this?’ Bambi wished she owned a watch. ‘I don’t want to be late for training.’ ‘We’ve still got 45 minutes. Oodles.’ Ingrid leant on the counter with her elbows. Bambi waited for the man with the thin moustache to slap them with his pen and order pad. Instead, he smiled at her. ‘What would you like, missy?’ This girl could get away with anything. ‘Bambi here will have a caramel milkshake,’ Ingrid began. The man scribbled the order down. Bambi shifted from one foot to the other. ‘And… I think I’ll just have a glass of water.’ Bambi stuck her in the ribs with her finger. ‘What?’ Ingrid scowled. ‘You need something more than that,’ she hissed at her. The man paused mid-scribble to wait for them to settle their disagreement. ‘You won’t be able to run on an empty stomach.’ Bambi looked pointedly at her with her eyebrows raised forcefully.

189 ‘She’ll have a milkshake, too,’ Bambi said. His pen hovered, his eyes returned to Ingrid for confirmation. Bambi prodded her again. ‘Oww, stop it will ya! Okay, I’ll have a milkshake. Chocolate. On skim milk.’ Bambi rolled her eyes as her friend smiled at the guy and paid. ‘Happy now?’ she asked, clearly annoyed. They sat facing each other in the booth. Bambi picked up a sachet of sugar and flicked it back and forth between her fingers. ‘Yep.’ A young waitress passed them with a plate of steaming nachos held with an oven- mitted hand. Her stomach grumbled at the smell of the bubbling cheese. ‘Although,’ she paused, shoving the sugar back into the steel square. ‘I don’t feel all that good about you paying for me.’ ‘I’m not,’ she dismissed. ‘My Mum is. And she loves Bambi.’ Bambi grinned. ‘Bambi’s so lovely,’ Ingrid pretended to be her mother, but sounded more like a chipmunk. ‘She has the most wonderful manners, and she is just so sweet!’ Ingrid shoved her fingers down her throat. ‘She’s got good taste.’ ‘She’s got serious problems, more likely.’ Ingrid said. She banged both palms on the table, startling a white haired couple sitting in the adjacent booth. Ingrid didn’t appear to notice. ‘Enough of this. Finish the story! You were up to the bit where he moved over onto the lounge with you.’ Bambi bit down on the end of her finger as she thought. She shrugged, wishing she hadn’t started telling Ingrid at all, uncertain why she had. She had been relieved when Mrs Campbell had spotted them and interrupted their conversation. She had hoped Ingrid would forget. But Ingrid was well versed in the ways of girl-chatter, and would no sooner have given up on the end of the story than to shave off her own hair. ‘Nothing, really. That’s the point.’ Bambi felt the embarrassment return to her cheeks. ‘He reached over and twirled a bit of my hair in his fingers. And told me I was pretty.’ ‘Woah!’ Ingrid sat back in her chair. ‘Serious?!’ ‘And then he leant in so close to me that I could feel him breathing, and could smell the soft drink on his breath.’ Bambi doodled circles on the blank table with her finger. She stared at it as she remembered his closeness.

190 ‘He kissed you, didn’t he!’ Ingrid had leant in close again, excitement moving her around in her seat like a child. But Bambi wasn’t excited as she remembered him pulling away, and Ingrid – picking up on the vibe – quickly mirrored Bambi’s mood. She waited for her to continue. ‘Who was having the caramel shake?’ The girl had arrived with their drinks. Bambi signalled with her hand that it was hers, and she expertly slid the tall fluted glass across the table in front of her. ‘Thanks,’ Bambi mumbled, picking up the bent straw and began immediately fiddling with it. The waitress placed down Ingrid’s as well, and disappeared. ‘I just don’t get it,’ Bambi went on. ‘He almost kissed me, I could tell. And then he stood up and made some lame excuse and pretty much told me to wait for Adam in his room.’ ‘What?’ Ingrid sounded duly horrified. ‘Why?’ ‘I dunno. I guess it was something I did.’ ‘I keep telling you,’ Ingrid said between slurps. ‘Boys are impossible. My dad tried to tell me that their brains are wired differently.’ Bambi looked sceptical. ‘Yeah, I know. Their wiring is faulty, if you ask me,’ she continued. They drank their milkshakes in silence. Bambi let her straw gurgle at the bottom, spinning it around so she could vacuum up the last traces of the milky sweetness. The old couple stared at her and mumbled disapprovingly to each other. She pushed it aside. ‘Time to go,’ Ingrid said, scooting across the bench seat. She had left the last bit of hers, too lazy to worry about the dregs. Bambi leant across and grabbed it, making a quick attempt to suck the remnants before they left. ‘Come on, Hobo,’ Ingrid was already heading for the door. Bambi dropped the straw and followed, embarrassed by her joke. They walked in the direction of the oval, each lost in her own private thoughts. The streets were buzzing with the usual Friday afternoon activity. The cars started and stopped; accelerated and slowed with the flow of the traffic. People seemed content to meander and chat as they moved, the urgency of Monday through Thursday having abandoned them. The girls weaved through and around the people, eventually moving beyond the main strip of shops into a quieter street. They passed the bed shop, and the aquarium shop, then crossed the street so they didn’t have to walk directly past the pub on the corner where there was bound to be an assembly of workmen drinking beer in celebration of the end of another week. Ingrid chewed on the edge of a finger and considered. She eventually blurted: ‘You know it has nothing to do with you, don’t you?’

191 ‘I don’t know anything much,’ she responded. ‘Except that it makes me feel rough on the inside.’ ‘Rough?’ ‘Yeah, like I have sandpaper in my stomach. And throat and eyes, and brain.’ Ingrid laughed. ‘Okay, I get it.’ She fell quiet again. ‘That’s love for you, I suppose.’ ‘What? No! I don’t love him!’ Bambi exploded in surprise. Ingrid looked sideways at her. ‘Then forget him. It’s not worth it.’ Bambi nodded. She tended to agree. It didn’t stop the stinging she felt when she thought about it, but she knew Ingrid was right. They walked along in silence. Bambi liked that about her new friend. She didn’t have to be talking all the time. She was happy enough to hang out, not jabbering or carrying on in a puffy cloud of fake girliness. She did feel responsible, though, about the fall out between Ingrid and Tammy. The way Ingrid had clearly sided with her ensured that she would never – in a million years – be accepted back into the ‘cool girl’ posse. Which put her right in the middle of the war that Tammy was waging against her. Ingrid insisted it was exactly what she wanted, and that Tammy was an über-bitch, but Bambi couldn’t shake the lingering doubt. Bambi was still a social washout, and it was obvious to all, that Ingrid was not. ‘Speaking of love…’ Ingrid said. ‘Here comes trouble, at 2 o’clock.’ They were about to collide with Jack and Chucky, like two streams meeting at a Y, both headed towards the same destination. Bambi watched Jack as he walked. He seemed to glide. His long limbs moved in such perfect unison. He was so beautiful. Graceful. If she had have been sitting in a chair, she would have squirmed around uncomfortably in it. Instead, she concentrated on walking normally, one foot in front of the other. ‘Hi,’ Ingrid said as they approached. Jack looked at them, taking in Bambi, checking over both shoulders as if he suspected he was being followed. ‘What a coincidence,’ said Chucky. If his hair was any redder, Bambi was certain it would explode into flames. ‘Where are you two headed?’ ‘Shut up, Chucky,’ Ingrid said. She looked at Jack. ‘Come on,’ Ingrid said to Chucky, lacing her hand through his arm. ‘I think these two might need to talk.’ ‘Ingrid!’ Bambi said, giving her a ‘look’. Jack had stopped, allowing the others to get ahead. He stared at his feet while he sorted out what to say. When he looked up at her - his expression was pained – Bambi fell

192 into the big brown ponds that were his eyes. She forgot every angry word she had planned to say. ‘I haven’t seen you all week,’ he began. ‘Nope.’ ‘I looked for you.’ She stayed silent. What could she say to that? She warred with herself, wondering if he really had searched for her and whether it made any difference in the end? ‘I had a good time at the dam,’ he started again, from a different angle. ‘I like hanging out with you.’ Bambi’s anger was returning. It mixed with her nervousness, swirling around inside of her, past the soft, vulnerable spot that always opened like a yawning canyon when he was near. The emotional cocktail burned inside of her, making her nauseous. She was so angry with him, but she knew she would forgive him in a second if he asked her. ‘Is that why you told your parents about it?’ She asked calmly. Way calmer than she actually felt. ‘I didn’t have a choice.’ He sounded indignant. ‘Mum phoned the school to check that I’d arrived safely.’ Bambi saw Ingrid turn her head in the distance, checking that everything was okay. ‘How sweet,’ Bambi said bitterly. ‘Did you have to tell her it was my fault?’ ‘I didn’t!’ He had begun to raise his voice. ‘She just assumed, I guess. I’ve never done anything like that before.’ ‘You could have set her straight,’ Bambi was furious. The tears started to pool, threatening to escape at any second. ‘You could have told her you went willingly!’ Jack didn’t say anything. He glared at her, irked at her challenge. ‘It was your idea.’ ‘We had a visit from Social Services!’ Bambi was yelling now. Not caring anyone was close enough to hear. ‘Social Services, Jack!’ Jack took a step back, an unreadable look on his face. ‘Look, Bambi,’ Jack said, trying to control the volatile environment, no doubt wondering if Bambi was going to catch alight just as she had imagined Chucky doing moments before. ‘I don’t want any trouble with my olds. I just wanted to smooth things over with them, so my life could get back to normal.’ Bambi barked out a laugh between her tears. ‘Well, isn’t it wonderful to be so normal.’ She responded. ‘As long as you have no trouble, is that right? As long as precious Jack gets everything he wants, then everything will be okay.’ ‘Bloody hell, Bambi,’ he started to walk away. ‘You’ve got some serious issues.’

193 ‘And you,’ she choked out, ‘…are a coward. And a selfish, spineless jerk!’ Fury had dragged the words from her. She realized she was acting just like her father. She felt a part of her insides tear: bleeding, accumulating in her legs and lungs and stomach. She ran. She ran passed Jack, past Ingrid and Chucky. She kept running until she arrived at the oval. Ben was at its centre. He had paused where he stood, in the middle of placing an orange cone down, hovering like a wild animal who had smelled a change in the wind. He was watching as Bambi crested the far bank, and he was moving towards her in concern – his instincts flaring like the sea on a ship’s bow. ‘Ben,’ Bambi struggled with the word through the sobs. He stepped forward and grabbed her shoulders as if she was his own daughter. ‘Quiet, Bambi,’ he said. ‘Whatever it is, it’s going to be okay.’

194 32.

Jonathon had given up on the gearbox. He’d decided to wait until Adam had sorted out his attitude and was ready to come over and give him a hand with it. After wrapping the parts up in a towel he had put them out the back in the laundry sink, where they’d be safe. He told Wanda he’d get to them soon enough, but she had kicked up a stink, saying she couldn’t get the washing done, and that if he was fine with having no clean pants, then all was well and good. He’d sighed, and patiently taken them out again. Then he paid old Don to come and do it for him. Two hundred bucks. A bargain, really. Jonathon had been having a good day with the car. He’d worked hard. Had even stripped the skins off the insides of the doors, which was a bugger of a job. Colin Wickman had told him he could get him a good deal on some new ones at mates-rates. Custom made, too. Jonathon said he’d get the old ones down to him as soon as possible so they could make them up for him. He was thinking seriously about replacing them with a red set, to match the paintwork. That would look superb. His next move was to lift the engine out of the bay so he could start stripping it back. He had visions of chrome and black: an engine that would be pristine, the envy of everyone. He might even take it to the car shows when he was done. Win a few prizes. Adam would want to be there for that. He unbolted the bonnet and it leant against the fence, out of the way. Then, he peered in over the front guard at the motor and considered what the first step might be. He would need a hoist. He didn’t have one, and didn’t have a mate that might lend him one. That was a bugger. The breeze was picking up. A chill ran over his skin like a spider. He rubbed at his chin, looking down at his watch. It was after four. The sun would be completely gone in an hour or so. Bambi should be home from school. He could use her help. Where did that kid spend all her time these days? He was going to have to talk to her about that. Now Adam wasn’t around to give him a hand, she really needed to pick up her game. Annoyance pricked at him like a sharp needle. He swept back the hair that was falling down into his eyes. He had taken his hat off so he could see what he was doing. He needed a haircut. It didn’t matter so much when his hat was on. He reached into the engine bay, feeling for the bolts that held the motor in place. He found a big one, sized it up with his fingers. He dragged his head out and scrounged around the small red toolbox for a spanner that might fit. He threw the unwanted tools, scattering them around him. He pushed his hair away again, wiping grease across his forehead.

195 ‘This one’ll be it,’ he thought. He wasn’t sure if the bolt he was trying to loosen was the right one, but he figured they all had to be undone at some point, so surely now was as good a time as any. He tried to fit the spanner onto the bolt head. Too small. He went fishing for a second: too big. Bloody hell, he felt like the guy in the Dr Seuss book, Old Hat, New Hat, that he used to read to Adam when he was just a new shoot. ‘Too big, too small, too dotty, too bloody crappy,’ he thought to himself, as he threw the third spanner on the ground. It bounced up and clanged into the bonnet. ‘Yeah, go on,’ he said. ‘Bloody well dent it, why don’t ya.’ What he needed was a shifter. That way, he couldn’t go wrong. He rested his backside against the side of the car and fished his tobacco and papers from his overalls. He flicked his hair back once again. His hat hung on the corner post of the fence. He’d get it after his ciggy. He was sure there was a shifting spanner in the timber crate under the house with the rest of his dad’s tools. The only things his father had left him had been useless. The silver coffee pot from Turkey; the pair of yellow cats that were actually salt and pepper shakers; the lamp with the semi naked lady that Wanda had kicked up a fuss about and made him put away with the rest of the junk. Maybe today, he’d get the tiniest bit of something good from his Da. If he could find that tool, that is. He threw the half smoked cigarette into the dirt and stamped it with a twisting foot, and he walked around the side of the house. He squatted down onto his haunches and considered under the house. He didn’t remember the entry point being so small. And dark. He didn’t like closed in spaces, they made him edgy. He stared at it a while longer and then took a moment to fetch a torch from inside, finding it cradled in the charger by the back door. He felt a tickle of satisfaction that it was there, where he had obviously left it. If he didn’t keep things in order like he did, the place would fall apart around everyone’s ears. He crouched down again at the point where the timber slats were the highest from the dirt, with one hand holding onto them, and scooted his way under the house in a single, swinging move. He was under. It had been years. He had no idea where he had left the crate. He wagged the torch to and fro in an arc, quickly at first, then slowing enough to get a feel for the landscape under the house. ‘Bingo,’ he muttered. Over to his right, next to the massive cylindrical beam, he saw it. ‘I should have brought some rope to pull the sucker out with,’ he thought. ‘No matter. I’ll manage.’

196 He wondered why on earth he had seen fit to shove it so far under the house. He pushed the thought aside. He knew why. He wanted the memories of his father buried as deep as his body had been. He crawled on all fours, the smell of earth strong in his nostrils, and reached his hand out to feel around the box. ‘Awwwh!’ he yelped. He had lodged a splinter under the nail of his middle finger. He plucked it out and shoved it in his mouth, sucking the pain away. It tasted faintly of engine grease. He wiped his hand across his shirt. Jonathon made a mound in the dirt for the torch, positioning it so he could see the box and still move. He reached his arm around the back. His fingers touched something soft. He grabbed hold of it. He frowned into the dark. Hunched over, his calves were beginning to cramp from the lack of space. He pulled a backpack out, the torchlight dancing off its newness. He held it up close to the light. Jonathon’s head began to pulse and with it, something vital inside of him began to pump away. ‘What the hell is this?’ He unzipped it. His back muscles were burning from bending over. The two zips that met at the top peeled open without the slightest hint of complaint. A running shoe fell into the dirt. Jonathon’s blood raced out of control. His hands shook. He shoved one into the bag and yanked out a handful of silky red and white material. He tried to turn, thrashing to get out of the wedge of space he had found himself backed into. He slammed the back of his head into a beam with enormous force. The roar he let out was guttural and raw. He saw stars, tiny, white and round, dancing in circles in front of his eyes as he scrambled his way blindly from under the house. He panted and dragged airborne dirt particles into his airways. He was spluttering, floundering in the dark. The sun smashed into his retinas. He saw total white. Pain. He dropped his head onto the grass, his body hung back in the black cavity: a baby partially born, but not quite. Not yet. He blinked and rubbed at his eyes with firm fingers. The stabbing pain dulled and was replaced with the world coming back into blurry focus. His eyes pinched at the corner with fury. He hauled out his legs and launched straight into a wobbly dash towards the car. He had to release this pressure building inside of him. He had to find Bambi, make her answer for this scalding burn in his chest. He’d pick her up somewhere along the road. He’d head to the school. He couldn’t quite get his thoughts around which direction that would be.

197 He got in and slammed the car door. The innards jangled and wobbled before settling into an uneasy silence. The engine fired to life, sounding thunderous without the bonnet to muffle it. He forced the gearstick into first, but it wouldn’t go in. ‘Bloody useless Don!’ he howled. He got the shift into second and the car limped and hopped, threatening to die, until he built up enough speed. He took off at full tilt down the road, the unregistered car growling like a boar, head down and tusks pointed. He traced the route to school. She was nowhere. The grounds were empty. He spun the wheels as he turned around in the staff car park. Gravel kicked up at one of the lonely cars still parked, waiting patiently for its owner to return. He was gone before the dust had settled. It floated down at an angle, caught in the gentle wind and silence. Jonathon scoured the town, alternating between driving at snail’s pace and like a crazy man. Where could the little twerp be? He swore under his breath, slamming his palms against the steering wheel. His heart rate had dropped back down to somewhere near normal. His anger had deepened into something else. Something heavy, and black. He could feel its weight wrapped around his shoulders like a cloak. The minutes sped away from him. He was drained from the effort and his tank was almost empty of petrol. It seemed like he had been driving around, and around, for hours. He passed the post box in the main street for the third time. The sun was nudging the horizon, its startling rays cut through the front windscreen. Jonathon screwed up his eyes and pulled up next to the kerb. The engine idled roughly before conking out. A swarm of young kids screamed past the car on the footpath. ‘You’re it,’ one buzzed. They engulfed his vehicle like it was a rock and they a stream, before pouring onto the road and round the corner. They vanished. He would find Wanda. Why he had not thought to go to the shop earlier, he didn’t know. He wasn’t thinking straight and he had that familiar pain squeezing at his brain, causing it to thump loudly. He discarded the car, leaving the keys in the ignition and not bothering to shut the door properly. The sun had finally drained from the day, leaving it ash-grey and without warmth. He felt the chill on his scalp. He’d forgotten to pick up his hat, which added kindling to the furnace in his chest. As far as Jonathon could see, the streets had emptied, except for the man waiting for his piebald terrier to urinate on a power pole. He gave the lead a yank, wobbling the dog as it stood on three legs with its back leg cocked. It hurriedly dropped back onto all fours and

198 broke immediately into a scurry, its tiny limbs blurring to keep up with the man’s track-suited stride. Jonathon walked briskly, abandoning his usual rolling stride. He leant forward at the hips with his face bent at an angle and pressed ahead, directed straight at the health food shop, looking as if he was battling a stiff breeze and driving rain. He could not believe his daughter had betrayed him like this. How could she? After he’d given up his whole life for this family. He’d slaved: for years! Always in one job or another that was beneath him. For nearly 20 years he’d put his own life on hold while everyone else around him got exactly what they wanted. And now, the one thing – one thing! – he’d told her not to do… Nearing the shop, he collected pace. Jonathon placed his hand flat on the glass of the door and shoved. It clapped open like lightning. The bell gave a single sound before it was slammed between the door and wall. Maggie Wagner clutched at her chest in shock. Her mouth formed a circle, which drew her cheeks in a little thinner, but still, her face was as round as the full moon. ‘Where’s Wanda?’ Maggie recovered herself but not enough to be indignant at Jonathon’s rudeness. ‘She left.’ ‘Where?’ Maggie, recovered somewhat, took her time placing her hands on her hips. ‘She didn’t say.’ ‘When’d she go?’ She studied him from the ground up– his wild hair and grease stained clothes – but when she got to his eyes she took a step back from him and her hands dropped away from her hips. ‘I really don’t know.’ she said. He let the door fall shut again. His hands were shaking. He had always hated that woman. Bloody useless. ‘Silly old bat,’ he muttered. He crossed the road, kicking a plastic bottle and sending it clattering. ‘Look where you’re going.’ Someone yelled at him from their car window, pumping their horn in a short angry blasts. He didn’t care enough to look up but he flipped them the bird as he hurried. He single-mindedly followed the route Wanda would take to the bus stop. He cut through the park. The green of the trees looked an inky black in the fading light. Crickets blared, repeating their tuneless music. It hammered at his eardrums. He grabbed his head with his hand. His very skull throbbed. He kept moving. He had to find them.

199 He caught a glimpse of blue. He moved closer. Two people sat on a park bench. One sat at each end, as if they weren’t together, but merely strangers sharing a seat. Their backs faced him. He headed directly towards them, drawn by something familiar in the way the woman had her hair pinned high on the back of her head; the way her shoulders sloped faintly from neck to ends. He surged forward, pushing his hair back from his face. He looked from the woman to the man, his ginger head inclined toward her as he listened to what she was saying. They were together, sharing a moment as well as a seat. Jonathon growled, deep inside his throat. The man twisted his body around at the noise. Surprise registered on his face. His mouth dropped open fleetingly, and Jonathon read a series of emotions in them: shock, guilt. And was that fear? He was right to be afraid. Wanda also turned around, in towards Ben Shirley, to see what had startled him. But Jonathon had already rounded the seat and stood in front of the pair, his features hidden in the shadows of dusk. The fury boiling inside him bubbled and popped, taking away thoughts and words and replacing them with a searing heat. Sulphuric fumes consumed him from the inside outwards. He struggled to breathe. Betrayed. He could not see. His vision was red. And black. Swirls of pulsating rage. When he grabbed Ben and pulled him to his feet by his shirt collar, it was on instinct: by feel. He slammed his fist into Ben’s face. He felt the warm blood from the man’s nose splatter onto his hand but he didn’t stop to wipe it away. He held him with his left hand and punched him with his right. In the face, the stomach, his side. The hands and arms that flailed in resistance felt feeble to Jonathon. They were nothing. He knocked them away in annoyance. They could not touch him or hurt him. He had been betrayed and he would have his vengeance. The man in his hold came into focus. Blood smeared his face and one arm was flung across his body in shelter, with the other swung back, forming a return blow. Jonathon’s voice was screaming and howling of its own accord, blending with other mouths that begged; pleaded; argued; spat. He could hear Wanda’s voice pitched high and shrieking. It made no sense, but buzzed in his ear like a mosquito. He didn’t bother defending against the feeble punches. He hit again and felt the body recoil in response. He grabbed Ben by the throat with both his hands. A blow slammed the side of his head, popping his ear with a clap. He roared in pain and turned to see Wanda with a branch held high as she lined up her second shot at him. She was blurred. Her movements were slow, her body a smudge of colours and edges.

200 He let go of Ben’s neck with one hand and grabbed the branch as it descended on him and he pushed with all the strength of his fury. He let Ben slip away from him to the ground with a thud that he didn’t hear. He watched as Wanda stepped back with the force of his shove. He saw as her foot caught on an ancient, worn root that rose solemnly in the grass. Much of its bark was missing, but it had adapted, healed over into smoothness. Her shoe slipped off her heel as she fell backwards. Her arms flicked out to brace. Jonathon felt his wrists being yanked roughly behind him in a vice grip, and an arm encircling his throat. Wanda was falling still. The scene moving in snap shots between his blinking eyelids, like a flipbook. He felt the elbow under his chin as the arm squeezed at his neck, limiting his air, causing black and white spots across his vision. The smell of Ben’s sweat washed over his awareness. Wanda’s head hit the seat. Her neck bent, allowing her skull to bounce off the chair as her body fell to the ground. All the noises of the park ceased. Jonathon could not hear the crickets, or the traffic, or the rushing breath of Ben in his ear. The second thud was silent, as her body came to rest on the grass with her feet splayed and unmoving and her blue dress fanned around her legs as if it had been arranged there intentionally by bridesmaids. The sound of his wife’s head hitting echoed in his mind, above the sound of Ben screaming her name as he released him. She lay unmoving with her eyes closed, as if the scene was one she could not bear to witness, and her head tilted sideways away from him. Ben was at her side, rummaging through his clothes, searching for his phone. ‘Get an ambulance,’ he was bellowing, to whom, Jonathon was unsure. But not to him. ‘Get an ambulance!’ Jonathon noticed how the blood from his face dripped onto her bodice. It was crimson and bright and it splattered as a perfectly round spot on her smooth blue dress. The anger had fled him and in its place was something frozen and heavy. ‘The dress is spoiled,’ he thought. ‘Wanda will be so upset.’ He sat on his haunches and stared, his chest heaving, unable to get air. Ben ran to the edge of the park. He was still screaming. Jonathon watched the unreal scene, disconnected from himself. He wasn’t there, he was elsewhere. But he could see it all. Ben returned, careful to keep Wanda still as he brushed the stray pieces of hair from her face with his fingertips. Jonathon glared at him.

201 She’s mine, not yours. ‘Get away from her!’ The words formed on their own. He couldn’t stand to see this stranger touching his wife, hovering over her, between them like a wall, as if he owned her. Jonathon moved closer and flung Ben away by the back of his shirt. His strength was super-human. He was no longer a man, but something else. Something wild and strong that had lived on the inside for a long time, scratching to be let out. He knelt down close. Her neck was so white, and the face that turned away from him had a silver tinge in the early darkness. He cupped her still chin in his hands and felt her cool skin. He twisted it to face him. Her lips fell open slightly. She looked like a sleeping child. A doll. She was limp. Realisation seeped into his parched mind. His hair hung low over his brow and hid his eyes. ‘I’ve hurt you,’ he whispered. ‘Dear God, what have I done?’ Ben was, in turn, pulling him forcefully off Wanda. Screaming at him for moving her, telling him he would do more damage, and that he could rot in hell. The words flew and stung at him like furious bees, but he could not place their meaning, however significant they felt. Jonathon wished the man would shut the hell up. He didn’t resist. He allowed his body to be flung away from her. He was going to be sick. The bile was rising in his throat and he could taste it at the back of his tongue like mandarin peel. He threw up. He had to get away. He couldn’t remember why he was even here. How did he get here? He took off at a bolt, trying to outrun the voice in his head that told him he had killed her. The woman. He knew her, but he couldn’t remember. She was so familiar to him; the way she did her hair, and the smell of vanilla. It was her soap. But as he fled, he could not drag her name into the front of his mind, or the look of her face before she had fallen.

202 33.

‘She had a pulse, but I could barely feel her breathing,’ Ben explained to the Constable. An image flashed through his mind of himself reluctantly shifting out of the way of the ambulance officers. They had looked like kids to Ben, clean-shaven and fresh faced. Both younger than himself with thick hair, unpolluted with grey. How could he let them take her? Constable Lyle gave him an impassive nod as she jotted his words down in her notebook. They stood at the emergency entrance to the hospital. He’d reluctantly let them patch up his bloody face, his nose, but then he’d wanted to get out of there. The police officer had intercepted him, as he stood with shaking hands shoved into his pocket, wishing he was a smoker so he had something to calm his nerves. Lyle stood with her legs slightly apart in her royal blue pants and cornflower shirt. Her hat with its checked band sat perfectly on her head, and her hair was pulled back into a bun at her nape; she was a picture of sleek efficiency, more so for standing next to himself with his bloodied shirt and smashed face. ‘And you mentioned that her child is currently in the care of her friend?’ ‘Kevin? Yes,’ Ben nodded. It hurt to move his head. It hurt everywhere. ‘Maggie Wagner, Wanda’s boss, has him.’ The painkillers were starting to get a grip. His head was becoming a burden. ‘She said she’d watch him for ten minutes while I spoke with Wanda. He was asleep out the back.’ Wanda. They had wheeled her in on a stretcher. The red and blue lights roaming across the white of the blankets, pulled up to her chin. ‘And she has taken the boy home with her?’ Ben nodded again, rubbing his forehead with his hand. He leant against the red bricks and watched the Ambos return with the empty stretcher, which clunked noisily as it collapsed into the back of the ambulance. One closed the paired doors at the back while the other stood to the side and lit a cigarette. ‘And there are no other children?’ Ben’s head shot up: ‘Bambi!’ How could he have forgotten? ‘There’s another child: Bambi?’ Constable Lyle’s pen paused. ‘A girl? Do you know where she is?’ ‘No,’ Ben began to walk away. He was groggy, and it showed in the way his steps weren’t staying straight. ‘I have to find her.’

