Free Whisper by Chrissie Keighery Page B

finished my essay on A Thing of Beauty last night, but I need an excuse. For some reason I’m not quite ready to be with them.
    I watch them walk off. They have made a formation around Stella, two devotees on each side. The shape means that everyone can address Stella, everyone can see what she’s saying.
    Stella is very definitely at the centre.

    I need to swim after school. I’m in a funny mood. Unsettled, and I know it’s about Stella even though that’s dumb. She made such a brief appearance today, and I don’t know why she had such an impact.
    But I’m kind of nervy, like Stella’s arrival may have changed the dynamics of the group. I’m not sure where I’ll fit now that she’s back.
    I go into the change room, and I hold my towel around me as I change. Then I put my swimming cap on and take a quick glance at myself in the mirror. My head looks like a bright yellow egg. The cap pinches a bit of skin on my forehead, but I don’t adjust it yet. I back out of the change room, dragging all my stuff from school.
    I’ve forgotten that the lockers are so close, and I bang into them. I forget how much sound that would make. Is it more reverberation than loud sound? I hope so. They are old lockers, fastened to each other but not to the wall. There is definitely a bit of wobble. Enough wobble to destabilise someone crouching down in front of the lockers.
    It’s a boy, wearing the purple and navy speedos of the swimming squad that often train here. He looks about my age. His shoulders are broad and impressive. He says something. I can only see the side of his mouth moving,but it’s pretty obvious he’s swearing. He’s sitting on the concrete floor because I’ve made him lose balance and fall.
    I say a quick sorry, eager to be away from him, to be in the pool and anonymous.
    He stands up. There’s a lot of him, standing up. He turns and looks at me. I feel extra conscious of my egg head. But I can’t help looking at him. His eyes are green, almost exactly the same colour as mine, though his hair is as blond as mine is dark.
    â€˜It’s OK,’ he says. ‘You’re OK. I’ve just … one of … crap –’ He’s losing me. He is not looking directly at me anymore, and it’s too hard. I could stop him. I could ask him to look at me when he’s talking because I’m deaf. I could say that to every new person I meet. But I won’t, I don’t, so I walk away.
    I don’t want to negotiate getting a locker with him there.I realise with horror that I’m standing right under the disabled sign of the change room behind me.
    My own personalised backdrop. Check out the handicapped girl!
    I need to get away. I dump my stuff on one of the chairs next to the pool and dive in.

chapter 12
    The next morning everyone is ushered into the school hall.It’s dark, except for a large lit rectangle projected on the wall above the podium.
    I sit at the end of the row, nearest the door.
    Erica and Keisha squeeze past me, and then Luke and Cam fill up the next two spaces. I notice that Keisha has managed to get a seat next to Luke, and I feel good for her.Just having him next to her makes her beam. I lean forward and smile at her.
    The art teacher, a woman called Juanita, is waiting up the front. Just standing there, she isn’t getting anyone’s attention. The hall is a mass of moving hands as kids sign and muck around.
    Eventually Juanita resorts to the light switch system, flicking them on and off.
    â€˜This morning we are lucky to share in a student’s assessment task for art,’ she signs when the hall calms down.
    She has huge, expressive hands. It’s like you couldn’t look anywhere else if you tried. There’s a theatrical slant to her signing of the word art. It makes me want to know what it is she’s painting when she brushes one thumb down the other hand’s palm.
    â€˜I am