by Alice Pung
From that day on we spent every possible second together. We would ride our bikes or secretly rifle through our mothers’ purses, pilfering loose change that we would then pool and buy a Mars Bar. All sugared up, we would re-enact our favourite TV show, Monkey Magic. Wei-Li would be Monkey and I would be Tripitaka. We would find large sticks and pretend they were swords and staffs and fight imaginary foes who looked like Barry.
*
Hiding from Barry had become an art. At lunchtimes, Wei-Li and I would sit in the library, or jump on the Olympic-size trampoline in the gym. If there was no adult supervision we would be sent to the playground no matter how much we pleaded. On those days we would sit on our aluminium bench and share our lunches. Wei-Li would eat my samosas and I would eat his sandwiches, filled with pork balls and grated carrot. When we were together, we felt safe.
But one day, there would be no lunchtime. We were going on an excursion to Parliament House. The day was divided into two sections. In the morning, half of the class would play cricket on the lawns while the other half took a guided tour. When the first tour was finished the groups would swap. I was excited until I realised the teachers were filing us alphabetically onto the bus. My last name was Vishwanathan and I was told to sit directly in front of Barry West. For the first time since the incident with the rock, I was alone. The bus ride lasted thirty minutes. Thirty minutes of Barry kicking the back of my seat. I didn’t say anything. I just stared straight ahead.
The bus stopped and the kids pointed at the white building with its small steps. I couldn’t enjoy it; I was angry. It was a gut-wrenching anger that was growing each second in its volatility. Barry left his seat and walked towards mine. When he reached mine, he leant close to me and spat straight in my face. He walked off laughing, leaving me to wipe my face with my sleeve. Tears gathered in my eyes, but this time I felt I could do something – the rock had taught me that.
I walked off the bus, and as the bus driver opened the cargo hold, I waited. As the bus driver brought out the sports bags, I calculated. Wei Li walked up to me. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Nothing,’ I said, my arms folded and a look of determination on my face. I waited until the bags were opened and the teachers had started organising the activities. When I was confident the teachers were distracted, I walked over to a sports bag and grabbed one of the bright yellow cricket bats. I ran over to Barry and bashed it against the back of his neck. He fell and again I held up the cricket bat; this time I bashed it against his face. I couldn’t hit him anymore because the teachers had grabbed the bat and were pulling me off him.
Barry was as fine as he could be with a bloody nose, tissues and tears. While the other kids walked through the House of Representatives and the Senate, I sat on a seat, guarded by a teacher who phoned my parents.
My mother arrived, apologetic and angry. She bustled me into our red Subaru and said repeatedly, ‘What’s gotten into you? You can’t behave like this.’ I was silent until she said, ‘You must apologise to that boy.’
‘Never,’ I said.
My parents had a meeting with the school principal and Barry’s parents. I wasn’t punished and neither was Barry. The next day I discovered why.
*
It was Friday and our teacher stood in front of the class and said, ‘Barry has an announcement. Come up here and tell the class your news.’
Barry walked to the front of the class and stood there for a second.
‘I’m moving to Jakarta. I’m leaving next week,’ he said.
That lunchtime Wei-Li asked, ‘Do you think it’s because of the cricket bat?’
‘Nah,’ I said, shaking my head.
Wei-Li and I counted the days, crossing them off an imaginary calendar in our minds. Barry’s departure was marked with cupcakes and wide smiles.
On our first day of freedom, Wei-Li and I went home. We walked up Le Gallienne Street, now claiming it for ourselves. Wei-Li’s grandmother opened the door to two beaming kids.
‘Why you so happy?’ she asked suspiciously.
‘Barry’s moving to Jakarta,’ Wei-Li said.
She smiled and hugged her grandson.
*
Things changed rapidly after that. We grew up and as our faces changed, so did Canberra. An Indian restaurant, Jehangir, opened on Swinger Hill. Canberra’s Chinatown became so busy you couldn’t find parking. When I was sixteen I went to a private high school on the other side of town where people described me as ‘pretty.’
Wei-Li and I gained a group of friends who we would meet at the chess-pit in the centre of the city. We would sip lattes under the gas heaters at Gus’s Café and dream about a better life after uni. At night we would sit on scrappy vinyl-covered chairs in a bar called The Phoenix and, after a couple of beers, rant about how we hated homogeneity and longed for difference. We had become what we thought we could never be: Australian.
