Cloudwish

by Fiona Wood

  He broke away from the kiss, hands still holding her upper arms, took a deep breath, and exhaled shakily. He leaned down, touching his forehead to hers. ‘Wow. I wasn’t going to do that till Saturday night,’ he said.

  ‘You had a kiss-plan?’ she asked, breathless, amazed that words still tumbled out in order following the reinvention of the world.

  ‘Of course I did. It’s the only reason I asked my parents if I can have people over on Saturday.’

  ‘I’m still not sure if I can come . . .’ she said, falling into the gulf between what his parents might see as normal, acceptable behaviour, and what her parents might see as normal, acceptable behaviour.

  She felt tired and defeated in advance at the acrobatics in reasoning and the half-lies that she might have to tell in order to reassure/deceive her parents into allowing her to go out just for one night. ‘I don’t like my chances. But I guess I can help with this.’

  Based on the image on Billy’s phone, it was obvious that it just needed to be shot from the security camera’s POV with a long depth of field, sharp focus and tonal clarity. Simple.

  Billy had brought in a tall ladder from the cleaners’ cupboard in the hallway outside.

  She set the camera for him. He climbed up, photographed the room, with their bags out of shot, and climbed down for her to check it. A couple more attempts and he had the angle and focus looking right.

  ‘So long as no one was looking at the screen when you took the photo, you’re all sorted. I’ll send it to you tonight.’ She packed her camera away, tucked Michael’s notebook in after it, slung her backpack on her shoulders and said, ‘I think you’re late for training.’

  ‘Shit.’ He folded the ladder and headed out with it, kissing the tips of her fingers as he left.

  Michael hurried in, frowning as he crossed paths with Billy. Seeing Vân Ước alone in the common room, his frown deepened. She could swear he knew about the kiss and the rule-breaking.

  ‘This?’ she asked, pulling his notebook from her pack.

  ‘Thanks.’ Michael’s momentary relief at having his notebook back didn’t distract him from a speech he obviously had prepared.

  ‘It’s none of my business – what I’m about to say – but I have decided to say it anyway.’

  ‘You’re wondering what’s going on with me and Billy?’

  ‘I can see that he conforms to a general consensus of what constitutes “handsome”, and he’s undoubtedly one of the most popular guys in the year, for what that’s worth . . .’

  ‘But . . .’

  Michael looked at her – his kindness and generosity at speaking out when they really didn’t have that sort of friendship made her eyes prickle with tears.

  ‘You know the “but”: he’s a self-centred idiot. And I can’t see a happy ending if someone like you gets involved with him.’

  ‘Like me – how?’

  ‘Someone smart. Someone not of his world. Someone lacking the essential superficiality of his preferred companions.’ Michael smiled apologetically. ‘If you can forgive the cliché: I’d hate to see you getting hurt.’

  Here’s where Jane might boldly have defended her choice of a partner, pointing out that while the world thought one thing about him, she saw another side to his character. But Vân Ước just said, ‘Thank you.’

  chapter 26

  She stopped for a moment, as she always did on her way home, on the bridge over the Yarra to peer into the water, thinking about Michael’s advice. He was right. Of course he was. But so was she, to believe that there was more to Billy than most people saw. And it wasn’t just that he was nice to his sister.

  She hadn’t shared with Michael the overheard conversation, or that she’d seen Billy reading one of her favourite books, Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant by Anne Tyler with enjoyment up at Mount Fairweather. Because they would be weird admissions – that you had noted much about a boy from a discreet distance before he had even noticed that you existed.

  Now, if she were confiding in Michael, she could add that the hyped bravado coexisted with vulnerability, that being funny was not the same as being happy, and that strength did not preclude tenderness.

  At close range the river was coffee-coloured, a silt-based river, though from a distance it reflected the myriad skies under which it stretched. The breeze was creating its own rippling topography of the water’s surface.

  There were a few rowing crews in the immediate vicinity, but not Billy’s. She watched and admired the lean, well-oiled coordination, the crisp, strong movement of oars slicing the water. Another rich kids’ sport, of course. Crowthorne Grammar’s girls’ and boys’ first crews were invited to Henley, in England, later in the year. Imagine the fat family budget that allowed for something like that with nothing more than the ever-present congratulations!, well done!. These kids were always being stroked and caressed with soft words and extravagant praise, so different from her own mother’s don’t waste time, study hard, practise more – spoken at times perfunctorily, at other times sharply, like a slap or a bite.

  Music to her ears, the whirring of a sewing machine greeted her as she unlocked her front door and walked in. Relief was short-lived as the machine stopped and her mother came out firing as soon as she heard the door.

  ‘What is this about a tall boy? Who is this tall boy?’

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘Everyone saw you. At first I said, are you crazy? Not my daughter! She is a serious girl. She is a good girl. There is a mistake.’

  ‘He’s just a boy from my school.’

  ‘So, you – behind your parents’ back – you arrange for a boy from your school to come here and to walk with you! Everyone saw!’

  ‘I didn’t know he was going to come here.’

  ‘He followed you?’

