by Clare Atkins
And then: ‘Who was that?’
I say, ‘Just a girl going to the library.’
I think: a bird, a stupid bird.
Bet she thinks I’m a nerd.
Of all the things I could say.
Nibbs sighs, ‘What’s going on?
This behaviour isn’t like you.
You’re normally okay.’
(Not great, don’t get carried away.)
‘Are you finding the work too hard?’
I shake my head.
Silence yawns.
He tries the matey approach.
‘Everything alright at home?
It’s just you and your dad now, right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘How’s Lara liking Sydney?’
‘She says it’s okay.’
‘You could get into Medicine too if you applied yourself.’
‘Sure.’
(The only thing I’m sure of is the scepticism in my voice.) Wings beat the air above us.
A feathered breeze.
A second pigeon lands on the Carpentaria palm.
I smile.
Nibbs watches me, concerned.
‘Jono, I hope you know you can talk to me
if something’s wrong …
Or if you want to see the counsellor again.’
I shake my head.
‘It’s fine. I’m fine.’
And in that moment I believe it too.
ANA
I join the rest of our class in the library, in an alcove littered with beanbags. Jamileh is nestled into one, leafing through a picture book called The Rabbits. Zahra is browsing the shelves.
Ms Vo projects her voice so that everyone will hear. ‘Remember, it’s called a related text for a reason. Whatever you borrow today has to have a link with The Outsiders.’
One of the Mohammeds asks, ‘What about a movie, Miss? Can it be a movie?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘What about Fight Club, Miss?’
She gives him a wry smile. ‘How did I know you were going to choose that?’
The Greek Chorus’ ears perk up. ‘What’s Fight Club?’
‘It’s this movie about guys who fight.’
‘And what?’
Mohammed One launches into an enthusiastic description of the fighting and the club and the rules.
Ms Vo picks up a book from the shelf. ‘Or what about this? The Simple Gift? This is a great book. It’s about a boy who runs away from home.’
‘Does he fight?’
‘Well, no, but –’
‘Then I choose Fight Club.’
‘Me too.’
Ms Vo sighs, then turns to me. ‘What about you, Anahita? Anything catch your eye?’
I show her the picture book I’m holding. It’s called Home in the Sky by Jeannie Baker.
She nods her approval. ‘That looks like an excellent choice.’
I examine the cover: a vast blue sky, and a man on a rooftop surrounded by small white birds.
KENNY
I arrive home from work to see my sister, Minh, out the back of our house, spreading compost around some young watermelon plants. She lives not far away in Nightcliff, in a one-bedroom housing commission flat with no garden, so she’s taken over ours.
She waves hello, as I climb out of the car.
I call, ‘Jonathan home yet?’
She answers in Vietnamese. ‘In his room, I think. Dzoung …’ She’s never gotten used to calling me Kenny. ‘Have you got your roster yet? Can you drive me to the market next week or should I ask Phoung?’
Minh doesn’t have a car, just a rattly little motorbike, which clearly can’t transport boxes of vegetables.
I sigh. ‘It’s okay. I can take you.’
I go inside and turn the ceiling fan on to three. It clicks and whirs. I can hear Jonathan’s footsteps in his room, but decide to take the rare moment to relax. I pull my damp work shirt off and flop onto the couch. The worn velvet sticks to the sweat on my back. There’s a book open on the coffee table. I recognise it immediately: The Slater Field Guide to Australian Birds. It used to be a common sight around our house, but I haven’t seen it in ages. I thought Roxanne took it with her when she left last year.
I lean forwards and see pencil ticks next to the pictures of birds Roxanne and the kids have seen. Lara’s ticks are tiny and neat. Jonathan’s are oversized and dark. Roxanne’s are loopy and flowing, like her handwriting. Next to a picture of a white bird she’s written: lover birds, always stick together in pairs.
The words hit me like a punch to the heart.
I close the book and shove it back on the shelf.