203 ‘Wait, Mr Shirley. That’s our job,’ she tucked her notebook away in her belt. He stopped to steady himself against the wall with his palm. ‘Do you have any ideas where she might be?’ She asked. ‘At home,’ Ben guessed. ‘I don’t know. I assume she went home after school, but I really don’t know.’ ‘Okay, Mr Shirley,’ she said. ‘I will be in touch again.’ She went to leave and paused. ‘And by the looks of things, you should be finding a hospital bed for yourself.’ ‘Wait,’ Ben said as she stepped toward the police car. ‘If I come with you I can help…’ He couldn’t find an ending to his sentence. He had proved useless so far, what could he possibly offer now? A surge of fury bubbled in him as he thought about Wanda’s no-good husband. He should have reported him, he should have stopped this earlier. And now… Lyle muttered into the radio on her lapel, and in a moment her partner emerged from the hospital with official reports from the hospital staff. She stared at him. He knew how he must look. ‘I’m going after her, anyway,’ he threatened. ‘Get in,’ said Lyle, not waiting for Ben to respond before getting in the driver’s seat, and Constable Martin in the passenger. Which left Ben climbing in the back of the police cruiser behind the impact resistant glass, and horizontal steel bars that separated him from the officers. It stank of stale nicotine and alcohol, with an underlying tinge of vomit. He sank into the seat, vaguely revolted, wondering who the last person in the car had been. ‘Their house is out on School Rd,’ Ben offered. ‘Sit back and put your belt on,’ said Lyle. Martin was on the two-way, talking and responding to the garble coming in from the station. They drove without conversation out of town. The radio buzzed periodically, breaking through Ben’s thoughts. His mind was back with Wanda at the hospital – his chest was tight in concern for her – but his eyes scanned the streets as they drove, searching the edges of buildings and trees for a glimpse of lean limbs or a flash of a brown pigtail. He was sure she would be waiting at her house, beside herself, not knowing where her family was. He repeated this over and over as the streetlights flicked past the window. She will be fine, shaken up, but fine. He groaned. But when she finds out about Wanda… The scratchy voices on the radio reminded him that Jonathon was still running loose. They had yet to find him and bring him in to the station for questioning. He’d gone crazy.

204 Ben had never before seen anything quite like it. He prayed that Jonathon had taken off, and had not crossed paths with Bambi. He drummed his fingers impatiently on the armrest in the back of the squad car. He saw the dark smudges staining the vinyl, and took his hand off. Being in the transport capsule unsettled him. It reeked of violence. Ben felt sick. He had seen enough of that today. They pulled up outside the Hall house. The building’s disrepair was hidden behind the drapes of the night. There were no street lights out here. The moon lighted the scene, which was two thirds on its way to being full. The house was in darkness. No light beamed from the inside out. The roof shone grey from the moonlight, and the walls of the house were a darker grey in its shadow. The growth of the front fence was black and speckled with small flowers that glowed white against the dark mass of leaves. The waving of the tree branches was loud in Ben’s ears as officer Martin opened the car door for him. They swayed as many-fingered arms, brushing against each other as the wind moved them back and forward. ‘Thank you.’ His voice was lost under layers of night sounds. No human noises could be heard. A dim glow came from the window of the only neighbour. A single light shone from behind a closed curtain in the otherwise darkness. Its presence added no company. ‘Stay here, Mr Shirley.’ Officer Lyle strode through the open gate and up the steps before she was swallowed by the dark of the veranda. The screen door screeched as she opened it. Her rapping on the door was loud. Camphor laurels huddled around the house protectively, and the wind through them seemed to pick up in response to the three intruders. Ben heard the bolted front door crack open, and imagined that Lyle had used her sturdy black boot to do so. Constable Martin had made his way around the side of the house. Ben hadn’t shifted from the side of the car, feeling uneasy as he listened to Martin’s footsteps crunch the gravel as he circled the house. He heard Lyle calling out: ‘Bambi. Bambi, are you there?’ Martin, having completed a lap of the house, popped back into sight. His shape emerged as a dark blob, gradually taking on human form as he stepped closer to the squad car. Lyle reappeared also. ‘She’s not here,’ said Officer Martin. ‘I’ll check if the neighbours have seen anything,’ said Lyle. Martin turned to Ben. He had thought the police officer had been around his age when he first saw him, but in the shadows of night he looked younger. Was he the only one who

205 was old? Weighed down by the years? Tired from witnessing the destructive capabilities of humanity? ‘She’ll turn up. We’ll find her,’ he said. His voice was confident. ‘She’s probably come home here and found it empty, and headed to a friend’s house.’ ‘You’re probably right.’ Ben offered. He stared at the house, willing it to cough up all that it knew. But he had worked with the police before, looking for his missing family, and knew that lost people were not always easily found. ‘Can you think of any places she might have gone?’ His knee was aching in the cold and he leant down to rub it. Worry nagged at the edge of his brain but he forced it away. There were enough facts to be concerned about already, he didn’t need to be inventing problems to eat away at him. They would find Bambi, and then they could concentrate on Wanda’s recovery. Together. ‘Yeah, her older brother lives in town. And she is friends with the Campbell girl. They live somewhere close to the high school, I think.’ Ben’s mind swam as he spewed out the details. Having a logical plan always calmed Ben, but he could feel the imperceptible shaking of his hands and his eyes were overly wide as he struggled to keep up with the events as they unfolded. He had only sought out Wanda to organise Bambi’s going to the State Championships. He hadn’t meant to start a chain reaction. His mind condemned him, calling him a liar. She had asked him to leave her alone, and he had not. She had pleaded, and he had selfishly found an excuse to get close to her again. ‘Mr Shirley?’ ‘Huh?’ It was Officer Lyle. ‘The neighbours haven’t seen anyone, so we are going to check out some other possibilities.’ Ben watched them both get into their respective doors. Lyles head popped back out. ‘Are you coming?’ ‘No,’ he shook his head. He needed to be here. ‘I’m going to stay in case she comes back.’ He felt the old house whispering to him as it creaked softly with its night-time noises. ‘Stay,’ it said. ‘Stay, stay…’ Ben watched the headlights recede into the distance. He shoved his hands down deep into his pockets. They were stiff with cold. He wasn’t dressed for being outside at night and the goosebumps on his exposed legs made the hairs stick out painfully. He deserved nothing less. He would have to wait it out. Shivering outside all night would be only the beginning – and the least – of his punishment. The price Wanda was paying was way higher. And

206 Bambi? She had to be somewhere safe. He imagined her sitting on a lounge somewhere with her feet tucked up under her body, drinking something warm and smiling. She just had to be safe. Ben walked through the gate with the permanently broken hinge and sat down on the steps. His eyes had adjusted enough to feel like he was not sitting in the dark. He ran his eyes across the veranda, taking in the old wicker chair with the palm-tree cushion, the broom leaning in the corner near the door. He heard scurrying and spotted a roundish shape making its way down the far beam. A possum. He turned back to face the street and dumped his head down into his hands. It stung like he’d been punched again. The plaster the doctor had placed across the bridge of his nose pulled taut with every expression. He felt the blood vessels re-opening in his nostrils. He stayed that way, lost in the battle of his thoughts, fighting to keep the past and present separate as the old wounds reopened and bled into the new cuts. The door to the neighbour’s house opened, casting a glowing trapezoid onto their lawn. Ben turned to see the light reflect white in the eyes of the possum before it scampered back up the pole, all nails and scratching, and with surprising speed. Footsteps made their way towards Ben. He watched as a woman came into view. She was bundled in a heavy coat and knitted hat pulled low over her ears. She walked with a battery operated lantern, which bobbed up and down with her steps. She came along the front of the fence, her body hidden by the foliage, she turned to look at him as she came around into the yard. Ben stood. He squinted as she held up the lantern, letting it beam into his face. ‘Howdy,’ she said. Her voice was firm and matter-of-fact. ‘I brought you some things.’ She came closer and dumped a basket on the ground and a multi-coloured patchwork quilt into his stomach, which he automatically clamped onto with his hands. He felt the bruising on his ribs keenly. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I saw the police leave and you stay. Figured you’d need something warm if you were going to camp out here all night to wait for the lass.’ Ben relaxed, feeling somewhat less alone than he had moments before. ‘Thank you,’ he said again. She reached up and placed the lantern on a hook on the veranda entry point, somehow knowing there would be one exactly there, and set about pouring hot, milky coffee into a mug. She had one long black gumboot propped up on the step as she leant over. ‘Beverly Taylor,’ she said as she handed the mug to him. ‘Most folks call me Bev.’

207 He took the drink and held it up to his lips, warming his hands on it, and sipped. He swallowed. ‘Ben Shirley.’ He dragged the quilt around his shoulders with his free hand, and sat back down. Bev watched him thoughtfully. With her hair tucked away under her hat and a scarf around her neck, Ben found it difficult to guess her age. But the lines around her eyes and the way her nose bulged a touch too large, suggested to him that she had seen a good many years on the planet. ‘Are you a friend of the family?’ He took another sip and considered how to answer the question with a frown. But Bev, undoubtedly sensing the complexity of her question, graciously moved on. ‘I’ve watched ‘em for years, you know.’ Bev’s eyes lingered on the house and then rested back on him. ‘When Will was alive, he would take the older boy out fishing. There was no baby then. Nice kid.’ Ben stared at the steam coming off his mug as he listened. Bev seemed quite happy to hold the conversation single-handedly. ‘It wasn’t always like this. Not when they first moved here.’ She then seemed to have run out of words. Ben could hear the scrabbling again off to his left, telling him the possum had ventured back down onto the railing. ‘Did you hear that?’ Bev’s voice picked up a notch. ‘Possum,’ Ben responded, turning and pointing at the furry brown creature with its pink ringed tail hanging around in front of its body. Bev shook her head. ‘It sounded more like scraping.’ Ben nodded. Possums were cute to look at, but noisy pests, really. One had bitten him on the finger once. It had gotten infected and took two weeks to heal. ‘They’re rowdy things, they are,’ said Ben. ‘At least he’s probably the only one. They don’t like sharing their turf.’ Bev frowned but said nothing further. ‘Think it’s going to pour down here soon,’ Bev said looking at the bitumen-black sky. Ben hadn’t noticed the change in the air, but as she spoke, he became aware of the smell of the rain that was now travelling on the wind. The leaves were rustling together frantically, which reminded him of the distant crashing of the sea. ‘I’m going to head inside before these clouds break.’ ‘Thank you again, Bev,’ Ben said, saluting her with his half-drunk coffee. She nodded, and turned to go. ‘There it is again,’ she paused. ‘Did you hear it?’ Ben hadn’t heard a thing. He shook his head. ‘No.’

208 She paused and narrowed her eyes. Unconvinced, she stared at the house as she walked back to her own, the light welcoming her upon her return. She shut the door against the night. Alone again with the silence, Ben wondered what he was doing here, involving himself in this mess. Maybe Wanda was right. Perhaps he was scrambling to re-do his failed attempt at family: that to fix someone else’s brokenness might be his redemption. He stood up and let the quilt pool around his feet in a collection of small peaks. He stepped over it and went to the door, pulling open the screen. He paused with his hand on the broken door, pushing it in a crack. It groaned. Ben hesitated. He didn’t want to go in there. He pressed his face against the glass, but could only see the distorted reflection of his own face in it and the mass of heavy blackness inside. ‘Bambi, where are you?’ he whispered. He heard a slow, scraping noise: a dragon swishing its tail across the compacted floor of its lair. Ben looked at the possum. It stared passively back. Its white, flashing eyes were glued on him. Its body a still hump outside the circle of the lantern’s light. ‘Bambi?’ Ben’s voice grew louder. It took on the notes of hope. And fear. And desperation. Nothing. ‘Bambi!” He heard it again. It was muffled, almost indiscernible. And it was coming from under the veranda. ‘Bambi!’ Ben snatched the lantern, ripping the metal hook from the decaying beam. Fragments of wood disintegrated, and the shavings rained down on him. He galloped down the steps. ‘Bambi, can you hear me?’ The only response was the wind howling, bringing with it tiny specks of first rain. He held the light down low as he skirted the side of the house, looking for an entry point to its underside. He stopped at the widest opening in the vertical slats and squatted down, holding the lantern up so he could see before him. The ground leading into the cavity was marked with turbulence. Dirt stung his eyes as the wind travelled over him, whipping everything in its wake. ‘Bambi.’ He called into the open space. His voice came back to him as it bounced off the timber ceiling of the cavity. He heard movement to his right. He swung the light.

209 She was curled up in a ball on the earthen floor of her hidey-hole. Her eyelids were closed against the bright intrusion. They fluttered open; one fully, one as far as the bruising would allow. ‘Bambi!’ Ben dropped the light, and scuttled in on his hands and knees until he reached her. His body filled the small space but he moved easily enough. ‘Coach,’ she whispered through her cracked lips. ‘I’m sorry.’ He shook his head, unable to respond. The tears jammed up in his throat. ‘I ran,’ she began. ‘He was so angry…’ So was Ben. He was furious to see her cowing, the fearful creature her father had reduced her to. ‘Let’s get you out of here.’ He reached and placed his arm gently on her shoulder, coaxing her to move. ‘I couldn’t find Mum. And Kevin. They didn’t come home…’ She sobbed. ‘Shh, Bambi. Let’s get you out of here, okay? We’ll talk about that later.’ Bambi obeyed, crawling out from under the house with Ben’s hands urging and supporting her as she went. As soon as she was out, he ran to the step, snatched up the quilt and returned to wrap her up in it. The rain was beginning in earnest. ‘Beverly,’ he yelled as he went, squinting against the rain. ‘Beverly!’ Bambi seemed oblivious to the fat pellets of rain falling on her. ‘What happened to your face?’ ‘Later,’ Ben said. ‘We’ll talk later.’ He could see in the greater light of outside that much of the darkness on her face was smudged dirt, which was beginning to mingle with the raindrops as they hit her and turn to an even dirtier mess. She seemed to be moving easily enough except for an amount of stiffness from being locked into her human ball. But her eye was going to be purple tomorrow and her lip was split and crusted with black blood. She watched him with round eyes as he tightened her swaddling around her, leaving his arm protectively as he directed her away from the building. The door to Bev’s house opened. Out flew Bev. Without her sturdy gumboots this time, her thick woollen socks soaking up the beginnings of water on the ground as she came. ‘Call an ambulance,’ Ben called over the rain. The wind had picked up. Thunder rolled overhead, accompanied by a bolt of lightning illuminating the sky. Ben’s grip tightened on her shoulders.

210 Bev turned tail and fled back into the house in search of help.

211 34.

‘You haven’t run for almost two weeks,’ Adam slid into the seat opposite her. The lunch rush had hit the café and it buzzed with energy. He stared at his sister. She seemed to be getting thinner by the day, and her skin looked egg-fragile. Bambi shrugged at him, swirling her spoon around and around in her latte. He stared, not touching his coffee. His hands rested on either side of it, palms flat on the table as he resisted the urge to snatch the spoon from her to make her stop stirring. ‘I visited with Mum at the hospital this morning. She wanted to know whether you’d been to school. And whether you’d been out of the house or not.’ He picked up his cup and took a sip, placing it carefully back down in the exact position. ‘Or out for a run.’ The question hung low and heavy between them. ‘I’ve been out of the house,’ she said, indicating with her hand at their surroundings, proving that she was doing exactly that. ‘Running?’ ‘You know I haven’t been.’ ‘But why not?’ ‘I don’t feel like it, okay?’ She ran her hand over her hair and down her pigtail like she did when she was uncomfortable. Or annoyed. He felt mean pushing her, but since the Family Court had given him a temporary parenting order over her and Kevin, he felt the extra weight of everything. It was all a total shambles, and he was trying to fix years of mess. He was struggling. ‘What about the State meet?’ She shrugged again. ‘I’m not going.’ ‘But you have to,’ Adam argued. ‘I was talking to your coach…’ ‘No, Adam, I don’t have to do anything.’ She pushed the chair back as she stood. It felt weird that everyone knew about her running. ‘I don’t want to run anymore, don’t you get it?’ He stood, towering over her. ‘And, for your information, I don’t have a coach.’ She went to leave. ‘And quit talking to Ben! He is not part of this family, okay?’ She balled her fists at her sides and turned to leave a second time. ‘Wait, Bambi,’ he said, holding his hand out to her. ‘Wait.’ She paused. ‘Come on, sit back down. I’m sorry.’ He sat back in his chair and waited for her to follow.

212 She dropped onto the chair, the cushion released a gush of air. Adam had never seen her like this. She stared at the untouched coffee, picked up the spoon and began stirring again. ‘I’m sorry,’ Adam said, gently. He reached out and stilled her hand. He couldn’t get used to the way she now glared at him, like he was the enemy. ‘Fine,’ he said, dropping her hand. ‘You don’t have to run.’ She eyed him dubiously. ‘I just want to talk with you about it, okay?’ He waited for her to agree, but when she didn’t, he ploughed on. ‘I want to understand what’s changed.’ ‘Seriously?’ she stared at him. ‘What’s changed?’ A man squeezing behind Adam bumped his arm. His coffee spilled into the saucer. He waved the man’s apology away with a smile, and then ran his hand across his face. Man, he was exhausted. He mopped at the mess with a napkin. ‘Kevin’s in day care, for starters,’ Bambi spat. ‘Mum’s recovering in hospital with a fractured spine after being brutalised by our father, whom, I might add, is now in a mental institution...’ ‘It’s rehabilitation, Bambi,’ Adam interrupted her, tiredly. Quietly. ‘It’s not a mental institution.’ Bambi snorted. ‘The Doctor’s said he’s mentally ill – he’s been locked up, Adam. In the nut house. The looney bin.’ She was begging him for an argument. Adam accepted her outburst without reacting. To be truthful, he barely had the energy to, but also, it was good to hear her talk. Even if she was lashing out at him. She had barely spoken since the night he was dragged out of his TAFE lecture by the police, looking for Bambi and explaining about his mum. It was past time for her to let it out. She’d been hovering around the house as a ghost. She ate, washed dishes, scrubbed floors – all without flicker of emotion. She only left the house to drop off and collect Kevin from day care, and to sit by their mum’s hospital bed. He had found her a few times chatting quietly with Kevin, but when he approached she clammed up again. She had not wanted to see anybody. She had turned away Ben and several school friends who had tried to call or had dropped by. Bambi was disappearing. Yet now before him she was laughing. Adam watched her and waited. He had no idea how to handle this. When she finally met his gaze, the tears started to flow. He scooted across to sit next to her and he held her as the torrent came. People stared, but he didn’t care. He let her cry. When she calmed and wiped her eyes, Adam moved back across the table, but took her hands into his. She gave him a press-lipped smile.

213 ‘We’ll be okay, Bamb. We’ll get through this.’ ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Mum’ll be wondering where I am.’ He had left the Datsun out in the street. They walked without speaking along the tree-lined street, their steps further flattening the discarded leaves. The afternoon smelled musty. ‘I cannot believe you’re buying this piece of junk,’ Bambi said as she got in the car. A bird dropping divided the windscreen almost exactly in half. ‘Whattdoya mean? I’ve installed a seat belt for you, haven’t I?’ She rolled her eyes. ‘It’s a classic,’ he added as he pulled away from the curb. ‘At least you’ve learned to drive.’ ‘Drive?’ Adam smiled. ‘It’s more like wrangling a bronco. In fact, I think that would be a good name for her: Bronco.’ He caressed the dashboard. ‘Good girl, Bronco, easy does it.’ ‘You’re a nut job.’ ‘Runs in the family,’ Adam responded. Bambi went quiet as he pulled up outside the hospital. ‘Come on, that was funny. You’ve gotta laugh, Bamb.’ She was half out of the door already but she paused to look at him. ‘I’m not ready to laugh yet.’ He nodded at her back as she walked away. ‘You’re gonna be okay, Little Sister, you’ve always been okay,’ he said as the automatic doors swallowed her whole. ‘Let’s just hope the rest of us make it.’

214 35.

She rounded the corner as Ben clicked the door to her Mother’s hospital room closed. He was not aware of her as he carefully let the heavy door falling soundlessly into place. ‘Oh,’ she said, stopping. She could smell his aftershave from across the small space between them. He was decked out in his three quarter khakis and white polo shirt – an outfit she’d seen a hundred times before – but he had switched his runners for a pair of brown leather loafers. Bambi assumed it was an attempt to dress up for the visit. ‘Hi,’ he returned. ‘Good timing.’ ‘Yeah,’ Bambi responded, not knowing what to add to complete the sentence. They hadn’t spoken since ‘that night’, as Bambi was beginning to think of it as, and she was uncomfortable. He had gotten involved in their mess and she couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t belong there. And the feeling was starting to grate. ‘How is she?’ Bambi asked to fill in the silence. Not that he had any right to know. She was guilty feeling as she did. Ben had been more kind to her than anyone else outside the family. Ben nodded. ‘She seemed good.’ ‘Good,’ Bambi nodded back at him. She waited for him to ask her about running. She could sense the question lying beneath the surface. ‘Good,’ he repeated back. ‘Good.’ She couldn’t help be a small amount amused at how ridiculous their conversation was. She was waiting for him to ask her about running. She had come up with a couple of good excuses and was ready for him. ‘Well, I’d best let you go and see for yourself.’ He smiled, then, illuminating his freckled face for a moment. ‘See you ‘round, Bambi.’ And with that he disappeared into the adjoining corridor. Bambi stared after him for a minute after he had gone. She hesitated. Perhaps she should go after him? Maybe he didn’t really care after all. If he abandoned them now, where would that leave them? She gave her head a shake. It didn’t matter which way she looked at things, nothing made sense. There were no answers. The polished handle was cool beneath her fingers as she turned it: ‘Hi Mum.’ Bambi forced herself to look fully at her mother. The metal halo clamped onto her head and connected with long bolts down to her chest brace made her look like Frankenstein’s sister. She smiled –she forced it right out.

215 ‘Hi Bamb,’ Wanda smiled broadly at her. ‘No school again today? I was hoping I wouldn’t see you.’ ‘Gee, thanks Mum,’ she dropped into the chair beside her bed. ‘At this rate you’ll be doing grade 11 a second time.’ Bambi scowled at the thought. ‘I’ll catch up. And I’ve been doing some work at home.’ Wanda looked doubtful. ‘So, what have you been up to?’ Bambi steered the conversation away from herself. ‘Oh you know,’ Wanda said dryly, ‘I’ve been skate boarding. And I did a bit of rock climbing after breakfast. Which, I might add, was delicious.’ ‘Oh really?’ Bambi asked. ‘Porridge sludge again?’ ‘Not quite sure, but I think so.’ ‘For someone strapped to a bed, you’re pretty feisty, Mum.’ The light in Wanda’s eyes faltered. ‘Gotta stay positive,’ she smiled as she said it, but Bambi could see the lie in it. ‘We’ve got a lot to be thankful for.’ ‘No. We don’t,’ Bambi retorted. ‘Come here, Bambi.’ Wanda patted beside her on the mattress. She moved from the chair to the bed and gingerly transferred her weight into it as not to disturb her mother’s fragile body. They sat quietly together. ‘What was he doing here?’ ‘He dropped in to say hello, and to see if you kids needed anything.’ ‘Like a new dad,’ she blurted. She didn’t understand why the thought scared her so badly. She loved Ben like a father, but thinking of him in that way made her insides slippery. As much as her family sucked, it was her family. Tears were in Wanda’s eyes. ‘No, Bambi, not like a new dad. He’s a good friend to us. He is an amazing man.’ ‘But he loves you,’ Bambi said. ‘No.’ But Bambi knew the truth. She wondered how much her mum felt for him in return. ‘You know he’s been up to see your dad.’ ‘What?’ Bambi felt accused. She had not been to see him once. Wanda nodded. ‘He has been visiting him every week.’ ‘Wow,’ was all she could say. ‘Wow, indeed,’ Wanda agreed. ‘But why would he? After everything…’ Wanda looked sad. ‘I guess he cares enough for us to help us get our family back together.’

216 The shock of hearing her innermost desire spoken aloud jarred. She desperately missed her dad. She wanted to believe he could get through this, and become the guy Mum told us he used to be, all fun and carefree and wonderful. Bambi just didn’t know how to get from where they were now, to where her daydreams took her. How could she forgive him? She was confused about her conflicting emotions and wasn’t sure she would ever sort them out. The knocking at the door interrupted them and a man’s head peeped through the opening: ‘Hi Wanda! Are you ready for your physio?’ ‘Hello Pierre,’ Wanda turned her braced torso and head to greet him. ‘I think we’re done here.’ Bambi kissed her mother’s hair – greasy from the difficulty of washing it in her current situation – and left the room with a frail goodbye. The idea that it was possible for her family to be whole again bounced around her head crazily. Had it ever been whole? Could it happen? The hospital doors swooshed open for her, light flooding the gap between them, adding to her daze. Without realising what she was doing, Bambi launched into a jog as thoughts of a possible future swam around her brain, sloshing and reforming with every footfall.

217 36.

She couldn’t figure it out. Everybody had been chipping away at her about getting back into her training. Ben hadn’t mentioned it at all. Was he relieved that she was out of his hair? Or thinking it was all too much hassle? The State championships were kind of a big deal, and he, of all people, should realise how important competing would be for her. Maybe she had overestimated herself and she really didn’t have a chance. Perhaps she really should just give up. There was a stiff wind blowing through the courtyard. Bambi sat in the open in the only patch of sun despite the wind cutting through her uniform. Leaves came at her in noisy waves, scattering over and around her. She dropped her face away from the gusts of wind. Bits were getting in her eyes. Conversations floated in as other students walked past. The smell of sausage roll wafted in and made her stomach flip. She had lunch now since she had her caseworker, Shelley. She had a proper school bag, and new shoes. But Bambi didn’t want to eat. She couldn’t be sure, but she was beginning to think it felt almost good to be hungry. Hunger was something she knew. And could control. She pushed the thought aside. She was just feeling a bit off, that’s all. Bambi was getting really cold. Perhaps it would be warmer out of the wind. She stood and leant back against the side of the building. It was the wall to the admin offices. Inside they would be totally snug. She had lots of warm things now. She jiggled her stockinged legs, enjoying the feel of the slippery nylon between her knees. Funny, though: she had thought these things would make her happy. It was nice to see Kevin have all the things he needed and deserved, but it wasn’t stopping him pining after their mum. He’d gone quiet, either that or he was totally screaming his head off. And she hated the way he clung to her and shrieked when she dropped him at day care. She had tried to keep him at home one day, and within an hour she had Shelley on her front door step. A shadow cast across the pavers before her, blocking the sun to her little hidey-hole. ‘Jack,’ Bambi startled. ‘Hi.’ ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘I heard you were back today.’ Bambi shrugged, grating her shoulders up and down the wall. ‘Yeah, can’t say it’s good to be here, though.’ With the sun behind him his features were hard to make out. ‘I called in at your house a few times.’ Bambi nodded. She had told Adam to send him away.

218 ‘You’ve been missed at training.’ ‘Yeah, right,’ she said. He didn’t argue with her. His hands were in his pockets beneath his untucked shirt and his hair hung across his face. He watched the ground where he scuffed his shoe. ‘Tammy tells me you’ve got a new girlfriend.’ His face came up at that and he looked at her for a second before answering. ‘Tammy has a big-fat mouth.’ ‘Is she nice?’ Jack just looked at her. ‘I mean, I’m sure she is. Of course she is…’ ‘Bambi,’ Jack began. Then he paused. She wished he’d stop looking at her in that ‘meaningful way’. She looked away from him. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you.’ It was worse now that he had said it. Worse because it meant that everything she had suspected was real: that he didn’t love her, and didn’t want to be with her, and that he wanted all the things she wanted to be with him, he wanted with some other girl. ‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ ‘It does matter,’ Jack said. He watched her awkwardly as she wiped the tears away with the sleeve of her jumper. ‘Bambi, you’re really special and everything…’ ‘Please stop.’ He looked anguished. He flicked his fringe out of his eyes and crossed his arms. ‘I hope you come back to training soon,’ he said. ‘I miss training with you. I’ve started to wonder how much longer until you beat me over 200 metres.’ ‘You don’t have to blow sunshine up my bum just cause you broke my heart.’ Bambi tried to smile and to laugh at her joke, but it sounded ridiculous. Jack looked as if she’d slapped him. The silence was oppressive. Bambi wanted to get away but Jack was blocking her exit point. ‘I really should get going,’ she said, picking up her bag. ‘Yeah, me too,’ he answered, but he didn’t move. ‘I really want us to stay friends.’ Bambi tried to squeeze past him in the small space, dying of embarrassment as she pushed between him and the wall, bumping into him and forcing him to step out of her way. She cursed herself for not waiting for him to leave first, but unable to stand even a second longer in his presence. ‘See ya ‘round,’ she called over her shoulder as she took off.

