The Yearbook Committee

by Sarah Ayoub

  I give him a quizzical look.

  He exhales loudly, opening the door. ‘I need the GPS,’ he admits. ‘Now will you get in the car?’

  I let him help me into the car and he turns on the engine — but he only switches on the headlights when we’re a safe distance away from the cabins.

  ‘I can’t believe I’m running away from camp,’ I groan, burying my head in my hands.

  ‘Relax,’ he says. ‘We might be back before anyone realises.’

  ‘Seriously, we should go back now before we get caught.’

  The dark road is suddenly illuminated by blue and red flashing lights. Ryan looks in the rear-view mirror and swears under his breath. ‘What could be worse than cops?’ he asks.

  He pulls over and rolls down his window just as a young cop approaches us.

  ‘Evening, guys,’ he says politely. ‘Licence please.’

  ‘Evening, officer,’ we reply in unison. Ryan hands over his licence and looks over at me with a half-smile as the officer returns to his car.

  ‘If I make it out of this alive, Fleming, remind me to never go along with any of your plans again, OK?’ I tell him.

  ‘Fine by me,’ he says, shrugging. ‘I’m not the one in need of medical care.’

  I turn and look out my window.

  The officer returns and shines his torch over the back and front of the car.

  ‘So what are two teenagers like yourselves doing out at this time of night?’ he asks.

  ‘My cousin and I are camping with some family friends while our parents do a tour of the Barossa Valley,’ Ryan says, motioning to me. ‘We told her that the stone fence on the property wasn’t solid, but she just had to see for herself, and, well, she fell off. At first we thought it was fine, but apparently it’s giving her a little grief — you know what women are like — so I’m taking her to emergency.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ he says, shining his torch over my foot, which is purple and swollen.

  ‘See?’ I say, wincing.

  ‘Please, officer,’ Ryan says. ‘It is an emergency, after all. I have no offences to my name. I’m even the school captain.’

  ‘Also,’ I butt in, ‘it’s a free country, and we’ve broken no laws.’

  Ryan turns and grits his teeth at me.

  The policeman shrugs. ‘Fair enough, kid,’ he says finally, slipping his torch back onto his belt. ‘You two drive safe. Hope your foot heals just fine.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, flashing my biggest smile.

  Ryan doesn’t wait for the policeman to get back in the car before he’s back on the road again, ignoring my laughs at his ‘I’m the school captain’ line.

  How can such a nerd be the most popular guy in this school?

  I awake in Ryan’s arms to the noise of the hospital emergency department, and realise I must have dozed off in the car.

  ‘You can put me down now,’ I tell him as we approach the reception desk.

  ‘It’ll look more . . . urgent this way.’

  He explains what happened to the nurse, and she tells us to sit down after taking our details. We sprawl over the chairs, trying to remain awake.

  I realise I’m wearing his jacket — he must have put it on me in the car — and hand it back to him.

  ‘You had goosebumps on your arms,’ he says. ‘I figured you were cold.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say.

  Time goes by slowly.

  ‘Has it only been forty-seven minutes?’ Ryan says, struggling to keep his eyes open. ‘Feels like hours.’

  ‘Welcome to the emergency department,’ I say.

  ‘I really thought we would back before anyone knew,’ he admits, making an apologetic face.

  ‘Well, you’re an idiot,’ I say.

  Finally I’m taken into a room, where a nurse comes in to wheel me over to X-ray. I leave Ryan in the room, pacing. When I come back, he’s curled up in an armchair, staring at his phone. He steps out when a doctor comes to tell me I have a sprained ankle, which he will return to bandage shortly.

  ‘What’s the go?’ Ryan asks, yawning as he walks back into the room.

  ‘A sprain,’ I say. ‘He’s going to bandage it.’

  ‘Ouch,’ he says, scowling. ‘Well, since we’ve been here a little longer than expected, I should make a phone call. There’s no reception in here.’

  I watch him leave as a young nurse comes in with some juice and toast.

  ‘Is he your boy?’ she asks.

  ‘No, just a . . . good friend,’ I tell her.

  ‘He’s certainly very cute,’ she says. ‘Wish my man would look at me the way he looks at you.’

