by Clare Atkins
They get their answers from Ms Vo, then erupt in a babble of language I don’t recognise.
Zahra grins and whispers in Farsi, ‘They’re Greek – they’re always like this. I call them the Greek Chorus.’
Our class is small, just nine students including me. There is Zahra, Jamileh, a boy from Sierra Leone called Ibrahim, the Greek Chorus and two boys named Mohammed. I recognise one of them from the back of the bus.
The group is surprisingly supportive. When someone makes a mistake, no-one laughs, or not in a mean way at least.
‘Anahita?’
I hear my name, but nothing else. Blood rushes to my head as Ms Vo repeats the question. She has kind eyes, short-cropped hair and a slim-fitting skirt.
‘Anahita, did you want to ask about any of the words in chapter one?’
Her question hangs between us. I want to please her. I want to please her so much. I hear myself say, ‘Yes.’ Then nothing more. The words stick in my throat.
Jamileh nods her encouragement, and Zahra nudges me. Everyone is watching me, waiting.
A word leaps out from the page in front of me. I ask, ‘What is … Ponyboy?’
A few people laugh, but Ms Vo hushes them. ‘Who can answer Anahita?’
One of the Mohammeds says, ‘Ponyboy is his name. The name of … main character.’
I ask, ‘Is this … Australian name?’
Ms Vo shakes her head. ‘The book is set in America, and even there it’s definitely not a common name. They call him Pony for short, as a nickname. Does everyone know that term: nickname? It’s a short, made-up name, like how Pony calls his brother Darren, Darry. Has anyone here got a nickname?’
Both the Mohammeds say ‘Mo’ and then laugh.
The bell rings, and the students’ smiles dissolve into hurried packing up.
Ms Vo raises her voice above the bustle. ‘Everyone look up five more words that you don’t know from chapter one tonight, please.’
I collect my things and consult my carefully folded piece of paper.
Zahra leans over to see. ‘What have you got next?’
‘Science.’
She frowns. ‘Why didn’t you choose Art? We could’ve been together the whole time.’
‘Science is my favourite subject.’
‘But you’ll be alone.’ She says it as if being alone is the world’s most terrible thing, as if she hasn’t been through far worse. ‘I bet you could still change … or skip it today if you want …’
But I don’t want to. I shake my head.
‘Want me to walk you down there?’ She’s like a little mother shepherding me through my first day of school.
‘I’ll be okay.’
‘Are you sure?’
I’m not sure at all. A class full of Australians. What if they ask me questions? Or laugh at my English? Or ignore me?
And how will I find the room? I check the timetable again. It says: Mainstream. Room 2B. What if I get lost? I picture myself floating in a sea of uniforms, all of them the same. The thought is both terrifying and exhilarating
I say, ‘I’ll see you after class.’ I sound more confident than I feel.
I head towards the stairs, pausing to give Zahra one last wave. And then she’s gone.
The concrete stairs swallow me as I descend.
The teacher welcomes me into the class with a beaming smile and introduces herself as Ms Turner. She tells me that her mother is Persian.
‘Not that I speak the language,’ she adds, apologetically. ‘The only word I really know is my name: Pari. Fairy.’
A boy at the desk next to mine smirks, and I hear him whisper that Fairy is a gay name. I don’t understand. I’ve always loved the name Pari. It suits her too; she’s short and elfish and seems to float around the classroom, a secret light behind her eyes.
She explains that they are studying evolution, and someone called Darwin. Perhaps it is who this city is named after, I’m not sure.
Ms Turner presses a small remote control in her hand and a picture appears on the whiteboard at the front of the room: an ape, its hunched form gradually becoming more upright and less hairy as it walks across the screen until, in the last image, it is a human.
The chatter at the back of the room becomes sniggers. Ms Turner pauses mid-sentence, and I think she’s going to yell, but then her eyes twinkle, as she says, ‘Of course some of us are a little more evolved than others … what do you think, Jono?’
Some students erupt into laughter. I follow Ms Turner’s gaze and see a boy slouched at a table up the back of the room. His face is half hidden by a curtain of straight shoulder-length brown hair. He’s wearing a long-sleeved black top under his uniform, despite the heat. It makes his body look thin and angular, jutting off his stool in sharp lines.
He mumbles, ‘Guess so, Miss’, and shoves his hair back from his face. It falls forwards again straight away.
Ms Turner says, more pointedly this time, ‘I would really love it if you three could listen.’ It’s aimed at the boy – ‘Jono’ – and his two friends, a tall blond boy and a girl who seems to be dressed like a boy. They smirk at each other.
Jono scowls, but I’m not sure if it’s at the teacher or his friends.
Ms Turner says, ‘Maybe you can read the next paragraph for us, Jono.’
He shrugs, then starts to read.
His voice is softer than I imagined. I thought it would be harsh and angry; his body language seems to say: Stay away. But as he reads his voice becomes almost animated, like he’s forgotten to be bored.
JONO
The new girl is staring at me.