219 She didn’t wait to hear his response. She hurried to the closest bathroom and shut herself in a stall, plonking onto the closed toilet lid. She wrapped her arms around herself, holding in the broken parts of her insides. Bambi was stunned: bloody and raw. After all that she had been through, nothing had ever hurt so completely as it did to not be loved by a boy. She was used to being rejected, but this was different. This wasn’t just about kids refusing to let her swing with on the monkey bars; this was about a new bud of hope that had taken root inside her. She had begun to fantasize that her childhood would end and she would be just as good as everyone else. What a stupid idea. Nobody was going love her.

220 37.

The steel pole was cool on her hands as she swung herself up the steps and onto the rubbery platform where the bus driver sat. Ben grinned at her, his whistle strung around his neck and his cap snugly covering his ginger hair in the pre-dawn darkness. Bambi hadn’t been back to school since that first morning. After the episode with Jack, she had told her caseworker that she wasn’t ready for school yet. They had organised work for her to do at home, and she had found herself at peace with her new routine. If she was entirely honest, she hadn’t been ready to see anybody and still, right now, would have preferred to be in hiding. She was still avoiding squad, and everyone from school. The few that had been calling her had stopped. Except Ingrid. She and Adam were getting to know each other quite well via the phone. She took in the number of kids on the bus, cat calling and clapping, and greeting her with general rowdiness and had an overwhelming urge to run screaming. Her mouth hung open as she looked at Ben. ‘What are they all doing here?’ He shrugged. ‘They wanted to see you run,’ he said. ‘And a few of them have some running to do as well.’ He stood and placed his hand on her shoulder – whether to steady her nerves or to stop her from bolting, she couldn’t be sure. She calmed a little. Ingrid launched out of her seat and threw herself around Bambi, hugging her around the middle, squeezing all of the air from her. ‘I’ve missed you!’ Her head tucked neatly under Bambi’s chin. She smelled expensive, and clean, like ice and flowers. ‘But Adam told me you’d come around if we gave you some space. And here you are! A wise man, indeed,’ she winked. Ingrid gave her a final squeeze around her middle, before grabbing her by the hand and yanking her back to her seat. All opportunity for escape was gone. She glanced around. Chucky, and Todd, were there, and Vanessa. No Tammy. They all chatted to her as if nothing had happened. No, she thought. It wasn’t like that at all. It was as if she was a different person to the one who had been shunned and mocked by many of these people. It was as if she was someone they actually liked. She glanced at Ben who was watching her intently. He smiled and shrugged. He’d been training her in private. Actually, he had been giving instructions to Adam and he was passing them on to her. She had been running on her own. In her own time and space. And it had felt pretty all-right. She was ruffled as they left the school car park. They travelled along and the time leaked away, and she began to settle. No-one else thought it was weird, and she had to shake herself. Was any of this real? She couldn’t be sure, but it felt kind of good. She relaxed.

221 The others all settled into their own zones; iPods came out of bags, and some let their faces smoosh against windows and seat-backs as they tried to sleep. It had been an early start. She let her mind wander off, but Ingrid didn’t seem to notice. ‘Did you see Jack?’ Ingrid asked, nudging her in the ribs. ‘Of course,’ she whispered back. She glanced across at him. ‘You heard he has a new girlfriend?’ Ingrid frowned. Bambi forced out a smile, but her stomach clenched. ‘Yeah I know. Tammy made sure I knew. And I bumped into him the other day.’ Ingrid raised her eyebrows in question, waiting for her to say something more. ‘I guess, with all that’s been going on, I haven’t really thought much about him.’ Which was both true, and not true. She had spent plenty of nights wishing things had been different, that he was suddenly struck by the realization that she was actually the one he wanted to be with, and this new chick meant nothing to him. That he’d made a mistake. She had relived the dam day a thousand times. So many times she made herself giddy with the images. But as she brushed over the feelings that lay alongside the lie, she realised that there was truth as well. She had let the daydreams slide, and her thoughts of him had become less. But there was still a pinch. ‘I know this girl who says that boys are idiots anyway,’ she said. Ingrid let out a loud laugh; snorting. ‘A smart woman, indeed.’ Ingrid returned. ‘You should hang onto her.’ Bambi smiled. ‘Probably.’ Ingrid’s eyes darkened and she looked out of the bus. The sun was up and shining awkwardly through the window, and she squinted into it. ‘I’m sorry about your mum,’ she said. She let the moments slide together. ‘And your dad.’ Bambi followed her gaze, watching the fields flicking past: a blur of brown and green. She wondered if her mum would ever recover fully from her years spent with Dad, or whether she was cut so deeply that it would never properly heal. Why did she want to go on with him? What kind of crazy person kept loving someone and believing in them when the rest of the world had given up hope? Her eyes flicked to Ben. He was such a great guy, but she had to admit, she didn’t really want him as her dad. She was glad Wanda had cooled him off. She couldn’t explain why the thought also made her feel sad. She sighed. Life seemed a whole heap simpler without all these men complicating things. It would be easier without the lot of them. And her dad was the absolute worst.

222 And yet, he was part of her. He was her father. Sometimes it was hard to distinguish between the two moons of his love, and his control. She moved and swayed in response to each, both craving and hating their pull. She belonged with him, but he was destroying her. She looked across at her pixyish friend, wondering what she kept concealed from the world, knowing a little bit of the truth but not really. Not even enough to really call her a friend. Things were rarely what they seemed from the outside. And people were the worst: all built-up on the outside like anthill castles, whilst the inside was just a messy bunch of frantically tunnelling ants. All secret-like. ‘Me too.’ Ingrid didn’t need to say anymore, and Bambi chose not to. Another time, perhaps. But not today. She felt the butterflies beginning to open and flap their wings in her stomach as she thought about the race she was supposed to be running in a few hours. ‘Oh no,’ she said aloud. ‘What?’ ‘I have to run against the best 200m runners in the state!” Ingrid pulled a face, ‘Duh. And you’d better make it worth me getting out of bed at 3am.’ By the time they arrived at the meet, Bambi was both excited and tired. Ben flashed paperwork at the officials at the gate, who then waved them through to a parking marshal. Fourteen people exited the bus, one at a time, and they meandered through the grid of parked buses and cars, dodging the muddy patches as they went, balancing blankets and an esky between them. When they entered the open-air stadium, Bambi stopped. It was a gigantic, roofless spaceship. She stared at the artificial track. It was the colour of burnt umber, and delineated by crisp white lines: the inner and outer edges butting against the cool green of the manicured grass. It was lined by rows of seating. Most of it full, and a collection of colourful people weaving through each other as they came and went, threading a pattern like a moving, living tapestry. The smell of fresh doughnuts cooking in oil mixed with the crisp post-rain morning, and was punctuated with the scent of coffee as people passed her, returning to their seats after visiting the Espresso to Go van. The loudspeaker was droning away, the voice narrating names of runners and events and of standing records, and who had a chance of challenging the impossible times that had been set by some who had gone before. She felt awake and alert, in a way that made her insides buzz. ‘You coming?’ Ben had come to stand next to her.

223 She looked at him with eyes that were shiny. ‘How can I ever repay you for this? For everything?’ He smiled at her. ‘Who ever said anything about payment?’ More tears. One slid down her face. ‘Come on kiddo,’ he said. ‘And I do have one more surprise for you, too.’ ‘Oh yeah?’ ‘Yep.’ ‘What is it? ‘You’ll see.’ They caught up with the others, who had found a good position in the grandstand, where they could all sit together and had the option of sun and no-sun seats. Ben unzipped his long duffle bag. Bambi watched him from the corner of her eye, wondering what the surprise could possibly be. ‘Your race is at 10 o’clock,’ Ben said. ‘Which way to the warm up field?’ she questioned Ben. ‘I’d best get moving.’ ‘And take these with you. Give them a bit of a whirl while you’re at it.’ He held out a pair of track shoes to her. They were bright and blue, with a family of angry looking ceramic spikes at their balls. ‘Coach!’ ‘Woah, they are cool,’ said Chucky, who had tuned in and was leaning over Ben’s shoulder. ‘You should never, ever wear new shoes on race day,’ he said as she took them from him. ‘That would be just plain stupid.’ She grinned. ‘Only a complete idiot would do something like that,’ she responded. Bambi didn’t know whether to hug him again, or not, but he shooed her away, pretending it was nothing; something he did everyday. She had Ingrid, Chucky, and Jack along for her warm up laps, but their jokes and gossip proved a little too entertaining. And Jack was making her edgy. She could feel the spikes grasping at the ground, grabbing and sticking like she had never felt before. She liked them, she felt fast and dangerous. ‘Guys, I’m going to come dead last if you don’t leave me alone to get my game on.’ ‘Exactly what we’re expecting!’ said Chucky. Jack punched him in the arm. ‘What?’ Ingrid grabbed them both by the sleeve, and dragged them off the grass. ‘Good luck, Bambi,’ she called back. ‘Not that you’ll need it.’ She shook herself like a hen; ruffling her feathers and letting them settle in a more comfortable position. She changed direction so that she was running with the others who were warming up, so she wouldn’t be distracted.

224 And she looped the track. She let her mind fall back in on itself, and tuned it in to what was happening in her body. She felt a buzz in her legs. It was warm and electric, and spoke of nerves, but she was pleased for it. It would give her the extra bit of ‘something’ she would need if she were to race well today. Bambi started the next lap. She was getting into her zone. She threw down a fast length, slowed for the next, and then did another at speed. She was starting to warm, and her head felt level. No thoughts slid around, but were all stowed neatly where they belonged for the moment. Bambi was ready to race. She headed around the high jumpers on the middle field to the marshalling area. She gaped at the height of the bar, thankful she wasn’t the one expected to jump it. Those jumpers had legs up to their armpits. She found the marshalling area and milled with the other girls. She was in the second heat. There were only two, which meant she needed to finish in the top few if she wanted to be sure of a spot in the final. The marshal was calling her race onto the field, his clipboard sturdy in one hand as he waved at the girls with his other. He had the same manner about him as Ben and she was surprised to realise that she felt at home, with the runners, and whistles and clipboards, and faint scent of sweat and menthol rub in the air. Squatting down, Bambi took a second to adjust her laces. She thought of Ben as she did so, imagining him at the sports store choosing shoes for her; something she could never have afforded, even with the government assistance they were now getting. She tied the laces into a double bow and stood tall. She breathed it all in deeply: the field, the competitors, the day. She couldn’t help the grin that spread over her face. She wondered at her ability to feel so completely desolate, and yet feel so alive in this moment. She was the last onto the track. It felt almost bouncy underfoot. She had never run on a synthetic surface before, and hoped it wasn’t going to be a disadvantage. She wobbled her arms and performed a few springy jumps to relieve her nerves. Her body hummed like telephone lines in the rain. She looked into the stadium seats where she knew her team was waiting for her; cheering before she’d even begun. Adam? A pair of arms waved at her in SOS fashion, beneath them she could see her brother’s shock of dark hair, and she could imagine his slatey eyes as mere slits above a huge grin. ‘It’s just like skipping stones,’ she thought as she placed her hands flush against her starting line, and her feet against the sloping blocks.

225 She could see Adam at the dam, looking at her expectantly, his expression indistinct with the sun at his back. He was small, and grubby from their game, and he was waiting for her to throw her stone across the water. ‘Get set,’ came the voice of the official. She pushed up with her thigh. She could feel the strength waiting in it. She didn’t need to see his face clearly to know what he was thinking. He knew she could do it. There was never a doubt. The gun cracked, and Bambi leapt with it. She unfurled her wings, and she was flying.

226

Exegesis: Writing Young Adult Fiction

227 Positioning the Exegesis

Aim of Project

Young Adult Fiction (YAF) has become known as a space to probe deeply into the teenage experience (Proukou 2005, p. 62; Rossiter 2013, n.p.; Aronson 1997, p. 1418) and can provide powerful learning encounters about human behaviour and interactions for teens (Gervay 2008, p. 3). Many stories within the genre capture the transition from childhood to adulthood. This journey is often defined by a search for meaning, value, and control (Sarland 2010, pp 50-51; Kaplan 2005, p. 12), which is of central interest to me as a writer. Since it is the exploration of self-definition and the limits of social and personal boundaries that compel me to write, it seemed natural to pursue my research in a YAF context where these concepts are frequently explored (Kaplan 2008, p. 42; Alsup 2003, p. 160) and have real life applications (Pattee 2004, p. 246). Much current YAF aims to capture the struggle of the adolescent years to define self and to make sense of difficulties (Bean & Moni 2003, p. 638; McCarthy & Moje 2002, p. 228-9; Alsup 2003, p. 159; Anderson 2005, p. 56), bringing to mind the thoughts of philosopher and novelist Jean Paul Sartre. ‘In a word, man must create his own essence: it is in throwing himself into the world, suffering there, struggling there, that he gradually defines himself’ (Sartre 1985, p. 157). If it is suffering and struggle that leads one to a place of self- knowledge as proposed by Sartre, it is possible to presume that the lives fashioned within a story could also facilitate opportunities to not only learn about oneself, but to have a greater understanding of the nature of humankind. Various critical theories have suggested the link between human experience and literary texts, indicating that there is a continuum between art and life beyond a simple feedback loop (Cohen 2004, p. v), and that self-knowledge is possessed through the exploration of representations of humanity present in cultural works (Bradbury & Miller 2010, p. 693). James Boyd White claims: ‘The story is the most basic way we have of organizing our experience and claiming meaning for it’ (Elkins 2011, p. 265). This process of sorting through issues using narrative could well be seen as flowing parallel to the adolescent’s quest for understanding of self. It is these notions that inspire my writing and inform the exploration of my personal narrative process. It is through writing a YAF novel (aimed at teens aged between thirteen and fifteen years) and this accompanying academic discussion that I engage in such an investigation. After laying out my methodological foundation, the analysis that follows is concerned with writing about controversial issues for adolescents, and how an adult author makes meaning within such a context. It outlines the foundational theories underpinning my

228 journey of thought, as I consider gender depictions in my writing, stereotypes and character building, and how adolescent girls are seen in relation to, and participate in, sport. It is from this position that I begin my exegesis, with the intention to enter and add to the scholarly discussion about the balance between free creativity and creating a marketable YAF novel, both couched in a desire to explore the human experience of adolescence.

Applying Theories to Practice

Using theoretical prisms to view creative practice is a valuable way to add to scholarly knowledge as it can act to refract the process of writing into a spectrum of examinable issues. The exegetical section ‘Applying Theories to Practice’ underpins this project and utilises several scholarly theories to inform the intersection of YAF, creative practice, and an analysis of adolescence. The theoretical approach of this exegesis and artefact is embedded in feminist theories, and although there are many individual feminisms, it is the common forward movement for the cause of women’s freedom and equality (Hoffman 2001, p. 194) that this research is centered upon. Both artefact and exegesis explore the ways in which adolescent females exist in social and gender groups and how identity, position and power are taken and attributed. Where my original intention was to explore inter-gender interactions through social dominance theories, out of my Practice Led Research (PLR) came a shift into an inquiry into the spheres of intra-gender relationships, i.e. how teenage girls operate in social groupings. In a broad sense, this aspect of my project is concerned with how girls ‘do girl’, particularly within the context of the novel. Of particular importance to my creative practice has been the application of feminist standpoint theories (FST) and how and why individual females are isolated from dominant culture. FST bring to the fore a consideration of the experiences of marginalised and isolated female voices. My artefact examines this idea through story, and viewing it through a FST lens allows insight into how to further this theme in my creative expression. It informs how I depict several young female characters, and the varying ways they experience isolation in their gender spheres. This brings into question how character interactions, actions, and reactions are best able to demonstrate the standpoints of particular females in the story. Although my project is concerned with the experience of young women as a group, I have chosen to write the story of one girl who operates as part of a group, but is never fully accepted into it. Brooke Lenz refers to this as the ‘outsider within’ principle (Lenz 2004, p. 98). The intention of this decision is to explore the experience of the group as a whole through the lens of a few. It is through the examination of intra-gender imbalances and

229 uneven power distribution through artefact and exegesis that I attempt to further unpack social hierarchies in teenage circles and the greater female experience.

Representations and Stereotyping

Not wishing to limit my exploration into gender theories to female positions, this project is also concerned with images of masculinity. The ‘Representations and Stereotyping’ section discusses writing gendered characters, particularly males, that are not confined to cultural expectations and ideology. Characterisation and the art of representation are closely linked. Writers construct meaning through signs and symbols (Hall 2012, p. 11), and by making selections about the known world, they can communicate an imagined one. Perhaps one of the easiest ways to represent character is the tool of stereotyping – i.e. by presenting characters as having a collection of traits that belong to a well-known ‘type’. They function as shortcuts to meaning, and allow the writer to communicate a significant amount of information efficiently (Bowles 2009, p.70). However, the use of undeveloped stereotypes can reduce characters to caricatures, limiting the believability of a story and producing characters that reinforce potentially damaging implications for understanding everyday life. A difficulty I faced in my artefact was creating male characters, particularly those that leant themselves to clichéd representations, in a realistic and non-stereotypical way. Having chosen an abusive father character as central to the story, I evaluate in this section how I can use the stereotyping technique as a narratological tool without reinforcing cultural assumptions about his character. This proved difficult given the strong vein of violence permeating the artefact, and the global tendency to accept there is a ‘natural’ link between males and violence (Kimmell 2011, p. 243). The exegesis discusses male domination through domestic violence, and how through PLR I reflect upon how I have created a story that aims to understand aggression as a male issue. It questions whether my story could move into an area where violence is the problem of a gendered individual rather than all males.

Making Meaning

Another significant question driving my project was my hesitation about being an adult author writing for an adolescent audience. The ‘Making Meaning’ section of this exegesis discusses my progression as writer from uncertainty to a point of embracing what I, as an adult author, uniquely bring to the writing of a creative text for teenagers.

230 The difficulty I faced in resolving what Mike Cadden calls the ironic positioning of the author in YAF is evident in this section. Cadden’s view is that an adult author’s attempt to simulate an authentic adolescent voice is problematic because the adult voice cloaked in a teenaged voice is ultimately inauthentic at its core (Cadden 2000, p. 146). I was uncertain how much attention to pay to the gap between the adult author and the adolescent reader, given the difference between my knowledge of technology and that of young adult reader. The recent rapid escalation of technology’s role in society and its impact upon modern teenage culture is significant, and distances me as the author. This concern also spilt over into my belief in the ability of my story to create narrative intimacy, and I questioned my selection of third person point of view in a genre dominated by first person narrative (Bean & Moni 2003, p. 638). The discussion in this section culminates in an analysis of the initial decision to set my story in the 1980s and an examination of how the generational gap between author and ideal reader makes this choice potentially problematic.

Navigating Controversial Issues in YAF

One of the foremost matters arising from my PLR was how I could comfortably use YAF as a genre to delve into certain confronting realities of life. The question of the limits of the genre repeatedly surfaced throughout my project and necessitated an inquiry into my decision to write about violence and poverty. The direction and outcomes of this project have been significantly influenced by an investigation into the often-discussed question of how befitting such topics are for a pre-adult audience. This journey is examined in the section entitled ‘Navigating Controversial Issues in YAF’. Teenage years are generally considered to be a period of tumultuous change (Alsup 2003, p. 1558; Pattee 2004, p. 243), so it would be reasonable to assume that the exploration of this life-period through fiction would involve the discussion of difficult issues. Numerous current YAF stories deal with controversial issues in depth. Anna Perera’s Guantanamo Boy (2009) is a story about kidnapping, torture, and terror. Keith Gray explores teenage suicide in Ostrich Boys (2008), and Susan Vaught’s story, Freaks Like Us (2013), presents the issues of sexual abuse and mental illness. Despite evidence supporting the appropriateness of such novels, I discuss in this section my willingness as a writer to represent similar topics, and in doing so, contemplate my ideal reader. My research looks at the highly diverse nature of YAF audiences and how best to write for a group organized on age demographic rather than reading interest (Pattee 2004, p. 244).

Girls and Sport

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Although I close the exegesis with a discussion of girls and sport, it is by no means the least significant consideration of my research. Central to my project is the premise that sport is a healthy pursuit for adolescents and one of the major thrusts of the artefact is the goal of normalizing sport for teenage girls. The issue of girls and sport is an important one for me, and the project has been driven by an attempt to disrupt many of the ideological assumptions regarding the relationship between the two. My investigations into this issue and the way my research intersects with the artefact is detailed in the section titled ‘Girls and Sport’. In order to write about girls engaging with sport in a positive way, I first sought to understand how teenagers view sport and their relationship to it, and how they judge others and seek self-identity through their participation, or lack thereof, in sporting contexts. Perhaps the most challenging aspect of this issue was discovering ways to dislodge entrenched ideas about the limits of female physical ability and the sexualisation of females who participate in sport. With so few YAF sporting stories written with strong female protagonists who are connected to their own sense of femaleness, I found a limited number of stories with which to compare and on which to model my own. My research into current novels repeatedly uncovered the occurrence of ‘the sporty girl’ – a female who is represented as non-feminine, different physically and emotionally to other girls, and rejected by her peers. For example, the physically and emotionally masculine protagonist ‘D.J.’ in Catherine Gilbert Murdoch’s Dairy Queen is portrayed as holding her own on the football field and around the farm with the boys. Colliding with this narrative tendency is the notion creeping into Euro-Western media that girls can be sporty and girly at the same time, but they must also be sexually attractive. This trend exists in novels such as Deb Loughead’s (2011) Just Run, which depicts four athletic girls who are talented, beautiful, and popular, and act as a companion group to the attractive, athletic boys in the story. Can my female protagonist be involved with sport and also identify with being feminine on her terms? My artefact and exegesis aim to navigate this gender-role minefield by experimenting with ways to bring the two together in my story. Again, I seek answers to this challenge through a consideration of narratalogical approaches to characterization, believing the answer lies in the development of complex characters in order to overthrow gender stereotypes.

In Summary

This exegesis investigates the evolution of my artefact and exegesis, detailing how I have met the challenges and ideas for creative extension that have come about through my

232 practice and accompanying research. It is the to-and-fro between these two aspects of the project that has enlightened my search for a greater understanding of my own creative journey, the practice of others, and the art of writing . Practice Led Research (PLR) allows me to research ‘in’ the discipline rather than about it (Haseman 2006, n.p.), where I as a researcher am involved in both data production through the creation of an artefact, as well as an analysis of that data in light of current scholarly discussion. The act of creating my artefact allows me to integrate experiential knowledge with academic theories, with my unique experience providing the opportunity to make an original contribution to scholarly knowledge (Arnold 2012, p. 10). Dominique Hecq refers to this as ‘disrupting the known’: as an artist examines their practice they move into a place where accessing what is unknown, or that which lies beyond the known, becomes possible (Hecq 2012, p. 4). In this way, PLR allows reciprocity of practice and research, leading to further knowledge, bringing creative practice to the academy through a contribution to scholarship.

233 Methodology

Exegetical Methodology

My exegetical method is grounded in PLR, an overarching term that describes many qualitative scholarly methodologies. I undertook this approach in two interlinked stages. The first component of my methodology involves the recognition of issues arising from my writing practice and the consequent exploration into relevant academic discussion to find solutions to my writerly inquiry. Secondly, my exegesis charts the development of my practice as I engaged with the scholarly discourse in conjunction with an analysis of my first and subsequent artefact drafts, and the resultant re-writing that occurred. The Australian Association of Writing Programs (AAWP) advises that creative practitioners carrying out research that is based in practice should engage in certain practice- research activities (Andrew 2012; Australian Association of Writing Programs 2006; Webb 2006). AAWP divides the process into three stages: research for practice, research into practice, and research through practice. Research for practice involves generating data that will provide adequate knowledge and context to place the creative work. It tends towards traditional research practice, including archival and field research. The second area of inquiry, research into practice, involves the generation of knowledge about creative approaches through the application of techniques relevant to the discipline. The final activity AAWP recommends is research through practice, where the combination of creative application merges with archival and field research methods to generate further knowledge about broader and more scholarly issues with political, social, philosophical or other applications. As my entry point for this project was an idea for a fictional story, I began my PLR with research for practice. In keeping with AAWP’s breakdown of the PLR process, I began by using conventional methods of research. I read widely in the YAF genre, alongside initial investigations into the practice of writing as discussed by authors and academics. I concurrently engaged in methodologies of practice – i.e. research into practice – through drafting and editing of my work, self-reflection, and journaling, as well as continuing in more traditional archival research as before. As Hecq states, the emphasis in PLR is on the creation of data rather than the collection of data, ‘where research and practice are reciprocal’ (Hecq 2012, p. 4), and the creative work itself is research. The final component of my practice involved research through practice where I used my creative process and experiences to generate broader knowledge related to the artefact. In line with Jen Webb’s thoughts on this process, I have experimented with creative writing

234 techniques to engender knowledge related to the project, and the creative project has generated opportunities to reflect on the practice of writing and further examination of the ideas and theories that have arisen (Webb 2008, n.p). Similarly, for Carole Gray, PLR is ‘initiated in practice, where questions, problems and challenges are identified and formed by the needs of practice and practitioners’ (Gray 1996 in Boyd 2009 p. 4). Throughout the exegesis I have utilised the challenges and questions produced by the activity of writing to stimulate my research– with each of the pieces of writing simultaneously influencing the other - amassing new knowledge through identification, exploration and execution. The beginning point for this methodological approach was the use of a journal. Journaling is common practice amongst artists (Haseman & Mafe 2009, p. 215) as a tool to record thoughts, connect ideas, and stimulate creativity (Rolfe 2006, p 95). Haseman and Mafe suggest that the journal can been ‘repurposed’ as a research method to become a means of recording discoveries, through ‘reviewing and re-reading the journal to identify key markers of the creative journey as it shifts over time’ (Haseman & Mafe 2009, p. 215). Using the journal in this way, I collected my reflections about my practice and sought academic thought about the issues and techniques as I wrote, providing the scholarly data for my research. I then repeatedly returned to my creative work to redirect and experiment with the ideas I had encountered.

How does creative work lead to data for scholarship?

Reflective consideration of my writing also formed a significant component of my exegetical method. G. James Daichendt emphasises the importance of reflection for the artistic scholar, suggesting that analysing how decisions and experiences come together during practice enables the creative researcher to effectively consider the development of their ideas: ‘The reflective process seeks to make the unexplainable available’ (Daichendt 2011, p. 94). Similarly, Harry Whitehead says that PLR as a method of enquiry allows the writer-researcher insight into the ‘unexpected’ element of the writing process. He employs musician Brian Eno’s thoughts on creative processes, where imaginative ingredients come together to produce an unforeseen outcome – ‘At some point the whole becomes greater than the sum of its parts’(Whitehead 2013, p. 103). It is this search for greater practice and understanding that has prompted this project. My exegetical investigation is facilitated by PLR as I attempt to capture and unpack the mystery of the embodiment of creative ideas in story form. It is John Dewey’s comment on the nature and value of reflection that I believe to be proven through PLR. He states that reflection as a tool of determining ‘the true good’ of something is not a one-time event, but ‘it needs to be done over and over again, in terms of the conditions of concrete situations as

235 they arise’ (Dewey 1932, p. 212; Hennessey 2006, p. 183). These ‘concrete situations’ can be interpreted as critical moments in my creative process, whether problematic or revelatory in nature, that stand out as significant markers. Sarah Hennessy believes these ‘critical events’ can act to stimulate a change of direction, disrupting the creative process in the way that can trigger an environment of learning (Hennessy 2006, p. 189). Reflection acts to identify learning occasions, and allows opportunity for a creative response from the researcher to generate solutions and reactions to these critical events.

Creative Methodology

I saw my PhD artefact as an opportunity to experiment with structure, through the use of a pre-writing planning process. Pre-writing can include a wide range of techniques, including journaling, planning, and research, which can help authors explore their initial ideas and attain a degree of momentum before the commencement of writing (Fergusson 2013, p. 37-8). As a predominantly unplanned and emotionally-led writer, I was conscious that my weaknesses included unsustainable plot lines and difficulty drawing a story to a close. I hoped that engaging in pre-writing activities, such as a novel outline, would offer a solution to these problems by improving the structural integrity of my story. I found I was supported in Andrew Cowan’s thoughts on writing and his personal tendency towards perfectionism. He writes about his experience of producing ‘raw material’ - writings about the novel but separate from it– detailing characters, themes, and events in order to step outside of the story to bring it to completion. He says ‘at least now I had something to work with and to work against’ (Cowan 2013, p. 47). For Cowan this method of planning in the margins acted to produce integral aspects of the story without the pressure of it having to be sophisticated writing. It is this principle that I have applied to the early stages of my project and the decision to write about, but outside of, my story through pre- planning. As I set about this planning process I was mindful of Robert Nelson’s discussion of creative method and the uniqueness with which every creative researcher approaches such a project. He suggests that forcing particular methods ‘…could corrupt the intention or mess up the natural flow that the individual project indicates’ (Nelson 2004, n.p.). It is this natural flow that I have previously guarded in my approach, and was unwilling to compromise as I contemplated employing pre-writing structure. However, previous experience has proven that this technique alone has not been enough to adequately fulfill my creative intentions. Indeed, Hazel Smith contests the idea that approaching writing projects in a structured way works against the idea that writing occurs ‘naturally’. She argues that instead of working against the creative practice, ‘…a systematic approach opens up the writing process and

236 invites unexpected and unorthodox outcomes’ (Smith 2006, p. 17.) Louise Archer agrees, reasoning that the sequence of writing choices an author makes during their practice act as underlying structures and pre-writing considerations of such can extend and improve writing outcomes (Smith 2006, p. 17-18). It is with this approach in mind that I have aimed for balance between the two styles, choosing from the numerous bearings my artefact could take in the form of pre-writing practices.

