by Nōnen Títi
Kathleen is waiting for me at the milk bar. “How was you long weekend?” she asks.
“I spent it with my family. What do you think?”
“I think you’re pretty lucky to have such a big family,” she says. Kathleen’s parents were born in the UK and all her relatives still live there. She always spends Christmas and New Year alone with her mum, dad and two brothers.
We walk to school sipping hot coffee from the milk bar.
“Do you see the new kid in year eleven?” Kathleen asks.
“Which new kid?”
“Over there, the tall dark one. He outshines any of the pop kids by far.”
“That’ll be because his uniform is still white,” I answer.
Kathleen isn’t the only one to have noticed him. There’s a whole group of them quacking on about his name and where he came from. I can’t see what they can, apparently. He may have a nice-looking face but there’s nothing in his eyes.
“You’re blind, that’s why,” Kathleen tells me.
When the bell goes the whole group strolls to first period English. “I hope you’ve all had a good rest so we can start fresh,” Mr Shriver begins with his early morning cheer. He said the same thing last week after the term break, but half the class wasn’t there last week so he lays out the schedule once more. “At the end of term we’ll have a debating competition for which I’ll have you prepare in house teams for points, but we’ll start by analyzing sales techniques and the language of persuasion used by advertisers to get people to buy their products.”
“They stick a naked woman on the front of it,” I whisper to Kathleen, and she starts sniggering out loud.
“You may think that’s funny, but if you study the manner in which advertisements are presented, whether in words or in pictures, you soon learn that most of what you’re made to believe is untrue. By being alert to it you can avoid becoming a victim,” Mr Shriver tells her.
He’s a nice enough guy, closer to sixty than fifty for sure and endlessly patient with our group. “The same goes for political speeches and, of course, journalistic writing. You have to train yourself to listen between the lines,” he continues.
“Those would be the wrinkles she’s hiding with plastic surgery,” I tell Kathleen, while drawing the naked woman on the paper between us. During the rest of that class we have a pen war, starting with an umbrella for sale in the woman’s hands, who I then dress in gumboots. Kathleen draws a puddle of water at her feet, through which I drive a car. Kathleen gives her a fig leaf for protection and I turn it into a gun to shoot the driver of the car dead.
The bell rings. Next is biology for me, but Kathleen does woodwork so I sit alone. Most of that class is wasted copying text from a book since the teacher is actually a redistributed PE teacher who knows shit-all about biology. During recess we walk to the milk bar for a delayed breakfast of cinnamon donuts and coke. We climb over the back gate to get in again because the yard duty teacher is at the front.
The next two periods are cancelled. We are called to the gym for a welcome-back speech by the principal, Mr Moralis, who must be the worst public speaker of the century and insists on calling the school community ‘Flatlanders’. Kathleen usually tallies the “uh”s, “erm”s and repeats, while I do the “I think”s, “I believe”s and “I expect”s.
“Fifty-cent pool for glasses-pushing,” says Fred, holding out his cup.
Kathleen and I each add our fifties and give Fred our bet on how many times Mr Moralis will push his glasses further up his nose during the assembly. Seeing it’s a double period I figure he could reach thirty easily. We sit as far back as we can, each with a little tally book. Mr Prim-and-Proper steps up to the microphone and pushes his glasses up. “Welcome back, boys and girls,” he begins.
After half an hour we’ve been informed that every student has final exams at the end of year twelve at which time we’ll be prepared for real life and ready for a good career. For this it is vital that we pay attention in class, wear clean uniforms, show respect, and be orderly and on time every day. To prepare for this ‘real life’ the elected school captains have organized a sports day in which we’re to compete for our house and attend in the appropriate house colours. “I expect” – that was the fifth – “all Flatlanders to participate with pride and may the best team win,” he ends his speech.
“Twenty-one nose twitches, only sixteen glass-pushes, five ‘I expect’s, twelve ‘I think’s, fifty-six ‘erm’s and too many ‘uh’s to count,” Kathleen says.
