The Bus on Thursday Page 8

  Nothing happens to a person that they do not deserve.

  I am totally wishing I didn’t tell him to fuck off.

  I suddenly felt this compulsion to run down to the Pondage to see if there’s any evidence of the Charger. No sign of it. (Presumably it’s submerged? Or I wonder if he’d already organized to have it dragged out?) So then I turn all Miss Marple and see if I can find any skid marks or tire tracks. Nothing. But the reeds around the Pondage are so wiry and dense, it’s possible they’d just spring straight up again if a car drove over them. Either that or Gregory has just been totally bullshitting me.

  Anyway, it’s getting dark, so I turn around to head back when suddenly I almost trip over this dead kangaroo. Lying there in the long grass. A big buck, by the looks of it. Its mouth is open, baring its teeth, and its front paws are kind of contorted in this strange position. It spooks the freaking daylights out of me so I start running and I don’t stop till I get home, and then, for some reason, I bolt all the doors.

  Another bad dream. Three o’clock in the morning, and I’m wide-awake and dripping with sweat. I’m sure it’s the tamoxifen. I should call Doc. Actually it gives me an excuse to call Doc. Obviously not at three o’clock in the morning …

  Funny, I’m having more memories coming back from my night with Gregory. At least, I’m pretty sure they’re memories (meaning I don’t think I dreamed them, although that whole night has a weird fragmenty dreamlike feel about it). Anyway, at some point, after fucking however many times and biting my neck and all the rest of it, somehow we got on to the subject of ovulation. Because he can somehow tell that I’m ovulating. And he says, “My problem is, whenever a chick is ovulating, I can’t help myself.”

  And I’m like, “Seriously?”

  And then I’m like, “How do you know I’m ovulating?”

  Because of course I have no idea if I’m ovulating. I am very out of touch with my body. In fact, I’m even hazy about whether or not I actually can ovulate while taking tamoxifen. But I suppose I can, because I still occasionally get periods.

  And he says, “I can smell it.”

  I’m like, “Really?”

  And he says. “Of course. Ovulation has a musty smell, like a damp cupboard.” And I’m like, “You’re saying I smell like a damp cupboard?” And he screws up his nose a bit, and says, “Actually, yours is buried under another smell, which is chemicals or formaldehyde or something.”

  How’s that for pillow talk?

  I reckon what he means by “chemicals or formaldehyde or something” is the tamoxifen I am forced to take, supposedly for another three and a half years. I am so, so tempted to stop. I’m pretty sure it makes me feel like shit. Not to mention the dreams.

  Not long before the Harry the Harelip incident, I went over to visit Sally and the new bub. I hadn’t seen her in a while, because I’d sort of become a bit of a recluse, very antisocial, thinking all my friends were against me, didn’t understand about the cancer, woe is me, etc. etc. Anyway, Sally has this little dog, a cavoodle or whatever they call them, cute little thing called Barney, and me and Barney have always been best buddies. I often mind Barney when Sally and Brett go on holidays, and Barney likes me because I let him sleep on the bed, also on their stupid overpriced highly impractical cream woolen sofa, plus I feed him treats on demand around the clock 24/7. So, Sally greets me at the front door and Barney comes running up the hallway, all excited to see who the visitor is, and then he sees me, puts the brakes on, comes to a skidding stop on the polished floorboards, and then commences backing up and growling at me. Like this very threatening low growl, and the hackles on his back go up. And he’s completely fucking deadly serious. And Sally’s all embarrassed and trying to make light of it and saying how Barney’s had his snout out of joint ever since the new baby came along, and she’s saying, “Come in, come in,” and now Barney starts barking at me! I’m laughing and trying to pretend it doesn’t worry me, I even try to pat him, which is a mistake because he practically takes my arm off. Or tries to. Finally, Brett has to scoop him up and lock him in the garage for the duration of my visit. It was horrendous. Then to add insult to injury, I pick up the baby and it immediately turns bright red and starts howling. (What is that baby’s name? Kai? Jai? Chai? Something like that.) Anyway, I went home and cried my eyes out.

  But my point is, I reckon Barney was reacting to the chemicals. He could smell the chemicals and he didn’t like it.

  * * *

  I just went and flushed all my remaining tamoxifen down the toilet. It took me a while. Then I chucked all the Zoloft also, just for good measure. Good night.

