by Fiona Wood
‘Don’t worry, Sib’ll be back soon. Splash your face with cold water, and we’ll talk.’
chapter 15
It was such a relief to tell Sibylla and Lou the true story of the winged cardigan, even through the hiccups and sobs that continued while her body recovered from the crying storm.
In her measured way, Lou looked at Vân Ước. ‘I know you don’t like talking, but you have to let people know how you found the cardigan.’
‘It’s a cool story. It must be someone’s art/life/fashion project,’ said Sibylla.
Seeing the sense in telling everyone her side of the story was one thing; being able to do it would require her to speak to people. Major impediment.
Sibylla frowned. ‘The first thing we do is rip down what’s on the board. And if Holly prints more and puts them back up we tell Ms King.’
‘Or at least tell Holly that we’ll tell her,’ said Lou.
‘Which brings us to why she’s being such a complete bitch to you,’ said Sibylla. ‘It’s obviously Billy. You’re stepping on her territory. More so since they’ve hooked up recently. Not that that means anything. To him, anyway. But there’s no way she’s going to welcome you into the fold.’
‘I mean, are you in the fold?’ Lou wanted to know. ‘Is there something happening with you and Billy?’
Vân Ước shook her head. ‘I have no idea why he’s . . .’
‘Climbing up onto toilets to talk to you?’
‘He’s just . . . I don’t think he even knew who I was last term, and now he’s following me around.’ Saying it out loud didn’t make it seem any more plausible.
‘Not that you’re not crush-worthy, Vân Ước. But it is a bit weird,’ said Lou.
‘It’s just that Billy’s –’ Sibylla paused, looking worried.
‘– a dick,’ Lou finished.
‘He’s so used to everyone thinking he’s this great guy, he’s funny, he’s popular, that he’ll happily trample over anyone to get a laugh and not even notice that he’s done any damage.’
‘He’s like a really annoying puppy – he chewed your shoes but, oh, look, he’s still wagging his tail. Remember how he went on and on about your big undies, Sib?’
Sibylla smacked her forehead in mock despair. He’d continued a ‘once seen, never forgotten’ series of gags about her knickers for the whole time they were at Mount Fairweather, Vân Ước remembered. ‘He’s a guy who doesn’t give a shit about collateral damage if he gets a laugh.’
‘Did you hear he set up a fake Crowthorne Grammar School email account last year and sent a pile of emails that looked like they came from the year ten coordinator to all his friends’ parents, complaining of – what was it? – lacklustre academic performance, and encouraging them to set more rigorous study timetables at home,’ said Lou.
Vân Ước couldn’t help smiling. It was pretty funny. But that sort of prank didn’t happen on the spur of the moment. It took some planning.
‘Also, he’s never really had what I would call a relationship,’ said Sibylla. ‘He periodically succumbs to being someone’s boyfriend, so long as they do all the work and don’t make any demands.’
‘And I think we’ve all heard the revolting line he uses about rowing: oars before whores?’ said Lou.
‘Gross,’ said Vân Ước. It really was. In which case, why, since she first laid eyes on him, and despite everything she’d since discovered about him, had he been the one to persistently invade her daydreams?
‘I mean, I guess the message is, keep your guard up. Whatever he’s up to, following you around like you’re his new hobby, he’s never shown himself to be good boyfriend material,’ said Sibylla.
‘Bottom line, he’s your standard-issue two-dimensional hot jock, and you can do better,’ said Lou.
What was Billy up to? He certainly had no history of interest in a girl on the outermost ring of the social circle. In fact, even the inner-sanctum girls had a hard time getting quality attention. And if it was the wish – it couldn’t be the wish – shouldn’t she hear a shimmer of fairy bells or something every time he came near?
