The Yearbook Committee

by Sarah Ayoub

  ‘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.

  Charlie

  Charlie Scanlon I miss Melbourne.

  Pete Brady and Katy Coolidge-Brown like this.

  Katy Coolidge-Brown #comehomecharlie

  Charlie Scanlon I LOVE that I have my own hashtag Xx

  Charlie Scanlon:

  Kill. Me. Now.

  Pete Brady:

  That request is getting a little old.

  Charlie Scanlon:

  This time I’m serious. I’ve been asked to join the YEARBOOK COMMITTEE!!!

  Pete Brady:

  Ew, sucked in! LOL! Don’t they know you hate everything?

  Charlie Scanlon:

  Who’s they? I’ve spoken to three people since I arrived: the canteen lady, the deputy principal and the librarian who won’t let me watch TV shows inside the library.

  Pete Brady:

  So you haven’t made any friends yet?

  Charlie Scanlon:

  You know my mantra. No roots.

  Pete Brady:

  Everyone needs friends . . .

  Charlie Scanlon:

  You should be on my side.

  Pete Brady:

  Or by your side, which is why you need to #comehomecharlie

  He sends me a winking-face emoji and I go warm and fuzzy inside. The guy started a hashtag at my old school — how can I not? Although there are a few issues with this:

  1.I think I have a crush on my best friend.

  2.He lives 877 kilometres away.

  3.The situation is a bit chick-flick.

  4.Chick flicks generalise. They never go beyond the happy ending.

  5.If my happy ending is Pete, I won’t complain about it.

  6.Complaining is in my DNA. If I stop complaining, I have relinquished a part of myself to a man.

  7.That’s anti-feminist.

  The bell’s annoying ring disturbs the list-making in my head. I glance at my watch and sigh. The committee meeting has come despite my constant praying that it would get cancelled. And people wonder why I’m such a staunch atheist. I’m the victim here, shouldn’t God be on my side?

  I find my way to the computer lab, where the only other person is already seated and logged in to her school account.

  I glance at the open, newish-looking notebook next to her. She has it open to a new page, and has written ‘The Yearbook Committee — Minutes for March Meeting’ at the top, and underlined it in red pen. I resist the urge to make fun of her with all my might, and feel like I’ve earned a sundae for my efforts.

  ‘Hi,’ she says, a little shyly. ‘I’m Gillian. I’m in your Legal class. I like that your opinions give Mr Hess a run for his money. Do you like the school so far?’

  ‘It could be worse,’ I say, giving her a half-smile. ‘No one’s told me to wear pink on Wednesdays yet.’

  ‘Mean Girls never gets old,’ she says, smiling. ‘But if they tell you to, maybe you should. Regina George has got nothing on the queen bee here.’

  ‘You mean Lauren Pappas,’ I say, nodding.

  ‘Wow, you’re fast,’ she says. ‘I’ve been going to school with these people for six years and I’m still learning things the hard way.’

  I shrug. ‘I’m good at reading people, I guess. I watch a lot of crime shows, if that explains it.’

  She laughs, just as a scruffy-looking guy walks in, seeming even less enthusiastic than I feel. Something about him strikes me — there’s something weirdly familiar about his eyes, his cheekbones, the way he seems both open and dismissive at once. I watch him take the seat in the furthest back corner, smack-bang against the wall, as if he hopes it will suck him in and transport him to a parallel universe. I decide to keep my eye on him — if it works, I definitely want in.

  ‘Matty, do you really need to be wearing that hoodie right now?’ a voice asks from the front of the room.

  The voice belongs to Ryan the Perv, who tosses a file on the teacher’s desk in the front and puts his hands on his hips, like he’s trying to take charge.

  ‘You take this school-captain thing too seriously,’ Matty mutters.

  ‘No, I mean it’s hot. You know what, forget it.’

  We sit in silence for several minutes, Ryan rubbing the back of his neck.

  Ryan stops being so awkward when another girl, who I always see hovering around him and his mates, walks in.

  ‘I see that she got to you,’ he says to her, smiling.

  ‘She always does,’ she replies in a sing-song voice, taking the seat in the front row.

  ‘Well, at least there’s someone I know here,’ he says.

  Matty grunts from the back.

  ‘Problem?’ Ryan asks.

  ‘You know, if you spoke to us, we would also be people that you knew,’ he says quietly.

  ‘Sorry, dude, not what I meant.’

  The girl in the front rolls her eyes.

  Ryan pulls a piece of paper from his pocket.

  ‘Um, maybe we should just get started,’ he says, looking at us all. ‘Mrs H did say there would only be five people, so I guess it’s just us.’

  ‘Wow, the Neanderthal can count,’ I say.

  His eyes flash at me, but it’s his friend who speaks.

  ‘Who is this?’ she asks, gesturing at me.

  ‘Charlie Scanlon,’ I say, giving her a small wave. ‘Feminist killjoy. Currently pondering our generation’s dumbing-down, and turns out the best case studies are right here at Holy Family.’

  The room goes silent.

  ‘I’m kidding,’ I tell her, giving her a face. ‘Well, except about the feminist killjoy part.’