Hot and Spicy
Oliver Phommavanh
My tongue is on fire. My nose is clogged up with chilli. I can’t breathe.
‘Do you think it’s too hot, Albert?’ Mum asks.
I run over to the tap and try to suck it dry. It’s no use. My taste buds are shot.
My parents run a tiny Thai restaurant called Yip’s. We live at the back of the restaurant and we have our dinner just before the restaurant opens in the evening. It’s an innocent dinner until Mum drills me with questions. I am their guinea pig. Tonight’s experiment is red curry. Dad tastes the curry with his spoon. ‘Not bad for a mild curry.’
My ears prick up. ‘Mild? I can melt polar ice caps with my breath.’ My dad has a metal tongue. He makes his own famous chilli paste. He chooses the hottest chilli from the garden and chops them up, mixing in some curry powder. Dad smiles and messes up my hair. ‘Your brother’s not complaining.’
Kitchai is happily eating his rice and curry. He’s only in Year 2. His taste buds aren’t fully developed yet. I’m in Year 6 and I can already tell the difference between red and blue M&Ms. ‘That’s because he’s got so much rice,’ I say. I grab my spoon and pour red curry all over his mountain of rice. It looks like an erupted volcano. He turns into an erupted volcano: ‘Mummmmmm.’
I quickly sit back down and finish off my curry. I have a glass of water in one hand. People always say how lucky I am to have parents who are cooks. But I’m sick of Thai food. I’m tired of having the same stuff all the time. The canteen is the best thing about school. It’s got meat pies, sausage rolls and chicken burgers. It’s another reason to love lunchtime. At eating time, my teacher Mr Winfree walks around and makes sure we’re eating healthy food. He comes across Rajiv, who’s eating his fourth Turkish wrap.
‘What’s inside the wrap?’ Mr Winfree asks.
‘Um … curry paste,’ Rajiv says.
Mr Winfree narrows his eyes. ‘Smells like Nutella to me. I want to see something healthy tomorrow.’
Mr Winfree walks away and Rajiv smirks. ‘I’ll have it with jam, then.’ Rajiv loves food. He could eat my parents out of house and restaurant.
In the afternoon, Mr Winfree hands out a bright yellow note. ‘There’s going to be a Year 5/6 feast to celebrate our multicultural unit. Bring something tasty.’
I thump my desk. ‘We have to bring our own food?’
‘Just a dish from your own cultural background.’
I groan. ‘That’s so booorrrrriiinnnggg, sir.’
The bell rings. I shove the note in my bag and walk off. Mr Winfree stands in my way. ‘Albert, I need to have a word to you.’
Great. Another boring lecture about how school events are not boring. I try to save a few minutes. ‘Sir, it’s just that I always bring the same crap to these celebrations.’
Mr Winfree gives me a blank look. ‘Well, the teachers don’t think its crap. That’s why we’d like to order some extra dishes for a school luncheon.’
‘You want more Thai food?’
‘Well, you’re the only Thai kid in Year 5/6 who happens to know a good Thai restaur
ant,’ Mr Winfree says. ‘How about you bring in a menu tomorrow? I reckon your parents will love the publicity.’
I can’t believe it. The whole school is craving Thai food. Before I know it, the canteen will be selling fish cakes and pad Thai. It’ll be my worst nightmare. I want to ignore Mr Winfree’s request. But if the teachers don’t crush me into coconut cream, my parents will. Mum and Dad dance around the kitchen like they’ve won lotto. Mum hands me a stack of menus with cards and magnets.
I groan. ‘Aw, Mum, why don’t I just wear a giant “Eat at Yip’s” sign?’
Mum looks bemused. ‘Would that be okay with you?’
‘This is better than any newspaper ad,’ Dad says. ‘If the teachers love us, business will increase.’
‘We need to make sure our food is excellent,’ Mum says. ‘Whatever they order, we need to try out for dinner.’
