The Yearbook Committee

by Sarah Ayoub

  ‘Well —’

  ‘Mr Fullerton!’

  I turn around and see Mrs H standing in the doorway, smiling.

  ‘And this is the third time in what — two weeks?’ she asks, looking at Mr Broderick.

  ‘Something like that, Miss,’ I reply.

  She raises her eyebrows, then frowns.

  ‘Would you mind stepping outside for a moment while I talk with Mr Broderick?’ she asks. I look from her to him and then sigh, picking up my bag.

  ‘Just wait out there,’ she says, motioning to a seat in the hallway. ‘I won’t be long.’

  I strain to hear their conversation, but only manage to catch bits of it. Him: ‘Sneaking out again’ and ‘frustrating’ and ‘learn his lesson’. Her: ‘proper way to learn’, ‘mature’ and ‘meet in the middle’.

  I tiptoe to the door and lean in closer, trying to hear more.

  ‘I thought we had agreed that the students would nominate themselves for that,’ he tells her.

  ‘We did,’ she says. ‘Only one has put her name down: Gillian Cummings. We do have a long list for the formal committee, though.’

  ‘Well, yes, they all know how to party, don’t they?’

  They both chuckle.

  ‘OK, well, if you think that’s a sufficient punishment,’ he tells her. ‘But I am not —’

  ‘Fabulous, it’s settled then,’ she says, opening the door. ‘Sorry for taking your time, Matthew. You can go back inside now.’

  I stand in front of Mr Broderick’s desk, bag in my hands.

  ‘It seems Mrs Hendershott is willing to give you another chance,’ he says with his hands apart, as if he doesn’t understand why. ‘And in lieu of a punishment, she’s going to make you work for your position here . . .’

  My eyes widen.

  ‘The school needs a yearbook. It’s a long tradition dating back to the school’s inception in 1932, and we’ve yet to miss a year besides 1944. War and all. You will be joining the yearbook committee.’

  ‘But, sir . . .!’

  ‘Would you prefer the debating team, or an athletics team of some sort?’

  ‘I’d prefer to clean,’ I mumble.

  ‘Yes, well, we pay a company to do that,’ he says.

  ‘How am I supposed to —’

  ‘You’ll have help,’ he says, as if that’s an assurance. ‘Mrs Hendershott will see to it. But if you want to be here, Mr Fullerton, you must prove it.’

  I shake my head in frustration. He looks at me for a moment then gestures to the door.

  ‘You may leave now.’

  I rush out of there and run out of the school grounds just as the end-of-day bell sounds. I had begged for the earlier shift, and now I’m going to be late for it.

  I arrive to work at the juice bar an hour late, and find my colleague Dionne in a bad mood.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, flustered. ‘I got in trouble.’

  ‘Matty,’ she says, exasperated, ‘you shouldn’t ask for more shifts if you can’t do them.’

  ‘I can,’ I say, putting on my apron. ‘But sometimes things get in the way. Like school.’

  ‘School’s more important,’ she points out. ‘Are you that desperate for money?’

  I ignore the look of concern on her face and shake my head.

  ‘I’ll be right,’ I mumble. ‘I’ll work something out.’

  She sighs and goes off to take her afternoon break.

  ‘Where’s all the fruit?’ I ask her when she returns.

  ‘Don’t get me started,’ she says, waving a hand in my face. ‘The delivery was wrong. All morning I’ve been getting people to change their orders.’

  ‘Again? It’s the second time this month on late-night shopping day. Have you told head office?’

  ‘I’ll call ’em tomorrow,’ she says. ‘As you can probably tell, I’ve had a crazy day . . . working on my own and all.’

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘I’ll make it up to you.’

  ‘Well, I do need a favour,’ she says. ‘I’m going to the movies with a cute guy from uni tonight, and my legs are in dire need of a little waxing. Can I sneak out at, like, 8.30?’

  I shrug. ‘Just go whenever we get quiet.’

  ‘Thanks so much,’ she says. ‘Let me ring the lady upstairs and see if she can squeeze me in. Otherwise I’ll just have to shave in the bathroom.’

  I shake my hand at her dismissively.

  ‘OK, I know. Too much information.’

  It’s an hour before closing when Sammy, one of our regulars, comes up to the counter with seven dollars in assorted coins. I’ve known him long enough to know it’s the entire contents of his moneybox, and I smile.

