by Fiona Wood
‘And I will make people well?’
‘You will have a waiting room full of people who come to be cured.’
‘And I will expect all my patients to take their tablets that I carefully prescribe for them.’
Her mother’s lips were firmly closed again.
‘Won’t I? Mama, think about it – you know it’s true.’
‘Maybe.’
‘So . . .’
‘So you will be better than Dr Chin. You will only prescribe the tablets that work.’
‘These tablets will work, if you just keep taking them. No skipping a day. You won’t feel better straightaway after the dose changes. Remember him explaining that to us?’
‘They want our money for tablets that don’t even work.’
‘They just work in a different, slower way. And then they make you feel better for a long time. But only if you keep taking them.’ Vân Ước got up to leave.
‘You and Daddy will do the sewing today.’
Great, that would poke a big hole into homework time. So apparently some time-wasting was permissible. Just nothing fun. Hanging out with Jess: no. Slave labour: yes. But her mother looked sad and ashamed; Vân Ước didn’t have the heart to let her annoyance show.
‘We can do it. And I’ll ring and cancel for the rest of the week. You just rest.’
She went out into the hallway, took a deep breath in order not to scream, went into the bathroom and saw her own face in the mirrored cabinet. Worried. And pissed off. She’d have to get dinner organised, too. She fished around the narrow shelves and found the right box. Fortunately her mother was too tight with money to chuck stuff out once she’d paid for it. Vân Ước checked the dose, popped two white pills out, filled a glass of water and closed the cabinet door. She checked her reflection again, removed worried, removed pissed off, put on confident, added a touch of positive, and headed back into the bedroom.
chapter 13
The common room was a new privilege, just for years eleven and twelve. Each year level had its own room, in different buildings, and people used them to have lunch in if the weather was bad, or as a place to hang out in a spare period; some people – the ones with a high noise tolerance – even worked in there. They were allowed to play music and there was a massive noticeboard where people could post ‘appropriate’ material.
School had tried to make the common room feel like a relaxing retreat. They’d even used the word ‘chill’ in the literature, which was unfortunate. Sofas and comfy chairs and coffee tables had been donated by students’ parents, creating a mismatched informality. A kettle, a microwave oven, a fridge and a sandwich press made for more comforting food options than the usual lunchbox fare.
The room overlooked a small garden area, a dead-end wedge created when the new library building (the Redmond Information and Technology Centre) was connected to one of the old buildings, and it had a low-grade background smell of instant noodles and bananas, which wasn’t unpleasant, but which, over time, they would no doubt come to associate with the stressful work requirements of the year.
The one thing that no one liked about the common room was that it had a CCTV security camera in one corner of the ceiling. Cameras were dotted all over the school, but it seemed like an invasion to have one right inside this particular room.
Pippa, whose older sisters had all gone through the school, always had the scoop on the whys, wherefores and deep history. She said, ‘They had no choice – it was just a smokers’ den before the camera went in. I guess they were worried they’d be sued for passive smoking injury.’
Vân Ước had to steel herself to go into the common room. She wouldn’t have bothered if it hadn’t been for the CCTV camera. Her scholarship was for general excellence, and that had a community component. Imagine if someone checked through the footage and noticed that she never went into the most community-specific space that the school had created for her year level. On one hand it was ridiculous to think that anyone had the time to waste on a check like that. On the other hand, why not play it safe? She was used to jumping through hoops that were put in front of her.
The room didn’t feel like hers in any way. It was a distillation of the exclusion she expected to feel, a concentration of the in-ness of various friendship groups. Worse than walking out into the playground glare of unpopularity, here you had to walk through a doorway. All eyes flicked up upon each entry. People were greeted with enthusiasm. Room was made for them to sit down. Or, in cases like hers, eyes flicked down again, and the silence screamed in her ears. It wasn’t that she minded it particularly, but she did mind other people witnessing it. And she dreaded teachers getting wind of it, and maybe finding awful, inventive ways for her to join in more effectively. She had decided her strategy would be to make a cup of tea – BYO teabags – and sit down and pretend to study, or really study if it were at all possible.
So before class, on this hot and thundery Wednesday, a week into term, she made her second visit to the common room. Disturbing sounds of occupation and hilarity were bubbling into the corridor. Fun? It wasn’t much past eight am. A couple of lengths of the corridor, arm-swinging and deep-breathing, and she dived in. Not a splashy dive from a height, more like entering already underwater and hoping not to be noticed. But rather than being able to make her way inconspicuously to the kettle bench, she was immediately pounced on by Billy. Not physically – he was standing at the most centrally located coffee table in the middle of a Jenga battle with Vincent.
He called from the door, ‘Vân Ước, come over here.’
She froze.
‘Vân Ước!’
The whole room was quiet. Billy’s friends looked at him like, What? Why the sudden interest in her? They were as mystified as she was. Her couple of scholarship cronies shrank as deeply into their seats as possible, hoping not to be called on for any impossible rescues.
Billy looked around. ‘Hey, I like the silence – finally some attention. Because I’ve got an announcement . . .’ He turned a slow circle, making sure everyone was looking at him.
