Little Sister

by Aimee Said

  Whitlam’s gay–straight alliance is a starting point, but we need more than goodwill. It’s time for the student council to start representing all students by amending the anti-bullying policy to specifically include homophobia, and for all of us to unite in our diversity.

  “Simon said I might find you here.” Sally wheeled the chair next to mine closer so that she could see the screen.

  I watched tensely as she read my post, waiting for her to tell me what a hypocrite I’d been and preparing myself for a dressing-down.

  But when Sally finished reading, all she said was, “No wonder so many people have asked about joining the alliance this morning.”

  I took a deep breath. “Sally, about the other day, after Science … I’m sorry. I was so tied up in my own dramas that I wasn’t thinking about what anyone else was going through. If you still want me to be co-president, I’d really like to.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Sally. “You’re not worried about what people will say about you hanging out with a bunch of fags and diesel dykes?”

  “They can’t say anything worse about me than they have already, can they? And I propose that our first order of business should be putting pressure on the student council to make sure that Whitlam’s bullying policy includes banning homophobic language like that, young lady.”

  “Okay, you can lead the charge on that cause. I’ll be flat out organising the GSA launch event. We have to line up some decent entertainment.”

  “Actually, I think I might know just the band.”

  “Vertigo Pony would be honoured,” said Maz from behind me. “As long as we’re headlining – SkoolDaze winners don’t do support acts, you know.”

  “I think that can be arranged,” said Sally, standing and pulling on her backpack. “I’ll sort out a date and get back to you. See you later, Al.”

  Maz took Sally’s seat at the computer.

  “How long were you eavesdropping for?” I asked.

  “I wasn’t eavesdropping,” said Maz indignantly. “I was standing silently behind you listening to your conversation. I came to see what all the fuss was about. I thought I was the one coming up with the ultimate revenge on Josh Turner, but I hear you beat me to it. The queue for the computers in the library is out the door.”

  “Really?” I couldn’t pretend I wasn’t pleased. “It’s not revenge, though. I just felt like it was time I released my inner loudmouth.”

  “Whatever your reason, it’s got everyone talking. Even the soccer team read it, since they thought it was about how Josh lost them the cup.”

  “You should’ve seen how narked they were with him after the game, Maz. When Simon was trying to get a photo to go with my post they were practically braying for Josh’s blood. I heard one of them saying there’s no way he’ll make team captain again next year.”

  “That’s karma for you. I was right about one thing, though: Josh missing the game – or at least half of it – was the perfect revenge.”

  “Yes, Mazzle, you were right.”

  “Are you ready to admit I’m right about anyone else yet?”

  The PA system sounded its now-familiar crackle, followed by Brandy’s booming voice. “Allison Miller to the deputy-principal’s office IMMEDIATELY!”

  “Deny everything,” said Maz, straightening my tie before I went to the gallows Brandy’s office.

  Brandy’s face was florid with anger. She paced the three steps in each direction her office allowed.

  “I suppose you think you’re smart,” she said. “Bypassing the Whit’s Wit workflow to publish your opinion without my approving it.”

  “No, Miss,” I said, my mouth so dry with fear that I could barely speak. This time Brandy would expel me for sure. “I sent it through the normal workflow. Didn’t you get it?”

  “Don’t play innocent with me. Some time between 6.00 pm yesterday and 6.00 am today, someone saw fit to access the school’s content management system and publish that post on the home page. As we speak, Mr Masch is having the incident investigated by an expert. Soon I’ll know not only when it was done, but by whom.”

  “I’m afraid not,” said a voice behind me. Simon was standing in the hallway outside Brandy’s office. I shuffled over to make room for him to squeeze in. “Excuse me for interrupting, Ms Brand, but I thought I should report to you, in Mr Masch’s absence. The server logs have already been written over, and it seems that my memo recommending that they be backed-up daily was ignored.”

  “And what does that mean? In English.”