They kept chatting as they headed upstairs, by which time a quick check in the mirror showed Vân Ước that her eyes were brightly, vaso-constricted white, thanks to Sibylla’s drops, and her face only a little bit blotchy.
chapter 16
After the horror she had not sought to hide following the fried bird incident, after the firm go away message in the library toilets, after successfully dodging Billy all day Thursday – the one day they didn’t have a class together – Vân Ước was astounded to see him front up to homework club on Friday. He hadn’t even double-checked the time or location with her. She assumed he’d forgotten. But he just strolled in, right on time, relaxed, confidently scoping the room.
It was awful, truly awful, that even though her official response was horrified, her heart betrayed her with a distinct skippety-thud when he arrived. She made eye contact with Jess and nodded in his direction. Jess took one look at him and mouthed ‘wow’, eyebrows up. He was a show-stopper in the looks department, no doubt about it.
He saw Vân Ước and sauntered over, deftly weaving his way around the tables, chairs and wandering kids.
Jess had been making a beeline for Vân Ước as soon as she realised that Billy was Billy. They arrived at the same time.
‘Billy, Jess; Jess, Billy,’ Vân Ước said.
‘Hi,’ said Jess.
‘Hi,’ he replied, not really looking at Jess.
Vân Ước looked from Jess to Billy and back again, hoping one of them would say something. Billy stared at Vân Ước, ignoring Jess. Jess looked at Billy and clocked that she was being ignored. She crossed her eyes and pulled a Jess face, and still Billy didn’t glance at her.
And, hello, this was familiar. As soon as Billy had said his perfunctory hi to Jess, his eyes had skated right over her, through her, as though she were a chair or a rock. He’d made a summary assessment: she was a nobody. An irrelevance. Vân Ước’s heart sank. This was exactly how Billy had looked at her until a week and a half ago. It wasn’t malevolent; it was simply a case of utter disregard. It guaranteed Jess would not be remembered next time they met. Jess was a sharp-looking girl – and, more importantly, smart, funny and nice; plus, she was a human being who deserved his attention, and his courtesy.
That careless, disrespectful arrogance rekindled the anger in Vân Ước’s heart. She made sure she kept her distance from Billy as she led him over to meet Eleanor.
Oh, it was nauseating. The eye contact. The firm handshake. The warm smile. Eleanor’s oh, you must be Jonathan’s son. The brief summary of the summer’s volunteer work at the lifesaving club. The reference from the club’s president. Eleanor gave Billy a form to fill out and welcomed him on board.
‘Vân Ước, given Billy’s background with younger children and sport, I think I’ll put him with you and preps, ones and twos – on playground duty. Can you make sure he settles in?’
‘Sure,’ Vân Ước said.
‘Do whatever Vân Ước tells you, Billy – she’s the boss. We couldn’t manage around here without her.’
Vân Ước smiled at Eleanor, in spite of being freshly lumbered with Billy, whom she had assumed would be assigned an older student and be sent upstairs where she need not cross paths with him.
Billy turned away from Eleanor, expecting Vân Ước to lead them back to the small kids’ area, but at the same time a boy behind Vân Ước pulled out his chair and trapped her into staying where she was. So as Billy stepped towards her, she was sandwiched between his body and the chair. The surge of sensation that shot through her was so extreme she felt like a pinball machine on tilt. Billy’s whoa, and sorry, and step backwards to give her some room was all that stopped her from throwing her arms around him.
She frowned at the insi
stent kaleidoscope of romance-cover-worthy images flipping through her mind and gave herself a mental smack on the head. This was a boy she did not particularly trust. He was going to be working for her here. That was all. At school she would continue to do her best to avoid him, and with any luck he’d eventually leave her alone.
She pushed the obstructing chair back in and led Billy to the front of the church hall. She turned back to check he was following and he gave her the most confident, amused smile she’d seen. A smile that surely said he had felt what she had felt – or maybe it said he had read her mind and knew what she was thinking about. The smile distracted her again and redirected heat flow. She took a deep breath. Maybe mewing wasn’t so unbelievable after all. Maybe Billy Gardiner produced the sort of sparks that meant a mew was some kind of scientific inevitability. She almost laughed out loud; that was ridiculous. They reached the side door nearest to the playground. ‘Okay, brace yourself.’