Might she actually throw up, right here, right now? Please, no. Her eyes flicked around nervously. Where was someone like Lou when you needed her?
Billy continued, ‘Vincent Linus Cronin is about to eat a dick.’ He looked at the Jenga tower with complete concentration, slowly pulled out a rod without causing the structure to crash, and roared with satisfaction. Vincent was sweating – they really took it this seriously? He removed the next rod. The tower remained standing.
‘And that was his undoing . . .’ Billy looked around for her again. ‘Vân Ước, come over and help me – I need physics expertise for my final move.’
Billy’s friends – and particularly Holly – were again doing a double take. She walked over to the game and stood nearby. What was she going to do? Withhold a Jenga opinion?
‘Thank you!’ said Billy. ‘I’m thinking this one.’ He pointed to a rod down towards the base layer. Vân Ước did a quick assessment of the structure and nodded. It was the one she’d choose.
It was as though one of her weird Billy dreams had come to life: Billy noticing her. Billy talking to her. Billy wanting her opinion. Everyone seeing that Billy liked her.
Billy extracted the rod. And again, the structure held.
‘You’re fucked now, buddy,’ he said to Vincent, who clearly agreed, admitting defeat in a sour smirk.
Vincent pulled a rod out and the edifice went smashing down over the coffee table, spilling onto the floor. Billy stretched both arms up, triumphant. He punched his own chest. ‘Jenga king,’ he yelled. People laughed, rolled their eyes. Everyone was used to his hyper-exuberance. He turned to Vân Ước, punching the air and chanting, ‘I am the Jenga king. I am the JENGA KING.’
She flinched; it was as though he was about to charge through her, but instead he picked her up, spun around in a circle,
put her down again, and continued his lap of triumph around the common room. He stacked two chairs on the table closest to the CCTV camera, climbed up them and said into the camera: ‘I AM JENGA in this school!’
‘Dude, there’s no audio,’ said Ben.
‘Then they can READ MY LIPS,’ Billy shouted into the camera before jumping down, chairs crashing behind him.
By now everyone was laughing – except Vân Ước. She couldn’t decide whether fury or mortification would win the day. Whatever Billy Gardiner’s game was, and however she fitted into it, she wasn’t available to be picked up and put down like a doll. She forgot about her cup of tea and walked out.
When Billy called out to her she was striding through the car park near the science block and still angry.
The morning’s rain had eased, but it was warm and thundery still; lightning arced and flicked across the mauve-clouded sky.
He caught up to her. ‘Why’d you run off? You brought me good luck.’
‘Why are you following me around? Why are you speaking to me out of the blue like this?’ she asked him.
‘Why wouldn’t I?’
‘Because you never have before. You didn’t even seem to know who I was until last week.’
‘So, call me stupid. I know who you are now.’
‘Good, then you can leave me alone now.’
A fork of lightning flashed bright white nearby, and between them, right onto the bonnet of Dr Fraser’s silver hybrid, a bird fell with a thud, dead, its tiny bundle of entrails exploded out, a thread of smoke rising in a spiral from its broken chest.
‘SHIIIIIT!’ said Billy. ‘Wow. How cool is that?’
She couldn’t believe her ears. He thought it was cool that a small bird got electrocuted right in front of them? Just great. She had a psychopath following her around.
chapter 14
Art class that afternoon was devoted to journaling.
As part of their assessment each student would be required to present a document that demonstrated the thought processes and practical studies and explorations behind their folio pieces. Ms Halabi said that the journal should ideally strike a balance between playground and laboratory. She also warned the class that examiners could always tell if a journal had been put together at the last minute. Even though it seemed like a soft-option part of the course, it had to be undertaken seriously.
The teacher went quietly from student to student to chat, still getting to know them all, while Vân Ước worked on a journal page devoted to the artist Elizabeth Gower, and specifically to the jewel-bright mosaics Gower made from product labels and packaging.
‘Aha,’ said Ms Halabi. ‘So tell me how this relates to your work.’
‘It’s the beauty of the overlooked object . . . an article I read talked about constructing an aesthetic from the mundane.’
‘And what does the artist have to say about it?’
‘She – for her it’s political, too. Questioning consumerism.’
‘Okay. And you’re giving your work some more thought?’
Vân Ước nodded, but she’d had no new insights since Friday.
‘Remember to keep investigating – what does it mean? and what does it mean to me?’
It felt amazing to have her work taken seriously, to be treated like an artist. She was buzzing with adrenalin and – she had to admit it – she enjoyed the added thrill that this was hers alone, a secret life. Secret from her parents, anyway. That felt heady, addictive. Maybe there was an element she wasn’t so proud of; keep your secrets about our family, I’ve got my own secrets.
As she left the art room, Holly walked up alongside her, lightly bumping her, smiling. ‘Go look at the noticeboard, bitch.’
Vân Ước knew that smile, and her euphoria evaporated. She’d gone from the category of ignored/despised to being squarely in Holly’s sights. Thanks, Billy. The old dudes were at her shoulder, naturally. She’s full of herself today/Who does she think she is?/Of course she’s heading for a fall/What did she expect?
