The Yearbook Committee

by Sarah Ayoub

  I walk into our flat and the darkness is hard to adjust to after being outside.

  ‘No miracles today, I see,’ I say to the limp body on the couch. She sighs and I feel cruel, but I remember reading that you should try to maintain some normalcy, and this is the way we’ve always spoken to each other.

  ‘Did you move at all today?’ I press. ‘Because I swear that was the position you were in when I left this morning and you were watching The Today Show.’

  An empty bottle of cheap red wine is next to her, and a cockroach is feasting on some shards of chocolate that have fallen to the floor. She sees me eyeing it.

  ‘I got hungry,’ she mumbles, ashamed.

  ‘You used to make proper food when you were hungry,’ I tell her. ‘What happened?’

  There’s a long pause. Then she says, ‘Don’t get frustrated at me.’

  ‘Well, what do you expect? You won’t even talk to someone. A professional, a friend. Me, even.’

  I shake my head, then start towards my room.

  ‘I just can’t get up any more,’ she says, quietly.

  ‘Yeah, well, lucky I can get up for you,’ I mumble.

  I take my bag to my room and throw it against the wall, putting on Linkin Park’s ‘Numb’ at full blast. A retro choice, I know, but a song that definitely sums up the situation.

  I take the letter out of my bag and stare at it. Parent–teacher night. How would I get out of this one? Mum’s obviously not in any condition to go, and if she didn’t, Mr Broderick would come down on me. The guy was waiting for me to stuff up. Again.

  Don’t get me wrong, parent–teacher nights were fine at my old school. We fit in, Mum and me. I don’t need to go into how different we are from the families at Holy Family, and parent– teacher nights are just a fraction of the reason. My classmates have the best lives: parties, the latest phones and tablets, promises of cars with good HSC results, plans for schoolies in Thailand and aspirations to move to London after a probably guaranteed university education that their parents paid for.

  My mum couldn’t even afford to pay her phone bill right now. And even without her current mental situation weighing her down, she would feel like crap next to all those glam mothers that are outside the gates every day.

  I crumple the letter up and throw it against the wall, watching it fall into my garbage bin.

  Later, while Mum sleeps, I walk through the flat and open the windows. The fresh air is nice, so I head outside to sit at the top of the stairs. We live in a unit block on the Hume Highway bordering Enfield and South Strathfield, and our flat has outside access. These buildings are red-brick, old, and usually filled with even older residents or housing commission bogans. Mum paid off the place with her inheritance when I was younger; looking at her now, it’s hard to believe she once managed to support herself and a child and buy a place in the process.

  I glance at the time on my phone and realise that it’s late, and I haven’t eaten yet, so I head back inside. I’m stirring pasta sauce while reading Hamlet when I hear her get up. She walks over slowly, and sits at the little kitchen table we got from a garage sale when I was six. I helped her paint it on the front lawn; seeing it every day reminds me that we’re a team. So I decide to keep dinner diplomatic.

  ‘What’s my handsome little man doing?’ she asks after a moment.

  ‘I’m not a little man any more, Ma,’ I say. But I want to be. I want to be a kid again.

  ‘No, you’re not, are you?’ she replies, ruffling my hair as I place a plate before her. ‘And you take such good care of me. My alpha and omega — my beginning and my end.’

  I shrug at her affection and add some parmesan to her plate, then sit opposite her.

  ‘Tastes nice, but this is more than I can eat,’ she says.

  ‘It’s from a jar, it’s certainly not as nice as your one with the real tomatoes and the fresh basil.’

  She gives me a half-smile and continues eating her dinner, taking super small bites. After some minutes of quiet, she pushes her plate away.

  ‘Sorry,’ she says, looking at me. ‘I don’t have much of an appetite.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I reassure her. ‘I’ll just put it in the fridge. You should reheat it for lunch tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know if I —’

  ‘Mum, it’s better than chocolate and red wine.’ I look at her pointedly and she purses her lips, like a chastised child.

  Is this what my life has come to? I think, as I place the cutlery in the sink, realising more than ever that I need a father — someone — just so I don’t feel so alone.