Eyes, almost black,
flicker shy
up, down, then back.
Is there something in my teeth?
Can she see the zit on my neck?
I squirm in my seat.
Will grins. ‘What have you got that I don’t?’
(He’s joking, of course.
It’s always the other way around.)
‘Send her a note.’
I aim a kick under the table.
Turner says, ‘Jono, please.
Don’t make me say your name again.’
I sneak another glance.
The girl’s facing the front now.
The fabric wrapped around her head
cascades over her shoulder,
pooling on the desk below.
She senses my gaze and turns around again.
Dark brown eyes lock on mine.
Her gaze is curious,
unapologetic and strong,
like she knows herself;
maybe even knows me.
The corners of her lips bend into a curve.
Mine do too.
She makes me want to
sit up straighter,
get a (better) haircut,
catch my breath.
The bell rings.
She jumps up, alarmed.
(Pun intended. I do listen in English. Sometimes.)
Packs her books in a hurry.
Walks to the door
and suddenly
stops.
Skin
shrinking
by
the
second.
She takes
a slow step
into the corridor
then looks back
through the doorway
at me
– me! –
with a question in her eyes.
ANA
‘There you are!’ Zahra appears in the hallway and scoops me into a stroll. ‘Was it okay?’
I nod, wishing she hadn’t arrived quite so soon. I wanted to ask that boy if he is Kenny’s son. The teacher called him Jono. She said it quite often, perhaps every ten minutes, a small crease appearing between her eyebrows each time. I’m almost sure it’s him though. He looks like a stretched-out, sun-kissed version of his dad. His hair is lighter than Kenny’s, his skin more tan and less yellow. But then he smiles, and those eyes
, they’re the same. Triangles of kind darkness.
I glance back down the hallway and see Jono exit the classroom. His blond friend, Not-Jonathan, is beside him. Not-Jonathan is paler, taller, musclier, green-eyed. His hair is swept across his forehead as if the wind blew it so hard in one direction that it got stuck there.
Not-Jonathan sees his friend looking at me, says something and laughs.
I remember twirling happily in my uniform this morning. Maman said I was beautiful, and Arash clapped his little hands. My grin took over my face as I stared at myself in the dull metal mirror in the bathroom. The uniform looked just like the ones the girls wear on Australian TV, and the thought delighted me: I am one of them.
But now, under the boys’ gazes, a new thought surfaces: this second-hand uniform, this dress that the officer gave me last night, has probably been worn by other girls. Other girls like me. How long were they at this school? And where are they now?
Zahra is watching me, waiting. ‘Anahita? More English now, yes?’
‘Yes.’ I breathe a little easier.
We turn the corner and start to climb the stairs back to the safety of higher ground. I link her arm in mine.
JONO
I think I see tongues.
Slippery pink eels darting in and out of dark mouth-caves.
I groan. ‘Guys. Please. We’re trying to eat.’
Mel laughs,
as she and Will
retract their body parts;
become separate entities again.
I take another bite of pie.
The oozing meat and sauce,
soft and sweet in my mouth.
(I’d eat ten if I could afford it.)
Will throws me a sheepish smile.
‘You coming to mine this arvo, Nippy?’
‘Dunno.’
Last year,
after school,
it was always the four of us.
But now it’s just me
and them
and the memory of Priya,
pulling me down,
down,
down.
I elbow Ibrahim. ‘What are you guys doing?’
He doesn’t hear.
Too busy Crushing Candy with Mac.
I’d escape into that world too,
if I had my phone,
or Will’s wasn’t flat.
Will teases: ‘Invite that new girl if you want.’
Mac’s girl-radar goes up. ‘What new girl?’
‘Some chick was checking Jono out in Science.’
‘Is she hot?’
Will says, ‘Prob’ly. She was wearing one of those head things.’
‘A hijab?’
‘Isn’t that the full-face one?’
‘Nah, that’s something else.’
We look to Ibrahim, our authority on all things Muslim,
but he’s lost in his digital crusade.
Mel frowns. ‘Aren’t Muslim girls really strict?
Like, I don’t think they’re allowed to date.’
Will laughs. ‘You’re not either, according to your mum.’
I say, ‘Doesn’t matter anyway. I’m not interested.’
Mac grins. ‘I might be. Reckon this girl’s a budju?’
I shrug. ‘She’s alright.’
But her smile is still dancing in the corners of my eyes.
ANA
Our next class is in the library. I stare at the row upon row of clean, crisp-edged books. ‘Are we allowed to take books … home?’
The word sounds strange and wrong. Home is my Baba’s study and the smell of freshly cooked curry on the stove.
Zahra nods. ‘You just put it through the metal detector.’
Jamileh attempts a sentence in English. ‘How many … we can … take?’
Ms Vo overhears. ‘We just have to sign you girls up to get library cards today. Then you can borrow whatever you like, for up to two weeks at a time.’ She turns to me. ‘Is there anything in particular you like reading, Anahita?’