The dilemma was whether to go to the common room now and see what Holly was talking about, or wait and try to go in at a less populated time. At least Holly wouldn’t be there now; she’d been heading in the opposite direction. Perhaps she’d check out the lay of the land, and have a covert look at the board.
She expected the worst and wasn’t disappointed. A photo of her in the rainbow wing cardigan blown up and printed on six A4 sheets of paper, with the caption: Security warning: Certain people wear stolen goods. Lock up your possessions.
People who’d been at the board, obviously looking at the pictures of her, drifted away, leaving her uncertain of what her rights were here, and what she should do. If she took them down, would it make her look more guilty, or less? Would there be any point? Holly could just print more.
What would Jane do? Jane had been humiliated unfairly at school. She’d been punished and called a liar in front of her whole class. Then she cried. Even Jane was only human.
Vân Ước had the horrible, rare and certain feeling that she was about to cry. She headed out quickly, brushing past Lou, Sibylla, and Billy, running across the colonnade to the library and down the stairs to the basement level. There she shoved open two sets of swing doors, and locked herself in a toilet cubicle.
She sat down and let the crying hit her. It was powerful and engulfing, and she knew from experience that it would take a while for her to resurface. She wasn’t a crier. Once, maybe twice a year she’d have a good howl. So when she did cry, she was overloaded, like a storm cloud, and miseries came pouring out in a torrent.
Her anxiety about her mother (why couldn’t she have a capable, happy mother who looked after her, instead of vice versa?); her frustration that her father didn’t get more involved, wasn’t better at helping her mother; her confusion about Billy Gardiner; and all the rest of her current-release poor-me catalogue items – no money, no designer clothes, no nice clothes even, people would believe she stole something because she was poor, parents didn’t even speak the language, no nice place to live, parents wouldn’t even apply to live in one of the real houses with a garden that the housing commission owned, parents had no car, she’d never been out of the country, never had a pet (unless you counted a succession of former goldfish, which she didn’t), always had to be on best behaviour because of the scholarship, must look like a craven approval-seeker, no friends at school, wouldn’t get into art school even with a good folio because she’d be tongue-tied and too shy to talk about the work in interviews, never had a boyfriend, would never have a boyfriend, only ever had one (fake) Barbie (with cheap hair that matted) when she was little.
Finally there flowed the generalised sorry-for-selfness that was virtually forbidden in her life, but which flavoured it completely, or maybe just reduced her life’s flavour overall, about not being allowed to be unhappy about any bloody thing because if you survived then you were all right; no – lucky. What problems? You’re alive! She wanted more than survival. She wanted beauty; she wanted love; she wanted abundance.
Why was it okay for everyone around her to have more than enough, but she had to be content with less?
Her whole body was crying now, shoulders and chest heaving, tears streaming, running down her neck, making the collar of her dress wet, nose running. She was a big, snotty pile of self-pity. And she despised herself almost as much as she pitied herself. What a pathetic weakling. Now she would be red-eyed, flushed and blotchy for the rest of the day and everyone would know she’d been crying, and then they’d all think she was guilty.
She was shocked into stopping, with a gulp, when the door into the cubicle area opened. She flushed the toilet to cover the noise she was making, drew a deep breath through sobs still galloping to get out, yanked down some toilet paper and blew her nose. But didn’t open the door. She hiccupped.
‘Vân Ước?’
Crap. Was there no getting away from him? She hiccupped again.
‘Look, I know it’s you.’
‘This is the girls’ toilets.’
‘Yeah, it’s just you and me though, so I figured it was okay.’
‘It’s not.’
‘I heard you crying.’
‘Can you please go?’
‘I just want to make sure you’re okay.’
‘I’m okay.’ Hiccup.
‘You don’t sound it. What’s with the stuff on the noticeboard?’
‘I don’t know.’
Vân Ước heard the noise of a toilet seat banging shut.
‘You’re not actually using the toilet now, are you?’ Billy asked.
‘No.’
‘Cool.’
She looked up. He was standing on the toilet in the next cubicle, looking down at her. She had a momentary sense of disbelief that she had ever ever wished for Billy Gardiner to notice her.
The door to the cubicle area opened again and she heard murmurs as two more people came in.
‘What the fuck are you doing up there?’
Thank god. It was Lou. Not that Vân Ước wanted to see anyone. But she had no confidence that she could get rid of Billy alone.
‘Get lost, Billy,’ Sibylla said.
He jumped back down. ‘Do you want me to stay, Vân Ước?’
‘NO.’
‘Okay, I’ll see you in class.’
The door opened and closed again. She assumed Billy was gone.
‘Are you okay?’ asked Lou.
Vân Ước was still trying to get her breathing and sobbing under control. ‘Sure,’ she said, sounding only a bit quaky.
‘I’m getting eye drops,’ Sibylla said. ‘I’ll be back.’
‘What’s going on?’ Lou asked when Sibylla had gone. ‘What’s the thing on the noticeboard about?’
Vân Ước opened the door and saw how bad she must look reflected in Lou’s sympathetic face a beat before she saw herself in the mirror. ‘Oh no.’