by Sarah Ayoub
‘I’m sorry,’ Ryan says. We’re seated outside Mrs H’s office.
‘Not as sorry as Ms Richards is . . .’ I say, the dread in my voice clearly audible. ‘I just know she’s going to take it out on me.’
He shakes his head. ‘I can’t believe Mr Griggs heard from across the hallway. He’s got supersonic hearing or something.’
‘Well, the blob did make a noise when it exploded,’ I admit.
‘Yeah, but it’s a Chemistry class,’ he points out. ‘It can’t be completely quiet all the time.’
We’re silent for a few minutes. I open my mouth again to speak, but Ryan cuts me off.
‘Shhh,’ he says, motioning to the door with his head.
We creep up and press our ears to the door. Mrs H is telling Ms Richards that she’s at risk of losing her job.
‘Shit,’ I whisper to him. ‘She’s on probation? She’s teaching year 12 and she’s on probation?!’
‘Well, our Chem teacher did abruptly leave at the end of term four,’ he says. ‘Maybe they just hired the first person who applied.’
‘Some fancy education,’ I say, rolling my eyes.
He shrugs. ‘Especially if you need it,’ he snickers. ‘I’m smart enough to figure stuff out on my own, but you —’
My elbow makes contact with his ribs.
‘Oww,’ he says, making a pained face at me. ‘OK, maybe I deserved that.’
We hurry back to our seats. The door opens a second later. When Ms Richards walks out I’m thankful that looks can’t kill.
Mrs H calls my name from the door and I head inside.
‘You’ve called my mother in?’ I ask, after she’s sufficiently chastised me.
‘Yes, she should be here soon. I’d like to explain to her that it’s not normal policy for teachers to be allowed smoking breaks during their classes.’
‘Well, I’m sure she knows —’
‘Be that as it may, our school hasn’t stood here for over a hundred and fifty years because we didn’t do things properly,’ she says. ‘Your parents deserve to know that we take our students seriously. And that it won’t happen again.’
‘She’s learned her lesson then?’ my mum asks, as the secretary ushers her in. Even though she sometimes acts like a bimbo, my mother is headstrong when it comes to the rights and responsibilities of students and teachers.
‘Mrs Reynolds, please, have a seat.’
I tune out, the image of the blob on the ceiling hovering around in my head, while Mrs H and Mum discuss Ms Richards’ future as a year 12 teacher.
Eventually, it’s time to leave and I stand up, giving Mrs H a half-smile.
‘It’s good to see you getting along with Ryan, Charlie,’ she says, smiling. ‘With the two of you on the team, I know you’re going to produce a real winner of a yearbook.’
My mother gives me an amused look then walks out. I follow her, eager to explain.
Ryan stands awkwardly to attention as Mrs H calls his name.
‘That’s the guy who distracted you?’ my mum says loud enough for both of them to hear. ‘He’s cute. If he was in my class, I would have burnt down the entire science lab.’
I pinch her arm menacingly, and try not to think of the smug look that’s sure to be on Ryan’s face.
It’s Friday night. I’m at the school charity dance-a-thon, which Gillian has somehow managed to convince me to attend. It takes me about forty-six seconds to realise that these people suck in a ‘nightclub’ setting even more than they do in a school one. Maybe one day I can pen a bestselling book or an award-winning TV series based on the pitfalls of my generation.
‘And I suppose there’s some new-age feminist problem with dancing,’ Ryan says, sitting down next to me. ‘Or maybe it’s the music. Or the charity we’re raising money for . . .’
‘Shut up, Ryan,’ I say, in a sing-song voice. ‘And the feminist movement is measured in waves. First-wave, second-wave —’
‘OK, I get it,’ he says loudly. ‘Why aren’t you dancing?’
‘I’m allergic to teenage losers,’ I say, smirking.
‘Like you can talk.’
‘Your school has tainted me.’
He laughs. It transforms his face, and unfortunately I find myself smiling too. God, if you exist, I plead silently, don’t make me like this guy.
He stands up, and for a second I think he’s going to leave.
