The Yearbook Committee

by Sarah Ayoub

  But she doesn’t laugh. She just stares out the window.

  ‘Ok, well, wish me luck then,’ I say, pausing at her bedroom door.

  ‘Matty,’ she says slowly. ‘Don’t go. Stay, and come with me.’

  ‘I have to go,’ I tell her tersely. ‘Because I don’t want to look at myself the way I’m looking at you. With disappointment.’

  I storm out the door and head off to the bus stop, panicked that after my efforts and resolve, I’ll be late. But I’m not, and I feel a rare sense of affinity when I arrive at the school hall and see that everyone is as tense as I am.

  I turn off my mobile phone and head into the hall, hoping that the future will hold more for me than my past. But sitting at that desk doesn’t do me much good. I stare at the questions before me, thinking that they might as well be in another language. Suddenly my future is obscure — something I can’t envision, a language I can’t speak, a prospect I can never touch.

  The questions might as well be about my mother’s illness — something that I will probably never understand. Like I didn’t have enough mysteries in my life to contend with.

  This year, I had tried to forge friendships with people across the great divide. But someone I trusted has ratted me out, and now I just want to retreat back into the shell where I really feel like I belong. On my own — because I am the only one I can count on.

  Tammi

  Tammi Kap Me at my desk today: Can’t study any more / it’s almost over / checks snapchats on phone / studies for 2 minutes / WTF does this mean / chocolate cravings / let me look at formal dresses / focus Tammi / yuck, pimple / back to studying / my head hurts.

  I’m sitting in the gazebo in the park, studying for my Business Studies exam, when someone sits down next to me.

  ‘You make me feel like Indiana Jones searching for lost treasure,’ Mike says, smiling.

  ‘Yep,’ I say sarcastically. ‘I’m a regular diamond in a hay stack.’

  ‘What’s this?’ he asks, gesturing at my papers.

  ‘Study notes,’ I say. ‘My HSC has just started.’

  He pretends to pull out a notebook and tick something in it. ‘Year 12,’ he says slowly. ‘So you’re seventeen, eighteen?’

  ‘Eighteen,’ I say, smiling. ‘I repeated kindy.’

  He laughs and I give him a funny look.

  ‘So even though I’m nineteen and not a student, I’ve been doing a bit of study of my own,’ he says seriously.

  ‘OK — and?’

  ‘I’ve been carrying out some extensive research on whether or not you’re a figment of my imagination — because I never got a call and it’s been ages since I last saw you.’

  ‘Yeah, I lost your number, sorry,’ I say, making a regretful face.

  ‘You should be sorry,’ he points out. ‘Do you know how many weird looks you get when you walk around a park asking people if they’ve seen a beautiful clown?’

  I crack up laughing.

  ‘OK, I didn’t really do that, because it’s not like I could even explain the whole clown thing,’ he says.

  ‘It doesn’t matter now,’ I tell him. ‘That part of my life is over.’

  ‘You don’t sound happy about that, ironically.’

  I shrug.

  ‘Year 12 passes, you know,’ he tells me. ‘And all the drama that comes with it goes with it too.’

  ‘It’s not just year 12 I’m worried about,’ I tell him, looking out at the park.

  ‘I can’t help you if you won’t give me anything to work with,’ he says pointedly. ‘All I know is that you’re in year 12 and working as a clown to save up and study off-campus. I don’t know where, I don’t know when, I don’t know why.’

  ‘Well —’

  ‘Oh, don’t ruin the mystery,’ he warns, smiling.

  Two police officers pass by in front of us. One of them must recognise me as Dad’s daughter, because she smiles at me.

  ‘Pigs,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘Can’t stand the effing police.’

  ‘Wow,’ I tell him. ‘That’s some attitude. Common, but probably misinformed.’

  ‘Trust me, I’m well-enough informed.’

  I roll my eyes, thinking this might be a conversation for another time. Or never again, depending.

  ‘Do you ever feel like your life is mapped out before it’s even really begun?’ he asks me, pulling out two phones.

  ‘Please, you’re talking to a girl.’ I counter. ‘We have all the same stuff to contend with as boys, but we also have to deal with lesser pay just because, or male colleagues thinking we can’t do the same job as them in the same way. We’re still fighting stereotypes.’