ANA
Ms Turner’s eyes sparkle at me from the front of the room. She gesticulates wildly, hands flying, as she shows us a map of the world, pointing out all the places Darwin went on his voyage. It’s hard to believe anyone would choose to spend so long at sea just to explore and look at animals.
But at least, from the slides, his boat looks sturdy. It is enormous and wooden, with lots of cabins and billowing white sails; more than five times the size of the Kingfisher, the boat that brought us here from Indonesia.
Ms Turner pauses mid-speech and walks to the back of the room. She stands in front of Jono and extends an empty palm. He pulls a small white headphone out of his ear, then takes his iPod from his pocket and places it in her hand. It is a well-worn routine; neither of them has to say anything.
I eye the iPod curiously. What does he listen to? What kind of music does he like? And why doesn’t he turn it off in class? Doesn’t he care that he’s wasting a chance to learn? He doesn’t even flinch when he gets into trouble; each time Ms Turner raises her voice, my insides leap into my throat.
Not-Jonathan sits beside him; he’s not much better. He’s constantly distracted by the girl who dresses like a boy. I’m guessing she’s his girlfriend, because I’ve seen them sneak kisses when they think no-one else is watching. No-one else is watching – except sometimes me. And occasionally Jono too. He glances across at them with something like disapproval. Or maybe envy. I don’t know.
Ms Turner moves back to the front of the class, and clicks to the next slide. This one is a bird in flight, white feathers splayed against a vibrant blue sky; clearly not Tehran. She tells us that when Darwin got home to England he experimented by breeding pigeons for certain traits, like white or black feathers.
I look from the slide to Jono, and see he’s already looking at me.
Something flickers between us, as delicate as a flame cupped in hands, protected from the breeze.
JONO
‘For fuck’s sake,
ask her to eat with us or I’ll do it.’
I pretend not to know who Will’s talking about.
Mel rolls her eyes. ‘We saw you smiling at her. Again.’
Will’s already pushing his way
out the classroom door.
I scramble to catch up,
knocking bodies aside:
‘Anahita …’
(I’m smooth like that. Casual. Cool.)
She turns to face me.
‘Hello?’
(It has a question mark, the way she says it.)
Will seems to have disappeared.
I say, ‘Jono, remember?’
‘Yes.’ Her pseudo-bodyguard appears beside her in the hall.
‘This my friend Zahra.’
Zahra nods hello.
Will reappears behind them
gesturing wildly for me to continue.
Or else.
I ignore his oversized encouragement,
and launch in:
‘Listen,
don’t feel like you have to,
but if you want,
you guys,
I mean girls,
could sit with us at lunch
one day.
Just if you want to.’
(What did I tell you? Smooth.)
Zahra angles a protective shoulder in front of he
r friend.
‘We eat upstairs.’
‘Oh, okay, cool, no worries then –’
I’m half relieved, but Anahita cuts over me:
‘But we can sit with you today?’
I stare. That smile again.
She turns to her friend.
‘You’ll come, yes?’
Zahra looks me up and down,
like I’m a potential terror suspect,
and mutters to Anahita, ‘If you are sure …’
(Clearly she is not.)
Hope flutters in my stomach,
alongside my nerves.
I say, ‘Great, I’ll meet you at lunch then.
Next to the canteen.’
ANA
He gives us a small awkward wave, as if his wrist is glued to his chest, then turns and moves off down the corridor. Not-Jonathan runs to catch up with him, laughing and slapping him on the back. I suddenly wonder if this is some kind of joke. Oh, you’re one of them. My gut twists and turns.
Zahra watches them walk away. Her eyes narrow, perhaps because Jono’s shorts are hanging halfway down his legs. He’s wearing a belt but that doesn’t seem to help; I can see shiny blue boxer shorts and smooth brown flesh.
She looks back at me, incredulous. ‘You really want to eat with him? Who is he, anyway? How do you know him?’
‘He’s … the son of one of the officers.’
‘What? Which one? Tell me it’s not Blockhead.’
‘It’s not Blockhead.’
‘Alhamdulillah. I thought you’d completely lost your mind.’
