One Way or Another by Nikki McWatters

settled in for the drive home the driver frowned disapprovingly into his rear-vision mirror.
    I felt something unusual. A sea nymph had taken over my soul. I called it love.

8.
    In March 1983, Labor swept into office with Bob Hawke at the helm. My dad was over the moon. We dutifully studied the election in modern history class, but the details left me cold. The Senate. The ballot. The lower house. Where was my delicious Poet?
    He had mentioned he would be heading for Europe before too long. I marvelled at how little I knew about him. Who was he? What was his favourite food? What made him smile? What was he afraid of? I wanted to study the history of him. Every-thing else swirled past my ears like dandelion fluff, utterly unimportant.
    It was a hot March. The pavement blistered like a barbecue grill. The nation was still numb with shock after February’s Ash Wednesday fires and the threat of more hung over the hinterland like a spectre. Sweat trickled between my shoulderblades and I imagined the Poet’s tongue lapping at my salty skin. In class, I put my head down on the desk and shut my eyes, letting the talk of parliaments and preferences wash over me. I woke up ten minutes later with saliva dribbling down my chin. Kids bumped and kicked my chair as they shuffled out of the classroom.
    â€˜Wake up, Sleeping Beauty,’ my teacher sighed. ‘Make sure you hand that essay in tomorrow.’
    *
    By now the Vulture Club was little more than an occasional phone call, but my friendship with Sam had deepened and I felt I could confide in her. Pouring out my feelings for the Poet, I plied her with details of my midnight antics. She loved it. ‘Tell me more’ became her greeting to me every morning.
    On the Monday after my briny second encounter with the Poet, I bailed Sam up at morning tea and breathlessly told her I’d brought a joint to school.
    â€˜I’m up for it, if you are,’ she said, cocking an eyebrow.
    â€˜Where, though?’ I wondered.
    During ancient history class, Sam came up with a brilliant and possibly insane idea: we would smoke it in the staff toilets near the library.
    â€˜All the teachers will be at lunch,’ she whispered. ‘The librarians have their lunch down the other end of the building and there’s a toilet down there as well ... so for at least the first fifteen minutes we’ll have the place to ourselves.’ Her plan was sound and getting sounder. ‘Plus, the window opens out over the car park, not the playground. There’s no-one out there, ever.’ We nodded and the time was fixed.
    It became a mission of exact precision. We went in one at a time to smoke, while the other stood guard at the door with a book. During sentry changes the crumpled joint sat perched on the edge of the basin, smoking itself. We contorted ourselves, standing on a toilet seat, in order to blow all the smoke out the high window.
    It was only after we’d rinsed our mouths and returned to the library that the intense paranoia set in. They’d smell it. Someone had seen us go in. Our eyes were red. We found the most inane things amusing and our laughter took on a life of its own, sabotaging our ridiculous efforts to appear ‘straight’. Every frown thrown our way was a direct accusation and eventually we took refuge in the darkroom, giggling until the photography teacher sent us outside with a camera. We ran about accosting people and screaming ‘Smile!’, and returned with a selection of portraits of startled students and staff.
    The next few weeks passed uneventfully. I had no interest whatsoever in going out. The walk to Surfers had become tiresome and repetitive and after my romance with the Poet, it felt wrong to chase other musicians. When I told Rhonda this by phone, she said I was obviously unwell and should take a few aspirins, lie down and wait for it to pass. She also suggested I should ditch the Poet.
    â€˜He’s bad news.