  I’m silent, unsure of what to say. When I don’t engage her in further conversation about ‘my boy’, she shrugs one shoulder and walks out the door.

  Ryan returns, his feet dragging along the floor.

  ‘You should get some more sleep,’ I tell him. ‘You look totally exhausted.’

  He shrugs. ‘I’ll be OK,’ he says, settling in the armchair.

  ‘You can’t drive back if you haven’t slept,’ I point out.

  ‘Yeah, but I can’t sleep in a chair,’ he says. ‘I just can’t.’

  I look at him for a moment then bite my lip nervously. ‘We could share the bed?’

  He laughs quietly, the tips of his ears turning pink. ‘Yeah, great idea,’ he says. ‘I’d just make the mangled foot worse.’

  I turn away to face the window, not wanting to admit I’m disappointed. But minutes later, he shuffles in next to me.

  ‘I got cold,’ he whispers. I lean against him and he inhales, but he doesn’t say anything.

  I sleep like a baby.

  I wake up feeling drowsy and confused. It’s 11 a.m. and Ryan is nowhere in sight. I don’t have time to ponder his whereabouts because then Mrs H walks in, coffee in hand, a half-smile on her face.

  ‘And would you look at who we have here,’ she says.

  ‘It’s not Ryan’s fault, Mrs H,’ I say quickly. ‘If I didn’t whinge so much about my foot, he wouldn’t have felt compelled to do it. You know how he is, he’s so damn helpful. I’m not even that nice to him, if you ask me, but it’s just —’

  ‘Spare me the rant, Charlie,’ she says.

  ‘We’re really sorry,’ I say, hanging my head. ‘Well, I am.’

  She waves her hand at me. ‘You should be sorry for sneaking out, yes. But you shouldn’t be sorry for tending to injuries that should have been attended to by the staff. I know they thought it was safer to wait for me to arrive, but your foot’s obviously in pretty bad condition.’

  I shrug.

  ‘Well, they’re not doctors . . .’ I say, my voice trailing off uncertainly.

  She smiles, then takes a sip of her coffee. ‘It’s certainly the most exciting start to a camp I’ve had as a principal,’ she says. ‘So does it hurt?’

  I shake my head. ‘Not as much as high school.’

  She chuckles. ‘Holy Family’s not so bad,’ she says. ‘I think you’ll slowly figure that out.’

  I swallow and look down at my lap.

  She hesitates, and then says, ‘Some boys aren’t worth getting into trouble for, Charlie. And some girls — when you’re a student like Ryan — aren’t worth getting into trouble for either.’

  I look at her quizzically. ‘I don’t know what you’re getting at, Mrs H.’

  ‘Then you’re not as clever as I thought you were.’

  Matty

  Matty Fullerton So maybe, just maybe, photography is up there with music.

  Gillian Cummings So maybe the yearbook is bringing some good to your life ;)

  The first thing I notice when the bus drops me off in front of the apartment block is the open window. The curtain is fluttering in and out, as if celebrating its freedom after months trapped inside.

  I scowl, confused. And when I let myself in the front door, the box of Lite n’ Easy ready meals sitting on the coffee table doesn’t lessen my confusion at all.

  I look aro
und. The air seems fresher, clearer, and I realise the back door is also open.

  ‘Mum?’ I call out. ‘Are you OK?’

  She calls out from the bedroom where I head to find her sitting on her bed, staring outside her window. There’s a half-finished cup of tea and the core of an apple on her bedside table.

  ‘Your principal is here,’ she says, holding her knees to her chest. ‘She brought the food that’s on the table. She wants to speak to you.’

  ‘What?’ I ask, my face reddening.

  ‘She’s on the balcony,’ she says, cocking her head towards it. ‘She’s calling a doctor. One who does house calls.’

  My eyes widen. Nothing is making sense.

  I start for the door, but the sound of Mum’s cracking voice stops me.

  ‘Why would you tell her?’ she asks me. ‘Couldn’t you let me work it out?’

  ‘You haven’t done anything in eight months. As if you were going to work it out.’

  ‘It’s better than being ambushed and humiliated,’ she says, still looking out the window. She sighs and closes her eyes. ‘Why would you tell her? Answer me.’