  ‘Mum, there’s parent–teacher night in two weeks, and I was wondering . . .’

  ‘Matty, you know I’m not up to it right now,’ she says, waving me away. ‘I can’t even go to work.’

  ‘Actually, I was wondering . . . about maybe reaching out to my father.’

  She widens her eyes. ‘You’ve never asked about him before.’

  I shrug. ‘Well, I guess the time has come.’

  She stands up from the table in a huff.

  ‘No, Matthew,’ she says, tossing her arm behind her as she walks out of the room. ‘Take my word for it. We don’t need him.’

  I drape the teatowel over my shoulder, turn on the taps and sigh.

  That’s where you’re wrong, Mum, I think, as I lean over the sink. I need him.

  After I’m done tidying up, I sit at the table and try to do some homework, but my mood gets the better of me and I go to my room and hop online instead, checking out my favourite music blogs. Facebook pings a chat notification and I cringe.

  Gillian Cummings:

  I’m just about to send out the action points from the April meeting. You probably won’t read them so I need to remind you about the camera. Charlie asked you about it and you left her hanging.

  Matty Fullerton:

  Who?

  Gillian Cummings:

  Charlie Scanlon, the new girl. She asked you to help her with the school’s camera and you went ‘No sorry I’m busy’.

  Matty Fullerton:

  Were you spying on me or something?

  Gillian Cummings:

  No, I just kinda overheard as you guys left the meeting. It was a bit slack because she’s new. And she needs that camera for yearbook stuff.

  Matty Fullerton:

  This is the first time you’ve spoken to me on chat in the 18 months we’ve known each other and you’re asking me about some chick with an attitude problem?

  Gillian Cummings:

  We should all make her feel welcome.

  Matty Fullerton:

  I don’t even feel welcome, how am I supposed to help her? Plus I don’t even care about that stupid yearbook.

  Gillian Cummings:

  It’s just a camera.

  Matty Fullerton:

  You show her then, since you’re so invested in the cause.

  Gillian Cummings:

  I don’t know how to use it. You’re always fiddling with it at school functions. And you’re the only student on the committee doing ART, which means Mr Murdoch will give it to you.

  Matty Fullerton:

  Why did you put art in capital letters? It’s not an abbreviation.

  Gillian Cummings:

  Oh, sorry. I’ll fix that before I send the action points out.

  Fed up with the conversation, I sign out, then crawl into bed and turn out the light. But I can’t sleep. My mind won’t stop wandering, so I get up and fish the letter about the parent–teacher night out of the bin and stare at it for a moment.

  My bedroom door is ajar, and I see blue light from the TV flashing in the darkened living room down the corridor. I tiptoe over and turn it off, being careful not to wake up Mum in the process.

  Back in my room, I sit on my bed and look at the letter once again. I smooth out the wrinkles and then fiddle around for the little box I keep under my bed, and place the letter inside.

  Everything I’ve ever wanted to tell him a
nd show him sits in there, waiting for the day when he’ll no longer be a mystery and my life will be closer to ‘complete’.

  Or will it?

  THE YEARBOOK COMMITTEE

  Minutes for April Meeting

  Recorded by: Gillian Cummings

  Meeting Chair: Ryan Fleming (with occasional takeovers by Charlie Scanlon)

  In attendance: Ryan Fleming, Charlie Scanlon, Matty Fullerton, Tammi Kapsalis, Gillian Cummings

  NB: No March meeting minutes due to pretty crazy (and slightly unproductive) meeting.

  Discussion:

  *Another discussion on what everyone can contribute to the yearbook. Charlie says she can probably take pictures and write stuff, but she prefers writing. Tammi says she will look after people’s profiles. Charlie makes comments about how the last words and ambitions listed in those profiles are going to give her a headache, because everyone is so ‘shallow’. Ryan replies that she is giving him a headache.

  *Matty sighs and asks if it is compulsory to attend meetings. He said this is the second one and he already feels like it is pointless. Ryan’s facial expression says it all (and by ‘all’, I mean ‘yes, it is compulsory’). Matty says his job is really important to him right now, he needs the money. He proposes to put the entire yearbook together in his own time, if everyone else collects the content. No one argues, because he is a scholarship kid and we are ‘advantaged’.