The next day, I give Mr Winfree the menus and he comes back with the teachers’ list of dishes in the afternoon. They’re typical Thai specialities. Thai fried rice, pad see mow noodles, beef salad and red curry. I see a small note down the bottom. All mild dishes. Mr Winfree points to the warning. ‘We don’t want anything too spicy. It’ll freak the teachers out.’
I walk outside with an idea stirring around in my head. I’m going to make sure the school becomes a Thai-food-free zone.
*
Tonight, Mum cooks the pad see mow noodles. I make sure she knows I’m enjoying the food. ‘It’s great, Mum, but it could use a little more chilli.’
Mum looks at me weirdly. ‘Are you sure? Your teachers want mild food.’
Dad comes to my rescue. ‘Albert’s right. A little more chilli won’t hurt.’ He slaps me on the back. ‘It’ll put hairs on your chest.’
I don’t think the female teachers want hair on their chests. But I’m glad he takes my side. The next night, Mum sprinkles a little more curry powder on the noodles. The spices hit the roof of my mouth. My eyes are watering, but I quickly push the food down my throat. I try to remain still. ‘Not bad, Mum, but it’s still pretty plain.’
Kitchai takes a whiff and backs away. ‘Looks pretty hot to me.’
I turn to Kitchai, forcing the words through my shrewd lips. ‘Believe me, Aussies love chilli, they put it on all their dishes, even in their meat pies.’
Kitchai has never had a pie in his life. He takes my word for it, and he helps himself to a bowl of rice and some tame satay chicken. Over the next few days, Mum adds a little more spice and curry powder. I try to stay cool, even though it feels like I’ve been grilled on the BBQ. When the teachers eat this food, they will never ask my parents for Thai food again. Every half an hour before dinner, I make myself spice-proof. I scoff bubblegum and gummi bears in my mouth. I smack my lips with a lollypop. I hide a little sherbet beneath my tongue.
I feel sick walking over to the table but I sit there and eat the food in silence. I can actually see bits of chilli on my spoon. I shrug my shoulders and brace myself. It’s pure torture. The heat is intense. The sherbet evaporates. I can’t taste gummi bears anymore. I can’t taste anything. I take a sip of water, breathing heavily through my nose. I stick my spoon in my mouth to cool my tongue.
Mum walks over and smiles. ‘Are you sure your teachers will be able to handle it?’
I want to dunk my head into a bathtub of ice cubes. ‘It’s fine, Mum.’
She cracks up. ‘You’re kidding me.’
Dad comes from the kitchen with a jar. ‘We knew you were up to something. So I added some of my famous chopped chilli paste.’
I don’t know what is more embarrassing: my parents playing a prank on me, or chilli snot trickling down to my lips. I quickly grab a napkin and rush to the bathroom. I come back, chewing my towel. Mum hands me a plate of an ordinary beef salad. ‘We need to cook Aussie Thai for your teachers.’
I almost choke on my fork. ‘Aussie Thai? Is that like putting satay on a steak?’
Mum shakes her head. ‘We cook differently for people who don’t have Thai often. Even if your teachers didn’t request mild food, we would still take it easy on the chilli.’
Dad comes in and gives me another glass of water. ‘I always laugh at the Thai-style sausages and chicken sticks in the supermarket. There’s hardly any flavour on them.’
I shovel down my food. It’s not hot but I’m still fuming.
*
I can hear stomachs rumbling all around me. I don’t think anyone has had breakfast. We’re all waiting for the multicultural feast. Rajiv licks his lips at the food on display. ‘Where’s your food, Albert?’
‘Mum’s going to deliver it at recess, so it’ll be nice and fresh,’ I say, echoing Mum’s voice in my head.
Mr Winfree leaves the classroom open at recess. Mum comes in with two huge bags. We take the foil trays out onto the table. She dumps a load of plastic sporks next to them. ‘These are for your classmates.’
I roll my eyes like giant marbles. ‘Mum, why did you bring sporks for?’
‘Well, can they use chopsticks?’ she asks.
I shake my head. Mum shuffles outside. I wait until she is out of sight before I grab my bag. I take out the jar of Dad’s special chilli paste and a wooden spoon. I carefully lift the foil lids of the trays. I smear paste on the spoon and mix it into the food. Mum and Dad aren’t going to stop me this time. I’m up to the red curry when Jennie walks in with a bowl. ‘What are you up to?’
