Laurinda (31 page)

“But you were the first girl to leave them,” Siobhan told me. “You set it all in motion.”

I didn’t think I should take credit for something I had done for my own self-preservation.

The four girls waited with me until my bus arrived. As we chatted, I sensed an invisible barrier had dissolved. Now there was no ominous force judging us for every decision we made, nor were we worried about how we seemed to each other. Trisha told us that she’d joined a band with two Auburn boys, and how the one she had the hots for, Spinky, was going to drive her home after rehearsal. Siobhan told us how she was going to quit French lessons next year because she had failed her last test. And I told them about my morning meeting with Mrs Grey.

“They can’t just kick you out,” Katie declared. “I mean, come on, what grounds do they have?”

My bus arrived and I got on and looked out the window. The girls waved. The bus was heading back to Stanley, but I knew now with certainty that I did not want to stay there for the rest of my days. Something had shifted: maybe there was a future for me at Laurinda after all.

VALEDICTORY

Dear Linh,
The final day of term was “Celebration Day”, a day for the Year Tens to celebrate our graduation to the senior campus. We filed out of our classes after lunch and walked down the Avenue of Alumnae behind the school. It was a paved path with little metal plaques set in the centre of each stone tile. Each plaque had a past student’s name on it, but the students were not chosen because of distinction or achievement. They were there because they or their parents had paid for the honour of letting future students walk all over them. Goodbye,
Grace Gladrock 1973
, I thought. Goodbye,
Gloria Green 1973
. Goodbye,
Dianne Archer 1973
. Goodbye,
Margaret Thorpe 1973
.

This past term, Katie, Siobhan, Trisha, Stella and I had formed our own loose group, but it was a group in which no member was in thrall to any other. I could spend a few days by myself in the library and not be ejected from the group, and Trisha had her separate life of musician friends. We felt a freedom to be ourselves – something we hadn’t felt at school all year. It was surprising to discover that even though we’d been in classes together, we’d known so little about one another until now. How ordinary and comforting it was to know that others held the same feelings, fears and aspirations, even if we had different goals.

We each had to ring an old brass bell to symbolise how our voices had made a difference at the school. When Katie did it, her face was flushed, as if she was going to cry. She had spent four years here. I imagined the end of Year Ten at Christ Our Saviour, and my friends going to mass. There would be no bell for these girls to ring, even though it would be the last time – the very last day – some of them would be in high school. Even so, many of them would be more educated than their parents. There would be hugs and congratulations, but they’d never sign each other’s uniforms with permanent markers, which was what some of the Laurinda girls were planning to do after school. They’d work out who had kid sisters who might need their clothes.

We filed into assembly, where the whole school was gathered, and offered an onstage farewell. “
Concordia prosum, semper progrediens, semper sursum
,” we sang in Latin. Forward in harmony, always progressing, always aiming high . . .

I had once thought this way about my life –
before
I received the Laurinda scholarship. But I knew now that success had to mean something to
me
, not only to those around me. You could do all the right things and still feel as though you had failed. For example, Mr Sinclair at the start of the year had thought he was an excellent teacher, and he was. But when students started disliking him and hinted that he possessed not only a busy mind but busy hands, everything went downhill. Now he was doubting his teaching instincts. What was worse, he felt threatened by a bunch of teenage girls, and he probably didn’t know whether his paranoia was necessary for his survival or just irrational fear.

Onstage, I was closest to the curtain, hidden behind Gina’s hair and Siobhan’s shoulder. Still, I could see the front row of the audience. Mrs Grey was sitting there, her large hands in her lap, watching us. Some of the teachers were singing along but she wasn’t.

I wondered what made her tick. I thought about how, a fortnight ago, for just the second time this year, I had gone to see her of my own volition. I had decided on a course of action and I needed her approval.

*

“Why are you here to see me?”

I handed her two A4 typed sheets of paper.

“What is this? An English essay? I don’t want to read your essay drafts.”

“It’s a speech.”

“The education conference was months ago.”

“It’s not for that, Mrs Grey. I would like to give a speech at Valedictory Dinner.”