The Snowflake Method and PLR

At the pre-writing stage, my ‘research for practice’ included seeking guidance from the experiences of other authors. I found Randy Ingermanson’s Snowflake Method (2012) to be of greatest interest. Although the technique did not fit exactly with my ideal writing approach, I found its linear methodology appealing. Beginning with broad ideas and moving systematically into finer detail, the technique breaks the process into manageable steps. The Snowflake model commences by focusing on the macro view of a story idea before shifting towards the details. Beginning with a single sentence summarizing the novel, the technique works through steps including paragraph and page summaries, character profiles, and expanded chapter summaries. The main agenda of the model is to create a tight plot, whilst paying attention to character motivation and conflict. The writer is asked to consider an opening, three disasters, and an ending, which is built upon by adding layers of details. Despite the welcome structure the model provided, I was conscious of the gaps in the technique. Mindful of the goal of ‘researching through practice’ and merging my artefact together with scholarly discussion, I was aware that the strong focus on details could be restrictive and potentially inhibit the flexibility of my artefact to shift with the research process. However, this method lends itself to PLR as it is founded on the understanding that story plan is not static, leading the practitioner to further scholarship before delving back into story design. He says ‘Yes, the design documents are not perfect. That’s okay…they are a living set of documents that grows as you develop your novel.’ (Ingermanson 2012, n.p.). Not only did the technique help me to approach my practice in an organised manner, it provided a fluid design that enabled me to utilise fully the journal as an exploratory tool, and develop ideas within a gently structured scaffold. The Snowflake Method also proved to be time consuming and I chose to make amendments in order to balance my inclination towards unplanned writing with the benefit the Snowflake Method offered. I reduced several of the in depth planning elements, feeling the degree of detail required to complete certain steps of the process was demotivating and limiting to my creativity. I did not write full-page descriptions of my characters, concerned

237 that labouring there could restrict their natural development. Confident that I knew well enough who my characters would be, I preferred to place them in situations and ‘see’ how they would react, believing that this would create more realism than micro-managing them would. I also chose not to write an extensive plot synopsis. Instead, I created a list of scenes, each with a paragraph outlining my intentions. I considered this document as fluid and it was able to reshape as my research and practice generated new direction. By tailoring Ingermanson’s method, I approached the first page of my novel with confidence. My story was not merely a disorganised mix of characters, emotion, and events, but was designed to grow along a pre-planned path that would adequately expand story, characters, and themes alike.

Diversity of Technique

Not content to limit my creative process to one method, I sought other techniques to personalise my approach to creating my ideal YAF story. As I considered different writing methods, I found Ansen Dibell’s thoughts on the balance between technique and inspiration grounding. She suggests that whilst the reader may be awed by technique, if the writing has no heart, it will merely be an exercise in being clever. She asks authors: ‘…do you want to share some vision of what it means to be human and alive in the world?’ (Dibell 1999, p. 162). Agreeing with the sentiments of her question and using it as a moderator of the technical ideas I was employing, I brought into my planning and early writing a selection of other writing strategies. I found the mosaic structure particularly interesting for my story, as the use of repeated symbols and images to create a sense of motion blended neatly with my story’s themes (Dibell 1999, p. 145). Although I did not wish to use the method in the strict sense of ‘writing in brief, fragmentary, discontinuous sections’ (Jauss 2011, p. 180), I found the idea of using a montage of related images to create a thematic parallel with the action of the story interesting. Having already decided that the title of the work would be ‘Motion’, I saw as useful the mosaic as a way of reinforcing this idea of movement through words, images, and symbols. Jessica Morrell says that using symbols in story adds to meaning and can foreshadow future events, ‘…whisper(ing) about what is to come and lay down traces for the most dramatic moments’ (Morrell 2006, p. 104). As running already formed a significant portion of the story, I decided to use it as an active symbol throughout the work, weaving images of my protagonist Bambi running through the story, tying her physical movement to both her inner and outer lives. I was hopeful that by incorporating this symbol into the story,

238 I could create a sense of expectation regarding movement within Bambi’s character and her circumstances. As I began to blend this technique into my design, I was conscious of allowing the imagery to occur as naturally as possible. Keeping in mind Dibell’s notion of ‘heart’, I did not wish to force the metaphor. I used Bambi’s attitude to running – both conscious and sub- conscious – and how she interacts with the act of running to be a reflection of her personal development. As her thoughts about running, and her skills as a runner mature, so too does her character grow. In these ways I hoped to use it as a signifying image. Alongside my application of the mosaic principle, I saw an opportunity in my design to utilise the idea of creating a mood piece, where the author focuses on channeling a particular mood throughout the writing. Dibell explains it as ‘an inner fact or process is made literal’ (Dibell 1999, p. 146). Morrell puts it simply: ‘words should stir feelings in the reader’ (Morrell 2006, p. 180). I liked the idea that I could use the weather to create mood, particularly since the changing nature of weather would easily lend itself to the dramatic shifts within the story. Alongside this, weather for a runner has particular significance (Noakes 2001, p. 329). Conditions can affect the performance and attitude of the runner, the difficulty of the running experience, and the mental strength required to begin or complete the intended run. It is the dynamic nature of both running and the weather, and how the two could potentially intersect in my story to reflect on character, that inspired me to concentrate on creating mood. I saw it as an opportunity to demonstrate Bambi’s mental state as she engages with running. I realised that I could write miserable weather conditions, creating a flat and difficult mood, and have Bambi execute her training run despite the circumstances, and reveal aspects of her character in a subtle way. I felt it also tied in with my thematic concerns, and was excited that I would be able to focus on Bambi’s sense of achievement and satisfaction of being true to one’s goals. A beautiful crisp morning when it is a joy for her to run could be combined with a success in Bambi’s relationships. Similarly, a heavy humid day could act as a reflection of the difficulties she experiences. As I applied this technique as my story developed, I found myself using the weather as a tool for reflecting on the moods of other characters. For instance, when Jonathon is standing in the hot sun fixing his car, the way the heat is affecting him acts as a mirror for his internal struggle to control his anger in that moment. When Ben reflects on his past failures, a wind blows around him, acting to reinforce his emotions.

239 Applying Theories to Practice

Theoretical prisms enable me to add new scholarly dimensions to my practice by using them as ways to reflect upon my writing processes. Through their application I have developed further insights into the issues and ideas that have arisen throughout this project. Within the PLR framework, I have looked to academic discussions around a number of theories for insight. Whilst my YAF novel lends itself to many current theories, I have chosen to concentrate my thinking in the areas of feminist standpoint theories (FST) and structural inequality theories (SIT), in particular, social hierarchy theory (SHT). I wish to focus my discussion in this chapter on both females and males as independent social groups, paying particular attention to the ways in which people interact within their gender groupings and how power and identity is attributed inside social circles. I look to relevant theories to help draw out the separate worlds of both males and females in my artefact in order to reflect more fully on the character interplay and to solve creative issues. I have chosen two groups to focus on based on their helpfulness to the further development of characterisation and plot. Firstly, I look at adolescent females in the story through a FST perspective. I then shift my attention to theories on masculinity as a social construction and how this affects Jonathon as ‘man’, ‘father’, and ‘provider’. This leads me to explore social hierarchy theory (SHT), and to theories about the social construction of gender.

Feminism – Commonality of thought?

Before I narrow my discussion to a particular feminist theory, I think it useful to ground it in an overview of feminism. There are many modern feminist theories stemming from a variety of historical, cultural, and social roots, which can make the notion of feminism difficult to pinpoint. Brooke Ackerly and Jacqui True define it as ‘the search to render visible and to explain patterns of injustice in organizations, behavior, and normative values that systematically manifest themselves in gender-differentiated ways’ (Ackerly & True 2010, p. 464). The complexity of the nature of feminism is evident in this description and the issues it addresses are far-reaching. The word ‘feminism’ is barely a century old (LeGates 2012, p. 7), but the challenge to women’s position in society and dominant notions regarding women can be traced back as far as the 15th century and the emergence of the western tradition to engage in written discussions of the social world (Evans 2009, p. 235). The often-quoted origin of modern feminism is Mary Wollstonecraft’s A Vindication of the Rights of Women (1792) and her writings mark a monumental moment in the history of feminist thinking, and the beginnings of several centuries of scholarly debate. The ensuing

240 academic dialogue regarding the ‘nature’, roles, and rights of women has been diverse. Marlene LeGates suggests that feminism has generally oscillated between two strains of thought: Liberal or equal rights feminism which found its roots in the 18th century Enlightenment, and cultural feminism which she likens to late 19th century social feminist thinking (Le Gates 2012, p. 5-6). Liberal feminist thinking is based on the similarities between women and men and aims for equality for the genders. It focuses on the social construction of gender in order to address the inequalities regarding the treatment of women in relation to men (Archer 2004, p. 459), whereas cultural feminism focuses on the differences and the experiences of women as individuals. The shift in this debate in the 1980s towards cultural feminism argued the question of social difference, and woman as ‘other’, drawing attention to variance arising from age, social standing, sexuality, and race amongst women (Archer 2004, p. 469-60). Although feminist scholarship varies in focus and opinion, it arguably finds cohesion through its birth in the recognition of women as a socially oppressed group (LeGates 2012, p. 2), its grounding in feminist struggles (Ackerly & True 2010, p. 464), and its commitment to the emancipation of women (Hoffman 2001, p. 193). John Hoffman extends this idea, suggesting that individual feminisms should be appraised on the ways they ‘contribute positively to the development of a post-patriarchal society’. Hoffman’s explanation of feminism as a ‘dynamic notion’ - continuing in the imagery of feminism as a ‘movement’ rather than a resting place – captures the nature of feminist theory and its fundamental drive towards the betterment of the situation for women. He believes each feminist scholar’s contribution is flawed but is significant in its contribution to the forward movement of the cause for women’s equality and freedom (Hoffman 2001, p. 194). It is on this principle that this discussion is situated. In this exegetical section, I use Patricia Leavy’s idea of the research-informed feminist novel as a way to concentrate on the specific issues of teenage girls, accessing ‘hard-to-get-at’ places within social understandings, and providing a platform to present these ideas to a broad audience (Leavy 2012, p. 518). In the artefact, I wanted to look closely at young women as a social group and to bring to the fore a discussion of how they adopt discourses in relation to each other in a way which aligns with their self-identity and group- imposed identity (Pia 2009, p. 4-5). Of particular interest was the way in which teenage girls are non-physically aggressive within a group and create cultures of exclusion (Reid-Walsh & Mitchell 2008, p. 9), and the role that socioeconomic standing has in the creation of identity and positioning within groups of girls (Pia 2000, p. 5). These issues arose from my practice and will be discussed further in the accompanying sections.

Feminist Standpoint Theories

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‘Standpoint theories are value laden and seek to disrupt the intellectual and social world but only as a means of opening them up to diversity’ (Ritzer 2005, p. 789)

Feminist standpoint theories come under the umbrella of cultural feminism and have played a key role in my exploration of gender theories, particularly since I focus on a protagonist who is alienated within her immediate society. Standpoint theories offer a way of viewing a society from the position of persons marginalised by a particular dominant culture, offering unique perspectives upon the ways that person can understand their experience and point of view in order to interrogate the status quo (Lenz 2004, p. 98). They are also a means of explaining the central role knowledge plays in both the preservation and disruption of power in prejudicial systems (Collins 1997, p. 375) with the goal of empowering those who are power-poor (Ritzer 2005, p. 789). In the context of my project I have applied FST as they provide a tool for inspecting and deconstructing gender as well as cultural ideologies present in my work. They allow me to undermine the assumptions of ‘truth’ presented by the dominant ways of being within the novel’s culture, questioning my own writerly agendas as well as possible audience readings. I turned to the principles of FST to examine this. This group of theories has evolved since its beginnings in the 1970s and 80s (Intemann 2010, p. 782), yet it still remains a controversial school of thought (O’Shauhnessy & Krogman 2012, p. 494). One of the main criticisms of the theory is the idea that an oppressed woman automatically has privileged knowledge and insight due to her marginalised status (Naidu 2010, p. 83; Hartsock 2006, p. 179). Whilst this criticism validly brings into question what may have been seen as a fundamental premise of FST, I am still choosing to claim this privilege for Bambi as I give advantage to her point of view in the text. Whilst I agree that not all marginalised individuals automatically attain authoritative insight due to their marginalization, I find it reasonable that operating half within/half outside a group gives a different perspective unavailable to those operating fully on either side. The act of straddling two worlds, without fully knowing either, gives a uniqueness to understanding and experience unknown to others. Since this is a position occupied by a minority, I feel it has the potential to offer new thinking in well-worn areas. FST were helpful prisms through which to view character relationships as I constructed my story. I was drawn to question not only the ways I was depicting the girls, but also the spaces between the girls: how interactions between characters changed nature based on the position within the culture they were occupying. For example, I was struck at how Tammy and Ingrid (both occupying similar social positions) had an unequal but similar power relationship, where the Tammy-Bambi relationship appeared to operate on an entirely

242 different plane. Despite my attempt to consider and balance these character relationships as I wrote, I found myself naturally privileging Bambi’s voice over the others. Whilst I see potential for greater insight being derived from Bambi’s position, I do not claim that she has a superior understanding, rather that she is placed where she can access further knowledge that others may not. I find resonance with Kathi Weeks’ statement (in Hartsock 2006) as I seek to justify this decision: ‘A standpoint is a project, not an inheritance; it is achieved, not given’ (Weeks 1996, p. 101). Bambi strives to find momentary standpoints throughout the story – wrestling with ideologies before resting at a new place of understanding and then moving forward to the next point – never arriving at an ultimate position, but collecting and shifting perspectives as she grows. There is no assumption that the story opens with an insightful protagonist, rather that she earns this position during the journey. It is through this progression of character that the reader has the opportunity to interpret the plot more deeply and to gain greater insight into the themes of the story (Roser et al 2007, p. 548). Bambi’s insight develops gradually. The novel opens with her demonstrating a naivety towards her father. She simultaneously loves and fears him, but is characterised by an intrinsic impulse to seek his company without deep thought into their relationship and its harm. As her story unfolds, she begins to see the truth about her father and his destructive nature. When her brother removes himself from the family home, she is forced to consider the role Jonathon has played in the father/son relationship. When her mother gives her the clothes she has kept for years, confronting Bambi with the extent of their poverty, she again is provoked to consider the role her father has played in this. By considering Bambi’s arc of development, I could further draw out the underlying themes of the story.

Social Hierarchy/Social Dominance Theory

I also consider my story and research within the broader ascholarly understanding of social hierarchy: specifically, social dominance theory (Sidanius and Pratto, 1999). Social dominance within a group is arguably created and maintained through consensual beliefs. Foels and Pappas state that within social dominance theory, group hierarchies are created through shared ideological beliefs and exist to reduce conflict between members (Foels and Pappas 2004, p. 743). As the project unfolded, I became interested in how social dominance theories were playing out within the smaller social spheres of the story. As the interplay between the teenage girl characters developed, I explored the intra- gender imbalances and uneven power distribution that had evolved within the group of adolescent girls in Motion. I realised that I could neither treat nor critically analyse the girls in the story as a homogenous cluster, and was drawn to focus on the diversity and

243 complexity of ‘teenage girls’ as a gender group (Jones 1993, p. 158). Within this group was Bambi, struggling continually with the impact of social oppression and ostracism. Looking through a SDT lens in this exegesis, Bambi remains in an oppressed position due to consensual beliefs within the group that she is a less valuable member than the other girls, thus perpetuating this ‘lesser’ status. Whilst she exists within the wider collection of adolescent girls, she is attributed subordinate status due to agreed beliefs dictating worth based on socio-economic status, dress, and physical appearance. She operates within the group, but is in many ways excluded from it, and shares an unequal portion of power and status. As the scholarly research for the exegesis led to changes in my creative work, it was considering the story through this frame that opened up options for creating alternative ways for Bambi to be. Several questions arose as a result: what beliefs within the group need to change in order to free Bambi? How do I go about shifting the thinking within the story to accommodate these changes? Which characters need to shift, and who can remain unchanged?

Bambi as an ‘Outsider Within’

Perhaps my greatest concern regarding these issues was the seemingly organic way that they invaded my text. Such theories gave me insights into how I was creating a story embedded in the notion that some girls – ‘popular girls’ - wield power, and others – ‘the unpopular’ - do not. In this social order, I had written Bambi, partially within it, and partly outside. Not until the story was well underway did I hesitate over the direction I was taking it, and paused to reflect upon the social hierarchical models that I was reiterating. This idea of hierarchy put forward by social dominance theory is further developed by Brooke Lenz’s research, and is readily applied to this scholarly discussion about my practice. She suggests that feminist standpoint methodology is anchored in the ‘outsider within’ principle, where the group or individual exists within a culture but is excluded from participating fully in it, arguably maintaining a more detached, or ‘less false’, standpoint than those participating fully in the culture (Lenz 2004, p. 98). The outsider-within concept originates with the theories of Patricia Hill Collins and aims to focus attention on the ‘unequal power relations of race, class, and gender that produce social locations characterised by injustice’ (Collins 1999, p. 86). It is the very social structures explained by FST that creates the outsider-within space. Bambi, then, may be identified as an outsider-within. An initial observation might be that she is marginalised solely because of her socio-economic status, unable to function equally in terms of dress and lifestyle, but a closer analysis reveals that she is also separated from society due to how she has constructed herself: how she ‘does girl’. Girls attribute

244 meaning to their ‘girlness’ ‘by participating within those available sets of social meanings and practices – discourses – which define them as girls’ (Jones 1993, p. 159), which suggests that there are a set of roles available to any individual girl within a group from which they must choose and perform. Girls are pathologised into oppositional categories such as ‘mean girls’ and ‘super girls’ through popular culture, creating identity dilemmas for them as they wade through the contradictions of what makes a ‘girl’ (Reid-Walsh & Mitchell 2008, p. 6). My story was reinforcing these categories, but I saw no simple way to break free from them. As a result of scholarly reading, I pondered how I could shift Bambi’s character beyond the ‘outsider space’. As I measured Jones’ idea of how girls must choose from a preset discourse in order to identify with their ‘girlness’, I realised that I was asking the wrong question. It was not a case of shifting Bambi from ‘outsider’ to ‘insider’, thus maintaining the existing structure, but questioning what I could do to enable her to find her sense of self, independent of the social stratification, thereby challenging its validity. During the early stages of the story Bambi constructs her self-image from a collection of external impressions of who she is, buying into the established cultural beliefs about what makes a girl acceptable. In order to break the pattern, I sought to understand why it existed.

Girls ‘Doing Girl’

I explored the balance between internal-external identity construction pressures in teens, and how girls as a group have the power to affect the identity ownership of others. It would appear that there is a tendency amongst adolescent girls to ruthlessly secure their own position at the cost of others within their peer group. ‘Adolescent and preadolescent girls wield enormous power over their peers. Their weapons – gossiping, name-calling, excluding -- may not give other girls black eyes or bloody lips, but they can be as harmful as physical intimidation, violence, and racial slurs’ (Vail 2002, p.1). During these adolescent years, girls often turn to indirect aggressive techniques, covertly controlling peer relationships, asserting self, and hurting other girls (Owens et al 2000, p. 68). The research of Owens, Shute, and Slee suggests that the desire for inclusion, acceptance and intimacy drives girls into this behaviour (Owens et al 2000, p. 71). I was particularly interested in how Jessica Ringrose extends this idea by saying that girls’ ‘manipulation, meanness and psychological hurt is articulated as the dark underside to girls’ silence, repression and victimization’ (Ringrose 2006, p. 43). Ringrose’s claim appears reasonable: fear of being victims of this cycle acts to perpetuate it, driving some adolescent girls into action. The ways in which young women are oppressed by society creates frustration, a vexation which finds release through the attack on other powerless and silenced individuals: their adolescent female counterparts.

245 Reframing via this idea, I began to see the ability of my story to speak about the plight of the individual teenage girl as belonging to an oppressed social group, rather than a fight between a victim and her aggressors. I considered ways I could make the story greater than Bambi’s search to fulfill her desire for inclusion and acceptance as suggested by Owens et al., to show that the opposition she encountered was a result of other girls reaching for the same goal. Ringrose’s theory helped me find meaning behind Tammy’s aggression towards Bambi. Tammy is cornered by the role she is supposed to play as beautiful, popular, and affluent, and has little room to express, or even discover, who she really is. She is threatened by Bambi’s talent on the track and attacks her in response. If Tammy is no longer able to occupy the position of alpha-female, if an unpopular girl undermines her dominance, then she is forced to question her already tenuous value. Tammy encapsulates what Ringrose calls: ‘normative, middle-class femininity – powerful, but mean, that reconciles with a repressed, pathological feminine’ (Ringrose 2006, p. 416). She struggles to maintain her position in an attempt to hold onto an idea of self, even if that identity is imposed by outside forces. If this argument holds true, then both Tammy and Bambi are victims of the social system. After reflecting upon Owens et al and Ringrose’s research, I returned to my artefact to rewrite the character of Tammy. I felt that I had created an unlikeable girl in the first iteration of the story, and although she provides a binary character for Bambi, acting as a subtle nemesis, I was encouraged by my research to consider ways I could develop her to be more than a ‘mean girl’. My goal in the rewriting was to add a further layer to Tammy’s story, creating a context for her behaviour. I wanted to demonstrate her sense of powerlessness and how her actions were a response to her own search to find an identity of ‘girlness’ in an environment where she feels pressured into being perfect without the freedom to be who she truly is. I began this revision in chapter six, during Bambi’s first training session, the point at which her talent becomes apparent to the squad and coach alike. I decided to develop Tammy’s generalised disdain for her into something more personal in an attempt to show how Bambi’s talent affects her sense of self. During this scene, Tammy’s bullying changes from mocking her about her clothing and appearance to pointed threats warning her to ‘get lost’, and ‘you’d better not be here next week’. There is a shift in the bullying as a result of Bambi’s challenge to her dominance on the track, and I hoped to begin a pattern demonstrating Tammy’s insecurity through the amplification of her attacks on Bambi, from generally mean to personally aggressive. These research-led changes in Tammy’s character had a flow-on effect, enabling me further opportunities to also develop Bambi’s sense of ‘girlness’. Tammy’s aggression is an

246 intensification of previous social resistance experienced by Bambi, and it forces her to examine her position within the group of adolescent girls and how she compares to others within the larger group in a way that she has not previously. Where early on in the story her appearance, body-type, and lack of popularity with boys places her in a position of rejection and isolation from her female peers - which locates her both inside and outside greater society as well as the female society – it is her encounters with Tammy within this environment, where she is most competent, that forces her to consider her self and her place and sows the desire in her to disrupt the existing patterns. Whilst I saw these changes as a way to empower Bambi and as the beginning of her construction of a stable self-identity, I decided to leave her in a position where she is never fully accepted as an insider and operates on the periphery of the society of runners. Her occupation of the position of ‘outsider within’ allows her space to reflect on her location within the greater social power structure as well as the more personal spheres of school, sport, and home. Does this afford her the unique ‘less false’ perspective attributed by Lenz? (Lenz 2004, p. 98). As I reflected upon the theories that I had come to from my practice and then applied back to my practice, it became apparent that my focus had shifted away from the question of whether Bambi’s marginalisation made her story more or less valid, towards how these social boundaries affected her on a personal level. Although I hoped to draw attention to the existence and potentially damaging nature of social hierarchies in teenage spheres, it became more important for me to concentrate on how Bambi could possibly navigate through such an environment and develop a healthy self-identity.

The Individual or the Group?

I am mindful that a problem with this approach is that it seemingly conflicts with my intention to highlight the group experience of girls rather than emphasizing the sole experience of the individual girl. This brought me to question how I could use Bambi’s story to reflect a greater story without devaluing her unique experiences. This aligns with an academic concern regarding FST raised by Crasnow: the theory begins with individual stories, each projecting a different standpoint from within the group (Crasnow 2009, p. 190), raising the question of how this disparity can possibly be representative of group experience. Patricia Hill Collins further explores this problem, stating that focusing on the differences between women creates division and can ‘obscure the commonalities among women, the shared experiences that foster similar and related, if not identical or equal, oppressions’ (Lenz 2004, p. 99).

247 A feminist approach to standpoint theory – a school of thought born of groups with shared histories relative to power structures (Collins 1997, p. 376) - proves difficult at this point, as females, within groups and as a group, are inherently disparate. Whilst acknowledging that this is a contested point amongst scholars, but unable to address it within the scope of this project, I attempt to use the relevant principles within the theories to further my critique and analyse my work. I considered how I could use the stories of Bambi, Ingrid, and Tammy – all from very different socioeconomic and personal backgrounds – to produce a common thread of experience despite the different compositions of story. Intemann (2010) offers insight as she reflects on Smith’s (1997) thoughts about how it is the shared features of unique experience within the diverse group that offers an opportunity for the group to recognise patterns within the collective. Crasnow says that ‘Standpoint Theory highlights the importance of relations of power in the production of knowledge’ (2009 p. 191). It is the similarity of story between the girls that allows me to pursue the idea of shared female experience, and the common thread is the experience of oppression. As a result of these reflections, I focused on the relationship between Bambi and Ingrid. I wanted to explore what would happen if I connected the two characters, both of whom occupy different roles within the gender culture. I considered creating a space in the text where these two could be removed from other characters, where they could both come freely to explore the ‘other side’ of what was happening between the girls, and to expose their true selves safely. I decided that this would happen accidentally. Bambi surprises herself by sharing her unguarded thoughts with Ingrid, bringing them not into an affectionate relationship, but more of a relationship of equality and honesty, where they can examine themselves and each other as teenage girls out of their social context. As one of my desired project outcomes is to generate understanding of adolescence through YAF, I have found the application of theoretical perspectives on social interactions particularly useful in understanding the teenage experience. Viewing my writing through FST and SDT lenses has enabled me to progress my artefact and understanding of my creative practice. I further consider these theories with a focus on masculinities in the following chapter.

248 Representations and Stereotypes

Alongside my consideration of female representations through an FST lens, I was also conscious during the writing process of the images of masculinity that were emerging in my text. I wished to create a story where characters were gendered beings, not merely imitations of cultural assumptions of what constitutes male and female. As I considered the male characters in my artefact, I was concerned that I was presenting masculinity as a dominating social force rather than characters as men with unique personalities and stories. I questioned whether I was using them as plot devices rather than as individuals participating in, but also at the mercy of, society. Although I had a clear sense of who my main male characters would be before I began writing, I encountered some difficulties actualising them on the page in a satisfactory way. During the process of creation, several questions arose: to what extent are the men in the novel products of the society and convention? How are their actions and reactions dictated to by my underpinning beliefs as an author about men and their relationship with class, family, and violence? How do I write about an ‘abusive father’ and ‘nurturing coach’ without resorting to overly stereotypical tendencies? These considerations led me to an investigation of how authors successfully represent imagined realities through language. I focused particularly on stereotyping and an inquiry into broader gender theories to help facilitate my writing decisions.

Using Gender Theories as a Frame

Alongside FST, I found the recent shift in gender theories towards a modern concept of masculinity of interest when viewing the position of the male characters in my work. Whilst much feminist thinking was grounded in the concept of patriarchy (Turner 2008, p.191), many contemporary gender theories reach beyond this, arguing about the divisions between male and female, rejecting SDT’s premise that gender hierarchy is an invariant categorization based on biological differences (Foels & Pappas 2004, p. 746). More recent feminism has adopted the notion that gender is a socially constructed concept (Gardiner 2005, p.35), and that women and men are more alike than different (Kimmel 2011, p. 265). Gender theories are now considering all persons as gendered individuals, and prioritise the question of how both men and women are placed within, and are influenced by, social institutions (Holter 2005, p. 16). I was enlivened by this discussion of gender as it directly aligned with my intentions and opened up possibilities for the way I was establishing my characters. It is within this framework that I now apply a critical analysis of the writing and rewriting phases of my novel.

