The Yearbook Committee

by Sarah Ayoub

  She gestures to my leg, and I redden.

  ‘That scar is nothing compared to what’s going on in your head,’ she tells me seriously.

  I sigh. ‘I might regret asking this, but what do you mean?’

  ‘The scar will fade with time,’ she says. ‘But if you don’t start getting your dream back, then eventually it’s going to be too late. Meanwhile the guy who took your dream away because of his stupid idea to ride a four-wheeler over a sand dune is now pursuing it, and you’re just sitting on the sidelines watching it all unfold.’

  ‘How do you know how it happened?’ I ask her. ‘I mean, I have a vague idea — something about girls and how much they gossip — but that’s a bit sexist isn’t it?’

  ‘Please. It’s all everyone could talk about when I first got here,’ she says. ‘Ryan Fleming: school captain, soccer star, gorgeous, smart, nice. Why did he have to get on that bike and ruin our prospects of winning the Sydney Schools Soccer Tournament or whatever the hell it’s called? Never mind whatever personal prospects he had ruined.’

  ‘Not prospects,’ I say, turning away. ‘Prospect. Just one.’

  ‘The biggest one, though, right?’

  I just nod. There isn’t anything to say.

  ‘Who says it’s ruined?’

  I look at her like she’s the dumbest person I’ve ever met, instead of the smartest. ‘Um, the doctor who spent four hours in surgery trying to fix my knee. The physiotherapist. The coach.’

  ‘And did you get a second opinion? A second physio? Did you ever go into the backyard and actually try to kick a ball around?’

  ‘What would be the point?’ I ask her.

  ‘To go beyond the limitations other people have set for you,’ she says. ‘Don’t take your injury at face value. Give yourself a chance, and if it really doesn’t work, then at least you know for certain that you did everything you could.’

  ‘I’d never play the same,’ I mumble, looking at my feet.

  ‘No, probably not,’ she agrees. ‘But the way people spoke about you made you sound like a god on the field, so you’d probably still play better than a hell of a lot of people out there.’

  I’m quiet for the rest of the bus ride, mulling over her words. She might be the exact type of person whose face I would love to smash in if she were a guy, and yet she’s teaching me more than I ever thought possible.

  Inside the hall, surrounded by words and arguments and speeches, I’m thinking about my own inner debate. For and against. To play or not to play. To dream or not to dream.

  We get let out for a half-hour break. Mr West asks me if I know what I’m going to talk about. And even though I planned to speak about the environment, I tell him I’m going to be talking about my generation’s potential to do more than download TV shows, to pursue things more important than Instagram followers and to dream about things bigger than fame.

  He smiles, and puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘Good to see some of that old spark back,’ he says.

  I find Charlie outside on her iPad, looking frustrated.

  ‘Look at this!’ she says, showing me a photo of Gillian with a crude drawing of a penis next to her smiling face.

  ‘That’s disgusting,’ I say.

  She looks at me tersely, then turns away.

  ‘What, you think my friends did that?’ I ask her.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘But they definitely made it OK for others to get in on it. It’s so infuriating.’

  ‘What do you have against them?’ I ask her.

  ‘Nothing except the fact that they are just so insensitive to the people I care about.’

  ‘So you care about me, do you?’ I ask, smirking.

  Her eyes are like slits as she gives me a death-stare. ‘Ryan, get over yourself,’ she says slowly. ‘I care about Gillian. How can they be so mean?’

  ‘It’s like a witch hunt! You have no proof my friends did the webcam thing.’

  ‘It’s not just Gillian — every single person they’ve put down to make themselves feel better are victims. You and Tammi included. You think I don’t see how Lauren talks to Tammi? Maybe if Lauren stopped and thought about who Tammi is, she might learn a lot from her — like how to not do stuff just because it’s trendy or because some guy is pressuring you to.’

  ‘You know about that?’ I ask. ‘Jeez, nothing is private any more.’

  ‘Playground gossip, Ryan. Wake up! Why do you blind yourself to what’s happening around you?’ she asks. ‘Why can’t you accept that our generation is not shiny or beautiful or smart, but completely insensitive and stupid and self-centred?’