  ‘One Berry Bravo?’ I ask him.

  He nods excitedly and I print the order for Dionne, placing it in front of her.

  ‘Sammy, where’s Elliott?’ I ask him. Sammy has Down’s syndrome and always comes in on Tuesday and Thursday mornings with his carer, but tonight the bloke’s nowhere in sight. ‘Are you alone?’

  ‘Elliott’s on holiday. Dad said to skip my juices this week, but I don’t want to.’

  ‘OK, we’re making your drink,’ I tell him, aware that any change in his day-to-day could cause a temper tantrum.

  ‘We are out of strawberries,’ Dionne whispers into my ear.

  I turn around, eyes wide. This happened once before and the tantrum wasn’t pretty. Though I’m less concerned about the attention than I am about upsetting him. The kid cried last time.

  ‘What do I do?’ she presses.

  I look over to Sammy, who’s smiling politely across the counter.

  ‘He’d notice if we made it without,’ I tell her, biting my lip. ‘Go get some?’

  She rushes out of the store while I try to distract him with his other favourite topic: rugby league.

  A minute later, a woman comes over, looking flustered.

  ‘Oh, thank God,’ she says. ‘You were supposed to stay outside the change room and not move.’

  ‘Sorry, Mummy,’ he says, looking defeated. ‘I wanted my drink before they closed.’

  ‘And I told you to wait, and come next week with Elliot.’

  I busy myself tidying up the bags of popcorn on the counter, trying to avoid the conversation.

  ‘But I always have it on Thursday,’ he says, tears in his eyes.

  ‘Fine,’ she says, throwing her hand into her purse. ‘Get him a large of whatever he wants,’ she says to me.

  ‘Ah, he’s already paid,’ I tell her.

  ‘Then where’s his drink?’ she asks, looking at me like I’m stupid.

  ‘Um, my colleague just went out to get strawberries because —’

  ‘Oh, I don’t have time for this,’ she says, grabbing his arm. ‘Come on, Sammy. We’ll come back tomorrow.’

  ‘No! Only Tuesday and Thursday!’

  The mother glares at me and I feel stuck.

  ‘Sammy, mate,’ I say, ‘I’m really sorry, but we’re out of strawberries. Can we make you a Berry Bravo tomorrow?’

  ‘No! No! No! Supposed to be on Tuesday and Thursday!’

  By now, his voice has gotten louder and his mother looks even more frustrated.

  ‘Oh God,’ she says. ‘People are looking.’

  ‘My colleague’ll only be a few minutes,’ I tell her.

  ‘She better be,’ she snaps. ‘What kind of juice bar doesn’t have any fruit?’

  I shrug helplessly and turn around to see Dionne running down to the store just as the tantrum reaches its peak.

  She quickly washes the strawberries and makes his drink. I hand it to him.

  He’s immediately placated.

  ‘That mum was some piece of work,’ I tell her after they leave. ‘She left him alone to try on clothes, and then she didn’t want him to have his drink because she was in a rush.’

  ‘Some people shouldn’t have children,’ she says scornfully.

  When I get home, I see that nothing has changed. The lights are off and the curtai
ns are still drawn. The TV blares from the living room, but she’s not watching. I try not to think of the energy cost.

  I switch on the kitchen lights and see there are two empty yoghurt tubs in the bin. At least she’s eaten something.

  I check the messages on the answering machine. There’s one from her boss, asking if she’s ready to come back. ‘You’ve had a lot of time off,’ the lady says cheerfully. ‘We miss you.’

  I make a mental note to think up another excuse. Meditation retreat in Bali?

  Inside her room, Mum is in her usual spot, sitting on the bed, staring at the wall.

  ‘I’m home,’ I tell her.

  ‘How was work?’ she asks, not moving.

  ‘Good,’ I answer.

  ‘Good,’ she says, nodding. ‘Good, good.’

  I kiss her goodnight and go to bed.

  But I don’t sleep. Things are far from good.

  Tammi

  Tammi Kap is listening to ‘Hard out Here’ on Spotify. #hardouthereforabitch #LilyAllen #Bestsongever #girlpower #pressure #teen #girl

  Lauren Pappas likes this.

  Lauren Pappas Such a lil drama queen.

