Shauna's Great Expectations

by Kathleen Loughnan

  ‘What? With the baby?’

  ‘You could leave the baby with your mum for a week or two couldn’t you?’

  ‘I guess so . . .’

  Right at this moment, I feel like I’m going to miss out on so much that I can’t even force myself to sound excited about the prospect of visiting Jenny. What would the point be? To experience, with bitterness, what great things might have been, but weren’t?

  ‘You could leave the baby with Nathan,’ Jenny says casually.

  I feel a sudden stab of annoyance. ‘You know that Nathan’s not going to be part of our lives, Jenny.’

  ‘But you are going to let him see the baby, aren’t you?’ When I don’t answer, she takes a long sip of her hot chocolate. ‘I suppose it’s your choice.’

  ‘Like it was my choice to tell the school about the pregnancy,’ I say quietly. Bitchily.

  A strange expression comes over Jenny’s face. A combination of shock and betrayal. She blinks at me from behind her glasses for a few seconds before responding.

  ‘So you’re still smarting, Shauna,’ she says with restrained anger. ‘After all this.’ She gestures around the hospital cafeteria, as though I should be grateful for the stale sandwiches and soggy donuts that surround us. ‘I thought you wanted help.’

  ‘No, you thought I needed help.’

  ‘Was I wrong?’

  I grit my teeth. ‘You can be really judgemental sometimes.’

  ‘You can be really irresponsible sometimes,’ she dares to reply.

  I move forwards on my chair and its legs screech against the ground. I try to stay cool.

  ‘You just said it was my choice whether to involve Nathan or not.’

  ‘And it is. Doesn’t mean you’ve made the right choice, though, does it?’

  ‘What do you care, Jenny? It’s my life. Why are you trying to stick your nose into everything? You’re lucky I’m even speaking to you after the crap you put me in with Mrs Green!’

  I push my chair back from the table, resulting in another loud screech, and clamber to my feet. People at the other tables stop talking and stare at me. I’m getting quite good at making a big, pregnant spectacle.

  ‘Sit down,’ says Jenny in a dangerously low voice. I’ve never heard her sound so tough. I sit. I fold my arms over my enormous boobs. When the other diners begin to go about their business again, Jenny starts talking.

  ‘I care about you,’ she tells me, still in the low voice. ‘You’re my best friend. And do you want to know why you’re my best friend?’

  I take a deep breath. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you’re so smart and so brave. Think about it, Shauna. Our backgrounds are really different. I’m not like Lou-Anne or Olivia. They follow you around like bad smells because you’re charismatic but safe for them. You guys were always going to get along. You and me though, we had to get to know each other, didn’t we? We weren’t even friends until Year 10. So I know that you probably think you powwow better with Lou-Anne than you do with me, and maybe in some ways you two are closer, but our friendship grew out of a crack in the footpath. That’s why it’s so strong.’

  Jenny’s eyes are shining with tears now.

  She continues, ‘So when I tell you that I care about you, I hope you know how much I mean it.’

  ‘You think I’m going to hurt my baby by leaving out Nathan.’ Now my eyes are stinging, too.

  ‘Don’t you think it would be better if she knew her dad?’

  ‘But what if he doesn’t want her . . . want us?’

  ‘And that’s the other thing,’ says Jenny. ‘I want you to have Nathan.’

  I nod. ‘For help with the baby?’

  ‘For love, Shauna.’

  On the way back to school, in Jenny’s car (in her family you get a car when you get your licence) I think about my dad and what my life would be like without him. How could my mum have coped? Would I have made it to Oakholme? Would I even be alive?

  Then I think about my parents and how they got together. They were young, clueless teenagers, too. They’ve had the toughest time any parent can go through, burying their son, but they’re still together and they never stopped loving one another.

  There was always lots of love. Always.

  I want Nathan to love the baby and me, but I’m so scared that he won’t. What will I do if he doesn’t?

  As if reading my mind, Jenny suddenly pipes up. ‘There are other guys out there, too, don’t forget.’

  I smile. ‘Hypocrite. I’ve been telling you that ever since you clapped eyes on Stephen Agliozzo. It took you a while to take your own advice, didn’t it, Jenny Bean?’

