The Yearbook Committee (2 page)

        
Charlie Scanlon
Three. Terms. Left.

        
Pete Brady
likes this.

The car that's been tailing me for the last hundred metres slows down further, and I go from mild concern to panic. As a petite seventeen-year-old on a deserted suburban road at 6.30 a.m., I am the perfect candidate for a sexual predator. Great. I'm going to disappear and there will be no clues or witnesses. I'll become another unsolved mystery.

I curse myself for starting the day so early. Then again, I didn't have many options. Mornings at home were super awkward now that my mum and my stepfather, Stan, were trying for a baby. The kinds of noises that came from their room . . . Let's just say I'd rather listen to static.

I sneak a very subtle look through the camera in my phone and freak out when I can't see through the tinted windows. There's probably more than one of them; my chances of escape
are reducing by the second. I take a deep breath and quicken my pace, imagining the headlines: ‘High-schooler found strangled in bushland', ‘Student raped on walk to school', ‘Parents shoulder blame for move that cost daughter's life'. Well, maybe not that last one, but if I do die today, at least Mum and Stan will live out their days in sorrow, knowing it was their selfishness that brought death closer to my door.

Then the door opens, and I stop, steadying myself for a fight. I'm like an atheist Joan of Arc going into battle — except I'm too afraid to turn around. A hand reaches over my face, and I react, elbowing the belly and stomping on a foot.

I've run maybe six metres when the voice belonging to the ‘ouch' registers, and I turn around.

‘Mum,' I say, slapping a hand to my forehead. ‘You scared the crap out of me!'

‘Wow,' she says, clutching her stomach. ‘You're strong.'

I shake my head. ‘What are you doing?' I ask. ‘And whose car is that?'

‘Surprise!' she yells, throwing her hands into the air. ‘It's yours!'

‘What? I don't even have a licence.'

‘Yet — but you'll get one.'

‘I won't need one in Melbourne,' I point out.

‘You'll need one here,' she says, folding her arms.

‘I don't plan on returning,' I retort, folding my own. ‘And now I want to walk.'

She looks defeated.

I sigh. ‘Mum, we've been over this. I'm going to walk to school early from now on. You know why, I know why, Stan knows why. We don't need to go over it again. What we do need to go over is what exactly you were thinking when you decided to put on Ugg
boots in this heatwave. And, more importantly, why you came out of the house in them. It's tacky.'

‘My toes were cold,' she replies with a shrug. ‘Come on, get in the car.'

I stay where I am, arms still folded, while she picks up my school bag.

‘No,' I say, shaking my head. ‘You've ruined my morning. I thought you were a stalker.'

My mother puts my bag on the backseat and looks at me sternly. ‘I think you need to stop watching crime shows. They're really distorting your sense of reality.'

I scoff. ‘Still doesn't explain why you were driving like a creep.'

‘I got a phone call from Ellen. She started dating a new guy a month ago, and now he won't return her calls. I was trying to make sense of the situation, hence the slow driving.'

‘Mum, those no-talking-while-driving rules we had in Melbourne apply in Sydney too, you know,' I point out. ‘Except the cops are probably meaner and the fine is probably bigger. Just like how everything else is worse here.'

‘Not this again, Charlie,' she says, exasperated. ‘Get in the car. And I don't want to say it again.'

When her ‘Dr Reynolds' voice comes out, I know it's time for me to listen.

Ten minutes later, we're sitting in the car in a McDonald's parking lot, eating sausage and egg McMuffins, hash browns and hotcakes. The car stinks of grease. I wind down the windows.

‘You didn't have to bring the car to me, you know,' I say. ‘I would have understood if you needed to stay at home with Stan, to . . .'

‘To, you know?' she replies, a smirk on her face. ‘This is our tradition, Chi. Not everything has to change now that we've moved.'

‘The big things have,' I mumble.

‘And therefore the small things don't matter, right?' she asks. ‘That's where you're wrong, Charlie. The small things are always going to matter.'

She packs all the scraps in a paper bag and turns on the engine. We pull out of the parking lot.

‘Why a car?' I ask. ‘Is Stan trying to buy my love?'

‘Not really,' she says. ‘You liked him until we decided to move to Sydney.'

‘That's true,' I admit. As stepfathers went, he was pretty good.

‘Maybe it's the school?' she asks. ‘He said he really wanted you to fit in.'

‘I fit in at a public school,' I tell her. ‘Not among entitled rich brats.'

