The Yearbook Committee (8 page)

‘What's that supposed to mean?' I ask.

‘It means that the policing world is a small one. All it takes is the drop of a name to fast-track an application, or send it to the bottom of the pile.'

‘You wouldn't do that,' I whisper, stunned. ‘It goes against all your principles.'

‘Every cop out there who has seen what I've seen will agree with me, Tamara,' he says. ‘Even with their principles.'

I glare at him. ‘I can't believe you would do this to me. I have no other options.'

‘Yes, you do — lots of them,' he says. ‘Just not policing.'

‘Fine! I'll take up prostitution,' I yell, walking out of the room.

‘Great,' he yells back. ‘I can put you in touch with a few madams who own premises on my beat!'

I slam my bedroom door angrily, my eyes filling up with tears.

David, Lauren, Dad . . . Why do I keep letting everyone walk all over me? And why am I so powerless to stop them?

         
Gillian Cummings
When you see your best friend in a shoot with Karlie Kloss on Insta #bowdown #SylvanaDarrar #yougogirl

‘I showed Charlie how to use the stupid camera,' Matty tells me in Maths. ‘Do you want to know what she said?'

I bite my lip, not sure if I'm supposed to answer.

‘She said, “Great, now I have no excuse for getting out of this crap.” The chick's messed up.'

My face reddens.

He gives me a look that says ‘I told you so', then opens up his textbook.

I don't know what to say, so I open mine too and wonder why algebra makes more sense than my own life.

I decide to corner Charlie at lunch. She's sitting under a tree, her head buried in a laptop.

I stand in front of her for a few minutes, and she finally rolls
her eyes, pulls her headphones out of her ears and gives me a look that is all attitude.

‘Matty says he showed you how to use the camera,' I say.

She nods, then turns her laptop towards me. ‘Do you mind? I really want to watch this.'

I fold my arms, purse my lips and try to match her, attitude for attitude.

‘Nothing exciting happens. It goes into some convoluted storyline and someone comes back from the dead. In three more episodes you'll start to wonder why you're watching it.'

She death-stares me. ‘Did you come here to ruin it for me?'

I shrug. ‘No, I came to ask if you need help taking photos. I can go with you to events and stuff.'

‘I don't need friends,' she says to me, as if she's doing me a favour by freeing up my time.

‘This isn't about friendship; this is about our yearbook.'

She looks at me as if I'm the biggest loser that ever walked the earth. I start to feel like maybe I am.

‘Why are you so keen to work on this stupid yearbook?' she asks. ‘You heard Matty. No one else even cares.'

‘I think I'll like it,' I admit. ‘Maybe I'll remember the good times.'

‘Can I give you some advice?' she says. ‘You're at this school because you have to be. You didn't choose this. What comes after — that's what you choose, that's when the real good times will begin. This is all fake, forced . . . for show.'

I swallow, and look across the playground.

She closes her laptop. ‘Fine,' she says, after a moment. ‘Maybe I could use some help. Next meeting we'll discuss what they want and you can come along for some of it.'

‘And in the meantime you're just going to hang out under a
tree every lunch?'

‘What do you want me to do? I told you, I don't need friends.'

‘You could study,' I say.

‘Haven't you heard? I don't need to.'

‘I haven't heard anything,' I say. ‘Look around. People don't talk to me.'

‘And this worries you? Doesn't seem like they're worth talking to. Everyone here's so elitist.'

I put my hands on my hips and give her a knowing look. ‘That's rich coming from you. You've been down on the place since you got here.'

‘Well, my whole life has changed. All my friends are in an entirely different state. I don't need to explain myself to you.'

‘Well, my best friend is on the other side of the world and I have to navigate time zones and work schedules to talk to her, so you're not the only one with problems.'

She opens her mouth to say something, just as something hard hits my head and splatters.

‘Owwwww!' I yelp. I whip around and see them across the quad: Lauren, Tammi, David and a bunch of others, standing there, giggling.

My eyes narrow as Lauren gives me a pitying smile. Then she shrugs, turns back to her friends and laughs, her palm covering her mouth.

‘They did that on purpose,' Charlie says, standing up.

I rub the back of my head and feel wet, chunky bits of apple through my fingers. ‘Ewww!' I exclaim, shaking my hand and trying to see the back of my uniform. ‘Did any of it get on my clothes?'

She glares at me. ‘Are you just going to let that go? March up to her and tell her off.'

‘No way! There's only five months left of school. After that, I won't see her again.'

‘She threw fruit at you. What if it had broken your nose or something?'

‘Well, it didn't, did it?' I say as I scurry away to the bathroom to clean myself up.

‘What an idiot,' I hear her mumble, as the back of my head burns.

Later that afternoon, Charlie tries to talk to me about it again in my free period.

‘Get over it,' I say, turning to the computer. ‘I don't want to get into any fights.'

‘Life is not just rainbows and butterflies.'

‘I get it. But I also don't want to spend the rest of my school year cleaning myself up in the bathroom.'

