Free Saving Francesca by Melina Marchetta Page A

HISTORY CLASS, I’m sandwiched between Thomas Mackee and Justine Kalinsky. None of his friends are in this class, so he doesn’t feel the need to be Neanderthal man, although our history teacher has explained that Neanderthal man was very misunderstood and not the boofhead he was reputed to be. As usual, Thomas Mackee is making those frustrated grunting noises that have nothing to do with the Franco-Prussian War. He does what he always does in his spare time. He tries to decipher musical notes from some tabular form. Thomas Mackee has a passionate need to be in a punk band, but from the looks of things he learned music by ear, and now, for some reason, he has to know how to read it. When I can stand it no longer, I grab the book and sheet in front of him and pass them to Justine Kalinsky so quickly that they are undetected by the teacher and Thomas Mackee can’t get to them.
    It takes Justine Kalinsky ten minutes to decipher the notes. She’s like this music genius. I hand the music back to him, and he makes one of those grunts that Cheetah makes in Tarzan movies when Tarzan explains something important to him. A kind of “huh” and “oh yeah” mixed into one.
    I look at him. “Would you like me to introduce you to her? Her name’s dumb bitch.”
    “Why don’t you just take a Midol,” he snarls.
    I ignore him, and as we pack up he grunts a thanks to Justine, who glances at me, distressed.
    “This doesn’t mean we have to be his friend, does it?”
    On the bus, Justine Kalinsky and I sit in the back row making small talk about one of the teachers. When the bus stops at Broadway, about ten Pius girls get on. Two of them are Michaela and Natalia, my Stella friends. As usual, they’re animated, enjoying their lives with those around them. Why do I feel as if something’s missing in my life without them and they don’t feel the same about me? That doesn’t make them bad, does it? My mother’s voice goes through my head. She’s the hoarder of memories. “Remember the time they stayed for the weekend and didn’t even say thank you or goodbye? Remember the time they wouldn’t come to the phone when you were crying and apologizing about something you had no reason to be sorry for? Remember the times they’d come to school and decide they weren’t going to speak to you that day?” No, Mum. Because I chose not to remember the moments that pigeonhole me as one of the top five losers of all time, but hey, thanks for the memories.
    Natalia and Michaela spot me instantly. “Oh my God,” they scream, running down the aisle, knocking people in the face with their bags. Thomas Mackee looks up from the music magazine he’s reading, unimpressed by the squealing. I don’t think it’s the excitement of seeing me as much as the theatrical aspect of their personalities that compels them to do it. But they always made me laugh at St. Stella’s. They gave me some identity.
    We hug, and a few of the other ex–Stella girls wave from the front of the bus. Others ignore me. Girls like Tina, our archenemy, who’d throw a party and invite everyone in my group but me. The girls would always tell me not to take things personally, but I never believed there was any other way of taking it. Thankfully, they’d be loyal and not go to whatever I wasn’t invited to, except when they couldn’t get out of it.
    “So how’s life with the Sebastian boys?”
    They tend to ask the same question each time I see them. Thomas Mackee hears the question and turns around, eyebrows raised as if to say, “Go on, what are we like?”
    “Pretty pathetic. Well, the Year Elevens, anyway,” I say, giving him a look back. “You?”
    “Waverley guys are okay.”
    “Are you going to that party?” one of the Pius girls behind us asks them.
    They have an animated discussion about who is going to be there and who isn’t and what they’re not going to wear. Then they remember that I’m there.
    “Who do you hang out with?” Natalia asks,