Little Sister

by Aimee Said

  “So what do I do about it?” I asked.

  “If you have proof, you can ask the student council and the school board to investigate it under Whitlam’s anti-bullying policy. It doesn’t cover homophobia specifically, but they might be able to–”

  I interrupted her. “There’s no proof – Camille doesn’t even exist. What I mean is, what can I do to make people stop talking about it?”

  “What do you think you should do?”

  “Personally, I think it’s only fair that Larrie deals with it. After all, it’s her problem.”

  “So you’re saying that Larrie’s sexual preference is a problem for you?”

  “No! I’m saying that Larrie is a problem for me.”

  Patchouli was still confused, so I tried to clarify the situation by explaining how sick I was of being compared to Larrie by all my teachers, and about the all-chores-no-life-until-after-Larrie’s-exams regime at home, and how everything was meant to get better for me once Larrie left Whitlam and it had become worse.

  When I finally shut up for long enough to take a tissue from the box Patchouli held out to me, I realised what I sounded like: a self-centred, self-absorbed drama queen. I waited for Patchouli to launch into the inevitable defence of Larrie.

  “Allison, do you think you also compare yourself to your sister?”

  “What? What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Do you think some of the pressure you feel to measure up to your sister comes from yourself?”

  I smacked the mug down on the table between us. “Can you stop with the cryptic counsellor questions and just talk to me?”

  Patchouli flinched, but her voice remained as calm as ever. “I’m trying to help you arrive at your own conclusions, but, okay, I’ll tell you what I think. I think you’re having a hard time dealing with what’s happening to Larrie because you’re so much like her – whether you want to be or not – so when bad things happen to her, it feels like they’re happening to you too. But you feel torn between helping your sister and keeping as much distance between you and what she’s going through as possible, because you’ve always thought that once Larrie left Whitlam you’d step into her shoes, and now you’re not sure you want to be in them.” She looked at me expectantly. “Am I right?”

  “Not even close.” I said picked up my bag before she could ask me any more stupid questions. “But thanks for the chai.”

  “Drop by any time,” Patchouli called to my departing back.

  Al Miller doesn’t want to wear anyone’s stinky old shoes.

  29

  “I see Beth parked off school grounds today,” said Nicko.

  “Wise,” said Prad. “Shaving cream can really destroy a car’s duco.”

  I turned my head in time to see Beth and Larrie walking out the top gate after their second English exam. Larrie hadn’t said anything about the shaving cream incident at dinner the night before. In fact, she hadn’t said much at all, except that her English exam had been okay and that she had a lot of study to do before her second one this morning.

  As ridiculous as Patchouli’s theory had sounded, the knot that tightened in my stomach when I thought back to Larrie and Beth struggling to clean up the car made me wonder if there might be some logic in her hippie-dippy thinking. But if Larrie and I were more alike than I cared to admit, what did that say about me?

  Maz waved her to-do list. “Can we concentrate on the task at hand? The SkoolDaze final’s in two days.”

  “Can’t it wait till rehearsal this afternoon?” asked Nicko. “Al can divide up what still needs to be done while we practise.”

  I shook my head. “Sorry, I can’t come today, Jay and Dylan are doing a roquefort tasting.”

  Prad got the pleased-with-himself smirk that usually preceded one of his jokes at someone else’s expense. “I guess the guys at Gay Cheese don’t have to worry about the dangers of unpasteurised cheese since they’re already a little queer.”

  “Prad, you’re hitting new lows,” warned Maz.

  I hadn’t told her about going to the Chill Out Room, or that I’d spent the rest of the school day sitting in a dim corner of the library thinking about what Patchouli had said, but Maz must’ve sensed something was up because she’d been watching me like a hawk since rollcall.

  “Only eight days to go,” she reminded me as we worked on our portraits of each other in Art. “You must be getting excited.”