  ‘Everyone is fighting stereotypes and judgement in one way or another,’ he says. ‘You just have to find a way to deal, a way to unwind, and a way to keep going.’

  ‘Sounds like a well thought-out plan,’ I tell him. ‘So what’s your strategy? And do the two phones work into it?’

  ‘Ha! One’s for business, the other’s for pleasure. As for the strategy– that’s a foolproof method that will probably make me a millionaire one day, so consider yourself lucky that I’m about to share it with you for free.’

  ‘OK,’ I say, intrigued.

  ‘I deal by having a good support system around me,’ he says. ‘That’s essential. I’m in the family business — whether I like it or not. I’ve learnt to milk it for all it’s worth, and then I use that money to help me relax and unwind a little. And I keep going because I know that I have to. We all have to earn our keep some way; we can’t all be heirs to racing fortunes or children of political dynasties.’

  I shrug. ‘I bet they have their own problems too,’ I point out, thinking of Gillian.

  ‘Yeah, but there’s still a class division in society,’ he tells me. ‘It’s not like in Downton Abbey or whatever the hell it’s called, but it’s there. So deal, unwind, keep going . . . and repeat.’

  I sigh. ‘You know, I’ll probably have to hunt you down and kill you if I remember that instead of this stuff,’ I tell him, pointing to my notes.

  ‘Trust me, my stuff is worth remembering.’

  ‘Yes, well, so are my Business notes, because I need them to pass my HSC and figure out something to do with my life.’

  ‘Because clowning around doesn’t pay enough?’

  ‘Not quite,’ I say.

  One of his phone beeps and he looks down at it.

  ‘Duty calls,’ he tells me. ‘Do you remember the mantra?’

  ‘“Deal, unwind, keep going . . . and repeat,”’ I tell him proudly.

  ‘See?’ he exclaims. ‘An excellent student. I bet you’ll ace all of your exams.’

  I laugh.

  He starts to walk away, then turns around. ‘Are you planning on celebrating once the HSC is over?’

  ‘Yeah I guess so,’ I tell him. ‘Doesn’t everyone?’

  ‘Well, if you really want to celebrate, these will help.’

  He thrusts a small ziplock bag with two green pills in it into my hands.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think these —’

  ‘Relax,’ he says. ‘They’re not illegal, they’re not detectable, and you’re not going to get in trouble for them. They’re made from these cultural herbs or some shit, and they’re amazing. Just don’t take them both at once if you’re worried.’

  He waves goodbye and heads off. I stare at the packet in my hands. Against my better judgement, I slip it into my pocket.

  I’ll probably throw them out anyway.

  THE YEARBOOK COMMITTEE

  Minutes for October Meeting

  Recorded by: Gillian Cummings

  Meeting Chair: Ryan Fleming

  In attendance: Everyone

  The Playlist: Matty chose ‘Bad Blood’ by Taylor Swift. Tammi had a confused look on her face, so he tried to pass it off as a subliminal message for Ryan and Charlie, but I knew the real reason — he knew that I was the one who did it.

  The Snacks: Vitamin water and Gatorade (Tammi’s Mum
); wheat crackers, cheddar cheese, and ham (Ryan’s grandma); and tuna and cracker lunch kits (Charlie’s mum). It was obvious that the families were getting into HSC-nurture mode. Except mine, because she is always ‘busy’, and Matty’s, for obvious reasons. I did chop up some carrot, celery and cucumber sticks, though. (Charlie said they were called crudites, but I had never heard of that word so I will stick to calling them sticks . . . lol).

  Agenda:

  *Graduation Day Material: It was decided that we would ask Mrs H if we can hire a cheap photographer (a sibling of a student maybe?) to take photos of the ceremony. We are all responsible for sending one or two things to Charlie so she can write some text about the day — funnies, anecdotes, reflections etc.

  *Final Tasks: It was decided that Tammi will get the staff photo for this year, and Ryan will collect the funniest teacher comebacks to student remarks. They will work on the staff pages together. Matty’s job is to take the file to the printers after he and Charlie do the final check. And my job is to call the printers and make sure the requested extension is not going to cost extra to have our books ready in time.

