by Susan Fodor
Mum and I made our way to the kitchen for a hot drink while Dad undid his pants and planted himself firmly on the couch, prepared for a long session of watching the news. It struck me as odd that Dad could watch the news channel the whole weekend, considering all they did was replay the main headlines. That much news would send me into a depression spiral that only one hundred liters of ice cream would cure.
"Mya! April!" Dad yelled urgently.
We ran into the living room like paramedics expecting an emergency.
"What?" Mum asked startled.
Dad sat securely on the couch. "Look." He pointed at the television.
I crawled over the back of the overstuffed couch, pulling Mum’s gaudy red blanket after me as I slid down beside Dad, without taking my eyes from the screen.
"A local high school girl, Mya Belan, pulled an unidentified stranger from the sea this evening. She administered CPR for forty minutes till the ambulance arrived. The unidentified man is recovering at Geelong Hospital. In other news..."
"You made local news," Mum enthused, holding my shoulders. “Well I guess that explains all the missed calls.”
“Missed calls?” I asked, mystified.
“A local number started calling thirty-minutes ago.” Mum shrugged. “I didn’t recognize it, so I let it go to message bank; they probably want an interview.”
“Please decline any interviews,” I groaned. “I don’t want to get teased at school.”
“You’re a hero!” Mum said excitedly. “Don’t you want to share your story?”
I shrugged, playing it down so that Mum wouldn’t make a big deal about it.
"Forty minutes," Dad said, playing with his salt-and-pepper mustache. "Maybe you will be a nurse."
"Or a doctor," Mum corrected, slapping Dad gently.
"Or a penniless novelist living off love," I interjected.
"Don't be stupid," Dad huffed in true Russian fashion.
My parents wanted me to use my intellect in a financially rewarding fashion. When I honestly thought about the future, all the daydreaming about movie stars aside, I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life. I loved writing but hadn’t really written anything since I was in primary school. I remembered running around the school grounds with a notepad in my pocket documenting all my brilliant novel ideas. I hadn’t seen that notebook in years.
During my stint of work experience I had followed a magazine editor around his office for two weeks, and the days had been long and boring. The more news I watched, the less I wanted to study journalism; it was so depressing. With no other direction, I opted to go to university and study literature. I spent most my lunchtimes reading classics, preparing for my real life after highschool.
Since I had declined interviews the local news acquired mobile phone footage of me giving John CPR. I’d been so focused on saving John; I hadn’t noticed anyone else observing me. The video was grainy due to the dark, but you could still see my frantic attempts to save John and the two of us being loaded into the ambulance. It was shown sporadically throughout the next day. Dad recorded the spot repeatedly, and began to burn copies for our relatives near and abroad. I interpreted his actions as pride, since he’d never voice that feeling without coercion.
"Guess who'll be sitting at the popular table!" Mum sang excited. It wasn’t that she cared about status; she just wanted me to be happy. Mum had been super-popular in high school and she thought I might enjoy school if I had a posse.
"That's not my thing," I told Mum for the hundredth time. The truth was, I did sit at the popular table; when Jaimie had been invited to sit with the pop peeps she had insisted I go with her. I had worried that Miranda and her friends would chase me away; but there were worse things than being shooed away from the popular table, like being invisible at the popular table. I spent most my time reading and expanding my vocabulary, while they ignored me.
The pop peeps, as they liked to call themselves, were happy for Jaimie's DUFF to sit with them provided they didn't have to acknowledge me. After a while I began to theorize that they weren't ignoring me---they actually didn't see me. Tammy Chester confirmed my hypothesis the day she sat in my lap. She twirled around surprised, exclaiming, "OMG! I totally didn't see you!" I may have sat at the popular table in the cafeteria, but I was no more than a stain on the seat to Jaimie's friends. I lived in the no-man's-land of high school pecking order; I didn't even register.
Jaimie called me Sunday night, buzzing about how cool it was to have a celebrity for a best friend. I just rolled my eyes and told her it would blow over by Monday.