  28

  LOU-ANNE’S BIG DAY arrives and body and mind are set to bust. Miss Della found a hideous red taffeta dress that Lou-Anne modelled in the dorms this morning like a Disney princess in a red meringue, swishing up and down the staircase. I swear I saw the Reverend Doctor Sterling McBride’s eyebrows jump.

  Lou-Anne and Miss Della have already left for the Opera House. Later this afternoon, Bindi, Indu and I are going to join her for the auditions for Opera Australia’s Young Artist program, which are open to the public and a huge deal. I feel extremely nervous for Lou-Anne and I hope that she has packed a double dose of whatever tranquiliser she’s intending to use to smooth out her nerves.

  What to wear to the opera when you’re eight months pregnant? That’s what I’m contemplating when Olivia Pike walks into our room with a bouquet of gerberas. You know the type, with wire stuck up their stems to keep them erect and happy-looking.

  ‘Hey, what’s this all about?’ I ask her chirpily, sure that the flowers are for me.

  Olivia smiles uncertainly. ‘Auntie Marilyn had them delivered for Lou-Anne.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, slightly embarrassed.

  Bindi, who’s lying on her bed, smiles smarmily without looking up from her book. ‘Well . . . she’s at the Opera House right now. You can just leave them.’

  Olivia stands there like a pillar of salt. ‘I was actually hoping to give her the bouquet myself.’

  ‘She won’t be back until tonight.’

  ‘But I could come with you guys.’

  ‘Well . . .’ Bindi looks up from her book. ‘Yeah, of course you can.’

  ‘But . . .’ I’m not sure Lou-Anne would want Olivia there.

  ‘But nothing, Shauna,’ says Bindi. ‘It’s my brother’s car and I say she can come. As long as Miss Maroney okays it.’

  I shrug. ‘Well, I guess so, then.’

  Olivia leaves the room with the bouquet and a spring in her step. ‘I’ll call Marilyn right now!’

  ‘Bindi!’ I shout-whisper when she’s gone.

  ‘Oh, stop being mean!’ snaps Bindi. ‘You and Lou-Anne are so hard on that kid.’

  ‘I am not!’ I reply indignantly. ‘I’m the one who convinced her to come back to school.’

  ‘So you could torture her a little more,’ adds Indu, popping out from behind the door of her wardrobe.

  The two of them exchange self-righteous smiles.

  ‘I see,’ I say, mock-pouting. ‘You’re going to gang up on me.’

  ‘To the contrary,’ replies Indu, ‘I think I’ve found something for you to wear.’

  ‘I hope it’s made of spandex,’ mutters Bindi.

  I look to Indu with interest. She smiles back coyly.

  ‘Remember that summer I went back to Mumbai and put on fifteen kilos . . .’

  We arrive at the Opera House in Bindi’s brother’s Alfa Romeo a few hours later. All four of us – Indu, Bindi, Olivia and I – are dressed to the nines, well for us, anyway. We all feel a bit ridiculous as we walk up the stairs, the harbour glittering behind us in the low afternoon sun.

  I’m cutting a dashing figure in Indu’s red-and-gold ‘fat sari’, which she’s wound around me to a reasonably elegant effect. I keep thinking it’s going to fly off, but she’s assured me it won’t. Olivia looks particularly lovely in a denim skirt and a lemon linen blouse. Not that I
would ever tell her that. She’s holding the bouquet of gerberas like a flower girl.

  We follow signs to the Concert Hall, where auditions are unfolding even as we enter. The disapproving faces of parents and other well-wishers snap around to chide us as we bustle in nervously. Someone shushes us. Opera crowds are scary!

  Taking nosebleed seats, we have to wait about half an hour for Lou-Anne’s audition. It’s an incredibly intimidating atmosphere, with a spotlight on the stage and all the judges sitting in the front row. I get wicked jitters as Lou-Anne walks on in her red, floor-length taffeta dress, but what looked like a gaudy joke in the Oakholme dormitory has a stunning effect onstage. There is something about Lou-Anne’s sheer scale, her wide, bare, brown shoulders, tapered waist and gigantic French roll, that makes the huge dress appear elegant.

  The piano accompanist starts to play and I hold my breath.

