The Yearbook Committee (17 page)

‘Exactly,' he says. ‘We earned it.'

I get up from my nap, stretching. ‘Where are we going and who with?' I ask.

‘Probably the casino, if everyone else is eighteen too,' he says, shrugging. ‘And pretty much the whole team.'

‘Cool,' I say, pulling on my jeans. ‘Winning a big trophy is definitely cause for a night out.'

‘Yeah, buddy,' he says. ‘And Johnno managed to get some drinks so we can start the party here.'

‘What? What if Coach sees?'

‘He's gone out, man, relax.'

‘You boys can be so focused when you want to be,' I say, smiling. I button up my shirt, grab my room key and follow him down the hall.

David knocks on Johnno's door — one knock, a pause, then three fast knocks — and then says, ‘Liege.'

I give him a strange look.

He smiles and raises his eyebrows, like he's really proud of himself.

‘Don't look at me like that,' I tell him as we walk inside. ‘That was the dumbest code knock ever.'

Inside, the boys are smoking and getting wasted.

‘Open the balcony door before someone smells it,' James Czalo calls out, brushing past me. I catch him rolling his eyes, and we smile. James was always one of the more mature ones — together, we are like the fathers of the group — but he still knew how to have fun.

I take a shot and welcome the break in seriousness after the few days of solid focus on soccer and nothing else. Even though I've just had a nap, I'm looking forward to sleeping in tomorrow.

‘Hey, it's 8 o'clock,' someone calls out some time later. ‘Shall we head?'

Jackets are put on and cigarette stubs are wrapped in paper, then shoved in plastic bags and chocolate wrappers — more elaborate scheming from boys used to flouting the rules.

We exit the lift into the lobby and head out onto the street, the boys jostling and talking loudly over the top of each other.

‘We're never going to get in anywhere,' I say to James. ‘Not if we're already this rowdy.'

‘We'll see,' he says, shrugging. ‘We'll probably split up anyway. Not everyone's eighteen.'

‘Let them sort it out,' I say. ‘We deserve to have fun too.'

‘Amen,' he says, grinning. ‘Hey, look, it's Charlie Scanlon.'

She's outside her hotel, huddling in the cold, wearing a black dress, a long cardigan and heels. I've never seen her in heels.

‘Wow, you look amazing,' I blurt out to her.

She ignores the comment. ‘You'd think I'd remember how cold it can get,' she says, smiling.

‘Are you OK?' James asks.

‘Yeah, just waiting for my friend.'

‘Oh right, I forgot you used to live here,' he says.

‘How could you forget?' I ask him, recovering from my compliment going unacknowledged. ‘She never shuts up about it.'

She gives us a half-smile. ‘He's right on that one. Where are you guys off to?'

‘Boys' night out, don't know where yet,' James says.

‘Fun,' she says. ‘If you're all over eighteen, you should check out Madame Brussels. Used to be a brothel. It's pretty cool.'

‘Please don't say brothel in front of these clowns,' James says, laughing.

‘So how were the games?' she asks. ‘Ryan didn't post any whingey status updates on Facebook, which must mean you probably won them all.'

James laughs while I scowl at her.

‘Something like that,' he says, putting his hands in his pocket. He peers down the street. ‘Ah man, we've already lost the others. And in record time. Shall we go?'

‘We'll find them soon enough,' I reply. Then to Charlie, ‘Are you sure you're OK waiting here on your own?'

She nods. ‘All good, he'll be here any second.'

I realise I'm dawdling. I want to meet this Pete of hers. This guy she can't stop talking about.

‘Well,' James says, looking at me pointedly. ‘We better get going. Have a good night, Charlie.'

We start walking down the street and I start playing guessing games with the guys we pass. The muscular guy with a shaved head; the one who's a cross between a hipster and a nerd; the redhead with a heavily tattooed arm — could any of them be Pete?

‘Do you think maybe we should make sure he arrives?' James says, seeming to reading my mind. ‘I don't like the thought of her out by herself at night.'

‘Good idea,' I say, thankful that it wasn't me who said it.

We go back and find her arguing with the redhead. She reminds me of David's Nonna — there are a lot of hand gestures and pointing at phones. Then the redhead walks off in a huff.

