Holy Crushamoly

by Thalia Kalkipsakis

  More like us? This whole conversation is getting on my nerves. If Zara had been waiting with me on Wednesday, would Dad be going on about Greek school now?

  Another thud.

  ‘How about this?’ My voice rises over the noise of the car. ‘If you’re so keen to hang out with a bunch of Greeks, why don’t you sign up for wog school?’

  Dad’s forehead creases, not impressed. ‘What did you call it?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I say quietly. Everyone calls it that, even the Greek kids. But you can’t say it in front of Dad.

  ‘Be-have your-self,’ he says, enunciating each syllable to make his point. A pause. Then it all comes out in a stream of Greek: He has a lot on his plate at the moment. Work is crazy. Mum’s still not home. If I want a lift to the meeting, then I have to show some respect. ‘Okay?’

  When I don’t say anything, he asks again: ‘Okay?’

  A sigh. ‘Okay.’

  Dad pulls up outside Aunty Celia’s and checks the clock. ‘We’ll leave here at a quarter to three,’ he announces, though he’s calmer now.

  Arms crossed, I follow behind Steph as she charges up the path. The door opens just as Steph reaches the porch. She’s through in a flash and Celia’s left in a trail of wind.

  ‘Hello, Stephanie!’ Celia calls over her shoulder. A smile for me. ‘Hi, Phoebe.’

  ‘How is she?’ We hug hello and I get the same feeling I always have around Celia. She’s like Mum, but not. Sort of how Mum might seem to people who don’t know her.

  ‘Better.’ She pulls away, nodding. ‘Much, much better.’

  Dad’s on the porch by now, so I don’t hang around, but continue down the hall.

  To Mum. Just the sight of her gives me this pang in the chest. She’s so small and thin in Celia’s flowery armchair. Steph’s already in Position A, of course, perched on Mum’s lap.

  I peck her cheek and then have to wait while Steph goes on about all her little-big things. Sore finger. A spider’s web in the car. The bruise on her banana. I wait, trying to be patient.

  Celia shares out biscuits with coffee. There’s lemonade for me and Steph.

  About a hundred hours later, Steph makes it to the end of her news and Mum’s eyes track across to me. ‘Phoebe? How are you?’

  ‘Okay.’ I do my best to find a smile. It’s never enough, seeing her like this, with Celia hovering and Dad waiting for his turn.

  We chat about my friends and I ask how she’s feeling. Mum says she’s much better, thanks, same as always. I tell her everything’s going well at school, but I don’t say anything about my speech. If I did, she’d want to know the topic, and I couldn’t admit that to her. I don’t want to make her feel guilty or anything.

  ‘And how’s Steph at night?’ Mum asks at one point.

  Automatically, I glance out the back door, where Steph’s trying to get some action out of Celia’s lazy labrador.

  ‘Oh, she’s fine,’ I answer breezily.

  That’s just the way I talk to Mum these days, toning everything down so she won’t worry. Like Steph’s nightmares, for instance. I haven’t told Mum about them. She knows Steph’s been sleeping in my room, but I haven’t told her exactly why. So many things have happened that she knows nothing about.

  Like, Steph keeps having nightmares.

  Like, I told the whole class how sick you were, and people really listened.

  Like, Dad decided we’re all moving to Greece because this cute guy at school is freaking him out.

  I reach out to push the bell at Jagath’s place, then flick my hair and straighten my top. It feels as if I’m standing on stage, waiting for a curtain to part.

  I notice a mountain bike resting against the porch rail, and a row of shoes neatly lined up by the door. Dad’s car is still idling at the kerb. He’s waiting, I guess, to make sure I’m at the right place.

  The door opens and Jagath’s suddenly standing in front of me. ‘Hi,’ he says. ‘Come in.’

  ‘Sorry I’m late.’ I cringe. It’s 3.08. Could be worse.

  ‘No problem.’ He sees Dad’s car at the kerb and motions behind me. ‘Oh … do they want to come in? They’re more than welcome.’

  As if in response, Dad pulls away and disappears down the road. I shrug and make this face that’s meant to mean never mind.

  Inside, Jagath’s eyes fix onto mine, but it’s not at all awkward. It’s as if we’re somehow talking without using words.

