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Zelda  

　By Emily Rodda

    Her name was Zelda. That was the first thing about her. Let's face it, it's not the most ordinary name in the world, is it? I know lots of kids have unusual names. But it doesn't seem to matter with them. I mean, you wouldn't say Blaise, or Makela, or Sion, were ordinary names. It was just that Zelda didn't...just didn't suit her name. Or maybe she did. She was as odd as it was. Maybe that was the trouble. Blaise and Sion and Makela—they were just like everyone else. But Zelda was different.

    If I said that to Mum she'd say, what do you mean, different? And I'd say something like, "Well, she has this long hair that she wears in a bun. Black hair. In a bun. With a hairnet over it. And she's got a very fat face, and white skin that looks sort of thick. And her nails are really long and cut into these points, you know, like auntie Meg's."

    And Mum'd say, in that irritating, reasonable way she has, "People don't all have to look alike, you know, Jess. You never used to be so conservative."

    "It's not just what she looks like," I'd say. "It's what she's like. It's..." And then I'd give up, because I couldn't really say what it was that made Zelda odd kid out. But that's what she was. From our first day in Year Seven, that's what she was.

    We were all from different schools. All girls. Some people had friends who'd come up from primary with them. Most didn't. But after the first few days most of us had found someone to have lunch with, or talk to in class, or whatever. But that was when I noticed Zelda. She was always by herself. She'd get to school alone, go from class to class by herself, sit alone, reading or just staring into space, at lunchtime. And, you know, it wasn't as if she was actually shy, I don't think. Or not in the usual way, anyway. Shy kids take longer than the others to, you know, get warmed up, and link up with a group, but you can tell they feel shy and want to, and you know that eventually they'll get talking with someone or other and that'll get them started. Harriet, one of my friends, was like that.

    But with Zelda you didn't get that feeling. You didn't get any feeling about her at all, really. It was like she was a little drop of oil paint and all the rest of us were drops of water, in a glass. She was just separate, and different, and you just wouldn't know what she was feeling or thinking about.

    Well, anyway, after a few weeks had gone by and everyone was getting really settled down and confident, the class had sort of divided naturally into groups. You know how it happens. And one of these groups had a couple of kids in it I really didn't like. Their names were Berwyn and Michelle. To be honest, it wasn't quite that I didn't like them, I suppose. It was that I scared of them I suppose that sounds stupid.

    I don't mean they were scary like they'd hit you on the head with a brick and run off with your lunch money, or that sort of thing. They were scary to me because they were really, sort of, glamorous—you know? They were really good looking, for a start, and they looked older and trendier than anyone else. And they knew things. They knew how things were done. I mean, on day one at high school we all turned up with shiny black clodhopper shoes, and skirts down to our knees and white school shirts from Grace Brothers, and everything. And somehow or other they'd known in advance they'd get away with black canvas shows and big white T-shirts from the markets, and school skirts hitched half-way up their thighs, and they'd come along looking really smooth. I mean, even if I'd known about how to make the uniform look trendy, Mum wouldn't have let me do it. Not on the first day. Not in a fit.

    And Berwyn and Michelle, Berwyn especially, never did anything stupid, or embarrassing. They were never, like, too serious about anything, either. If you're too serious about things, or try too hard at things, it leaves you, sort of, open, you know? You can end up looking like an idiot. People can laugh at you, and send you up. Berwyn and Michelle knew that. I think they must have known it since kindergarten, they were so good at being cool.

    The thing was, they despised anyone who wasn't like them. And that was what scared me. I would've liked to be like them, but I knew I wasn't, and I couldn't make myself not carry about what they thought of me. I was scared of their superior little smiles, and the way they didn't feel they had to be friendly, or even polite, to other people, and the sarcastic things they said when someone irritated them and the way they whispered to one another, laughing behind their hands, and looking at you.

    That was Berwyn and Michelle. The rest of the group weren't quite so cool. There were some gigglers among them, and others of them you could talk to okay, when they were by themselves. When they were by themselves they were quite nice, really. But when they were with Berwyn and Michelle they whispered behind their hands and tittered and said smart, cool things to each other, and flicked their hair back, and stared at you as if you were weird, or your nose was snotty or something.

    Well, this day I'm talking about we he had a double English period before lunch. Our English teacher that year was Mrs. Stephenson, who was also our class teacher. She was nice, and didn't yell or anything, and she was very keen on creative writing. I liked that, so I looked forward to English, usually. Since the beginning of term she'd been getting us to write descriptions of a place, a person, an animal, and so on. This day she said she wanted us to spend the second period writing a description of ourselves—not in the first person, but as though someone else was writing it. She said it was a rather difficult exercise, but she wanted us to try it.

    Some kids groaned, and I saw Berwyn and Michelle look at each other and raise their eyebrows in that bored way they had, but no one mucked up on Mrs. Stephenson, so eventually we all settled down and started writing. She was right. It's much harder than you'd think, writing about yourself—what you look like and everything. It makes you feel embarrassed. I mean, I think I look quite good, but I didn't want Mrs. Stephenson to think I was conceited or anything. And then I couldn't really remember what I did look like, somehow—which sounds ridiculous, but I mean, you just try it! It's really hard, no matter how many times you've looked in a mirror. Anyway, somehow I filled up a page, and I guess it was okay. But I could hardly stand to read over what I'd written. It was really, sort of, personal and embarrassing.

    Mrs. Stephenson usually collected any writing we'd done at the end of the period, but this time she said she'd like us to read over what we'd written for homework, and make any changes we thought might improve it. She said she'd collect our papers after roll-call the next day. I stuffed essay into my folder and went out with everyone else for lunch. It was Geography with Mrs. Fox in the same room after.