249

Representations

I begin my discussion of characterisation choices in my artefact with an analysis of how authors connect words and meaning to make representations. According to Stuart Hall, representation and language are intertwined to create and exchange cultural meaning (Hall 2013, p. 1). He favours the constructivist approach to the theory of representation, which argues that meaning is constructed through signs and concepts, but that neither language nor ‘things’ have any intrinsic fixed meaning in language: ‘things don’t mean, we construct meaning, using representational systems’ (Hall 2013, p. 11). Katie Bowles’s description of representation adds to Hall’s, explaining it as ‘the end point in a series of production choices’, where ‘representation as a practice is heavily loaded with the implications of power and agency’ (Bowles 2009, p. 65). It is this authorial act of choosing identified by Bowles that caused me the greatest concern as I attempted to reconcile what I had actually written and the meaning I had intended to make. I was aware that not only was I selecting signs and symbols from my own cultural context to convey meaning, I was also relying on the understanding of these cues by the reader. Why was my story privileging men when that was not my intention? Similarly, why was I having trouble writing my male characters as unique and individual?

Character Portrayals and Stereotypes

From my writing practice emerged a concern that certain male characters were appearing stereotypical. Jonathon seemed tied to the ‘abusive father’ character that I had experienced through my own reading and I struggled to find techniques to break out of this familiar structure. Compounding my concerns regarding Jonathon was the introduction of Coach Ben, who encapsulated all the fatherly qualities Jonathon lacked. I had written myself into a corner and was uncertain how to interrupt the ideological pattern the story was tracing. I turned to narratological discussions of characterisation and stereotyping. Stereotypes are commonly understood in the mainstream as overly simplistic representations of individuals using a short-hand, rudimentary typology. It is the perception that stereotypes are reductionist in nature that gives the term a negative undercurrent. Ruth Amossy says the ‘public’ perceives stereotypes as an obstacle to an accurate representation of the diverse and complex nature of reality (Amossy 1984, p. 689). Although such generalisations may be grounded in legitimate commonalities, it is the assumption that all members within people- groups possess these traits and few others that can cause offense. If stereotypes are objectionable, why are they so prevalent in all forms of storytelling?

250 Although stereotypes are often ‘sneered at’ by society, they play an important and complex role in writing and reading (Mackey 2013, p. 89). Social psychology views stereotypes as ‘unsophisticated and fixed mental images of individuals belonging to certain groups’ (Schweinitz 2010, p. 276). However, Jorg Schweinitz argues that it is these conventionalised meanings founded in cultural understandings that provide necessary scaffolding for the construction of fictional characters in story (Schweinitz 2010, p. 276). Margaret Mackey likens them to building resources, believing they both facilitate and restrict meaning making by acting as steps and ladders, but also as barriers (Mackey 2013, p. 103). Where space is limited as it is in written stories, stereotypes offer a means for the writer to convey a large amount of information using few words. It is helpful to consider how characters are constructed when we aim to understand the role stereotypes play. For Shlomith Rimmon-Kenan, characters are a construction of ‘various indications dispersed throughout the text’ and pieced together by the reader (Rimmon-Kenan 2002, p.38). Similarly, Seymour Chatman defines characters as a paradigm of traits, i.e. repeated personal attributes which gain meaning from the ways in which they intersect with plot (Chatman 1978, p. 127; Rimmon-Kenan 2002, p. 61). I pondered Robyn Warhol’s idea that characters are mere fabrications created from words on a page, (Richardson 2005, p. 132), and exist only through the author’s selection of a collection of particular attributes, with the limited availability of space making it impossible to present but a few to signify the whole. The entirety of an actual person can never be replicated on the page, so a writer must be selective in the ‘indications’ and ‘traits’ they assign a character. When these selections are presented in clumps that combine to tap into an already existing people typology –such as red hair, freckles and anger - meaning can be fast-tracked. According to Kate Bowles, in order to overcome the issues of limited space, an author relies upon an audience’s frame of reference, anticipating what lies within this frame in order to effectively and efficiently convey meaning. That is, they use stereotyping. She argues that ‘Stereotyping is as critical to effective representation as symbolism. Both function as a kind of short-cut, replacing the particular with the general, by misrepresenting the general as an imaginary particular.’ (Bowles 2009, p 70). Umberto Eco refers to such characters as ‘schematically reduced’: ‘(w)hen a person appears on the scene, they are already complete: defined, weighed, and minted’ (Schweinitz 2010, p. 279; Eco 1986, p. 173). Such schematically reduced characters minimise the effort that goes into the transfer of meaning on behalf of both writer and reader. Reducing character in this way can prove a useful tool but in my writing, I wrestled with the line between characters that appear ‘excessively codified’ and those that are perceived to ‘naturally’ represent real people (Amossy 1984, p. 689). I saw a danger with using stereotypes as points of reference in narrative. The repetition of undeveloped

251 stereotypes, appearing repeatedly across the range of storytelling mediums, may lead to the assumption that these characters are fixed ways of being. The ‘sporty girl’ is always more masculine than other girls, the ‘nerd’ is skinny and wears glasses, and the ‘dominating father’ is an evil monster. The recurrence of undeveloped classifications in stories compounds the perception that stereotypes are limiting and damaging. Stereotyping is possibly more complex than the impact of either individual understandings or cultural messages alone. David Schneider argues that the way stereotypes work can be explained through the application of Implicit Personality Theories. Bruner & Tagiuri (1954) say that there is a network of perceived connections between personal traits, roles, behaviours, and values – as people perceive patterns in others based on their individual experiences together with various linguistic and cultural cognitive processes (Schneider 2004, p. 179). Whether individuals possess the ability to accurately categorise others into types or not, evidence suggests that the process of type-casting is a normalised occurrence, one to which fictional characters are not immune. If stereotyping is an intrinsic process in humans, its use is arguably necessary for authors to consider when writing, and can be seen as a useful technique for delivering information about characters in a shorthand fashion. Schneider summarises it neatly when he says ‘Stereotypes do cognitive work for us’ (Schneider 2004, p. 199). They act as a bridge between what the author wishes to say and the prior knowledge and understanding of the reader, even though they may be generally untrue of many. I could see that I was employing this technique, but with difficulty. I felt Jonathon and Ben were teetering on the edge of being wooden constructions without warmth; inconsequential characters that require little or no investigation or thought on behalf of the reader and are embedded in cultural thinking about masculinity. My scholarly research suggests that the difference between successful characters and stereotypical ones is in the transparency of technique. Skilled writing hints at a stereotype through the selection and arrangement of traits but does not remain subject to the supposed boundaries of the implied type: rather, they include believable aberrations to the stereotype to add depth and authenticity. It is when stereotypes override characterization that the technique becomes noticeable. Grabes suggests the process of understanding character can be frustrated ‘when literary characters become stereotypical to the point of caricature’ (Grabes 2004, p. 224). It must not be overlooked that fictional characters are fabrications (Heidbrink 2010, p. 69), and can never be real people but only allude to being so. Part of the success of characterization appears to hinge on how well the writer can create the appearance of the depth of reality, causing the reader to momentarily forget that it is, in fact, not a real person.

252 Further clarifying the duality of stereotypes, and possibly most importantly, Jorg Schweinitz draws a distinction between the social-scientific definitions of stereotypes, - where they are interpretations of reality with direct implications for understanding everyday life - and narratological stereotypes (Schweinitz 2010, p. 285). He sees narratological stereotypes as constructions of imagined realities, bearing meaning and significance only within the world of fiction. He cites Dolezel’s view on fictional landscapes as ‘…a special kind of possible world’ (1998, p. 18). Again, the distinction between real people and representations of people in fictional contexts helps neutralise the apparent harm of stereotyping. It is difficult, if not implausible, to consider the creation of characters within fiction without the use of narratological stereotyping techniques. Schweinitz’s distinction between writing using schematic characters and the social use of stereotyping is an important one. While they may appear difficult to separate, and fiction arguably affects social understandings of stereotypes, stereotyping techniques are integral to the creation of character within the scope of a fictional novel.

Writing an Abusive Father Character

It was apparent to me that Jonathon was developing in a way that was fragmentary, fulfilling the role of ‘abusive father’ without any real character dimension. I had generalised about men who tend towards violence to avoid weighing down the story with explanation and detail. It seemed logical to use shortcuts in Jonathon’s character, such as making him unemployed and lacking in education, but it felt stuck in a ‘frozen and recurrent’ cultural image of masculinity (Amossy 1984, p. 690). He seemed to be acting more as a means of telling Bambi’s story rather than as a meaningful character in his own right. Jonathon’s role in the story is considerable and his lack of substance was obvious compared to the depth of other characters. In deciding on how to unravel my concerns about Jonathon’s character, I found Hamilton and Gifford’s (1976) research helpful as I sought to understand how and why stereotypes can be problematic when writing fiction. Their study draws a connection between those who are victims of stereotyping, and the negativity of the traits of those who are labeled. They argue that that which is infrequent is distinctive: minority groups within a social culture stand out, as do negative traits, since they are less common than positive traits, and they are consequently coupled together (Schneider 2004, p. 189). An example for my own work might be that girls are less represented in certain adolescent sporting contexts, therefore any traits that emerge that are perceived to be negative (such as ‘girly’, ‘weak’, timid’) are brought to the fore in the mind of the observer as they draw together the two elements that stand out as unusual.

253 This principle helped clarify for me the problem of Jonathon. Although he is white, male, middle-aged and arguably not in a minority (unless the concept of mental illness is brought further forward), it is the concentration of negative traits within his character that makes him vulnerable to stereotyping in a way that other characters are not. It could be said that Wanda is equally stereotypical in that she is a submissive, deferential wife whose main priority is to protect her children and will do so at great cost to herself. I was, however, satisfied with Wanda’s characterisation, feeling she did not bend towards clichés as Jonathon did. I was forced to question why my choices regarding representation negatively affected Jonathon only, whilst Wanda appeared to be a natural and adequate character. As I reflected in the light of Hamilton and Gifford’s ideas upon the ways I was creating these two characters, I concluded that it is Jonathon’s negative attributes and behaviours that draw him into the spotlight. I wondered if adding positive attributes to Jonathon would help solve my dilemma, but was cautious about this simplistic approach, concerned that his character would appear disingenuous if I created a polarised mix of negatives and positives in one.

Figuring Forth Characters

I looked further into theories about character and stereotypes so as to understand and revisit my novel. Herbert Grabes’ research offered clarity to my dilemma through his discussion of how a text and imagination interact to ‘figure-forth’ a character, creating a mental construct in the imagination of a reader, bringing about characters equally as alive as real people (Grabes 2004, p. 221-2). It is not merely the signs in the writing that signify a human, but it is these coming together with the reader’s ideas about people that combine to figure-forth character. Grabes furthers Schneider’s assertions about implicit personality theories, claiming that there are two individual types of supposition in play in the process of character imagining: that of the author, and that of the reader (Grabes 2004, p. 223). If the use of stereotyping, or characteristic clumping, is an accepted part of the bringing into being a character from words to imagination, what was happening in the representations of Jonathon that was not working? Grabes’ work offers clarity to my challenge when he illustrates the differences between the way individuals use signs and cues to flesh-out a character in real life and the way authors attempt to replicate this imaginative procedure by translating it into the linear structure of a language text (Grabes 2004, p. 224). For example, during an actual encounter, a person uses an onslaught of cues to formulate an assumptive character profile, but the author is forced to introduce a character slowly, creating a systematic, drip-filtered flow of cues for the reader to collect and use.

254 Reflecting on Grabes’ ideas, I wondered if I had encountered problems with Jonathon’s character because of the ways I had fed information about him into the text. Instead of using every opportunity to offer cues about him, creating the broadest flow of information possible, I had relied upon sporadic larger cues only. I had introduced him through Bambi’s eyes as intimidating, physical, and violent, which acted to tap into a skeletal ‘abusive father’ scaffolding, rather than creating a more complex male character. Although I had proceeded over the course of the novel to attempt to add to this frame, the reader’s first interaction with him may be solidified and difficult to reverse. As Amossy states: ‘The stereotype is potentially lodged in the mind of the reader before being actualized in the text by an act of centralization and reduction’ (Amossy 1984, p. 693). The large and clunky signs and symbols I had embedded in the first draft of my novel were encouraging a particular cultural reading. By not offering details about Jonathon’s personality and reasoning, I was limiting my representation of him to the sketch of an already known type. Amossy’s discussion of characterization suggests that a writer should not aim to disregard established cultural stereotypes and reinvent new ones, but that a text should use established stereotypes and then move beyond them (Amossy 1984, p. 698). She believes the reader will make their own meaning, automatically referring to their knowledge of existing patterns. Amossy claims the reader will accept what fits, and reject everything that is separate from the known patterns (Amossy 1984, p. 697-9). She refers to these aberrations as ‘remnants’ and sees them as a tool for breaking free from stereotypes. By building a chain of remnants, the reader is forced to constantly readjust and reconstruct as their understanding of the character is deepened and stretched through the interpositioning of attributes falling outside of what is ‘known’ by the reader (Amossy 1984). I found this idea interesting, wondering what would be the result if I were to increase the number of these deviations. How many remnants would need to be present before the stereotype was questioned or overthrown? I experimented with Jonathon, hoping to create an increasingly complex representation of character by dissipating the fixed, or expected, pattern through the introduction of unexpected qualities and behaviours. I revisited the beginning of the story when Bambi returns home for the first time in the novel and she is fearful of going inside in case her father is in one of his violent moods. I attempted to soften Jonathon in this scene by the moment on the stairs where he asks her about her day, shares his chewing gum with her, and they sit peacefully, bodies touching as they chat and chew in tandem while they watch a bird in the yard. This feels like such a peaceful moment for the two, even though conflict swirls around them both on either side of the short period in the story. I was hopeful that it acts as one of the first remnants, signalling to the reader that he may not fit neatly into what they are expecting.

255 I then added to his character an interest in butterfly collecting as another unexpected element to the story. I felt this acted in several ways, firstly by showing a capacity in him to appreciate nature and beauty, but also as an insight into his tendency towards wanting to control and destroy, feeling drawn to such things but unable to make sense of them himself. I was then able to use this addition to the story to further explain Bambi’s repulsion and fear of this practice as a reflection of him as her father, and the warring inside her about her feelings for him. Although she is fascinated by and drawn to the butterflies, she is also repelled by them, which I hope will act as a parallel for her relationship with Jonathon. I did not intend that this addition would take away from his unacceptable actions, as my goal was not to make him likeable, but that it would illustrate the war within him and present him more as a complex character.

Violence – Why is it a Male Issue?

It is difficult to consider my artefact in relation to gender theories and stereotyping and ignore the inclusion of male violence in my text and its implications for story and meaning. Whilst I have intentionally attempted to round out the male characters who participate in these violent acts by creating context and depth as discussed above, the feeling that male aggression is an almost expected layer in my story prompted an investigation into academic discussions of the theories of masculinity and violence. Almost all violent acts worldwide are committed by men, and this association between the two seems so natural as to generate little question (Kimmel 2011, p. 243). The acceptance of this connection as ‘normal’ poses a problem for addressing stereotypes and de-gendering in my novel. Considering the broad nature of violence, it is most effectively discussed using several variants – physical, psychological, emotional, and conceptual (Bishop & Phillips 2006, p. 377) – which allows greater specificity of meaning and understanding. However, employing precise terminology does only so much to narrow the discussion as violence ‘occurs on different structural, symbolic, and cultural’ levels of society (Weiss & Six- Hohenbalken 2011, p.3). It is a far-reaching behaviour and its manifestations have varied from one period of time to another based on the unique circumstances of every era (Wieviorka 2009, p. 7). Whatever shape it has taken, it has been an ever-present aspect of human interactions (Larry 2011, p. 23). Its consequences have been normalised throughout human existence (Weiss & Six-Hohenbalken 2011, p. 4) and as a result, its effects are globally evident (Bishop & Phillips 2006, p. 377). Despite the universal nature of violence, then, it can be readily interpreted as a predominately male issue (Wykes 2009, p. 80; Larry 2011, p. 83; Hall 2002, p. 36; Fedotov 2013, n.p.). Steve Hall says: ‘the claim that men commit most acts of physical violence is

256 possibly the nearest that criminology has come to producing an indisputable fact’ (Hall 2002, p. 36). The supporting evidence is abundant, with males dominating records on violent wrongs across all nations since the collation of crime statistics began (Larry 2011, p. 83). Although it appears clear that males largely perpetrate violence across the full breadth of scenarios, it is male-to-female violence that is of greatest interest to this discussion. The concept of male violence is difficult to separate from cultural ideology. Although gender-blind explanations of intimate violence exist, Molly Dragiewicz believes they fail to explain why violence ‘…is so profoundly, persistently, and disproportionately perpetrated by men’ (Dragiewicz 2011, p. 117). Social understanding of violence and conflict is heavily gendered (Cockburn 2004), and is commonly understood in terms of men as aggressors and women as victims. Widespread representations of aggression attribute ‘real force’ to males and ‘fear or suffering’ to females and children (Weiss & Six-Hohenbalken 2011, p. 11). These portrayals across society reinforce the accepted links between gender and violence. Robert Muchembled reflects on the history of violence, claiming that ‘until our own day, the culture of violence has been essentially masculine in our world’ (Muchembled 2012, p. 2). His use of the phrase ‘culture of violence’ suggests that aggression is not a purely innate function of being male, but violent actions perpetrated by males are couched in an ideological environment that supports, or at least allows, such behaviours. The understanding of the extensive nature of male violence across time and the volume of research and discussion about the issue leads to the question: why does this culture of violence persist?

The Role of Patriarchy

It is well argued that patriarchical structures - where patriarchy is understood as a society that is ‘male dominated, male identified, and male centered’, resulting in male privilege (Johnson 2008, p. 5) - have provided the necessary environment to allow such a degree of male violence in modern settings, particularly in domestic situations (Baker 2013, p. 162; Mitchell & Vanya 2009, p. 42, Dragiewicz 2011, p. 117; Aaltonen et al. 2012, p. 1193; Dekeseredy & Schwartz 2013, p. xvi). According to Aaltonen et al., when violence is viewed through a gender lens, male violence against women acts as an agent of patriarchy (Aaltonen et al. 2012, p. 1193) maintaining and reinforcing male privilege. Understanding male-to-female violence in terms of greater social forces such as patriarchy is gaining acceptance worldwide (Dragiewicz 2011, p. 106), with many scholars agreeing that attitudes resulting in such violence are due to cultural socialization in societies that support male hegemony (DeKeseredy & Scwartz 2013, p. xv-xvi; Mitchell & Vanya 2009, p. 42). Muchembled states it simply: ‘male aggression, though a biological reality, is

257 also strongly influenced by society, religion, and the state’ (Muchembled 2012, p. 2). Although his claim that men have a biological predisposition towards violence exists within an extensive scholarly discussion in itself, Muchembled’s point again supports the commonly upheld premise that male violence is difficult to separate from cultural practices. Violence within patriarchal society remained relatively untouched until the middle of last century. With the rise in feminist politics and the Women’s Liberation Movement in the late 1960s and early 1970s came the recognition of male domination and privilege, and with it, the development of gendered violence analysis (Wykes 2009, p. 70). The movement acted to draw the existence of family violence and rape in marriage out of the secrecy of the private sphere into the public arena (Brown & James 2014, p. 169), the blame for which was laid at the feet of patriarchal social practices.

Domestic (Family) Violence

Although there has been a personal, public, and political swing against patriarchal practices in many modern societies (Holter 2005, p. 19), violence in domestic settings persists. Dragiewicz believes that although gender norms and restrictions have shifted over recent years, they continue to exert enormous pressure on personal and inter-personal behaviours. Despite changes in how gender is understood, patriarchal ideology continues to foster hierarchical gender roles and heteronormativity (Dragiewicz 2011, p. 107-8), impacting on social and family relationships. Domestic violence is present in Motion from beginning to end. It has repercussions for all characters, and the story aims to represent the experience of violence in real life. Family violence is a reality for some teenagers, and is defined in Australia as ‘violent, threatening or other behaviour by a person that coerces or controls a member of the person’s family (the family member), or causes the family member to be fearful’ (ABS 2011). Whilst its presence cannot be denied, it is generally recognised that the full extent of such violence is difficult to ascertain due to the private nature of domestic aggression and the frequent perception that family violence is less significant than public violence (Mouzos & Makkai 2004, p. 7). In direct contrast to sentiments of its relative insignificance, domestic violence statistics worldwide are alarming. According to COMTEX news, ‘as many as 12 women are killed by their partners or family members every day in Europe alone’ (Fedotov 2013, n.p.). In Australia, every week one woman is murdered by her partner or former partner, and domestic violence is considered the major factor in death and injury in Australian women under 45 years of age (Tilley 2014, n.p.). The International Violence Against Women Survey in 2002-3 revealed that 57 percent of women surveyed had experienced at least one incidence of violence over their

258 lifetime, and 10 percent had encountered violence in the preceding twelve months. Yury Fedotov, United Nations Executive Director of the office of Drugs and Crime, says the UN estimates that approximately 70 percent of women worldwide experience physical or sexual violence in their lifetime (Fedotov 2013, n.p.; Mouzos & Makkai 2004, p. 2). As significant as these assessments are, they are generally accepted to underestimate the severity and extent of actual rates of domestic violence (Mouzos & Makkai 2004, p. 7; Swanson & Cahn 2009, p. 136). Perhaps of greatest concern regarding such statistical findings is the lack of awareness across Australian society. A 2014 national Australian survey found a decrease in people who believe that men mostly perpetrate violence, although ABS statistics details the ratio of violence by partners as 2:1 against women and men respectively. Up to 20 percent of Australians believe there are circumstances in which violence can be excused, and up to 28 percent think males should dominate relationships (Tilley 2014, n.p.). With violence against women so widespread, such reports do little to inspire confidence of change.

Violence in the Novel

The violent behaviour of both Jonathon and Adam, and the subsequent physical timidity of Wanda and Bambi, taps into the evidence that men exact violence on women and children and that it is to be expected and natural, if not ideal. Whilst the story raises the issue of domestic violence, my agenda was to create a deeper understanding of gender construction and of masculinities and I puzzled over how I could reconcile the two within the story. Whilst I wished my story to demonstrate the unacceptability of such violence, I also saw an opportunity to suggest that violent tendencies do not only belong to certain categories of people, but are a problem that can affect all humans. Jonathon’s character could be considered a representation of male dominance through violence, yet, I was hopeful that my story could open up some possibilities for exploration of such violence. On the strata below Jonathon in the story is Adam, who is also exposed to violence and frustration – and is brought to the edge of this temptation into aggressive behaviour – but finds alternative ways of dealing with the feelings he experiences. In opposition to Jonathon is Ben, who encapsulates the qualities of patience, paternity, and selflessness. Adding to this complexity, certain female characters also engage in violence. Tammy and her friends are verbally aggressive, but also resort to tripping, pushing, and to creating human walls to block other girls in the story in an attempt to dominate them. By creating a spectrum of characters all coping with relationships and emotions in a variety of ways, I was hopeful that the stereotypical link between men and violence in the story is weakened, without denying its presence. I layered anger and

259 frustration throughout the story and characters in a way that touched upon both genders, believing the power in doing so lay in the differing outcomes of such feelings. I hoped by doing this the characters that choose violence are seen as responsible as individuals rather than being representative of their gender.

To Introduce Mental Illness?

Tied closely to Jonathon’s violence is the question of mental illness, which I debated whether or not to include in the narrative. I had incorporated ‘Intermittent Explosive Disorder’ as a feature of his back-story before I began writing the novel, but questioned as I wrote as to whether there was a point where I should explicitly introduce the idea to help explain Jonathon’s violent behaviour. I felt overwhelmed at the task of presenting an unbiased and accurate representation of an often-misunderstood condition, one that I was uncertain I had enough knowledge to convey. I investigated how other YAF authors had dealt with mental illness, and found Brian Caswell’s Double Exposure a helpful example. He depicts a schizophrenic boy’s experience as belonging to twins, the reader unaware that the two characters are one until the end. By doing this, Caswell positions mental illness and its outworking within the realm of ‘normal’, situating them in an acceptable setting, exposing and adjusting the reader to the character and his behaviour before revealing the truth. Caswell acclimatises the reader, asking them to engage with the character without knowing the actual context of the story. The reader has already established relationship with the character/s – they have rapport and empathy – and are willing to suspend their preconceived notions about mental illness. He effectively sidesteps the reader’s preconceived beliefs. The approach taken by Caswell opened up options for Jonathon in my own story without adding the mental illness tag. I decided to gradually introduce the condition as the story unfolded, and attempted to balance out his behaviour by creating reader empathy. I inserted clues suggesting that something is amiss; that his actions are driven by something larger than immediate circumstances, and that he has lost control of his actions. There are moments when he ‘comes to’ in a situation, seemingly confused as to where he is and what he is doing. At other times he acknowledges his lack of control and tries to escape a situation, as he knows what he is capable of and possibly about to do. This was difficult to achieve, as his actions damage those around him and I did not wish to condone them, but I felt it was important to ascribe to him as many acceptable, even warm, traits as I could manage given the limitations of his personality and mental struggles. Without expecting readers to like Jonathon, I was hopeful that by adding layers and creating a degree of humanity, he becomes more believable and lifelike.

260

Male Power and Agency

As I redrafted my story and further considered my research into representations and stereotypes, I was conscious that I had not yet addressed Bowles’ idea about how the narrative choices I had made, and was at that point re-working, affected power and agency in my novel. I was struck by Pat Pinsent’s comments about authorial agendas and his belief that even when writers attempt to be neutral, their work is influenced by their underlying ideological assumptions, and despite most assuming themselves to be innocent of such (Pinsent 2013, p. 23). Whilst he argues that it would be unhelpful to attempt to banish an author’s ideological suppositions from their writing, I agree with him that the ideologies woven into story should not go unexamined. I was concerned when I considered how I had privileged both Jonathon and Ben in the story, awarding them significant influence in Bambi’s world, and felt strongly that I was perpetuating common cultural mindsets about gender and social power that I had not intended. I had made narrative choices that awarded power to males in my story without question, making the female characters automatically subordinate to men. This male power is represented by a male dichotomy of ‘good’ and ‘bad’. Jonathon represents physical domination and oppression in the story, and also acts to prevent Bambi from engaging with life in ways that she would choose, such as her desire to participate in Ben’s squad and to do so with the appropriate equipment and clothing. Conversely, Ben acts to get alongside Bambi and allow her access into his own power, as a person in authority, therefore representing the opportunity for growth and change. Whilst I was initially comfortable with this dichotomy, as I considered it further, I began to harbour concerns. I questioned, firstly, my choice to have Bambi subject to such a great degree of external power, and secondly, that these forces were both male. Several questions arose out of this reflection. I wondered if I should reduce the degree of influence on Bambi’s situation by lessening the role of coach, reducing his role in the story rather than having him as an integral part of her journey. Or should I make the coach a woman, balancing out the source of external power and the way Bambi related to this representation of authority? Do I reconsider my choices about the ‘inadequate father’ and ‘coach as mentor’ and readjust the amount of power each possess by making different decisions regarding characterisation and significance? According to Marie Farr, ‘women writers, of course, have always recognized the power of male control’ (Farr 1995, p. 158), but they do not have to accept this uncritically. Her analysis of freedom and control in regards to gender in 1980s and 90s fiction clarified for me that the presence of male agency in my story should not be as

261 much of a concern as how the female characters respond to the attempts of men to control. Male dominance is an issue – how should I handle it? Complicating this issue in my story, in addition to the question of male dominance, is the matter of power in relation to the adolescent-adult relationship. I turned to academic discussion around adult-teen power in YAF to help decide how I should move forward in my redrafting. While the academic discussion of power in YAF is broad, I found Roberta Seelinger Trites’ research into this subject particularly helpful for assessing my concerns about the ways I had set up adult-teen power relationships and how I could address this issue. She suggests that whilst the teenage protagonist must contend with external social and individual power forces, they have the power to exact an opposing force and negotiate their own position in society (Trites 2000, p. 6-7). She applies Lacan’s idea that ‘one is always responsible for one’s position as subject’ (Fink 1997, p. 47), arguing that even though external forces act upon the subject in YAF, the protagonist has their own power by which they can be repressed or liberated as they actively negotiate their position. As I reflected upon these ideas, I became less concerned with the existence of adult power imposition, and more focused on the way Bambi was using her own power in response to generate her own sense of subjectivity. Bambi’s ability to access her own agency is limited. I considered parental, particularly father, figures in fiction. Studies of the adolescent-parent relationship suggest that security in this connection affects an adolescent’s ability to express and regulate their emotional behaviour (Hershenberg et. al. 2011, p. 1018). More specifically, the role a father plays in familial transactions affects a daughter’s self-appraisal and life direction, with research supporting the idea that women are deeply impacted by their childhood relationship to him (Perkins 2001, p. 616). I contemplated how these issues were manifesting in the draft of my artefact, the inadequacy of the father-daughter relationship causing conflict between characters and also forming a significant block to Bambi’s acceptance of self. Her place in the world is confused by her relationship with her father, receiving affection at times, and violence and disapproval at others. This lack of stability impacts upon her perception of her personal value, and leaves a gap between who she believes herself to be as a child, and how I wanted her to view herself as she shifts closer to adulthood. I saw no realistic way to reconcile Bambi and her father in my story, and considered other avenues for her to explore this need for a fatherly relationship. Although I had initially worried over the idealistic nature of Coach Ben, I reconsidered his character and role as I redrafted. I investigated the idea of the ‘coach as mentor’ to inspire ways to reduce the idealistic element of the first draft of the story. Chris Crowe’s research into coaches in YAF identifies two generic characters that often appear in the sport fiction genre: the ‘dementor’ (those who fail to help athletes win, and/or develop character) and the ‘mentor’ (those who

262 make a significant/positive impact in an athlete’s life) (Crowe 1994, p. 1). The fact that Ben fits neatly into Crowe’s profile of ‘mentor coach’ alarmed me, as it pointed to yet another stereotypical character in my story. I sought and read several other YAF sports stories– The Running Dream by Van Draanen (2011) and The Ring by Pyron (2009) – which had similar characters playing similar roles. These heightened my concerns. Both stories have a sporting coach who acts as an unwavering support to the vulnerable teenage protagonist, providing insight, acceptance, and tough love at exactly the right times for maximum impact during the story. My research offered no solutions to my concern about Coach Ben’s idealistic presentation, and I contemplated why this might be so. Approaching the concern from another angle, I considered what my story would look like if Ben did not actively encourage Bambi and support her through her struggles. This brought me to a realisation that his involvement is key in her development. Author Michael Cart comments on YAF and the role significant adults play in stories for teens, suggesting that the lack of a caring adult character has been a weakness in traditional adolescent fiction. He argues ‘…the fact is that most teens are telling researchers and pollsters that they urgently want a caring adult presence in their lives’ (Rochman 2003, p. 234). Bambi’s interactions in a sporting context allows her an opportunity to recreate her sense of self through a coach-athlete relationship by constructing a space where she could relate with a father figure on a ‘healthy’ level. Many athletes in real life describe their relationship with their coach as being greater than a simple sporting interaction. Middle distance runner Steve Cram described his athlete-coach relationship as ‘a friend of the family and another sort of father figure’, where Glynis Nunn likened her coach connection to a father-daughter or marriage relationship (Jowett & Cockerill 2003, p. 314). Whilst the choices I had made about the relationship between Bambi and her coach appeared reasonable, I evaluated whether it was a tired re-iteration of many stories previously written about athletes and coaches. I examined author motivation and intention in coach-mentor stories. Tim Winton (Rubbo 2008, n.p.) discusses his use of the mentor relationship with a troubled character in his novel Breath (2008), suggesting that sporting coaches can offer a sense of approval, achievement, and nurturing that teens are lacking in other areas of their lives. He says that sport provides a meaningful activity for many troubled youths, ‘…offer(ing) them a subculture, a codified experience, rites of passage, measurable progress.’ (Rubbo 2008, n.p.). Athletics provides all of these things for Bambi, although her acceptance into the athletics subculture takes time, and is not absolute. Evidence that the coach-athlete relationship involves ‘interpersonal liking, trust, and respect’ (Jowett & Cockerill 2003, p. 315) is significant for my artefact, as the relationship grows, each fulfilling needs of the other,

263 reinforcing that a real sense of personal value can be obtained on both sides of such a relationship. This research allowed me confidence in the way I was representing Coach Ben, and I chose to accept the idealistic nature of his character with the hope that his positive and constructive presence in the story outweighs the tendency towards cliché.

