I pulled back the covers on the bed in the cubicle that was my new home. My brand-new turquoise fish doona made me think of Mum. As I got into bed, I discovered my sheets were soaked through. Someone had poured water on my bed. I choked back tears as I heard muffled giggles.
I navigated the stairs of my boarding school in the dark and found the office of a surprised boarding supervisor. Her face filled with concern, then warmth. After a cup of Milo and a chat, we remade my bed. I slept fitfully. This was supposed to be a whole new world, but all I wanted was to go home.
Growing up in Quairading, a small town in the central wheatbelt of Western Australia, meant that boarding school was talked about often. My district high school ended in Year 10. Finishing high school meant moving to the big smoke, or at least a larger town. Each year, we’d watch the Year 10s graduate and leave town.
In the years preceding my move to Perth to attend boarding school, I’d had some tough times socially. I’d been in a class with the same 18 kids, give or take, since I was four years old. There’s joy to that in childhood, but high school brought complexities. Teenage girls can be mean.
In my town, sport ruled. I didn’t mind sport. I played netball and participated in swimming, mainly, but in recent years I’d grown to love anything to do with music and media. My older cousins had introduced me to ’90s grunge, alternative and punk music during summers at Nan’s house, and I lived for afternoons making mixtapes using their CDs.
Starting Year 10 at my new boarding school, I was streamed into the middle, despite evidence of my excellent past results. I was bored. Speaking up was especially difficult because all my energy was being channelled into coping with my new environment. Eventually I told Mum how easy I found maths, and I was moved to a better-suited stream. My new teacher caught me up with some additional tutoring and I made the top 10 of the year by the end of term. In science, humanities and English, I was still more than capable of the work I was given.
Writer Casey Mulder. Source: Supplied
My boarding school was residential, which meant I lived there and attended one of the nearby high schools. When the siren rang at the end of the day, I’d walk back to the boarding house, and my school friends would all go home.
For months, I didn’t talk to my family. At the boarding house, we’d line up for five-minute phone calls on the landline and, after another tearful call, I realised I couldn’t bear to hear their voices. I remember my stoic Nan’s voice cracking over the phone as I cried. On my 15th birthday, my family came from Maylands and Bayswater to pick me up for dinner at a diner; ’50s-style diners were a big deal in the late ’90s. We ate burgers, drank milkshakes and laughed. I felt at home with my cousins. As the laughter died down, the dread returned.
I’d gaze out at my aunties and Nan, carrying their folding chairs back to the car, and again I’d choke back tears
Sport at my boarding school was compulsory. I signed up for netball, and my aunties and Nan would come and watch. I’d always loved the social elements of netball, but in the massive competition in the city, these qualities seemed to quickly diminish. My heart would drop at the final whistle, knowing it was back to the bus. I’d gaze out at my aunties and Nan, carrying their folding chairs back to the car, and again I’d choke back tears.
I didn’t really make friends at boarding school, but I held my own. The events of the first week weren’t repeated, and there were even moments of levity. One of the girls happily told us all that she’d dyed her pubic hair purple. Sunday roast ensured a gassy night of hilarity as slumber eluded us. On Thursday evenings, we were allowed to drag our doonas downstairs for a blissful hour of Dawson’s Creek. Still, I didn’t feel at home.
Casey’s cubicle at school. Source: Supplied
The clincher came when my boarding supervisor resigned. The new supervisor asked to look at my term 3 report and, upon seeing my grades, called me a square. I finally felt ready to broach the subject of leaving with Mum and Dad. I finished the year with the Year 10 Academic Award. Mum and Dad surprised me by turning up at the awards night, and I’m confident the trophy remains on display at their house to this day. But no accolade could keep me in boarding school.
I felt elated knowing that my days at boarding school were numbered
I felt elated knowing that my days at boarding school were numbered. I was miserable. My parents had relented and gave me the opportunity to live in nearby Bayswater with my aunty, allowing me to commute to school instead of boarding. Catching the train and bus to school brought freedom.
My aunty cooked corned beef, green chicken curry and rice, and chilli con carne. We continued the Thursday night Dawson’s Creek tradition together. I went to my cousin’s footy games and walked down to another aunty’s house whenever I felt like it.
Sometimes I walked towards the river, down to my Nan’s house. My mum, dad and brother occasionally came and stayed. And when I needed to, I could shut the door to my room. I was home.
Casey Mulder (she/her) was born and raised on Ballardong Noongar boodja and is an educator, writer and editor. She currently has a Writing Fellowship at the Centre for Stories in Perth and is the First Nations Editor for Westerly Magazine.
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