  *But then Tammi says it’s unfair, because she also has a job and she needs the money too. Ryan looks confused. She says she’s saving up for uni and her parents don’t want her to study off-campus, so she is relying on herself instead of them. Ryan asks if David knows. Tammi says that if he doesn’t, it’s because he wasn’t listening. I hear her mutter that he never listens. (Note to self: Maybe life’s not rosy for the popular kids. But maybe it’s got nothing to do with popularity and everything to do with David being a jerk.)

  *Tammi’s mood means she is now giving Matty attitude. Matty retaliates. For a guy who is really quiet (we have never spoken) he can get quite icy. It suits the hoodie he is wearing. (Note to self: Maybe ask why he never gets in trouble for it. Like, I wore a pink wrap-around cuff to school once and got a recess detention.) On her way back to the desk Tammi looks at what I am writing. ‘Those are not minutes,’ she says. Apparently I am doing them wrong, to which Matty pointed out that if we don’t really need them, then it doesn’t matter. She shrugged. (Note to self: I like them conversational.)

  *Charlie tells Ryan that if he’s going to be in charge, he needs to step up and stop this meeting being a waste of time. He says that he can’t force people to get along. Then she says he’s not the man for the job.

  *The bell rings. No one listens as Ryan calls out the next meeting time. Including me. (Was trying to work up courage to ask Matty about hoodie. Decided against it.)

  Action Points:

  *Note to self: Bring snacks to next meeting. Food makes everyone happy.

  *Remind Matty that, as the only ART art student, he needs to get the camera from Mr Murdoch and show Charlie how to use it. Charlie seems aware of this and is currently following him outside.

  Tammi

  Tammi Kap is listening to ‘Girls Just Want to Have Fun’. When Cyndi Lauper talks about boys hiding beautiful girls away, I want to pump up the volume. Because I totes want to be a girl who walks in the sun.

  Lauren Pappas Old school, I like it.

  Manda Panda Love that song! We should watch the movie one night!

  I hurry through the park, trying to make it back to the bus stop before the rain starts. Gosh, I can’t believe I let that woman wrangle an extra half-hour out of me without paying me any extra cash.

  I stop for a moment to catch my breath, then look at the time. Shit. I’m going to miss the bus. That means I’m going to have to wait an extra eighteen minutes for the next bus, in the rain, and I’ll be home half an hour late, which means Mum and Dad will beat me home and I won’t be able to sneak my gear upstairs without someone noticing.

  I try to think of ways I can tell Dad about this job. I’d need to be tough about it, and for all the cons that would inevitably come from being honest, the one big pro would be that I would no longer need to lie. Maybe he’d even contribute something to my savings fund.

  As if, I think, given that my father is the least supportive of my career aspirations.

  I sit on the bus-stop bench and put my large canvas bag on my lap. Sixteen minutes until the bus arrives. Plenty of time to think up a plausible excuse for my tardiness, but a man arrives and decides to start a conversation, and suddenly my brainstorming has to wait.

  ‘You got some change on ya, love?’ he asks.

  ‘Um, I’ll have a look,’ I reply, feeling sorry for him.

  I turn myself slightly to the side and burrow through my bag for my wallet, but I don’t have much change, not even a five-dollar note. I fish out what coins I have — a one-dollar coin and a few pieces of small silver — and hand them to him.

  ‘That’s all I can spare, sorry,’ I explain apologetically.

  ‘What about that tenner?’ he asks, unashamed. I look at him blankly. Since when did people stop being thankful for any charity they got? Judging by his attitude, this man didn’t need the money, he just wanted it. The woman from work’s face comes back to me and I realise she had also taken advantage of me, even if her strategy was a bit more subtle.

  I wish I could just disappear, if only to save myself from the stench of cigarettes and beer.

  ‘You know what?’ I say, standing up. ‘I think I’ll just ring a friend to come get me.’

  I rifle through my bag for my phone and dial David’s number.

  ‘Hey, baby,’ he answers drowsily. ‘Whatcha doing?’