264 Making Meaning

A priority for my artefact was to effectively capture the world of young adults in my YAF story and to explore the teenage experience in a relevant way. Meaning is made in a narrative work, according to Scholes, Phelan, and Kellogg, by creating an adequate relationship between the fictional world and the ‘real world’ (Scholes et al. 2006, p. 82). Of importance to me was the consideration of voice and how writing choices affect the relationship between these two worlds, and how being an adult author might influence the relevance of voice for my ideal adolescent reader. Emerging from my writing practice came an examination of how voice can create narrative intimacy and the way imagery and voice work together to make meaning. After the completion of my first artefact draft, my reflection led me to question my choice of third person point of view in a genre dominated by first person narratives (Bean & Moni 2003, p. 638), and to investigate scholarly discussions on narrative space as I reconsidered my chosen setting.

Voice in YAF Narratives

Voice is an integral part of bringing about meaning in a written text. Steven Harper explains it as ‘…the words you choose and the rhythms you write in. It’s how your writing sounds on the page…Voice is also the persona you put on when you start writing (Harper 2012, p. 58). It is shaped by authorial choices. Who is and isn’t speaking, how they speak, and what is being spoken about are all decisions made by a writer that affect voice. Peter F. Bundgaard defines it as ‘a meaning-shaping device that applies to all narrative situations (Bundgaard 2011, p. 84). It is this making meaning that was important for me as I explored how meaning and voice were coming together in my story, and evaluated how well I was capturing the voice of the young adult world. Perhaps the greatest appeal in writing YAF for me is the notion that the target readership is in a transitional life-phase where they develop abstract reasoning in regards to ‘self’ and about the development of ‘self’ (Pattee 2004, p. 243). Capturing this world on the page was a compelling challenge. Adolescence is for many a phase of exploring new ways of being, and the consideration of new possibilities for adulthood (Sturm & Michel 2009, p. 39). It is a common assumption that adolescence is a turbulent time for teens (Alsup 2003, p. 158), and has been likened to a second birth from which children emerge as adults with new qualities of mind and body (Feixa 2011, 1634). With these changes comes a questioning of adult authority and knowledge, particularly in early adolescence (Kuhn & Laird 2011, p. 1353), and the ideas they have previously accepted as truth are reconsidered.

265 I found YAF an exciting place to experiment with voice, where significant ideas can be transferred through character and story to an audience who are at this transformational life stage. However, through my practice arose the concern that my adult positioning was dominating the voice of the story, shifting it away from the adolescent voice I was hoping to achieve. Mike Cadden refers to this as an ironic narrative positioning of author, saying that the adult writer’s simulation of the ‘authentic adolescent voice’ can never actually be authentic (Cadden 2000, p. 146). Can any fictional voice be ‘authentic’, as writers continually adopt personas not their own? Was the replication of a faultless teenage voice my intention? Was I was aiming to create a relatable voice or an exact representation of an adolescent voice?

Relevance and Generational Gap

During the writing process I was aware of my position as adult author and wondered about its effect on my language choices and the narrative persona I was employing to bring about meaning. I investigated the author-reader relationship in YAF by considering the generational gap that exists between my ideal reader and myself and its effect upon my artefact. I contemplated the way an adult writer adopts the voice of a younger person to present a story they presume is relevant based on their own understanding of the spaces teens mentally and emotionally occupy. I was wary of the gap between the two generations, and sought opinions as to the extent to which this gap might exist. Joni Richards Bodart claims that this is ever widening, stating that ‘adults live in one culture, adolescents live in another, and for the most part, these two do not connect or overlap’ (Bodart 2010, p. 1), whereas KL McGavock believes that ‘childhood and adulthood have gravitated so close together that the gap between childhood and adulthood no longer exists and so no bridge is required’ (McGavock 2007, p. 141-2). I consider McGavock’s argument that culturally the world of adults and children are barely indistinguishable improbable, but with such a variance in scholarly understanding of this gap, it is difficult to know how the two are positioned in relation to each other. And yet, does this validate Bodart’s view? Jennifer Miskec (2007) brings to the fore this issue of the generational gap in her research into adult YAF authors versus Y-Gen YAF authors. Her findings highlight the difference in voice between the two, suggesting that Generation Y authors demonstrate a sense of ‘the performative nature of their reality’, and the fragmentary nature of self, ‘or many selves’ that is absent in the stories authored by adults (Miskec 2007, p. 8). While adult authors might appreciate the intricacies of technologies, Miskec argues that today’s young adults’ realities have in many ways blended their real lives with the performative part of themselves that is tied to technology.

266 If I, as an author born in the 1970s, do not – or cannot - duplicate this way of being, can I create a voice that is true to the adolescent world? Was my authorial voice too contrived, or was I managing to capture some of the upheaval of the teenage years? I looked to specific events from my story. Was Bambi’s hesitancy to enter the house when her father is home a credible fear, or a projection of my own reflections of adolescence from several decades ago? Was her free-fall run down the hill a valid adolescent action, or a manifestation of feeling of an adult looking backwards to a time of perceived restriction? Author Amy Kathleen Ryan claims the key to generating an authentic YAF voice is to avoid pretending to be an adolescent. She believes writers should aim to understand teenagers’ concerns and motivations, allowing voice to sort itself out: ‘…I realize that we are all like children, continually bewildered by a random, unpredictable, chaotic world, no matter how old we happen to be. If a writer remembers that, s/he can create believable characters at any age.’ (Ryan 2013). Whilst I think there is truth in Ryan’s thinking, the ways an adult sees, experiences, and understands the world is arguably different to Generation Y adolescents born into a mediated metaculture; differences that cannot be flippantly dismissed. My writer’s reflections led me to the questions: how do I resolve this issue in my own work? Do I imagine myself adolescent and aim for faux-authenticity, or concede that I cannot truly know what it is to be a teenager in modern times? I returned to Miskec’s research in order to learn from techniques used in the YAF texts written by young adults. She believes these stories ‘work toward including young people in their own ideologies and critique of their place in the world instead of telling it to them’ (Miskec 2007, p. 14). Was my story didactic? It seemed likely that one way to shift closer to ‘authentic YA voice’ was to improve my understanding of current adolescent metacultures. Hopefully by identifying and representing aspects of young adult ideology in my story I could come closer to capturing the voice of the YAF world. Whilst I made efforts to understand this youth culture, I was conscious not to devalue my own ways of seeing and experiencing the world at the cost of aiming for authenticity. I did not wish to compromise what insights I, as a Gen X author, could offer that might enrich my portrayal of the young adult world. For instance, I did not want to remove the emphasis on nature in the artefact simply because it is a reflection of an experience from another generation, but instead to weave this understanding into a context appropriate for Generation Y adolescents. Similarly, I chose not to curb my tendency towards poetic language during my descriptions of the natural world, despite its feeling of being at odds with the immediacy and directness of a generation so intertwined with technology.

267 Voice and Imagery

I questioned whether my interest in using poetic language was a tenable feature of a YAF story, or if it would improve my artefact if I removed this element. As I focused on my use of poetic language in my practice I encountered Michael Stephens’ discussion of how narrative voice and the rhythms of speech entwine to bring about images in a story. He says ‘Fiction’s voice is an idealization of speech’s patterns….the voice in fiction says by evoking pictorial things’ (Stephens 1986, p. 4). Stephens argues that voice ‘sees’ by communication through images. Although I initially had difficulty pinning down this aspect of voice, divided between my use of both direct and poetic language, I found Stephen’s explanation helpful. I considered how my language choices were directly influencing my ability to generate images and convey meaning. I returned to my practice to consider the way my writing evoked images, and how these pictorial representations created patterns and tensions. I appraised how my narrative voice was, in part, shaped by the rhythm and representation of natural imagery as discussed in the ‘Methodology’ section of this exegesis. In many scenes my writing reflects the natural environment, and in turn, nature feeds back into the narrative a reflection of the mood present in the story. I was motivated by this realization, as one of my intentions was to create a story promoting the engagement with ‘life outside’, not only in the form of physical activity and sport, but through the appreciation of the natural environment. I aimed to use the rhythm and structure of my language to emphasize these moments Bambi shares with her surrounding natural environment. I attempted to incorporate word rhythm and flow through simile and metaphor, to emphasize the beauty Bambi sees in nature and to add a sense of loveliness to the voice in the story. I was encouraged by this development as I had found this element to be lacking in many of the Young Adult Sports Fiction novels I had encountered. I considered other ways of using word pictures in my artefact. As my story unfolded, I became conscious about juxtaposing the images of Bambi and Jonathon, and of Bambi and her female peers. I chose extremes to emphasize, such as Bambi’s clothing contrasted against Tammy’s, and Bambi’s timid body language in the same scene as Jonathon’s dominating poses. I considered how I could use the colours of nature to compare with that of the built environment, and how sounds and smell would also add to the richness of the imagery of the text. Stephens says: ‘Actors transform words into living moments. So do writers’ (Stephens 1986, p. 5), and it is this sense of capturing the life within the pictures in my story on which I focused. As I contemplated this aspect of my writerly voice, I decided to continue in it, hoping that it would add richness to the text without interfering with its relatability. The editing process did, however, require much pruning as the story was in places flooded with these techniques.

268

Narrative Intimacy and Point of View

As my research continued to shape my practice, I evaluated how my choice of third- person narrative was affecting the way I created meaning in my story. I had chosen the third- person point of view so the narrator could know widely, and yet, as the artefact developed, I felt I was not using this technique to its fullest. After beginning my story from the sole perspective of my protagonist I felt that I was limiting the narrator to knowing only what Bambi would know instead of allowing the narrator to be omnipresent. Whilst this is a valid technique, it does not fit with my intention to maximise a sense of intimacy between narrator and reader. I began to add elements to the narration so that the narrator would share with readers knowledge that Bambi did not have. I also considered introducing other points of view into the story by featuring chapters that focused on different characters. Day’s discussion of polyphony – where the responsibility of narration is shared by two or more characters (Day 2010, 67) - as a narrative technique helped me to find ways to broaden the concentration of the single authorial tone I had created. By shifting the responsibility of narration between the characters I hoped to remove a single authoritative tone by creating further complexity of layers in the story. I pondered whether I should apply a pattern to this process or whether a random allocation of character-focused chapters would be appropriate. After following Bambi’s story for three chapters, could I then shift to focus on another character, or should I return to the beginning of the story and allocate a chapter to each of the main characters in a repeated order? Should the voices all have equal weight? I decided to shift in chapter four to follow the movements of Coach Ben, and to experiment with a random allocation of chapter focus. I hesitated over this decision, aware that it complicated the text for the reader making it potentially more difficult to follow, but was hopeful that the intermittent organisation would be more in keeping with the chaotic nature of adolescence than a linear structure. As my story progressed, I chose to tell particular chapters from the perspective of secondary characters, not with a regimented structure, but as the story demanded. The goal of this approach was to expose my ideal reader to multiple perspectives and voices within the story and to open it up to multiple meanings and understandings. During my investigation into POV, I found Sara Day’s thoughts on narrative intimacy in fiction for adolescents challenging. She suggests that such intimacy is often brought about by the common YAF technique of first person narrative, and that teenagers, particularly girls, can identify so strongly with the YAF voice that ‘the line between fictional story and real reading experience can be blurred or disregarded entirely’ (Day 2013, p. 4).

269 Day believes that this narrative intimacy is developed through the creation of a bond and the formation of trust between reader and narrator. Although this concept of narrative intimacy could be stalled by a discussion of narrator reliability, I think it important for my own work to focus on Day’s point that narrative intimacy ‘depends more on the degree to which the narrator appears familiar and relatable than on the degree to which the narrator appears trustworthy’ (Day 2013, p. 208). The idea of a relatable voice was appealing to me, and I questioned again my choice of third person narrative, as first person narrative lends itself more readily to this principle as the narrator can directly confide and share with the reader. Was too much distance created by my chosen point of view? Was it skewing my intention to create rapport with my ideal adolescent reader by applying a rigid over voice? If I apply Mieke Bal’s view of focalization, my story employs a narrative agent who verbalizes the vision of those in my story who experience the vision (Bal & Bryson 2013, p. 43): that is, my characters see, and the narrator speaks on their behalf. I had introduced a mediator between the two. I did not wish to lose the ability of the story to generate empathy, but I did want a narrator who could tell the story from a broad-viewing vantage point, in a way that would illustrate the multiplicity of possible points of view within the text and the option to include information that the characters could not possibly know. What could I do to foster this sense of relatability in my third-person narrative? Anderson and Neale discuss the formality of third person POV and how it lends itself towards being dispassionate, distant, and authoritative (Anderson & Neale 2013, p. 130). During the course of writing, I decided I did not want to change to a first person perspective but questioned what I could take from the technique to help with my own concerns about narrative voice. How could I shift the voice of the narrator to be more confiding and personal? I tried softening the formality by making the voice more artistic and replacing conservative words for more casual choices. I played with the narrator making sensitive observations of the environment, which again tied in with my idea of bringing a sense of nature into the voice of the text. I attempted to shift the narrator’s observations into a personal space – allowing character’s pain and embarrassment to be portrayed in a sympathetic, rather than perfunctory, way. Having considered the limitations of both first and third person narratives, I was content to remain with my original choice and maximise the third person perspective.

Narrative Space and the Question of Current Youth Culture

Upon the completion of the first draft of my story, I assessed my unrelenting discomfort about setting the artefact in the 1980s. Was my choice to position the story in the

270 context of the previous generation out of date? Would readers find any commonality with the world of my story, or was it a product of imagination of a past, non-mediated, generation? These questions led me to a consideration of the importance of generational culture to YAF. The nature of popular culture is not static, with modern popular culture being particularly dynamic. Current youth culture is highly fluid, and the capacity for adaption and change is great, accelerated by the global nature of its host media: the internet. Today’s youth are deciding on who they are and how they ‘fit in’ through experimentation with a digital world, on a global scale (Besley 2010, p. 11). As suggested by Miskec’s comments earlier in this section, their identities straddle personal and public dimensions: real, unreal, partial, fictional, possible. Today’s young adults gain knowledge and create new meanings from screens and images, superseding the once dominant, single routed communication: printed media (Besley 2010, p. 13). Literacy is no longer tied to printed text, instead, youths are multiliterate and able to glean understanding through synthesizing facts from a number of varied resources (Sekeres 2009, p. 406; Giardina 2006, p. 82). Not only are there a multitude of avenues for communication, many feature two-way interaction, creating a culture of ‘feedback’ (Besley 2010, p. 17), not possible with printed media. Today’s youth are engaged in what Jenkins calls a ‘participatory culture’ (Jenkins 2006, n.p.). Traditional writing still features in the information-gathering process of the modern adolescent, but instead of being a dominant source of information, it merely provides one aspect of their meaning making. Conflict between the adult author and the ideal adolescent reader occurs once again where author and reader culture intersect. Given the exponential growth of global information and communication technologies (Giardina 2006, p. 82), the majority of authors writing for today’s teens are products of a print dominated culture, whereas their readers are born into a time where they have millions of pages of information at their fingertips with a single internet search. Author Patricia McCormick believes that YAF authors need to be highly alert to the task of capturing and holding readers’ attention. She says ‘We’re competing with Facebook and Smartphones, DVRs and iPods – not to mention SATs and extracurriculars’ (McCormick 2012, n.p.). Could my story traverse the generation gap? Although generational shift is to be expected, the increasing rate of transformation means that the work I had produced felt dangerously close to being irrelevant. I had chosen to remain within my own experiences of teenage culture and to ignore the current culture, not pausing to consider in depth how modern teenagers experience life and engage with their surroundings. Upon reflection, I questioned whether I had done enough to position my novel in a way that was appealing and relevant. I examined how other authors are approaching this issue and discovered that many are aware of this change and are embracing extreme topics as a solution, evidenced by a

271 boom in fiction exploring vampires and the occult, self-harm, and graphic violence, and other topics which tap directly into popular teenage culture. Amy Leal (2010) comments on the popularity of mash-up novels: fiction that blends pre-existing stories with other genres. She examines the trend and concludes that ‘Vampires are the very essence of taboo eros, seductive and unreachable and otherworldly’ (Leal 2010, p. 28). Previously inaccessible topics are now commonplace. What is off-limits for current teens is an amplification of what was forbidden for previous generations. I find Leal’s comment astute on several levels. Adolescents potentially have unlimited access to ‘this world’, which makes the notion of ‘other world’ highly palatable. She alludes to the ability of an unknown world to communicate ‘truths’ which can be applied to the real world without appearing didactic and that act to prompt the reader to think independently. Whilst this is a route taken by many YAF authors, my artefact does not engage with sensational concepts. The story is based in one family’s personal reality, which is representative of a very concrete world, and it is unlikely that it offers anything ‘unknown’ to such an informed youth culture. I contemplated how I could apply Leal’s research to my novel and the choice to situate it in the 1980s. Not only had I chosen to disregard current popular culture and related teenage experiences, I fell well short of the findings in Leal’s research in regards to creating interest in my work through the inclusion of that which is taboo or seductive. Although the decision about setting felt appropriate and natural at the time of writing, I looked back on it with concern. Did this choice make the novel outdated, or had I managed to accidentally make it otherworldly by writing outside of the popular culture? My hope was that my ideal reader’s lack of familiarity with the fictional environment would provide the appeal of ‘otherness’. Although I was not entirely convinced this was the case, I searched for reasons to leave the setting untouched. Using PLR to help resolve this question of setting, I turned to Shelia Hones’ discussion of literary geography and the ways in which text, space, fiction, and location coincide. She opposes the view that narrative space is merely a singular, fixed environment where action takes place, proposing that it is ‘…a contingent dimension produced by fictional action and interaction, something generated out of story-internal events, narrative techniques, and reader-text dynamics’ (Hones 2011, p. 687). It is this ‘reader-text dynamics’ that I was most interested in, and the meaning that audience makes from the narrative space, or setting, to enhance story understanding. Zoe Wicomb likens setting to intertextuality, suggesting that the representation of physical environment is ‘crucially bound up with culture and its dominant ideologies, providing ready-made, recognizable meanings. In other words, setting functions much like intertextuality’ (Wicomb 2005, p. 146). It is this knowledge-based reader-text interaction that continued to concern me about the 1980s setting.

272 Although I believe there is much to be gained for adolescents from fiction set in non- modern periods, I questioned the level of market interest in such stories. The trend towards mash-up novels is perhaps evidence that I am not alone in this position. Pride and Prejudice and Zombies (2009) is a good example of authors attempting to modernise older literature, the amended narrative reaching number three in April 2009 on the New York Times Bestseller list (Wikipedia). Whether this form of adaption is considered clever, or mutilation (Halford 2009, n.p.), it does highlight the desirability of a modernised context for YAF. I felt increasingly uneasy about my 1980s setting, although I had made little reference to the culture and the dominant ideologies of the period. As an adult author raised in the period in which I had set my story, I had written with an assumption of contextual understanding without providing adequate markers to direct the reader. The story makes subtle references to 1980s fashion – for example, Tammy’s neon outfit and bubble skirt, accessorised with large earrings and teased hair – but in hindsight, without further indicators of cultural positioning, these references could easily blend into a modern context, but take on unintended meaning. Tammy’s fashion choices make sense in a 1980s setting, but without enough signals a reader could well presume that she is an unfashionably dressed modern teenager, which would in turn cause confusion as to her popularity. Scholes et al. support this theory, arguing that if a narrative is from a milieu foreign to the intended audience, it requires an audience to make a special effort ‘…to understand its meaning rather than merely to see what he can make it mean’ (Scholes et al. 2006, p. 83). If I were to maintain the 1980s setting, I would need to build into the story a degree of learning about the environment to make the meaning I was intending. In essence, I had created a modern story and placed it in a dated setting without providing context for the reader who has a potentially limited understanding of the period that I had chosen. Whilst the narrative landscape that I had written is personally significant, I had not communicated it effectively to a new generation of readers unfamiliar with it. I was faced with the choice to either embolden my setting by layering into the text 1980s references to a combination of music, fashion, politics and culture, or to alter the text’s environment by modernizing it. It was Hone’s analysis of P.K. Dick’s novel, The Man in the High Castle that swayed me to abandon my 1980s setting in preference for a modern, easily accessible environment for the reader. It is the minimal use of explicit scene-setting description in Dick’s work that places the reader directly in the setting, assuming that they already have knowledge of it, forcing them to pick up clues and piece it together for themselves (Hones 2011, p. 690) which appeals to me. Hones argues that it is this lack of description of environment that acts to create the setting, not on the page, as such, but by asking the reader to apply their own understanding and experience to compose a setting in their mind.

273 Upon reflection, I had inadvertently used this method in my initial writing of the artefact, which lacked effect due to the specific nature of the setting I had chosen. In order to maintain and strengthen this technique, I chose to remove the few cultural references I had included in the story and replace them with modern markers. This was preferable to me over returning to the text and back-loading it with description of a 1980s setting, feeling that this would diminish the simplicity created through allowing the reader to piece together their own interpretation of literary geography based on personal interaction with the text.

274 Navigating Controversial Issues in YAF

Whilst YAF seemed a neat fit for my creative intentions, writing within the genre was not without its concerns. In this section I discuss the writing and rewriting of my artefact as I sought to reconcile writing an edgy text with the complexity of doing so. I question whether YAF is a genre to be used as a platform to portray some of the more confronting realities of life and which realities I would choose in my work and how I would present them. I also debate the extent to which YAF authors should be candid about these issues. One of the intentions of my artefact is to venture into complex ethical and personal places through story by investigating issues that I consider to be important, if perhaps difficult, for younger readers to engage with. The YAF genre is an appealing place to set this work as many authors have already used it as a platform to explore topics at the periphery of what might be considered acceptable (Smith 2007, n.p.), at times making parents and the public uncomfortable (Aronson 2005, p. 66). Tim Sinclair features a gay romance in Run (2013), as does Will Kostakis in The First Third (2013), which includes several primary characters who are homosexual. Keith Gray’s Ostrich Boys (2008) explores teen suicide, and the struggle of those left behind, which is an active demonstration of his proclaimed trust in his readers and the belief that ‘the best books are the ones that allow you to think on your own two feet’ (Reading Matters Conference, 2013). The YAF shelves are home to stories about abandonment, mental illness, rape, autism, and suicide, life on the street, and abduction. The genre has become known as a cutting-edge collection of authentic teenage voices dealing with the often harsh realities of adolescence (Hayn, Laplan, Nolen 2011, p. 177; Spitz 1999, p. 79), speaking to and equipping a generation of emerging adults (Harbour 2012, n.p.; Morris et. al 2006, p. 21). Marc Aronson sums it up beautifully:

‘Coming-of-age literature is the place where picture books for older readers meet sprawling yarns of long ago and far away; it is where first date meets sex for sale; it is where controlled vocabulary meets modernist reinvention of language. Its essential characteristic is lumpiness. As a whole, it is much like adolescent life, filled with transitions, confusions, and overlappings of adult and childhood sensibilities.’ (Aronson 1997, p. 1419)

I began my project with a desire to write a story that duplicated these sentiments, but in the writing, I also harboured reservations. My indecision about creating a story based on confronting issues led me to an examination of the YAF genre. I do, however, agree with Rachel Swirsky’s sentiment that a study of genre becomes a problem when we assume that ‘barriers between genres are somehow real and important barriers, rather than being useful human constructions that can

275 be argued over and negotiated’ (Anders 2010, n.p.). Mindful that an analysis of genre could limit my project or conception of audience, I explore it to clarify my understanding of how my story can be more relevant to adolescents. Genre conventions are then both helpful and constrictive. I consider my story to be YAF, but am mindful to not use genre-classification in theories as a limitation, but rather as a means of inquiry about my project and whether I have written my story in the best possible way. Alicia Magnifico considers that expert writers use such a study of genre to gain clarity regarding audience in order to narrow their focus and to seek solutions to specific writing problems (Magnifico 2010, p. 170). I use Magnifico’s theory during the rewriting process as I clarified my ideal reader and adjusted my story accordingly.

