Thyla - Kate Gordon [40]
‘Good morning, class,’ said Mr Beagle. ‘Today, we will be learning all about Sir John and Lady Jane Franklin, two of the early pioneers of Tasmania …’
I let his voice mute slightly in my head. I already knew all about Sir John and Lady Jane (though, as with most of the people, places and dates I already knew before Mr Beagle told us, I didn’t know why), so I allowed my mind to drift away.
Back to last night.
Back to what Rhiannah had said.
Back to when she mentioned Perrin.
And back to that word she used: Thyla.
As I thought of it again, my scars prickled and twanged and the pain was so great, I felt I might cry out.
But I didn’t. I held it all inside as tears burned my eyes, and I wondered again on that word. I felt as though it was the key to some mystery. The key to Cat’s disappearance, perhaps.
Or the key to my past.
The person I least wanted to see my scars was the one who saw them first.
I was in the washroom at recess time, after a science lesson where I had listened to perhaps one half of what our teacher, Mrs Bush, had told us.
We were learning about the phases of the moon, in preparation for an upcoming class astronomy session. At first, I was enthralled by her words. As Mrs Bush talked about the orbits of the sun and earth, and illuminations and eclipses, my skin itched and tingled with excitement. When she told us that the astronomy session would involve a viewing of the full moon – the most famous and magical of the lunar phases – my ears began to buzz.
As she said, ‘It will be an excellent opportunity for us to observe the full moon, in all its glory, with our new telescope, which was kindly provided to us by Mr Lord …’ my scars began to throb.
It was my scars that drew my attention away from what Mrs Bush was saying. Though I was still intrigued by this talk of the moon and its powers, the pain in my scars overwhelmed me. They ached and burned and pounded – it felt as though they were coming alive and raising up even more beneath my school shirt. I was very glad I had decided to wear my thick blazer again that day.
I dimly heard the discussion turn to werewolves and contacting spirits. I wanted to listen but my scars hurt so much now it was impossible to concentrate. I closed my eyes and allowed my mind to drift away to other things.
Like Perrin.
I could see his face in my mind, with its strong angles, its white skin, its huge, dark eyes and the jagged scar that slashed across his cheek. I could see his wide, wicked grin, and his sleek, slicked-back hair. I could see the tenseness of his muscles beneath his shirt, and his strong, pale hands.
And I felt quite embarrassed about how I had acted. He wasn’t really that rude to me, and I had behaved like a banshee.
I wished I could take it back. I wished I had taken his hand. Though I did not know why, I believed that holding Perrin’s hand would be … thrilling.
All the while, as I thought of this, the pain in my scars grew more and more intense, until it felt as though I might faint and slide from my chair. I gripped the side of my desk to keep myself from slipping away.
Laurel, who sat next to me in science class, turned to me and whispered, ‘You okay? You look kinda funny.’
‘Miss Simpson, would you like to share your message with the whole class?’ Mrs Bush growled, making Laurel and I both sit bolt upright.
Laurel shook her head, her fuzzy red curls bobbing and shimmying. ‘Um, not really, Mrs Bush,’ she replied. ‘Sorry.’
‘What about you, Miss Connolly?’ asked Mrs Bush, and I felt a tiny blush of happiness at hearing my own name attached to yours. It felt nice, even as I was being chastised. It felt as though we were connected.
‘Laurel was just asking if I was okay, Mrs Bush,’ I admitted, feeling the need to stand up for Laurel. She looked across at me, gratefully. ‘She was just being a good friend.’
Mrs Bush nodded, and gave a half-smile. ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ she said. ‘I’ll be even more glad if Miss Simpson can tell us the name of the “werewolf” illness I was just telling you about – the one that is connected with the full moon.