  *Formal: It was decided that we will stick to our plan to hand the book out at formal. We will leave two blank pages at the back with the heading ‘Formal Memories’ for people to write and stick photos in.

  Questions for Mrs H:

  *Token gift or small payment in school budget to allocate to photographer mentioned above?

  *Can we get an extension of just ten days? If we have until mid-November, we will still have time to pick up the yearbooks in time for our formal on December 5th.

  Action points for next meeting:

  *Meet up for a champagne brunch at Charlie’s house in lieu of next meeting, where we will toast our success, and see the book before it is distributed that night.

  *Give ourselves a pat on the back when we do!

  Gillian

  Gillian Cummings FINALLY. #graduating

  Lauren Pappas We’ll be rid of you forever!

  David DeLooka LOL Pappas, you crack me up.

  I ring the doorbell one more time and hear a thud and a torrent of swear words before Matty finally opens it.

  ‘How long were you going to ignore me for?’ I ask.

  He rubs his knee furiously, then scowls at me. ‘Dunno,’ he says, shrugging. ‘How did you find my house?’

  ‘I followed you home after the Maths exam,’ I explain. ‘Well, I followed your bus in my car.’

  ‘Remember all those times we sat together at lunch and you would go on and on about how you needed a life?’ he asks. ‘Today I agree with you.’

  ‘I drove you here once, remember?’ I say. ‘So I didn’t think it was a big deal. I just forgot which building it was. They all look the same.’

  He rolls his eyes. ‘Poor people’s houses often do,’ he mutters.

  I give him a gentle shove.

  He closes the door behind him. ‘Talk?’ he asks.

  We sit down on the stairs.

  ‘I knew you would tell her,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘But I thought you would pick a better time.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, ‘I really am. But I kept quiet hoping that you would come to your senses and then the HSC was, like, there, and I panicked. Mrs H needed to know. I hoped you’d get disadvantage points.’

  ‘I don’t need you to take care of me,’ he says sternly.

  ‘Someone has to,’ I exclaim. ‘You haven’t been able to catch a break this year.’

  He picks at his shoe, staring out at the road. ‘And you know what? I’m fine with that — it’s character-building.’

  I roll my eyes. ‘You think you’re so hard, don’t you?’

  ‘I’ve been relying on myself since I was a kid,’ he explains. ‘You might not get it, but this is who I am. I don’t share, I don’t open up, I don’t want anyone caught up in my jam. As my friend you should have respected that.’

  ‘I know that . . . sort of,’ I say. ‘But I still wish you would have let me apologise.’

  ‘Gill, a “sorry, not sorry” is not my thing, and that’s the kind of apology I would have got from you,’ he points out.

  ‘You know me too well,’ I mutter. ‘Forgive me?’

  ‘Always,’ he says.

  I scoff. ‘That would have been good to know three weeks ago,’ I say. ‘You know how hard it was going through exams without being able to talk to you? I was dying.’

  ‘What, couldn’t you draw some hope from your wish-dish note or whatever?’

  ‘Don’t mock the wish dish,’ I say, looking at him. ‘I got a really sweet note from Tammi.’

  ‘Yeah, because you deserve one,’ he responds. ‘And she needs better friends . . . Well, at least you seem fine. According to the internet anyway. Guess your dad’s PR team are pretty effective.’

  I shrug. ‘It’s all for show,’ I tell him.

  ‘Don’t I know it,’ he says. ‘I’ve decided to delete my Facebook.’

  My eyes widen. ‘Delete, like, full-on get rid of it? Not just deactivate it so you can study?’

  He laughs at my reaction.

  ‘Wow,’ I say. ‘That’s awesome.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Time for a fresh start, post high school. Tomorrow it all ends.’

  ‘You are coming to graduation though, right?’ I ask. ‘And David’s party?’

  ‘Dude, I don’t even know why you’re going to David’s party,’ he says. ‘That guy is a see-you-next —’

  ‘Don’t say it,’ I say, slapping my hand over his mouth. He laughs again, and I rest my head on his shoulder. It’s quiet for a moment; we’re both watching the sky turn a pretty swirl of pink and orange.