  ‘Are you asleep?’ I ask. ‘It’s 1 p.m.’

  ‘Yeah, Ryan and I had a late night,’ he explains.

  ‘Are you busy?’

  ‘Why, are you OK?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I assure him. ‘Just in Burwood. Hoping you could come pick me up, save me from waiting for the bus, which will take forever. I need to get back home before Mum and Dad, so I can hide the stuff in my room.’

  ‘Ahh, I don’t know, babe,’ he says. ‘It’s no big deal, just tell them the truth. I’m sure they’ll be fine with it eventually.’

  ‘OK,’ I say quietly.

  ‘You’re upset,’ he says, sighing.

  ‘Well, you know what I’m up against,’ I explain. ‘It wouldn’t hurt for you be there for me when I need you.’

  ‘I’m always there for you,’ he says defensively. ‘But this plan just keeps getting more and more complicated. I’m telling you, they’ll come around.’

  ‘So easy for you to say; your future’s not riding on this.’

  I hear him yawn and I look up at the sky, desperate. ‘So you’re not coming?’ I ask again, hopefully.

  ‘I can’t now, I told you,’ he says. ‘Seriously, it’ll be OK.’

  ‘Sure, I guess,’ I say, deflated.

  ‘Hey — no harm done right?’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ I tell him. ‘I’m a big girl. I’ll be fine.’

  I hang up and glance at the time again, wishing I had my driver’s licence. And a car for that matter. I figure I might as well run or walk home — sure, it will be more hassle, but at least I won’t have to sit next to the deadbeat at the bus stop who will probably rob me.

  I cut through the park and quicken my pace, scratching at the remnants of face paint around my ears and hairline, and dodging parents with prams, pensioners taking walks and dogs on leashes.

  I’m nearly on the other side when something smashes into the side of my head, knocking me over.

  As I struggle to untangle myself from the two bags I’m carrying, the contents of which have scattered all over the path, the offending object — a football — is picked up and thrown to a horde of boys standing metres away by a devastatingly good-looking guy in a raglan tee and shorts.

  ‘I’m so sor
ry,’ he says. ‘We boys lose our coordination when a girl walks past.’

  I blush a little and he laughs.

  ‘I meant the blonde chick over there,’ he says, nodding his head in the direction of a tall woman running around the park in a crop top. ‘Fred’s got a thing for boobs.’

  ‘Yeah, well, tell Fred he should try to get his fix at a time when he’s not kicking footballs around, for the safety of us women without big boobs.’

  He laughs again as I dust myself off.

  ‘Here, let me help you,’ he says, reaching down to grab my jumpsuit, shoes and red nose. ‘Dress-up party?’ he asks.

  ‘Yeah, except I was the only one in a costume,’ I tell him, taking my things and shoving them back into my canvas bag with ferocity. I’m ridiculously late now.

  He looks at me blankly.

  ‘Hired help,’ I say, waving my bright-blue afro wig at him. ‘I’m Tatty the Clown. I do kids’ parties.’

  ‘Your name is Tatty?’

  ‘Tamara. But everyone calls me Tammi. Well, except the kids.’

  ‘What, were you scared a bunch of six-year-olds would track you down if they knew your real name?’

  I grin. ‘You’d be surprised at what they’re capable of.’

  Something wet lands on my cheek and I look up. A raindrop. A second later, the clouds open up and it starts to pour, heavy and fast.

  ‘I knew I should have taken the bus,’ I mutter. ‘I’m sorry, I have to go.’

  ‘Wait —’ he starts.

  I quickly snatch my other bag off him. ‘No, really, I have to run now.’

  ‘You’re walking? You have so much stuff, I can take it for you.’

  I give him a quizzical look.

  ‘What I mean is, I can take you. If we ride, it’ll be much quicker.’

  ‘Not allowed on motorbikes, sorry,’ I say, a little weirded out. ‘But thanks anyway.’

  ‘Who said anything about a motor?’

  He smiles and I’m shocked once again by how good-looking he is.

  He points to a bike rack and I laugh. The rain has slowed slightly, but I’m already drenched.

  ‘How are two people — and all this stuff — meant to travel on a push bike?’ I ask.