“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” I say.

“Why?” she asks.

“I can’t imagine Will Trombal a bridegroom of Christ,” Thomas says, poking his head between the two of us.

“Why? He goes to a Catholic school. He’s been there since Year Five and he used to sing in the choir, so he’s spent a lot of time in church. He’s never embarrassed about doing anything religious, like reading at our paraliturgies, plus he’s split up with his girlfriend and still hasn’t tried to make a move on the other woman in his life,” Siobhan says matter-of-factly.

I look at Tara, because despite her rantings, she’s the voice of reason.

“Do you think it’s true?” I ask.

“No. But if it’s not, what’s his problem? I don’t think he knows what he wants.”

“Way to go, O sensitive one,” Thomas says to her.

Justine is looking at me with that empathetic face of hers.

“She’s got a point. When I realized you liked him, I watched him, just to see what you saw in him, while we were at church for the Feast of Edmund Rice, and I noticed that after he was given communion he did the sign of the cross.”

“A lot of people do.”

“But he did it,” she says, looking at all of us, nodding her head, “as if he meant it.”

The idea that God works in mysterious ways is rubbish. There’s nothing mysterious about his ways. They’re premeditated and slightly conniving, and they place you in an impossible situation. How can I pray to God not to let Will Trombal join the priesthood? God’s not going to do me any favors here. I’m in a lose-lose situation.

Thomas puts his arms around my neck. “You’ve still got me.”

“Don’t upset her any more than she already is,” Siobhan says.

I throw myself into drama. I’ve decided that when I grow up, I want to be an actor. There’s something so powerful about being elevated on that stage and looking out and not having to make any eye contact, and despite what Tara says, as female roles go, I don’t think it gets better than Lady Macbeth. Unfortunately, I’m not even close to being the star. The guys who play Macbeth and Macduff are fantastic and act me off the stage. But I reckon that Lady Macbeth gets the best lines, and I make the most of them.

“Find your range,” Ortley always says to me. “Don’t play her mad from the beginning because you’ll have nowhere to go.”

“Are we going to do a musical next year?” I ask him.

He looks insulted. “This is drama. The music department takes care of the musicals.”

“Isn’t it all the same thing?”

“Go away,” he orders. “Rehearse the part where Lady Macbeth throws herself off the balcony.”

Thomas is cast as Banquo and is not impressed.

“He’s dead by the second act,” he argues. “I’m better than this.”

“He comes back as a ghost, though,” Ortley says placatingly.

“And he calls his son Fleance. Anyone who calls his son Fleance deserves to die.”

“Tom, I want you as Banquo,” Ortley says, sitting him down.

“Does he get a fight scene?”

“He certainly does.”

Thomas is still not convinced, and he’s less impressed with me than anyone else.

“Why do you get to say, ‘The raven himself is hoarse that croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan,’ and I get to say, ‘Fly, Fleance, fly’?” he asks, sulking.

I can’t believe he knows my lines by heart. “If you want to play Lady Macbeth, it’s yours,” I tell him as we walk out. At the end of the corridor I see Will speaking to Brother Edmund outside his office.

“Probably asking if he can borrow his wardrobe,” Thomas snickers.

I look at him, unamused.

Brother Edmund walks into his office just as we reach Will, so Thomas does the sign of the cross in exaggerated reverence and Will gives him the finger.

Somehow I doubt very much that Will is joining the brotherhood.

chapter 29

IT’S SCHOOL CAMP time. A sense of helplessness comes over me as my dad drops me off at school. I look at Luca in the rearview mirror and wonder how he’ll cope over the next few days. What about my dad? Who will he speak to or argue with? Who will make Mia’s chamomile tea just the way she likes it? I feel nauseous, and it’s not just because I’m thinking of the reflection sessions and trust games. I know I’ll spend my whole time there thinking of home, worrying about the family not coping with me gone. What about Mia? Just say she goes backward while I’m at camp. Not that she’s moving forward rapidly, but sometimes, lately, she’s been on the phone speaking to a friend or even listening to Luca read.

My dad is whistling cheerfully, putting on an act, I’m sure, and Luca is out of the car and running toward his friends playing marbles before I’ve even opened the door.

“I’ll call every day,” I tell my dad.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll only be gone three days.”

He gives me a peck on the cheek. “Quickly, before this bus drives over us.”

Will and a band of merry prefects are in charge of this nightmare. They’re the only Year Twelves attending, and I think they’ve been given a pep talk on keeping enthusiasm high.

“If they get any more cheerful, you’ll see an upchuck on the Princes Highway,” Jimmy Hailler mutters.

Ms. Quinn comes along and taps him on the shoulder.

“Let’s check through your bags to see if you’ve packed neatly, James.”

He gently pushes on her shoulder, effeminately.

“Let’s.”

If Jimmy’s stashed away anything, I doubt they’ll find it.

Brother Louis, wearing jeans, stands alongside me.

“Love the denim,” I tell him. He looks pleased.

We get the lecture about no alcohol, no drugs, no cigarettes. “Zero tolerance,” they say. They warn us that they’ll send us home in a taxi and let our parents pay for the two-hour fare. Anyone found in a cabin with a member of the opposite sex will be suspended. They’ve been listening to the all-famous “What to threaten students with at school camps” tape, which must be circulated to all schools.

When we arrive at Gerringong, down the South Coast, we’re told to get into a group of eight and grab a cabin. The four of us stay huddled together. The girls standing closest to us we call the Hair Bear Bunch because of their fascination with their hair—it’s all they ever talk about. The Indie girls are on the other side of them. They’re the type of girls who would consider me a social outcast if they knew of the presence of a Britney Spears album in the Spinelli household. Rumor has it that Tara almost joined their group but they found out she had the Celine Dion single “My Heart Will Go On.” Tara reckons they protest for the sake of protest, and we agree that we couldn’t bear listening to Socially Aware FM for the next three days. Thankfully, Eva Rodriguez’s group grab us in our hour of need, and we bag cabin number one.

Camp is so outdated, it’s retro, and I doubt it’s changed much in thirty years. I can guarantee we’ll end up singing “Peace Train,” “Imagine,” and “Let It Be” before the night’s out. But I enjoy it because I need something to stop me from thinking about home.

Thomas and his friends have brought along their guitars, and they play their punk crap in the food hall. I can’t believe I know all the lyrics, thanks to sitting next to him on the bus every day.

Tara, Justine, and I stand watching them, their only audience.

“Someone should tell him that he can’t sing,” I say.

“Oh please. Let me,” Tara snickers.

“I can play that,” Justine muses.

“On the piano accordion?”

“What are you laughing at?” she asks me.

“You blow me away.”

Having boys around at camp is hard. You have to be on the alert. Boys, for example, like exposing themselves. They walk back from the shower blocks with their towels around them, and next minute either someone flashes at you, or one of his friends grabs his towel off him and makes a run for it. I have to say it’s a bit traumatic at times, not knowing when the next penis will appear.