  Made it at last …

  I’m glad you’re here.

  Jagath breathes in. ‘Come through,’ he says and gestures along the hall.

  We reach the kitchen and Jagath introduces me to his mum. She’s short and has the same round cheeks as him. She’s wearing the most beautiful blue cotton wrap with white trimming.

  ‘Hello,’ she says with a shy nod. She gazes past me expectantly, looking for a parent, I guess, and I suddenly feel rude not to have brought Dad in to meet her.

  ‘My little sister …’ I point over my shoulder. ‘Dad didn’t want to leave her waiting in the car.’

  ‘Oh.’ Her hands lift to her face. ‘Should I come out?’

  ‘No, no. He’s already gone.’ I shake my head quickly, her awkwardness somehow making it worse.

  ‘Don’t stress, Mum,’ Jagath says from the other side of the room. He jerks his head for me to follow.

  We end up in the living room, and Zara glances up from a table near the window. ‘Heeey!’ she says warmly. ‘You’re here!’

  ‘Sorry I’m late.’ I head over to sit next to her. It’s sparsely furnished in here, way less clutter than my place, and other than a serene-looking Buddha statue sitting cross-legged on the mantelpiece it could be anyone’s home.

  ‘So. We forgot to define the topic when we met last time,’ Zara says once we’re all sorted. ‘But I think it’s pretty straightforward. Compulsory just means everyone has to wear them.’

  I’m starting to see how she excels in so many different things: band, netball, school and debate team. She gets on with it. No messing around googling stuff she’s not working on.

  ‘And we also need to work out some sort of case statement,’ Zara says.

  I’m still settling into my chair. ‘Some sort of what?’

  ‘A sentence or a phrase that sums up our argument,’ she says simply. ‘And we all say it to emphasise the point, you know?’

  For a while we say nothing. ‘Uniforms are useful?’ Jagath asks, then shakes his head.

  ‘Hey, I like the way you used two U’s,’ I say encouragingly.

  ‘Anyway …’ Zara checks her watch. ‘Have a think and let me know if you come up with any other ideas.’ She pulls out a sheet of paper. ‘Here’s a template for you to use when you’re writing your speech.’

  ‘Template?’ My eyes scan down.

  ‘Yeah,’ Zara says. ‘Use that when you’re working out the details of your speech. You have to say those bits in bold …’

  As she points, I read out the first line: ‘Good afternoon chairman, members of the audience. The topic for our debate is …’

  ‘Exactly, and then you fill in the blanks according to our argument. Like, the topic for our debate is that uniforms should be compulsory, right?’

  While Zara’s talking, I read the rest of the bold parts. We, the affirmative/negative team, believe that this statement is true/false.

  And then it keeps going:

  The opposition speaker has tried to tell you … This is wrong because …

  Blah.

  It’s the uniform-version of public speaking. First, everyone is forced to dress the same. Now everyone’s talking the same?

  ‘But can’t we, you know, say it in our own words?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah, sure. But within that basic structure,’ Zara says. ‘Okay?’ As if it’s the easiest thing in the world.

  Except I’m not as good as she is when it comes to following rules. Once again, I get the pfft feeling in my brain. The sound of inspiration choking to death.

 
Zara spends a bit of time going over things I need to do in my speech, like refuting arguments and repeating our case statement. She talks about all the things the adjudicator will mark us on. Jagath warns me about a bell they ring when it’s a good idea to start summarising, and the second bell, a double: the one to worry about.

  Jagath’s mum brings in a plate of this amazing roti bread and some dips while we’re working. The bread’s so light and warm that it just seems to melt in my mouth. It’s completely yum.

  We drift off topic for a while then, tearing off pieces of roti and talking about the other schools in the competition.

  It’s only when the plate is empty that we start working again. Zara stands at the end of the table and runs through her opening speech. She keeps saying stuff like I’ll fix up that part and I’m still working on this bit. But she hardly needs to. It’s really good. Like really good. Way better than mine’s going to be.

  For one thing, I’m not even sure what to say.

  I’m madly trying to remember the arguments I found online when the doorbell rings.

  Zara checks her watch. ‘Sorry, team.’ She slips her cue cards into a pocket in her backpack. ‘Have to go. Netball fundraiser.’

