The Artist is (Not) Present

At the end of Year 10 Debbie Cunningham left our school. The school clique morphed, formed and reformed to include a wider circle of girls and boys. Alliances were crystallized to practice for exams, attend school musical rehearsals, prepare our notes for the inter-school debating competitions, and share cassette tapes of bands that we were into. We talked. We did a lot of talking. In between hanging out in the Sannens' pool after school, weekend sleepovers in the rumpus room, and VHS movie nights, we would call each other up on the home phone. These conversations went on forever. My mum was right to wonder what it was that we needed to talk about given we see each other every day at school. We would talk about the small stuff: things that had happened. What people had said or what they didn't say, and how that made us feel. We exchanged coping strategies, what kids these days call "life hacks". Then there was the big stuff: ideas about the world, questions of moralit...

We moved around the schoolyard like a pack of wolves. Wherever the alpha female wanted to go is where we would follow. Sometimes the leader would go up to a boy that we all had a mad crush on and tell him that I thought he was cute. It was then up to 14-year-old me to talk my way out of the awkward situation. I am now grateful for the unexpected training in improvisation, but back then I thought it was a cruel kind of initiation. Most world religions have a ritualistic ceremony designed to inculcate and indoctrinate that exploits our natural desire to belong to the tribe. And I desperately wanted to be part of that tight-knit circle. This was junior school at a large Catholic co-educational college, not a cult. The particular ring leader in my little cohort of mostly uncool girly swots was fiery, red-headed Debbie Cunningham. Did she do it for masochistic fun? Maybe. It was the mid-1980s in Frankston and our entertainment options were limited to hanging out at the beach, indoor roller ...