“Oh well, what’s fifty cents lost if we’ve saved our sanity?”
“And we’ve been prepared for real life, don’t forget that,” Kathleen jokes. “Once we pass the tally books, we’ll be ready for real life pokies.”
At lunch we sit on the lawn on our bags, using them as protection from the cold grass. A group of older boys, including the new kid, keep themselves occupied with mock fights, rolling their shirts thoroughly through the freshly mowed grass. Kathleen calls the emerging green patterns “modern art”.
Period five I have history without Kathleen. The teacher is a man in his mid-forties, Mr Fokker – with the emphasis on the first syllable, which has been the butt of endless jokes. He spends the entire class droning on about the First World War and its political background, because of Anzac Day, of course. I use my book to draw a trench full of men who look like my cousins, all with their heads blown off, until I become aware of his words: “So they negotiated a truce to pick up their casualties and allow the men some time to think of home before recommencing.”
“Say again – they had a Christmas break?” I ask to make sure I heard him right.
“That’s what you could call it.”
“That’s the stupidest fucking thing I ever heard.”
He raises his eyebrows but doesn’t comment on my words. I spend the rest of the lecture drawing a Christmas tree across my page with dead bodies for decorations.
Last period is civics. Miss Justine Coven is maybe only eight years older than I am. She’s a substitute and assigned to civics and careers –the classes only year tens take. Because she needs a full-time permanent position for financial reasons, she comes to class full of enthusiasm, no doubt having spent the entire weekend breaking her head over how to keep us from falling asleep. “I want each of you to start writing an essay today. I’d like to know what you’ve done to remember and honour the soldiers and how you spent the memorial weekend. Then we’ll watch a video about the birth of western civilization and democracy and we’ll learn about what makes a good ruler and how each of you can become a good citizen.”
“What are we now, immigrants?” Pat jokes.
“Under age,” she answers.
“Can’t we do a role play?” I ask.
“Why?”
“So we don’t end up writing reports all year. My cousin’s civics teacher let them have a role play.”
“That sounds like a very good idea, Mariette, but I will need permission for that. We already have play-acting at Flatland High. You’ve been allowed to vote for your school captains; that’s democracy, the foundation of justice and equality,” she says, starting a lecture that makes me sorry I asked. I drop my head on my table to make this clear, but it only spurs her into more explanations. “I know you find this class boring. So did I when I was in year ten, but we, in the west, are very lucky to have civil rights and freedom. Before the Greeks, people were never free and there was no justice, so don’t dismiss writing essays yet, okay?”
On the bus home Kathleen asks, “What were you sucking up for?”
“That wasn’t sucking up. I’m trying to avoid chronic sleeping syndrome. I thought you liked acting?”
“I do, but I want to be a character, not a politician.”
“So, maybe we can act out a war and you can be the tyrant; paranoid, with grandiose ideas, egotistical and powerful.”
“Sounds good,” says Kathleen. “I’d abolish school first or I’d make it a rule that year eleven
boys share classes with year ten girls only.”
“I think you should abolish men full stop. See you tomorrow.”
I stroll home dragging my bag behind me. Mum and Miranda aren’t home yet so I make myself a peanut butter toast snack and go to my room to avoid having to talk to them. I write a story with Father Christmas as the tyrant, demanding that people take breaks from fighting their wars to honour him after which they’re allowed to shoot each other to pieces. I don’t go down until Mum calls for dinner.
“We have a bit of news for you,” Dad says.
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“You know Uncle Charl is still sick and won’t be able to leave the hospital for quite a while. Grandpa Will is going to his home to pack up their things and then Jerome will come and live with us for the time being. We have a spare room upstairs and he can go to school with you.”
“You’re having me on, right? Please say you are.”
