‘Sometimes you need to borrow a book, and if she’s not around …’

‘She has to eat.’

‘If we can’t borrow we can’t work. I had this essay about the Enlightenment …’

‘Curtis!’ She stamped her orthotic on the lino. ‘Are you finished?’

‘Can’t draw dogs.’

‘Well, draw something else.’

‘When’s Mr Andrews coming back?’ I asked.

‘I told you, I’m not sure.’

‘Is he crook?’

‘Clement, isn’t it?’

‘Clem.’

‘If I knew, I’d tell you.’

Lying bitch, I thought. Who was it? You? So, I thought I’d try a Peter Donnellan tactic. ‘Someone reckons he was sacked.’

She didn’t respond. The clock tried to tick, but didn’t. None of our clocks ticked. There was a rule against time, apparently.

‘Miss White?’

She took a deep breath and said, ‘There might be a new teacher.’

Everyone said their little bit. One of the girls said, ‘Cos of what he did?’

She raised her voice. ‘Thank you.’ And waited for quiet. ‘I’ll be honest. He’s had enough; he said he wanted to move on.’

The raised voices turned to mumbles, whispers.

‘Therefore, we’ve asked for a replacement.’

‘He said he wanted to move on?’ I asked.

‘Yes.’

‘But didn’t he …?’ I thought about it. Was this my John Lennon moment? Was I about to incite a riot, demand the truth? ‘Was it cos of the murals?’

‘It’s a confidential matter and I’m not willing to discuss it.’

Bullshit, I thought. He’d been taken out back, and a bullet put in his head. Then they’d airbrushed him from official photos. He no longer existed, and soon, any mention of his name would land you in a shitload of trouble.

‘Not fair,’ the girl said.

‘It was his choice. His personal circumstances.’

‘That’s not what he told us,’ I said.

She sniffed insurrection. ‘I think he said something about wanting to move interstate.’

What was the point? The paperwork had been completed, forwarded to regional office, photocopied and filed. Persona non grata. And there’d be someone nicer, and more reliable, in his place.

‘Not really fair,’ Curtis said.

‘Why?’ White asked.

‘We shouldn’t have to change teachers in Year Twelve. Maybe he could come back?’

‘Maybe you could finish your work?’ She stood, stormed across the room, studied his drawing and said, ‘That’s a dog?’

‘I can’t draw dogs.’

‘That’s the point. You try. You get better. You stick at it.’

‘Like Nick did?’

‘Yes, no … what do you mean by that?’

‘What I said.’

She returned to her desk, found her detention pad and started writing.

‘I mean, we wanted to do them murals, and you lot painted over them.’

‘Get your things.’

‘For no reason. He let us decide what to do, that’s why—’

‘Go!’ She stood, presenting him with the slip.

He turned to me. ‘Again.’