‘Dance?’ he asks, as Walk the Moon’s ‘Shut Up and Dance’ comes on.
I shake my head.
‘Why? Your mum would approve.’
He winks at me and I chuckle. And then I surprise myself by standing up.
‘You’re lucky I like this song,’ I say, smiling.
We make our way to the middle of the dance floor and join in on a circle of students performing stupidly exaggerated dance moves, and I actually laugh. Ryan’s a terrible dancer, and he knows it. But he doesn’t care — he moves into the circle and pulls people into the centre with him, applauding as they too humiliate themselves. And they all seem to enjoy the attention — not just because he’s popular, I suddenly realise, but because he’s the kind of bloke that you would want as your best mate, the guy everyone can count on. Across the circle, he smiles that smile again and for a second I wonder what it would be like to have known him for more than just a few months. And to know him for a little longer than the few months I have left with him before school is finished and my life here is over.
Suddenly I start feeling flushed. I need to breathe, need some fresh air, need some space. I fan my hands in front of my face, but he shakes his head, and I think, Shit, can he see right through me?
It’s enough to make me want to get out of there. I hurry outside the hall and to the side of the building, where I lean against the wall, hoping to hide in the darkness until I stop feeling so flustered.
But a couple of minutes later, he’s there, standing in front of me, as though my awkwardness is some sort of lighthouse that has drawn him to me.
‘Are you OK?’ he asks.
I look down at my shoes, the floor, anywhere but his face. And those kind, earnest eyes that are also insanely beautiful.
He tilts my head up with his index finger.
‘I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,’ he says. ‘Come back inside — I won’t make you dance if you don’t want to.’
I get a grip on myself and smile. ‘I don’t think you should make yourself dance,’ I say, folding my arms.
He laughs and rubs the back of his neck. ‘I’m that bad, huh?’
I check my phone for the time, and suddenly notice the date.
‘There’s exactly four months till graduation,’ I say, holding my phone up. ‘I have a countdown.’
‘Of course you do,’ he says, raising his eyebrows. ‘Well, that’s not long at all. Before you know it, you’ll be back in Melbourne and Pete won’t be able to lie to you as easily as he does now.’
‘Hey, don’t be like that,’ I say. ‘He was honest afterwards.’
‘Yeah, after he made sure that you weren’t going to come and ruin his prospects with whatever you said her name was,’ he retorts. ‘What — he couldn’t just tell you he was going to a church youth group to hang out with some chick who invited him? Does he like having you hung up on him while he chases other girls?’
‘It’s not like that,’ I mumble. ‘And don’t worry, I sorted him out on the phone the next day.’
‘I bet you did,’ he says. ‘You should come with a warning.’
‘Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?’ I ask, punching his shoulder. Oww. The guy obviously works out.
‘It just means . . . you’re not afraid to stand up for yourself,’ he says, slowly.
I smile.
‘Was he at least sorry?’ he asks a moment later. ‘He bailed on you twice in one weekend.’
‘Ryan,’ I say quietly, ‘do you really want to talk about another guy right now?’
He shakes his head and takes a step forwards,
placing one hand on the wall by my head. So close . . . and yet I don’t move.
‘I’m not normally like this around most girls,’ he says, swallowing.
‘I’m not most girls,’ I say.
He exhales, and his seriousness freaks me out. So at odds with the guy I just saw on the dance floor. I think back to that night in Melbourne — the effortless ease with which we fell in line together as we wandered the city, how hours passed without me realising, the way his jacket smelt when I shrugged it over my shoulders. And how I didn’t shower that night, because I wanted to fall asleep with that scent against my skin.
God, I was in denial. But this guy — I mean, come on, the cool jock? He’s such a cliché.
I look up at him and falter.
OK, yes, maybe a part of me, deep down, wants to render the most popular guy in this dumb school helpless. I know this, because when he finally works up the courage to kiss me, I don’t give him shit for it.
‘I wanted to do that in Melbourne,’ he says, pulling away.
‘I would have let you,’ I whisper.
‘Ryan?’ a voice to our left says.