We're just about to turn around when she sees us. She swallows her pride and walks over. ‘Something came up,' she says, slipping her phone into her jacket pocket. ‘I might just grab some dinner somewhere and call it an early night.'

I'm about to say something, but she cuts me off.

‘And no, I don't want to tag along with you guys, before you ask me.'

‘Wasn't gonna,' I say, shrugging.

We stand there in silence, confused about what to do next.

‘I better get going,' she says finally.

‘Are you sure?' I ask. James is giving me a look I can't decipher.

She opens her mouth to speak, but James gets in first.

‘Look, I'm gonna go catch up with the boys. David has my . . . um, thing. Ryan, why don't you and Charlie get something to eat, and you can catch up with us later if . . . your headache gets better, that is.'

Huh?

‘You know, you were worried that it would get worse if you came out with the boys, but I convinced you anyway?'

I nod slowly, finally starting to understand. Sort of.

He leaves. Charlie and I stand there in silence for the second time that night.

My phone beeps. A text from James.

Sorry, I'm a crap wingman, but I did my best. Enjoy your night.

‘So what now?' I ask Charlie.

She shrugs. ‘I don't need you to babysit me. You can go.'

I shake my head. ‘You heard the guy, my headache will get worse if I'm around those boys.'

She shivers and rubs her hands up and down her arms.

‘Do you want my —'

‘No, I don't want your jacket,' she snaps. Then, in a softer tone, ‘But thanks for asking.'

‘So maybe now you can show me why Melbourne is so awesome,' I say.

She looks at me curiously. ‘Maybe,' she says, folding her arms.

I give her a pointed look and she rolls her eyes.

‘Fine,' she says, turning her face so I won't see her smiling.

‘Lead the way,' I say.

She walks ahead of me, and I hang back for a moment and watch her. It's a much better view than when she's in her school uniform.

We do a lot of walking that night. She's in her element — the crowds don't faze her, and she has an air of confidence and familiarity that's different to the guardedness she has at school. At one point, a seedy-looking guy bumps into her and I panic, thinking he's going to take her bag. But she just yells out some profanity and keeps going.

We have dinner in Chinatown, then she takes me to The Paperback Bookshop on Bourke Street, which she tells me she's always loved, because it stays open late.

‘I could spend ages in here,' she says.

I want to spend ages in there myself, and I barely even read.

We walk over to Federation Square, watch a little bit of sport on the big screen and just absorb our surroundings. Someone whizzes past on a skateboard a bit too closely and her body slams into mine. For a second she just stays there in my arms, looking up at me. Then she starts talking about sweet cravings, and the moment — if there was one (maybe I just imagined
it?) — disappears. So we grab some warm churros and hang out at Southbank, looking out on the river.

We talk about school and the yearbook and the future and the past. About soccer and Melbourne and family and Sydney. Her hair blows in all directions in the wind, and she laughs. She licks chocolate off her fingers and bobs her head to the rhythm of music that I can't hear.

The girl sitting next to me is different to the one I know at school, and I'm stuck between awe and fear. Awe because she's amazing, and fear because I don't want to feel this way about a girl. Not at eighteen, and certainly not a girl like this. I find myself being withdrawn, quiet.

‘Ryan,' she says, breaking the heavy silence, ‘I think I'll take that jacket now.'

I shrug out of my jacket and slip it over her shoulders. She looks out at the water.

‘It smells like you,' she says.

‘Is that bad?' I ask.

She smiles. ‘No,' she says, breathing in the scent. ‘It's actually kind of nice.'

         
Charlie Scanlon
Being a high-school student is like seeing a real-life film clip of Pink's ‘Stupid Girls' all day. Why dream of being president when you can grind against some guy every day?

         
Katy Coolidge-Brown
likes this.

         
Katy Coolidge-Brown
That's totally your song, Charlie! I miss you. Hope I get to see you in Melbourne again soon xx

‘So how was your weekend?' Tessa Zanetic asks as we're working out a formula in Chemistry one afternoon. ‘Get up to anything exciting?'

‘Not really,' I shrug. ‘Went out for yum cha on Saturday morning with my stepdad, hung out at Gleebooks in Glebe, studied. Oh, and I looked at apartments in Melbourne.'