  “It means,” said Simon, “that there’s no evidence of how the workflow got corrupted. None that can be traced, anyway. I did find instances of recent unauthorised access to the school’s databases, and some other applications, but I’ll compile a full report for Mr Masch on those.”

  Brandy looked like she was about to explode. She had to take a couple of deep breaths before she could speak again. “Given the lack of proof, Allison, I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt. This time. But I want you to remember that just because you have a point to make doesn’t mean you can hijack the school’s website to do it. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Crystal clear, Ms Brand. Thank you.”

  “And Mr Lutz, if you tamper with the workflow settings again you’ll receive an official warning.”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  I waited until we were out of Brandy’s firing range earshot before speaking. “Thankyouthankyouthankyou!”

  Simon shrugged. “There’s nothing to thank me for. I did it to cover my own back.”

  “But you overrode the settings for me, so thank you. Also, I owe you an apology.”

  “For what?”

  I didn’t know where to begin, but I took a deep breath and started at the top of the list. “A) for accusing you of being Camille, b) for being rude and mean and taking out my bad moods on you, c) for not thanking you for your help in Science, and d) well … for the last eleven years, basically. Do you think we can put all that behind us and try being real friends?”

  Simon nodded. “I’d like that.”

  We gave each other an awkward-but-friendly hug to seal the deal. He smelled like lemons and soap. It was a good combination.

  “Let’s go and tell Maz how you saved me from Brandy’s evil clutches.”

  Al Miller dodged a Branding.

  42

  Simon was waiting for us outside the lab before Science on Thursday.

  “Checked Facebook today?”

  My heart leaped in fear of what Josh had done now. “Why?”

  “If you had, you might have noticed that Camille’s no longer a member of the Whitlam group. And neither is Josh. In fact, Camille’s profile seems to have been deleted all together.”

  I exhaled with relief.

  “And, when I was in the office this morning resetting all the passwords, I heard Mrs Turner telling Munce that she’s resigned.”

  “Because of what Josh did?” asked Maz.

  “Kind of. Mr Masch told her if she didn’t want the board to investigate how Josh got access to students’ contact details on the database, she’d better enrol him in another school. She quit in protest.”

  “But how did Masch know it was him?”

  “Because he wasn’t smart enough to cover his trail. The database revision history showed that every time it was used outside of school hours, the first record searched was Josh’s, followed by whoever he was interested in, including Larrie’s and your records. When Mr Masch read my report he immediately saw the link.”

  “I know I’ve said it before, Simon Lutz, but you are a freakin’ genius.”

  I was about to agree with Maz when Ms Morales arrived clutching an armful of papers and shooed us to our benches.

  “I have your assignments to hand back, and I must say there were some pleasant surprises –” she smiled at Simon “– among the dross. The thorough analysis in two, in particular, caught my attention. Simon and Allison, I’d like you to summarise your reports for
the class.”

  “How is that possible?” I whispered to Simon. “You weren’t even here the day they were due.”

  “I emailed it. You don’t think I’d be late handing in a Science assignment, do you?”

  After Simon had explained the twenty-four possible visible outcomes of pairing up his finches, and why in the end he decided to leave it up to them to choose who they’d mate with (something about natural selection and the genetic rules of attraction – it sounded like a very complicated way of saying “because I’m a hopeless romantic”, if you asked me), it was my turn.

  I wasn’t used to being the centre of attention in Science for positive reasons, but Ms Morales nodded encouragingly while I stammered and umm-ed my way through my comparison of me and Larrie.

  “When I started this assignment, I’d expected to find that my sister and I were similar in appearance, and when I studied our other physically expressed heritable traits side by side, aside from lactose intolerance and heightened sense of smell, we share most of them.” I held up two near-identical gene wheels to illustrate my point.

