‘Bean, Jenny?’ calls out our roll call teacher, Mrs Doyle.
‘Present,’ croaks Jenny.
Soon Mrs Doyle arrives at ‘Harding, Shauna?’
‘Yes, Mrs Doyle,’ I bray, ‘I’m present, no thanks to certain people in this room.’
Mrs Doyle looks at me quizzically over her reading glasses and then continues her clinical reading of the roll.
Jenny’s ears go purple.
French is my first class of the day. Miss Larsen eyes me carefully as I walk into the language lab. Jenny sits behind me.
‘Bonjour, la classe,’ says Miss Larsen.
‘Bonjour Mademoiselle Larsen,’ says the class.
‘I’m going to hand out your papers of Camus’s L’Étranger now. Congratulations, Jenny.’
She lays down Jenny’s paper first. I try not to gasp. Jenny turns it over and I sneak a peek. Nineteen point five out of twenty. At least she lost half a mark.
I wait in poker-faced agony as three more papers are given out before mine hits the desk. Sixteen point five out of twenty. A crap mark for me. The comment in the margin says: Not your normal lucid standard, Shauna. Careful not to paraphrase other commentators’ analyses. She’s written a large question mark at the end of the essay, where I see that I’ve repeated the same word three times.
Tears sting my eyes. I hate to make mistakes. Is this the way it’s going to be from now on, I wonder? Will I keep sliding backwards until I’m just average and I have to get a job somewhere like the post office in Barraba?
Disappointment must be splashed across my face, because Mademoiselle Larsen addresses me directly, right in front of the class.
‘It’s one essay, Shauna, and you’ve got legitimate distractions. Don’t worry.’
A humiliating silence falls. Jenny’s completely still. I feel like she’s enjoying this, like she’d be happy to get rid of me because she’s been afraid I’ll take out the French prize. Maybe the maths prize, too. She wants them for herself. She was happy to be my friend while I was coming eighth or ninth in those subjects, but once there was a danger that I’d overtake her, she decided to rub me out any way she can.
After French, I accost Jenny in the quadrangle.
I put on my widest poo-eating grin. It seems to terrify her.
‘Shauna, let me explain . . .’
‘Oh, let me take a wild guess. You’re trying to get rid of me because I’m a contender for the French prize! Or was.’
‘That is ridiculous.’
‘Then why?’
‘Look, I did tell Miss Maroney. Only because I thought you were being irresponsible.’
‘What’s it to you if I’m irresponsible or not? Who are you to judge me, Jenny Bean?’
I thought Jenny would just shrivel in shame when confronted, but she’s not backing down, not one step.
‘You don’t seem to have given any thought whatsoever to how you’re going to look after this baby. And what about pre-natal care? What if there’s something wrong with the baby that can only be fixed while you’re still pregnant? And that’s just the baby! What about you, Shauna? Do you think you can just rock up at a hospital once you’ve gone into labour? You have to have tests done before you have the baby. You could have gestational diabetes. I mean, you can die of that, you know.’
Put like that, her betrayal seems reasonable – well, almost. It did get me expelled.
‘You should have told me, Jenny. You should have at least warned me that you were gonna blab to Miss Maroney.’
‘And what would you have done? Would you have gone and had all the tests?’
‘Well . . .’ I consider the question sincerely. Well, would I? Or would I have coaxed, threatened or cajoled her into shutting her mouth? ‘Well, who says I wouldn’t have had all the tests?’
Even as I say this, I know I wouldn’t have had the tests if Jenny hadn’t let the cat out of the bag. But so what? It’s still not a good justification.
‘Honestly, Shauna, I don’t think you would have. I think you’re so caught up in your own righteousness that you’re not paying any attention to your health or the health of your baby.’
‘And who the bloody hell are you to interfere?’
‘Who am I? I am your best friend!’
‘Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but Lou-Anne’s my best friend.’
‘Well, you’re my best friend and I felt like I owed it to you and your baby.’
I can’t bring myself to forgive her or even to admit that she has a point. So I say, ‘Thanks a lot, Jenny,’ pretty nastily, and rush off to my next class.
