The Yearbook Committee (4 page)

         
Gillian Cummings
‘All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.' — Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina

         
Lauren Pappas
You're not going to throw yourself in front of a train are you? #Didntthinkyoucouldgetmoretragic

The horn blares for the second time and I know my dad's starting to get worked up. Why did I decide to change my outfit at the last minute? Oh, I know, because Sammy decided Mum's spaghetti tasted like crap and hurled it at me when I tried to get him to finish it. Because, as usual, I was the only one taking care of him.

Sigh. I shouldn't get angry at Sammy. It's not his fault. It's not his fault we have to do these ridiculous photo shoots. And it's definitely not his fault that I have nothing to wear.

I hear the car engine turn off from my bedroom window and moments later my door swings open as I'm wrestling with a shirt.

‘Aww, come on, Mum, can't you knock?' I ask, pulling the shirt up in front of my chest.

‘Relax, Gill, it's not like I don't have boobs myself,' she says, exasperated. ‘They just look completely different now.'

She admires her recent breast lift in the mirror, then shakes her head as if she's just remembering why she's there.

I turn away. Nothing I own seems classy enough for this stupid photo shoot for my father's campaign.

Seemingly reading my mind, Mum flicks through the sundresses, t-shirts and denim shorts in my closet. She shakes her head in frustration. ‘Your clothes are more suited to concerts, not campaigns,' she says, walking away.

‘Wait, don't go,' I plead. ‘You know nothing I own is good enough.'

She sighs, and returns to the closet.

‘Don't you have a black dress?' she asks. ‘That one you wore to your Nanna Robertson's funeral?'

At first I have no idea what she's talking about, but then I remember it.

‘Mum, that was three years ago. It's not going to fit me now.'

I'd got a little bit pudgier over the last two years. I was still smallish, but I didn't have the thigh circumference of a Victoria's Secret model, so by most standards I was borderline obese.

‘You haven't put on
that
much weight, have you?' she asks, peering at me.

I look at the floor and wish I was three again, so I could be blissfully unaware of her expectations. I couldn't blame her, I suppose. When you were a former Miss World Australia and your husband the great-grandson of one of Australia's prime ministers, you'd want your kid to inherit some of your . . . something.

I, unfortunately, had nothing.

‘Just put it on, we don't have a lot of time,' she says, digging it out of the back of the closet and handing it to me. ‘Besides, I'm sure you don't want to wear anything out of my wardrobe.'

‘That's an understatement if there ever was one,' I say, slipping on the dress and turning around so that Mum can zip it up. It takes a good few seconds, but when she finally does it, it feels like we've defied some scientific force.

‘Try not to breathe and you'll be fine,' she says, smiling.

We make it to the car just before the third blast of the horn, but still have to sit through my father's frustration. Frustration that is probably made worse by the constant beeping of his phone (no doubt his staff are also frustrated by our lateness).

The photo shoot does nothing to diminish everyone's bad mood. His staff are annoyed that they have to work a weekend, my mother is irritated that she has to miss some socialite party or something and my father is antsy because his children are a letdown compared to those of his main opponent in the election. As if it's my fault I haven't single-handedly raised $20,000 for a cancer charity like the other dude's daughter (Dad neglects to acknowledge that the money was raised by sales of a lingerie calendar).

By the time we're done playing happy families for an hour in a Sydney park, I am dying of hunger.

‘What's for dinner, Mum?' I ask.

‘I'm not cooking today, honey. I just need some time for myself,' she says. Dad sighs heavily from the driver's seat.

‘Well, can we get Oporto's on the way home then?' I ask.

‘Sweetie, should you really be eating fast food right now? You saw how hard it was to get you in that dress today.'

I bite my tongue to stop the tears. Who needs magazines and pop culture to make you feel bad about yourself when you have parents like these?

When I get home, I turn on my computer, and see that my best friend, Sylvana, is on Skype.

‘Heeeeey,' she answers excitedly. ‘I am so glad the timings have aligned today and we can finally talk. Thankfully some good came out of today's shoot being cancelled.'