  ‘No. No! Calm down. Can we sit down, please?’ She was still standing just inside the front door with her bag on her back. ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea and explain it all.’

  Her mother sat down reluctantly.

  ‘Glad to see you’re feeling a bit better today,’ Vân Ước said, sliding her bag onto the sofa and returning to face the music.

  ‘Was. I was. Not now.’

  As she went from sink to kettle to cupboard and made tea, Vân Ước told her mother about Billy. At least, it was the version of Billy that had the best shot at making him an acceptable person to have in her life.

  ‘Billy is a family friend of Eleanor’s.’

  Her mother adored the homework club coordinator; they all did.

  ‘How does he know Eleanor? He doesn’t come to homework club.’

  ‘He just started. His father is a very important doctor. He is a friend of Eleanor’s. And his mother, too, is a friend of Eleanor’s.’

  ‘Why did he come here?’

  ‘He didn’t. He was in the street, running – he works very hard at his training, he is a leader of rowing – and he saw me coming from the flats. We are in class together, and so it was polite, good manners that he walked with me to school. Because he had finished his run.’

  ‘Running?’

  ‘Yes.’ It was the weakest link in her story, but he had been wearing track clothes and was on his way to training, so at a pinch she might get away with it. The Eleanor story was safe. Her mother would never question Eleanor.

  ‘Eleanor is very happy that Billy has started as a homework club tutor. She thinks he is a very responsible person. She asked him to help with the little ones.’

  ‘Why is he only starting just now?’

  ‘He only just found out about it.’

  ‘Ah.’

  She put a steaming cup of jasmine tea in front of her mother and took a big breath.

  ‘In fact, Billy is having some class members to his house this Saturday and I’m invited. Is that okay? Can I go? I’d be home early. No later
than ten o’clock.’

  ‘No going out.’

  ‘Well, it’s more like a school activity, really.’

  ‘Where is the notice from school?’

  ‘No notice – it’s just a celebration of the school’s rowing.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because they’re proud of their rowing achievements. So, the rowers will be there, and some medals might be given out. Some speeches.’

  ‘Compulsory?’

  ‘Not exactly, but the school expects us to go to at least one or two of these . . . informal events.’ Vân Ước tried to look as though it would be an unwanted burden to attend then played her trump card: ‘It’s part of community life.’

  ‘Community life’ was a very helpful expression, and she used it sparingly. She thought of it as her get-out-of-jail-free card. It was a strangely incomprehensible term to her parents, who thought of school purely as a seat of learning – a place of hard work and discipline and guaranteed excellent results that sent each student with a rocket down the glorious, well-paved, one-way street to university entry and an affluent professional life. Happily ever after. In Kew. Community life was an amorphous, misty zone. But they knew, because she had taken pains to point it out, that their daughter’s scholarship depended in part on her being active in the school community and making a contribution to this community life.

  She could see the gears and levers turning in her mother’s brain. That was a partial win. The absence of an angry no meant the possibility of a provisional yes.

  ‘You could always ask Eleanor about it,’ Vân Ước offered. ‘She understands how they like us to attend these things.’

  ‘I will talk with your ba,’ her mother said. ‘School uniform is worn?’

  ‘I think we’re allowed to wear casual clothes,’ Vân Ước said. ‘Like on casual clothes day.’

  ‘Ceremony, medals, speeches – prayers?’

  ‘I’m sure there will be some prayers.’ That had to be true: some people would be praying to hook up with other people; at some stage of the night someone else would certainly be praying that they didn’t vomit in a friend’s parents’ car on the way home . . .

  ‘And to be held at the friends of Eleanor’s, at their house? The doctor’s house?’

  ‘Yes. Billy’s parents are the year level’s official parent committee representatives.’ That bit was true at least. She knew from the school calendar notice that the parents’ cocktail party held at the beginning of the year – an event her parents never attended – was scheduled to be held at Billy’s place in two weeks.

  ‘Hmm. Sounds like a big waste of your time.’

  ‘Yes, I agree. But I should probably go.’

  Listen to that!/Bullshitting like a pro/This could be the start of a whole new level of parental manipulation.

  The commentator dudes were right. That was uncomfortable – and it was the closest she had come, apart from taking art as a subject, to outright lying to her parents. She usually got by on selective truth-telling. The (conveniently modified) truth, the whole (conveniently modified) truth, and nothing but the (conveniently modified) truth. Fingers crossed and hope to die.

  She went into her room and sat at her desk, first digging the winged cardigan from its hiding place in the wardrobe. It was as soothing to have on her knee as a favourite teddy bear might be. She patted one winged sleeve and imagined that the cardigan settled a bit more comfortably. ‘I’m going to have to put you back out there in a week or so,’ she said. ‘Wow. I’m speaking to a cardigan. Things are bad.’

  Lying to her mother/Talking to the cardigan/Watch, next thing she’ll keep it and then Holly will be right/Thinks she can go along to the party without it backfiring/Has she learned nothing from us, all these years?

  chapter 27

  Homework club on Friday came with the addition of Lou, with her freshly issued Working With Children permit, and Billy, who arrived ten minutes early and helped Vân Ước do a sweep of the playground area. Four needles. Three glue bags. Six siphons and some dead balloons. Heaps of cigarette butts.