  ‘Well, actually, my talk is —’

  ‘I just can’t get over it,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘No matter which way I look at it, Lauren’s aspirations for fame are in no way jeopardised by what Gill is doing, so why is she treating her that way? It’s crazy. And by your silence you’re just letting them get away with it.’

  I don’t say anything.

  ‘I’m going to go,’ she says, standing up. ‘Think I need a little bit of space.’

  Her phone beeps as she starts walking off. She stops in her tracks to read the message, and by the almost imperceptible slump of the shoulders I know it’s from Pete.

  ‘I’m not the only one who’s blind, you know,’ I call out. ‘If you opened your eyes, maybe you’d see that he doesn’t really care about you.’

  She turns to face me, her eyes narrowed. ‘Oh yeah?’ she says. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘How many times has he ignored your messages?’ I yell, walking up to her. ‘How many times has he come to visit you? How many times has he shared links he thinks you’d like on your Facebook wall? All the stuff that you do for him.’

  She bites her lip.

  Shut up, I tell myself. You can see you’re hurting her, so shut up. But I can’t.

  ‘I mean, it’s so obvious that you’re the one putting in the effort,’ I finish.

  ‘Don’t you dare talk to me about effort and what’s obvious,’ she says.

  ‘Save it, Charlie,’ I say. We’re standing so close our noses are almost touching. ‘This is the only time that you are wrong and I am right.’

  She blinks. I can’t tell if she’s trying to restrain her tears or her anger; I’m too mesmerised by her smell, the colour of her eyes, that little freckle on her right cheek, to care.

  ‘I’m never wrong,’ she says defiantly, and I can’t help but admire her for that. She’s more of a champion than half the guys on the soccer team.

  ‘You’re the one who’s always going on about women’s worth,’ I tell her. ‘Why are you chasing someone who doesn’t know yours?’

  ‘Because he’s the closest thing to a man I’ve found in a teenage guy,’ she tells me, vindictive and venomous.

  And I know then that I don’t have a chance in hell with her.

  THE YEARBOOK COMMITTEE

  Minutes for September Meeting

  Recorded by: Gillian Cummings

  Meeting Chair: Ryan Fleming

  In attendance: Everyone

  The Playlist: N/A

  The Snacks: Burgers, fries and milkshakes.

  Agenda:

  *Location Change: We met outside the library as per usual, and spent about eight minutes trying to decide between a public library or Charlie’s house, which I guess Ryan felt awkward about. Then Ryan found out it was Matty’s eighteenth birthday, and we all got really excited (well, mostly excited — Charlie and I also felt a bit crap because we had no idea, but Matty said it was OK as he never actually told us when it was). So we all caught the train to town and went to Burger Project, where the burgers are amazing and the milkshakes taste like heaven. We sang ‘Happy Birthday’ out loud when Matty came out of the bathroom — he walked past our table like he didn’t know us and went to sit by himself until Charlie made him come back. We then decided that our subsequent meetings should be in the public library, because we’re going to be spending a lot of time there studying anyw
ay.

  *Progress Update: Matty reckons we’re about 79% there. He calculated this by checking the number of completed pages in the entire template/document.

  *Camp Coverage: All completed, thanks to a lot of teamwork (and, Matty says, Red Bull being on special at Coles).

  *Deadlines: Charlie said that Ryan is doing a bad job of tracking our tasks so she is taking over. Ryan did not argue. The rest of us pretended not to notice that the two of them had hardly been speaking at all.

  *HSC Wish Dish: I had an idea that we put all five of our names into a dish, then each draw a name, and write that person a ‘good luck for the HSC’ note. Charlie gave me a death stare (I hope for my sake she doesn’t get Ryan) and Matty asked ‘Why can’t we just tell the person?’ and I giggled and said that he never talks as it is, but he didn’t respond. Which means he is definitely mad (and not as understanding and mellow as I previously thought he was). Ryan said it was a good idea. So we did it, and we decided that we’re only allowed to open the notes in the privacy of our own home on the morning of the HSC — and no one else is allowed to know what the note says.

