The Yearbook Committee (20 page)

He grabs a frozen pizza and a beer out of the fridge, and hands Mum the pizza. I sit at the breakfast bar and decide to come out with it, in the hope that it will help make my case for going to police academy.

‘I've earned some of that pizza too, you know,' I tell him. ‘Doing the same sort of thing.'

He swallows a sip of his beer and puts it down on the bench between two hands. ‘Oh yeah?' he asks.

‘Well, I was having dinner with Lauren and Amanda . . .'

‘Because that always starts off a great story . . .'

‘Dad, please! This is serious.'

Mum smacks him lightly on the arm. ‘Go ahead, sweetie.'

‘Anyway, I noticed this guy at the bus stop next to the bank. He was hovering, and it just looked weird. So I just kinda kept my eye on him. Then I saw this girl accidentally leave her bag on the floor outside, and as soon as she did, he, like, crossed the road in this really subtle way and just grabbed the bag and kept walking. And I don't think that anyone else saw because no one did anything . . .'

‘And?' Dad asks, looking at me curiously.

‘Well, I don't know what came over me, but I just started chasing him.'

‘You
what
?'

‘I started running after him, for real,' I explain. ‘Like, this adrenalin took hold of me and I bolted after him I don't know
how many blocks, but it felt like a lot even though it wasn't that many. It just happened so f—'

‘Tamara, stop,' he says, holding his hands up. ‘Do you mean to tell me that you chased after a guy who you didn't know, who could have been dangerous, to retrieve some irresponsible person's backpack?'

‘Well, it was a satchel and we don't know that she was irr—'

‘She has to be if she left it on the floor,' Mum says.

‘That's beside the point,' I say. ‘The point is that I wasn't even scared to do it. It was instinctive.'

‘Instinctively stupid,' Dad grunts. ‘I can't believe you're pleased with yourself.'

‘Why wouldn't I be?' I ask, confused. ‘Someone broke the law and I —'

‘— should have left it to the people whose job it is to enforce it,' Dad says.

‘Why? So those same cops can call the girl — and I quote — “irresponsible”?' I ask.

‘Yes, if it's going to teach her a lesson,' Dad replies. ‘Come on, Tammi, that wasn't safe.'

I sigh and shake my head.

‘Honey,' my mum says, sliding a look at him. ‘Your dad's proud of you I'm sure, but he's just concerned for your welfare. The guy could have been on drugs, he could have been mentally unstable — what were you planning to do when you reached him?'

‘Taser him with her lip gloss, apparently,' Dad says hotly.

‘Niko, you're not helping,' she says.

He sighs.

‘I had back-up,' I say, quietly this time. ‘Two guys stopped their car and everything. It felt good.'

‘A lot of feel-good situations can end badly, Tammi,' he points out. ‘Drugs, joy-riding, sex with strangers . . .'

‘I know that,' I say, rubbing my temples. ‘I'm just trying to tell you that if I didn't panic about it, then maybe there's something in this for me. Please. I'm trying to talk to you about it rationally. I need you to take me seriously.'

‘Well, I'm sorry, but I can't,' he exclaims. ‘How will you tell Yia Yia that you're going to go live in a dorm on your own for six months and then fight crime for a living? She'll say no Greek boy will marry you.'

‘Dad, don't bring Yia Yia into this,' I tell him. ‘And can I point out that you didn't marry a Greek girl?'

‘Yeah, and he still has to hear about it twenty years later,' Mum mutters. ‘Not to mention that the
Xena
Aussie wife only wanted one kid.'

‘We're getting sidetracked,' I say, opening the oven. ‘Today was like the best work-experience day ever. It's like God gave me a glimpse into my future. And you know what? I liked what I saw.'

My parents look at each other and shake their heads. I look back at them for a moment then shrug.

‘I'm just gonna eat this upstairs,' I say, putting a slice of pizza on a plate. ‘Good night.'

As I walk up the stairs, I can hear them whispering.

‘She knows how to put up a fight,' Mum says. ‘Maybe she'll be OK.'

‘Yeah, but I won't be,' he replies. ‘I'm supposed to keep her safe. It's my
job
.'

I sigh. How is it that the one thing that feels right in my life is the one thing that is wrong in my dad's?

