The Yearbook Committee

by Sarah Ayoub

  ‘No,’ I say, more firmly. ‘I will figure it out.’

  She walks me to the front door and holds it open while I stand on the front step, looking out onto the street.

  ‘We’re your friends,’ she says. ‘You should let us help you.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to mess up your “no roots” philosophy,’ I tell her, walking away.

  She calls my name, but I don’t turn around. She makes no effort to follow me.

  It’s late at night, and I’ve just spent ages working on a mock essay for my Modern History exam. Finally finished, I tiptoe out into the lounge room. Mum is asleep on the couch.

  I look at the time — 11.05. I don’t want to wake her up, so I go into her bedroom to get a blanket. But when I’m in there, I pause, thinking about what Gillian had suggested at the careers day. Could the answers to my questions be here somewhere?

  There’s nothing underneath the bed or in her closet. I go through her chest of drawers, hoping to find something — anything — that would give me a clue into her past . . . and my past. When I go to pull out the bottom drawer, it catches.

  I slide the drawer out completely, and shine the flashlight from my phone into the cabinet. There’s a little cardboard box. Slowly and quietly, I pull it out.

  There are a few things inside. A plaited friendship bracelet, a birthday card from her sweet sixteenth, a New Year’s Eve 1990 party hat. There’s a picture of the two of us on my first day of preschool. I’m wearing a Thomas the Tank Engine jumper, and Mum is holding me in her lap, kissing my cheek.

  There’s also a picture of a couple on their wedding day. I flip it over. There’s a caption in scrawled handwriting that reads ‘Mr & Mrs Fullerton 1970’. I’m struck by how much Mum looks like her mother.

  At the bottom of the box, there’s a white envelope. It’s sealed, but the glue is old and I’m able to gently ease it open without leaving any obvious marks. Inside, there’s a yellow-gold wedding band, and two pictures. One is of my mother with some guy’s arms around her. Their backs are to the camera, but she’s looking over her shoulder, laughing.

  The other one is an ultrasound picture, like the one Charlie showed me today, except this one is older, and the baby is smaller. ‘Baby Jellybean’, it says on the back.

  I run my fingers over the image. I get what people mean when they talk about life being a miracle.

  I look at the text underneath and try to decipher it. It says ‘eight weeks gestation’, some numbers I don’t understand, the date. I put it back in the envelope, but something strikes me and I look at the date again.

  ‘No way,’ I say out loud.

  This image was taken in 1996, some one-and-a-half years before I was born.

  Mum often told me I was her alpha and her omega — her beginning and her end.

  But judging by this picture, I wasn’t the real beginning.

  Someone had come before me.

  THE YEARBOOK COMMITTEE

  Minutes for August meeting

  Recorded by: Gillian Cummings

  Meeting Chair: Ryan Fleming

  In attendance: Everyone

  The Playlist: We started off with ‘Counting Stars’ by OneRepublic. Matty said it was because we were at the tail end of our trials, and we were probably losing sleep and that we should keep our eyes on the end game because we only had a few months left before the future unfolded, and that was going to determine whether we were going to count stars . . . or something. It was a long explanation, and I got bored. But it was the first time he has been this passionate, which was kind of cute.

  The Snacks: Pizza! We ordered pizza, and they delivered it to us at the school gate as everyone was coming out of homeroom, and everyone looked at us. (Secretly, I think we all felt pretty smug walking through the quad with it.)

  Agenda:

  *Yearbook progress made during trials: This turned into a thirteen-minute session about the trials and answers that we got wrong/got right/left out, so Ryan canned any mention of trials.

  *Profiles: We agreed that the profiles would be short. To be fair, we would use the school photos (because there’s more of an even terrain, Charlie said, in terms of how we look) so each student would only have to fill in a form that she would create, with Name/Ambition/Last Words/Thing they’ll miss most. Tammi offered to distribute it, because she’s popular, and Charlie is not.

  *Funnies: This was Matty’s idea, and it’s a good one. He said that we should try to make a list of all the funny things that students and teachers have said over the years. We resolved to let Ryan be in charge of that, because Matty and Charlie have not been here long enough, I have already done heaps of photo and event stuff, and Tammi’s going to collate the profiles. Charlie suggested we create a Facebook group so people could just write their funny memories in it, and it would be less work for us because then we could just cut and paste into the yearbook template. Ryan called her a genius, but she ignored him. I guess that means she is still mad.

