Cloudwish

by Fiona Wood

  Booklists are a big headache every year. Money is put aside in advance, but it’s never enough to stop my parents looking worried. Lots of time trying to find second-hand books. The looming terror of big-ticket items like the laptop, the graphics calculator.

  Feet that grow are a big headache.

  Conversation about holidays is awkward. I’ve never been on an official holiday. It’s like my parents don’t know about the holiday concept. Never even been on an aeroplane. This would be unimaginable to my classmates, all of whom have regular family holidays to desirable destinations all over the country, all over the world.

  I’ve never been out of the state except on the grade six excursion to Canberra.

  By bus.

  I dread being asked, What did you do in the holidays?

  Special gear for any camp is its own nightmare. The stress of the Mount Fairweather equipment list ruined my life for about six months. What even were some of these things? Gaiters? Head-lamp? What could safely be got second-hand? Did I really need the number of multiple items listed? (Yes.) Would my existing knickers and PJs stand public scrutiny? (No.)

  I never want to be asked to anyone’s house, because I don’t want to ask them back here. My parents wouldn’t understand or allow that kind of socialising, and I can’t even imagine the weird someone might feel when they check out the gap between their natural habitat and mine.

  The money from part-time work pays for my (unsmart) phone, public transport, all photography/camera costs not covered by school, all non-uniform clothes and stuff like pool visits and occasional movies during the summer holidays.

  I don’t sign up for any activities that involve parents and transport. My parents don’t own a car, or speak much English. I hear about carloads of people getting carted around to debating and weekend sport, but it’s never going to include me.

  I don’t have birthday parties, I don’t get invited to birthday parties. I don’t mention my birthday in general. I’ve never had my locker decorated on my birthday at Crowthorne Grammar.

  I can’t even hang out at the tram stop because walking is cheaper than tramming. Just as well I like walking.

  MECCA or MAC free makeovers are only free if you buy some makeup, so that only seems ‘free’ to someone with spare money, i.e. someone who doesn’t need a free makeover.

  Select All. Delete.

  chapter 10

  Casual clothes day was a gold-coin fundraiser for year eleven’s sponsored student in Somalia. The Somali kid was a distant theory to most of Vân Ước’s classmates. It was a safe bet that she would be the only person who knew actual Somali kids.

  She always gave a two-dollar coin, worried that one dollar might look cheapskate. Lots of kids came with a handful of gold coins, whatever had happened to be in parental purses or pockets on the morning, she guessed. And, conversely, people with plenty of money never worried if they didn’t have any. Someone like Pippa would be perfectly happy to wander in without a coin, and say, Who’s got a gold coin for little old me?

  She and Jess had workshopped the outfit over the weekend. Casual clothes day was a competitive fashion parade, for girls anyway, no matter what anyone said or pretended to believe. She didn’t expect to look good; she just didn’t want to look too conspicuously wrong. Jeans. Safe choice. Good label, good fit, thank you Savers. Converse One Stars. Okay. Not ideal. Good colour – crimson. Made unique by hand-drawn curlicues and leaf pattern. Never worn at school before. Burnt orange silk singlet. Savers. A designer find, nabbed before the vintage store vultures swept through for the armfuls they could mark up by a couple of hundred per cent in little North Fitzroy shops. Gorgeous fabric, cut on the bias, it clung and fell just as it should.

  Persuaded by Jess, she had submitted to a small amount of eyeliner, and clear lip gloss with a hint of gold shimmer to it. The only thing that could go wrong was the weather.

  Being summer in Melbourne, that was exactly what happened.

  By the time she was hurrying through the Botanic Gardens, hair whipped around in every direction, the last trails of the hot night had been sucked up by wind swinging to the south. The temperature dropped by ten degrees in five minutes, and cold black coins of rain were landing on the still-warm paths, releasing the scent of toasted asphalt. The rain quickly settled in. Finally, an upside to not owning strappy Italian sandals. She ran to the nearest shelter, a small gazebo with an onion-dome roof, to wait until the downpour eased. She pulled her school rain jacket from her backpack, shivering. Way to kill what was otherwise, for once, an okay casual clothes day outfit.