  ‘Do you know what sucks?’ my best friend, Lauren, asks from her seat at the table, her too-short skirt riding up her thighs. ‘The HSC starts two days after my eighteenth. I’ll probably rock up to the English exam hungover or still high, and I won’t even have anyone to brag about it to because everyone will be paying attention to their stupid studies so they can get a stupidly good ATAR and get into a stupid university and live stupid successful lives.’

  ‘Take a breath, ranty,’ Ryan says, leaning over to grab a handful of her chips. ‘And maybe buy a thesaurus. If I were you I’d be more worried about failing English because the only describing word you know is ‘stupid’.’

  ‘It’s called an adjective, you moron,’ she says, slapping his hand away as he reaches for more chips. ‘I know stuff.’

  He laughs and walks off.

  ‘God, he’s so hot,’ she says to me. ‘Why did we ever break up?’

  ‘More like why’d you ever go out to begin with?’ I ask, looking pointedly at her. ‘You guys have nothing in common.’

  ‘We have you and David,’ she says, smiling. ‘And our incredibly good looks.’

  I roll my eyes at her and pull my lunch box out of my bag.

  ‘Speak of the devil,’ she says, winking at me, as my boyfriend, David, walks over. He bends down and kisses my collarbone.

  ‘Hey, gorgeous,’ he says, smiling. ‘I have a surprise for you.’

  ‘You’re going to come watch my dance performance after all?’ I ask hopefully.

  ‘Eww, no,’ he replies, laughing.

  ‘Oh,’ I say, pouting. ‘Then what?’

  ‘Hey, don’t look so sad,’ he says, rubbing my shoulder. ‘I’m a soccer player. You know ballet’s not my thing.’

  ‘Yeah, but I watch all your games. This is a big performance. If I make state, I get to perform nationals at the Opera House.’

  He sighs, looking away. ‘I know, you’ve explained it before. But even if you beg me a hundred times, I still wouldn’t wanna go.’

  ‘Some boyfriend you are . . .’ Lauren says, giving him a dirty look.

  ‘Don’t you have somewhere to be, Pappas?’ he asks, giving her a knowing look.

  Her eyes widen for a moment and then narrow. She smirks at him.

  ‘Oh, look, there’s Mr Cheng,’ she says, jumping up suddenly from her seat. ‘I need to go ask him something about our Senior Science class.’

  I watch her leave, wondering what that was all about.

  ‘So . . .’ he says after a bit, his face hopeful. ‘It’s Valentine’s Day next Friday night, which is also the night that you, Tamara Kapsalis, turn the big one-eight. I thought it might be nice to get a hotel room with a view, steal some champagne from my dad and . . . just see where the night takes us . . .’ He nuzzles my neck and plants a kiss in the same spot.

  ‘Oh my gosh, David,’ I say, shifting away from him slightly. ‘We’re in the quad, can you take the kissing down a notch? People are staring.’

  I used to love our secret kisses in the hall in between classes. But the public displays of affection have been starting to freak me out, because the kisses have been going on for longer and his hands have started wandering into new territory.

  ‘What?’ he asks, moving away. ‘It’s not a big deal. The teachers don’t give a damn.’

  ‘It’s just not polite,’ I say, rolling my eyes. ‘Plus we go to a Catholic school.’

  I glare at his snort of laughter and he sighs.

  ‘Fine, OK,’ he says, gesturing to my lunch box. ‘Can I have that banana if you’re not going to eat it? I forgot to bring lunch and I don’t have any cash on me.’

  I smile and hand over the only thing I had planned to eat. At least that’ll keep my calorie count down.

  ‘So, what do you think?’ he asks after taking a bite.

  ‘Of your monkey-want-a-banana impression?’ I ask. ‘I think it’s really great. The hairy Italian arms certainly help.’

  He stifles a laugh. ‘No, I meant about Friday.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ I say, putting my hand to my forehead. ‘I might have something on with my ’rents. Can I get back to you?’

  ‘Really?’ he asks. ‘Because you told me both your parents were working. And I already cleared it with Lauren, so I know you’re not doing anything with the girls.’

  ‘Who told you to clear it with Lauren?’ I ask, suddenly frustrated. ‘You’re supposed to clear it with me, it’s my birthday.’

  ‘I wanted to surprise you,’ he says, agitated. ‘I was trying to be nice.’