  Another curious thing I just remembered about Gregory is he’s a vacuum cleaner salesman! That’s why he’s on the road all the time. I actually laughed when he told me because it seemed such a funny, incongruous sort of job for a guy like him. And he got all offended when I laughed, and he said, “Actually, I’m a very good vacuum cleaner salesman. You know what I’m best at?” And I’m like, “No, what?” And he said, “Getting my foot in the door.”

  Totally fucked up at work today.

  For which I completely blame Ryan.

  So this afternoon, I tried to prepare a bit for Parent-Teacher Night. I had the kids doing drawings of themselves, so their parents get to guess which is their kid. (Okay, a tired old favorite, but it usually works pretty well, particularly if there are more than eleven kids and four sets of parents in the class—not including Gregory, of course. Sigh.) Meanwhile, I was trying to get the slide show together, constructed from snaps I have been taking combined with fun captions and balloon quotes.

  After a while, I look up and I notice that quite a few of the kids have gathered around Ryan’s desk, and there seems to be a bit of snickering. So I get up and go over, and of course there’s a huge panic among the kids, and it turns out that Ryan is drawing a picture of a naked lady.

  A naked lady that looks suspiciously like me.

  Blond hair—check. Missing a nipple—check.

  Now, I’m not sure if I interrupted him before he got around to drawing another nipple. And quite possibly this is just a generic “naked lady” and not meant to be me. But something about the horrible resemblance just gets to me, and I lose it. I absolutely lose it. I rip the picture out of his exercise book, and in the process, practically rip his book in half and all the other pages fall out, then I screw the picture up and toss it in the bin. And Ryan just sits there like a big lump, smirking at me, which only enrages me further.

  Then Glenda comes in to find out what all the fuss is about. And I say, “I’ll tell you what the fuss is about: Ryan just drew a picture of me naked.” And she says, “I find that hard to believe,” or something like that to indicate that clearly I had misread the situation. So I rummage around in the bin looking for the drawing but I can’t find it and I’m half demented by now, so I tip the entire contents of the bin all over the floor and I’m on my hands and knees looking for it and finally I find it and I show her, and she says—she actually says this, I swear—“Well, I don’t see any resemblance.” And Ryan goes, “It’s not you, Miss,” and I say, “Who is it then?” and he says, “Just a naked lady.” Then all the kids start giggling and I suddenly hear myself shrieking, “SHUT THE FUCK UP, ALL OF YOU!!!”

  Which was bad, admittedly.

  Anyway, Glenda says to me, “How about you take an early mark, Miss Mellett, and I’ll mind the children till going-home time.” And I notice that she’s eyeing me very warily, like I’m a rogue bull elephant and she’s an Indian villager. So I realize I’ve got to pull myself together fast or she’ll be calling up the Dept. first chance she gets and reporting me for misconduct.

  So I say, “No, thank you, Glenda, that won’t be necessary. I’m fine.”

  And she says, “I’m not actually asking you, I’m telling you: go home.”

  To which I respond: “And I’m telling you: I’m fine. Thank you. Now go back to your office.”

  It’s a standoff. The kids fal
l silent, watching us. And Glenda says very quietly, “Will you step outside with me a moment please, Miss Mellett?”

  I shouldn’t have stepped outside. Because stepping outside gave her the power. The minute I stepped outside, she tore strips. How shocked she was at my disgraceful behavior. How never in their lives have the children been spoken to like that. How she had no choice but to make a full report to the Dept. How I have breached the Code of Professional Conduct and disciplinary action must be taken.

  And suddenly I have a brilliant flash and I say, “Yes, Glenda, you’re right, I had an unfortunate outburst, but this is a teachable moment. I will go back in and turn the whole thing into PEL—Positive Experiential Learning. I’ll explain to Ryan why it’s unacceptable to draw naked ladies in class. I’ll explain why the drawing upset me. We’ll talk about how our bodies are private places. I’ll explain that although I was upset, I had no right to use the f-word or to raise my voice in that fashion, and I will apologize. Then I’ll ask the children if they’ve ever got really mad about something, and maybe behaved badly or behaved in a way they wish later that they hadn’t. What can we learn from that? That’s right, it’s all part of being human.”

  By the way, I just totally invented that PEL thing on the spot. I was pretty pleased with myself, because thinking on my feet is not my strong suit.