  But what was this? A furry bundle of something on the slatted seat. She gave it a nudge with the back of her finger. It was soft and woolly. Neither mouse, nor cockroach, nor spider scuttled forth. She leaned forward and gave it a cautious sniff. Eucalyptus. She picked it up and shook it gently. It fell open like a fairytale dream of Gaultier: a cardigan with long, skinny sleeves knitted in wavering black and white stripes . . . and – what was happening at the shoulders? As though they’d sprouted, fabric petals emerged from each shoulder, red and orange, like wings grading down the upper arms through the rainbow spectrum of colours, and flicking out in delicate tips from the elbows in shades of violet. She’d never seen anything like it.

  She looked around through the sheeting rain. Who’d left this precious thing behind? Did she dare to try it on? It would make the day so much easier if she could feel warm and comfortable instead of shivering in her slimy rain jacket. She sniffed it properly now, with the experience of the op-shop buyer, giving particular attention to the armpits. Fresh as a flower. Slipping it on, she couldn’t help but feel as though it had been made for her. The body was cropped exactly at her hip level, the sleeves tapered down covering her long wrists. The wing-petals gave an extra layer of warmth.

  As she stroked her fingers along the underside edges of one wing, admiring the amazing construction, she felt the sharp edge of a cardboard tag. Attached with a ribbon and a small black safety pin, it said, Wear Me, on one side. She flipped it and read, Pass Me On. Here was some luck. She didn’t have to take it off. It was hers, at least for the day. She left the tag on; she would remove it carefully in better light.

  As the rain eased, she hitched her backpack on and took a deep breath.

  She had not slipped down a rabbit hole.

  Nor had a film crew sprung from the shrubbery to announce that she was the subject of a new reality TV show called ‘That Boy Who Used to Ignore You Notices You Now’ or ‘Find That Attractive Garment in a Public Place’.

  This was just life continuing to be a little bit weird.

  She hurried to school, trying to beat the next downpour. By the time she walked through the school gates, she was feeling that she might just look – better than okay.

  Because it was casual clothes day, the locker area was buzzier than usual. Lots of surreptitious and not so surreptitious checking out, commenting, admiring, teasing. Holly was leaning on her locker door, looking around, hugely amused. ‘You can so tell that colour blindness is more of a guy thing.’ Tiff and Pippa, the other queens of teen couture, agreed.

  As Vân Ước lifted her backpack into her locker, she remembered the label. She lifted a wing petal, undid the pin carefully and removed the label, glancing around to see if anyone, other than Michael, had noticed her doing it. Surely it would look slightly strange to come to school in a garment you apparently hadn’t properly unpackaged.

  Holly was looking her way as Vân Ước zipped the label into her backpack pocket, but it seemed she had Michael in her sights.

  ‘And then there’s Michael,’ Holly said. ‘Oh, the joy of faded black teamed with faded black.’

  Holly had been breathtakingly nasty to Michael at Mount Fairweather last term, publicly humiliating him by reading out an extremely personal letter he’d written about loving Sibylla Quinn. Vân Ước felt hotly uncomfortable for Mich
ael all over again just remembering the way his face had frozen and turned white as Holly read his private words for a laugh. It was interesting to see how he’d gone from mostly ignoring Holly pre-letter-reading-incident to retaliating now when she said something mean. He took out his copy of Ariel and his English folder from his locker and, even though he clearly couldn’t care less about Holly’s assessment, said, ‘Another episode of breathtaking banality from Holly Broderick.’

  ‘Loser,’ Holly said.

  ‘Another stingingly original riposte from Holly Broderick.’

  Holly looked at him with loathing, but bit her tongue. She recognised superior brain power when she saw it.

  Michael smiled at Vân Ước.