The Ideal Reader

I questioned which fictional realities I would use to portray some of the more confronting actualities of real life. Despite the array of edgy texts within the YAF genre, how did I personally feel about writing one? As I converted my creative ideas into writing, I became increasingly uncertain about the boundaries of appropriateness within YAF and which definition of ‘suitable’ was I prepared to adopt. The categorisation of YAF offers a challenging creative space for the writer. It is a group of texts accumulated with a particular, highly diverse age population in mind rather than a group of readers with a common interest (Pattee 2004, p. 244). YAF stories are written for an age group within western cultures - a group of individuals who are continually creating and recreating themselves (Coates 2001) - rather than a readership grouped by stylistic preferences. There is a tendency to confuse globalisation and global culture with western culture (Flanagan 2014, p. 79), which is an important frame to consider when writing YAF but one that lies outside the range of this project. Keeping this in mind, I pictured my ideal readership as a highly diverse group of individuals who had been classified based on assumed emotional and intellectual maturity rather than story preference. So what commonality between such a disparate group could I draw upon to focus my story? I chose to consider my ideal reader as an individual who was considering new ways of being, at a point of maturation where they are undergoing physical, emotional, and intellectual changes. I was mindful that adolescent readers are at a unique stage of life development, where change is paramount and they explore possibilities that do not enter their worldview as children (Sturm & Michel 2009, p. 39; Alsup 2003, p. 158), and was both encouraged by and fearful of this. I liked the idea that story journey could be a powerful tool for teens towards developing a sense of who they are (Gervay 2008, p. 37), but felt the responsibility of delivering it weighty. Brian Sturm and Karin Michel (2009) stress that

276 adolescence as a time of physical, emotional, and mental maturation that leads teens into all manner of exploration. Janet Alsup (2003) emphasizes the teenage transition as a problematic phase, describing the life-period in G.S Hall’s (1904) words: ‘storm and stress’. Whilst this evidence suggests that adolescence can be a tumultuous period, I do not consider my ideal reader to be defenceless, but as potentially lacking the experience to support and moderate their ability to remain unduly affected. Writing about controversial issues is a consideration for authors across all genres. Kipral Singh speaks of the difficulties of writing fiction that deals openly with confronting material that challenges how we ‘breathe, look, see, view the world’ (Singh 2005, p. 85). His poetry and fiction explores issues that are potentially too shameful, embarrassing, or frightening within his country, but he chooses to use them as a format for expressing what he refers to as personal and public truths (Singh 2005, p. 87-88). Singh states that this style of writing is tough, and not for everyone. His response is: ‘Whatever. It is my position. It is where I site myself in the overarching universe of our literary heritage’ (Singh 2005, p. 89). What position am I prepared to take? How far am I willing to venture into this space of honesty that Singh engages with through his writing? My plan to write a story about violence, poverty, and ostracism became complicated by my desire to be sensitive to the needs of my ideal reader. The consideration of ‘can’ versus ‘should’ affected language, plot and characterisation choices. I found a tension between the desire to create authenticity, and an intangible notion of appropriateness to which I held. How would the presence of domestic violence affect the reader? What would be the effect of an in-depth description of poverty? As a result, I did not take the unflinching approach I ideally held, and felt my story was hindered by these concerns. I held back when describing violent images, and I was indecisive over the details of bullying. I was hesitant to allow Bambi to be angry or display any real resistance to the way others treated her. In order to decide how best to remedy this in the subsequent rewriting stages, I turned to an examination of how my story compared with other YAF novels.

Are There Limits?

My reluctance to confront issues candidly was challenged as I considered the approaches of other authors. Susanne Gervay says that when YAF presents an honest view of reality, it can empower adolescents to think critically about themselves and the world, understanding humans, their motivations and behaviours (Gervay 2008, p.37). Such thinking draws attention to a patronising element within my reluctance. Niranjana Iyer believes: ‘young adult novels offer hope’ (Iyer 2011, p. 20), leading me to the simple conclusion that

277 without addressing the issues young adults are facing, the YAF author contributes little to equip adolescents to make informed choices. How, then, does an author of adolescent fiction know at what level and intensity might they best deliver their story and themes? Perhaps there is no limit to that which can be explored? Roxburgh of the small independent Font Street says they are committed to following avante-garde authors onto new ground brandishing the theory of ‘Why can’t we?’ (Cooper and Zvirin 1998, p. 792): a question I continued to ask myself. Roxburgh’s question is an important one. Is there any valid argument explaining why YAF shouldn’t be moving in the direction it is? Is there a reason my novel shouldn’t be experimenting with new ways to present violence and poverty? Experimental fiction is accepted in YAF and gutsy issues embodying the crises of adolescence are dealt with unflinchingly. Tim Sinclair’s Run (2013), is written as a visually organised poetic display. Virginia Euwer Wolff wrote Make Lemonade (1993) using a free verse improvisation technique, opting for simple, abstract sentences that act to open up the page. In her words, ‘I wanted the white space to thread through the story and give it room to breathe’ (Sutton, 2001, n.p.). Both use creative innovation as the platform to explore sensitive topics including illegal graffiti art, gay relationships, and teenage pregnancy. The movement into these spaces seems widespread.

Representing the Experience of Poverty

Despite my philosophical agreement with the open-endedness of the genre as explored in these novels, I had to confront my personal inhibitions concerning what I felt comfortable writing. The disunity in my approach was apparent in the way I had held back at critical points in my story. Choosing a traditional narrative format to deliver the story, I was already operating well within regular fiction, and therefore needed to find ways to create an edge within the story itself. I felt it necessary to determine whether I wanted to nudge my story into the experimental fiction space or leave it traditional, rather than leave it hanging between the two. My reluctance must be considered in the light of the restrictive nature of issue-driven texts. Jenny Kendrick says that ‘Issue-driven fiction, perhaps inevitably, tends to the didactic, pedagogic and moralistic’ (Kendrick 2004, n.p.), a concern particularly relevant when writing for adolescents. I did not wish to write a moral lesson. I wanted to raise issues, and leave them open, and as Iyer suggests, hopeful. Kendrick warns that even a well- intentioned writer can lose their story to an agenda when they are writing about important issues. Whether the intention is to challenge or reinforce cultural thinking, an author’s desire to communicate a particular message can eclipse the creative process. As I considered the

278 way I present issues in my first draft, I used Kendrick’s lens to assess on how effectively I had navigated this tension between issue and creativity. As previously noted, underpinning my experience as a writer of YAF lay my own reading encounters as an adolescent in the late 1980s early 1990s, which consisted of many YAF novels such as Julie Campbell Tatham’s Trixie Belden novels, and Francine Pascal’s Sweet Valley High series. This led me to a belief that books that fell into this category were dominated by a lack of genuineness and tended towards having a condescending tone, as they reflected more of an idealised world rather than a real one (Cart 2010, p.17). Whilst these ideas are in severe contrast to my own story design, I felt my adolescent reading experiences as a disapproving stare over my shoulder as I wrote. The pull to make Bambi demure was strong, and I struggled to find a balance between working against this tendency and writing within my comfort zone. Reflecting upon the first draft of Motion, I was dissatisfied with the ways in which I had duplicated the type of characters I had read about in the 1990s. I had written Bambi as ‘good’ to the point of lacking a realistic breadth of human qualities. She was idealistically wholesome in her actions and reactions, and I felt the lack of emotion weakened her character and believability. Bambi was born into an unfortunate situation, and she has justifiable reason to feel betrayed and unfairly treated. Considering the difficulties she endures, she should be angry, hurt and resentful. Even if these emotions are not acted upon externally, I realised that I had neglected to allow her to at least feel them and think about them. Bambi’s character was living up to the social stereotype instead of challenging it. I felt frustrated by the passive world I had created. Jeffrey Kaplan argues that the YAF genre has not only reconstructed what it means to be an adolescent, but also ‘how teenagers are perceived by themselves and the wider public’ (Kaplan 2008, p.42). Since genre is a shifting reflection of social and cultural perceptions and ideologies (Chandler 2000, p. 3), I had to question what values my writing was supporting by adhering to mainstream ideology. I considered how I could amend the text to reflect different ways of seeing Bambi and her role in family and society. Although there are glimmers of dissatisfaction in Bambi, I needed to add instances where other characters were challenging the appropriateness of her situation. I attempt to do this through the character of Coach Ben. He sees Bambi as a rare talent, and accepts her into his world without question. I think his concern for her timidity rather than her lack of equipment communicates that material wealth is unimportant: a focus on developing character is of greater value. In contrast to this, Bambi’s peers are unable to see her value because they cannot see past her clothing and social image. I had not considered how this should affect Bambi, and realised that it was necessary to enable the

279 reader to see how strongly she felt the sting of this behaviour. Her acceptance appeared to confirm the idea that it is ‘normal’ for poor people to be treated as outcasts. I considered again the work of other authors who deal with characters who are socially ostracised. I found particularly helpful Susan Vaught’s Freaks Like Us (2012), which is written from the perspective of a teenager with schizophrenia about the disappearance of his best friend, who has selective mutism, and the mistrust and doubt that surrounds him because of the perception of his illness. It is a bold look at what is ‘normal’, and spotlights the default position of society when encountering ‘different’. Vaught’s exploration into mental illness is delicate (we have a clear sense that the characters are sensitive and wonderful individuals) and yet confronting (readers are not excluded from the uncontrolled emotions and physical discomfort encountered by the characters). She does not hold back on the unpalatable realities of living with these illnesses, but instead normalises it for the reader through the creation of reader-character relationship and an open discussion of the issues surrounding mental illness. Vaught creates a realistic character by paralleling the chaos in his mind with similar grammatical chaos – omitting punctuation in places, and a smattering of difficult to follow passages of ‘thought’. A. Aiman summarises it neatly in his review of the book, stating that Vaught allows readers to ‘…delve into the unsynchronised mind of a teenage schizophrenic, and observe the startling contrast between his rational observations of his surroundings, and his disorganised thoughts which even he himself has difficulty in focussing’ (Aimen 2013, n.p.). Vaught’s approach challenged me to appraise how I was integrating unfamiliar ‘ways of being’ into my story. Aware that the issue of poverty that I was addressing may have a social stigma attached to it in the same way as mental illness, I questioned how well I had challenged potential reader resistance. I reflected on how Vaught brought the idea of ‘otherness’ into the realm of ‘ordinary’, and I believe she did this by shifting an atypical character to the forefront of the story as a protagonist and proceeded to create empathy with the reader. Vaught’s use of an irregular protagonist, coupled with attributing to them a significant number of engaging and familiar attributes – such as loyalty and intelligence - works to bring a sense of connection and understanding from the reader, which helps them cope with the deviation from what they know to be usual. By setting this character against the backdrop of mainstream society, it is his shadow that casts across the story, rather than him operating in the wings of society. Applying Tzvetan Todorov’s concept of internal focalisation (Castle 2013, p. 72) I see that Vaught’s narrator only tells the reader what the character himself knows, thereby limiting the narrative to his experience and bringing his story to the fore. Although his otherness cannot be avoided, as evidenced through the dialogue – he is continually questioned, doubted and

280 misunderstood by many characters – she does centralise it, causing all of the action and dialogue to revolve around the boy with schizophrenia. I saw a similarity between Bambi and Vaught’s protagonist in that they were both outsiders and, in many ways, socially irregular. Her work encouraged me to be conscious of the ways in which I could further normalise Bambi’s otherness. I did not want to remove her differences, but to consider ways I could overlap her with some of the other teenage characters. One way I attempted this was to embed in her thoughts and actions the fears and insecurities common to adolescents about their identity, appearance, and friendships. After reflecting upon my writing I used Vaught’s approach, bringing to the surface aspects of her character that would create an overlap with the other girls. I hoped that by highlighting Bambi’s wit, compassion, and courage, I could bring to the fore the importance of these similarities compared with the differences. I did feel that in my initial writings I had, in some ways, minimised Bambi’s difference through compromise. As evidenced by other novels, I realised that I was not alone in this, and that it is difficult to bring a character who is ‘other’ into a place of acceptance without much compromise. I found much to contemplate in Ibrahim Taha’s analysis of Shimon Ballas’ literary works, and the way he writes about characters’ struggles against marginality into a place of ‘centre’. Taha draws attention to the paradox in the characters’ fight to shuck their otherness, in that they seek to fight against the canon, but also wish to be accepted into it on their own terms (Taha 1997, p. 65). Taha raises the question of character duality, suggesting that characters struggling to assimilate into the mainstream culture of a story in some ways compromise their identity and lose part of themselves in the process. After considering Ballas’ fiction, I realised there was no ideal answer to my dilemma of otherness, nor did my story need a neat solution to it. I let go of my intention to write Bambi into the mainstream, and aimed to culminate the story at a place where she receives respect, both socially and within herself, highlighting that her difference may be difficult but important. The end of the story does not resolve Bambi’s struggles at the margins of teenage society, but she finds some peace with her situation.

Writing Violence

Despite my increased comfort with the inclusion of sensitive topics in my artefact I had not adequately answered the questions of how much is too much? And when does the explicit become gratuitous? Furthering my previous discussion of violence, I could not avoid the fact that beneath Bambi’s journey lay the undercurrent of violence, nor would I wish to remove it from the text. I needed to resolve how I was going to remedy my dissatisfaction with these scenes.

281 Could I still create a sense of realistic drama without detailing the exact physical offences carried out against the children in the story at the hands of the father? Did my soft descriptions reduce the realism of the text and thwart the desire to throw wide the discussion about domestic violence? My main concern was that avoiding details would act to gloss over the existence and severity of violence that happens within families. Consider the scene in Motion of Jonathon with his hands around his son’s neck, choking him (p. 13). I do not describe it in graphic detail: the red face turning blue, the bulging eyes, the noises of strangulation, or a loss of consciousness. I merely state that Jonathon has his hands around Adam’s neck and they are struggling. I deliberated over this, wondering if I should return to this image and add to it without reserve? My main problem was achieving balance. I held close Kathleen Isaac’s question: ‘What are we doing to readers when we fill in the gaps, and particularly when we fill them with details of aggression and cruelty beyond the reach of their imaginations and experiences?’ (Isaacs 2003, p. 52). However, I simultaneously agreed with Michael Cart that there is a need for YAF stories that embrace violence, helping them unpack the violence that they might encounter through various mediums on an ongoing basis (Cart 2010, p. 33). The dilemma lay in reconciling these two ideas. This wrestle continued through the entire writing of the novel as I weighed the scenes where any one character had the power and opportunity to aggressively dominate another. During the initial writing stages, I avoided details, such as when Bambi comes home, knowing she is in trouble. I chose not to describe the violence she encounters at the hands of her unhappy and unbalanced father. Instead, I imply, and the opening of the next scene carries the consequences of that violence. As discussed previously, I was particularly concerned with the potential for an overload of graphic imagery to push the aggressive father in the novel into a dangerously stereotypical position, setting him up as a ‘monster’ that could shoulder the blame within the story. I was not entirely happy with this avoidance, believing that while it was in line with certain elements of my intentions, it was failing at others. I found the way in which Michael Williams balances the depiction of violence in Now is the Time for Running (2009) helpful at this point. His use of suggestion works well in his story. As his protagonist flees the streets of Johannesburg amidst the chaos of violent rioting, the reader sees the implications of the situation but is spared the graphic details. We do not see the man mauled by a lion in the game park, but are told of the human shapes in the grass. Nor does Williams recount the death of the protagonist’s brother, but the narrator alludes to the damage to his body when he is found. I felt William’s method affirmed the ways I had used similar techniques in my artefact, and was encouraged to see how he strikes

282 an effective balance between glossing over details and overwhelming the reader with unnecessary graphics. Scholarly research reveals that indirect, rather than graphic, representation of violence is a well-used technique. Benjamin Percy and Aaron Gwyn describe how the participatory nature of implied violence is a powerful way of engaging an audience, claiming that ‘we share the experience as we invent it’ (Percy & Gwyn 2011, p. 21). By omitting details, readers become more fully committed to the story as they participate in it. Although they dismiss the question of the appropriateness and morality of describing violence in detail, which is a central concern for my artefact, their discussion of the power and effectiveness of writing violence offstage helped confirm the necessity of doing so as I rewrote my story, hopeful that the technique would hold the reader in the story. Joyce Wexler discusses another method of dealing with violence in literature as she examines Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness (1899), which she claims ‘became a prototype for writing about atrocities’ (Wexler 2012, p. 99). In it Conrad represents the suffering of the African people through symbolism: historical parallels, extreme representations, and the layering of possible meanings. I chose not to express violence in my artefact through symbolism, opting instead to favour a more explicit storyline. I did, however, find interest in Wexler’s discussion of how Conrad focused on the ‘victimizers’ (colonisers) - rather than the victims (Africans) - and the question of how ‘civilized’ people could engage in such acts of violence (Wexler 2012, p. 105). As I considered the rewriting of the story, I saw the benefit of shifting the focus at times away from the recipients of the violence and the harm inflicted upon them, towards the father who is performing the violence. In doing this I intended to develop the complexity of the domestic violence situation, and the circular nature of the damage, as well as bringing depth to Jonathon’s character, as discussed in the ‘Representations and Stereotypes’ section. However, I wanted to push my writing further, and decided to incorporate a mix of techniques into my story so as to create what I felt to be a more honest representation. In some scenes, I decided to tread a middle ground with imagery, avoiding over-detailing the violence, preferring to allow the reader’s own experience to dictate the images that could be evoked from these scenes. In certain chapters, however, I did choose to include more thorough description, particularly the climactic scene where Jonathon discovers Bambi’s deception and injures Wanda in a jealous rage. I was drawn to include the sound of Wanda’s head smacking onto the seat, and the unnatural angle of her neck as she lies unmoving. I felt it was an appropriate place to illustrate the highs of rage and violence, and the results of violence if it is allowed to simmer and go unchecked in an individual. I felt that this scene is made more powerful due to its contrast with previous violent scenes and their relative softness. Jonathon is out of control in a way the reader has never seen him, and I considered

283 it important to heighten his anger graphically. I liken him to a wild animal with his super- human strength and untamed feelings, linking his movements with a remote awareness that he is out of control. Simultaneously, I attempt to draw in the reader’s other senses: a contrast of screaming, whispering and silence, the feeling of nausea, and the smell of sweat. I linger on this scene without holding back, as it not only acts as a metaphoric exclamation point for his anger, but also juxtaposes the ending of the book as Bambi’s life settles and finds a new level of existence.

When is it ‘Too Much’?

Although I am inclined to believe in the ability of adolescent readers to self-monitor personal reading choices, could I accept the idea that YAF should be devoid of boundaries? Researchers are now becoming familiar with this new body of YAF literature, and ‘know little about what actually happens when teens read young adult novels’ (Hayn, Kaplan & Nolen 2011, p. 177). The academic and social discussion about how equipped teen readers are to handle disturbing issues and images being raised in YAF is lively. There is much social discussion, such as Meghan Gurdon’s ‘Darkness Too Visible’ article, which appeared in The Wall Street Journal in 2011:

‘If books show us the world, teen fiction can be like a hall of fun-house mirrors, constantly reflecting back hideously distorted portrayals of what life is… a careless young reader – or one who seeks out depravity – will find himself surrounded by images not of joy or beauty but of damage, brutality and losses of the most horrendous kinds.’ (Gurdon 2011, n.p.)

It appears Gurdon has taken some of the themes explored in YAF out of the context in which they are placed intentionally by authors, alluding that a teen can pick up a YAF novel and be greeted with a reservoir of excessive wickedness; a database of debauchery. However, despite the extreme nature of her comments, she does raise certain valid questions. What of the sensitive, less mature teen who reads my story in which I have graphically illustrated a father partially choking his son? Could this be emotionally damaging? Vanessa Harbour contests the argument for restricting YAF content. She disagrees with the idea that children’s innocence must be guarded, thereby rendering sensitive topics ‘an assault on that innocence’: she contends that it is untrue and argues that refraining from talking of such will not protect them (Harbour 2012, n.p.). It is a mistake, she says, to assume that a young adult comes to a story in ignorance: ‘They come knowing what they already know, with a view to encountering that which they don’t know in their ever

284 expanding gathering of knowledge’ (Harbour 2012, n.p.). Harbour’s theory that a reader will take from a text only what they are capable of understanding appeals to me. Adding to Harbour’s ideas, Stahl, Hanlon and Lennox have theorised that YAF can act as a type of ‘immunisation’ against deviant behaviours. By receiving a mild dose of ‘adult issues’ in literary form teenagers may, in fact, avoid full-blown harmful behaviours in real life (as cited in Harbour 2012, p. ). I think here of Dean Meyer’s Monster, where the teen protagonist is on trial for his life because of poor choices he has made. It discusses the complexity of actions and consequences, and how no event exists in isolation but is a culmination of events that have come before. He does not shrink away from the facts of prison life, but includes details that I, as an adult reader, found uncomfortable. Perhaps more than operating as a deterrent to engaging in harmful behaviours, if YAF presents an honest view of reality as Meyers does, it can empower adolescents to think critically about themselves and the world, understanding humans, their motivations and behaviours (Gervay 2008, p.37), all of which are in line with my intentions. In opposition to this is the opinion that focusing on what is dark and negative is harmful, particularly when writing for a potentially impressionable readership. Phillip Reeve expresses his concern over the growing number of dark-themed dystopian-style YAF novels; novels perceived to be without hope. He asks: ‘What sort of future awaits a society whose young people are taught that there’s nothing to look forward to but decline and disaster, and that decline and disaster may be all that they deserve?’ (Reeve 2011, p. 36). I question this argument and the premise that this style of fiction is a single-layered story of despair. I prefer Baccolini’s view that the presentation of an irremediable situation actually acts to force readers into a position where they seek solutions, and rally their hope. He states, ‘Utopia is maintained in dystopia, traditionally a bleak, depressing genre with no space for hope in the story, only outside the story: only by considering dystopia as a warning can we as readers hope to escape such a dark future’ (Baccolini 2004, p. 520). If the future belongs to the generation reading YAF, then this style of writing may well be a catalyst for positive change. Bambi’s story could be seen as desolate and I believe that leaving her within this narrative alone would create a story that is too dark. My intention was to plant kernels of hope outside this narrative circle. Within the other less intimate layers of her story, I wanted to create the scope for a perception of hope in Bambi’s life: the opportunity to be successful, and loved, and free. Although it feels impossible for her to achieve these things early in the story, as other opportunities begin to unfold she shifts closer to the contrasting position of hope. I would consider it a mistake to assume that teenagers have no knowledge of the bleak aspects of life. Adolescents are not unfamiliar with decline and disaster, violence, drugs, and abuse. The very nature of society has changed; globalisation has brought violence

285 and depravity to the doorsteps of today’s youth through television and internet (Gray 1993, p. 54; Alsup 2003, p. 158). Christopher J. Ferguson believes that violence has been present in entertainment since the beginning of human history, yet despite this, its manifestation in television, movies, music, video games and the internet are the centre of continued controversy (Ferguson 2013, p. 28). Despite the studies into whether exposure to such violent depictions is harmful, results have been ambiguous (Ferguson 2013; Gunter 2008). Andrea Hargrave and Sonia Livingstone cast their research net wider to consider the broader question of ‘harm and offence’ in regards to all media contents. Their findings suggest that although certain groups consider some aspects of content across media offensive, audiences are more inclined to call for more effective controls rather than the removal of such content (Hargrave & Livingstone 2006, p. 202). It would seem unlikely that restrictions on content would be welcome by the public, who appear to see the answer to the question of offensive and harmful content as either self-imposed or parentally-applied restrictions. Hargrave and Livingstone’s study concludes that the challenge of content appropriateness stems partially from the shift away from contextual portrayal of content through new media (Hargrave & Livingstone 2006, p. 205). Where television, film and radio are viewed within the context of a linear narrative, the internet opens the viewer to the possibility of accessing content in isolation, devoid of directed context. What print fiction offers within the ‘offensive and harmful’ debate is a medium that is not only linear, but also largely non-visual or electronically interactive. Images and ideas can be communicated in a constructed context that can assist understanding. YAF can offer a safe place to comprehend difficult issues for adolescents, many of whom are already confronted with these issues through life and other media, helping to vicariously process threatening and dangerous realities. Adolescents are interested in reading about themselves and enjoy stories in which they can see elements of their own lives and feel an identification. They want to read about characters that resemble those they know (Morris et al. 2006, p. 21). They want stories that speak to them in a personal and real-life way (Hayn, Kaplan & Nolen 2011, p. 176). YAF can provide alternative options for dealing with the distressing situations they may be living out, observing, or might one day encounter. Whilst considering the notion of story-reader relationship, I was interested in Susanne Gervay’s thoughts on the impact of stories on teenage readers. She believes that adolescents read differently from adults: ‘…they will read and re-read that book, testing it against their developing value system, incorporating concepts that they feel are relevant to who they are’ (Gervay 2008, p. 37). I focused here particularly on the notion of relevance and the suggestion that teenagers will absorb the elements of a story which they feel are applicable and will incorporate them into their understanding of self. This supports Hayn et.

286 al.’s theory of readers looking for personal resonance, and encouraged me to reason that readers are primarily seeking a connection based on empathy and will quite possibly filter the elements they feel are less relevant. Gervay and Harbour sum up for me what I am trying to achieve with my artefact. Believing that the confronting issues within the text have a purpose – i.e. to ask the reader to question their current thinking by offering a potentially new point of view – has given me confidence to take the story to the places I felt it needed to go. Since the purpose of my story is to stretch the reader as well as to entertain, moving it beyond what would be contained in a book for children, I am hopeful that my exploration of violence and poverty will provide a place for readers to gain new understanding, contributing to the broadening of their worldview as they enter adulthood.

287 Girls and Sport

Being an advocate for the benefits of sport for physical and mental health, I was motivated to situate my story in a sporting context with the intention of presenting it as a positive space for adolescents. As the artefact developed, it was apparent that my initial writing choices were foregrounding the issue of female representations in sporting contexts, which led me to an investigation into the relevant scholarly discourse. The issue of girls and sport is an important one for me, but I did not wish to make this the sole focus of my creative process. I wanted the story to not only be interesting to adolescents, but also to adequately represent my belief in the benefits and importance of sport for teenage girls. The PLR process enabled me to interrogate the choices I was making about Bambi as an athlete as I looked to scholarly discussion for insight. Fundamental to my writing and research pattern were several key questions: How effectively was I navigating the stigma of ‘the sporty girl’? Was my story challenging the view that sport is the natural domain of boys? Does Bambi appear athletic without trading in her sense of femaleness? Such evaluations formed the basis of my research into how female teenagers negotiate their identity in regards to sport, and how the broader community perceives girls who do engage in sport. My novel opens up critical issues about transcending cultural givens. It aims to disturb the metanarrative of girls and sport by revising the expected ways a female athlete ‘should’ present and behave.

Empowerment Through Sport

As a result of reflecting upon such issues in my PLR, I explored how adolescents engage with sport and negotiate their identities through their relationship with – or distance from – physical activity. I examined the idea that participation in sport is empowering for teenagers, enabling them to grow and develop personally through it. I was inspired to use YAF to encourage teens in this way, and intended Bambi’s story as an example of how sport can help the development of confidence and personal insight, and equip young people to overcome difficult circumstances. The assertion that the individual is empowered through sport is the subject of much academic debate, with a number of scholars arguing that further research is necessary before such a conclusion can be confidently drawn. Gordon Bloom, John Dunn, Nicholas Holt, Martin Jones, and Philip Sullivan’s research highlights the complexity of the claim, suggesting it is unclear how different elements of the sport-equation (such as type of sport, coaching styles, and level of competition) affect this issue (Bloom et al. 2011, p. 261).

288 Daniel Gould and Sarah Carson also challenge the notion that sport positively affects the life skills of individuals, believing further research is necessary into the conditions under which this may be true (Gould & Carson 2008, p. 74). Some research demonstrates that sport can negatively impact teens due to its competitive and comparative nature, and that the win-lose context can encourage unsporting behaviours (Hansen et al. 2003, p. 50). Numerous other studies argue that youths involved in sports are more likely to consider and use alcohol and illicit drugs (Many Youths Use Potentially Dangerous Sports Supplements and Drugs 2001, n.p.; Lorang et al 2011, p. 367; Hagan 2013, p. 1; Teen Athletes Prone to Drink, Less Likely to Use Drugs 2013, n.p.), and that the desire to belong within the sporting subculture can compromise an individual’s usual convictions (Groves et al. 2012, p. 125) resulting in a lower standard of behaviour. In opposition to the above positions, many researchers agree that if delivered appropriately and within a sound developmental context (Holt et al. 2011, p. 490; Greenwood & Canters 2009, p. 298) and in a proactive manner (Gould & Carson 2008, p. 75; Weiss 2008, p. 437) sport can be correlated with positive development in young people (Weiss 2008, p. 434). A study conducted by Nicholas Holt, Bethan Kingsley, Lisa Tink & Jay Scherer into the benefits of sport for underprivileged teens asserts that not only does sport provide multiple social and personal benefits, but these positive skills and growth translate into other aspects of their lives (Holt et. al. 2011, p. 494; Weiss 2008, p. 434) resulting in more socially stable individuals. With evidence available from both sides of the discussion, I could not find resolution within the scope of my own research but was satisfied that academics agree that under certain conditions, sport can have a positive impact in the lives of adolescents. I chose to focus on Slater and Tiggeman’s claim that there are well-established links between physical activity and physical and psychological health (Slater & Tiggeman 2010, p. 619), intent on concentrating my novel on the agreed positives of sporting participation. Despite the lack of academic agreement, I found benefit in examining the breadth of the unresolved scholarly debate, with PLR making me more mindful of the equivocal perception of whether sport ultimately builds or compromises character.

How Adolescents Understand Gender and Sport

The initial and most difficult hurdle I encountered in my efforts to portray a positive sporting context for girls was finding ways to challenge Euro-Western ways of viewing females and sport. I examined why teenage girls are so vulnerable in the sporting environment, and how adolescents understand gender in relation to sport and in what manner these beliefs impact their choices.