I knew the audacity of my request would shock her, and it did. “You can’t volunteer for a thing like that, Miss Lam,” she said. “You have to be nominated by a teacher.”

“Mr Sinclair has nominated me. His note is attached.”

She looked down and, sure enough, saw that I wasn’t lying.

“Lucy Lam has shown extraordinary improvement in her one year at Laurinda,” he had written. “I believe she would be the ideal candidate to deliver the closing address at Valedictory Dinner and give the vote of thanks.”

“The talk is two weeks away. This is very late notice.”

I knew very well that once she wouldn’t have hesitated to give one of the Cabinet permission to speak at assembly at short notice, but I also knew that things had changed for the Cabinet now. In class, when they tried to make their usual snide remarks, they were either quickly cut down with even snarkier comments – “Speak for yourself, Chelsea, you philistine” – or met with indifferent silence.

Brodie had mentioned loudly last week at homeroom how Dr Markus had nominated her to give the closing address at Valedictory Dinner. “I had to say no,” she said. “Seriously, two weeks is just not enough time to craft a good speech. What was he thinking?”

But we all knew the real reason. The Cabinet were now held in such contempt by the student body that if Brodie got up to speak, her reception might be worse than lukewarm, and she didn’t want to be shamed in front of all the parents and teachers. She was a shrewd operator: with two more years at Laurinda and reputations to repair, she had decided the Cabinet would lie low for a while.

But this was no longer about the Cabinet. It was about me.

I explained to Mrs Grey how I felt that I’d let down the staff of the school (which was not entirely a lie, as I did not specify which staff), and that I should have been involved in more extracurricular activities. I lamented everything I had done to give offence to my fellow students and to the college. I told her how rewarding I had found the year to be for my personal growth. I pleaded to be given a chance to demonstrate the Laurinda spirit.

“I’m ready to join in,” I said.

*

It had taken me close to a year to work out what this school wanted from me: I did not need to be particularly accomplished or successful, I only had to
appear
to be, and all would be forgiven. Once I realised how simple it would be to do this, I knew Mrs Grey would not refuse my request.

I had seen how, initially, no one had really clapped for Trisha but they had all roared for Brodie, how the Cabinet had used me as an instrument for their own glorification, and what a big deal both the administration and the Cabinet had made of the Equity in Education conference. And I had learned one important thing: this was how leaders were created here. If you looked the part, you could play the part. So that was how I’d ended up with a speaking spot at Valedictory Dinner.

That evening I wore a red dress my mother had given me. She’d made it with the cloth I had badly wanted at the beginning of the year. She also handed me $25 so I could go to Tran’s garage salon down the road. I knew she was feeling guilty about not coming to the dinner because she had a shift at work. “Even if I went,” she told me, “it would be a waste of $65. I wouldn’t be able to understand the English. Why don’t you use the money to get your hair done and buy some nice shoes?”

All I could think about was how horrible I had been all year to my mother, all those arguments about the kilt, the plastic trays, those moments of wondering what it would be like to have Mrs Leslie as a mum. Yet Mrs Leslie was refined but without resolve. If I swore at her, she would cry. If I swore at my mother, she’d slap me in the face. Mrs Leslie tried to treat her daughter like a friend and equal, but my mother always maintained that distance in which respect blotted out any hypocrisy. Mrs Leslie could gently encourage Amber to be a doctor instead of a nurse, gently nudge her into classical instead of jazz ballet, but to Amber it would feel like a shove.

My mother did not care if I studied to be a nurse instead of a doctor, or a teacher’s aide instead of a lawyer. She didn’t care if I wanted to be an artist or sell mobile phones. I had been reading all her mail and translating for her since I was nine, even accompanying her to the clinic during her pregnancy with Lamb. She knew I was capable of navigating life in this new world, even though she could not provide me with any maps. She never sat me down to talk about respecting my decisions and choices. She just let me make my own, all through my life, without question.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to go by yourself,” my father had told me the evening before. He had hoped to come, but with Mum at work there would be no one to look after the Lamb, and Dad said this was not like the Teochew Chinese New Year celebrations at the May Hoa restaurant, where you could bring babies and let them yell at the top of their lungs.