I blush and look down. I’m a slow reader. One book in English can take me months. I know Zahra can read proper adult books in English, but I doubt Jamileh can. I make a mental note to ask her when no-one else is around.
To my relief, Ms Vo says, ‘Maybe you could just borrow some picture books to start off. You have a little brother, don’t you?’
I wonder how she knows. Are the teachers told everything? What else does she know about me?
I say, ‘His name is Arash. He is three years old.’
‘Perfect. You can read them to him then. He’ll love it.’
I smile, grateful that she seems to understand.
KENNY
I’m on edge all morning, thinking of Cara’s words. Surely she was exaggerating. The girl looked harmless. She couldn’t have been more than fifteen years old. And the fear in her eyes: it was real. I’m sure of that.
I consider asking Raj about it, but the video camera’s on. He’s filming from the doorway as I search a Hazara family’s room. I check all the usual hiding spots: under the mattress, in the covers, the drawers, the bathroom, the wardrobe.
I don’t find any contraband. I’m glad. I don’t want to have to write it up.
The pager sounds from my waist.
It’s Cara. ‘Kenny, where are you?’
‘In Surf.’
‘The school bus is leaving soon.’
‘I’m not coming. I was just filling in this morning. Rick’s going with you this arvo.’
She groans. ‘What’d I do to deserve that?’ She’s only half joking; every officer in here knows Rick is a jerk. Wherever he’s stationed there’s a good chance there’ll be some kind of trouble.
The pager clicks off.
Raj has the camera on pause now, so I take the chance to ask, ‘Hey, do you ever talk to the detainees?’
‘What do you mean by talk? Like hi, bye, how’s it going? Sure.’
‘No, more than that. Like, do you ever ask them about their lives? Or tell them about yours?’
Raj’s thick black eyebrows furrow. ‘Why would I do that? I’m not an idiot.’
My heart sinks.
JONO
I loiter after school,
near the main exit,
wondering if I’ll see
the new girl from Science.
Does she catch the bus?
Or ride? Or walk?
P platers start their engines.
Students stream into waiting buses like ants.
Mel appears and punches me on the arm.
‘So, you coming?’
‘I’m thinking about it.’
‘What if Will and I promise not to pash?’
She’s always like that.
Direct. Some say blunt.
(But it’s the blunt people who’d say blunt, right?)
‘You waiting for your new girlfriend?’ she teases.
I blush. ‘Don’t you start.’
‘Maybe I can wait too.’
‘Mel, please – go. I’ll see you there.’
She says: ‘Come.
We don’t need Priya to have fun.’
Then, thankfully, starts walking away.
I scan the crowd again.
Then I see her,
bag heavy on her back.
She’s flanked by the friend from this morning
and a tall white man.
Her dad?
Doubt it.
He’s pale with a stern-set face.
Hair cropped close to his oddly rectangular head.
Phone clipped to a belt.
He stops and checks cards
– bus passes? –
as the kids climb on.
He ticks a list
then looks around.
My eyes drop to his T-shirt.
It’s grey with a yellow circle embroidered on the chest.
The same one Dad puts on before his shifts.
ANA
Neither of the officers on the
bus home are Kenny. Instead there is the woman from this morning and a brash white man everyone secretly calls Blockhead; his head is angular and his expression is always icy. Zahra says to avoid him.
He yells for us to ‘Sit down, for Godsake!’ then takes a seat up the front, as far away from us as possible. He nods to the driver. ‘That’s all of them. Let’s go.’
The engine starts and the bus pulls away from the kerb. My eyes linger on the tall concrete buildings, students still swarming out the doors. Girls and boys, smiling and waving their goodbyes. Climbing into buses and cars as big as tanks. Stopping to hug and kiss, like they’re not going to see each other for years.
And in the middle of it all I see the boy called Jono standing near the entrance to the school.
He’s staring at our bus in something like confusion. Or shock. Or distaste.
His mouth is half open, like he’s saying, ‘Oh … you’re one of them.’
My heart drops into my stomach.
Zahra looks over at me. ‘You okay?’
I manage a nod. Then we’re round the corner, and Jono and the school disappear.
But his expression stays lodged in my mind.
JONO
I tick-tack through the streets
past the turn-off to Will’s.
I want to be alone,
so I head home.
Questions rattle ’round my skull.
So she’s a detention kid …
But what does that actually mean?
That she came on a boat?
Doesn’t look like it to me.
She holds her head high,
meets your eye, has pride.
How long are they out there?
And why do they lock them up?
I try to remember what Dad’s told me about his work.
But either I haven’t been listening,
or he hasn’t said much.
Probably both.
I glide across three lanes of Bagot Road.
A car horn blares indignation.
I give them the finger.
My board smacks into the gutter,
and I stagger forwards.
‘Fuck!’
ANA
Security checks our bags. The female officer behind the desk has a lanyard that says Milly White. She has red hair that curls like flames licking at her ears. She heaves my backpack off the conveyor belt, and passes it back to me. ‘What’d you do? Rob a bookstore?’