The Whole of My World Read Free

– not just the loudest, but the largest – voice I’ve ever heard on a woman, let alone someone the size of an eleven-year-old.
    I’m about to correct her when Mrs Brandt steps forward and says, ‘Shelley. She likes to be called Shelley.’
    I smile at Mrs Brandt gratefully. She nods twice, pleased with herself, then leaves.
    The door closes and silence falls.
    I look at the class.
    They look at me.
    Then we all look at Sister Brigid.
    I wonder if I’m supposed to speak. Then, because it’s killing me, I find myself doing a weird kind of dipping curtsey to fill that space. Even as I’m doing it, I’m wishing the ground would swallow me up, but there’s no way out, so I finish with a red-faced nod.
    Everyone laughs. All thirty of them. Even Sister Brigid seems alarmed.
    I stand there, scarlet cheeks probably visible from the moon, thinking, Please let this end .
    Finally, Sister Brigid points to a seat near the back of the room, then turns towards the class as though nothing has happened, dismissing me in the same instant. ‘All rise!’ she intones.
    There’s a muffled scraping of chairs and everyone stands up. I take the moment to escape to the back of the room and slide into an empty desk.
    â€˜Heads down!’
    As one, the girls bow their heads and wait in silence.
    I watch from the corners of my eyes, doing my best not to be too obviously confused by this series of commands.
    â€˜Hail Mary, full of grace . . .’ The whole class recites the ‘Ave Maria’, their voices blending into a flat, rumbling chant.
    I can’t remember the words. My blush has hardly faded before it creeps back right where it’s most comfortable. I move my lips as vaguely as I can, my head dipped lower than everyone else’s in an effort to hide my crappy lip-syncing. Dad started taking me to Mass more regularly after the accident, trying to play catch-up on all those years of neglect. But a few months later he stopped completely. He stopped doing a lot of things after the accident. That’s probably the one I miss the least. I’m not sure he really believes in it all, anyway. Sometimes I think he just doesn’t know what else to do with me.
    â€˜Amen.’
    Everyone sits and Sister Brigid asks us to open our textbooks to page forty-two for ‘quiet reading’. I scan the classroom, the buzz and chatter lifting with every passing minute. I try to concentrate on the chapter in front of me but there’s too much happening – in the classroom and in my head. And I’m clearly not the only one struggling to focus. Within minutes, Sister Brigid’s harsh voice cuts through the din and a girl I haven’t noticed before – ‘TARA LESTER!’ – is sent to the back of the room, to the seat right next to me.
    And in that instant I learn two important things about my new school: the back row of desks is a punishment at St Mary’s, and Tara Lester has spent a lot of time in the desk I’m currently occupying. I know this because she’s scratched her name into it. All the scribbles and scratches, indecipherable before, begin to take shape; far more interesting than the chapter I’m supposed to be reading on Australia’s participation in the First World War. Beside Tara’s name in small, crooked letters are the words ‘Falcons for Premiers!’.
    My heart does another flip. Only, this is the good kind.
    I look sideways at Tara and catch her watching me. We both quickly turn away. For five long minutes we feign interest in the Diggers at Fromelles, carefully ignoring each other before she finally breaks the silence.
    â€˜I’m Tara,’ she says, her voice low.
    â€˜I’m Shelley. Hi.’
    Tara shrugs, meaning either she already knew or doesn’t care. Or both. She’s scribbling away on her folder, the contact paper disappearing under doodles of gold and brown stripes, squares and