Introduction

 

Oh yeah, introductions. My name’s Maisy May Dickens, and yes, my mother was certifiable when she picked that name. Still is, in my opinion. But she’s long off the drugs and the pills and the booze, and that makes for a far happier – if less quirky – home. So no complaints. Even if I did kind of like her better when she was high. She seemed honestly happy. These days she seems more dishonestly ‘joyful’. Huh. Anyway, this is supposed to be an introduction to me, not my mother. Lemme try that again.

My name’s Maisy May Dickens. I’m about five foot nine inches tall, I weigh far too little through no fault of my own, and I’m a really bad christian. I don’t mean a bad-arse christian who goes around smiting the bad guys, despite what the last scene might’ve implied. It’s just that I’ve never been good at being a good little christian girl, and some days I doubt I ever will. I swear. I yawn in church. I laugh at fart jokes. I’m loud and I dress goth and I try hard to be kind to people but too often I yell at them instead. See what I mean?

I live in Bathurst, New South Wales. If you’ve never heard of it, you’re obviously not a racing fan. Biggest car race in Australia goes on here once a year, and brings a huge crowd of boozed-up revheads with it. I love it. I love this whole town. I know it’s hokey, and I should be moaning about how I want to get the hell out and live somewhere decent, but… Bathurst is OK, you know? We’ve got a cafe and a library and artists and even a museum. Not to mention two high schools, which “co-operate to offer a state of the art education” – which is educationalese for thinly-veiled sniping and occasional outright vituperation. Oh, sorry, ‘team spirit’! So anyhow, I go to the Bathurst campus, the old Bathurst High – and that’s what everyone but the staff call it. It’s a collection of old two-storey brick buildings. Kelso, on the other hand, have a brand spanking new campus and air-con that actually works. Bastards.

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My church is the Anglican one near my high school, which is near where I live, too. According to Mum, that’s the main reason she chose it, originally. Sheer convenience. But it’s a nice church. The people are – well, nice. They don’t scowl at my thick eyeliner and green eyeshadow, or the fact that I dye my hair. There’s a sort of live-and-let-live attitude from most people, with the occasional dragons-are-a-symbol-of-satan-and-god-will-curse-you-for-wearing-them types. No idea what I’m talking about there? Thank God and all that’s good, because – damn – those people are kinda nutso. Anyway, most of the church are just plain nice, vanilla, caring folk. They make me itchy.

I’ve really messed up this intro, haven’t I? I bet I’ve bored you, confused you and offended you all in one. What can I say? It’s a talent.

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