  Questions for Mrs H:

  *Can we at least use a classroom if we can’t use the library?

  Action points for next meeting:

  *Meet the deadlines that Charlie gives you! We’re on the home stretch, people!

  *Study for the HSC next month.

  Charlie

  Charlie Scanlon feels like she’s journeyed to the ends of the earth.

  Katy Coolidge-Brown Nope, just Sydney. #comehomecharlie

  I didn’t think I could hate this school any more, but then I found out about the year 12 retreat: a three-day weekend in the mountains that’s supposed to be ‘spiritually and mentally nourishing’, in preparation for the barrage of exams we’re about to take. And much as I hoped it would be cancelled, the day finally came for us to board the buses and set off.

  We’ve now been here for three hours. Meditation sessions aside, it’s clear this is going to be three days of personal hell. Here I am spending every waking moment — well, every moment really — with people I wish lived on another planet because I sincerely believe they don’t belong on Earth.

  And as usual, I seem to be the only one feeling miserable. Everyone else seems so happy.

  ‘I can’t believe there are only a few weeks left of school!’ Sally Parsons screeches next to me, using her oar the wrong way even after I’ve explained how to do it twice.

  ‘Can you please concentrate, Sally?’ I ask her. ‘You’re not paddling how I told you to.’

  ‘Oh, please,’ she says. ‘As if we’re going to beat them anyway.’

  ‘Not with that attitude we won’t,’ I mumble.

  Sally Parsons — a girl who has come to camp with long acrylic nails, false eyelashes and a curling tong for her blonde hair extensions — is probably one of the last people in the world I would want to be alone on a raft with. And yet here we are.

  We’ve just made the raft out of barrels, and are now racing the boys around the lake in it. None of the girls actually wanted to get on said raft, so Sally unfortunately drew the short straw. And now she is driving me insane.

  ‘They’re really good, aren’t they?’ she says. Ryan and David are already at the halfway point; we’ve moved about three metres.

  ‘Because they’re focusing.’

  ‘God, how hot are Ryan’s arms,’ she says, staring. ‘Even maimed, he’s still amazing.’

  ‘He’s not maimed, Sally,’ I say. ‘He hurt his knee, but surgery fixed it. He’s fine.’

  ‘Is it true you guys hooked up?’ she asks in a hushed tone, even though there’s no one around to hear us.

  ‘No,’ I say, bluntly.

  ‘Are you going to?’ she asks. ‘Lauren will be so jealous.’

  ‘I won’t have a chance to hook up with anyone if I have to remain on this raft for the rest of my life because you won’t paddle,’ I tell her. ‘And I have other concerns in my life beyond Lauren Pappas, or any other girl for that matter.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, sticking her oar in the water again. We move another metre, but I think it’s the water that’s moving us.

  ‘Are my undies poking out of my pants?’ she asks, looking behind her.

  ‘Sally, seriously, does it matter out in the middle of a lake?’

  She shrugs.

  Another two metres. We’re now about a quarter of the way. The boys have reached the bank and are dismantling their raft.

  ‘Are you sure my undies aren’t —’

  But she can’t finish her sentence because my hand has just taken on a life of its own and pushed her into the water.

  ‘Charlie, I am going to kill you!’ she says, spitting water. ‘There are eels in here — and my hair is ruined!’

  ‘Oops,’ I say, biting my lip and ignoring her scrambles to get back onto the raft.

  The whistle blows from the bank. Ms Richards looks so stern I’m actually afraid for my life. One of the camp activity organisers comes out in a canoe to tow us back to shore.

  ‘Charlie Scanlon, I am really getting fed up with you,’ Ms Richards says, as I put my shoes on. ‘What a ridiculous stunt.’

  I try to ignore Sally, as she squeezes water out of her hair, and her friends, as they surround her in solidarity. I am literally being communally death-stared.

  ‘It was just a little water,’ I mumble.

  I would bet that payback is just around the corner.

  Lesson #1 in life: Always trust your instincts. Especially when the next day’s activity involves a waterfall jump and people who want revenge on you. We’re in the middle of listening to the instructions from the guide, when I notice one of Sally’s best friends hovering nearby.