  *Art: Matty put forward ANOTHER idea on and suggested that maybe our yearbook Facebook group should have some creative stuff in there too, like a song about our grade, or one of those maps of the school that shows where all the cliques hang out. Everyone — oh, Mr Broderick has just walked in. He is exchanging words with Ryan who looks confused. Charlie is butting in. Mr Broderick is talking about fairness and his hands being tied, and Ryan is getting angry. Mr Broderick walks out, Ryan kicks the desk and yells out, ‘This is crap!’ Tammi is shaking her head in anger, saying she isn’t surprised. I am going to stop writing now, so I can find out what’s going on —

  Postscript:

  Apparently some ‘students’ (ahem, Lauren for sure) complained that we have ‘extra access’ to the Library after hours. This is apparently unfair because it gives us an ‘edge’, like extra time to access resources (‘She can access those resources at lunchtime,’ Tammi says, rolling her eyes) and extra time around teachers (like we ever talk to them). Matty is mad because it’s easy to just turn up to meetings when they’re on school grounds, but now there is going to be extra time spent travelling to meeting locations, and we don’t want to give up our lunchtimes either (just in case anyone suggests that). Charlie is wondering if this has anything to do with Ryan and her and The Thing That Happened At The Dance-A-Thon that we are not allowed to discuss.

  Questions for Mrs H:

  *Where are we supposed to work now?!

  Action points for next meeting:

  *Find a place to meet.

  *Remember: t’s us against the world. Even if Ryan and Charlie have gone ten steps back.

  Tammi

  Tammi Kap Fun night in with Mum, the TV and Thai takeaway. I love Fridays.

  Lauren Pappas Can’t wait for our hang out tomorrow! #lovethewholeweekend

  ‘I told you I don’t want to talk about it,’ I tell Lauren and Amanda. We’re having dinner at a cafe on Burwood Road. We started coming here when we were about thirteen, for milkshakes and chats about boys. Now we’re seventeen, drinking coffees, ordering main meals that could fill up a rugby player and planning our futures — and it’s still our favourite place.

  ‘Who cares? It’s not like it’s some big secret,’ Amanda says.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Lauren says. ‘We’re all going to read it anyway.’

  ‘Yeah, the whole class is going to read it, which is why no one gets a sneak preview,’ I remind them. ‘Mrs H’s orders.’

  ‘Yeah, but how will she know?’ Lauren says mischievously. ‘Just slip us a few pages so we can give you some feedback.’

  Lately it’s like my bullshit detector has had a much-needed upgrade; it seems to go off constantly when I am around her. My father used to warn me about how manipulative she was, but I never saw it until recently. Now I can finally see her for what she is. I smile, thinking about how it will make his day when I tell him he was right.

  ‘She’s smiling! I knew it!’ Lauren is saying. ‘So there is something about that time I skinny-dipped in t
he lake at year 10 camp. Oh no.’ She’s feigning embarrassment, but I’ve known her long enough to know she’s actually ecstatic about the prospect. Ladies and gentlemen, my attention-seeking best friend.

  ‘Relax, there’s nothing about that,’ I say. ‘That much I can tell you.’

  ‘Then why were you smiling?’ she asks quizzically.

  ‘Because I was thinking about my food,’ I say, as the waiter comes over. I rub my hands in anticipation of the crisp chips and mushroom sauce, the perfect sidekicks to my chicken schnitzel.

  ‘So you really mean it?’ Amanda asks. ‘No sneak preview?’ She takes a forkful of her caesar salad and shoves it in her mouth.

  I giggle. ‘There’s dressing all over your face.’

  ‘Seriously, what was the point of you even being on the committee?’ Lauren asks. ‘Remember we discussed that you’d do yearbook and I’d do formal planning, and that way we can debrief and warn each other about, you know, a bunch of stuff.’

  ‘Yeah, but I think we both know I got the raw end of the deal,’ I tell her.

  ‘Relax,’ she says, scoffing. ‘How hard is it to scan a few pictures? Mrs H is making us all contribute stuff anyway.’