  I sigh. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say after a moment, but he’s standing up to leave. ‘Hey, come on, please let me apologise . . .’

  He relents and lets me kiss his nose. ‘I already paid a deposit, Tammi,’ he says. ‘I thought you’d be excited.’

  ‘There’s just so much happening this year already,’ I tell him. ‘I’m already under so much pressure to think about my future and uni preferences and what to do about dancing . . .’

  ‘Yeah, but we’ve been going out since the year 10 formal,’ he says. ‘We need to move forwards.’

  I nod, a lump forming in my throat. ‘Yeah, you’re right, I suppose,’ I say, trying to smile.

  ‘I’m putting in a lot of effort, you know,’ he says. ‘This is harder than you think. It’s embarrassing, especially when the boys ask . . .’

  ‘So you’re more concerned with what the boys think of you than about what’s right for me?’

  ‘Of course you come first. I know, it’s your body, blah, blah, but I’m a bloke. I have needs. I’m starting to feel like something’s the matter with me.’

  ‘There’s nothing the matter with . . . Sorry, I have to go to the bathroom,’ I say quickly, grabbing my bag and making a run for the toilets. Inside, I rush to the furthest cubicle and, a second later, I hurl into the toilet. The bell rings and I hear people walking to class, but I don’t move. I just stand there, staring at the former contents of my stomach. Gosh, just the idea of sex with him is making me physically sick.

  After a few minutes, I hear: ‘Tammi?’ It’s Lauren.

  ‘In here,’ I croak.

  ‘In where?’ comes the response.

  I open the cubicle door.

  ‘Hey,’ she says. ‘Are you OK?’

  I shrug. ‘I don’t know. I feel like I’m going to vomit. Again.’

  ‘Well, you’re not pregnant, that’s for sure,’ she says.

  ‘Oh, come on, not you too,’ I say. ‘Why is he in such a rush?’

  ‘Well . . . he’s a guy, not a priest,’ she says, shrugging. ‘It’s you I don’t get — what are you waiting for? A husband?’ she asks.

  ‘No,’ I say, my face reddening. ‘And so what if I was?’

  ‘“So what”?’ she asks, looking at me like I’ve just grown an ear on my forehead. ‘It’s not no
rmal, that’s what. This is not 1932.’

  I bow my head.

  ‘Whatever,’ she says, rolling her eyes. ‘I don’t get why you’re holding on to it. It’s just more teenage baggage that you don’t need.’

  ‘Is that supposed to make it easier?’ I ask. ‘Calling it baggage? Well, baggage can get lost and sent to the wrong place. It can get wrecked too.’

  She scoffs. ‘A room at the Four Seasons is not the wrong place, Tams. People lose their “baggage” in cars and back gardens and alleys outside parties. You think you’ll find someone better than a guy that buys you Tiffany for your birthday and a Prada wallet for Christmas?’

  ‘His parents paid for that stuff . . .’

  ‘It doesn’t matter who paid for it,’ she hisses. ‘The point is that most girls would kill for a guy like that. You’ve been spoilt. It’s time to spoil him.’

  ‘So he gives me gifts and I give him my body, right?’ I ask, looking up. ‘There’s a word for that, you know.’

  She glares at me.

  ‘Fine, let’s change the subject,’ she says after a moment. ‘I put your name down for the yearbook committee.’

  ‘You did what?’ I ask. ‘I told you not to do that.’

  I bury my head in my hands, wondering why my voice means nothing. To anyone in my life.

  ‘Relax, it’s no big deal, you go to a couple of meetings, write a couple of poems and you’re done.’

  ‘I don’t even get the point of a yearbook. And I have enough going on in my life as it is.’

  ‘Like what? You’re an only child, your parents are loaded, you’re passing all your exams . . . Why are you so stressed?’

  I shake my head. ‘Why don’t you do it then?’

  ‘Because I’m on the formal committee, remember? We can’t both do it.’

  ‘Yeah, but it will be so much work, and you know I’m busy with the clown job my ’rents don’t know about.’

  She shrugs. ‘Come on, it’s the only way I can have control over what goes in the yearbook,’ she pleads.

  ‘What does it matter? They just collect dust in boxes under people’s beds anyway.’

  ‘Yeah, but in twenty years’ time I might wanna show my kids how awesome I was in high school,’ she says, pulling her lip gloss out of her pocket and puckering her lips.