“We are not,” Mum answers. “This has nothing to do with what happened in the weekend, Mariette. It has to do with the boys needing family to take care of them. Jerome is in the same year you are, which makes it easier for him. Grandpa Will thought it best he come here.”
“Maybe Grandpa Will is going senile.”
“Don’t be so rude and don’t start making him feel unwelcome. It’s difficult enough for him already.”
I keep quiet. Maybe this is an omen. Maybe I’ll be able to get my revenge long before next year.
JEROME
My footsteps echo through the empty rooms even though all the carpets and furniture are still there. It’s a different emptiness, one that goes beyond the material. It doesn’t feel like home anymore, just a strange house in a quiet street where we lived the last three years; an ice palace, nicely decorated, but the fireplace is missing. Before moving here we had a better neighbourhood, but Dad was lonely. Before that we lived with Mum and everybody was lonely.
I glance out the back window to where the burned-out car sits in GG’s garden next door. To my relief, nobody seems to be home. Would he have called the police?
“Isn’t this cool? We get to move all by ourselves,” Rowan says, carrying a stack of folded boxes to his room.
That’s easy for him to say. He’s going to live with Marc, his best buddy inside the family. Grandpa Will made no fuss about Rowan and Marc not being in the same year. It doesn’t bother Rowan either. Marc has all the cool games, according to my brother, and a swimming pool. I don’t care about pools or games. I just care about not going to school and I can’t live with Mariette. I just can’t.
Grandpa Will puts his hand on my shoulder. “Better get packing while I sort the mail,” he says.
“What if I went with Rowan anyway?”
“I thought we discussed this. Two extra is more difficult for a family. Gerard is delighted to take you.”
“But I never said yes. What about Aunt Alison then?”
Grandpa Will shakes his head. “She works all day. Her kids are older.”
“Only two years. I could stay alone. I wouldn’t do anything stupid.”
“Nobody said you would, but it’s better to go to a new school with somebody you know.”
I get the feeling that Grandpa Will is coming up with excuses rather than solid reasons. I debate whether to ask for Uncle Rory after all; Toine and Bettany both go to high school and their mum is home most of the time. Rory is pretty strict but I could live with that.
“Go on, get started. There’s nothing you can do down here.”
I do what Grandpa Will says and start unfolding boxes in my room. My top drawer is special and its contents go into my bag. The first boxes I fill with books. No need to check; I need them all except the school ones. All my clothes, music and computer accessories fit in one box. That was the easy part. The other drawers have things I haven’t looked at for a long time; memories like the photo album Mum once started for me. It has all my certificates, most of which I added myself in the last five years.
Do I want to keep my old diaries? I open the one from six years ago; the time I started to realize that Mum and Dad were at war. My poems, childish still, tell me that I was afraid of what life is like now; that I’d be homeless.
I close the book. I don’t want to be reminded. I don’t want to move. I don’t want to live here either. Homeless; orphan of war, of opposing partners…
I pull my new diary from my bag and find a pen to scratch those words down.
“Jerome, are you done packing?” Rowan sticks his head around the door. “Grandpa Will wants to know.”
“Almost.” I turn the contents of the drawers over into the boxes without checking.
“What happens to the rest of the stuff?” Rowan asks when we load the van.
“It will stay here until your father is better and then he may decide to move it to a new home,” Grandpa Will says.
He has packed up all of Dad’s personal belongings so all that’s left is furniture, some general things and books. I take the copy of War and Peace off the shelf and put it in my bag.
We have pizza in town and drive back to the farm at night so Grandpa Will can avoid busy traffic. None of us talk much, not even Rowan. It’s after ten when we get there. Granannie has hot drinks ready. “Alistair called. He’ll be here Saturday lunchtime. Gerard is coming tomorrow,” she says.