    At lunch everyone was talking about the exercise. Some people said it was boring. Other people, like me, said it was really hard. Berwyn and Michelle and that group said it was pointless, and typical of Mrs. Stephenson, who was a complete dag and wore hopeless clothes—and they started making up a description of her, all about her varicose veins and support stockings and permed hair. I don't know what Zelda thought about the essay, because as usual she was sitting by herself right away from the crowd, eating her sandwiches. She wasn't reading that day, just staring into space, chewing, chewing, chewing.

    I saw Berwyn look at Zelda and nudge Michelle. She whispered something and Michelle grinned. They walked over to the rubbish bin near where Zelda was sitting and tossed in their papers. Then Michelle started to make these mooing noises. Berwyn was killing herself laughing and all the other kids in their group, plus quite a few of the others, started giggling too. But Zelda didn't turn her head. Maybe she didn't hear. Maybe she didn't know the noises were aimed at her. Maybe she did, and didn't care. You couldn't tell with Zelda.

    Berwyn and Michelle walked back to their gang and got a hero's welcome. They all went off in a huddle, and every now and then for the rest of lunchtime you'd hear a loud moo, and a chorus of giggles, from their spot under the pepper tree. I thought it was pretty pathetic, actually, and so did some of my friends. Mean, too, even though Zelda didn't seem to know what was going on, or care.

    It was quite a hot day, that day, and I remember feeling really slow and heavy when Harriet and I walked back into the classroom after lunch. It had been so bright outside that everything looked dim, although the lights were on. We hadn't hurried, and there were already quite a few kids in the room. I remember really clearly seeing Berwyn and Michelle and some of the others standing in a little group round one of the desks. Berwyn was reading something aloud, and the others were collapsing with laughter. One of them, Sylvia, turned and looked round as Harriet and I came in. Her face was bright pink, and tears were actually streaming down her face, she was laughing so much.

    They were at Zelda's desk, reading her description of herself. Berwyn had the paper in her hand.

    Suddenly I felt myself blushing red, blushing really badly, so my cheeks burned. My whole stomach seemed to turn over, and I felt sick.

    I can't explain to you how awful the feeling was. Or why it was so awful. Or why, when I realized Zelda wasn't in the room, hadn't come in yet, I acted the way I did. I mean, I didn't even know Zelda, or like her, or anything. But suddenly it seemed to me as though I was watching someone absolutely helpless being, sort of, invaded by something not human. Suddenly it was like Zelda wasn't the odd kid out at all, but part of me, and Harriet, and all the other people in the world who weren't cool, and cruel, and fearless.

    So I went up to Berwyn, who I'd hardly even spoken to before, and took the paper out of her hand. I said, "That's not yours," and I put the paper behind my back.

    She looked surprised, really surprised, and then she smiled really sarcastically and shook her head and said, "Jessica, you're red as a beetroot."

    But Michelle said, "Who do you think you are, Jessie Simons. Give that back!" and she made a grab for the paper.

    I wouldn't give it up, though, and I pushed past them and shoved the essay back in Zelda's folder and stood there, sweating and blushing, with my heart beating furiously, and after a while they all melted back to their own places, because they could hear Mrs. Fox and the rest of the class coming down the corridor.

    So I went back to my desk too, and sat down. My knees were trembling and I could feel my shirt soaking wet on my back and under my arms. I didn't look at anyone, not at Harriet or anyone. Zelda came in with the others and sat down, and though a few people giggled no one said or did anything—to me or to her.

    Zelda sat at her desk, and looked at Mrs. Fox, waiting for her to start the lesson. She didn't know what had happened. She didn't have any idea that she'd been invaded. She was as separate from me and the rest of us as ever, with her small blank eyes, and her pointy fingernails. She didn't know that for a moment we'd been sisters, and faced an enemy together.

    The next morning Mrs. Stephenson collected our descriptions, and a few days later we got them back. I got an A for mine, and she put "Some nice touches, Jessica," in the bottom. I sometimes wonder what Zelda got. I saw a few sentences of it, when I put it back in the folder. Zelda had written, with very curly loops, in fine black pen, "She has lustrous black hair that falls in a rich cascade to her waist. Her hair is hardly ever cut, only to take off split ends. She wears shoes with heels about four centimeters high..."

    Zelda left our school the next year, and I don't know where she went after that. For some reason I often think about her, and wonder what happened to her. Berwyn and Michelle and the others haven't ever forgotten what I did that day, I don't think. Well, I guess they have in one way—they wouldn't, probably, give someone like me a second thought, once the first excitement was over. But I suppose what I mean is that where some of the kids I go round with are invited to their parties, and things like that, I never am. I think that day they wrote me off forever as uncool, and a goody-goody, and maybe a bit mad, sand that was that, even though now they've forgotten the thing that started it all.

    I have my own friends, though, and I don't care about Berwyn and Michelle. And I'm not scared of them anymore, either. I haven't been, since that day.

    It seems to me that growing up is a bit like waking up, bit by bit. You go along, dreaming, thinking you're awake and that you understand how things are, and you're seeing things clearly. And then something happens, or you read something, or someone says something to you, and you blink, and suddenly the world's more in focus than it was before, and you realize you haven't been properly awake at all.

    Probably that's why I remember Zelda, and that day. That day was one of my 'waking up' times. I understood a few more things after that.

    Not that I understood about Zelda. She was as much a mystery to me after that day as she ever was—well, more, in fact. But somehow I got a bit more of the picture about the world, and how I fitted into it. What side I was on, in fact.

   Do you know what I mean?

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