  She gives me a strange, confused look before turning back to Ryan. ‘Seriously, you want her to work on the yearbook?’

  ‘Well, actually —’ he says, but I interject.

  ‘Oh, I don’t want to work on your stupid yearbook,’ I explain. ‘I was forced here. Apparently the best way to introduce new students to the school is to get them working on a project where they’ll get to know the class through year 7 photos and those stupid profiles with dumb ambitions for the future and final quotes they found on the internet next to “news” items on the Kardashians.’

  ‘Okaaayyy,’ she says, turning her chair away from me slightly. I cheer inwardly, while Ryan looks on, dumbstruck.

  ‘OK, so we’ve established you don’t want to be here —’ I open my mouth
to say something else, but Ryan puts his hand out to stop me — ‘on this committee or at this school. Trust me, I think I’ve got it.’

  I lean back in my seat, smug.

  ‘What about everyone else?’ he asks. ‘What can you bring?’

  ‘I’m really excited to compile the best years of our high-school lives in one book we’ll be able to treasure later,’ Gillian says. ‘Most of us are saying we can’t wait to finish, but I bet we’ll look back fondly on our memories in fifteen years’ time.’

  What a loser.

  ‘Do you have any strengths that can help with the project?’ Ryan asks her.

  ‘Enthusiasm, clearly,’ the other girl scoffs. Ryan suppresses a laugh, but Gillian misses the joke.

  ‘Yep, very enthusiastic,’ she says animatedly. ‘I have loads of photos from all our excursions and camps, and I’m happy to ask around for more. I’ll also record minutes of our meetings.’

  ‘Ahh, I don’t know if that’s necessary . . .’ Ryan says, his voice trailing off.

  She shrugs, unfazed. ‘Maybe I’ll just write them down for me then. I like keeping records of stuff. I can just send you action points. Of stuff we need to do.’

  ‘Errr, OK,’ he says uncertainly, looking a little out of his depth.

  ‘Oh, and I can help with profiles too. You know — last words, favourite memories, and ambitions for the future,’ she pipes up.

  ‘Cool,’ Ryan says. ‘They’ll probably be the hardest, there’s always going to be lazy people we’ll have to chase up.’

  ‘So if they don’t even care about the yearbook, why are we bothering?’ Matty asks.

  Ryan shrugs. ‘I dunno,’ he says simply. ‘It’s just the done thing.’

  Matty raises his eyebrows, then puts his headphones on. I hear the faint chords of punk music behind me, and I’m jealous he has something to escape into. The room is awkwardly silent again.

  Ryan and his friend start talking in hushed tones, and in front of me Gillian looks attentive, as if being on good behaviour will earn her a gold star. I shake my head.

  ‘We should probably start something,’ I say, my voice rising. ‘None of us except her want to be here. Let’s treat it like a Band-Aid and get it over with quick.’

  ‘OK, where do we start?’ Ryan asks. ‘Mrs H put me in charge of this project and I have no idea what to do.’

  ‘I was going to start with who made you boss anyway, but you’ve already cleared that up with the whole I’m-down-with-the-principal comment, so let’s move on,’ I tell him.

  ‘Let’s move on, Ryan,’ he says slowly, pointing to himself.

  ‘Ryan?’ I ask. ‘Hmmm, I liked you so much more as Pervert-from-the-Hallway.’

  His friend’s head swings up and she looks from him to me.

  ‘She thinks she saw something that she didn’t,’ he explains.

  ‘He was watching girls undress in the hallway,’ I whisper to her knowingly, loud enough for everyone to hear.

  ‘I didn’t even see those girls,’ he says, raising his voice. ‘I WAS WATCHING THE BOYS WITH THE BALL.’

  I bite my lip to stifle a laugh. I could heckle this guy forever.

  ‘And she still doesn’t believe me,’ he says, putting his arms out then dropping them to his side. ‘Not that it matters, so let’s move on. Tammi, what can you bring to the yearbook?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘Ask Lauren.’

  ‘Come on, Tams, anything,’ he pleads.

  She shrugs. ‘I’ll let you know,’ she mutters.

  ‘Why? Do you need to ask someone’s permission?’ I ask her.

  ‘My best friend,’ she says, not looking at me. ‘She kind of made me do this. No bad pictures of her, favourable coverage, you know.’

  Gillian scoffs and Tammi immediately turns around, narrowing her eyes at her.

  ‘Problem?’

  ‘She can’t control everything,’ Gillian says, her voice slightly trembling. ‘It has to be fair.’

  ‘Don’t talk to me about fair,’ Tammi replies, shaking her head.

  ‘So we just have to ignore the fact that she’s been a snob for six years?’

  ‘You’re not the only one on the team, Gill,’ she snaps. ‘We’re all contributing. We all have a say.’

  Gillian looks away. I almost feel sorry for her, but I don’t want to say anything. I’m not here to make friends. No roots. I pull my phone out of my pocket and text my friend Katy — anything to make the time pass.

