AUTHOR: SARAH PALMER
I stood at the mirror, fidgeting with the fabric around my waist, and sighed. The dress glittered in the sun, and it was more than comfortable. The yellow tones complimented my hair, and the belt brought out my eyes. Even though the hem reached the floor, it was short enough not to trip on. It was like this dress was meant for me.
But today wasn’t about looking perfect. I was journeying into an unknown world – impenetrable high school cliques, oppressive monarchies determined by your ability to torment others, books scattering across tacky, linoleum floors as punishment for the slightest non-conformity. Dressing like some kind of princess was not going to keep me safe.
“Mum! I can’t wear this.”
She frowned. “You look perfect, dear.”
“I just- isn’t it a little obvious?”
“You’ll be fine.” She made her words heavy, almost tangible.
“Horace is wearing jeans!”
“Don’t you have any pride?”
I never understood Mum’s obsession with pride – she didn’t seem to know the difference between a lack of it and self-preservation. I didn’t have the energy to explain that if I could wear my dress, free of hassle, I would. Unfortunately, it’s not that simple. I mumbled, “Yes,” and shortly after, “I’ll wear it.”
Stepping off the bus felt like dismounting a horse at the foot of a castle. My long, rectangular steed rumbled away, and I turned to face the school.
Students flowed through the doors, condensed shoulder-to-shoulder as the entry closed in. I watch a student trying to squeeze through get shoved out of the way and onto the ground. Horace stood beside me like a deer in headlights, and I suggested, “Maybe there’s a back entrance?”
To the left of the front steps, there was an empty corner, almost out of sight. Following my lead, Horace and I decided to wait out the initial rush. The less people who spoke to us, the better. I hadn’t learned to mask my accent, so to avoid rambling I had spent the morning scripting my responses to the most benign, curious questions. I’m wearing this dress because I like the style – it’s a family heirloom.
I wasn’t technically lying.
“What’s with the dress?” The remark dripped with venom and was loud enough to echo off the open brick walls. “Hey! I know you can hear me. I said, what’s with the dress?”
This was not a benign question.
I turned, expressionless. The girl had straight black hair, streaked with old coloured dye. Her left brow was red and puffy, the product of many ill-treated piercings, and behind her, a crew in matching attire boxed us in.
“None of your business.”
“I’m just confused. Does this look like the Middle Ages to you?”
I was more offended by the incorrect analysis of my attire than the actual premise.
Horace tugged at my sleeve, “Let’s just go, Sorayah.”
A second girl piped up. “Don’t you start, Monkey Man. Those ears are un-for-gettable!”
I snapped. “Just like those septic brows! How long exactly did it take you to get that look?”
The few people still walking inside stopped talking, and their footsteps stopped too. I could hear my own quickening heartbeat, and Horace’s shallow breath.
“Funny. Really funny.” The girl turned her back. My fists fell unclenched, and I let myself breathe. I thought, Did I get us out of this? Am I safe?
Four new figures approached, in matching letterman jackets. They paired off, snatching Horace and I from the ground and slamming us into the wall. A few latecomers jumped up the stairs at the sound, with no desire to engage. They knew what was coming next.
The whole group fought like wolves, snarling and scratching, with a chorus cheering them on. Horace yelped as one girl flung him to the ground by his ears, and I managed to duck from hands clawed with black acrylic nails. I knew to aim for anything to tug, pinch or bite. Despite my valiant efforts, we were outnumbered four to one.
“Help! Someone!” I regretted calling out immediately. A baseball cap was stuffed into my mouth.
“Let them go.” I couldn’t see who had suddenly spoken up, but their voice was peculiar. It reminded me of a broken, badly tuned instrument. The girl let go of me and backed away.
“They are under my protection,” the voice said. “You will never even talk to them again, understand? Go to class.” Whoever this was, they were serious. Nobody else dared to speak – the girls nodded and walked away, tail between their legs.
My view was clear now, and the person who’d broken up the fight was recognisable. It was the Quiet Knight, the kid from the LARP last night. He was covered in revealing bruises – that and his height clearly gave him away. As I stood, I watched him glance up and down my body, and the tell tale shine passed across his pupils. I’d seen it almost every day, but it still sent a shiver up my spine.
Horace started to ramble about his fake ears, nursing them with light touches, but the knight was unresponsive. He looked rigid, almost uncomfortable.
I curtseyed, forgetting that it is definitely not customary. Quickly, I stood and said, “Thank you again, Sir Silent,” hoping he thought I was in character. Realising there was probably a reason, maybe like mine, for his secrecy, I stepped a little closer. “Your eyes are very distinctive,” I said, “And, the bruise on your arm.”
The most he could muster was a nod. I saw words catch in his throat, the sheen over his pupils stronger now that I was close. I considered stepping back, but worried I’d look suspicious.
“My name really is Sorayah, by the way,” I said, to fill the silence.
“Tony,” the Quiet Knight stammered, “My name is Tony.”
This piece was written for a Year 12 Major/Minor English assessment in 2021, inspired by the short story The Quiet Knight by Garth Nix. The primary themes of the original text – self-expression, personal identity and coming-of-age – were developed by turning side character Sorayah into the point-of-view character, and immersing her in a world of urban fantasy. If you’re interested in Garth Nix’s original short story, you can find it at the school library in the anthology To Hold the Bridge: A Tale of The Old Kingdom and Other Short Stories.