  ‘Really?’ I raise my eyebrows, but inside I’m thinking, phew. Saved by the over-achiever.

  Jagath disappears to see Zara out and I check my watch. Fifteen more minutes before Dad’s due to pick me up. Jagath comes back and takes the seat that Zara was just in. Beside me.

  ‘So, how’s your argument coming along?’ He leans an elbow on the table, head in his hand.

  It gives me a little shiver inside. Him and me. Me and him. But I have to stop myself thinking this way. Any interest here is a one-way street.

  I breathe in. Get a grip. ‘Not too bad,’ I say. ‘I saw some ideas online.’ Somehow I find a bit of crumpled paper with my notes and smooth it flat. ‘Uniforms stop you getting distracted by provocative clothing …’ I glance up.

  Jagath nods.

  I clear my throat. Check my notes. ‘Wearing a uniform puts you in the frame of mind to work …’

  Again I glance up to find him watching me closely, utterly locked on to what I’m saying.

  I place my paper on the table. Sinking a little. The more time I spend around Jagath, the more I want to do a good job. Not just because he’s cute. But because his standards are so high when it comes to work like this. Zara’s too.

  ‘To be honest?’ I sigh. ‘Most of the stuff online is just boring. More of the same, you know? None of the arguments were all that impressive, if you ask me.’ I check his expression. ‘I haven’t found anything that convinces me uniforms are a good idea.’

  Jagath shrugs. ‘Don’t worry about the stuff online. Come up with your own ideas.’ As if that’s the easiest thing in the world. ‘You were really good on the fly at our team meeting. Anyone can research, but not many people can come up with their own argument.’

  I can’t help a little grin at that. ‘Well … thanks.’ But now I’m right back where I started. All my own ideas are for the opposite side.

  ‘Something else I find that helps,’ Jagath says, leaning forward. ‘Try putting yourself in their shoes. Like, someone who might agree with your argument. It’s something my mum goes on about, from Buddhism. To see people as they truly are, you need to be able to understand their point of view.’

  But who would agree with the idea of compulsory uniforms? ‘Do you?’ I ask casually. ‘Agree with compulsory uniforms?’

  ‘Well …’ He glances down at his T-shirt. Faded blue with a black design. Carelessly casual. ‘I’m not too fussed about fashion. Let’s just say I can see it both ways.’

  ‘Yeah, okay.’ But this has me thinking. I’m about to ask Jagath if he knows what Zara would say when my phone chimes. It’s Dad.

  Out front.

  For a few seconds, I just stare at the text. What’s wrong with him? Why didn’t he ring the doorbell like a normal person? Slowly, my eyes lift. ‘That’s my ride.’

  ‘I’ll walk you out.’

  We reach the front porch and there’s Dad’s car, the engine running. For some reason, the sight of it makes my muscles tense. Mum would never have done this.

  I swivel to face Jagath. ‘Thanks for having me. See you on Monday.’

  Jagath smiles. ‘See ya.’

  Steph’s in the front, but I don’t miss a beat, slipping into the back and checking out my window, just in time to see the front door close.

  Dad finds my reflection in the rear-view mirror. ‘How was it?’

  ‘Fine.’

  He glances my way again but I pretend I don’t notice.

  All the way home I’m quiet, thinking about Jagath. He’s so easy to talk to; I’m glad I came clean. His advice is exactly the help I need. The whole trip home, I mull it over in my mind. Who would agree that uniforms should be compulsory? Erin?

  No.

  Mr Cartwright? Probably.

  We’re pulling into the driveway when it hits me.

  Mr Chiu. Of course! Why didn’t I think of him sooner? I just have to get inside his crazy, robotic mind. Then I’ll have the debate argument of the century.

  Operation Communicate With The Enemy begins early on Monday morning.

  I’m prepared for the mission: uniform worn exactly to regulation, giving me that perfect sack-of-potatoes look that’s so in this season. I don’t even sneak into the toilets for my daily magic tricks. If I’m going into enemy territory, I’ll need to dress the way he expects me to, as if I’m on his side.

  I arrive well before the buses so there’s less chance that anyone will see me – but I still have a sense of urgency about getting this done. I stay close to buildings – around A block, past the demountables and then a quick scan of the oval.

