by Nōnen Títi
“Maybe we should paint our hair,” he replies and starts with Kathleen’s.
“Stop it,” the teacher warns, but he backs down when Mick reminds him of the bucket.
Before I know it, Charlotte has used her blue brush on my hair. I can’t find my brush so I take a piece of paper soaked in red and hurl it back at her. Squealing, she jumps away from it, but crashes into Pat who was just holding the pot of yellow.
The teacher finally manages to get through to us and asks that we forget about class and just clean the room, which turns into a water fight. I have stitches in my side from laughing so hard and it doesn’t get better at recess when the whole school starts asking for the details of our shirt disaster.
During physics I’m called to the office where the secretary tells me that the school counsellor is waiting for me. I don’t like that; I’ve had to deal with these people before. The message is always the same: ‘the school has a policy against bullying, so the problem must be with you; you just need to learn to get tough’. This time there’s no bullying, so what does she want?
“Sit down,” she says, which I do reluctantly, aware of my painted shirt.
“I understand that the situation with your cousin is causing you trouble at home,” she begins.
All the hairs on my arms stand up. Whatever I say won’t just get Mariette, but also my aunt and uncle in trouble with the authorities. “What situation?” I ask.
“Don’t you live with her?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell me why you don’t live at home?”
“My parents are moving house.”
It throws her off track for just a moment. “But her aggression makes it hard for you to concentrate on your school work, doesn’t it, Jerome?” she asks.
“Mariette isn’t aggressive and I have no problem concentrating.” I can’t help but think how aggressive Mariette would be if she knew about this.
“Isn’t it true that your parents are divorced and your father needs help to raise you?”
The image in my head focuses on her neck and in front of it are two hands strangling her: my hands. I see her turning blue. I have to force my eyes away from the voice box I have the desire to silence before I can get up and walk out. I’m shaking and sweaty. Instead of going to physics and without really thinking about it, I walk to Mr Shriver’s room. He has a class but motions for me to come in. “We’re almost done. Just wait here.” He pulls up a chair and pushes me down onto it.
The moment the room is empty of kids he sit down beside me. “What happened?”
I tell him as well as I can, trying to recall the exact words she used. “It isn’t fair. She’s going to ruin it for my dad.”
“I hope you’re not thinking I told her about that,” he says.
“No, of course not. I just needed somebody I can trust.”
He takes hold of my shoulders, gently. “Listen, Jerome, nobody can force you to talk to a counsellor. You can say no. Nor is anybody allowed to pry into your home life, but if it helps I’m willing to be a character witness for your father and his friend if the need arises, okay?”
“Really?”
“It might be a good idea if I meet them first. Maybe on a Sunday? We could all have lunch before the group comes.”
“Sure, I’ll ask. Thank you.”
A noise from the door startles me. I hear running feet followed by giggling from further away.
“Now they think they have something to talk about,” Mr Shriver says. “Remember that moral judgment is an expression of insecurity. Believe me, Jerome, I’ve struggled with this too. I’ve just had more time to learn to cope with it. So don’t let anybody, counsellor or kids, talk you into feeling incapable. You’re doing fine.”
Lunch starts with an announcement that no students will be allowed into class unless their uniform is clean and that no uniform is required for the evening. Someone must have spread the rumour.
We go home early, which suits me fine because Dad and Nikos join us for dinner. Mariette entertains them all – to Aunt Karen’s annoyance and Miranda’s delight – by recalling the paint party. We leave for the meeting in our own clothes and in Nikos’ car, after Uncle Gerard brings Miranda to Ellen’s house.
During the first part of the evening the new careers teacher explains the requirements for next year. The various teachers then give a short description of their own subject before PM closes the evening with a speech in his most pleasant voice, during which Kathleen makes gagging sounds until her mother turns around to frown at her.
PM reads from his paper. “Our greatest concern is that certain students in this class insist on endangering the safety of the younger grades while spreading negative information around the primary schools. I’m afraid that I need to warn you all that these students are known to the school and will be removed before the term ends unless this behaviour ceases. Our school counsellor has agreed to be available to the parents of these problem children in case they wish to discuss it, as it is the duty of the school to report harmful behaviour to the proper authorities, which could result in child protection having to review the circumstances these children live under.”
“Fornicating paedophile!” Mariette says, just loud enough for the people around us to hear.
Aunt Karen almost chokes. Uncle Gerard frowns, as does Nikos. All the people who heard are restless and many look around, including Kathleen’s mum, while Kathleen starts to giggle, attracting even more attention. I sincerely hope that Fred’s parents didn’t hear it or he might be forbidden to see me. Mr Shriver, who is standing at the side wall, looks my way and shakes his head just a little. PM didn’t hear and keeps on praising the school.
“I’ll call your grandfather,” Aunt Karen threatens Mariette once we’re outside.
“Why? Why do you listen to that stuttering slimeball but you won’t hear us? We didn’t do anything but follow their ludicrous new rules to the letter.”
“Mariette, this has to stop,” Uncle Gerard says.