I laugh at her. ‘You're so lucky you're beautiful,' I say. ‘“Timings have aligned” makes no sense.'

‘Neither does not being able to talk to my best friend any time I want. How are you, Gill-star?'

‘I'm OK. Nothing exciting on my end. Just school and Dad's political bull and what have you.'

‘Awww, I'm sorry. Do you want to talk about it?'

‘Not really,' I say truthfully. ‘I'd rather hear about your adventures in the Big Apple.'

Sylvana and I have been best friends since year 5. She'd been doing a bit of modelling in her spare time, but right before we were due to start the school year, she got a call from a modelling agency in the US, who offered her work in New York. Since she was never the best student, she jumped at the chance.

‘Things've been OK — apart from today's cancelled shoot, that is. My agent here seems really hopeful of catwalk stuff for bigger brands, but I think my agency back in Sydney wants me to relocate to Europe now.'

‘Oh, what a tough life,' I say, rolling my eyes. ‘Do you get to keep the clothes?'

‘No!' she exclaims. ‘Which sucks. Although some of them are so freakin' ugly, it's not funny.'

‘Do you miss home?' I ask.

‘I miss my parents, obviously,' she says. ‘Even though they get on my nerves. Mum rings every two days to check what I'm eating and to make sure I'm still staying with the old lady she hired to take care of me. How she found her I'll never know.'

‘Oh, she's just looking out for you,' I say. ‘Trust me, you have it better than most of us. You're in New York!'

‘Yeah, but models usually live together here,' she says, shrugging. ‘So it's been hard to adjust. But just when I start feeling ungrateful, something happens. Like, last week, I saw Ryan Reynolds outside a pizza joint.'

‘Oh my God, did you talk to him?' I ask. ‘Was he with Blake?'

‘No, I was actually more excited about my pizza,' she admits, laughing. ‘The best pizzas I have ever had. And so cheap, only a dollar a slice.'

‘So jealous,' I say. ‘Although I think I need to lay off the carbs and cheese and whatever else. Even my mum is telling me I'm getting fat.'

‘She said that?' she asks.

I nod, ashamed. Sylvana must notice my reaction because she changes the subject.

‘Tell me about school,' she says. ‘Is Lauren Pappas still being a bitch to you?'

‘Honestly, I liked it better when I was invisible,' I admit. ‘When I had you by my side.'

‘Did you tell her you weren't the one who dobbed them in?' she asks.

I shrug. ‘As if I'm gonna convince her,' I say. ‘I'm more likely to find a cure for cancer.'

She giggles. ‘Well, I'm guessing that having a best friend who
lives in New York doesn't make you cool by association.'

‘It does not,' I admit. ‘Thank the Lord for the library.'

‘Gill, you can't spend an entire year in the library,' she says, looking at me sternly. ‘Make some new friends.'

‘We'll see,' I say. ‘I put my name down for the yearbook committee. Which you were supposed to join too.'

‘Until the runway called,' she says, smiling. ‘Trust me, I'm better at that. Who else is on it?'

‘Mr Broderick put the new girl on it, so she gets to know everyone. That's all I know.'

‘New girl?'

‘Yeah, from Melbourne. I have no idea why they let her come in year 12. It's weird. Anyway, she seems OK. Dramatic, uses a lot of big words. Like, kind of a cross between snobby and antsy. Reeeaaeally down on the place.'

‘Melbournians hate Sydney,' Sylvana says with authority. ‘It's a known fact.'

‘Whatever,' I tell her. ‘Not my problem. I just have to finish school and leave.'

Sylvana looks down for a moment and reaches for something off-screen.

‘Aww, I have to run,' she says. ‘That was my phone — there's a casting downtown. Let's talk again soon, I miss you.'

I nod, trying not to show my disappointment. Our talks have been shorter and less frequent lately, and the wildly different time zones don't help.

‘Go visit my parents, will you? Give them a hug for me?'

‘Of course,' I promise her. ‘Maybe I'll also get discovered selling cigarettes at a convenience store. Although I don't have your beautiful half-Czech, half-Jordanian colouring.'