I was disappointed, of course. But deep down inside I knew, too, that I did not have to prove anything to my mum and dad. This was not about winning awards or being the best at anything at school, but about proving to myself that I could cope with life, that I would be resilient and always survive. I didn’t need to subject my family to my posturing.

I would do it alone. I would show the Cabinet that I was and would always be Linh Lam. I’d come to this school after an unexpected blessing, a full scholarship that felt pilfered from a more deserving girl. I’d come loose and curious and unattached, thinking that if I was principled enough and well-liked enough, things would go my way.

When I learned that you couldn’t penetrate a tightly packed place like this so easily, I’d tried to make myself paper-thin so I could squeeze through the gaps. Now it was time to be straight-spined and focused, to ignore all else but getting into university. University would mean freedom, from Stanley but also from Laurinda Ladies College.

It was only two more years, and two years did not seem that long.

Dad took some photos of me before I left – “to show your mother how beautiful you are tonight,” he said. He took lots with me standing in front of our brown curtains, a few with me sitting on the couch, and some with me holding the Lamb. He then handed me a small box. “Here,” he said gruffly. It was a bottle of L’Air du Temps. “Last month, Quang was selling some merchandise from the back of his boot after work. Don’t tell your mum. She doesn’t like this sort of stuff. She thinks it’s fake – she won’t even use the Calvin Klein bag I got her.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

I sprayed some on and expressed my delight so that my father’s feelings would not be hurt. In all honesty, though, the scent reminded me of rich old ladies.

*

They had picked a beautiful venue for Valedictory Dinner, a historic mansion that was now an events centre. The room had high, decorated ceilings, deep-blue curtains tied with cream tassels, flocked brocade wallpaper and chandeliers. When I saw the paintings in the foyer of Lord Auburn and his ilk, it dawned on me that the school might once have owned this place.

Since my parents weren’t coming, there were extra spots at our table and Katie had asked to bring her cousin along. I found my place, and met Katie’s grandparents, who were exactly as I imagined: cheerful, kind and earnest. Then her cousin came back from the loo, and I almost fainted.

“Well, hello, Miss Salmon Ella,” he greeted me. “Fancy seeing you here at this fancy dinner.”

“Fancy that,” I replied.

“You’ve met my cousin before?” Katie asked, bewildered.

Before I could reply, Richard said, “Oh, yes. Your friend and I have met exactly twice. Once at the Year Ten social, which you had decided would be too terrible to go to, and the second time at the debating finals, which you clearly didn’t qualify for.”

“Rub it in, why don’t you?” Katie playfully retorted to her cousin. “You’re such a dick.”

*

The night began with a slideshow of images from our cohort’s four years at the middle school campus. There was Katie in Year Seven reading
Anne of Green Gables
, girls playing sport, Amber as Juliet in the school play, and the class cooking for International Food Week. Even the girls who had never really felt they belonged were getting nostalgic, I noticed, but I didn’t feel very much until the photos of this year came onto the screen: the social and the girls dancing in outfits their mothers did not know about, the Cabinet’s debate with the Auburn boys and, near the end, a shot of teachers sitting in the staffroom with mugs of tea. Ms Vanderwerp was there, smiling into the camera with her cup and eyebrows raised.

After the main course, Mrs Grey made her farewell address. Then she introduced the guest speaker, who had been named Young Victorian of the Year for her work teaching Bangladeshi street kids how to paint with oils. Her name was Markita White, and she was Chelsea’s older sister.

Where Chelsea’s passion was expressed as an angry adolescent tirade against authority, Markita’s was like a hot geyser spraying goodwill on one and all. “It is a great gift to bring creativity to the lives of the most disadvantaged young people in the world,” she enthused. “And to take them seriously as artists by letting them use the materials and learn the techniques of the old masters.” She flicked through a slideshow and talked about the poor kids with their pleading eyes, distended stomachs and reaching hands – hands outstretched for paintbrushes. People in the audience were calmly tucking into their salmon. The last slide flashed an image of Markita White in sunglasses and safari clothes, her arms around two small brown children. Everyone applauded.