St Augie's Snitch by Ciaran Greig

“Two’s company, but three’s a crowd.”- Unknown

On Fridays, Hillary bleached the children’s art smocks. There were sixty of them in total, and she drowned them in a huge vat of warm water and sodium hypochlorite solution on the grass behind herclassroom. It was probably a little much, she knew, but she liked the smocks to gleam. And nothing made her happier than walking in on a Monday morning to rows and rows of spotless white smocks dried stiff as Cruskits. That sight was better than being on drugs. Not that Hillary would know.

You see, Hillary took pride in not being a typical primary school art teacher. If you stepped into her classroom, you wouldn’t find beaded bracelets on her wrists or paint-stained Bunnings fold-out tables, or even a hint of rainbow adorning her walls. You wouldn’t even find a stray sequin languishing on the linoleum. When she first started working at St Augustine’s Primary, she had her father help her install Perspex shelving units to tower high over the back wall of her classroom, filled with all manner of materials and organised according to frequency of use. Her favourite one of these Perspex containers was the one labelled in neat black letters, “CLEANING SUPPLIES”. Turpentine and methylated spirits smelt like home. There was nothing that calmed Hillary more than knowing she could dissolve stains on anything just with the right combination of chemicals.

They were coming towards the sticky end of the school year when it happened. Those weeks when November seems to stretch on forever and temperatures soar. Those weeks when the kids turn into messy, unfocused puddles in the classroom and spend most of their lunchtimes seeking the shade of the blooming jacarandas. Hillary trudged across the quadrangle at precisely 7.04 am and delicately dabbed at her upper lip with a tissue from her pocket. As she dug through her handbag for the keys to her classroom, her eyes caught a strange sight through the window. Paint. Spilt on the floor. Whole bottles of it. Splashed everywhere. A window at the back of the classroom had been smashed open by the assailant.

It was clear to Hillary, once she was inside the classroom, that someone had been looking for something. Hillary huffed. She had been teaching for fifteen years and never – not once – had someone treated her classroom with such indignity. Wouldn’t it have been so much more civilised, so much easier, to simply ask for whatever they were looking for?

As she walked outside and rounded the corner of her classroom, Hillary could see that they had found what they were looking for. Bright pink paint, by the looks of it. Wet, sloppy stripes spelled out the words: WATCH YOUR MOUTH, LORNA REICHL.

What a strange sight, Hillary thought. She had seen nastiness on the playground worse, if she was honest, but the peppiness of the magenta letters and the threat they spelled out was bizarre. Hillary had taught Lorna’s sons through all their years at St Augustine’s. They were perfectly pleasant little boys and Lorna had seemed so too. She saw a bald head rounding a corner nearby. “Norry!” she yelled.

The principal of St Augustine’s, Norris Patchett, appeared a second later, shaking his head at the impromptu mural scrawled across the wall. “I know. I’ve already had a call from Lorna,” he said, rolling his eyes.

“Already? How did she find out so quickly?”

Norry nodded towards the canteen.“Tuckshop duty. Went home in tears.”

“Ah.” Hillary stepped towards the paint. Whomever was behind it could really use some help with their technique. They had loaded up the paintbrushes with too much paint. Big globs of it had dribbled down to the ground below.

“What do you think they’re on about?” Hillary asked.

“Something about the bakesale yesterday, I think. Lorna said she found out one of the other mums was using a stolen recipe and well –” he trailed off. “Anyway. I’ll get the groundskeeper onto this. Do you need any help with that classroom of yours?”

Hillary shook her head, distracted. She was considering which of her products she would select from her cleaning cupboard for this job. There was no time to wait for the groundskeeper. She needed to act quickly, before the paint fully dried, and before the students started arriving. She got to work.

***

That night, Hillary soaked in her usual 9 pm bath while she scrolled through comments on the school’s unofficial Facebook group about the incident.

I just feel so sorry for the poor woman at thecentre of it. No-one deserves that.

Lorna Reichl let me know if you want me to take over your tuckshop convenor duties for the rest of the term. xxx (Hillary smirked at that one. Of course, the other parents were already descending on Lornato ‘relieve’ her of her coveted power as tuckshop convenor.)

OMG can’t believe someone would dosomething like this over a chocolate crackle recipe whatthe actual fuckkkkkkkkkk

The comments were coming in thick and fast. Hillary wasn’t surprised, really. There hadn’t been drama like this since the 2019 end-of-year Mass when Bobby Finkle farted – loudly – while alter-serving.

And then, almost lost in the sea of performative sadness, something else:

Glad to see you all enjoyed the display this morning. Only wish old Norry had left it up a bit longer. And have you heard? Apparently Lorna wasn’t the only one pinching recipes at the bakesale. Marco Newell looking at you.

The new commenter seemed to be operating from a burner account. There was no profile picture. But they did have a name: St Augie’s Snitch.

Comments swarmed in, like a hive of angry bees shaken from their home. Hillary felt a migraine blooming somewhere deep in her cranium. She turned off her phone.

***

By the time of their usual Tuesday staff meeting, talk had got around about the vandalism and St Augie’s Snitch. By then, the account had started posting regular updates: that one of the mums always ordered her friends' full-cream coffees even when they requested skim milk, that another person’s wife had recently disastrously tried to bring a third person into their marriage, that someone else was accusing their former friend of stealing expensive Christmas decorations while house-sitting last Christmas. Hillary wasn’t usually one for gossip, but she couldn’t help turning her ear whenever she heard someone discussing the unfolding events nearby. It just didn’t make sense. Even if all the gossip was true, how did St Augie’s Snitch know it all?