‘Aww, your luck will come. This year's going to be different for you. I can feel it in my bones.'

‘Anyone can feel your bones, you skinny thing,' I say to her, laughing. ‘Good luck at the casting.'

She blows a kiss, then the screen goes blank. And, suddenly, I'm back to being alone with my thoughts.

As much as I'm happy for her, it's really hard watching her life unfold while mine stays still.

But I only have to wait a year. As soon as this year is over, I'll be able to get out. Out of my school, out of my home, out into the real world, and on to the rest of my life.

         
Ryan Fleming
It burns.

The bell rings right as I look up at the clock for what seems like the millionth time. And just like that, I'm facing the moment I never wanted to face, never
thought
I'd face. I bury my head in my bag, pretending to pack my things to avoid the questions, remarks and looks of pity from my classmates.

But when I zip up my bag, no one's around. My accident is old news. To everyone except me.

I make my way to Mrs H's office, wondering what quote she will have for me today. Will it be comforting or motivational? It's not like it matters — whatever she says won't change anything. I belong on the field.

As I walk through the hallway, I pass two year 10 boys in their cricket gear, laughing and jostling with each other, tossing a ball between them. I think about putting my school-captain hat on and telling them they shouldn't be playing inside, but decide against it and walk by them in silence.

I'm still watching them over my shoulder when I walk straight into someone. It's a girl I don't know. She's dropped her phone, so I bend down to pick it up. I'm about to tell her off for wearing her school uniform today instead of her sports uniform, but she's quicker than I am.

‘A perv and a klutz in one, just great,' she says, rolling her eyes.

‘Huh?'

‘A Neanderthal too,' she says, snatching her phone out of my hand and inspecting it. ‘Even better. And now my phone cover is cracked.'

‘What are you talking about? Who are you?' I ask, finding my voice.

‘None of your business,' she says, slipping the phone into her pocket without looking at me.

‘OK, fine, so that leaves what the hell you're talking about. Who's a perv?'

‘Ah, that would be you,' she replies, looking at me if I were stupid. ‘If you weren't too busy staring at jailbait over there changing in the hallway, you wouldn't have crashed into me.'

I turn around and for the first time notice two junior girls standing by a locker a few metres behind. One is attempting to shield the other as she slides a pair of shorts on underneath her netball skirt, but unfortunately (or fortunately, if you are a perv) you can still see everything.

‘Oi,' I yell out across the hall. ‘What the hell is wrong with you? Go to the bathroom.'

The girls burst into giggles.

‘Sorry, Ryan,' they call out as they pick up their bags and head off. I shake my head and turn back to the girl.

‘Thank Christ a teacher didn't walk past, it would have —'

‘Hey, Ryan the perv-klutz-Neanderthal,' she interrupts, ‘let me tell you what's wrong with girls like them: no concept of privacy. They've probably got dozens of pouty bathroom selfies in their underwear on Instagram. Being caught changing in the hallway is nothing.'

‘Yuck, too much information,' I say.

She shrugs.

‘OK, can't handle the truth,' she says. ‘Anyway, I've just been to see Mrs H and she's sent me off to a Mr Broderick's office, but I think I'm lost. Whoever designed this school should be sterilised. Please tell me you're good with directions.'

‘Not before I point out that I was looking at the guys tossing the cricket ball around,' I say, staring her down. ‘I didn't even see the girls changing.'

‘Yeah, sure, good cover,' she says, nodding absently.

I take a deep breath and sigh. ‘I wasn't looking at the girls,' I say slowly. ‘I was looking at the boys.'

‘Boys, huh?' she says, shrugging. ‘Well, whatever floats your boat, then. It's cool, I don't judge. Anyway, if you're not going to help me I should go find someone who will.'

I put my palm to my forehead in frustration as she walks away.

Then she calls out, ‘You owe me a new phone cover.'

I whip around. ‘I don't owe you anything,' I call back. ‘You shouldn't be texting and walking in the hallway.'