‘Whatever. What's “Diary of a Pollie's Kid”?' she says, peering over my shoulder.

I take a deep breath. ‘It's my blog,' I tell her. ‘I started it, like, two months ago.'

‘Hmm,' she says, scanning the screen. ‘Do many people read it?'

I shrug. ‘I guess so,' I say. ‘I have a Facebook page and an Instagram account for it, and my following is slowly growing. Every time I have to go to political events, I write about it.'

‘What does your dad think?' she asks.

‘He hasn't said anything,' I say. ‘He has a whole PR team that sometimes makes me change stuff if they don't like the “tone” or the “angle”. But mostly they leave me alone.'

She laughs at that. ‘Is that why Lauren Pappas is bullying you? Because your blog's blowing up and she's trying to take you down a notch?'

‘I don't know what you mean,' I say, logging out and packing my bag.

She looks at me for a moment, then turns away.

I send Sylvana a Facebook message while standing at the bus stop on my way home.

I got hit in the back of the head by a flying apple today. Are you sure you don't miss the school quad?

A few minutes later, I hear back.

I don't know. Tonight I wiped, like, 15 kilos of foundation off my face, tore off heaps of eyelashes when taking off my falsies, and there were reptiles in today's photo shoot.

I smile.

Yeah, but who was the shoot for? ;)

She doesn't write back.

I lean against the wall. There are so many students around me, but I'm the only one standing alone. I really am a loser.

I call Mum.

‘Do you think Anton can do something about my hair soon?' I ask her when she answers. ‘I need a change.'

‘Yes, definitely, make an appointment!' I can hear the enthusiasm in her voice. ‘What are you gonna do? Cut, colour?'

I start to make my way to the Westfield. ‘I dunno, maybe both. I'll see what they say and when they have appointments.'

Inside, I make a booking for a hair assessment and style with a girl who looks like she stepped out of the pages of a magazine. As she pencils my name into the appointment book, I stare at my reflection in the full-length mirror. My plain, golden-red waves make me look like a child. And my knee-length skirt, smart blazer
and little hat don't help either.

But maybe with a new hair style I'll look more mature. More in control.

She calls out to another girl — who looks just as glam as she does — and asks if her afternoon is free. The girl looks at me. ‘Yeah, I'm free,' she says, her eyes scanning the length of my body.

‘Hear that?' the first girl asks me. ‘We can do it now.'

I sit at the basin while she washes my hair and massages my scalp, imagining myself lost somewhere — far away from the quad, my classmates, the yearbook that I really wanted to help produce but that no one else seemed invested in.

In the full-length mirror in front of me, I can see the hair stylist eyeing a wavy strand of my red hair. ‘You should do a keratin treatment,' she says to my reflection. ‘Much more grown-up than curls. You won't need to blowdry it, and it'll last three to six months.'

‘How long does it take?' I ask.

She shrugs. ‘Couple of hours.'

I nod and let her take the scissors to my hair, watching as she frames it around my face.

‘Just trust me,' she says to my uncertain face, reflected in the mirror. ‘I'm going to put a couple of foils here in the front too, brighten it up a little bit. It'll look hot.'

I swallow, nervous.

‘So do you live in the area?' she asks.

‘Croydon,' I say, nodding. ‘My mum is friends with Anton.'

She smiles. ‘Better take extra good care of you then,' she says.

A couple of hours later, I'm transformed. I eye myself in the mirror again, trying not to admire the girl staring back at me. I
do
look more mature. I wonder if it will change anything as I pay the girl and walk out, optimistic as always.

On my way out, I grab a tub of frozen yoghurt, looking forward to seeing Sammy's excitement. The bus ride home is a short five minutes and Sammy is on the front step when I arrive.

His eyes light up when he sees the yoghurt tub in my hand. He lunges forwards and grabs it, running inside excitedly calling about getting bowls and spoons.

‘Don't hog it all!' I call out after him.

Mum emerges from the kitchen.

‘Really, Gill?' she asks. ‘You told me you wanted to do something about your hair; I thought you wanted to take your appearance seriously. Then you come home with frozen yoghurt?'

‘Aww, come on, hun, it's just a snack,' my dad calls out after her. ‘Nice hair, sweetie,' he says to me. ‘Love it.'

‘Yeah, but she has plenty of snacks,' she snaps. ‘My trainer says if she continues grazing like that, she could balloon.'

I have a vision of cankles and plus-size stores and decide the yoghurt's not worth it.

‘I'm not hungry anyway,' I mutter. ‘Sammy will enjoy it more.'

I head upstairs and try to ignore my parents as Mum tries to defend her actions to Dad. I can't help but catch a few phrases, like ‘size eight' and ‘work for it', before the door of his office closes.

We've always been terrible problem-solvers. We just shut ourselves away instead, so nothing gets fixed. I always thought it was the worst thing, but now I can see it's an attitude that has seeped into my veins.

Which is why no matter what Lauren Pappas throws at me, she will always get away with it. Because I will always just shut myself away and let her.

And maybe because, deep down, I guess I deserve it.