@page { margin-bottom: 5.000000pt; margin-top: 5.000000pt; } CAMP PSYCHOToday the loudmouths at school are crapping on about the Stirling Ranges like they’re the Himalayas, like they know all about wild camping and mountain climbing and trekking. They’re just full of shite, full of themselves. They probably know less about camping than Jerry does, and that’s saying something. At recess I can’t stand it anymore and have to walk away from the oval, away from them. Ms Carey’s eating a sandwich on the other side of the netball court, so I head over her way. She smiles when I’m nearly there. I try to be cool (hey, I don’t need to try, I am cool—right?), roll my eyes and sigh, ‘Camp, camp, camp.’ She laughs in surprise. ‘Don’t you want to go?’ ‘I wouldn’t mind; it’s just who else is going that’s a worry.’ She looks over at the kids carrying on. We can hear them from here. ‘There are plenty of others going, Alison.’ ‘Yeah,’ I sigh. Basketballs whine on the court like they’re pumped up too hard, and there’s that background sound of lots of kids’ voices, and the occasional scream. ‘Have you met Mr Taylor yet?’ she says after a bit. ‘The school psychologist?
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