The Gaps by Leanne Hall (classic literature list .TXT) 📕

At the beginning of the year I looked up Ms Nouri’s website. She’s a real artist, with a painting degree from the best art school in Tehran. She’s done commissions and exhibitions, and is way too talented to be stuck at Balmoral. I want to impress her so much it’s crippling. And the $500 first prize would be handy.

‘How can we think that far ahead when we don’t know if we’ll survive this week?’ Ally’s voice is plaintive.

‘I know it’s difficult right now, Ally.’ Ms Nouri is known as one of the most genuinely sympathetic teachers at school. ‘Do your best, that’s all. You’ve got roughly two months to go, keep that in mind.’

Brooke raises her hand. Ms Nouri doesn’t like us to do that, but habits are hard to break. ‘Miss, who were those men in the lobby earlier?’

Ms Nouri combs her fringe flat with her fingers, looking nervous. She never talks down to us, and that’s why everyone likes her.

‘I was told they were gentlemen from the Sexual Crimes Squad.’ Her face takes a funny turn; she regrets being so honest. It shuts everyone up.

Arnold and I run our usual route, along the Renfrew Street strip of shops, past the mini-mart, the servo and the medical clinic. Most places are preparing to close.

I move onto the gravel shoulder of the road. There’s still peak-hour traffic rushing past, and it’s not the safest place to jog, but I keep going. The more my legs hurt the more I can forget that train wreck of a conversation in Art class. Broken glass from bottles and old car accidents hides among the small stones, and I have to ignore two guys in a ute, who slow down beside me and whistle and try to get me to look at them.

‘Nice dog!’ one of them yells.

It’s unclear whether they’re referring to Arnold or me.

My legs ache but I’m already enjoying the rhythmic huh-huh of my breath, and the cold pinching my cheeks. I’m so glad to be back in crappy Morrison Heights and far away from school. The entire year level has been suspended precariously between crying and hysterical laughter all week. Every time the PA crackles we all jump a mile, like we’re about to receive the worst news.

The most difficult thing is that there hasn’t been any news about Yin at all.

A car screeches loudly behind me, and then shoots past, a leering face pressed against the rear window. Arnold strains at his leash. I pretend I’m one of Sam’s superheroes, the kind that can achieve full invisibility.

By the time we reach the park, my tracksuit pants are rubbing against my sweaty thighs. I used to walk Arnold in my school uniform, before I accepted that he has one speed only: full tilt. So now I wear my oldest pair of tracky daks and my sneakers. Arnold goes wild the moment I pull his lead out of the cupboard.

At the entrance to the park I almost collide with another jogger—a guy my age in high-tech leggings and earphones.

‘Hey!’ he says, not bothered by our near-collision. ‘Evening!’

I frown in return. He’s not puffing at all, while I sound like a malfunctioning steam train.

The jogger is a park regular, I see him out most evenings. He’s cute too. Not my type—too sporty—but cute. Once I’m sure he’s crossed the road, I turn and check out his springy stride. The leggings cut his muscles into defined areas.

The park is emptier than usual. The light is fading and the grass is already wet with dew. It was a mistake to do my homework first. Sometimes I run with earbuds in, but not tonight. If someone comes up behind me, I want to hear them.

We pound the train path, down the hill and across the creek. I think about how the jogger probably plays football (deal breaker), and how Brandon from my old school is ruining his near-genius brain with pot, and how the Grammar boys on the tram are way too clean-cut and not inclined to slum it, not that I need anyone’s pity lust anyway.

‘You’ll marry me, won’t you, Arnold? If I get to thirty and don’t have anyone?’

Arnold gallops and pants inappropriately and doesn’t answer, as usual.

This is what I know about this park: no one has ever been raped in it, but there was a flasher here when I was in Grade Six.

Arnold doesn’t mind the way the trees crowd thickly on either side of the path, creating shadows where a person could hide. Hide and then leap out, pulling an arm tight against my throat, feet kicking against air.

The bridge clangs as we thump over it. I squint into the distance. A figure crests the hill ahead. I can’t tell if it’s a man or a woman.

Normally the park brings me a small sense of peace, even though it’s pretty basic as far as parks go. The train line runs the length of it at the top of a high embankment, and to the right is a lumpy paddock criss-crossed with paths and the creek. The park sits on top of a waste site: rusted barrels and broken concrete blocks still poke through the green. Some of the blocks look like grey french fries scattered among the ti-trees.

I consider turning back, but the view from the top of the hill makes the pain of running worth it. If I let myself get scared, then it means another victory for the evil people of the world. Still, I fish my keys out of my waistband pocket and grip them so they poke out for maximum stabbing potential.

Stop being irrational, I tell myself. You’re in no greater danger today than before Yin was taken.

As we get closer I can see that the mystery person is a man in a suit, probably on his way home from work. Not many men wear suits around here. Suit-wearers are supposed to be respectable, but more importantly, they sit at desks day after