         
Gillian Cummings
Can't believe it's almost year 12 retreat time. Time is flying! #hooray

A loud knock on my bedroom door wakes me up. Dad calls out my name. I glance at my phone. It's 6.54 a.m., which means that whatever he wants to talk about must be important. I throw on a cotton dress over my singlet and pyjama shorts and hope he doesn't want to schedule an emergency photo shoot. Right now, we're about a month shy of the election and at least once a week his campaign staff hijack our kitchen and living room to discuss stats, promo opportunities, and, occasionally, ways to jeopardise the opposition. It's enough to turn a person off voting — not that I am even eighteen yet. But, I remind myself, it's good blog material.

‘Hurry up, Gillian,' Dad's voice booms in between the knocks.

‘I'm coming, Dad, just one second.'

I open the door, and find my father brandishing the day's paper centimetres from my face.

‘What is the meaning of this?' he asks.

I peer at the headline. ‘Well, I suppose it's a good idea,' I say sleepily. ‘If everyone else has to commute to work, I suppose people on the dole should too. After all, “nothing in life should be free if you're able”.'

He glares at me. That was a slogan from his early career that he now cringes over.

‘Not that,' he says sternly. ‘Underneath it.'

‘“MP's daughter in nude photo scandal”,' I read out loud. ‘Yeah, and what's that got to do with —' My eyes widen and I snatch the paper out of his hands, looking at it more closely.

MP'S DAUGHTER IN NUDE PHOTO SCANDAL

       
Sydney MP Peter Cummings will have something else riding against him in the coming election, with reports that his blogger-daughter Gillian has been posting scantily clad photos of herself to friends on social media. The two images, posted anonymously to Sydney Confidential via a USB stick, show the seventeen-year-old in states of undress, doing what appear to be menial tasks around what is assumed to be her bedroom. The teenager, who attends the prestigious Holy Family High School in Sydney's Inner West, launched her blog,
Diary of a Pollie's Kid
, earlier this year and has quickly earned a respectable following. But despite her legions of followers, she has recently been subjected to a barrage of cruel taunts and comments that urge the teenager to ‘go die', or realise she's as ‘repugnant as a diseased elephant', prompting newer calls from anti-bullying groups for greater monitoring of hateful comments on social media. The two images bear the markings of a screenshot, suggesting they were sent or obtained via social networking site Facebook. This latest drama is yet another drawback for the teenage girl, who was snapped
late last year vandalising a Croydon street with friends as part of her school's muck-up tradition, and for her father, who is battling strong odds as he contests his seat and runs for the premiership in the upcoming election. Only time will tell if his party's slogan ‘family comes first' will play out in his office's dealings of the situation at such a critical time.

I bury my head in my hands for a moment. When I look up, Dad is walking off.

‘Well, are you coming?' he asks, turning around at the top of the stairs. ‘I'm sure you know we have a lot to deal with.'

He makes a coffee in silence and paces the kitchen until Sammy's school bus arrives. He takes Sammy out to the minivan, while I wait in the kitchen, dreading what's to come. A few seconds later, two familiar members of his staff walk into the house. Janine is tapping on a tablet and James is talking into a phone headset, but they both still motion for me to make them each a coffee.

Moments later, the gadgets are put aside and the four of us are sitting at the dining-room table, newspapers sprawled before us.

‘So I've been on the phone with
7.30
already,' Janine says. ‘They're very interested in running a story on what's happened. This could be a great opportunity for us to paint the picture that we want — and if they pay, we could then donate the money from the interview to help some sort of teenage crisis centre or bullying refuge in the area, and have the local press there.'

Dad nods curtly.

‘Meanwhile, both Facebook and Instagram are yet to bow down to the pressure to remove the comments from her profile,' James says.

‘Um, why not?' I ask. ‘That stuff is nasty.'

‘Sweetie, we have to think logistically in terms of your father's career,' Janine says, smiling insincerely at me. ‘You're so lucky to have a father who's supported your quest for fame, but look at where it's landed him. So why don't you leave it to professionals like us to rework the situation into a win?'

‘Huh?' I ask. ‘You mean manipulate it?'

‘Ah, we prefer to talk in more positive terms,' James says.