He looks up and sees Lauren and Amanda, and takes a huge step backwards.
‘I thought you needed a break from girls this year,’ says Lauren. ‘That’s why you broke up with me, remember?’
Ryan puts his palm to his forehead and exhales. Then, because I am so good at picking them, he runs after a crying Lauren Pappas and leaves me standing alone in the dark, leaning against a wall, heart broken.
Matty
Matty Fullerton Even the music can’t fix it.
‘I still don’t get it,’ Gillian says, slamming her head down into her textbook. ‘Can’t I just write the answers in my calculator?’
I give her a dark look.
‘I know,’ she says. ‘Even if there was no risk of getting caught I still wouldn’t do it.’
It’s recess, and we’re inside a classroom prepping for our Maths trial exam, which is in a couple of days. She’s complaining that her brain is all over the place, and I just want to shake her and say How do you think I feel? I’m convinced that a guy I saw in a picture has the answers to my future.
But I can’t say that. It just doesn’t make sense. People don’t randomly find their fathers in old photos hanging on university walls.
I’ve looked at the picture every night since I snapped it. I wanted to show it to Mum, but Charlie’s words kept echoing in my ears: How do you know he’s not part of the problem?
I need to talk to her.
‘Where’s Charlie?’ I ask Gillian. She looks like she had really been concentrating, and for a moment I feel guilty.
‘She’s coming in late today,’ she says, looking at her watch. ‘She went to the ultrasound with her mum. She should be here by fourth period.’
Damn. I consider sending her text instead, but Gillian suddenly has a conspiratorial look on her face. She leans towards me.
‘Ryan kissed her on Friday night,’ she says, her voice lowered.
‘Really?’ I ask.
‘Don’t get too excited. Lauren lost her shit straight after it happened,’ she says. ‘She burst into tears, and everyone gathered around her, and she kept going on and on about how insensitive it was because she and Ryan only just broke up —’
‘Like, ten months ago,’ I point out. ‘How long is he supposed to mourn her for? I would have danced on tables the same day.’
‘Duh — obviously it was all for show.’
I shrug. ‘So what’s the big deal?’
She rolls her eyes. ‘For a smart guy, you can be really dense sometimes.’
I just stare at her, confused.
‘Ryan is a nice guy, sensitive, you know?’ she says, a serious look on her face. ‘So now he would be feeling really guilty about how he made Lauren cry and will probably slow down on things with Charlie. Guys aren’t good at seeing through antics like that.’
I purse my lips. I want to argue, but I think she’s right.
I can’t find Charlie in the quad at lunchtime, and neither can Gillian. Then our phones beep.
I can’t be bothered coming downstairs. It’s cold. I’m in B3.
We head upstairs. Charlie’s sitting at a desk with her laptop open, eating sushi rolls.
‘I bought you guys some too,’ she says, gesturing to the plastic boxes next to her.
‘BEST,’ I say enthusiastically, digging in.
Gillian just looks at her.
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ Charlie says sternly.
‘But —’ Gillian starts.
‘What did I say, Gill?’
Gillian sighs loudly. ‘OK.’
Charlie shows us the ultrasound picture of the baby.
‘Wow, that’s pretty cool. So what’s the ultrasound for anyway?’ I ask.
‘They check that the baby is doing OK, that there are no major abnormalities. You can also do a test for things like Down’s syndrome.’
‘They can see that?’ I ask, surprised.
She gives a small shrug. ‘Yeah, they see all sorts of stuff. You don’t have to do the test, but you can if you want to . . . you know . . .’
‘Abort?’ Gillian whispers.
Charlie nods reluctantly. It gets a little awkward.
‘I don’t know if the test was around when your mum was pregnant with Sammy,’ Charlie says, putting her hand on Gillian’s arm. ‘But do you think that it would have made a difference?’
‘I don’t know,’ she says honestly. ‘It might have. But she does love Sammy.’
‘Yeah, she does. You all — we all do.’
The end-of-day bell goes. The three of us walk out together.
Ryan is in front of us with a couple of his mates. He keeps sneaking looks back at us.