  Lou-Anne’s performance is spectacular. The notes pipe and soar from her throat to the jagged, angular limits of the Concert Hall’s ceiling, as if Lou-Anne herself were the musical instrument.

  ‘How can a person make a sound like that?’ Olivia whispers into my ear. That’s exactly what I’m thinking. The coloratura is a rare and magical goddess.

  I know that Lou-Anne must be nervous in the extreme, but there’s no visible evidence of awkwardness while she’s onstage. She blows the roof off the most famous opera house in the world. When the piece is finished and light applause descends, my friends and I in standing ovation, Lou-Anne glides to the front of the stage and bows deeply.

  I can see Deborah Cheetham clapping and smiling down the front. Gratitude floods into me. On a day like today, as brilliant black judges brilliant black, I feel lucky to be black and happy to be Australian. In this moment there’s nothing I would change.

  After the audition, we four less-talented folk make our way out of the Concert Hall and into the foyer. Lou-Anne and Miss Della emerge from the bowels of backstage a few minutes later, each as flushed as the other with excitement and pride.

  ‘That was amazing,’ gushes Olivia, handing Lou-Anne the gerberas.

  Lou-Anne’s grin gets even brighter. Olivia cringes with relief. I can tell that these two tough nuts are going to be friends when I go.

  When I go. It sounds like I’m about to die after a long illness, but I really do have the feeling of arriving at the end of a chapter.

  ‘Hey, Bollywood,’ says Lou-Anne, and it takes me a second to realise that she’s making fun of me and not Indu. She puts her arm around me, too, so that Olivia’s under one and I’m under the other. Miss Della takes a photo, which ends up getting published in the Oakholme College yearbook.

  Lou-Anne accompanies Miss Della to some kind of after-party that we’re not invited to. When she shuffles into the dorm at two in the morning, smelling like other people’s cigarette smoke and perfume, she tells me that she has been selected for Opera Australia’s Young Artist program. After she delivers the good news, we’re both so excited that we can’t sleep. The last time I look at my bedside clock, it’s 6 a.m., and we sleep in until lunchtime. That’s when I find that there’s a message for me that Nathan called. I screw up the note and toss it in the bin. I don’t have time for someone I don’t trust. It’s the end of Year 12 for Heaven’s sake.

  I’ve arrived at the beached whale stage. I think that’s the medical term for it, anyway. It’s hard to sit down. It’s hard to get up. It’s impossible to lie front-side down, and even lying on my back is painful. I can walk, but not too close to the harbour in case someone shoots a harpoon through me.

  We’ve just finished the third term of Year 12, which ended in typical madcap fashion with a concert where we poked fun at all the teachers – I did a great impression of SRF in religious robes – and meetings about the Year 12 formal, which I, regrettably, will not be able to attend because I will have just given birth. With a boyfriend and thus a partner for the formal in tow, Jenny’s been spearheading the organising committee with frightening enthusiasm. The big night will unfold at Taronga Zoo with a live band and a speech by Delta Goodrem. I’m not admitting to anyone how bummed-out I am about not going.

  On the last day, all the boarders, led by Lou-Anne, decide to have a baby-naming competition. Ten names are proposed and then voted for by secret ballot, which in the boarding house can never really be secret, as everyone recognises everyone else’s handwriting.

  Anyway, after a noisy meeting in prep. hall, everyone comes thundering up the stairs into our room to deliver the good news. The top three baby names, in ascending order, are: Addison (as in the disease? yucko!), Piper (this is an occupation, not a name), and coming in first place – wait for it – Keli (very funny). When I reject the lot of them out of hand, Lou-Anne looks smug. I think she really believes I’m going to name the baby after her.

  After the winning names are read out to me and I’m asked to choose between them, I announce, ‘The baby shall remain nameless!’ and everyone boos and hisses.

  For those of us in Year 12, the holidays will merge into stuvac, and almost all the Year 12 boarders plan to stay at school the whole time. There are no more formal classes, just revision groups for those who care to attend. I’m surprised that almost everyone, even the girls who aren’t academic, shows up to almost everything. Everyone’s feeling the pressure but everyone’s trying. I suppose that’s one of the reasons that parents pay so much to have their daughters come here, to make sure their kid is in with a chance. I know only too well that at some schools in this country, only the really intelligent and self-motivated kids have that chance.