‘Dad, this is ridiculous,' I say, pleading with him. ‘I'm your daughter. Do you want me constantly seeing comments telling me to neck myself? I've done nothing to incite that rage, I don't understand where all this came from.'

Janine snorts.

My father and I both look at her.

‘Um, Peter, we need to make sure we paint the right picture,' she says, ignoring me. ‘Just an innocent, hard-working girl who is trying to make something of herself as a writer, who's been taken advantage of.'

James nods enthusiastically. ‘The fact that she's trying to make her own way instead of relying on you has a lot of appeal,' he says. ‘Sends out all the right messages.'

‘OK, fine,' I say. ‘I just want to know how the hell they got “scantily clad images” of me. I don't have a boyfriend, and Mum can't wait to get me into Weight Watchers — who would I send pictures to and why would I even bother?'

‘You don't use Snapchat?' James asks.

Dad looks confused.

‘It's a messaging app for photos,' I explain to Dad before turning to James. ‘And yes, I use it, but, again, I have never sent dirty pictures to anyone.'

‘Do you take your computer to school?' he asks.

‘Sometimes. Why?'

‘Does it have a webcam? Have you ever left the computer unattended? Say, when you asked a teacher a question, or photocopied something, or went to the bathroom?'

‘Uh, yeah . . .' I respond slowly, not sure where this is going.

James and Janine exchange looks, while my father and I look on, more puzzled than ever.

‘There's a chance your computer could have been hacked by someone at your school.'

‘I don't understand,' my father says, looking at them. ‘Are you telling me that someone from Gillian's school could have hacked into her computer in as short a time as it would take her to go to the bathroom, and then waited till she was at home and getting undressed to film her?'

‘That's right,' the man says.

‘This is a joke,' my father says, standing up and smoothing his tie. ‘People can't go around filming girls in the privacy of their own home! Think of the child protection concerns!'

He turns to face the buffet and I watch him tap his fingers on his lips — a gesture he does when he's deep in thought.

‘James,' he says, turning back around, ‘call the office. Have Mark draft up a bill that would enable the government to punish hackers who do this. Get Roslyn to do a search of anti-bullying groups or support groups for victims of sexual crimes so we have some people to liaise with should we make a donation — so we'll need
7.30
to pay upfront. Janine, you call
7.30
and agree to the interview — we'll do it, but only after the election, so that if I lose we'll be able to lay some blame on my daughter's situation. Then call a press conference for 3 p.m. so that I may make a statement.'

‘Yes, sir,' they chorus, jotting down notes.

‘My wife's up in bed,' he says, looking at the phone. ‘She was in a great deal of shock when saw the paper. She'll need a massage or something, so have Roslyn arrange one at The Darling Spa. Then have her meet me for lunch at 1 p.m. at the office, so we can debrief her too, and see what she can be of help with.'

They nod and make their way outside, again affixed to phones and tablets.

‘Gill,' he says, turning to me, ‘you'll need to go to school. I'll contact your principal from the office this morning. She has to put a stop to this ridiculous behaviour. And I don't want you using that computer again — I'll send someone to buy you the best model out there and we'll have the IT guy do some checks on our internet security. And for heaven's sake, don't do anything stupid. If I had known that your blogging career was going to cause this many problems, I would have put a cork in it — the internet is worse than politics.'

‘But, Dad, what about the photos? Can't we sue? I don't want them online. They're humiliating.'

‘Look at me, Gill,' he says. ‘Does it look like I have time to speak to a lawyer? I'm too busy trying to salvage my career so you can continue to live in this grand house, go to a fancy school and have a future.'

I nod, watching as he slips on a blazer and inspects himself in the hall mirror.

‘As soon as we have applied some pressure to the situation and stifled the bleeding, we'll work on the photos. Who knows, they might even be good for your “career”.'

He walks out the front door and leaves me standing in the hallway, feeling dirty and ashamed, even though I have done
nothing wrong. I look at the big clock in the living room. In forty-five minutes, my father was able to mobilise a team and decide on a media strategy for dealing with a crisis, yet he could make no attempt whatsoever to give me the emotional comfort I so desperately craved.

And so I went to school feeling rejected and unloved, physically feeling as though the hole in my heart was getting bigger, no longer pumping blood to that part of my body that gave me the will to live.