  “When we talk about eye colour or tongue-curling ability, it’s easy to classify people as being either the same or different, but personalities are not so easy to compare. As we know, behavioural traits are much harder to measure. In my research it was almost impossible to find two scientists who agreed on ways to test how similar people’s non-physically expressed genes are, let alone two who could produce the same results in their testing. So I came up with one of my own.”

  I drew a much messier diagram on the whiteboard. “This graph shows where Larrie’s and my behavioural traits intersect and diverge. Because behavioural classification is pretty arbitrary to begin with, I made up categories to illustrate my point.

  “As you can see, we have several traits in common.” I marked the points where the lines on the graph representing Larrie and I intersected: “Aversion to risk taking, high intelligence, and stubbornness. The problem with this kind of labelling is that it sets up two extremes and implies that one of them is better than the other –” I pointed to the where our lines sat at the extremes of “neat freak” and “slob” and a few people (the ones who’d seen the usual state of my bedroom) laughed, “– instead of considering the individual as a whole person.”

  “In conclusion, what this assignment proved to me is that there’s little to be gained by trying to compare ourselves with others. We all have our own talents and abilities, and we shouldn’t let other people’s expectations of us stop us expressing who we really are. Our genes may shape us, but it’s up to us to define ourselves.”

  “Excellent analysis,” said Ms Morales. “Your mark reflects the fact that you went beyond the requirements of this assignment to question broader theories about behavioural genetics and sibling inheritance. Perhaps you have an aptitude for Science after all. When you work at it.”

  “I’m officially impressed,” said Simon when I got back to our bench.

  “Really?” I was surprised by how much his praise pleased me.

  “Oh, yeah, from now on you’re pulling your own weight in lab work.”

  “I think I can manage that. As long as you handle the dissection side of things.”

  “Deal,” he said, holding out his hand to shake on it.

  “I think you forgot to include something on your graph,” said Jamie Butcher when I passed him on my way to the door. “There was no comparison of how homo you and your sister are. From the amount of time you’ve been spending with Sally Lez-chichi, I assume it’s only a matter of time until you come out too.”

  Maz was out of her seat and by my side in a flash.

  “Listen, Butcher,” she snarled, but I interrupted before she could tell him off. This was my battle to fight.

  “My sister’s sexuality is not up for discussion in a school assignment, but since you mentioned it, you’re right,” I said, loudly enough for the entire class to hear me. “I am a card-carrying, fully paid-up member of the Whitlam gay–straight alliance, and if that automatically makes me a lesbian to idiots like you, I don’t care. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from my sister, it’s that it’s not worth pretending to be someone you’re not.”

  I was shaking when I finished my little rant, but also buzzing with energy, like I’d eaten a dozen Power Kick bars. When the clapping started, Jamie was still rooted to the spot next to his bench, his cheeks aflame. I made a small bow to my applauding classmates before leaving the lab.

  “Come on, my little science nerd,” said Maz when the final bell rang after Art. “Let’s mark this momentous occasion with iced chocolates.”

  When Larrie told Mum and Dad about how I’d helped expose Camille/Josh, they’d agreed that I’d earned an early reprieve from my grounding, so iced chocolates weren’t out of the question, but I wasn’t sure a celebration was warranted. “One A-plus in Science isn’t going to get me very far unless I can back it up with a solid mark in the exam,” I reminded her.

  Maz laughed. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten?”

  “Forgotten what?”

  “Larrie’s last exam finishes in five minutes – there are no more days to go!”

  It took me a moment to get what she meant. I’d been so focused on everything else for the past few days that I hadn’t thought of my countdown since before the weekend.

  Maz’s face fell when she saw my expression. “Don’t you want to celebrate? We’ve been waiting two hundred and eighty-four days for this.”

  “Sorry, Mazzle. It’s a bit of an anticlimax, that’s all. The countdown had been keeping me going all year, giving me something to look forward to. Now, well, tomorrow’s just going to be another day, isn’t it? And the one after that, and the one after that …”

  “Ugh. Personally, I’m with Patchouli when she says it’s better to live in the moment than wish your days away, but if you need something to look forward to, how about this: it’s only five weeks and five days until the summer holidays.”