  I reached for my rubber and scrubbed hard at the wonky eye I’d drawn. “If this photo hangs around, it’s not going to make any difference, is it? I mean, she could be a thousand kilometres away and Whitlam would still be talking about Larrie Miller.”

  “At least they’re not saying how great she is any more,” said Maz, searching for the bright side.

  We stopped talking when Mrs Gaunt came round. I hugged my drawing board to my chest to hide my picture, which bore more resemblance to Yoda than to Maz.

  “Maryanne, that’s wonderful!” Mrs Gaunt held Maz’s drawing next to my face. “You’ve really captured her.”

  I turned my head to see what she meant.

  “I haven’t done the hair yet,” said Maz when she saw my reaction. “I promise I wasn’t going to leave you bald.”

  “Is that seriously how you think I look?”

  “I don’t want to brag about my drawing skills, but that is how you look. What are you so upset about? Half the girls at Whitlam would kill to look like you.”

  I studied the half-finished portrait. If I hadn’t watched Maz draw it myself, I would’ve sworn it was a picture of Larrie.

  It was a relief to get back to the normality of the shop that afternoon.

  “Thank God you’re here,” said Dylan before I’d even had a chance to put my bag away. “We’re out of cling wrap, the grapes I bought have pips in them and Jay’s used every apron and tea towel we own.”

  My mood lifted: at last, things that were within my control to fix. “I’ll nip to the supermarket and the fruit shop and then put a load of washing on.”

  “Thanks, Al, what would we do without you?”

  Laundry, for starters, I thought, but it was good to feel needed for a change.

  Mrs Green made her third swoop on the platter I was holding, pausing her conversation to gouge out a chunk of cheese the size of her thumb. “Isn’t this roquefort superb?”

  Mrs Ng mmm-ed in agreement but shook her head when I offered her more. She was still clutching the napkin she’d spat her first taste into when she thought no one was watching.

  I waited until I was a few steps away from them to survey the damage Mrs Green had done to my perfectly arranged platter.

  “As I was saying,” said Mrs Green, through her mouthful of cheese, “Mr Masch says it’s all within the bounds of acceptable behaviour these days.”

  Mrs Ng sounded pained. “I blame all those TV shows about teenagers. They make it seem like it’s okay, like it’s … normal.”

  “There was talk of taking away her house colours but Masch’s too spineless to do it. He says he’s still going to let her give the speech at prize-giving, but we’ll see about that. I’ve spoken to the Turners and they agree that she’s no role model for–”

  The hair on the back of my neck prickled. I didn’t need to hear any more. I handed the platter to a surprised-looking couple in front of me and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other until I made it to the back room.

  “Everything okay?” asked Dylan when he found me slumped over the prep bench.

  I straightened myself up. “Fine. I … I came to get some more napkins.”

  “Umm, I don’t think we’ll need those, since the last customers left five minutes ago. You’ve been out here for fifteen minutes. I thought you must be getting a head start on the washing up.”

  “Yep, absolutely.” I snapped into action, turning on the hot tap full blast and squeezing way too much detergent into the sink. Anything to avoid making eye contact.

  “Are you sure everyt
hing’s all right, Al?”

  I nodded. And then I burst into tears. Big, fat, out of control tears, accompanied by some snotty action, for good measure. Between shoulder heaves and teary hiccups I told Dylan what had been going on. About the rumours and the photo and the kids at school and Mrs Green and Mrs Ng and somehow it all led to a howling wail of, “My life is over!”

  Dylan gave me his hanky and put his arm round my shoulder. “That’s awful. Poor Larrie.”

  I stopped mid-noseblow. Aside from Maz, Dylan had always been my biggest anti-Larrie supporter, but now, in my hour of extreme need, it sounded as if he was taking her side.

  “What do you mean poor Larrie?” I said when I regained the power of speech. “I’m being made a social outcast because my sister’s too careless to keep her love-life under wraps, and she’s the one you feel sorry for? Newsflash: Larrie’s spent the last six years pretending to be someone else to make the whole world adore her. I don’t see why she couldn’t have kept it up till she’d left Whitlam.”