  Vân Ước partnered Lou with Saafi, a quiet year six girl who needed lots of help with English, and particularly help with being brave enough to speak in a voice louder than a small whisper. She sent Saafi ahead to find a place at the table, and brought Lou up to date on how she was doing following the library toilet meltdown.

  ‘It turns out Billy isn’t up to anything strange.’

  ‘So, what’s up with all the stalky business?’

  ‘I think it’s possible he maybe does . . . like me.’

  Lou looked at her with an element of frank disbelief. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I know, but – yeah.’

  ‘So, the obvious question is . . .?’ Lou was dubious.

  Vân Ước nodded, worrying that she was playing the weirdest game of make-believe yet invented. ‘Yes. I do. I like him, too.’

  Lou looked over at Billy, who was gathering up a few more playground takers.

  ‘Michael’s not going to believe this. He can’t stand those jock guys.’

  ‘He told me he doesn’t think it’s a good idea. I get it. It’s not like jocks are my go-to people either,’ she said. As if she even had any go-to people, as such. ‘But it’s possible he’s different.’

  ‘Hmmm. Well, I guess we’ll see. I couldn’t have gone to his party anyway; Miro’s got a gig.’

  ‘Sibylla said she’d go, but, really, I think it’ll be okay.’ If terrifying social encounters for which you are in no way prepared were encompassed by the definition of ‘okay’.

  ‘I’ll let Sib know that you don’t need her there. She didn’t exactly want to bump into Holly.’ Lou was about to sit down when Jess came tearing in, late.

  Vân Ước introduced the two girls who smiled and greeted each other, before Lou went over to Saafi.

  In a quick aside to Vân Ước, Jess said, ‘Your mum tells me you’re going to a church-rowing-gathering at the house of the tall friend-of-Eleanor’s-doctor-son who you accidentally ran into at our gate yesterday morning at seven am because he was out running?’

  ‘I didn’t have much time to develop the story. There’s a party at Billy’s.’

  Jess gave Vân Ước her least impressed face, the one that looked like she’d tasted something disgusting and was about to spit. ‘I hope you know what you’re putting your hand up for, lady.’

  Vân Ước was almost certain she was putting her hand up for something complicated and confusing that would probably end in tears (hers), but too late: it was already up.

  ‘There were further developments yesterday,’ she said.

  ‘Did these developments include any physical contact?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll fill you in tonight.’

  Towards the end of the hour, she saw Jess’s student packing up and leaving a few minutes early, at which time Jess took her juice box and zipped straight outside to the playground.

  If she thought her mother was dubious and unimpressed by the idea of Billy and his ‘celebration’, it was nothing compared to the cool wrath of Jess after getting the full catch-up at their regular Friday movie night.

  Kissing, she thought, was dodgy – because Billy hadn’t passed her good-guy tests – but permissible; getting involved in a prank was another matter.

  ‘It’s so not you.’

  ‘I just set up the camera.’

  ‘And he’s going to get the photo printed, rig it up in front of the CCTV camera, trick the staff and the security company, and you’ll be expelled.’

  ‘Funny, though. Admit.’

  ‘Funny for him. His parents are paying thirty grand a year so he can misbehave. Not so funny for you, scholarship girl.’

  ‘He said he’d take the rap.’

  Jess shrugged. ‘It’ll be nice to have you back at school with me. I can�
��t wait.’

  ‘Too late to back out, anyway; I’ve already sent him the photos. He’s getting a print made over the weekend.’

  They pondered the possible expulsion outcome, which Vân Ước wished she’d thought through better, and turned their attention to the large bowl of thick-cut homemade chips, made in Jess’s mum’s new fryer, the low-fat Fry-Matic that she bought at Aldi.

  Jess got salt from the cupboard. ‘Very disappointed! Bad, bad girl! You shame your family!’ she added in the parent-accent impersonation that they sometimes guilty-used in private.

  At least the Billy friction was taking place in a world of crunchy salt-and-vinegar heaven.

  They had The Perks of Being a Wallflower. And as well as their chip main course, they had chocolate bullets and Mars bar bites for dessert.

  ‘Anyway, what were you talking to him about in such depth at the end of homework club?’

  ‘I told him that he’d better remember me, because I’m your best friend. And he’d better read Jane Eyre, because that is the code by which you live your whole sorry life.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said okay.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘I said, I hope you’re not the douche who said “oars before whores”, because that would render him unworthy to tie your bootlaces.’

  ‘I told you he said it.’ Vân Ước resisted snapping, but Jess could be very intrusive without even trying. ‘What did he say then?’

  ‘He admitted he’d said it –’

  ‘Which you already knew.’

  Jess held up a hand. ‘But on reflection he could see it was very offensive. In fact, he’d unthinkingly picked it up from his father. Apparently they said it back in his day. And he said you’re doing a whole lot of gender politics stuff in Theory of Knowledge, and he’s seeing the world in a new light.’