  Anyway, Glenda listens to all this, very unimpressed, and then she says, “Well, you can do all that if you like, but I’m still making the report.”

  It seems Miss Barker never once told the kids to SHUT THE FUCK UP.

  More’s the pity.

  Anyway, Glenda heads back to her office, and I go back into class. Suddenly I just feel very weary, and I can’t be bothered turning the whole thing into Positive Experiential Learning, though I make a mental note to write a book on the theory and make ten million bucks and travel the world promoting it. In the meantime, I toy with the idea of asking the kids not to tell their folks about my shrieking the f-bomb at them. Decide against it as potentially even more damaging, especially since Glenda’s almost certainly sure to blab. So my harm-minimization plan is just to be extra, extra, extra nice till Parent-Teacher Night tomorrow evening. With any luck the kids will forget it ever happened. God knows they don’t seem to retain much else.

  Parent-Teacher Night in two hours and I have to pull out all stops. I have to totally out–Miss Barker Miss Barker, an almost impossible challenge. This is my Action Plan:

  •  Huge WELCOME sign illustrated by kids.

  •  Interactive guessing games (how many M&Ms in jar, etc.) as bonding exercise for parents and kids.

  •  Display of kids’ drawings of themselves—parents have to guess which is their kid.

  •  Slideshow of kids engaged in various fun learning activities, set to “Time of Your Life” for maximum choke-up potential.

  •  Science Discovery Table. (Chuck a bunch of magnets, pendulums, etc., on table and hope for best.)

  •  Brainstorming Board—How Can I Get the Most out of School? Everyone to write a response in different-colored markers. Snore.

  •  PowerPoint demonstration on subject of “Teamwork!” Education is a collaboration between teacher, student, and parents!

  •  Individual portfolios for each child, showing recent samples of their work, plus learning objectives and hoped-for outcomes, blah blah.

  •  Cupcakes, baked by me.

  So I’m just going to ice the cupcakes, have a shower, and then get back to school. My guts are churning—I’m so nervous. Also, I’m really, really tired because I stayed up till 3:00 a.m. trying to finish the stupid portfolios. I hope they bloody well appreciate all this.

  Might permit myself small glass of wine while cake-decorating to ease nerves (have been very good and not had a drink in two nights).

  * * *

  I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS.

  JOSH JUST CALLED. ON THE LANDLINE. GOT THE NUMBER FROM MUM.

  HE WANTED TO TELL ME HIMSELF, SO I WOULDN’T HEAR IT FROM ANYONE ELSE. THREE FUCKING CHEERS FOR NICE GUY JOSH.

  DELORES IS PREGNANT.

  FIVE MONTHS.

  NO, IT WASN’T EXACTLY PLANNED … (WHAT DOES THAT MEAN??? IT MEANS IT WAS PLANNED.)

  OKAY, I KNOW WE BROKE UP ALMOST THREE YEARS AGO NOW, BUT PARDON ME FOR MENTIONING, JOSH, THAT THE REASON WHY WE BROKE UP IS BECAUSE YOU SPECIFICALLY STATED YOU DID NOT WANT TO HAVE BABIES. EVER. DID YOU NOT BANG ON ENDLESSLY ABOUT ZERO POPULATION GROWTH, APPARENTLY ESSENTIAL FOR HEALTH OF ECOSYSTEM?? WELL, ECOSYSTEM SAYS, “THANKS A FAT LOT.” AND PARDON ME FOR RAINING ON YOUR PARADE, BUT WEREN’T YOU GOING TO HAVE A VASECTOMY??? WHAT HAPPENED TO THAT???

  YES, I KNOW LOTS OF THINGS CHANGE IN THREE YEARS—I JUST HAVE TO LOOK AT MYSELF NAKED IN THE MIRROR TO SEE THAT.

  AND YES, I’M ANGRY! WHY WOULDN’T I BE ANGRY??? YOU COMPLETELY FUCKED ME OVER FOR DELORES! HOW DID YOU EXPECT ME TO REACT???

  SHIT, I’M LATE. ALSO DRUNK.

  FUCKFUCKFUCKFUUUUUUCCCCCCKKKKKKKFU

  Let us draw a veil over Parent-Teacher Night.

  It did not go so well.