  ‘Well, when you see the yearbook and how few contributions have actually been made, maybe you’ll understand.’

  ‘Maybe the group is crap,’ Amanda says. I swear she’s just waiting for my friendship with Lauren to fall apart so she can be chief best friend.

  Lauren nods. ‘The team is made up of losers and lame-asses — except you and Ryan, of course.’

  ‘Come on, Loz, that’s slack . . .’ Amanda says.

  ‘Seriously,’ Lauren says, laughing. ‘As if “Funkerton” even knows anything worth remembering. He’s spent the last two years with his head in a hoodie, and headphones on his ears.’

  ‘I know!’ Amanda exclaims. ‘And nothing would have got through to him with those headphones always on his head.’

  ‘That’s what I meant, you tosser,’ Lauren says, shaking her head and smirking at me.

  ‘Oh,’ Amanda says.

  ‘And then,’ Lauren continues, ‘you have that snob, Charlie, who’s been here for three minutes — like, what does she know? — and dopey, happy Gillian who probably wants to write about rainbows and butterflies, and make us all look like sissy kids who don’t have lives.’

  ‘Like her, you mean?’ Amanda says.

  They crack up laughing and I sit there awkwardly.

  ‘She’s not so bad, you guys,’ I say quietly.

  ‘Come off it, Tams,’ Lauren says. ‘You’re always defending her these days.’

  ‘Yeah, because you’re making fun of her over nothing,’ I say.

  ‘Not over nothing,’ she grumbles.

  ‘OK, I’m sorry, not nothing,’ I counter. ‘Just one little thing that wasn’t even her fault.’

  ‘It was totally her fault!’ Lauren exclaims. ‘I got grounded for six weeks because of that.’

  It goes silent. They’re both watching me, and I feel my cheeks go warm.

  ‘Did you do it?’ I ask, quietly. ‘Did you delete those pictures you got?’

  ‘Not yet,’ she says, flicking her hair. ‘But I will.’

  I look at her, pleading with my eyes.

  ‘I only just got them yesterday,’ she says in a huff.

  ‘Yeah, from who? And how?’

  She shrugs. ‘I don’t have to tell you,’ she says. ‘You won’t even talk to me about the yearbook.’

  ‘That’s different,’ I say, feeling like I am talking to a child.

  ‘What are you accusing me of?’ she asks. ‘Snitches get what they deserve. She shouldn’t walk around half-dressed.’

  ‘She was in her room!’ I cry.

  She shrugs.

  I’m looking in her eyes, searching for clues that I know I won’t find. But she never betrays herself. ‘No guilt whatsoever,’ I observe.

  ‘Guilt is a strong word,’ she says. ‘Besides, no one outside school has them.’

  ‘You did PM them to us on Facebook,’ Amanda says quietly.

  ‘What?!’ I ask, burying my head in my hands. ‘Who’s us? You told me when you got them that you were gonna delete them. Now you’ve put them up online?’

  ‘Relax,’ Lauren says dismissively. ‘I only sent them to our group. It’s not like they’re on my wall.’

  I shake my head.

  ‘This is too much,’ I say. ‘Don’t you think you’ve gone too far?’

  ‘Hey, you seemed fine with payback a year ago when you got in trouble too,’ Lauren says.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d go overboard,’ I argue. ‘Don’t you get it? She was forced into a situation none of us would want to be in. She can’t help who her father is. She can’t help that journalists will want to use her to attack him. We were there, we broke the rules, we deserved what we got.’

  ‘And someone else got to see Ed,’ she says, pursing her lips. She slides her plate away from herself and sighs. ‘I’ve, like, totally lost my appetite.’

  Amanda looks at me wide-eyed. I decide to wait out the tantrum and look out onto the street instead.

  There’s an Asian girl sitting alone at a table outside the cafe, poring over a textbook. Across the road, a guy is leaning against a wall in front of the bank, next to the bus stop. Three buses come and go, but he doesn’t move.

  The girl stands up, puts her book in her satchel and walks into the cafe, leaving her satchel on the floor next to her table.

  Nonchalantly, the guy crosses the road, hands in his pockets. Then he drops his hand and picks up the satchel.

  ‘That guy just stole her bag,’ I whisper to no one in particular.

