Free Joyous and Moonbeam by Richard Yaxley

Bracks?
    Mrs Bracks. She’s the principal at my college. As in head-honcho. Lady in charge.
    And Moonbeam is feeling the sorrow for Miss Bracks?
    Sure am. Bracks is tough but she’s good to me. Likes me, apparently. Can’t see why.
    Joyous is also liking of Moonbeam so much to be happy.
    Thanks, big guy. You’re a legend.
    Moonbeam.
    Mm?
    Once, when Joyous was to be telling something wrongful, a tiny lie, to Mamma and she was mostly upset, I did take some paper and write her a nice letter explaining.
    Good for you. Did it work?
    Yes, it was working. Letters aren’t being hurtful. Letters have words that I am wanting and words that I am rubbing out so good. Speaking has no rubbing out.So Joyous did be writing the letter.
    That’s true. About the rubbing out, I mean. Did your mother like your letter?
    Yes. She did be keeping it as a momentum.
    Memento?
    Yes, as well.
    So you’re saying that I should write Bracks a letter.
    Yes, that is being Joyous’s idea.
    And that’s better than talking to her because at least I can make sure I only say the right things, not the bad stuff.
    Moonbeam will be rubbing out the badnesses.
    Yeah. Hey, I’ll think about it, okay?
    It is an okayness.
    Warm today, isn’t it? Warm and sunny. Hey Joy-ous, thanks for the lollipopsicle. And the chat. I needed it.
    Welcome, Moonbeam. Cool.

ASHLEIGH
    I love libraries. I do. Some people might find that hard to believe (like poor Mrs Cheney, our school librarian) but when I said it to Bracks she just nodded and said, I know, Ashleigh, I know. God, that woman. Where does she get off being so reasonable?
    We strike out at the things we love
. Another Bracks-ism. Followed, of course, by the inevitable explanation, Ashleigh, we hurt those who we love because they’re closest, and that makes the pain more real. If it’s more real, it’s more noticeable. Other people see it. Yes, Miss. It’s also more easily stopped.
    Yeah, all right. Whatever.
    I’m still not sure what took me into the library that afternoon. Some strange force. Maybe I went there because libraries are safe, like churches. Sanctuaries for people who don’t fit in anywhere else. No one harms or gets harmed in a library. Do they?
    Some strange force. Maybe I wanted to destroy all that knowledge, those trillions of words sitting on their shelves. You can’t escape words. They’ll always find you out and track you down, no matter how much you ignore them.
    Maybe I went into the library because everywhere else was locked and it was open.
    The rest I remember like a series of cartoon strips.
    In the first strip I see myself wearing my oh-so-delish green-and-white checked uniform, mousey mass of hair pulled up, but still a mess, wisps over my ears and eyes. My lips are pale, really pale. I’m wearing joggers with Texta coloured-in bits, white socks and a bunch of (banned) anklets. Black cardy pulled up to the elbows, one pocket bulging, paint-scraps on my fingers, a gold locket at my throat.
    That locket was a birthday gift when I turned thirteen. My favourite girl becoming my favourite lady, Dad whispered. But don’t tell Mum I said that. Inside is a tiny picture of the three of us, big grins from our Sydneyholiday the year before. We were on the ferry to Luna Park and Dad asked this bloke if he wouldn’t mind taking the picture, with the bridge in the background, clouds like vapour-trail overhead. It’s a good photo. We’re happy, our boggy future stuck on hold.
    You still wear it? asked Bracks. Yeah, I do. So what? She looked at me long and hard like she does, with those ultra-blue eyes, as penetrating as arrows, and she said, Come on, Ashleigh, you know what. You still wear the locket.
    Okay, point taken. I still wear the stupid locket.
    Cartoon-strip. There I am, small and a bit blurry, a fugitive in the school library. I leave the foyer with its glassed-in trophy cabinets and gold-lettered honour