Vân Ước introduced him to a few of the little kids. Mahad and Barney immediately involved him in a hot dispute as to which of them had farted.
‘You farted!’
‘I did not. You farted.’
‘Did not, you did.’
‘You stink.’
‘No, you stink.’
Just when things were about to boil over, Billy intervened. ‘Who mentioned the fart first?’
Mahad pointed at Barney.
‘Okay,’ said Billy, his manner serious. ‘You work out the fart fight using ancient wisdom: A fox smells its own scent first. And in addition to that: He who smelt it, dealt it. Barney, you farted.’
‘Okay, I did!’ said Barney.
The boys burst out laughing, and ran over to the cobweb-shaped climbing frame, shouting to each other, ‘He who smelt it, dealt it!’
Billy smiled at Vân Ước, a self-satisfied look on his face.
‘Yep, you fit right in here,’ she said, heading back into the church hall.
chapter 17
Vân Ước tidied up the little kids’ area after homework club. She liked the routine; putting the pencils back into their jars, stacking the unused paper, clipping the lids on the plasticine containers, tidying the books away into the book bins and making sure the gym mats where the kids lounged about and read were free of any sticky spills.
She took her time more than usual just to make sure that Billy would be long gone by the time she headed home. She sprayed and wiped down the tables (not even her job) before she got her bag, said goodbye to the church warden, Serena, who locked up each week, and opened the door into the still-hot afternoon.
Oh, great. Billy was sitting on a swing, texting. He looked up at the sound of the door, came over and started unlocking his bike. Vân Ước kept walking.
‘Wait up, I’ll walk you home.’
‘I can get there by myself.’
He wasn’t that easily put off. He walked along beside her, wheeling his bike, ignoring the periodic buzzing of his phone. ‘Which way are we heading?’
‘I only live about five minutes away; I really don’t need . . .’
‘You were great in there,’ he said. ‘You know every kid. How long have you been doing this?’
‘Just since last year.’ Despite having done what Jess suggested, and let him come along to see her in her natural habitat, he had no real idea of who she was. It was time to take the plunge. This would be sure to get rid of him. ‘Before then, I was a student here. I’ve been coming here every week since year five. My parents hardly speak any English. We live in the high-rise housing commission flats, like most of the kids who come here. Tutors, like you are now, go home to Toorak. Students, like I was, go home to the flats.’
Billy stared at her. ‘Cool. So at least I know I’m heading in the right direction.’
Huh? He hadn’t skipped a beat. Did he already know? She glanced at him. He was wandering along, appearing not to have a care in the world. His phone buzzed again. He took it out of his pocket, read the screen and sighed.
‘Are you going to Tiff’s tonight?’
‘Ah – no. We’re not friends.’
‘Yeah, I don’t want to go either. Only it’s her birthday drinks. So I should. I guess. But why? Why do I have to do all this stuff?’
‘Because she’s your friend?’
‘Yeah, but not really. And I have to be up at five.’
‘So, maybe – go home now?’ He really stuck around like glue, and didn’t take a hint.
Billy smiled at her. ‘But this is the best part of my day so far.’
‘You must have had a pretty ordinary day.’
‘Can we go back to your place and hang for a while?’
Vân Ước looked at him. He did not seem to be joking. ‘No. We can’t. My mother’s not well.’
‘Hey, I’m sorry. What’s wrong?’
‘She . . . I’m not sure that she’d want me talking about it.’
‘No, cool. I’m sorry. Hope she feels better soon.’
They were at the gates of the flats. ‘Okay, bye,’ said Vân Ước.
‘See you on Monday,’ Billy said, wheeling his bike away with a plausible impression of regret as Matthew walked up, wearing his ever-present, genuine – as he was keen to point out, though who cared – French beret, whistling tunelessly between his teeth, and greeting Vân Ước with a familiar yo.
Jess broke up a block of Turkish delight chocolate, her confectionery mew, looking very stern.