‘Wow, you are really considering moving?' she asks, wide-eyed. ‘I mean, I know you've spoken about it heaps, but I always figured that when the time came you might . . .'

‘Discover that I'm really a Sydney person at heart?' I ask, smirking. ‘Not gonna happen.'

She laughs. ‘I just thought you might panic and change your mind,' she says. ‘Like, I still need my mum. I couldn't possibly live on my own yet. And I don't think she'd let me.'

‘Well, I'll be studying there, I hope,' I say, scrawling in my notebook's margin. ‘Plus it's always going to be home. There's no connection for me here.'

‘So a school in Sydney gives you a scholarship and you use it to move?' she quips.

I look up from my notebook. ‘Don't do that, Tess,' I warn. ‘Don't just assume that I'm going to get that medal. I'm sick of hearing about it.'

She shrugs. ‘Sorry, it's just that . . .'

‘Come on, Tess, let's just work this stupid formula out.'

She looks back down at her notebook, chastened, and I feel guilty. But I'm not quite sure why. It's not like I have a say in winning the medal. My only out would be doing badly on purpose, and I just didn't want to do that. Law was hard enough to get into as it is, and I really wanted to study at Monash.

But if I did win, Ryan would miss out on another thing that he had hoped for in his after-school life. And I wasn't sure I wanted to be the one who took it away, even if I wasn't doing it on purpose.

We work a little bit more in silence before I drop my pencil on my notebook and look at her.

‘Just quietly . . . do you really think I might get it?' I ask.

‘I'd say it's definitely between you, Ryan and Jane, but everyone knows that,' she says. ‘Jane always gets dux at the end-of-year awards, but she's a bit slack when it comes to non-academic
things. Ryan's smart, and he's kind of an all-rounder, like you. Teachers love all-rounders, you know.'

‘I'm not an all-rounder,' I point out.

‘Yeah, you are,' she says. ‘Compared to me anyway. You're on the yearbook committee.'

‘I was forced onto it.'

‘Yeah, but you weren't forced to organise that fundraiser for ovarian cancer research,' she says. ‘Plus you convinced Mrs H that we need to do something for International Women's Day.'

‘Yeah, I just don't get why that wasn't celebrated here,' I tell her. ‘Female causes should be top priority if we really want to break the cycle . . .'

Tessa's eyes start glazing over, and I remind myself that the majority of my classmates don't care about my speeches.

Just then, Ms Richards tells us she's stepping out for a few minutes.

‘Just keep working on whatever you're doing, and if anyone asks I've gone to the bathroom,' she calls out as she closes the door behind her.

‘Does she take us for idiots or something?' I mumble. ‘Everyone knows she's going to the bathroom to smoke. One day soon a student will get blamed for it.'

Tessa shrugs. ‘And when they do, she won't own up to it,' she says. ‘It's just not fair that someone so young is teaching HSC Chemistry. If you think about it, she was in our shoes five years ago. She hasn't even seen enough exams to tell us what to expect.'

‘She's not even in the classroom long enough for us to learn,' I counter.

‘Good point,' she says, flipping between the two pages she's been working on. ‘OK, well, I think I have the formula figured out, but I could be wrong. What's yours looking like?'

‘Hmmm, doable, I think,' I reply. ‘How about if you get two lots of everything and we each test our own out?'

‘Yep, I'm down with that,' she says. ‘I'll just go get the stuff.'

She returns a moment later and I busy myself prepping the material. A moment later, Ryan sits down on the stool next to me. I try to ignore him, but I can't. I thought we had a moment — well, a few actually — the weekend before last in Melbourne, but since then he's gone back to normal and I don't know why.

‘Your formula's wrong,' he says, peering at my notes.

‘How would you know?' I ask. ‘You're walking around talking to people while those two girls over there do your work.'

‘Relax, they're just checking it,' he says, smirking. We exchange a look that is only ours, as if we're privy to something that the rest of the world is oblivious to. So maybe he hasn't forgotten Melbourne? I feel flutters in my stomach and I put my hand on it, trying to steady myself.
Don't lose your shit over a guy, Charlie. No roots, remember?

‘Your formula is still wrong, though,' he says, nodding at my book again.