  ‘I never told her anything,’ I say, taken aback. ‘Even when I got questioned about parent–teacher night, I kept my mouth shut.’

  ‘Well, she’s here now, so go out and fix it.’

  I roll my eyes and walk out of the room, muttering, ‘Just like I fix everything else.’

  Mrs H is standing on the tiny balcony. She hangs up the phone when she sees me.

  ‘You should have told me, Matthew,’ she says.

  I shrug. ‘I’m already the scholarship kid in a fancy school,’ I reply. ‘How much charity am I supposed to take?’

  ‘As much as we can give,’ she says simply. ‘And student welfare is not charity.’

  I sigh. ‘She says you’ve called a doctor?’

  ‘Yes, she’s on her way,’ she says, sounding exasperated. ‘Frankly it’s about time. This should never have got this far.’

  ‘I can’t do everything,’ I mumble.

  There’s a loud knock at the door and we look at each other.

  ‘That’ll be Dr Talbot,’ she says. ‘I’ll send her in to your mother.’

  Mrs H sits in the kitchen with me while I unpack the Lite n’ Easy meals and divide them between the fridge and freezer. I suddenly realise I could eat the entire box in one go — it’s been that long since I’ve had a proper meal.

  ‘How long has it been like this?’ she asks as I put the lid back on the box.

  ‘A while,’ I answer vaguely.

  She raises an eyebrow.

  ‘It’s felt like ages,’ I admit. ‘But what was I supposed to do? I owe some loyalty to the person that she was.’

  ‘You’re a wonderful boy, Matthew,’ she says. ‘I really wish I had known.’

  ‘Do you want a tea or something?’ I ask, desperate to change the subject.

  She nods, and I rifle through the cupboards for some biscuits. I don’t have any, so I put a lolly on the saucer, then feel like an idiot and toss the lolly bag back in the pantry.

  ‘I called your boss at the juice bar,’ she says. ‘He told me you’ve been working a lot. And that you do some sort of catalogue route as well. Am I right in assuming your mother has not been working and you’ve been paying the bills?’

  I feel like the teabag inside the cracked china mug in my hands — trapped in hot water. I nod.

  ‘How are you managing?’ she asks. ‘They’re not well-paying jobs.’

  ‘Mum has some savings put aside for when I go to uni,’ I explain.

  ‘Oh, Matthew, you shouldn’t be using your university money.’

  ‘Well . . . I doubt I’ll go to uni,’ I say honestly, as if that makes it OK. ‘I’m thinking of becoming a photographer or a band manager actually.’

  It’s quiet for a moment and I realise I’m breathing a lot faster than usual. She puts her tea cup down and looks at me earnestly.

  ‘Mrs H, is this intervention legal?’ I ask.

  She doesn’t answer the question. She just talks to me about welfare and adulthood and my future and all these other concepts that at the moment seem entirely foreign to me.

  ‘It’s not so bad,’ I say at the end of it all. She knows that I’m lying. And she knows that I know that she knows.

  I feel embarrassed. I look at the floor, my shoes, the paint chip on the cupboard — anywhere but at her.

  ‘Mrs H, how did you find out?’ I ask.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she says after a moment. ‘There’s no one else, is there? No family?’

  ‘Um, not really. No dad, no grandparents. It’s just me and Mum. Always has been.’

  She sighs. ‘That doesn’t make it easier.’

  I say nothing.

  She takes her cup to the sink, pausing to look out the window. ‘It means so much to her that you go to Holy Family. You did it for her; now she needs to get better for you.’

  I swallow. ‘It’s not that easy,’ I tell her. ‘She doesn’t listen, doesn’t talk. There’s a wall there.’

  ‘Matthew, this troubles me so much,’ she says. ‘You should not have been dealing with this on your own. You should have come to me sooner.’

  ‘I’ve had a lot on my plate,’ I say. ‘Talking wasn’t the priority.’

  ‘Yes, but your wellbeing is paramount,’ she says. ‘As a child, you should always be the priority.’

  I’m silent, chastened. Chastened enough for myself and for my mum.

  Mrs H pauses for a moment then continues. ‘Matthew, these are the seeds of your future that you are planting today,’ she explains. ‘If there’s anything that I can help with, then I would like to try. At least until your exams are over. This is your time now — yours and yours alone.’