  Billy came loping into class, rain-soaked, making wrecked jeans, a washed-out red T-shirt and sneakers look entirely desirable. There were half a dozen empty places, but he sat next to Vân Ước. She could feel eyebrows go up all over the room. He gave one of her fabric feather/petals a playful tug, saying, ‘Hey, cool birdie.’

  Ms Norton arrived, shushing them and hoping they were old enough not to be distracted by the sartorial splendour they collectively represented.

  Vân Ước tried to concentrate on what Ms Norton was saying, but she’d seen Holly register Billy’s compliment, and that would no doubt mean trouble. As well, Billy Gardiner was sitting right next to her. She could hear him breathe.

  Ms Norton prefaced their discussion of Sylvia Plath with a briefing on the concept of the IB English oral commentaries – formal assessment sessions with your teacher at which selected texts would be discussed. That sounded okay; one-on-one discussion was pretty much what she’d been used to having with Debi at homework club.

  Daily class interaction was much more stressful. She hated it when teachers invited her by name to contribute; it meant that she’d misjudged the minimum acceptable level of participation. Ms Norton, an old-school, strict, English-accented English teacher, was someone from whom she dreaded negative attention.

  ‘More about the orals as we proceed. First, though, can everyone pair up for a practice session? Please choose a partner with whom you have not worked before. I want objective feedback. No friends who already know each other’s opinions.’

  Billy nudged her gently with his elbow. ‘I’m with Vân Ước.’

  She looked at him. She could swear he was as surprised as anyone else to hear those words coming out of his mouth.

  ‘Okay,’ said Ms Norton. ‘No need to call out – just take a minute now and partner up. Make a time outside class hours to have your session, and we’ll have three pairs reporting back next class. And do start visiting the intranet subject page regularly.’

  Vân Ước was trying not to look at Billy. She obviously didn’t want to be his partner, but nor did she want to have an attention-drawing altercation in front of the whole class. Maybe she could trade after class. She saw that Polly, a quiet scholarship semi-ally, was with Michael. Though Michael was surely a semi-friend, so maybe out of contention.

  Billy Gardiner was a millstone. An attractive millstone. Strange that only days ago a one-on-one session with him would have seemed like a fine idea, but that was just in theory, not real life, so here she was, freaking out.

  Couldn’t she at least try to forget that this was a complete reversal of previous behaviour, one that would surely draw Holly’s attention like an attack dog to raw meat, and relax and enjoy it? Gulp.

  Did Sylvia Plath ever have this sort of problem? Was Ted Hughes suddenly everywhere she went, so she felt like she was tripping over him? Although, hadn’t Sylvia pursued him? Wasn’t there a famous story about her biting his lip till it bled on an early date at a party? That had always sounded more like a spectacularly incompetent kissing episode than anything. Or maybe until that level of passion hit you, you didn’t know it was going to happen. Although, blood – surely that couldn’t be a good idea. Spit-swaps must be bad enough – glandular fever had gone around the early kissing brigade like wildfire. Of course that had never been a problem for Vân Ước.

  ‘Please open your copies of Ariel to page twenty, and we will look at “Tulips”,’ said Ms Norton. ‘Lou, would you like to read it for the class?’

  Holly was looking her up and down at the lockers after class. She shivered. She’d seen so many people being shredded and spat out by Holly over the last couple of years, even so-called friends, that Vân Ước consciously avoided any contact with her, but now – thanks Billy – it looked like it was unavoidable. Holly was whispering something to Gabi, one of her cronies, and both were having a little snigger.

  Holly, casually resplendent in a new-season Gorman dress, walked up to her and ostentatiously walked around her. She plucked at the cardigan’s wing-like sleeve and said, ‘Well, what have we come as today? Did someone think it was a costume party?’

  Vân Ước turned away and concentrated on packing up her English books and extracting her French folder. It was always worth ignoring a bully as a first strategy.

  ‘I said, what did you come as?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Vân Ước said.

  ‘Good, just remember that,’ said Holly.

  Vân Ước looked down, refusing to acknowledge Holly with a look or a word. She saved her spleen till she saw Jess after school.