I kiss her goodnight and go to my bed in one of the big rooms upstairs, the room Dad used to sleep in when he was young. He shared it with three of his brothers. The girls had the other big room and the teenagers were on the attic. That was before the summer room was built. I’d give anything to live here like that, but I’m homeless, motherless, fatherless and after tomorrow brotherless, because my stupid dad screwed up once again. “Don’t be melodramatic,” I tell myself, but it feels like this thing inside me, this spiked ball, is growing bigger. It makes my eyes hot. I can’t go to Uncle Gerard, don’t they understand that? I can’t live in his family, I can’t… I just can’t.
MARIETTE
“Mariette, hurry up!” Mum shouts from the bottom of the stairs.
I jump out of bed and yank the door open. “I told you my first two periods were cancelled, so I was trying to sleep in!” I yell back.
“You never told me anything.”
“Did too.” I slam the door shut to emphasize it.
The first two periods of Friday are PE, which I detest. I’m not about to embarrass myself by running after a ball like a four-year-old. Normally I hang around the milk bar since Dad gives me a lift on Friday mornings, but today he left early to pick up Jerome.
Mum knocks on my door and opens it without waiting for an answer. “Then I would appreciate it if you helped me get the room ready after I come back from bringing Miranda,” she says.
“Oh I see, now we get Mr Perfect staying with us, I’m to become your slave?” I can’t bear her standing in my doorway like that, so I jump out of bed again to close it.
“Just get yourself ready. Take a shower. I haven’t seen you do that since we came home,” Mum says.
“Maybe you shouldn’t be looking.” I kick the door shut behind her and crawl back into bed. Then I reconsider. She wants me to prepare the room? Fine, I can do that. I get dressed, walk into the garage and drag all the garbage bags out of the rolling bin and carry them upstairs to Jerome’s room. Then I empty the bin in the kitchen and add it to the collection. Then I leave for school.
Period three we have English and Kathleen and I entertain ourselves with a body parts parade. It works like this: One of us – in this case Kathleen – starts with a drawing in one colour pen. She draws a boy; no doubt that year eleven kid she can’t stop talking about. With a different colour pen I then get to move one of his body parts, so I take his balls and move them to his ears. Kathleen giggles too loud and moves some of his dark hair to his chest. I take some more and put it on his toes. Hobbit, I write next to it.
She giggles again and makes his penis so long it reaches his chest. Shiva
, she writes. Now we have a hobbit with a penis longer than his torso and huge earlobes. I white-out his head and stick a new one between his legs on a plate. Jerome, I name it.
“Who’s Jerome?”
“My cousin. He’s going to come to our school next week.”
“What year?”
“Ours.”
“I can’t wait,” Kathleen says.
The next period we have different classes and she has a music lesson during lunch, but we meet up again in the civics room at fifth period.
“What’s he like with his head on his shoulders?”
“More stupid than with it between his legs.”
“I mean, is he cute?”
“You mean to look at. That doesn’t count.”
“You better believe it does. You wouldn’t want ugly babies.”
“Shit Kathleen. You haven’t even met the guy yet and you’re already pregnant.”
“Girls, when can we start?” Miss Coven asks.
“In about nine months, I reckon,” Kathleen answers.
As she hands back the essays Miss Coven says, “I’m sorry, but your idea of a role play has been turned down.”
Between the paper in my hand, which is marked with a D, and her words, I stop grinning. “Why?” I ask, meaning the role play.
“Because yours was an account of a family gathering and not very detailed at that, while you failed to mention any of the memories or thoughts for the soldiers we were honouring on Monday.”
“You didn’t ask for a history essay. You asked us to write about the weekend, which is what I did, insofar it’s anybody’s business. Honouring soldiers wasn’t part of that.”
“Well, it should have been. We must never forget those who gave their lives for our freedom.”
“Not much use honouring them if they’re dead and buried for eighty years or so already. They’ve decayed by now,” says Charlotte, who sits in front of me.
Miss Coven turns a colour that’s not quite red nor quite purple. “We honour those still alive today by paying respect to those they lost. Respect lies at the basis of brotherhood, which, as I have told you, is one of our democratic principles.”