  ‘What?’ Amanda asks, oblivious.

  I stand up quickly, watching him walk quickly up the road — just as the girl exits the cafe and realises her bag is no longer under her chair.

  I don’t know how it happens, but my legs take on a life of their own and the next thing I feel is adrenalin pumping through me as I’m sprinting down Burwood Road, chasing a thief with a stranger’s bag. I’m fighting the hair that’s flying into my face, the acid build-up in my lungs, and my brain, which is telling me to stop, over and over again.

  The thief has now started running, but the gap between us is getting smaller and smaller. Then I hear a car rev its engine and see it speeding down the road ahead of me. It screeches to a stop near where the thief now is, and two guys get out.

  The thief tosses the satchel to the floor and turns down a side street, just as the two guys and I meet at the corner.

  ‘He’s disappeared,’ one of them says, looking down the street. ‘Probably hiding out in someone’s front yard.’

  I’m breathless, vaguely aware that the stickiness on the back of my shirt means I must be sweating profusely. How glam.

  ‘Well, at least you’ve got your bag back,’ the other guy says, bending down to pick it up for me. ‘You were going for it pretty fast.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, panting. There’s no need to explain the scenario to him. What would I even say?

  ‘Is everything in there?’ the first guy asks.

  I try to catch my breath. ‘Yeah,’ I say, nodding. ‘Thanks so much for helping.’

  ‘No worries,’ they both say, heading back to their car.

  I place my hand on the wall to steady myself, looking back up towards the cafe. I can’t see the girl. By the time I make it back there, she’s on the phone to the cops.

  ‘Oh, thank you so much!’ she squeals when she sees me with the satchel in hand. ‘It has my uni USB in there, I was dying!’

  ‘Maybe don’t leave it on the floor unattended next time,’ I say.

  ‘Trust me, I know that now,’ she replies. ‘It happened so fast, I can’t believe it.’

  ‘These things do,’ I explain, as if I know first-hand.

  ‘I saw you running when I came out, but didn’t even see why,’ she says, laughing. ‘Are you a cop?’

  ‘More and more e
ach day,’ I reply, smiling.

  ‘Busted,’ Dad says from the darkened kitchen as I am tiptoeing downstairs in my pyjamas. ‘Sneaking out?’

  ‘Dad, you scared the hell out of me!’ I shriek, turning on the light. ‘And now I’ve stubbed my toe.’

  ‘Poor baby, let me kiss it for you,’ he says, taking off his boots.

  ‘Eww, no,’ I say, recoiling.

  ‘Yeah, they’re probably not as cute as they used to be anyway,’ he says, shrugging. ‘So what brings you downstairs at this hour?’

  ‘Midnight snack,’ I tell him. ‘I’ve been trying to sleep for an hour, but my stomach keeps growling.’

  He looks at his watch. ‘Your mum was eating at 8.30 when I called,’ he says. ‘Are you hungry already?’

  I laugh. ‘No, I ate out. And then I guess I kinda burnt it off . . . studying.’

  He looks at me, puzzled.

  ‘Why are you guys making so much noise?’ Mum asks, walking into the kitchen.

  ‘Aww, sorry, Mum,’ I say, making an apologetic face. ‘I got a little hungry.’

  ‘Yeah, serves you right for not finishing off that cheese with me,’ she says, going over to hug my dad. ‘I had to finish it all by myself — it’s going to go straight to my thighs.’

  ‘And they’ll still be gorgeous,’ Dad says, smiling.

  ‘Oh, gross,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘Do you guys want to take it upstairs so I can eat in peace?’

  ‘No way, I’m starving,’ Dad says. ‘I’ve just come home from a twelve-hour shift — think I’ve earned myself a frozen pizza.’

  ‘You might as well have picked up a real one on the way,’ Mum says, turning on the oven and shaking her head. ‘They’re just as bad for you.’

  He grabs a frozen pizza and a beer out of the fridge, and hands Mum the pizza. I sit at the breakfast bar and decide to come out with it, in the hope that it will help make my case for going to police academy.

  ‘I’ve earned some of that pizza too, you know,’ I tell him. ‘Doing the same sort of thing.’

  He swallows a sip of his beer and puts it down on the bench between two hands. ‘Oh yeah?’ he asks.