  They set down their afternoon snack on a tray between them on the sofa at Jess’s – watermelon, rice crackers, hummus, snakes – took off their shoes, and put their feet up on the coffee table.

  ‘What a bitch,’ said Jess.

  ‘It’s her life’s work,’ said Vân Ước.

  ‘So, what would old Jane have done?’ Jess knew Vân Ước’s Jane Eyre habit, and indulged it. She, too, had read and enjoyed Jane Eyre, though not to the same semi-obsessive extent as Vân Ước.

  ‘Ha, Jane would wipe the floor with Holly. She’d use the John Reed putdown; she’d say, Wicked and cruel . . . You are like a murderer – you are like a slave-driver – you are like the Roman emperors!’

  Vân Ước had a suitable Jane quote for most occasions.

  ‘And what would Holly say to that?’

  ‘She’d say, What are you on, you loser? And she’d say, Stay away from Billy.’

  Uh-oh. She hadn’t planned to mention the Billy thing.

  ‘Whoa, back up, sister. Billy? Are you talking Billy Gardiner? Dream boy Billy? Numero uno mew? You’ve stopped your preferred charm offensive of pretending to ignore him completely? Give, give, give.’

  ‘Mew’ was their own word for anything good or attractive. It started when they were on a reading mission for intel about sex in year seven, and came across a steamy romance in which the sappy heroine, Brandy, mewed in a moment of sexual passion. That cracked them up; they cried with laughter. They immediately chose a preferable animal whose spirit they might invoke while having sex – if that ever happened. Jess immediately bagsed walrus, thinking a loud honk might be just the thing to get a laugh in the sack; Vân Ước went for a hooting owl. Mewing? Pathetic. Brandy also did a lot of purring. It was possible that Brandy had a secret wish to be Catwoman, which, had it been explored by the author, might have made for a better read. But ‘mew’ had earned a permanent place in their vocabulary.

  She gave Jess the full story of the shift in behaviour of – yes, her number-one mew – Billy Gardiner: the vial, the wish, the fascinating, the unprecedented attention from Billy, the initial strong suspicion that something mean was being planned, the let me come to homework club, the hey, cool birdie, the I’m partners with Vân Ước.

  ‘Okay, let’s get systematic. So – we know that magic wishes aren’t a thing, right?’ Jess gave her a look, as if checking to see that Vân Ước hadn’t given up on the whole idea of sanity.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘But we also know you are a smokin’ babe, plus smart-as, and all things great . . .’ Vân Ước shook her head in embarrass
ed denial, but before she had a chance to object Jess continued, ‘Seeing as how I am the only lesbian-in-waiting present, I’m going to appoint myself as the expert on female beauty, so don’t argue about that. The only question is, why now? And, given his track record of general meanness, I guess you were right to be suspicious about his motives. But that hasn’t played out. So, what’s the plan?’

  ‘The plan? There is no plan. And his jokes are sometimes long term and quite elaborate, so that’s still a definite possibility. So, there’s just, how do I avoid him?’

  ‘Nuh-uh. You’re thinking public humiliation still likely, Billy-likes-Vân Ước long shot. Am I right?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Whereas I’m thinking public humiliation long shot, Billy-likes-Vân Ước very likely.’

  ‘But I’m the only one present who has actually met Billy Gardiner, so I’m going to appoint myself as the expert on his behaviour.’

  ‘Though you admit yourself that his behaviour at the moment is uncharacteristic?’

  ‘Bizarrely.’

  ‘So, your mission, if you choose to accept it, is to discover his true motivation.’

  Vân Ước picked up another rice cracker, scooped up some hummus and crunched thoughtfully. ‘I guess.’

  ‘And how do you plan to do that?’

  ‘Continued surveillance?’

  ‘You need to step it up.’

  ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘Let him come to homework club, like he wants to.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Show yourself to him, and see what he makes of the real you. Also, how else am I going to meet him?’

  Jess was probably right. Homework club would at least let Billy see her in her own world.