By lunchtime I’ve had a chance to calm down and think about what Jenny said. I find her sitting by herself under the library stairs eating a sandwich. I sit down next to her and for a few minutes neither of us says anything.
‘Will you help me, Jenny?’
Jenny chews slowly and swallows before replying. ‘Yes.’
And that’s how I get put in touch with the maternity ward at the Royal Hospital for Women, where Jenny’s aunt is a midwife. I make an appointment for Friday morning, and no matter how things turn out at school, I know I’ll show up. Jenny’s going to come with me.
Just before English class, which is my final period of the day, Reverend Ferguson comes looking for me. She takes me outside to deliver the news. I know from the look on her face that it isn’t good.
‘The school board met over lunch,’ she tells me, her brow pulled into multi-directional creases, ‘and they’ve decided to let the expulsion stand. I’m so sorry.’
‘Can I go to my English class?’
‘I’m afraid not. I’ll take you back to the dormitory now. We haven’t been able to contact your parents, but Mrs Green sent a letter by express post, so they should receive it tomorrow.’
By now I know that Reverend Ferguson is on my side and doesn’t deserve to have pieces of my mind hurled at her. In fact, when we get back to my room, I thank her for standing up for me.
‘It’s really the least I could do,’ she says. She sounds like she’s about to start blubbering like a baby. ‘Can I touch it?’ she asks, in a splintering voice.
I nod and she puts her bejewelled hand to my rock-hard bump. As if on cue, Bob the baby kicks.
‘I felt that,’ she says, tears welling in her eyes.
‘He’s naughty.’
‘Do you know it’s a boy?’
‘Not really. I just have a feeling. I call him Bob the baby. When he was little, he was Fred the foetus.’
She laughs. ‘Fred the foetus. That’s cute.’ She strokes my belly for a long time, which is kind of creepy and nice at the same time.
‘I tried to have a baby,’ she says, ‘but I couldn’t. I had endometriosis, only no one knew what it was back then in the seventies.’ She keeps stroking me. ‘I think you’re very lucky to have this baby.’
‘It was kind of bad luck, though. I took the morning-after pill.’ I can’t believe I’m talking like this to Reverend Ferguson. Who would have thought she’d have any inkling about how babies are made?
‘And you fell pregnant anyway,’ she says. ‘Obviously Bob the baby wants to be born.’
‘I think he really does.’
‘God wouldn’t have let it happen if He didn’t think you could handle it.’
This is the first time anyone has mentioned God in relation to my baby. Reverend Ferguson, in spite of her job description, doesn’t usually bring up religion during personal conversations. In our early pastoral care sessions when I first arrived at Oakholme, we just talked about my family and my old school and friends. Far from forcing God down my throat, she always waited until I asked a question.
‘Do you think God wants me to have the baby?’
‘Oh, yes, Shauna. Of course He does.’
‘Then why is Mrs Green so dead against it?’
‘Because she, like you, lives in the real world. We’re all caught up in the middle of tensions. You’re going to have to forgive her, no matter what ha
ppens.’
Since our first meeting, SRF’s always been telling me that I have to forgive this person or that. Jamie. My parents. The police. Australia. Myself. It’s so much easier said than done.
We sit on my bed and talk until the final bell rings. Self-Raising Flour tells me about her soul-destroying attempts at pregnancy and how she felt when she finally realised that it was never going to happen.
‘I felt worthless. I don’t feel like that anymore, but at the time I felt like I had no value. I was so angry.’
‘I feel like that sometimes, too,’ I tell her.
‘It’s not fair on women, the Western attitude to babies. Babies are a blessing and sterility’s a curse. When will people realise?’
‘Realise what?’
‘That motherhood is feminism’s best-kept secret.’
‘I think that my people already know that,’ I tell her. ‘They know that having a baby turns you into a better person. My parents were happy when I told them I was pregnant. Well, once they got used to the idea.’
That’s when Reverend Ferguson tells me about a book called Sex and Destiny by a feminist called Germaine Greer. She promises to bring it to school tomorrow and give it to me if I’m still here.