  I nod.

  The doctor taps lightly at the doorway and motions for me to come into the living room. I look to Mrs H and she follows, standing in the doorway while I sit down on the couch.

  Dr Talbot talks about school and how a home environment needs to be stable for a child, but all I can hear is static.

  Then she tells me she has booked my mother in for a psychological assessment next week.

  ‘She might try to get out of it,’ she says, ‘so I guess it’s on you to make sure she attends.’

  ‘He’s had enough “on him”,’ Mrs H snaps.

  Dr Talbot looks from her to me. ‘I’m just pointing out the facts,’ she says, handing me a card. ‘Call if you need anything.’

  She closes the door behind her.

  Mrs H rolls her eyes. ‘Good Lord, if that’s what professional help is like nowadays we’re in trouble. She was no help at all.’ I move to stand up, but she gestures to me to stay seated. ‘I’m going to have a private word with your mother.’

  She walks down the hallway. I wait until she’s out of sight, then tiptoe after her until I’m within earshot.

  ‘Mrs Fullerton, you have to understand the gravity of what Matthew is going through,’ I hear her saying. ‘I don’t care what that doctor says, asking him to attend a doctor’s appointment with you on the first day of his HSC exams is not on.’

  ‘It’s OK, Mrs H —’ I say, walking in.

  ‘Matthew, that is enough,’ she says, glaring at me. ‘You’ve yet to graduate so you’re still one of my pupils, and I demand that you pay your future the attention it deserves. Even if you intend to stay at home caring for your mother for the next few months or years of your life, eventually you will want to move on, and having your Higher School Certificate behind you makes it that much easier to move to something that is both practical and beneficial.’

  ‘OK, but —’

  ‘And I will be asking the supervising staff to make sure you are at each exam.’

  ‘OK,’ I mumble, defeated.

  ‘Will you need anything else from me, Matty?’ Mrs H asks.

  I shake my head.

  ‘Ring the school if you need anything,’ she says. ‘My extension is on the
fridge, I don’t know if you noticed it.’

  ‘I wasn’t paying attention,’ I say.

  ‘Don’t be afraid to reach out to your friends either,’ she tells me. ‘You might have got used to being leant on, but I know you can count on them. I’m sure of it.’ She turns to my mother. ‘Ms Fullerton,’ she says, looking at her the way she looks at a student, ‘I hope you follow through with Dr Talbot. I care about my pupils as though they were my own children. Had I any idea what Matthew was dealing with earlier, I would have been able to offer more support.’

  My mother doesn’t say anything.

  ‘Please do not be ashamed by the taboo surrounding mental illness,’ Mrs H says finally. ‘It is nothing to be ashamed about.’

  ‘You’ve made your point,’ my mother mutters.

  Mrs H nods a quick goodbye to the both of us and lets herself out the door — my very own Mary Poppins giving me a spoonful of sugar when I needed it the most.

  I’M PANICKING.

  A text from Gillian wakes me up on Monday morning and I realise it’s here. Everything that I have been told my future hinges on. I pray to a God I’m not sure I believe in for my classmates, for Mo’s sister, for every student who — unlike myself — actually cares.

  But still, I have studied. I’ve revised, done practice exams and written silly little rhymes to remember words and terms, because maybe on some level, I too believe that it might change my life. And now here it is. The first exam.

  I reply with a blunt You’ll be fine and leave it at that. I’m ninety-nine per cent sure it was her that couldn’t keep her mouth shut about my mum, but I’m not ready to confront her just yet.

  I quickly run over my study notes, put on my school uniform, then rush out into the kitchen for a speedy breakfast. I’m about to leave the apartment when I notice Mum’s keys on the entrance table. Like I need the added drama of a missed appointment today.

  ‘Wasn’t your appointment at 8.30 a.m.?’ I ask, walking in to her bedroom without knocking.

  She rolls over and looks at me, her eyes still groggy.

  ‘I postponed it,’ she says. ‘She gave me an afternoon slot.’

  I realise I don’t have time to waste following up the story. I need to believe her.

  ‘Well, make sure you go,’ I tell her. ‘You’re still good-looking, you know. There’s no need to stay inside the house forever.’