I did not have far to walk, for the class was held in the room above the Sno-White Bag Laundry. (As I take off my coat I gaze at the lights of the houses below. I cross the room and look at the stiff moon that hangs in the tree by the gate.)

I did not know why I hated going.

Perhaps it was the smell of my sandshoes. It may have been the way the medicine balls flew through the dusty air (my body is pale and vulnerable, my arms are weak — I cannot throw the basketball). Perhaps it was the ever-changing instructress with the nagging whistle, who, because ever changing, was seen as someone blurred and indefinite, confused in similarities with her predecessor: the same legs knotted at the thigh with muscle, blossoming at the calf with a bruise; the same angry clasp of bloomers round secret flesh; the same prim neckline that revealed abundance when she did the abdominal squeeze.

I did not know why I kept on going.

At first I was afraid to stop because of the girl who stole my oranges — but then she moved away. At first I went because it pleased my mother and my grandmother — and besides, it was so near. But the class moved too: from the room above the laundry to a hall next to the Methodist Church where I did not find God.

And still I did not leave.

(I linger to watch the Seniors arrive. They come as we put on our coats. The big girls wear short frocks, and I wonder at their legs; watch an assortment of gold chains and hearts and little crosses bob as breasts and a shadow in-between jump up and down. The boys alarm me with their hairiness — some silky like monkeys, others ginger and curly like cats. I come closer, and see pin-pricks under the girls’ arms; more hairs under the boys’.)

We did trunk twists, alternate toe touching, and side bends. We danced to the music of a piano, caught bean-bags that shivered, swung Indian clubs. There was a wooden horse with a padded top I hated; marching practice that I liked, until someone said I pointed my toes and looked funny.

(I lie on the floor and look up the leg of the girl in front. I see bright red at the crotch. And as I watch the leg rises higher, the redness grows bigger — becomes an avid mouth. I wonder what is wrong.)

There was a camp in the hills at Mount Lofty. I had never been away from home; my mother said it would do me good.

Nan waved me off at Victoria Square beside the statue of Sturt peering through his telescope. The bus looked the same as the one that took us to Houghton; it was I who made it different: I felt peculiar and alone, although I was surrounded by all the others. Then we waved, and Nan’s face and blue hair grew paler; faded completely. I felt the same as I did when I was seven and my mother went on the Gulf Trip. I pressed my nails into my hand so I wouldn’t cry.