  Dylan’s arm fell back by his side. “Al, does it bother you that Larrie’s gay?”

  I grabbed a dirty platter from the bench and began scrubbing it. “Of course not! But the entire school’s talking about it. And now the evidence is on Facebook, where anyone can see it.”

  “I understand you’re shocked, but can you imagine how Larrie’s feeling? She obviously wasn’t ready for this to come out yet; no pun intended.”

  “Then she should’ve been more careful, shouldn’t she?”

  “Whoa!” Dylan grabbed the platter I was still scrubbing, forcing me to look him in the eye. “I feel like I’ve gone back in time thirty years and I’m talking to my dad. No, worse, to Jay’s dad.”

  “What about Jay’s dad?” I asked, momentarily forgetting about Larrie.

  “It’s not for me to tell you Jay’s history,” said Dylan. “Let’s just say that if he seems a little joyless sometimes it’s because he had it beaten out of him as a young man.”

  My stomach gave a sickening shudder. “That’s not what I meant … I mean, I’m not like that,” I whispered. “I just don’t want to be caught in the middle of it.”

  Dylan nodded, but I wasn’t sure he believed me. “We’d better get this place cleaned up before Jay gets back with Doodoo,” he said, passing me another platter.

  Al Miller is not like that.

  30

  Ms Morales told us we could use the Thursday’s Science period to continue working on our assignments. I knew I’d be in deep trouble if she asked to see my research, but my plans to prove myself to my teachers had been well and truly sidetracked in the last few days. I pulled out the crumpled gene wheel diagram and began filling in the blanks at random, so I’d at least appear busy.

  Where most of the class had a few pages of notes, Simon had a whole stack of diagrams and illustrations to show Ms Morales. It turned out she’d kept finches herself when she was young, and was fascinated by Simon’s projections of the breast, head and body colour variations that might result from the different pairings of his birds. They were still at it when the bell went.

  “Thanks for keeping Morales talking,” I said when she’d finally left our bench. “Also, I, uh, meant to thank you for setting Jamie Butcher straight on the gay gene thing the other day.”

  “No problem,” said Simon. “It was worth it to see Butcher squirm, even if it’s not entirely true.”

  “What isn’t?”

  “That sexual orientation doesn’t run in families. I mean, the bit about not being able to reproduce the gay gene study’s findings was true, but other research has shown that if one sibling is homosexual the other is statistically more likely to be, even more so in identical twins. They think it may have something to do with the mother’s hormone levels during pregnancy.”

  “You knew this and you didn’t think you should mention it?”

  “Well, it’s not to do with genetics, strictly speaking, so I didn’t see any need to. Besides, it wouldn’t have done you any good, would it?”

  I was trying to decide whether to thank him or let him have it when Sally came over.

  “The board accepted our petition at their meeting last night. Whitlam’s gay–straight alliance is officially official!”

  “Congratulations,” said Simon. “What happens now?”

  “The first thing I have to do is find someone to be co-president. Al, I was wondering whether you’d be interested.”

  “Me? Why would I? I’m not gay!” I said, perhaps a bit too forcefully, judging by the way Sally shrank away from me.

  “Uh, I know – that’s why I’m asking you. It’s a gay–straight alliance. I figured since your sis–”

  “You figured wrong,” I said, trying to shut her up before someone overheard us. I grabbed my bag and my botched gene wheel and walked out of the lab without waiting for Maz.

  The sound of Simon’s heavy footsteps echoing down the hall behind me made me walk faster, but his legs were way too long for me to keep my lead.

  When I realised there was no escape, I turned to face him. “What do you want now?”

  “I think you should apologise to Sally. She was almost in tears when you took off.”

  “Me apologise? She’s the one who should be saying sorry. As if people aren’t taking enough shots at me already without me becoming the face of gay pride at Whitlam. I may as well paint a rainbow target on myself and hand Jamie Butcher a bow and arrow.”