‘Stop trying to distract me,' I tell him, as I put my goggles on and start to tip liquids into a beaker. ‘I know what I'm doing.'

‘Are you sure about that?' he asks, tilting his head to the side to peer at my work station again. ‘I can help you if you want.'

‘Yeah, help me fail. Ms Richards already has it in for me.'

‘It doesn't help that you give her attitude when she gets things wrong.'

‘She gets a lot wrong for someone who's teaching year 12,' I say in frustration, thinking of Tessa's comment earlier.

‘Yeah, but you don't let anything go,' he points out.

‘Is this about me taking control in meetings? The yearbook flatplan set a bad —'

‘Charlieeee,' Tessa interrupts.

‘Tessa, hold on,' I reply, putting my hand out but keeping my eyes on Ryan.

He shakes his head. ‘No, it's about you being so highly strung,' he says. ‘You don't let anyone stuff up.'

‘I am not highly strung!' I exclaim.

‘Oh no,' he says, his eyes on the bench behind me.

‘What?' I say, whipping around, only to be hit in the face with a warm liquid and bits of glass from my beaker. There's a big blob on the ceiling of the science lab, and everyone is staring at me.

‘Ouch,' he says. ‘Lucky you're wearing goggles.'

‘Oh no,' Tessa says. ‘She's always going on about the bloody beakers. We're dead.'

Ryan peers up at the ceiling. ‘I think the beakers are the least of your concerns,' he says, as a drop of liquid falls down onto his forehead.

‘This is all your fault,' I tell him furiously.

He has the audacity to look shocked. ‘Wait, what?' he asks, wiping his face down with a hanky. The guy has a hanky. Is he for real?

I bury my face in my hands. ‘Seriously, what do I do?' I ask no one in particular.

‘Look, we'll clean up the mess before she gets back,' he says. ‘Trust me she won't even —'

‘What is going on in here?' Mr Griggs, the History teacher, asks, the lab door shutting behind him. ‘And who is supposed to be taking this class today?'

‘I'm sorry,' Ryan says. We're seated outside Mrs H's office.

‘Not as sorry as Ms Richards is . . .' I say, the dread in my voice clearly audible. ‘I just know she's going to take it out on me.'

He shakes his head. ‘I can't believe Mr Griggs heard from across the hallway. He's got supersonic hearing or something.'

‘Well, the blob did make a noise when it exploded,' I admit.

‘Yeah, but it's a Chemistry class,' he points out. ‘It can't be completely quiet all the time.'

We're silent for a few minutes. I open my mouth again to speak, but Ryan cuts me off.

‘Shhh,' he says, motioning to the door with his head.

We creep up and press our ears to the door. Mrs H is telling Ms Richards that she's at risk of losing her job.

‘Shit,' I whisper to him. ‘She's on probation? She's teaching year 12 and she's on probation?!'

‘Well, our Chem teacher did abruptly leave at the end of term four,' he says. ‘Maybe they just hired the first person who applied.'

‘Some fancy education,' I say, rolling my eyes.

He shrugs. ‘Especially if you need it,' he snickers. ‘I'm smart enough to figure stuff out on my own, but you —'

My elbow makes contact with his ribs.

‘Oww,' he says, making a pained face at me. ‘OK, maybe I deserved that.'

We hurry back to our seats. The door opens a second later. When Ms Richards walks out I'm thankful that looks can't kill.

Mrs H calls my name from the door and I head inside.

‘You've called my mother in?' I ask, after she's sufficiently chastised me.

‘Yes, she should be here soon. I'd like to explain to her that it's not normal policy for teachers to be allowed smoking breaks during their classes.'

‘Well, I'm sure she knows —'

‘Be that as it may, our school hasn't stood here for over a hundred and fifty years because we didn't do things properly,' she says. ‘Your parents deserve to know that we take our students seriously. And that it won't happen again.'

‘She's learned her lesson then?' my mum asks, as the secretary ushers her in. Even though she sometimes acts like a bimbo, my mother is headstrong when it comes to the rights and responsibilities of students and teachers.

‘Mrs Reynolds, please, have a seat.'

I tune out, the image of the blob on the ceiling hovering around in my head, while Mrs H and Mum discuss Ms Richards' future as a year 12 teacher.