‘Billy. Huh. What an arrogant, up-himself dick,’ she said. ‘He was strutting around like he owned the place. First visit!’
‘That’s typical behaviour.’
‘Well, I can’t see why he’s your mew guy.’ Jess ate a piece of chocolate. ‘Except for he’s magazino handsome.’
‘Yeah.’
‘And cut. He must do nothing but work out.’
‘He’s the stroke of the first eight.’
‘Which means?’
‘It means when he’s not studying, he’s training. It’s the top position in the school’s best rowing crew.’
‘Right.’
‘Which he holds in year eleven – so, he’s the king of rowing a year earlier than you might expect.’
‘So, he can row very quickly? Big deal. He’s not good enough for you.’
‘What did you think? I mean, did you get a sense of what he thinks about me?’
‘He’s besotted, you idiot. You have won the heart of one very hot dickhead.’
Frowning to hide her annoyingly automatic thrilled response, Vân Ước pressed play on their Friday movie, Clueless, which they hadn’t seen since last year. ‘That was way harsh, Tai,’ she said.
‘Not even a quarter of the harsh he deserves. Seriously, we couldn’t be friends if you went out with him.’
‘Our friendship is safe.’
Vân Ước reached for a piece of the Turkish delight chocolate, which made her think of Narnia, of bewitchment, and of little glass vials.
chapter 18
Saturday morning started with a long riverside run.
A shower, hair wash.
Fifty minutes of oboe practice. Gah! A couple of annoying duck squawks. Round the sound. Round the sound. Her new reed was still too tangy – it needed some more breaking in. She knuckle-jiggled her face muscles against her teeth.
An attempt at an art journal entry. What does it mean? What does it mean to me? She wrote a response to the sequence in the film American Beauty where the boy next door has filmed the plastic bag blowing around in the wind. A mundane object imbued with a balletic beauty. Fragility. Vulnerability. Hmmm. It felt a bit bullshitty, but that was probably okay, given the playground/laboratory instruction. The journal was a place to explore. It was a relief to have a place like that, away from the land of rights and wrongs. What does it mean to me?
She
created a new page border by repeatedly writing out a quote from Picasso – Art is a lie that tells the truth – and filled the page by writing a response to it as it pertained to her work. Little things combining to show us something new, something larger.
She did an image search of footpath and pavement council surveyor marks from around the world, and bookmarked a few images to print at school.
She image-searched some photography of metal surfaces and old glass.
Good to get so much ticked off the list before eleven am.
Because the early bird catches the worm.
Those old wacko English proverbs and idiomatic sayings were great. It was one of the things she and Debi did in year five, in their first year together at homework club. They weren’t forms of English she ever heard at home. It takes one to know one. A storm in a teacup. A stitch in time saves nine.
Her mother used occasional mystifying Vietnamese equivalents, like, If you put in the work to sharpen the steel, it will one day turn into needles. Laugh at others today and tomorrow others will laugh at you. And others that were simply a variation on study hard: The hand works, the mouth is allowed to chew. A good beginning is half the battle.
After a couple more hours of homework, it was time to collect Jess and go to work. Five hours of making rice paper rolls at Henry Ha Minh Rolls on Chapel Street. Seating for twelve only, and the rest was takeaway, the long queue a permanent fixture. The kitchen was as big as the seating area. Six people covered Saturday’s prep and rolling. You had to work fast. Fast and Fresh: that was the simple sell.
Henry had two other small but equally popular places: Henry Ha Minh Dumplings and Henry Ha Minh Barbeque. He was a hard-line minimalist. One perfect, tiny range at each outlet. His signage was all typeset in lower case Courier. And each cafe was painted in blackboard paint so walls became a changing artwork/message board for the day. Today, he’d written: The object of art is to give life a shape . . . Jean Anouilh. His girlfriend, Tiên, was an interior designer and as much of a perfectionist and control freak as Henry. When he did the occasional pop-up stall with rolls, buns and barbeque – Henry Ha Minh Pops Up – social media wet itself with excitement.