  Selected highlights:

  Arrived late, swollen eyes, had obviously been crying.

  Could not get slideshow working, in spite of extensive dicking around with computer.

  Forgot to cover up love bite—parents commented.

  Kept getting kids’ names wrong.

  Oh, and then Gregory turned up.

  So of course, we had sex again. In Glenda’s office. On her desk, in fact. With the light on.

  While Ryan waited in the corridor.

  Pretty sure that’s a sackable offense.

  I mean, everyone had left by then, of course. And Ryan was playing on his Nintendo. But still.

  I have totally got to get a grip on myself. What is wrong with me?

  I can’t get to sleep. Just feel totally wired.

  * * *

  Tossed and turned for two hours, gave up.

  I’ve been attempting to make a list of some of the positive things from tonight. Like, some of the parents were very nice. No one mentioned the f-word incident, so maybe Glenda hasn’t told anyone. The Farnsworth dad (Ron? Rob?) tried to help me get the slideshow going, but even he conceded that the school computer is shite. Most of the parents seemed pretty happy that I was planning to drag the school into the twenty-first century, technology-wise. Everyone said nice things about the portfolios I stayed up all night laboring over, but I definitely got the impression that Miss Barker did that sort of thing about a billion times better.

  All parents, of course, still obsessing about Miss Barker and her sudden departure. Janelle from the shop seemed much keener to discuss Miss Barker’s menstrual cycle than her daughter’s academic progress. (Every time she used the expression “menstrual cycle” I remembered how Sally always used to say, “I’m so hungry, I could chew the wheel off a menstrual cycle.” I miss Sally sometimes.) Janelle seems especially au fait with Miss Barker’s menstrual cycle, because of course Madison was heat-pack monitor and apparently reported back directly to Janelle. So Janelle says to me, “I know for a fact that she had her period when she went missing. And I also know that, unusually for her because normally she was like clockwork every twenty-eight days, on this occasion she hadn’t had her period in a good while.” And she’s gazing at me very meaningfully while she says this, like I should somehow guess what she’s getting at, but I’m just too addle-brained to catch on. So Janelle leans forward and whispers: “It wouldn’t surprise me if what she was having was a miscarriage.”

  * * *

  Jesus! Finally got to sleep, only to be woken by three loud blasts of the siren—they must be releasing water from the Reservoir, or whatever the hell that sign said. Surely sirens not necessary in middle of the fucking night? Seriously, it’s 3:00 a.m.! Who is recreationally boating at this hour???

  I have been lying here stressing about Gregory. Our parent-teacher interview was excruciating. Gregory kept saying things l
ike, “So do you think it’s acceptable that the boy can’t do his multiplication tables past three times three?” And I’m saying, “Well, obviously that’s a serious concern, but I would be very happy to give Ryan some special one-on-one coaching after school or maybe even on weekends.” And Gregory’s like, “Well, how much is that going to cost me?” And I’m like, “Oh, I would be happy to do it free of charge”—the whole time just obviously hoping that I will get to have more sex with Gregory if I spend weekends coaching his dopey brother. And then Gregory says, “By the way, what’s up with your eyes? How come they’re all swollen? Did someone punch you?” And I’m like, “Well, no, actually, I just had some bad news about my previous boyfriend, Josh, who called to tell me his new girlfriend is pregnant, and the whole reason we broke up is because he was adamant he didn’t want to have babies, etc. etc.” And Gregory rolls his eyes and says, “Boo-hoo.”

  Empathy apparently not his strong suit. And then he says very dismissively, “If you’re so desperate to be someone’s baby mama, at least make sure he’s not a dickhead.” So I’m just sitting there, a bit stunned. I cannot emphasize enough that this is not the way parent-teacher interviews normally proceed. And meanwhile, Ryan is poking around with these two cupcakes on his plate, and I’m wishing I had not been so stingy with the M&Ms because those cupcakes look exactly like two breasts, and then Ryan very pointedly and deliberately takes the pink M&M nipple off one cupcake, pops it in his mouth, and smirks at me.

  Uuugggghhhh.

  Oh my God, the most hideous thought just occurred to me—I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me before. Did Gregory tell Ryan about my boob???? Is that how he was able to draw it so accurately? Is that why Ryan took the M&M off the cupcake????? FUCKKKKKKKKKKKK