‘The education is good there,' she says, giving me a look. ‘Plus he went there, and he's always wanted his kids to go there too.'

‘I'm not his kid, Mum.'

She shakes her head. ‘Don't break his heart, darl.'

I roll my eyes, but I know she's right. I should try to be nicer to Stan.

‘I'd have loved a car at your age,' she says after a minute. ‘One with a big red bow. This one had a red bow but I had to take it off before I drove it to you.'

‘Again, you didn't need to bring it to me. And now it's christened in grease.'

‘And, again, this is our tradition. I always give you a gift on your first day of the school year.'

‘What happened to slogan shirts and novels?' I ask.

‘My rich husband, apparently.'

She drops me off near school, kissing my cheek and promising to let me walk as much as I want for the rest of the year. I'm almost at the school gate when she winds down the window and yells out to me: ‘Am I ever going to be forgiven?'

‘I wouldn't hold my breath,' I yell back. And then I smile and wave her off, knowing I can never really hate her as much as I try to.

Mum's the only adult who gets me. She should be, I guess, considering she's a psychologist who's writing her PhD thesis on the struggles of and influences on the modern adolescent in Australia. I'm her favourite case study, which means she'll probably fail, because sometimes I'm seventeen going on thirty-seven.

So it sucks that we've been on such a sour note for a while now, but, hey, I didn't want to move. And the biggest betrayal of your life is not meant to come from your mother.

I had tried everything to convince her that the move from Melbourne would be a big mistake, but Stan really wanted to be back in his home town, and she was
in love
. My aunty Ellen, who considers herself nobody unless she has somebody, was extremely encouraging of the relationship and all that came with it. Even Mum's thesis, which she's doing at Melbourne Uni, was no hurdle, because her supervisor agreed to let her continue long-distance provided they had fortnightly meetings via Skype. As for work, she'd had her own practice for almost thirteen years, and had made quite a name for herself as a media commentator, so opening up a place in Sydney was not going to be a challenge.

And even if it were, Stan would fix it. He'd make sure that she wouldn't want for anything.

Stan. The man who changed everything. All my life, it was just me and Mum. She'd fallen pregnant with me when she was seventeen and, even though my birth father had skipped out on her, and everyone she knew (herself included) had been telling her not to go through with it, she'd decided to keep me. She always says that her life has been on the uphill since she heard my first cry.

But when I was thirteen, she introduced me to Stan. I didn't mind him at first. He was nice, hard-working, and knew I was Mum's number-one priority and didn't try to change that. They got married when I was fifteen, and she's been super happy ever since.

And me? Well, I stopped being super happy when I had to leave my friends, my school and everything I'd known since I was a kid. Now I'm stuck doing year 12 at some prestigious private school, which I hated the minute I saw it. But it had its perks — it always ranked highly in the HSC, and I needed to use that to my advantage. I was going to move back to Melbourne straight after school finished, and I needed good grades to apply to Monash University.

So my goals this year are to focus on my studies, and learn to survive without my mother. By the time I go back to Melbourne, she might have a baby in her arms, and she can play happy families with Stan. There'd be no room for a sulking teenager in the family portrait. And, in the meantime, I plan to hate on anything and everything for as long as I possibly can. This new school year included.

         
Matty Fullerton
is listening to ‘King' by Years and Years on Spotify.

Running against the clock looks really different in the movies. We see the action, but not the sweat; we feel the adrenalin, but not the painful breathlessness of untrained lungs; and don't get me started on the hair. The hair that always stays put and perfect. Unlike my own hair, which probably looks like a badly damaged mop just sitting on my head. And they wonder why I'm always in a hoodie.

I crouch down in the grass and shove my bag through the hole in the fence at the back of the school's quad, the escape route for the cool kids. They call it ‘the blind spot' because none of the teachers know about it.

Until now. I'm halfway through the hole when I hear him clear his throat.

‘Mr Fullerton,' Mr Broderick says in his signature smug tone. ‘Leaving so soon?'

I sigh deeply and get to my feet, avoiding eye contact. ‘Yes, sir,' I say, defeated.

‘Remind me, lad,' he says, putting his hands behind his back and rocking on the spot, ‘what did you and I agree on during our last interaction?'

‘Three strikes and I'm out.'

‘And, pray tell, what number is this?'

‘Three, sir,' I mumble.

‘Ah yes, third time
un
lucky,' he says. ‘Unfortunate that. Now, please tidy yourself up and follow me into my office where we can further discuss your punishment.'