‘His face is red,’ Gillian whispers to Charlie. ‘He’s nervous!’
Charlie rolls her eyes and slides her hands into her pockets.
‘He’s an idiot,’ she says. ‘And I’m an idiot if I let him get to me.’
Ryan waves goodbye to his mates at the school gate, and Gillian hurries off, wanting to make an early bus. Ryan turns to us as we approach. It’s as if he’s doing some sort of awkward solo slow dance — he shuffles, unsure of what to do. But Charlie pretends not to notice and doesn’t slow down as we pass him.
‘I shouldn’t have let Lauren get to me,’ he calls out after us.
‘But you did let her get to you,’ she calls back, without turning around. ‘And like always, her manipulative plan worked out perfectly.’
I turn to sneak a glimpse at him. He just sighs and walks away.
‘You’re cold,’ I say to her.
‘I need to take care of myself.’
‘Yeah, I get that,’ I tell her. ‘But you also need to feel.’
She loops her arm in mine.
‘Can I come over?’ I ask. ‘I don’t have work today.’
‘Hell yeah,’ she says. ‘My mum loves you.’
‘At least someone’s mum does,’ I say, smiling. ‘Well, at least she shows it.’
‘Wow, your house is huge,’ I tell her, as we walk through the door. The decoration is tasteful — it’s not like one of those over-the-top rich-people homes.
Her mum is in the kitchen, standing at the stove.
‘Pancakes, Mum?’ Charlie says. ‘The doctor said you need to be careful because of the gestational diabetes.’
‘That doctor is ageist,’ she says.
‘No, he’s a professional.’
‘But I really felt like them,’ she says in a whiny voice.
‘You’re being embarrassing,’ Charlie says, glaring at her.
‘No, she’s not,’ I say, extending my hand. ‘It’s good to see you again, Mrs Reynolds.’
‘Pleasure is all mine, Matty,’ she says as she takes my hand, an open smile lighting up her whole face. ‘Want some?’
I nod eagerly. Charlie shakes her head and goes upstairs to change. When she comes b
ack down, we’ve polished off the whole batch.
‘Hogs!’ Charlie calls out, sitting on the stool.
‘So how was school today?’ her mum asks. They chat in a familiar, jokey way that makes me miss my mum — the way she used to be, not the empty shell at home. Afterwards, Charlie stacks the dishwasher while her mum sits on the couch with her feet up, rubbing her belly.
‘If I fall asleep, I’m sorry,’ she says to me. ‘Being pregnant is exhausting! It’s so nice to have you over though. Charlie never has anyone over. She keeps going on about her “no roots” philosophy.’
I look over at Charlie, who goes red in the face.
Later we try to study, but neither of us can concentrate. I ask how her stepfather has managed to fit into the dynamic that she and her mother had — how do you just add someone else into an already-established story?
She shrugs. ‘You find a way,’ she says. ‘He’s nice, and he works all the time anyway. Sometimes it doesn’t feel any different, except that we’re no longer in a two-bedroom townhouse in Melbourne.’
‘Do you miss it? Being in Melbourne?’ I ask.
‘I did miss it a lot,’ she says. ‘Then things started changing, and I started to miss it less. You and Gill. Ryan. But now I’m really missing it again.’
‘You should give him another chance.’
She exhales. ‘There was nothing really solid there anyway,’ she says. ‘Plus, I’m still planning on going back. I don’t belong here.’
I nod my head slowly, and check my phone for the time. ‘I think I better go home now. Mum probably hasn’t eaten anything all day.’
‘You shouldn’t be doing this, Matt,’ she says, standing up. ‘You deserve to be looked after. My mother is a psychologist and I spend an hour every single week with her trying to analyse what the hell is going on in people’s heads. It can be useful to talk to someone.’
‘But who can I talk to?’ I ask. ‘There’s no one.’
‘What about Mrs H? This is a big year and —’
‘And what? Mrs H will fix my problems for me?’
‘She deserves to know — at least so you don’t keep getting detentions left, right and —’