The Pariah

There were days when she cursed her height, which put her head and shoulders above nearly everyone else in the school grounds. It meant they could always see her wherever she went, always, and what perhaps was worse, she could sometimes see them. Even when she couldn’t make them out across the hurly-burly of the yard, she shrank from their remembered gaze, such was their power.

She could find friendship in the yard, she could find fun and laughter, but it was spurious. Always, at the corner of her mind, at the corner of her watchful eye, she could see or imagine the nudge, the sneer, the turning away, and she would turn back to her friends of the moment, making a huge effort to maintain the gaiety, but the burden of that effort cancelled her enjoyment. Somehow she knew that the manner that could disarm those who accepted her betrayed her innermost feelings to those who sought to wound her. And she sensed instinctively that the perception of her detractors could, unchecked, spread like blight through friendships just as it spread through every tissue of her being.

Sometimes she would move away from the madding crowd and find herself beating the bounds of the school grounds where she could seek the comfort of normal things—the weather-beaten tiles of house roofs, a mother pushing a pram, a passing van with the logo, “Let us put your house in order”; at other times she would go to the school library, the last refuge of the disenfranchised. Keep away from them. Keep away from them. But there were times when circumstance imposed proximity, and she would hear the sour sibilance of indrawn breath, see the covert looks, and feel the withdrawal in physical revulsion. What they said about her when she was not there she didn’t want to contemplate, but sometimes she was confronted with evidence.

Oh, they were clever. They never said anything to her face any more, but they were skilful at letting others overhear. She knew this because Alysse, a girl in her class, asked her if it was true that she kissed dogs, and seemed surprised when she vehemently denied it. No vehemence next time, she decided. That gave satisfaction. That was obviously part of their game. Likewise, no confrontation. “What, us? Call you a slut? In public? Us?” and then the twist of the knife, “Now, who would say such a cruel thing?” And they’d put their heads down and concentrate on their work, unaware, or not caring, that she could see their complicit smiles.

It all came to a head one day when she was feeling pretty wretched anyway, and she decided to go and see the Student Welfare Coordinator. She felt embarrassed about it, but she’d heard he was good, and besides, liking her didn’t come into the equation because he was paid to be impartial.

She thought he looked startled when she made the appointment, but that gave her confidence. Evidently the grapevine had not yet twisted its malicious tendrils around him. But making an appointment gave her time to worry anew, and she scarcely slept that night. Was she being overly dramatic? Would he think she was wasting his time? Would it make matters worse? Should she cancel? But that would be more embarrassing still.

When she turned up for her appointment, his door was slightly ajar and she could hear him telling someone that it’d all be all right, and that she’d been right to come to him, and not to worry, he’d sort it all out. She knocked and he appeared immediately, smiling encouragement, and indicating that she wait a minute. He turned back to the student he’d been counselling.

“Thank you, Alysse, for coming to see me,” he said. “Don’t hesitate to come back if there’s anything else …” He stood back to let Alysse pass through the doorway and used those seconds to nod reassurance at his next appointment, “… if there’s anything else you need to tell me.”

She stared at Alysse’s retreating back. Alysse had looked uncomfortable when she met her eye. Oh dear. Perhaps the grapevine had preceded her after all. She found it hard to meet the counsellor’s eyes.

“Come on in,” he said. There was a studied kindness in his tone, as if he regularly faced a sudden reluctance to begin, to commit. “It’ll be all right, really it will. I don’t bite. Please have a seat.” He pushed the door almost to, but not quite. She felt disconcerted. What if? And then she realised. He could not afford to underestimate the female of the species. It must be hard to be a male counsellor with young females in your care. She suddenly felt relief at his understated acknowledgment of his position.

And so she opened up just like that, and the sorrows of months, the heartache, the assaults upon her self-esteem, came flooding out in a cathartic stream, and she found herself beginning to cry. She made the right sounds of self-deprecation—it was after all indulgent to give way like this—but she didn’t care, really, she didn’t care, because somehow she knew that he didn’t care either because he understood.

He gave her time to recover, and then asked if it had always been this way.

“No,” she said, and stopped to consider. “At first it was all right. Not warm, you know. But polite. Like we were getting to know each other. And we talked about things, and I thought, I thought we were starting to become friends. But then, one day …”

She hesitated, not knowing how much detail she should give. She believed in fair play, and they were not here to defend themselves. But then, she realised just how well they would defend themselves when or if the time came …

“One day …?” he prompted.

“One day they all attacked me, like it was rehearsed.” She remembered the shock of it all, how she was struck dumb, utterly defenceless, because as fast as she took in one alleged shortcoming, another was hurled in her face. She could feel him waiting.

“Long story short,” she said. “Apparently I laugh too loud. Apparently I spray when I talk.” That was relatively easy. Would he understand how shamed she felt about the other stuff, him being a man? Well, she was in so far now …

“They asked me why I wear my clothes so tight. They said buttons were there for a purpose. They said my hair was always a mess and I should wash it more often. They said I was a slut … and … they said other things too …”

“OK,” he said. “I get the picture.” He leant forward and spared her embarrassment by studying his hands. “You’ve had a rough time. A very rough time. But tell me,” and by his tone he compelled her to meet his eyes, “do you believe the things they’ve been saying? I mean, I’ve been sitting here opposite you, and look, my clothes are dry! No spray here!”

She smiled because she was supposed to, but found she wanted to as well.

“Part of the bullies’ power is to make the victim feel as if they’re right, you know. Do you feel they’re right? Do you? No, I thought not. In your heart, you know they’re wrong, don’t you?” He leant forward again.

“I wouldn’t normally say this, but I think you need to hear it. Nasty threesome, that. They run a fine line in crochet, cream cakes and neo-fascism. Renowned for it. Now you know the rule: what gets said in this room stays in this room … otherwise I’m in for it too from your nasty friends!”

He looked as if he didn’t much care about what they might do to him, but she knew he’d taken a professional risk in saying that about them. She looked at the door that stood slightly ajar. He put his finger across his mouth in a comic injunction to silence. She smiled. It was good to smile without having to put an effort in.

“OK. It’s time to consider your options. I know you’ve been trying to keep away from them … and I know you’ve been spending lots of time in the library … and I know they’ve been mean to you.” He saw her start. “Perhaps you have more friends than you realise?” he said gently. “Now, do you want me to talk to them? No? Well, I guess I can understand that … Have you thought of moving?”

“Moving school, you mean?” She looked at him in horror. He laughed.

“No, no, nothing so drastic! Would you have any objection to being with the guys …?”

Did he think she was a slut too?

“… because I’ve talked to them and I can assure you that they would have no objection to you joining them. They think you’re priceless. Good fun. They like you.”

“Are you sure …?”

“Absolutely. You see, I’ve been doing some groundwork since you made the appointment. You’d be most welcome.”

“Well. If you’re sure …?”

“That’s settled then. Just ride out this last day, and everything can be arranged discreetly tonight. Tomorrow is the start of the rest of your life.”

When she came out of his office, she saw Alysse loitering in the corridor. The girl moved towards her.

“Are you all right, Miss?” she said.

“Never better, Alysse.” Somehow that didn’t seem enough. “And thank you. Thank you.”

She opened the staff workroom door, took a deep breath, and walked in with a smile. Three pairs of eyes looked up.

She could tell she must look different because they didn’t say a word.

Sue Jones, a former teacher, lives in the Dandenongs. Her story “The Beaste of Bearbrass” appeared in the March issue.