  “I don’t understand you, Al. You had no problem signing Sally’s petition for the alliance, and you’re always going on about how Dylan and Jay are the best couple you know, but when it’s time to stand up and be counted, you act as if you have a problem with gay people.”

  He still didn’t get it. “What I have a problem with is my sister overshadowing everything I do or say. It was bad enough when I was being compared to Larrie for things people admired about her, but now someone’s got it in for her and they’re taking me down too.”

  “I can’t believe you still think this is all about you, Al. You’ve really changed.”

  “Changed from what?” I demanded, furious that Simon thought he knew me well enough to even make such a statement. “The cute little girl you fell in love with on the first day of kindy?”

  Simon’s face hardened. In all the years we’d known each other, I’d never seen him really angry before. “Do you know what made me like you? You probably don’t even remember it, but on that first day no one would sit next to me because Emily Peters told them that red hair was contagious and if they got too close to me they’d turn into a ranga. You were the only one who didn’t join in, and after you sat with me at playlunch the teasing stopped.”

  He was right, I didn’t remember it, but I did remember Emily Peters, who remained the Kingston Primary School bully until her family moved to Singapore in Year Six. Somewhere thousands of kilometres away she was probably still tormenting her classmates.

  “You used to be someone who stuck up for what you believed in, Al. What happened?”

  Simon didn’t wait for me to answer his question. Maz arrived as he walked away in long, angry strides. “Why didn’t you wait for me after Science? And what’s up with him?”

  “No idea,” I said, trying to regain my composure before Maz registered how shaken I was. “Maybe it’s pre-competition jitters.”

  She sighed. “He’s not alone there. Yesterday was our worst rehearsal ever. You’re still coming this afternoon, aren’t you? Please say you are – the guys try harder when they’ve got an audience.”

  Vertigo Pony’s final rehearsal was at Simon’s place, or – more accurately – in Simon’s garage. He had to keep the roller door closed so that the noise didn’t carry through to the pharmacy.

  If Maz hadn’t been so desperate for me to be there, I definitely would’ve made up an excuse to get out of it. Things between me and Simon had officially hit an all-time low, and for once he was the one holding the grudge. I kept telling myself I should be
grateful for the lack of attention from him, but it didn’t feel as good as I’d imagined it would.

  “Before we rehearse I want to talk about styling again,” said Maz, who was so engrossed in her to-do list that she still hadn’t noticed anything was wrong between Simon and me. “Will you please reconsider some of the ideas I’ve put forward?”

  “Not the feathers. No way!” Prad’s voice cracked in panic.

  Nicko groaned. “Maz, we’ve been over this a hundred times. We’re not putting on make-up, we’re not wearing jumpsuits, and we’re most definitely keeping our shirts on. And buttoned up.”

  “Not even the eye patches?” wheedled Maz.

  Prad and Nicko shook their heads.

  “Fine, but you’ll be sorry when all the photos on Whit’s Wit are of me.”

  “It’s a risk we’re prepared to take,” said Nicko. “Now can we rehearse, please?”

  They went through the full set three times, pausing between each one for Maz to ask what I thought.

  I tried to concentrate on the music, but I couldn’t stop thinking about what Simon had said. It was true that I’d been a loudmouthed little kid, but that was back in the days of the Al and Larrie Show. When I got to Whitlam, I realised that being outspoken got you in trouble more often than not. Maybe Larrie had learned the same lesson.

  By the time Maz’s mum arrived, even Maz was satisfied that Vertigo Pony was ready for the final competition.

  “Are you sure you don’t want a lift?” Maz asked for the third time as I helped load her gear into the boot.

  “Positive. I’m trying to delay getting home for as long as possible.”

  I crossed Kingston Street, thinking Dylan or Jay might still be working. I’d thought a lot about what Dylan had said and I wanted to make sure things were okay between us. I peered through the locked door, trying to see if they were out the back, but there was no sign of them. My apology would have to wait until Saturday.