  Problem is, with no-one here Mr Chiu has no need for uniform reconnaissance. If I’m going to get this finished quickly, I have to enter enemy headquarters. The viceprincipal’s office.

  Through one of the internal windows, I’m able to see Mr Chiu before he sees me. He’s busy typing, back straight as a pole.

  I pull a notebook and pen out of my bag before tapping on his door. Not because I’m planning to take notes or anything, but because teachers like Mr Chiu love stuff like that.

  ‘Yes!’ barks Mr Chiu as soon as I knock. I push the door open, and his head jerks up. He’s wearing a shirt and tie. A pinstripe jacket hangs over his chair. Nice. ‘Yes?’ he says again, softer this time.

  ‘Hi, Mr Chiu, I’m Phoebe Cholas. Do you have a minute?’ With my head up and shoulders back, I step into the office. Show no fear. He can smell it, I’m sure.

  Mr Chiu glances at the clock, then at a chair beside his desk. ‘Take a seat.’

  Neat as a pin, I slip into place, keeping my feet flat and my knees together in that awkward way they make you sit on photo day.

  ‘I’m on the junior debating team,’ I begin, ‘and I was wondering if you’d be willing to share your thoughts on the topic? We’re arguing that uniforms should be compulsory in schools.’

  ‘Ah …’ A pause. Mr Chiu leans back and considers me for a moment. ‘Well. Let me see.’ He adjusts his position in the chair. Somehow his back ends up even straighter than before. ‘A uniform is futile unless it’s compulsory,’ Mr Chiu says simply.

  Wow. Straight out, that’s a good argument. It definitely needs to be part of our definition at the start. No point having a uniform if only some people wear it.

  I’m holding a pen and paper, aren’t I? Might as well use them. I quickly scribble a note, so I remember to tell Zara.

  ‘And then there are reasons of discipline, focus,’ continues Mr Chiu briskly, ‘projecting an image of success.’

  As he speaks, my eyes scan the objects in the room, trying to get a sense of what it’s like to be Mr Chiu. Put myself in his shoes …

  A series of photos line the back wall. Most of them show Mr Chiu with a bunch of students. Prefects, probably. They’re all standing in groups,
grinning with their heads held high. All in uniform, of course. Mr Chiu stands with the same straight back among them all. In one, he’s actually laughing.

  I hold my pen ready. ‘So, it’s about image then?’

  ‘Of course, but it’s more than that …’ Mr Chiu pauses and a faint smile flickers. ‘Want to know why I care so much about uniforms?’

  I nod, so he leans back in his chair.

  ‘Every morning when I walk around the school grounds, I see students arriving from all over. But their uniforms give them a sense of community. Each student has a place here. Everyone belongs.’

  My pen rests on the paper, but it hasn’t formed any letters. I just stare at Mr Chiu.

  Everyone belongs … The way he’s talking, it’s almost making me proud to be wearing our school uniform. Almost.

  He crosses his legs, and takes a few seconds to settle again. ‘You could call it the dress code of our school family.’

  As I think about my response, I cross my legs, matching his pose. ‘Yes, but we’d still be a community if we were in free dress,’ I test. ‘You don’t need to wear the same clothes in order to belong to the same school.’

  ‘No,’ Mr Chiu says. Slowly he nods, as if considering what I just said. ‘But we would appear less of a community, don’t you agree?’

  I think this is what I was getting at, back in the library, when I said uniforms gave us an identity. But I hadn’t expressed it this well. I was still thinking of it as being something forced on us, rather than something that brings us together. ‘Yeah, I guess I do.’

  ‘And you know as well as I do that appearance can have an impact, whether we like it or not.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say softly, but it’s with a degree of shock. Because even though I knew he’d be all for compulsory uniforms, I actually agree with him. Not pretending to agree just for the debate, or trying to imagine I’m someone else. I agree with Mr Chiu on this. Go figure …

  ‘Okay?’ He glances at the clock.

  ‘Yes, that’s great.’ I’m out of my seat and smiling. ‘Thanks, sir.’

  Mr Chiu stands too, his expression stern once again as he pulls his jacket around his shoulders.