‘I’m not leaving,’ I tell her. ‘They’ll have to lever me out the window with a crane.’
Reverend Ferguson gives me a great big hug, and as soon as she’s gone, I go to Miss Maroney’s office to call Sarah Hogan-Doran.
‘The expulsion stands,’ I tell her. ‘The school board’s not giving an inch.’
‘Do you want me to call my friend at The Australian?’
I don’t have to think for too long about that.
‘Yep.’
26
THE STORY GOES online at 4.22 a.m. the next morning. I stay up all night, waiting, thinking and occasionally running down to prep. hall to check the computer. When I refresh the website and the article comes up, I wake Lou-Anne and drag her downstairs.
‘Prestigious private school expels Indigenous student who refuses abortion,’ she whispers in her nasal morning voice.
‘It’s a hatchet job,’ I say.
‘Do you think it’ll make a difference?’
‘We’ll see.’
We print the article out and lie together in Lou-Anne’s bed reading it over and over again. My name isn’t mentioned and neither is the name of the school. This is part of Sarah’s strategy. She says that it gives me some room for ‘negotiation’. If the school doesn’t revoke my expulsion, we’ll release names. If they revoke my expulsion, Sarah will unleash another press release praising the school for its handling of the matter, and that will kill the story.
Sarah Hogan-Doran looks meek and innocent, but in fact she’s pure evil. I think she has a great future ahead of her as a lawyer. I can tell she’s really enjoying herself with my case. Not that she’s taking it lightly. No, not at all. She’s already looking for a barrister who’s willing to act in my case on a pro-bono basis (that means for free).
‘Hang in there, Shauna,’ she told me at the end of our conversation last night. ‘Be tough.’
And that’s exactly what I’m doing. I’m going through the motions, just like I did yesterday. And I mean it about the crane. I won’t leave the grounds of this school until physically forced.
By five-thirty, Lou-Anne’s snoring again, but I’m too wound up to get back to sleep. I decide to pay old Olivia a visit down the other end of the dormitory. I bet she’d like to know that I’ve made The Australian.
I’ve been sneaking around the dormitory building all night, but as I cross the upstairs foyer, I get a sudden feeling that I’m being spied on. And not by the Reverend Doctor Sterling McBride either. He lives downstairs.
I tread as softly as my rotund figure will allow, eyes peeled and adjusted to the darkness. A distinct sniffle rends the silence.
‘Who’s that?’ comes a strangled voice.
‘Who’s that?’ I whisper back.
‘It’s Shauna,’ I say at the same time as the voice says, ‘It’s Keli.’
‘What are you doing out here?’ we whisper in unison. Miss Maroney’s room is just a few metres away from where I’m standing. I edge closer to Keli’s voice.
Finally I can see the outline of her form. I wouldn’t have thought it was possible for Keli to make herself small, but she looks tiny, sitting in her pyjamas with her back against the door of her dorm room. Even in the shadows, I can see her eyes shining. With tears? I suppress the urge to say, Well, what the hell have you got to cry about, Tampon Princess?
‘Can’t sleep?’ I whisper.
‘No,’ she says, sniffing again. ‘What about you?’
‘Not a chance.’
‘Maroney’s going to hear us if we keep talking out here.’
‘I know.’
‘Wednesday detention.’
‘Who cares?’
I’m not going to sneak into Olivia’s room with Keli sitting here. I suppose I could go back to bed, but instead I decide to try something I’ve never done before. I guess I’m in a strange mood.
‘Wanna go downstairs?’
‘What for?’
‘Talk.’
To my amazement, she stands up. We tiptoe together down the staircase and then sit side by side on the bottom step under the Reverend Doctor Sterling McBride’s gaze. We’re here to ‘talk’, but neither of us says anything for a while.
‘So are they going to give you the boot, or not?’ Keli asks finally.
‘They’re trying.’
‘And?’
‘I’ll be okay, I think,’ I tell her. ‘I mean, either way. What about you?’
Keli gives this whimpering little sob, then covers her mouth.