Mariette kicks at the pebbles on the path to the car park, so some go flying towards Charlotte and her parents, who are in front of us.
They turn around. “Hey Jerome, I’m glad you’ll be here next year; most of my friends are dropping out.”
“Charles Sanders?” I hear Nikos’ voice ask from behind me.
“Yes?” Charlotte’s father replies.
“Nikos Kutahyan. I believe we were in the same class here once.”
The two men shake hands, leaving Charlotte and I to stand by in surprise. After a “how do you do?” and “what do you do now?” exchange, Nikos introduces them to Dad, my uncle and aunt, and then to Mariette and myself. Mrs Sanders frowns at Mariette and as soon as they walk away she starts whispering to her husband. Mariette makes a face at their backs.
“I didn’t know you lived here,” Dad says once we’re in the car.
“Three years in this high school before they made life so impossible for my little sister that we had to move to the city. I told you this was the least likely suburb for me to be found in.”
“What was better in the city?” Uncle Gerard asks.
“More cultural diversity, more people who shared our belief and our language. For my mother also; she was lonely here. It was a mistake to come to the suburbs. They were said to be modern and tolerant, but we should have remembered they weren’t like that at home either, and we’d always been city people.”
“I find the suburbs nice and peaceful. The city never gets quiet at night and it’s hard to get to know anyone,” Aunt Karen says.
“For some people that might be true, and I don’t mean to attack your life-style, but suburbs, whether ghetto or elite bungalow park, tend to support one-sided populations based on ethnicity, social status, income group or religion, and that’s a forced separation that prevents people from seeing others as individuals; it creates suspicion among groups. Acceptance is based on how well people fit in and focuses on the smallest of details; as long as you
behave like everybody else you don’t notice, but if you have a different belief, a different manner of dressing, even if you buy your groceries in a different shop, people start talking. It’s one of the unhealthiest situations for a community to exist in.”
“Which is exactly what schools do,” Mariette says.
“Nobody asked you,” Aunt Karen answers.
“Fuck you.”
“So what city was home before you came here?” Uncle Gerard asks, possibly to stop the argument as much as that he wants to know.
“Beirut. It was the hub of cultures; the city of life and lights to go out in and enjoy. Every culinary sensation was available, every type of music – though I was too young to be going out like that when we lived there. The war put an end to it. Many people fled to Cyprus with us. Most stayed there, but my father believed we’d find freedom here. Only he himself wasn’t as free and tolerant as he liked to think he was.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because my lifestyle wasn’t acceptable to his belief system, so it was a choice between being part of the community or accepting his son.”
“Why do people insist on making each other’s lives miserable? What’s wrong with you are you and I am me?” Dad grumbles.
There’s nothing wrong with that, but it doesn’t seem to hold true outside of theory.
That evening I warn Mariette. “Don’t let Mick push you into too much action at once. A few jokes are fine, but don’t say those kinds of things, Mariette. You’ve turned all the parents against us.”
“Stop patronizing me, Jerome. I’m not forcing you to follow, but I will not be threatened by that traitor!” She slams the door to her room and plays her most powerful and offensive songs as loud as she can. I can understand her anger – I feel that hurt too – but she frightens me and so does Mick.
MARIETTE
On Friday morning I scoop the school paper out of the mailbox. Apart from all the usual crap it contains an article written by Jerome about the application of human rights for students in public schools. In it he asks what value there is in words that could be interpreted differently by different people: What is dignity? What is meant by “degrading”? Is it not being allowed to choose your own clothing? When a law is changed by an incompetent ruler so that he can punish a person he doesn’t like, is this not also arbitrary?
“This is so incredibly good and mature-sounding,” I tell him.
“I thought you weren’t talking to me anymore.”
“I was wrong, okay? I overreacted, like always.”
And he’s too good; he accepts it, like always.
We don’t gather at the milk bar anymore but meet up with Kathleen and Fred behind the back fence.
“Listen,” Kathleen says, “we were talking just now and I think you have to be careful with Mick. He’s getting a bit too radical.”
“What do you mean?”
“He threatened Peter and his sister this morning for not supporting SDF. He wants to force them and Charlotte’s gang is backing him up with physical threats, and he made some year eights believe he could set off explosives in the gym.”
“It would cancel the assembly…”
“I’m serious, Mariette.”
“Don’t worry, he’s just saying it. It’s the power of persuasion, psychology, just like PM is using.”
“He’s not – he’ll do it, I can feel it.”
“Not if we don’t agree.”
“You’re so naive, Mariette. You believe everything he says.”
“You’re mad. I’ve never let anybody tell me what to think.”
“That’s because you’ve never been in love before.”
“I don’t know where you get your stupid ideas.”
“Only from the way you dress and move and look and… Believe me, I know. Just watch out; he’s fanatic and dangerous.”
I don’t answer her anymore. Yes, I like Mick; he’s devoted to the cause. He’s even broken some security codes to get to the official records about PM and what he found was more than good. Because of that the attorney who doesn’t exist has been quite busy these past few days.