‘His dad looks like him but … more Chinese. His name is Kenny.’
‘You know you don’t have to say yes, don’t you? Just because his dad is an officer? It’s not like they can punish you if you don’t want to eat with their son at school.’
We’re walking upstairs now. Up and away from him.
I say, ‘I know but … I want to.’
‘Why?’
I can’t explain. I don’t even understand it myself.
I say, ‘Because … he’s different.’
‘Yeah, but not necessarily in a good way.’
She’s probably picturing Jono’s low-hanging shorts.
‘Please, Zahra. It’s just one lunch.’
‘If this was “one lunch” with a boy who wasn’t your husband in Iran you’d be rounded up by the police and given lashes.’
‘I know. But doesn’t that make you want to do it? Because we can?’
I can tell she’s wavering, but she says, ‘What about after that, if they ask you to eat with them again? You’ll think it’s rude to say no.’
She’s right, but I can’t worry about that now. I can barely think beyond today.
I say, ‘I might not even be here tomorrow. I could be transferred out tonight to God knows where.’
‘Or you could be here for two years like me.’
‘Please. I can’t go by myself.’
She sighs, giving in, but is emphatic as she repeats my words back to me: ‘Okay. But. Just. One. Lunch.’
We meet him at the canteen. He looks up as we approach.
‘You came.’
It’s hard to tell if he’s happy about that or not. I wonder if I’ve done the right thing by agreeing to come, but it’s too late to back out now.
He walks towards the entrance of the school, gesturing for us to follow. Then we’re out in the scorching sun, crossing the driveway, angling past parked cars. He sees me hesitate. ‘It’s cool. We’re allowed.’
Zahra shoots me a worried look, but I shrug and wave her on as Jono continues: ‘We always sit out here – even when it’s raining – ’cause there’s shelter. We call it the outer. You know, like, “meet you on the outer”. I don’t know who started it. Just always been called that.’
He seems nervous, but I don’t know why. This is his territory, after all.
We reach a small group of boys, sitting in what looks like an old disused bus stop. It is slightly cooler here, but the air is still sticky and hot. The boys’ backpacks are flung around on the ground, and they’re talking, eating, playing on their phones.
Jono sits down, leaning his back against the side of the shelter.
I hover, unsure where to sit or what to do. There is not a girl in sight.
Zahra’s discomfort radiates from beside me.
I recognise one of the boys from our English class. I remember him saying he’s from Sierra Leone, but his name escapes me now. Luckily, he says, ‘I’m Ibrahim, yeah?’
I nod hello, but before I can reply he turns back to his phone.
The scruffy brown-haired boy next to him grins up at us.
‘Well, hello, ladies … I’m Mac.’
Not-Jonathan shoves Mac and grins. ‘Watch this one. He’s trouble. Jono’s much nicer.’
Mac shoves him back, laughing. ‘Thanks a lot!’
I’m relieved to see the boy-girl appear, in a happy tangle of dark curls. She kicks Jono as she moves past him. ‘Bloody Nippy – why do you always get the backrest?’ She flops on to the nearby grass beside Not-Jonathan, who is lighting a cigarette.
He flashes us a smile. ‘I’m Will, by the way. Take a seat.’ His teeth are perfectly white and straight. I could swear Zahra blushes, as we sit down.
The boy-girl nudges him, ‘Turn it off, will you?’
‘What?’ He gives her a look of innocence and laughs. ‘Geez. Just being friendly.’
The boy-girl turns back to face us. ‘I’m Mel … Hi, Zahra.’
I double-take, as Zahra says, ‘Hi, Mel.’ Her voice is stilted and strange.
Mel says to me, ‘What’s your name?’
My mind goes blank. All I can think of is KIN016.
Zahra comes to my rescue. ‘Her name is Anahita.’
Will says, ‘Cool. Easy. We can call you Ana. Us Aussies love shortening names.’
Mel says, ‘So, Ana … you from Darwin or didja just move here?’ Her accent is so strong it sounds like she’s chewing her words.