  Slowly, she comes up behind me. Then she whispers an ‘oops’ into my ear, and pushes me with all her might into the freezing water metres below. As I’m falling, my foot clips a large rock, but before I can cry out from the pain, the force and iciness of the water knock the breath out of me.

  Seconds later, the guide that dived in after me (in an entrance a lot classier than my own) carries me out of the water.

  ‘She’s hurt her foot,’ he calls out, as a crowd gathers around us.

  ‘Eww, her foot’s all swollen,’ one person says.

  ‘Maybe it’s sprained or something?’ another says.

  ‘Should we take her to the hospital?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ the guide says, looking at Ms Richards who has just come over.

  ‘Well, the nearest hospital is over an hour away,’ she says. ‘She just slipped — I’m sure she’ll be fine. We can ask Mrs Hendershott’s opinion when she arrives tomorrow.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ the guide asks, looking concerned. ‘We could drive her . . .’

  ‘She’ll be fine,’ Ms Richards says again. ‘It was just a little water.’

  It’s the early hours of the morning and I’m fast asleep, having taken three Panadols before bed, when a knock at the cabin door wakes me with a jolt.

  I ignore it and try to go back to sleep, but there’s another knock. I sigh, limp out of bed and open the door to find Ryan Fleming hovering tentatively in the hallway, as if he can’t decide whether to come in or not.

  ‘Ssssshhhhh,’ he whispers, holding his hands up in front of him, as if to placate me.

  I look out in the hallway to make sure the coast is clear, then motion for him to come inside. He’s fully dressed, but only in shorts and a t-shirt, even though it’s pretty cold outside.

  ‘What are you doing here? Are you crazy?’ I ask, not entirely sure which question I’d like answered first. I glance over to Gillian who is sound asleep, her light snores muffled by the pillow that she has her head buried in.

  ‘Batshit crazy, I’m thinking,’ Ryan replies, ‘But it’s too late for me to stop now.’

  ‘Stop what?’ I ask.

  ‘I’ll tell you when we’re no longer in earshot, OK?’ he says. ‘You’re going to need to chan
ge your . . . err, outfit.’

  I peer down and realise I’m in my nightie, and redden. Ryan has the decency to pretend he wasn’t looking at my boobs. I motion for him to turn around, throw my denim cut-offs on underneath my nightie, and slide on a tank top and a jumper.

  ‘Well?’ I ask.

  He nods and motions for me to follow him, and, against my better judgement, I do.

  Out in the corridor, my limping is not helping with the creaky floorboards. He turns around and gives me a death-stare, and I shrug. As if I can help it! He rolls his eyes, then puts his hands out in a permission-seeking gesture. I nod, and he lifts me up effortlessly into his arms. I swallow. That scent from his jacket — from that night out in Melbourne — is even stronger on his skin, and it’s making me nervous.

  He carries me down the corridor and outside into the clearing. Instead of stopping to explain, he continues towards the car park.

  ‘Ryan Fleming, if you’re thinking you can take advantage of me while I’m in this sorry state, you have another thing coming,’ I hiss.

  He keeps walking.

  ‘I mean it, what are you doing?’ I ask, peering up at him.

  ‘I’m trying to keep quiet, but as usual you’re insisting on making things difficult.’

  He reaches a black hatchback, sets me down and fumbles in his pocket. He pulls out a set of keys, then opens the passenger door.

  ‘I suppose I better explain before I expect you to voluntarily get in my car with me at 3 a.m.’

  My face says it all.

  ‘I didn’t like the way Ms Richards fobbed you off today when you complained about your foot hurting,’ he says, looking down at the floor.

  ‘She didn’t fob me off,’ I say. ‘She didn’t look my foot properly to see how bad it actually was.’

  ‘Well, if it’s as bad as you say it is, we should get it looked at.’

  ‘Looked at by koalas and wombats?’ I ask, puzzled. ‘Or are you going to go all new age on me and ask the forces of nature to heal me underneath a black sky and crescent moon?’

  ‘I’m taking you to the hospital, you idiot,’ he said. ‘I had to wait until everyone was asleep . . . and for my phone to charge.’