text: The ink reservoir dropped. Straight out of the holes in the ceiling tiles and onto my desk, branding my nose on its way. I wouldn’t say I was waiting for the moment, but the seat in which it happened to be dangling above for the past two months, was known to be mine. I’d spent hours absently staring up at the ceiling in History class, just waiting for something to happen. Brendan Marshals and Scotty Parnell laughed. ‘Shut the fuck up,’ I said Mr Andrews spun around from the whiteboard, dragging the marker with him and crossing out the word “treaty”. ‘Kayla, get out of my class! You can go see Ms. Fox for that.’ ‘It wasn’t even fucking me!’ Kayla said. Mr Andrews blames Kayla for everything. All the teachers blame Kayla for everything because she shows potential. They want to convince her that it’s not worth spending time around me. They don’t realise that we’re basically like sisters--best friends since preschool. She’s not going to ditch me just because these idiots see something in her. ‘I said it,’ I declared proudly, standing up. ‘And I don’t give a fuck I’m outta here! Who’s with me?’ I’d imagined this moment before, dreamed about it. I never thought the remnants of a pen-shooter would be the catalyst. Kayla stood up immediately and then Becca--our faithful follower. Brendan and Scotty stood up too, any excuse would’ve worked for them. Mr Andrews looked straight past me to address Kayla again. ‘Straight to Ms. Fox you hear me, Kayla.’ ‘Fuck you,’ Kayla yelled back. Then, without warning, she picked up a chair and hurled it across the classroom, just missing him. For the first time, he held the entire class's attention. Eyes darted back and forth between Kayla and Mr. Andrews. Kayla looked at me as if she too were surprised at what she’d just done and didn’t know what to do next. ‘You deserved that,” I said, breaking the silence. He cowered, dropping his head onto the desk, cradling it with his arms. Siren-like wails poured out from the depths of his head cavern. I’d finally broken him. For exactly two seconds I felt sorry for the blubbering mess of a man -- but then I remembered the canteen incident. Last week, Mr Andrews’ pointed the finger at me without a second of thought and zero evidence, as the prime suspect in the canteen burglary. Boxes of Zappos were distributed around the school that day--anonymously. No one owned up, so they shut the canteen for three days. We were spewing. No one would dare come forward now, not with a mob of dim-sim deprived teenagers on the loose, they’d be asking for it. And Mr Andrews knew that, when he publicly announced his illegitimate suspicions in front of the school assembly. ‘I don’t even eat Zappos,’ I said, rising to my feet. ‘They make my pores sweat.’ ‘That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.’ ‘The most ridiculous thing I’ve heard is you accusing me of stealing Zappos when your pigeon hole is full of Zappo wrappers,’ I finished, taking my seat. The whole school started booing him until he gave up and the weekly announcements went on as if nothing happened. Kayla had overheard him throwing my name around the staff room the day before when she was in the sick bay and had arrived at school that next morning armed with Zappo wrappers to plant. She’s always got my back like that. We storm out of the classroom leaving the history of Australia on the whiteboard with a mission to make our own. We march through the outdoor, red brick corridor with our bad girl bucket hats and flared jeans trailing threads behind us. The door to the girls bathroom swings open revealing the silhouettes of two girls emerging from a cloud of smoke. They’re spraying impulse aerosol like there’s a bee on the loose. Vanilla musk barely masks the acrid waft. It’s Danielle Diblassi and Teegan Myers. ‘What are yous doin?’ Teegan asks, twisting her infected nose piercing and scratching the crusty ring around it. Becca tells them we’re staging a walk-out because we’re sick of the teachers treating us like a pack of dogs. I can see she’s pissed off that the two of them are back to being best friends again after Becca backed Teegan in a punch up against Danielle last week. Becca's broken acrylic nail is seemingly all for nothing. We let them join us but Teegan has to pay Becca fifteen bucks for her nail repair first. I lead the pack with Kayla and Becca to my sides. All public schools need a triumphant leader that will take a stand and lead them to victory. And that leader was me. We’d had enough. Becca’s mum once told us how it was, “back in her day”. “Sister Margaret would whip our ankles if our skirts were too short”, She’d told us. Our school doesn't require floor length skirts. Our school doesn’t require skirts at all. Our school doesn’t require much of anything really. The information sheet that replaces a handbook at our school refers to it as ‘dress code’. We wear what we want... so long as the teachers like it...or like us . Which is why this morning, when Laura Mayfield walked into the year 9 sub-school wearing a low-cut, halter neck, midriff with glitter bra straps hanging out each side and a silver belly chain with a Jesus cross hanging from it, Ms. Fox remarked, “What beautiful chain Louise, I didn’t know you were religious”. She isn’t. Then when I walked in behind Laura wearing a white t-shirt with two hand prints printed on the boobs, Ms. Fox ordered me to change immediately, claiming she wouldn’t tolerate such inappropriate innuendo. I told her I didn’t bring any other clothes. Her eyes actually twinkled like some kind of anime cartoon when she said, ‘Well aren’t you lucky that I have a box of spare band uniforms.’ A musky pile of navy blue polo shirts lay in a warped cardboard box beneath her desk. They smelt like the music storage cupboard--damp and sweaty, with a touch of someone messing around inside. ‘This is discrimination! Why don’t you get up Louise for having her whole belly and half her tits showing?!’ She ignored me. I snatched a shirt from the box and gave her the finger as I walked out. At recess we impaled it on a stick and hammered it into the oval like a flag. Kayla’s given me her adidas hoodie to wear for the rest of the day on the promise I give it back to her before the bell. Apparently her mum’s starting to get pissed at how many of her clothes are going missing. ‘They’re not missing, they’re at mine, I’ll bring them back,’ I told her, questioning her sudden lack of trust in me. We continue past the science labs where Mr Archibalds class is left unattended, copying instructions from the whiteboard. Amber, Caitlynn and Jessica Day-Mitchell join us after we holler an invitation through the window, then surprisingly Matthew Benningham; the innocent school prodigy, who had just reached his daily quota of bullying intake after Royce Adams told him his diagram of a Bunsen burner looked like a dildo, also grabs his bag and joins us. Matthew is the kind of gifted that repels friends, but today he’s welcomed into our pack with thanks and praise as we try to gather numbers. Questionable noises come from behind the blackened windows of the darkroom as we pass the media building. ‘Get some!’ We all hurrah and bang on the glass. Amber's sister once told us how the photo lab was off limits to all year ten students for an entire year in 98 because Evan Summergreen was caught fingering Tara Tepiatu in the dark room. “You bitches are lucky. I missed out on a whole year of mucking around in there”, she’d told us. I wondered why a photography teacher would forget to knock before entering a dark room. We reach the end of the brick corridor and come to the open courtyard. We’ll have to cross it undetected to get to the final corridor, marking the last part of our journey before we can get off school grounds. Mr Verna emerges from the music room demountable with four students and five sets of bloodshot eyes. They’ve all received special permission to skip regular classes to practise for next week's assembly, practice clearly involves the occasional puff of a joint. Three weeks ago they performed a song called, “My prostitute” that they’d written under Mr Verna's guidance, at the talent show auditions. Lachy, the lead singer, said he was going to dedicate the song to Kayla. I told him if he did I’d smash him. They dedicated it to Sammy Jakes instead, who pretended to be embarrassed--as if she couldn't believe anyone would think of her as anything but an innocent virgin. But we all knew inside she was celebrating the advancement of her reputation as the “school slut”, which she wears like a badge of honour. They didn’t make it through to the finals. Lachy says weed helps their creativity. Mr Verna is just depressed. But no one’s meant to mention the latter unless they want to be banned from private music class invitations. Mr Verna looks like a deer caught in headlights when he sees us parading across the courtyard. We wave, he stays frozen for a minute, then smiles and winks. I wink back, both pretending we haven’t seen a thing. Miss Jennings’ Indonesian class spots our group as we approach the home stretch. We hear Maggs sitting in the back row call out, ‘Miss! I think I see Jamie Jones wanking in the green house again!’ ‘Right!’ Miss Jennings huffs. Her lips purse together, twitching like there’s an evil spirit trying to escape. ‘Remain seated everyone and continue reciting the Indonesia Raya.’ She leaves the room and twelve of her fifteen students jump out the window to join us. We continue on gathering students from food science, Maths and French along the way. There’s no hope for Miss Clabells business class. She’s already locked the doors and threatened two weeks of after school detention for anyone even thinking about leaving class. It’s her first term at our school after leaving a private girls school and so far she’s managed to stand her ground. We’ll wear her down soon enough. We March past an English room where everyone is nose deep in Dolly magazines for silent reading. Jono spots me from his window seat. He hates my confidence, but I know he just wants to be me. He opens the window. ‘Miss, something smells like heroin!’ he yells in my direction. ‘Heroin doesn't have a smell Jono,’ I laugh. He mumbles something. He’s never been good with comebacks. His two best friends Mitch and Noodle stand up and leave him to join us. ‘Wait, What? Are you for real?’ He asks them. They’re totally for real because Principle Greason confiscated all the cone pieces from Noodles bag last week which he was going to take to Mitches after school. They didn’t get their arvo cones that day and Mr Greason wouldn’t even give the cone pieces back either. Two teachers wait at the end of the final leg blocking the gate after being tipped off by one of these prison guards presumably. One, is our science teacher Mr Jones. Mr Jones has just finished teaching us about magnetic fields occurring in natural minerals. From his classes, I’ve learnt that If Kaylas boobs were iron, then Mr Jones’ eyes would be magnetite. Shannon wastes no time calling him out as we approach. ‘Getcha eyes off ‘er tits ya perve,’ she sputters in his face. ‘Shannon Bates, how dare you make such accusations,’ Mrs Warren defends, her face flushes to match the bright red suspension slips she holds in her shaking left hand. Kayla turns to me, ‘I don’t think I can afford another suspension. Mums gonna kill me.’ ‘What? We got this far, I thought you were with me?’ ‘I was...but, I’ll be grounded! I won’t be allowed to go to platform eighty-eight on Friday and the hot Blockbuster guy is going to be there!’ ‘If Kayla's out I’m out,’ Becca says. Becca’s always been quick to turn but Kayla’s shook me. After everything I’ve done for her this is what I get? Murmuring rises throughout the pack of once-dedicated students. The red slips have turned everyone. I face the group. ‘Kayla, are you going to let Mr Jones keep drooling into your cleavage every time he sees you? Guys, everyone has a reason for being here today, are we just gonna cop it?’ Mrs Warren is ignoring me, pretending to write names down on the red slips, ‘Mrs Warren’s been here two fucking weeks guys! She doesn't know any of your names! Are we all just going to take this shit?’ I look at Kayla. ‘I did this for you.’ Kayla looks like she’s about to cry. For some reason I don't care. I turn to walk off bidding everyone a sarcastic farewell on my way but just before I leave the gate Kayla calls out to stop me. ‘I need my hoodie,’ she says. It was a day to remember--the great walk out of “01”. We gathered 53 students as we made our way through the school and to the edge of freedom before 49 of them backed out. We could have made a difference--showed them who's boss, but instead they came down harder, even bringing in a school uniform to wear. I blame Kayla. She doesn't get in trouble anymore, even when she’s done something shit like robbing the canteen. I only think about her when I see her hoodie impaled on a stick in my backyard