‘Do you speak English?’ She speaks more slowly this time, pronouncing each syllable distinctly. In contrast to the fact she seems to be wearing a boy’s uniform, her lips are carefully smeared with an almost-translucent pink colour.
I say, ‘Yes’, at the same time Jono says, ‘Mel!’
Her golden brown eyes widen. ‘What? It’s a fair question!’ She articulates slowly again. ‘Where are you from?’
I understand this time. I say, ‘Iran. Where are you from?’
It’s a genuine question but for some reason Jono laughs, almost delighted, as if I’ve said something clever.
He says, ‘Yeah, Mel – do you speak English?’ His eyes are dancing.
Mel hits him. ‘Shut up, fuckwit.’
Zahra flinches beside me.
Will grins. ‘I’ll give you a hint: her full name’s Melita Agape Williams.’
I must look confused because Jono offers, ‘Her mum’s from Greece.’
Mel kicks him again, harder this time. ‘So what? I was born here. I’m a halfie like you, you Nip.’
‘Whatever, Malacca.’
They seem to be laughing and fighting at the same time. I have no idea what’s going on. I try to catch Zahra’s eye, but she’s staring at the ground, the trees, anywhere but Mel and Will, who have started to kiss.
Jono pretends to vomit. ‘Guys, we’ve talked about this!’
Will shoves Mel away from him, laughing. ‘Sorry! Sorry! Let’s eat.’
I try not to stare at all the food: Jono’s meat pie dripping with sauce; Mel’s juicy red strawberries; and Mac’s chips that crunch so loud I hear every bite. Will has a triple-tiered chicken and salad sandwich. Ibrahim’s metal containers of rice and curry smell amazing. My mouth waters. It has been so long since I ate home-cooked food.
My face flames with embarrassment as I unpack my pathetic lunch. It’s identical to Zahra’s: a soggy cheese and lettuce sandwich, an apple and an orange juice.
Mac e
yes our meals. ‘You guys need to tell whoever packs your lunch to give you an upgrade.’
‘They can’t.’ It’s Jono. ‘You’re from the detention centre, right? I saw you on the bus.’
I’m grateful for the chance to finally explain. I say, ‘Yes. I meet your father.’
But instead of smiling, he stares. ‘What? What’s my dad got to do with anything?’
And suddenly it’s there again. That expression. That distaste.
I start to falter. ‘I … I meet him … on the bus. He say to … look for you.’
‘Ahhh …’ Mac grins, like he’s suddenly understood a joke. He nudges Jono. ‘And you thought she –’
‘Shut up!’ snaps Jono.
Will laughs, and Mel hits him. ‘You shut up too!’ she says.
Jono searches out my eyes. ‘So you were looking at me in class because of my Dad?’
I give him a hesitant nod. ‘He say … look for you … if I need help.’
He winces, as if he’s in pain. The smile in his eyes is gone. He scrunches his pie wrapper into a small ball and throws it, hard, at a nearby bin. It bounces off the rim and falls in.
Mac says, ‘Slam dunk!’ Then there’s an awkward silence.
I feel nervous as I ask, ‘Something is wrong?’
Mac says, ‘Nah, it’s nothing, Ana.’ But he seems to be smirking.
Jono snatches the cigarette from Will’s grasp and sucks in hard, like he wants to inhale the thing whole.
JONO
I drag my feet in the dirt,
as we head back towards the school.
The rubber sole of one of my Volleys
has come loose at the front.
It flaps with every step,
like the tongue of an overexcited dog.
I hear Ana’s voice beside me.
‘Your … special shoes.’
I can’t bring myself to meet her eyes.
‘They’re just laces. I can swap ’em over.’
She nods. ‘Thank you. For inviting us. For lunch.’
She follows Zahra towards the stairs.
They seem relieved to get away.
Mel punches Will. ‘Man, you’re an arsehole!’
‘Huh?’ He looks genuinely bemused.
‘Just ’cause Jono’s dad said to look out for him,
doesn’t mean that’s why.’