Due to the special circumstances, NinaBalzamo, president of the P&F Association, had been allowed to attend the meeting. She sat next to Samantha Woo, a well-liked Year 4 teacher. Hillary had often seen Samantha and Nina convening at school and around Ashgrove on the weekends. She remembered vaguely that they had both attended St Augustine’s when they were youngsters themselves. She found a class photo of them once when she was rifling through a dusty, old supply cupboard in desperate search of super-glue to fix a student’s broken model Trojan Horse.

She remembered their fluffy hair-dos and doughy eleven-year-old faces. There was a boy in the background, making bunny ears over their heads. In the photo, Nina was slightly blurred, as if she was just about to turn around and tell him off. Presently, Nina and Samantha were whispering aggressively under their breaths. Norry cleared his breath, but it did nothing to dispel the low hum bouncing around the room. Hillary waited, still and patient, as Norry gave it a second go. The room stilled and hushed.

“Thanks everyone for being here today, especially given the rather unsettling events of the past couple of days. I’m glad to report that the vandalism has been cleared but the culprit has not yet confessed to the crime. Nevertheless, I’m fairly confident this sort of vandalism is unlikely to happen again.”

Nina stuck her skinny little arm pinstraight in the air and held it there, completely still, until Norry was forced to acknowledge her. “Ah, yes, Nina?”

“Well, Norris, I must say that I do not understand why this matter is not being investigated by the police. An unknown individual walked onto these grounds and maliciously vandalised school property. I want to see them held accountable for their actions.”

Lola Harris, the new Year 2 teacher, had nodded vigorously along with every word Nina had said. Hillary thought she looked ridiculous. Like a bobble-headed doll. Hillary watched as everyone else shifted uncomfortably in their hard plastic chairs. She eyed Lola again, with her curly blonde curls falling down her back and her outfit that seemed to mimic Nina’s exactly. Right down to the bows on their ballet flats. She had watched Lola tagging along as Nina headed up school initiatives. She had never seen Nina reciprocate that adoration, now she thought of it.

“And how do we know it won’t happen again? Whoever it is has been pretty active on Facebook the last couple of days,” Lola piped up.

Norry fumbled with his notes, sliding his glasses further up his nose and squinting down at the papers in front of him. “Ah yes – on that note, Sheryl-Lynne in Admin has advised me this morning that she has successfully contacted The Facebook to request that the account held under the name ‘St Augie’s Snitch’, is removed from the platform.” Norry frowned and looked out into the crowd wistfully. “I expect we will receive a response from The Facebook very soon, given the gravity of this situation.”

Hillary caught a glimpse of Nina rolling her eyes in Samantha’s direction. “What a lot of good that’ll do,” she muttered under her breath.

***

By Friday, the account had over 5,000 likes and was becoming well-known across all of Brisbane. St Augie’s Snitch seemed to be taking pride in airing St Augustine’s dirtiest laundry. It was becoming, frankly, exhausting.

To make matters worse, the Snitch had zeroed in on one target in particular: Nina Balzamo. Hillary had never necessarily liked Nina Balzamo. She was brazen and blunt, and often not afraid to bulldoze others to get her way. But surely this was a step too far. The Snitch was posting accusations of workplace bullying, underpaying her babysitters, and perhaps less gravely, not allowing her children to dress up for Halloween.

On Friday morning, Hillary woke up with a flaring headache. It had only grown worse and worse since the St Augie’s rumour mill had gone into overdrive. Nothing was helping: not cleaning, not baths, not even the overdoses of paracetamol she was ingesting each day. Unable to sleep, she drove to work early, thinking she might be able to get some prep work done before the day started. As she crossed the quadrangle, she could hear voices echoing from the other side of her classroom.

“Norris. You need to get over this. It’s been thirty-five years. You need to get a god-damn life.”

“You hurt me, Nina. It still hurts.”

So Nina was there, and Norry too?

“It could have been perfect, Nina. You, me and Sam. Don’t you remember when we were all best friends? And then you two just left me behind. Don’t you realise how painful that was? Don’t you realise how lonely I am? And now we’re all back here together and it’s happening all over again. It just hurts so much Nina. To be excluded. Over and over again.”

“You need to move on, Norris.”

She heard Norry sniffle, and the clicking of Nina’s heels as she stalked beyond the boundary of the school grounds.

Hillary rounded the corner slowly, and saw that St Augie’s Snitch had struck again. Painted on the same wall was a new message: NINA BALZAMO IS A TWO-FACED BICH.

“You forgot the ‘t’,” Hillary called out.

Norry started, surprised to see her there.

“Me?”

Hillary stared him down. Norry rubbed his face with his hands. “I…I was feeling a bit emotional.”

Suddenly, it all made sense. The fumbling

references to ‘The Facebook’. His reticence to involve the authorities, or even take any real action at all. Even the gossip about other people – all a ruse so he could embarrass Nina for what she had done to him so long ago.

“God, I’m sorry, Hillary. I really am. It’s all such a big mess.”

“Pink,” Hillary said.

“What?”

“I mean, it’s an interesting choice. The classical colour for endeavours like this is red, don’t you think?”

Norry shrugged. “I didn’t mean to grab the pink. It was dark. And then I didn’t want to risk going back.”

Hillary looked up at the smears of hot pink paint all over the side of the building.

She sighed, and felt a tear trickle out of her eye. She had liked Norry. He had been a good mentor, and he had really cared about the kids. But now she felt like the whole school had been bleached by his corrosive words. She felt the school grounds stinging, as if his chemical words were dissolving the beauty in the school instead of the stains. “I don’t agree with this, Norry. Not one bit.”

Norry nodded.

“But promise me one thing? Don’t you dare sacrifice your artistic integrity like that ever again. A vibrant crimson would have been so much better.”

And with that, Hillary walked back to her classroom to prepare for the day.