A letter went out on Wednesday night to the parent-teacher council requesting that they confirm that they are aware of the investigation into the injury of a student in PM’s old school, which was still ongoing at the time of his appointment. It sounds incredibly official. A second letter, addressed to PM, casually mentions the coincidental existence of a William Moralis in the education department. Obviously it will be in his own interest if this news doesn’t get out. Jerome would freak out if he knew about this, never mind Mum.
I had my own fit of activity last night and now I pull out the new sheets of slogan stickers: Morality seeks lust objects in child protection.
Despite Kathleen’s warnings, she thinks the labels are great. Within no time they’re being handed out; a few sheets to each class rep, the way we’ve been doing it all week.
When the bell goes I head toward the history room while the rest of my class goes to PE. I say good morning to Mr Fokker, who sits at his desk, writing, but I get no reply and he doesn’t give me the noteblock.
“I was still supposed to come here this term, right?”
He looks at me but doesn’t answer.
Maybe I’ve been officially kicked out since last night and I just don’t know about it yet. But they would have called home. Maybe they’re doing that now. Shit, I was looking forward to that assembly. Mum will die. She’ll call Grandpa Will right away. “Is it about last night?”
He raises his eyebrows, which I assume means ‘yes’.
“Should I go home now or wait for the official notification?”
No response. It’d be stupid to sit down without being invited to – he could send me away – but I can’t just walk out either.
“I didn’t use the f-word. I mean… I did, but not… it just came out.” I’m getting tired of his silence. I feel like a fool caught up in a guessing game and it makes me nervous. “Please can you just tell me what I’m supposed to do?”
He runs his pen over one of his papers before handing it to me. It’s the civics paper, the declaration. I read the point he circled. No one shall be subjected to arbitrary interference with his privacy, family, home or correspondence, nor to attacks upon his honour and reputation.
Before I’m through it my heart begins pounding and I suddenly shiver. I’m expelled for sure and who knows what else. It’s fraud to write false letters about private records. How did he find out so fast? What if they called the police? I feel sick.
Mr Fokker uses his pen to tap on my shirt, still without words, but now I don’t have any either. Next he pulls the sticker off me and sticks it onto the declaration. Only then do I realize what he’s thinking.
“You mean the sticker? Is that all?”
“Is there anything else I should have noticed?” he asks.
My chill turns to heat now. “No.” The lie must be visible in my face, but I can’t explain and I can’t do better than this one word. He looks at me suspiciously, but I can breathe again. It’s only the sticker. “What am I supposed to do, get rid of them?”
“If you want to keep coming here.”
“But he threatened our parents.”
That isn’t good enough, apparently.
“But almost everybody is wearing them. I’d have to go into every class.”
He shrugs his shoulders and goes back to his writing. Now what? I’m not wanted here unless I collect the stickers. Not coming here means I have to go to PE. But he doesn’t know the rest. He’s only a teacher. He’s one of them, so why do I feel rejected? And why do I feel compelled to collect those stupid stickers I spent four hours making last night? So okay, it was revenge – childish, I’m sure. Mature people don’t take revenge. They shouldn’t, anyway; that’s what starts wars. “Okay, I’ll go and ask for them back.”
He hands me a small plastic bag, crumples up my sticker and puts it in, so I figure that he wants the evide
nce brought back to him. I feel like a total moron knocking on every classroom door and telling the teacher and kids inside that I need the stickers back. I have to insist, saying that since it was me who made them I have the right to take them back. It takes me well into second period and by then some people have changed rooms. I go to my own class last. Most are sitting at the benches at the side of the gym.
“I’m making a list of everyone who’s not contributing to SDF. On Monday we’ll confront them and make them join,” Mick says.
“You can’t force people to support us,” I tell him.
“Of course we can. We’re a student union; we represent all students or it wouldn’t be a union.”
“No way, not by compulsory membership, are you crazy? If you do that you become a dictator!”
“We need the support.”
“Not for the wrong reasons we don’t. I thought people used to fight for the right to have unions, especially students, but here they attack ministers who want to stop forcing them. They call themselves students but they’ve lost the brain to think with and you’re willing to copy them.”
“Are you saying I’m stupid?” he demands, ignoring the PE teacher’s question as to what is going on.
“If you talk like that you are.”
“You just watch that you don’t become a traitor too,” he threatens and turns around without giving me his sticker.
Okay, Fred and Kathleen were right and I was wrong. I go back to Mr Fokker, but now, of course, the room is full of year sevens. He takes the bag from me and hands me the noteblock. “You can write me an essay about honourable behaviour.”
I do the best I can, carefully avoiding any words relating to legalities or letters. I emphasize the threat made last night and the treachery of the rules. Rules that infringe on the rights mentioned in this paper as much as my sticker did…
That’s why he gave it to us! Of course, how stupid not to have realized that last Wednesday. He doesn’t agree with the changes to the prospectus. He won’t be the only one either. What if we can still get PM kicked out? Kathleen and Charlotte have organized a meeting for Sunday, to get back to the positive vibes of term three. It can’t be too hard to motivate the students…