  At ten minutes to four, we still haven’t done anything besides clash. Ryan looks at us all from his perch on the teacher’s desk. By now, Tammi has her head on the desk, Gillian has forgotten about her minutes and is looking out the window, I’m giving Ryan a blank stare and Matty is still lost in his music.

  ‘Why do I have a feeling this is going to be more trouble than it’s worth?’ he asks as his phone alarm beeps. ‘Meeting over,’ he yells out. ‘Next one in a month. Same time, same place. Bring friendlier attitudes.’

  I’m all the way down the hall when I hear a door slam. I turn around to see Ryan, sunk down to the floor, back against the wall, head in his hands.

  Matty

  Matty Fullerton is sick of being bothered by the same old crap.

  ‘The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round . . .’

  For Christ’s sake, I think, as the father and his three-year-old son in front of me go for it a third time. Couldn’t they pick a less repetitive nursery rhyme? I sigh as loudly as I possibly can, hoping that they’ll get the hint. But they don’t, and with every bus stop that they don’t get off at, it’s looking more and more likely that I won’t get home. Because I’ll probably wind up punching Dad in the face and handing myself in to the police, because I’m a loser like that. A loser with a conscience.

  Across the aisle, an old lady smiles at the performing duo and I realise that it’s only me who’s bothered by the sight of a father sharing a nice-yet-ordinary moment with his son. I wonder if there were similar moments between my own dad and me.

  I strain my brain trying to remember something, anything — even the smallest fragment. An image of work boots in the hallway, a manly scent, the feel of stubble. But there’s nothing. Instead, the reminder of my very blank past and my uncertain future sits in my backpack, waiting for action: another reminder of where I am (posh private school) and what I lack (a home environment worthy of being at one).

  I get off the bus, pull the hoodie low over my face and start walking home. I’m checking the weather on my phone when I walk straight into a tall, hard body.

  ‘Watch where you’re going, dickhead,’ the body’s owner says.

  I look up, and grin.

  ‘Mo,’ I say, clasping his arm. ‘If your parents knew what your language was like . . .’

  He laughs. ‘How you been, Matt?’

  I nod, smiling. ‘Not bad, brother. And you?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Yeah, same old, same old.’

  ‘Still loving those job sites?’ I ask. ‘Or are you sick of laying bricks?’

  ‘Just you wait till I finish my TAFE certificate, man. Tradies make heaps of money. Your posh private school shoulda taught you that.’

  ‘As if I’d listen anyway,’ I tell him, smirking. ‘How’s Billy?’

  ‘Still out, which is good. My dad watches him like a hawk.’

  ‘You can’t blame him,’ I say. ‘He put your parents through hell.’

  ‘All of us, bro,’ he says. ‘We had to move from a nice house to a two-bedroom unit so my parents could pay his bail, you know? My sisters have nowhere to study, and Zeina’s school captain. She’s smart, she needs the space.’

  ‘You don’t need to tell me, man, I remember.’

  ‘Want to come eat?’ he asks. ‘Mum made stuffed vine leaves today. I know you love ’em.’

  I laugh. ‘Tell your mum I miss her, I’ll be round soon. I can’t believe I haven’t seen the new place. Been buried under homework and stuff.’r />
  He shakes his head. ‘Nothing to see anyway,’ he tells me. ‘We moved, but everything stayed the same.’

  I pat his back. ‘Some things do,’ I agree. ‘Catch you later.’

  I continue walking. Back before I got the scholarship to Holy Family, Mohamed and I were best mates at Strathfield South High School. Now, his twin sister, Zeina, is the school captain, and his younger sister, Sarah — who put on her hijab at thirteen and didn’t let her father’s protests about discrimination change her decision — will probably be premier one day. And my best mate was making the kind of money I desperately needed, while I was stuck in a school where the people had about as much depth as a kiddie pool. Mo’s home life — so traditional, so nuclear — was so different to my own. Their biggest problem was with elder brother Bilal’s drug problem.

  I duck into the corner store for a bag of pasta and a jar of sauce. If my life was like Mohamed’s, I think, I wouldn’t be cooking my own dinner. And I’d probably know something about my dad.

  But it’s not.

  I didn’t think that my attendance at Holy Family was going to improve my life in any way, but every time I doubted my presence there, I remembered Mo’s parents’ enthusiasm when I told them that I had got a scholarship. Those people were the biggest champions of education.

  ‘We came from nothing,’ his father would tell me. ‘Bombs dropping on our homes all the time. Our own government used us as human shields. We couldn’t trust them, couldn’t trust the Israelis. We had no one. Here, my children have a life. They study, they get jobs. This country — Allah shower his blessings upon it — gives us so much. You get a scholarship at fancy school, you take it. My Sarah already talks about applying for uni scholarships, Inshallah.’

  As if I could let the bloke down. So I took the scholarship. And not just for him, but for my mum too — I don’t know if it was the grand building and immaculate gardens, or its rich history, but she was obsessed with the place. She once told me that when she was young she would walk past it every day on her walk to her own school, and see the girls in their blazers and hats, and dream of giving her children a better life than she got. A life that would start at this school, a life that would be filled with promise. Go figure.