I quickly put the jar in my bag. ‘Mum just wanted me to keep mixing the stuff,’ I say, making circles in the curry.
Jennie puts her bowl down. Her sweet and sour pork is neon pink. My mum’s Chinese friends cook sweet and sour pork but it doesn’t look like it would glow in the dark. ‘The pork looks so bright,’ I finally say.
Jennie grins. ‘Yeah, my mum made it Aussie style.’ I smile back.
Mr Winfree walks in and claps his hands. ‘That smells delicious. Mr Murphy is going to be the world’s luckiest principal.’
‘Yeah, if he survives the deadly Thai food,’ I mutter under my breath.
Jennie picks up a lid on the floor. ‘Is this yours?’
Oh no! I open my bag. The paste is on all my books and pencil case.
Mr Winfree doesn’t suspect a thing. ‘Let’s start bringing our food down to the hall,’
Rajiv helps me carry my mum’s stuff. ‘I can’t wait to try your curry.’
‘You can, once the teachers are finished with it,’ I say.
‘There’s not going to be much left over.’
‘Trust me, you’ll have plenty.’
The celebration begins with a speech from Mr Murphy and Mrs Schwartz, 5/6S’s teacher. The talk only makes us even hungrier. Finally Mrs Schwartz announces: ‘Okay, Years 5 and 6, it’s time for our feast. Get a plastic plate from your teachers.’
Mr Winfree flicks the plates out like frisbees. Rajiv looks at his plate in dismay. ‘Can I have another one? I can barely even fit one spring roll.’
Mr Winfree taps him with the plate. ‘There needs to be enough food for everybody.’
‘Tell that to the teachers, sir,’ Rajiv says, pointing to the teachers, who are digging in to my mum’s food. My eyes are glued to their table. This is going to be awesome. I wish I’d brought my camera. Mr Murphy approaches me with a plate of my mum’s red curry.
‘I have a surprise for you, Albert.’ He leads me outside. My nose springs to life. I can smell something burning. It smells wonderful. It’s a BBQ. Jim, the general assistant, is cooking sausages and a few steaks.
Mr Murphy hands me a large plastic plate. ‘Because your family has been such a big help, you’re going to get some Aussie tucker.’
Jim plants a sizzling, juicy steak on my plate. ‘This is kangaroo meat. Be careful, it’s a little tough.’
Mr Murphy grabs a bowl of hot chips and tosses some next to my steak. ‘Help yourself to the tomato sauce inside.’
I stare at the steak and chips. I am in heaven. ‘Thanks, this is going to be so yummy.’
Mr Murphy grins. ‘I’m sure we can say the same thing about your mum’s food.’
I almost drop the plate. Suddenly the steak weighs a ton. I walk back into the hall. My shoulders are slouched. My eyes are glued to the steak. Kids are drawn to its smoky scent, they scream like seagulls. I ignore them and sit next to Rajiv. ‘What country is that from?’ he asks.
‘Australia,’ I say.
‘Australian food? That’s a bit weird for a multicultural festival.’
Mr Murphy yells out, ‘Albert, come here for a photo.’ He is armed with a camera. ‘I want a picture of you eating some Thai food for the newsletter.’ He gives me a spoon and leads me over to the teachers’ table. ‘Just one bite and you can get back to your steak.’
I take a spoonful of the curry. My nostrils want to run away. I look at Mr Murphy’s eager face. He’s so proud of me. I don’t think a tiny taste will hurt. The spoon enters my mouth. The chilli lashes my tongue. I quickly swallow the curry. Big mistake. The heat rises up my throat and blasts out of my mouth, ears and nose.
Mr Murphy doesn’t take the photo. He’s too busy chasing Mrs Schwartz. She’s humming around the hall, using her hands to fan her mouth. Mr Winfree goes for his can of coke. I want to tell him soft drink actually makes things worse. I don’t need to tell him. ‘Ahhh, it burns, it burns!’ he yells. Mr Winfree goes for his bottle of water and he almost swallows it whole. ‘I need more,’ he croaks. He runs out of the hall. Mr Murphy and I quickly follow him out. Mr Winfree is on his knees, bending over the small bubblers. The water trickles into his mouth.
