Page 22 of Malaise
The principal’s office is cold and clinical, not a stray paper to be seen resting on the desk or a single file out of place in the wide bookshelf that spans one wall. Our dean, Mr Beale, takes his position standing in front of the desk, leaning on the edge. He indicates I should sit in the seat before him.
“How are you doing today, Meg?”
“What kind of answer were you hoping for?” I sass back with a smile.
He’s always been more of a friend to our year than a figure of authority. It’s part of what makes him so good at his job; the students trust him. We feel relaxed around him, and more often than not it means even the hardest kids listen to what he has to say.
“The truth.”
I shrug. I’ve been trying to work it out for myself since I woke up this morning with a wet pillow, realising that I cry even in my sleep. I’m holding it together by pretending none of it’s real, that after a while Den’s just going to walk back in the front door and tell us all about his holiday. “I’m taking it one day at a time.”
“Would you like us to process the special consideration form for your exams? You can take them after Christmas, or possibly in the New Year.”
“No.” Finishing school is the one thing I’m sure of. “I’m okay, really. It keeps my mind busy, the study, and I guess that’s helping me deal.”
“Is it?” he asks. “Or is it simply masking the problem?”
“Both?”
Mr Beale shakes his head with a sigh. “Meg… look, I really don’t know what there is that I can say. Nothing takes away this shitty situation you’re in. But what I can do is help by taking some of the pressure off.”
“I’d rather you didn’t, though.”
“It’s not healthy, adding stress to yourself right now,” he urges. “Perhaps you should think on it over the next day? I’d really like to process it anyway.”
“Don’t,” I urge, although I get the distinct feeling this is an uphill battle. He’s come to the conclusion that I’m in no frame of mind to be sitting exams that dictate my future prospects. Even if I did take time to think on it, I wouldn’t be changing my mind anytime soon. And then what? We play this whole scene out again tomorrow while I try to get my point across?
I shake my head vehemently, fingers fidgeting with the rough patch on the knee of my jeans. “The pressure is the only thing keeping me from falling apart. It’s like I’m a broken toy, and the exams are the tape holding the parts together. If you take the pressure away, that tape, the pieces fall apart again. I need the exams to stop me from completely crumbling.”
Mr Beale pushes off the desk and kneels in front of me so we’re eye level. I can’t hold his gaze, and stare at the wall to my right instead. He gently taps my knee, hesitant, and probably aware he should be careful when it comes to touching a female student while alone in a room with her—not that I’m one of those people, but this is the bullshit world we live in now, isn’t it?
“Meg, I get what you’re saying. But avoiding the inevitable only serves to make the fallout worse. If you refuse to deal with it now, when people understand and the support’s there, you might find yourself facing it at a time in the future when you’re on your own. I don’t think I need to explain why that wouldn’t be the best.”
“I know what you’re saying, but I’m not ready,” I complain.
“You’ll need to be strong for your parents. They’re going to need your support, Meg. Nobody expects to bury their child.”
Nobody expects to bury a sibling so young, either. Why do I have to be the one who’s strong for everyone else? Is there something about being a teenager that means this is supposed to hurt me less? Fuck that. I need my parents to be there to hold me, reassure me, and support me when I deal with the finality of Den’s funeral. With the way they’re behaving right now, I don’t know if that’ll ever happen. They have each other, but who do I have? It’s as though they resent me for still being alive, that the sheer sight of me is too much because it reminds them of the child they don’t have.
“My door’s always open, Meg. I’ll be here most days between exam times, and you’re welcome to drop right in if you change your mind.”
“I don’t think I will, but thank you.”
Talking about my feelings more would probably help lighten the load, exorcise some demons, but it’s not Mr Beale I want to talk with—it’s Mum and Dad. Their love seemed so much more reliable when I was little. I could run to their waiting arms in tears when I was just a kid at primary school and know they’d always have the right thing to say and do to make me feel better. But now? Now their silence feels like the greatest betrayal. Yeah, sure, my current behaviour isn’t helping at all, but they’re the adults here. They’re supposed to know what to do to get through this, or at least fake it until they make it. I need them to guide me, pick me up and dust me off like they did when I hurt myself as a child. I’m hurting worse than I ever have before, and who’s there for me? Not the people I would have expected, that’s for sure.
“Are we finished here?”
Mr Beale sighs at my question and moves to stand beside the desk. “Yes, Meg. You’re free to go.”
I stand and shoulder my bag. He stays in place as I leave and rejoin the chaos in the quad, appearing a few minutes later to help our principal get the bored students under control. I find myself a quiet spot to watch the mayhem under one of the oak trees that are encircled by pentagon-shaped bench seats. No sooner have I sat my arse down and taken my first full breath since talking with Mr Beale, do two of the bitch squad start again.
“Friends with the Carvers now, are we?” Cassie plops her butt down to my right as Amelia flanks me on the left.
“Why is that such a problem to everyone?” I snap, breaking my cardinal rule: don’t engage.
“You know that their old man got busted for assaulting a teenage girl outside the Stallion a few years back.”
Yeah, I’m well aware of the rumours that come from our longest-serving pub on the south side of town. There’s a reason the owners have had the place for sale unsuccessfully for the last four years: all it attracts is trouble.