‘S-sorry,’ she stammers. ‘I know I haven’t really got any problems compared to you . . . but . . .’
‘What is it?’
It’s lucky that it’s dark, because I don’t think we could talk like this if we could see each other’s faces.
‘Did the school send your parents your ATAR estimate in the mail?’
‘Yeah. But I’d already seen it.’
‘Well . . . me too. I just didn’t know that my parents were going to be so upset about it. Now I’m upset about it too.’
Oh dear. We get to the pointy end of school and, finally, even a girl as confident and full of herself as Keli begins to fret. I can’t imagine that her ATAR estimate would be sky-high, not unless the estimator was on drugs. But would that really come as a shock to Keli?
‘Is it that bad?’
‘Yeah, it’s pretty bad. I won’t be able to do a law degree anywhere, not even in a country university, not even if I pay full fees.’
‘You haven’t even done the final exams yet, Keli.’
I feel her shrug beside me. She knows as well as I do that you can’t just pull something off at the last minute, not if you’ve been asleep at the wheel all year . . . or, let’s face it, for your whole school life.
‘Why do you want to do law, anyway?’
‘I’ve always wanted to work at my uncle’s law firm in Albury.’
‘Can’t you still do that?’
‘Yeah, maybe as a secretary. But it won’t be the same. And my parents are so cut up about my marks. They were expecting more for their money. More from me.’ Keli sighs sadly. Then she says, with a hint of bitterness, ‘I suppose your parents are happy with your estimate.’
In spite of a few dodgy performances recently, my estimate is somewhere in the vicinity of – hmmm, let’s see – ninety-eight. And that’s what I deserve. Study’s a drag, and not everyone can resign themselves to the hard work. Not everyone’s meant to go to uni.
‘Yeah, they’re happy.’ I try not to sound smug.
‘I guess uni won’t be a breeze with a baby.’ She wipes her nose with her pyjama sleeve. ‘What are you going to study, anyway? Law or medicine, I bet.’
This is the first time Keli has ever asked me about my plans for the future. Sud
denly, to her, I exist.
‘No, I’m actually thinking about doing journalism and communications, probably combined with languages.’
‘French?’
‘At least French.’
‘And you’re going to become a journalist?’
‘Maybe. It’s pretty competitive these days. Even the really experienced people have trouble getting work. But there are people succeeding, and I don’t see why I shouldn’t be one of them.’
‘What about the baby?’
‘I’ll study online, and by the time I’m ready to work, the baby will be ready for school.’
‘You’re a pretty wilful girl, Shauna. I’ll give you that.’
I like the way she says ‘wilful’ and not something more complimentary or ordinary like ‘determined’, because I know she means it. And for once, she’s right.
‘I’ll manage.’ I lean over and bump my shoulder lightly into hers. ‘And so will you, Keli. You’re the Tampon Princess!’
We laugh our arses off – nervously at first – right there in front of the Reverend Doctor Sterling McBride. We wake up Miss Maroney, too, who wakes up half the other boarders yelling at us.
‘Two Red Marks each!’ she proclaims in her dressing gown from the top of the staircase, before stomping back into her lair and slamming the door behind her.
‘She can stick her Red Marks,’ I tell Keli. ‘I’m expelled anyway.’
‘Good luck,’ Keli says, as we trudge back up the stairs, each of us with our own cross to bear.
‘Yeah,’ I reply, not really sure whether she means it. ‘Good luck to you, too.’
I think about Keli later on while I’m getting ready for breakfast. It has never occurred to me before that her parents might feel disappointed with her performance at school, or that she might register their negative feelings. I’ve never thought about what it would be like to be average at school, and how that might play out against a backdrop of wealth and privilege and high expectations. I mean, my parents have high hopes for me, too, but they’re just that – hopes. They’re more or less delighted by anything I do. I’m pregnant at the age of seventeen and they still support me. I don’t know which I’d rather be – mediocre and rich, or smart and poor. I have to say, even after speaking to Keli, I can see the benefits of being mediocre and rich! And not pregnant.
Shauna's Great Expectations Page 20