‘It would have cost you more if the phone broke,' she says in a sing-song voice, turning around and putting her hands out, as if she's trying to convince me what a good deal that is.

‘You're getting nothing,' I yell.

‘I like covers with polka dots,' she yells back as she disappears from view. ‘And red's my favourite colour.'

Outside Mrs H's office, I wait on the couch and try not to make eye contact with the office lady who always updates me on her granddaughter who I don't know and don't care about.

After a few minutes, Mrs H calls me in and motions for me to sit on one of the chairs opposite her desk.

‘And how has the new school year been so far, Ryan?' she asks. Mrs H always starts her first sentence with ‘and'. It's weird, but it suits her, even though we'd get marked down if we did the same thing in English.

‘It's been just fine,' I reply. ‘But it's only the first week so it's probably all downhill from here.'

‘Ryan,' she says, sitting on the edge of her desk, ‘it's been a tough few months, I know that. But you're a strong, resilient boy. So maybe professional sports are not in your future, but look at your grades — you can do anything.'

‘Yeah, well, soccer's everything to me,' I tell her. ‘Always has been, always will be.'

She looks out the window at the buses driving off, taking their respective teams to sporting matches.

‘It's not how far you fall, but how high you bounce that counts,' she says, turning back to me.

‘Confucius?' I ask.

‘Zig Ziglar,' she tells me. ‘And he has a point. You were hurt, I get it. But stop looking at your injury as if it's a dead end as opposed to a detour. Something else on this earth can and will make you happy; you just have to get out there and pump some optimism back into your heart so that you're able to bounce beyond your hurt and find it.'

I sigh. Bounce?

‘And if you don't find it this year, that's OK too,' she says, smiling. ‘But, Ryan, stop sourpussing around. You're so much more than an athlete. Your academic record is excellent, you're loved by your peers, and I'm sure you're well aware that you're on the way to getting the St Jerome Medal, which could mean that financially your next step out of this school is set for three years.'

‘But it's not going to be at a university in Europe where I can play football in front of professional scouts,' I say.

‘No, it won't be,' she tells me. ‘But that's no excuse to bum around for the rest of your life. And if you're going to be down and out on your schooling this year, you might as well leave now.'

I hang my head down in shame. The woman has a point.

‘I'm giving you something to distract yourself until you find what it is you're looking for,' she says, handing me a file off her desk. ‘Your first meeting is tomorrow, 3 p.m. in the computer lab. You'll collect the keys for the lab from the office at 2.55 and return them one hour later and not a minute after. The office ladies have homes to get to also.'

I glance at the folder and back up at her.

‘The yearbook?' I ask. ‘Oh, Miss, please don't make me do this. It's totally not my thing.'

‘It's “totally” already decided,' she replies, giving me an evil little smile. ‘“Totes” decided even, as some of your classmates would say. You're in charge; don't let me down.'

‘Mrs H, you don't understand,' I beg. ‘A girl would do a much better job. They save photos. They keep journals. All my memories involve bats and balls.'

‘Which is exactly why I chose you. Yin and yang — it's all about balance,' she says. ‘And photos can be easily obtained. I'll make an announcement requesting that people provide materials.
You don't have to come up with it entirely on your own, you know.'

I don't answer.

‘Oh Ryan, you're acting like I just asked you to clean toilets for the rest of the year! It's only a yearbook.'

I open my mouth to talk, but she's not finished.

‘And need I remind you that if you still want to be in the running for the St Jerome Medal you need to be on top of your extra curriculars . . .'

‘And without soccer I'm no longer on top of them?'

‘Good golly, he's got it!' she says, smiling.

I pick up the file and my bag and stand up.

‘Who else is on the committee?' I ask.

‘Go to the meeting and you'll see.'

I pass through the front office on the way out of the school grounds and stop to stare at the plaques on the wall. Four years in a row we'd won the biggest soccer comp for private school students in Sydney. This year I would have had the chance to play interstate.

Now, everything was different. Life had changed, and I couldn't aim like I used to. Worse, I could no longer see the goal.