I give my bag a big kick, then slide to the ground, my back to the fence. So close. Ahead of me, Mr Broderick cocks his eyebrows at me and I roll my eyes, pick up my bag and follow him into his office. ‘The dungeon of wrath', I've heard the other kids call it. And, lately, kind of like my second home.

Mr Broderick is Holy Family's deputy principal. Part of the furniture, he says, as though it will mask the irritation he feels at not having landed the top job after thirteen years in this role. I don't think the reason has occurred to him just yet: unlike our principal, Mrs Hendershott, AKA Mrs H — who nurtures as much as she disciplines — Mr Broderick likes dishing out punishment a little too much. Hence the office nickname.

Inside, he motions for me to take a seat, and walks over to the filing cabinet to get my file.

‘I'm going to need a bigger folder soon,' he says. ‘We're only two and a half weeks into the school year, and yet you've been in my office three times.'

I stare at him in silence.

‘And still reluctant to speak, I might add.'

More staring.

Now it's his turn to sigh. He rises from his chair and walks over to the window that looks out on the school's manicured front lawn. ‘We expect a certain level of appreciation from our scholarship students, Mr Fullerton,' he says, rubbing at a smudge on the window. ‘I'm surprised that a student of your . . . background has not come to realise his good fortune and is willing to throw it all away for some reason that he won't discuss.'

He turns around and I bow my head, unable to look at him.

‘Holy Family has a long history of awarding scholarships, Matthew,' he says. ‘Once they're awarded, the recipients work tirelessly to prove they are worthy.'

He looks at me for emphasis.

‘Education is a prized gift,' he says. Like I don't already know. ‘Until recently, you seemed to understand that. Your grades were impeccable, we had no issues with your behaviour. In fact, you and I barely interacted during your first year here.'

‘No, sir,' I say finally.

‘But things have changed, and now I've found myself at a crossroad of sorts. You're not a good debater, are you, Matthew?'

‘I don't believe I am, sir,' I admit.

‘No, of course, I probably would have known if you were,' he says, giving me a fake smile. ‘Maybe you would have argued yourself out of this mess. Are you athletic?' he asks, sizing me up.

‘Well —'

‘Mr Fullerton!'

I turn around and see Mrs H standing in the doorway, smiling.

‘And this is the third time in what — two weeks?' she asks, looking at Mr Broderick.

‘Something like that, Miss,' I reply.

She raises her eyebrows, then frowns.

‘Would you mind stepping outside for a moment while I talk with Mr Broderick?' she asks. I look from her to him and then sigh, picking up my bag.

‘Just wait out there,' she says, motioning to a seat in the hallway. ‘I won't be long.'

I strain to hear their conversation, but only manage to catch bits of it. Him: ‘Sneaking out again' and ‘frustrating' and ‘learn his lesson'. Her: ‘proper way to learn', ‘mature' and ‘meet in the middle'.

I tiptoe to the door and lean in closer, trying to hear more.

‘I thought we had agreed that the students would nominate themselves for that,' he tells her.

‘We did,' she says. ‘Only one has put her name down: Gillian Cummings. We do have a long list for the formal committee, though.'

‘Well, yes, they all know how to party, don't they?'

They both chuckle.

‘OK, well, if you think that's a sufficient punishment,' he tells her. ‘But I am not —'

‘Fabulous, it's settled then,' she says, opening the door. ‘Sorry for taking your time, Matthew. You can go back inside now.'

I stand in front of Mr Broderick's desk, bag in my hands.

‘It seems Mrs Hendershott is willing to give you another chance,' he says with his hands apart, as if he doesn't understand why. ‘And in lieu of a punishment, she's going to make you work for your position here . . .'

My eyes widen.

‘The school needs a yearbook. It's a long tradition dating back to the school's inception in 1932, and we've yet to miss a year besides 1944. War and all. You will be joining the yearbook committee.'

‘But, sir . . .!'

‘Would you prefer the debating team, or an athletics team of some sort?'

‘I'd prefer to clean,' I mumble.

‘Yes, well, we pay a company to do that,' he says.

‘How am I supposed to —'

‘You'll have help,' he says, as if that's an assurance. ‘Mrs Hendershott will see to it. But if you want to be here, Mr Fullerton, you must prove it.'

I shake my head in frustration. He looks at me for a moment then gestures to the door.

‘You may leave now.'

I rush out of there and run out of the school grounds just as the end-of-day bell sounds. I had begged for the earlier shift, and now I'm going to be late for it.