  ‘Come on,’ I say, finally. ‘You have to come. It’s our last high-school party!’

  ‘I was never one of you guys,’ he says, smiling. ‘Not really anyway.’

  ‘What, and you think I am?’ I ask. ‘Lauren put water on my chair in the exam room yesterday. I sat in there for two hours with a wet bum and I’m still going.’

  ‘I don’t get it,’ he says, shaking his head.

  ‘Neither do I . . . She must be really obsessed with me,’ I say, striking an exaggerated pose like I’m more fabulous than the simple girl that I really am.

  He looks at me, narrowing his eyes as if he’s trying to understand something difficult.

  ‘No . . . I don’t get why you just keep . . . going,’ he says.

  ‘I won’t let her bully me out of my high-school memories,’ I say defiantly. ‘I’m just as entitled to them as she is.’

  He smiles at me approvingly.

  ‘Sammy is so lucky to have you,’ he says after a minute. ‘I bet you teach him so much.’

  I stand up to leave and give him a quick hug before making my way down the stairs.

  ‘Hey, who’d you get?’ I ask from the bottom.

  He leans over the railing and smirks at me. ‘I thought the wish dish was a secret,’ he says, winking.

  I make a face at him and he puts his hands up.

  ‘They’re your rules,’ he says, laughing.

  My parents don’t make my graduation ceremony. There’s a press opportunity at the opening of some fancy new wing at a private hospital. My mum thinks getting the hairdresser to blowdry our hair together at home counts as suitable mother–daughter bonding time before the ceremony.

  ‘We’ll get the video,’ she says, as she grabs her designer bag and rushes out the door. I just give her a half-arsed smile in response to her half-arsed parenting.

  I look over my school uniform one more time and make sure I look perfect, then kiss Sammy goodbye and leave for school.

  At least I know that he and Elliott will be there, cheering me on.

  Outside the school hall, I am surrounded by people brandishing cameras and mirrors, posing with their families and adjusting themselves for the final walk under the school hall’s sandstone arch before they are officially free.

  I take a quick Snapchat video, blowi
ng a kiss to the camera, and post it to my followers. Then, as I’m slipping the phone back into my blazer, I feel a pair of hands close over my eyes. I whip around and find Charlie standing there, arms folded in her signature pose.

  ‘OMG, you look good,’ I screech. ‘You’re wearing make-up.’

  ‘Yeah, photos and all that,’ she says, smiling mischievously. ‘I do have to act like a girly girl sometimes, you know.’

  She looks around. ‘Did you see Lauren Pappas? She’s wearing these gigantic heels — I hope she stacks it.’ We burst out laughing.

  ‘You don’t mean that,’ I say, nudging her.

  ‘Of course I do!’ she exclaims, grabbing my hand. ‘Come and see how huge my mum is now.’

  ‘It’s so lovely to see you, Gill!’ Charlie’s mum exclaims when we find her. She starts fixing my cap and adjusting the cape on top of my uniform. ‘I bet you’re glad all those exams are over?’

  I nod, smiling, trying not to look at her boobs, which are huge.

  ‘You’ll have to come visit after baby is born,’ she continues. ‘When Charlie moves back to Melbourne, I’ll be all alone.’

  My eyes flick to Charlie, who bites her lip and looks away.

  ‘Of course another girlfriend is abandoning me,’ I say to Charlie later, as we’re about to make our entrance. Teachers are walking up and down the line, thrusting lit personalised candles in our hands.

  ‘I’m not abandoning you,’ she hisses. ‘What a complete waste of money,’ she says, scowling at her candle. She blows it out.

  ‘Whatever,’ I say. ‘Are you nervous? I am.’

  She scoffs. ‘What for?’

  ‘I dunno. But I’m so glad they decided to do this after the HSC. Most other schools do it when the students finish in term three, but what’s there to celebrate when you’re still turning up for exams and stuff?’

  A cameraman appears in front of me.

  ‘Gillian, how does it feel to be graduating?’ a reporter next to him asks.

  I give her a confused look. ‘Um, who are you?’

  ‘We’re from the Channel Nine News. We’re doing a segment on your dad and how he must really be “all for the people” if it means missing your graduation.’