  “Now that’s worth celebrating!”

  It was a sunny afternoon and Maz was sure Kingston’s cats would be out in force, so she insisted we walk to the village. Which meant it took us twice as long as usual to get there as she paused to pat each of them and shoo the ones with pale noses into the shade. I stopped to sniff the sweet lemony freshness of a newly opened white magnolia while I waited for her to catch up with me.

  “I know you take your role as president of Vertigo Pony’s fan club very seriously these days,” said Maz as we finally turned the corner into Kingston Street, “but even I can’t listen to that song any more – you’ve been singing it the whole way here.”

  I’d had “You Don’t Know” stuck in my head all afternoon, but I didn’t realise I’d been singing it out loud. “It’s a complete earworm,” I said in my defence. “Once you get the melody in your head, you can’t get it out. If you guys win that recording contract, it should definitely be your first single.”

  “I’ll tell Simon you said that,” she said, suppressing a smile. “He’ll be over the moon.”

  “What’s it got to do with Simon?”

  “He wrote it.”

  Al Miller is lost for words.

  43

  The last day of the school year was a scorcher. The hall was packed full of students and parents using their prize-giving assembly programs as makeshift fans.

  Year Ten sat in our usual seats, for the last time. In front of me, Chloe Rider fiddled with her collar. On my right, Maz and Nicko were chatting about the gig they were going to later. On my left, Simon was reading a book. Even though Josh Turner hadn’t been seen at Whitlam since the school board and Student Representative Council agreed to add stalking and bullying to the list of expellable offences, I couldn’t help glancing to where Year Eleven sat, to reassure myself that he really was gone for good.

  Mr Masch stood at the lectern, a table piled high with awards and certificates next to him. Behind him sat the teachers, who were as sweat
y and bored as the rest of us. Despite the temperature in the hall being about forty-five degrees, Brandy was wearing her heavy, black academic robes.

  “It’s my very great pleasure to welcome you all here today,” said Mr Masch.

  I tuned out when he began reading out the list of prizes, starting at Year Seven, happily ensconced in my own little world. I watched the flow of students in their perfectly ironed uniforms ascend and descend from the stage, each clutching a book they’d never bother to read or a gold plastic trophy, or whatever was the reward for their efforts. After a while they became a pleasant blur in front of my eyes; it was almost meditative. Even Larrie’s ten-minute speech on behalf of Year Twelve and adolescent overachievers everywhere didn’t disturb me.

  I was starting to doze off when Simon nudged me in the ribs with his Outstanding Achievement in Science trophy. I jerked awake, hoping I hadn’t been snoring. Or drooling. He nudged me again and then pushed my elbow upwards, as if he was trying to get me to stand up. Maz did the same on the other side.

  I put my hands to my ears and slipped out the tiny, wireless earbuds that had been providing my aural cocoon to ask what the shiz they thought they were doing, but before I could, Mr Masch said, “Allison Miller, would you like to come and accept your award?”

  A giggle passed through the audience. I couldn’t think of anything I’d done in the past year that was award-worthy. Unless they’d invented a special category for Sister Who Saved Her Sibling’s Butt. I smoothed out my uniform as I race-walked to the front of the hall.

  Mr Masch spoke again, filling in time. “In Allison’s defence, this is an extraordinary award, and she wasn’t warned she’d be required on stage.”

  There was a cheer when I finally got to the lectern. Mr Masch shook my hand and presented me with a framed certificate. Underneath the Whitlam insignia was my name and the words “Elizabeth Brand Award for Most Improved Student”.

  “Well done, Allison,” he said. “I don’t have to tell you what an honour this is.”

  I nodded, too shocked to speak, and looked past him to where Brandy was sitting. She gave me the closest thing to a smile I’d ever seen her attempt.