I arrive to work at the juice bar an hour late, and find my colleague Dionne in a bad mood.

‘I'm so sorry,' I say, flustered. ‘I got in trouble.'

‘Matty,' she says, exasperated, ‘you shouldn't ask for more shifts if you can't do them.'

‘I can,' I say, putting on my apron. ‘But sometimes things get in the way. Like school.'

‘School's more important,' she points out. ‘Are you that desperate for money?'

I ignore the look of concern on her face and shake my head.

‘I'll be right,' I mumble. ‘I'll work something out.'

She sighs and goes off to take her afternoon break.

‘Where's all the fruit?' I ask her when she returns.

‘Don't get me started,' she says, waving a hand in my face. ‘The delivery was wrong. All morning I've been getting people to change their orders.'

‘Again? It's the second time this month on late-night shopping day. Have you told head office?'

‘I'll call 'em tomorrow,' she says. ‘As you can probably tell, I've had a crazy day . . . working on my own and all.'

‘I know,' I say. ‘I'll make it up to you.'

‘Well, I do need a favour,' she says. ‘I'm going to the movies with a cute guy from uni tonight, and my legs are in dire need of a little waxing. Can I sneak out at, like, 8.30?'

I shrug. ‘Just go whenever we get quiet.'

‘Thanks so much,' she says. ‘Let me ring the lady upstairs and see if she can squeeze me in. Otherwise I'll just have to shave in the bathroom.'

I shake my hand at her dismissively.

‘OK, I know. Too much information.'

It's an hour before closing when Sammy, one of our regulars, comes up to the counter with seven dollars in assorted coins. I've known him long enough to know it's the entire contents of his moneybox, and I smile.

‘One Berry Bravo?' I ask him.

He nods excitedly and I print the order for Dionne, placing it in front of her.

‘Sammy, where's Elliott?' I ask him. Sammy has Down's syndrome and always comes in on Tuesday and Thursday mornings with his carer, but tonight the bloke's nowhere in sight. ‘Are you alone?'

‘Elliott's on holiday. Dad said to skip my juices this week, but I don't want to.'

‘OK, we're making your drink,' I tell him, aware that any change in his day-to-day could cause a temper tantrum.

‘We are out of strawberries,' Dionne whispers into my ear.

I turn around, eyes wide. This happened once before and the tantrum wasn't pretty. Though I'm less concerned about the attention than I am about upsetting him. The kid cried last time.

‘What do I do?' she presses.

I look over to Sammy, who's smiling politely across the counter.

‘He'd notice if we made it without,' I tell her, biting my lip. ‘Go get some?'

She rushes out of the store while I try to distract him with his other favourite topic: rugby league.

A minute later, a woman comes over, looking flustered.

‘Oh, thank God,' she says. ‘You were supposed to stay outside the change room and not move.'

‘Sorry, Mummy,' he says, looking defeated. ‘I wanted my drink before they closed.'

‘And I told you to wait, and come next week with Elliot.'

I busy myself tidying up the bags of popcorn on the counter, trying to avoid the conversation.

‘But I always have it on Thursday,' he says, tears in his eyes.

‘Fine,' she says, throwing her hand into her purse. ‘Get him a large of whatever he wants,' she says to me.

‘Ah, he's already paid,' I tell her.

‘Then where's his drink?' she asks, looking at me like I'm stupid.

‘Um, my colleague just went out to get strawberries because —'

‘Oh, I don't have time for this,' she says, grabbing his arm. ‘Come on, Sammy. We'll come back tomorrow.'

‘No! Only Tuesday and Thursday!'

The mother glares at me and I feel stuck.

‘Sammy, mate,' I say, ‘I'm really sorry, but we're out of strawberries. Can we make you a Berry Bravo tomorrow?'

‘No! No! No! Supposed to be on Tuesday and Thursday!'

By now, his voice has gotten louder and his mother looks even more frustrated.

‘Oh God,' she says. ‘People are looking.'

‘My colleague'll only be a few minutes,' I tell her.

‘She better be,' she snaps. ‘What kind of juice bar doesn't have any fruit?'

I shrug helplessly and turn around to see Dionne running down to the store just as the tantrum reaches its peak.

She quickly washes the strawberries and makes his drink. I hand it to him.

He's immediately placated.

‘That mum was some piece of work,' I tell her after they leave. ‘She left him alone to try on clothes, and then she didn't want him to have his drink because she was in a rush.'

‘Some people shouldn't have children,' she says scornfully.