  I do most of my study in bed, propped up on pillows. Indu and Bindi bring me food. Bindi’s sister-in-law, Maria, makes me a dish of galaktobureko, a pastry and custard dessert, which I keep beside my bed and eat over the course of two days. Then she brings in a tray of peppers stuffed with lamb and rice. Then she delivers a tray of moussaka.

  ‘That baby’s going to come out Greek,’ Bindi keeps telling me.

  ‘I don’t think it works like that,’ Indu keeps telling Bindi.

  I’m hungry enough to eat all day, but tragically I can only keep a plateful of food down every few hours due to my wicked acid reflux. Beryl the baby* (*not her real name) is slamming her growing self in all directions, including up against my stomach, rendering it very small and hostile to the large meals I’m dying to eat.

  Beryl’s also putting pressure on my pelvis and bowels, causing bottom trumpeting that becomes particularly unruly when I’m asleep. One afternoon Lou-Anne uses Bindi’s smuggled phone to take footage of me in the middle of a nap with a French grammar book spread over my face. My farting is so loud and brassy that she manages to splice the soundtrack into something resembling Richard Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries. Think bombs dropping. Think invasion of Poland. Think Apocalypse Now. That’s what slumber sounds like with Beryl the baby on board.

  ‘When you’re a famous journalist, you’d better write good reviews of my opera performances, or else this video is hitting the internet.’

  ‘There’s a book over my face,’ I reply smugly. ‘No one’s gonna know that it’s me.’

  ‘What other pregnant black chick wearing an Oakholme jersey would fall asleep with a French book on her face?’

  I suppose she has a point.

  What’s really distracting me from study, though, even at thirty-seven weeks, isn’t Beryl or my friends, but thoughts of Nathan. Before the end of term my father took the liberty of calling Nathan’s parents, who were apparently quite shocked by the news. It hurts me to think that the baby and I are so unimportant to Nathan that he wouldn’t even tell his parents about the pregnancy. Dad says that the O’Briens want to come to visit me before the birth, but I’ve shut down any such plans. I suppose I’m afraid of giving them a free kick at me. I’m tired of being blamed and criticised for something that two people were responsible for.

  My parents can’t afford to come to Sydney on my due date and just wait around until something happens,
so I’m going to call them when I go into labour, which is something else I feel apprehensive about. Medically it should be no problem because I’m so young and the pregnancy is normal. I know that homo sapiens have been giving birth for millennia with nothing to quell the agony but a stick between the teeth, but it sounds like hell to me. Lou-Anne and I have streamed some antenatal classes in prep. hall, but honestly, she was more into the silly breathing and noises than I was. Hyperventilating like that makes me feel sick. I think when I go into labour I’ll just be screaming.

  A few days into stuvac and I’m in my usual glamorous position in bed, propped up on pillows with my legs spread in front of me. It’s late afternoon and Olivia’s sitting on the end of my bed, wasting my time. We often hang out like this when Lou-Anne’s at singing practice, comfortable in silence, talking only if we feel like it.

  Then in walks Keli carrying a gigantic basket squeaking with curly ribbon and cellophane. Still far from comfortable around my gingernut-nemesis-capable-of-the-occasional-good-deed, I immediately prickle up and expect some kind of hideous prank.

  ‘What can I do for you, Keli?’ I ask coolly from my recumbent position. Olivia glances up at her and immediately looks back down.

  ‘Special delivery for the . . . ah . . . special delivery.’

  I raise my eyebrows.

  ‘It’s a present from the Parents and Citizens Association.’

  She plops it between my legs. ‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ she asks after a few seconds of motionlessness on my part.

  I shrug and then begin tearing at the cellophane unceremoniously. It turns out to be a perfectly nice hamper packed with stuff for Beryl (singlets, jumpsuits, booties, a blanket and baby soap) and a few things for me, too (chocolate, a face masque and a funny book about what to expect when you’re expecting). The most interesting thing about opening a present from Keli Street-Hughes is subtly watching her unsubtly watch me do it. She’s interested in my polite reaction. Very interested. She’s on tenterhooks as she observes me looking at things and responding to them.