289 Teenage girls appear to be placed precariously relative to sport, with evidence suggesting they are an underrepresented social group when it comes to physical activity (Clark 2012, p. 1178). ABS statistics (2011) show that not only are Australian females of all age groups less likely to participate in sport and physical recreation than males, the greatest discrepancy occurs between the genders at ages 15-17 with the non-participation rate being 13% for males and 26% for females. Slater and Tiggeman’s 2011 study of Australian teens also found boys to be significantly more involved in sport than girls (Slater & Tiggeman 2011, p. 461). While many teenage girls are driven to exercise with the goal of having an attractive body (Allendart et al. 2006, p.830), they are also reluctant to participate in certain types of activities for fear of being laughed at because they are uncoordinated or because of their body appearance (Slater & Tiggeman 2011, p. 461), or that they appear unskilled (Clark 2012, p. 1181), manly or unfeminine (Cockburn & Clark 2002, p. 654), uncool (Slater & Tiggeman 2010, p. 624/5), or sexually objectified (Choi 2000, p. 73). Concern over this issue is also evident in Euro-Western media commentary. Author Elizabeth Day broaches the issue of young females’ reluctance in sporting participation, quoting a study from May 2012 detailing the disturbing drop in activity levels in girls by the age of 14, and their reluctance to engage in sport due to peer pressure and opinion (Day 2012). Research has identified 11 years of age as the peak age for girls’ involvement in organised sport, from which point participation rapidly declines, with girls withdrawing earlier than boys, and with a much higher attrition rate (2011, p. 456). Chalabaev et. al. contend that biological-ability differences (which they attribute to as little as five percent) between the genders is only one factor contributing to the non-participation of females in sport, arguing that social beliefs and stereotypes affect the perception of ‘competence and value’, directly impacting on the choice to participate (Chalabaev et. al. 2013, p. 142). Social attitudes regarding the ability of females as physical beings appear to be a major influencing factor in adolescent beliefs. Research shows that there is still a strong perception amongst teenagers that there are female-appropriate sports such as cheerleading and dance, and male-appropriate sports (Piro 2007, p. 8) such as football and wrestling. These ideas appear to stem from the Victorian period where notions of masculinity and femininity constructed women as gentle, passive, and physically inferior (Azzarito et al. 2006, p 223). Research conducted by Cockburn and Clark of a group of 13 to 14 year old girls revealed that the qualities fostered in Physical Education subjects – ‘independence, assertiveness, strength, physical skill, to be physically active, and enjoy sport’ – are in direct opposition to ‘the acceptable way of being “teenage girl” ’ (Cockburn & Clark 2002, p. 654). Despite shifts in thinking, the place females occupy in sport is still precarious and many teenage girls feel it is necessary to rebel against the masculinities of sport in order to retain and assert their femininity (Cockburn & Clark, 2002, p. 654).

290 Can YAF act against such a culture? Despite the significant quantity of research directed into girls and sport over recent years, few scholars have pursued an exploration of how these findings play out using YA sports fiction as a means of investigation (Whiteside et al 2013, p. 416). I believe it can, sharing the opinion of author Suzanne Gervay who asserts that YAF can provide a space to confront traditional ways of thinking. She believes it helps teenagers learn critical thinking, to question, and to develop insight into the challenges of life (Gervay 2008, p. 36/7). With research showing such a lack in teenage girls’ sporting participation and inclusion, I was highly motivated to address this issue well in my story. Looking to how other authors have written about sport, I was disappointed to see the lack of YAF sports novels for girls, particularly those aimed at mid-to-upper aged YAF readers. Despite the advances in sports fiction as a subgenre, books featuring a female protagonist are still greatly underrepresented (Kane & Pearce, 2002, p. 71). Reuth-Brandner (cited in Kane 1998, p. 235) says the likelihood of a YA sports fiction protagonist to be male over female is six to one, and ‘Top Ten Sports Books for Youth’, published by the American Library Association lists all ten of the most popular sports novels in 2006 as having male protagonists and dealing with themes specific to male young adult athletes. Robert Newton’s Runner (2005) is an example of this. It is a story about boys acting as runners for a Melbourne mobster in 1919 which deals solely with boys’ experience, and female characters are presented as either maternal or as a distant romantic object. Similarly, Markus Zusak explores teenage boys and an illegal fighting syndicate in Fighting Ruben Wolffe (2000), where girls exist on the outside of the story, and are mostly sexualised, as seen through the male lens of the protagonist. Keeper [Peet 2003], The Runner [Voight 1985], Peak [Smith 2007], Now is the Time for Running [Williams 2009], Ironman [Crutcher 1995], and Ball Don’t Lie [la Pena 2005], all deal with the male experience of teenagers and sport. Many stories for and about boys have been lauded for tackling gutsy social issues and complex plotlines - ‘…unflinching young-adult novels that present a world of high- school athletics beset with brutal violence, drugs, and corrupt adults….Authentic, vivid dialogue, characters and sports action….’ (Engberg 2006, p117) – they highlight a significant gap. Why are there so few YA novels exploring young females and sport? And why in those few, are the female characters represented so differently from the males? Adriaanse and Crosswhite’s research on sporting role-models reinforced my belief that YA sports fiction is a reflection of adolescent perceptions of male and female athletes. They comment that male athletes are socially perceived as heroes who are ‘strong, tough, handsome, competitive, dating or married to the most desirable woman’ and female athletes are admired because they are ‘caring, kind and selfless’ (Adriaanse & Crosswhite 2008, p. 385). There is a divide between expectations of what is male and what is female, and what

291 appears to be socially valued by teens in female athletes does not lend itself to an ideal protagonist in a sporting context. YAF, then, seems to be mirroring real life, where gendering – traditional ideas concerning what is male and what is female – affects girls and women and their participation in sport and other physical activities (Choi 2000, p. 2; Azzarito 2010, p. 26; Cockburn & Gill 2002, p. 655). I found little evidence to show that the way I was attempting to write about young female athletes was occurring in YAF. Many of the novels about girls who participate in sport fall into two categories. Firstly, the girl is different from other females, and often masculinised. Shelly Sylvester’s Run Girl Run (2009) opens in chapter one with: ‘I was not the most popular, nor the cutest girl as a teenager…back in the day the girls at school called me, ‘Traniece the Beast’. I wasn’t even known in school, except as the beast’ (Sylvester 2009, p. 7). From the very first sentence, the athletic girl is positioned negatively. She sees herself as unattractive and unpopular, and suggests her peers view her as masculine. The second category of stories I encountered were the novels in which the adolescent girls are capable and accepted as sports people, but are consumed with their physical appearance, their attractiveness to boys, and spend a significant amount of time obsessing over ‘cute boys’. Whilst Deb Loughead’s Just Run (2011) depicts several female characters as highly capable athletes, the story is not without concerns. The relay team consists of four beautiful and popular adolescent girls, two of whom are twins: ‘both blond and blue-eyes, with freckles sprinkled over their cute, turned-up noses’, differentiated only by a ‘tiny red birthmark shaped like a heart on her left calf’ (Loughead 2011, p. 14-15). Such images immediately act to isolate many readers. It was clear that if I wanted to generate new ways of thinking about girls and sport I needed to be highly intentional about depicting girl athletes in my story in alternative ways.

‘The Sporty Girl’

Portraying Bambi as an athlete without typecasting her in accord with the overused and simplistic stereotyping I had encountered in YAF novels proved more challenging than expected. I was surprised at the difficulty I had fulfilling this intention, and how deep-seated my own ideas appeared to be about girls who engage in sport, and how and why they participated in these activities. According to Scott Orson Card writers’ instinctive choices about characters are based on the library of clichés stored in the mind (Card 2010, p. 30). Whether they are widely known or personal clichés, he warns that if the author is not conscious of this inclination, they will settle for this initial selection regarding their character and will inadvertently build a stereotypical character. I had entered the writing process with the belief that my story would naturally unfold. This assumption was challenged by Orson’s

292 suggestion that the writer should be questioning these ‘natural’ decision making tendencies. I redirected the way I was building character as a result, incorporating the technique of making a decision and then pausing to interrogate where it sat in regards to Euro-Western cultural ideology. As I reflected on my writing during my continued research, I was dismayed to see how many ways I was inadvertently writing my protagonist into the role what of ‘the sporty girl’. I had written her as a character who was not like the other girls in the story. I had traded in some of her ‘girlness’ and squeezed her into a category that I assumed would have sporting credibility. The choices I was making – such as her practicality of clothing, hair always in a ponytail, little attention to grooming, lean body, her difference from other girls, her social outcast status– all perpetuated cultural expectations. Although these characteristics were intentional, Bambi was evolving in a way that felt similar to other girl characters in sports novels. I felt I was gaining little ground in making her stand out as an empowered female athlete. There was a discrepancy between who I wanted Bambi to be, and how her character was developing on the page. Despite the shift in the stigma around girls and sport, the cultural metanarratives persist. A study conducted in the UK concerning young people’s attitude to food revealed that a strong stereotype exists in school-aged children and teens around this concept of The Sporty Girl. The research showed that the participants considered this type of girl to be health-conscious to the point of resisting all unhealthy food choices and possibly dieting, wealthy and educated, active, clever, and engaged in a wide variety of sport and fitness activities (Ludvigsen & Sharma 2004, p. 23-4). The study revealed that the young people felt the ‘sporty girl’ was idealised and out of reach, that she was too good and different from her peers and would be disliked and socially rejected because of this. Perhaps the most striking finding in the research was: ‘Although the stereotypes are somewhat crude, they were also deeply felt’ (Ludvigsen & Sharma 2004, p. 23). The abundance of such media messages, coupled with interaction with other social expectations, impacts on the way adolescents are viewing girls who engage in sport and have added to the paramount idea of what physically active females are like (Von Amsterdam et. al. 2012, p. 293). While it is apparent that attempts are being made to argue against the dominant discourse prevalent last century, many of the messages feel confused: is the sporty girl different from ‘mainstream’ girls or the same? Does she like to paint her toenails pink or not? If she doesn’t, is she foregoing her girlness in order to be taken seriously? Is she masculine, feminine, or androgynous? I looked at the ways I was incorporating traditionally ‘masculine’ (i.e. sporting) qualities into Bambi’s character. I was building into Bambi’s character masculine

293 characteristics (strong, fit, able etc) but was also allowing her to reach into areas that are traditionally female (kind, selfless, caring, and giving) (Adriaanse & Crosswhite 2008, p. 385). Despite aiming to create balance, I was still dissatisfied, feeling that I had fallen short of my intention to argue against these social values and preconceptions. I was struck by the similarities between Bambi and the definition of femininity expressed through one of the five constructed characters in the British pop band The Spice Girls. Dafna Lemish’s description of Sporty Spice - ‘In her modest workout suits…her straight hair tied back in a modest ponytail and her plain cheerful face she is “the girl next door”, who happens to have a thin muscled body and a genuine interest in sports…’ (Lemish 2003, p. 19) – alarmed me, considering that her description of this embodied stereotype could well be applied to my protagonist.

Girls Can Sweat, but They Must Remain Beautiful

Despite the opening of opportunities for females across sporting domains, the internalised gender-role perceptions of adolescent girls appears to be ongoing (McCallister, Blinde & Phillips 2003, p. 104). Although the media has shifted away from the idea that girls cannot engage in sport, it appears to have built upon the notion that ‘girls who do sport are tomboys’, by suggesting that women can be athletic, but they must also be beautiful. Jasmen Davis’ article in a girls’ magazine states: ‘being sporty does present a girl with certain beauty challenges, but there's no reason you can't look adorable while you're gettin' your game on’ (Davis 2005, p. 78). Whilst it assures the reader that it is possible to remain attractive and sweat at the same time, it also suggests that it is a somewhat forced combination; involvement in sport poses problems for the girl who also wants to appear attractive, and there is an unspoken expectation that this is exactly what girls should be aiming for. As previously noted, I found alarming the underlying assumption that female attractiveness is paramount, and a girl should only engage in an activity if her external ‘beauty’ can be maintained. Precilla Choi clarifies the paradox in the shift towards normalising female’s participation in physical activities. She states that while it is acceptable for females to be athletes, what is yet to be negotiated is the relationship between femininity and physical activity (Choi 2000, p. 7). Victoria Carty highlights the confusing duality in the way media presents women in relation to sports. She points out that both traditional female qualities and more pro-feminist attributes are coexisting in advertisements, presumably in an attempt to reconcile the two (Carty 2005, p. 133). An example of this is sporting giant Nike’s campaign to amalgamate ‘hyperfemininity’ with ‘tomboy athleticism’ (Jackson & Andrews 2005, p. 75). There is a confused message in these images, mixing an acceptance of women in sport with an unspoken condition that the female athlete is beautiful and sexy.

294 This is demonstrated through the way that the elements representative of ‘femininity’ in sports advertising are often primarily physical, and the ‘female-empowered’ aspects are often more internal in nature. For example, the Nike ‘Everyday Athlete’ marketing campaign features physically beautiful women who wear pink and paint their toenails (Jackson and Andrews 2005, p. 74) – all external representations of femininity – but are also highly disciplined and determined, which are reflections of inner attributes. The media shift appears to have moved only part of the way, allowing the inside of the female athlete to be as strong as their male counterparts, but suggesting that the outer body must remain recognizably and traditionally ‘female’. Adding to this double-edged message is a sense that the arena of female sport is still dominated by exclusion. Whilst the athletic female body is considered sexually desirable in media representations, it is a particular body type only, and one that is specific to the traditional boundaries of gender appropriateness in sport. Women with obvious musculature are considered athletic, but not heterosexually desirable (Von Amsterdam et al. 2012, p. 300). Desirable femininity has shifted from the ‘passive female’ image to that of a woman who is ‘strong, confident, and successful in competitive sport’ (Von Amsterdam et al. 2012, p. 307), but it has conditions attached, and women express fear that engaging with sport will bulk up their bodies (John 2007, p. 28), rendering them unattractive. This confusion between how athleticism, gender, and beauty coincide is also illustrated by Suzy Menkes’ article in the lifestyle section of the New York Times. She writes about an Olympics inspired London fashion show using words such as ‘androgyny’, ‘boyish’, and ‘strong and sporty’, indicating that ‘sporty’ is a step aside from what is usually considered to be feminine. She then goes on to say that designer Paul Smith ‘neatly nailed his summer collection by making his woman dress more like a man’, and that Richard Nicoll manages to bring ‘femininity to sporty clothes…but they were never sexual’ (Menkes 2012, n.p.). The messages being broadcast by popular media are perplexing at best. There is a type of female who is considered sporty, and she is atypical and in some ways masculine. She may have positive attributes, but they place her outside what is usual. I was struck by professional athlete Laura Fleshman’s (2014) discussion of female sport, the media, and body image. She describes her experience of catwalk modeling for sportswear brand Oiselle as confronting, having been met with social media comments such as ‘she looks like a man’. She responds: ‘At what point does physical strength become a trait reserved by men? When exactly do you cross the line?...Our definition of femininity still has some expanding to do to catch up with the fact that women are athletes now, in lots of shapes and sizes. Women do sports. In droves.’ (Fleshman 2014, n.p.). The pressure on females who participate in sport to look and perform in certain ways is widespread.

295 Media Influence on Teens

It is worth pausing momentarily to consider the role the media plays in the way teens view themselves. Von Amsterdam et. al. use Foucault’s metaphor of Jeremey Bentham’s model prison, ‘the panopticon’, to explain how social constructions of athleticism inform the way young people observe the bodies around them. Expanding on Foucault’s scenario of a prison where the ‘few’ (guards) watch the ‘many’ (prisoners) resulting in an ever- consciousness of being observed (1979), Von Amsterdam et. al. introduce Mathiesen’s (1997) notion of ‘Synopticon’, where the masses also view the few. In this case, the popular media control the image of the dominant construction of the ideal, desirable body (Von Amsterdam et al. 2012, p. 294). The metaphors of the panopticon and synopticon work for me to describe two phenomena particularly apt to teenagers: the feeling of being continually watched and judged, and the need to look to cultural instruction for appropriate ways of being. I find the image particularly pertinent to Bambi as the prisoners in the panopticon are in individual cells, which parallels her isolation and heightens the sense of being exhibited. Although I agree with Doyle that the evolution of the digital world has lessened the power of the synopticon image due to the fragmentation of the power of broadcast television (Doyle 2011, p. 284), I consider it to be a helpful illustration of the general influence of all forms of media on teenage culture.

Can Bambi be Sporty and Girlie?

Despite a shift in culture to normalise women and sport, problems remain evident. It is the failure of these images to separate the female sports woman from her sexual attractiveness that I find most problematic: a concern that mirrors the difficulty I had attempting to incorporate Bambi’s ‘girlness’ into a character that is physically competent in a way that has historically been reserved for boys. My initial attempts to reject the media representations of female sportspeople came about through cutting Bambi off from anything that represented beauty and femininity. Appalled by the idea that she would need to wear sexualised clothing to be taken seriously, or to be excused for being an athlete, I had made choices to reject anything associated with these concepts. I was writing in a counteractive manner, instead of being pro-active - I realised that I needed to somehow communicate that it’s acceptable for real girls to participate in sport, without a compensatory apology in the form of looking pretty. I returned to my artefact with the intention of developing in Bambi an appreciation for the strength and ability of her body and creating a distance between her and the place of

296 self-loathing from which she begins. I built into the story a layer of emerging body- confidence that was absent in my first draft. Robert Rigby’s Running in her Shadow (2012) does this well. He describes a key female character running: ‘Katy, all power and movement, closed on the leading girl and ten metres from the finish line edged to the front’ (Rigby 2012, p. 11). It is this recognition of strength and confidence that I was also aiming to convey. As Bambi’s skill as an athlete develops through the chapters, so too does her body acceptance. When she lines up for the final race in the story she is settled and confident in her physicality rather than seeking to hide or change it. By moving away from the notion that females must be of a certain type to appear attractive, and venturing into a place where other body types are acceptable and normal, I feel that Bambi shifts into a more empowered position encompassing ‘female’ and ‘athlete’ simultaneously. As I further engaged in rewriting, I focused on the ways my first iteration distanced Bambi from her body and avoided any traits that might be associated with being ‘too girlie’. I pondered Anita Harris’ comment on the second wave feminist approach to ‘girl power’, realizing that it is representative of my thinking during the writing of my first novel draft: ‘Go to work, play sports, be tough, but don’t do it while wearing nail polish, pink uniforms, or crying’ (Harris 2004, p. 60). Although I saw the insufficiency of my first approach, I was uncertain that merely adding girlie elements to Bambi’s character was the answer to bridging both aspects of femaleness. Harris believes that ‘girlie’ can be a confident gesture and that accepting the things about being a girl brings meaning and joy. However, not all scholars agree with her thinking. Birgit Richard argues that even though girlie is difficult to define, it generally carries negative connotations and ‘is supposed to be a heavy blow against feminism, a silly escape from becoming an adult, and an expression of fear of sex in the age of AIDS.’ (Richard 2006, n.p.). Seeing virtues in both opinions, I found it difficult to know how to proceed with the rewriting. Whilst I felt that in some ways I had removed part of her female identity in an attempt to avoid over-sexualising her, I also considered adding a girlie layer to her character to be a backwards shift. How could I add a layer to her femininity that suggests she is confident enough to enjoy being a girl, as a separate being to a boy? I looked again to the YAF genre for ideas on bridging these two ways of being. I found helpful Erin Whiteside, Marie Hardin, Lauren Decarvalho, Nadia Carillo, and Alexandra Smith’s research into recent YA sports fiction for girls. Their analysis of YAF sports novels for girls concludes that: ‘All the protagonists profess a love of sports and excel athletically, yet they also see their bodies as fundamentally different from a feminine ideal and, thus, sites of failure and social inadequacy’ (Whiteside et al 2013, p. 423). I resorted to my own investigation of one of the stories, Dairy Queen by Catherine Gilbert Murdoch, and discovered, yet again, the message that sport is a risky activity for female adolescents. Girls

297 face possible social isolation as a result, and those who are accepted into these male- dominated worlds, although successful in their own right, are not ‘normal’ girls. Although Murdoch’s story begins with a challenge to normative gender roles, it stalls, with the story returning to a place of social balance, where the girl gets the boy, and is welcomed as the sole girl in a sport clearly aimed at boys. Balance is restored, but nothing has changed. Although the intention appears to be one of empowerment for young female athletes, I believe it falls short. Not only is the protagonist masculinised, isolated, and ‘un-girlie’, she is the only female character interested in engaging in football, which is clearly depicted as a male dominated domain. Arriving at no solid conclusions about the appropriate way to find equilibrium between the two extremes, and fearful of overbalancing, I approached the dilemma from another angle. My intention from the outset was to express the joys of athleticism to teenaged girls, and to encourage them to view sport as a possibility for them, rather than an area to be avoided. I decided to experiment with including both girlie and non-girlie elements into Bambi’s character, but to be careful in the way I presented Bambi’s thinking about those elements, choosing to focus on her internal dialogue. By having Bambi project an empowered attitude –the fundamental message I was aiming to communicate - the physical details became less important. I refocused my rewriting on Bambi’s motivations and attitudes, rather than the outward working of her personal choices. I added an appreciation of fashion but framed it as an expression of taste, rather than a need for male and peer approval. Similarly, I presented her desire to wear less-fashionable running clothes as a reflection of her practicality rather than identification with being a ‘tomboy’. I was determined to find ways to allow Bambi to create her own sense of ‘girlness’ by allowing her to choose any form of expression of her femaleness, but also by placing it in an empowered context. I also focused on grafting into the second half of the story a growing love for her athletic body, not viewing it as insufficient as she previously had, but developing her character to see it as potentially different from some other females, but still beautiful and adequate. I used Jack and Pete’s attraction to her as steps in her understanding of her physical adequacy and desirability, but tried to avoid this male approval being pivotal in the culmination of her understanding. She does not end up in a relationship with either of these, a choice I made to highlight the belief that she can be satisfied on her own.

Adolescent Self-Acceptance and Esteem

Developing the love of self in Bambi was an important aspect of the story, and I paused writing to consider the academic discourse about adolescents and self-esteem. I was surprised by my initial investigation into Jurka Lepicnik Vodopivec’s research, which

298 concluded that the most significant contributing factor in teenage self-esteem was the stability of family environment and feeling loved and accepted by parent/s (Vodopivec 2011, p. 191). I turned to Rousseau’s (1754) thoughts on self-love, primarily his discussion on amour-propre –the aspect of esteem based on how one is regarded by others - and the complications that can ensue. Rousseau believed that formulating self-worth in relation to others is unavoidable and potentially harmful, but that self-destructive behaviour can be managed through ‘good’ social and political institutions, alongside a balanced and effective private upbringing (Nuenhouser 2010, n.p.). His attention to the concept of ‘private upbringing’ versus the act of being socialised by public groups and institutions was of interest to the direction of my story. What was happening in Bambi’s home-life that was affecting her journey as an individual? Having anticipated peer-approval as being more important during the adolescent years, I was interested to consider how I could use this to strengthen my story. Having perhaps undervalued the impact of family acceptance and rejection on Bambi in the first iteration of my story, I returned to it to reconsider the significance of Rousseau and Vodopivec’s ideas. Aware that Bambi’s unstable relationship with her father could compromise her self-esteem, I was able to concentrate on building strength into her relationships with her mother and brothers. These considerations both arose out of my practice and research and were then re- emphasized in my practice, as I had attempted to provide other possible ways of understanding gender for a teenage audience in my story. Although I had endeavoured to make Bambi’s character challenge cultural norms, I had purposefully allowed other female characters involved in the running squad to reflect traditional cultural assumptions. In many ways these girls in the running squad act to counterbalance the ‘maleness’ they adopt from being involved in the sport through highly feminine behaviour. Tammy and Mandy overcompensate by sexing-up their club uniform, knotting their singlets to expose their midriff, wearing excessive makeup on the track, and acting as teases and flirts in the sporting context. Inwardly uncomfortable in the sporting environment, they attempt to divert the attention away from their athleticism. The boys, in comparison, show their seriousness for the sport by ignoring much of this behaviour and focusing on intimidating their competition through bravado and mock fighting. Bambi enters this culture and acts to disrupt these established patterns of behaviour. She arrives in her simplicity of dress and appearance with the intention of running, and the hope of going unnoticed. She does not have access to the adornments of the other girls, nor does she seek them, despite her awareness of her difference. I am hopeful that her arrival at this early point in the story not only signals her inner strength and courage but also heralds changes to come in the squad where the girls realise the possibility of competing as equals

299 rather than distractions, and without needing to make excuses for their femaleness.

300 Concluding Thoughts

As the PhD journey closes, it is evident that the possibilities for exploration and discussion of my artefact and creative practice are nowhere near exhaustion. The act of writing a YAF novel in the light of scholarly debate has sparked many ideas, what-ifs, and dilemmas that remain untouched within these pages. Where certain elements of the research naturally took precedence and in many ways determined the direction of the project, others of equal interest were reluctantly discarded. With the limitations of my project in mind, I opted to merely touch on my inquiries into how adolescents form self-identity in relation to others and their environment, and the intricacies of the development and workings of the adolescent brain. Similarly, I chose to not include a discussion on how men, socio-economic standing, and the family coincide, despite my writerly interest in the links between poverty and male violence. The list continues: the relevance of poetic language in fiction for teens, the extent of censorship in YAF, the significant scholarly discussion around E. M. Forster’s flat and round characters. I do not, however, consider any forays into these ‘side’ topics to be without value. Indeed, the depth and richness that has ensued in my understanding as a practitioner and researcher has allowed a more penetrating discussion of the sections that I have ultimately chosen to include in this document. I also believe that, despite the open-endedness of the process of scholarly research, my project has identified and unpacked some of the most important issues relating to my work, building upon previous academic thinking and addressing current discussions around writing and YAF. My journey has raised in me a mix of ideas, ranging from abstract postulations to thoughts about practical problem solving. Although my early research tended towards the former, the journey has been one of realization of the importance of tangible discussion for the forward progression of my own writerly understanding and the art of creative writing. My effort to find a balance between the two has allowed me to narrow my focus, grounding my investigation in practical discussion rather than philosophical abstracts. However, I have learned that, for me, languishing in the abstract is the beginning of my creative process, one that I should guard and justify as having a valid role to play. Yet, to remain singularly in that place of notional thought would be a mistake. Perhaps the most significant growth for me as a writer and researcher has been the development of the space between the two: abstract and application. It has been the increase in understanding of how the two work together to form something greater that I count as an invaluable outcome of the PhD wrestle. My early research included many journal entries about conceptual parallels between the struggles involved in both running and writing, and in making an in-depth analysis of how adolescents function developmentally and socially. However, as my exegetical project

301 developed, it found balance in a more concrete analysis of the act of writing fiction. This exegesis finally settled into an application of theory into practice, and in finding significance in the art of creating great characters, story, and narrative setting, which have been of greatest importance to my agenda to write a marketable YAF novel. I have privileged discussions of characterisation and stereotyping, believing this to be a more beneficial line of investigation for my writing outcomes than my consideration of poetic and experimental language, intending to further explore the latter in my next writing project. I also gave weight to the matter of controversial issues in YAF, considering this to be of immediate importance to my project’s agenda of writing a meaningful and impactful story within the genre. Although the completion of my PhD has brought about a degree of closure, it has also generated an abundance of ideas for further exploration. Perhaps the most exciting line of research that took a centre stage through the PLR process was the importance of gender theories and the position of women within my creative work and exegesis. The broad significance of the issue of girls and sport arose early and led down a path of rich thought, consideration, and application, which was fuelled by my investigations into the academic thinking about feminist and gender theories. Not only has my research consolidated my understanding of these theories, it has also sparked an interest in further academic and creative investigation in these areas. Perhaps the greatest surprise has been the enjoyment of writing within the sports fiction genre. Having delved deeply into the situation of girls and sport, and seeing the possible impact fiction could have on a positive cultural shift in this area, has left me with a resolve to further pursue this genre. My enthusiasm in regards to writing sports fiction for adolescent girls has grown into something greater, and I end this research journey with the intention to build upon what I have discovered, expanding upon issues that I have identified but have been unable to pursue within the scope of this project. I am eager to begin writing again in this area with the anticipation of pushing further and reaching higher. All that I have learned, and admitted, about myself as a writer and about the art of story writing throughout this project has been abundantly beneficial. From the initial realisation that I write quickly and in a wordy fashion, the combined pleasure and mild panic at the first result of the first draft, to the understanding of the value of questioning, evaluating, and experimentation throughout the re-drafting process. The freedom to allow myself time to explore my creativity without the pressure to create a perfect piece at the first writing has enhanced my capacity to write. Despite my satisfactions with my final draft of my artefact, there is also awareness of its weaknesses, and with new and greater insight, I look forward to tackling these in the future. Although I have discovered and developed an

302 aspect of my writerly voice, I feel I have not yet met with its entirety. There is breadth and depth to yet be discovered. My exegesis has achieved what it has set out to do, exploring how the creative writer writes a saleable novel, balancing the intentions and desires of the author with the demands of the art form. It examines how fiction reflects real life, and the narratological tools writers employ to do this in the most full and satisfactory way. The uniqueness of my narrative process and my reflection upon it, I believe, adds to scholarly knowledge and will hopefully prompt further academic discussion within this field.

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