I was wrong.
celebrity
I always imagined school as a fishing net full of writhing teenagers bumping against one another in their struggle to get to the top. One of the advantages of invisibility was that I didn’t have to battle for pole position. Those competing for popularity pushed past me easily; that was until Monday.
At school strangers whispered around me, "That's her," while people who knew me through Jaimie became my best friends.
I tried to keep my head down and pretend everything was normal as I walked across the olive-speckled linoleum that lined the floors of the school. I was unlocking my derelict metal locker when Tammy Chester turned me to face her and hugged me ferociously, "OMG, Mya, you scared us!" she chided. "But it was so hero-like of you to save that dude."
In the eleven years that we'd attended school together that was the second time Tammy had ever spoken to me---the first time being the sitting-on-me incident. Tammy had graduated to the popular table due to her breasts being the biggest and most fantasized about by year 12 boys and girls alike. What her face lacked in beauty her body made up for in abundance; I wished I had boobs like that. Unfortunately, my chest was the only thing that refused to be plump on my body.
"I'm sorry," I replied, confused at what the correct response was to her declaration.
"That's OK silly," She giggled like we were best friends. "You have to sit with me in science and tell me everything."
"I thought classes were for learning," I said ironically.
"You're so funny!" Tammy giggled. "I'll see you in class."
Jaimie sauntered over from her locker, giving me an I-told-you-so look.
"Did she get a lobotomy on the weekend?" I asked Jaimie, as Tammy flounced away.
"You're like a bonafide celeb," Jaimie smiled, proud as a cat with a rat in its jaws.
"Am not," I sassed, reverting back to a childhood game.
"Are so," Jaimie shot back.
"Am not," I answered as Tim draped his arm around me.
"Ewwww," I complained, pushing Tim off, "why would you touch me? Now I need to burn my clothes."
"Come on, Mya," Tim smiled, being genuinely nice to me for the first time ever. "You're my girl’s besty. I've gotta look out for you."
My mouth dropped open. "What?"
"Celebrity," mouthed Jaimie as Tim draped his arm over her shoulders.
"See you at lunch." Tim waved and they headed off to class.
In our first years of high school Jaimie and I were inseparable, in and out of school, but as I disappeared into obscurity and she became popular, we stopped picking the same classes. Being invisible meant that I could take whatever classes I wanted without being noticed or having to cue them with friends. With people paying more attention to me, I missed the benefits of being able to blend into the crowd and disappear.
I buried my head in my locker, ignoring the weird, day-old sandwich smell that wouldn’t budge, no matter how much I sprayed it. I wanted to avoid experiencing any more odd or unusual behavior. When I emerged, Miranda Stevens was standing in front of me.
I involuntarily took a step back. Miranda was the most popular girl in school, the leader of the pop peeps. She had never even looked at me, let alone acknowledged my presence. Julia and Tamara flanked Miranda; I liked to think of them as her secretary and information officer.
“Hey, new girl,” she greeted, smirking with her perf
ect Angelina Jolie mouth. “You did good. You can join our table at lunchtime.”
“You can tell us all about the hottie you caught,” Tamara told me.
“And there’s a party on the weekend that you can bring him to,” Julia completed her duty as Miranda’s walking diary.
“Ok,” I replied, overwhelmed by the power of the popularity trinity.
“We’ll see you at lunch then,” Miranda purred.
The crowded hall parted as the three of them strutted through the breach. All they needed was a soundtrack to go with their swagger and it would have been a catwalk.
Miranda had been a runner-up in one of those teeny magazine model searches. With her wavy black hair, tan skin and amethyst eyes it was a wonder she didn’t win.
Julia was a straight-haired version of Miranda minus the movie star lips and she had common brown eyes instead of the stunning amethyst that Miranda had been gifted with. Tamara was the bookish version of Miranda with her dark hair and speckled green eyes, she reminded me of a pre-vampire Bella Swan with her serious manner and pale complexion. I wondered if they’d been attracted to each other because of the similarity of their looks or if that was a coincidence.
The pop peeps were a constant fascination. What drew them to each other? Was it looks or affluence or was it a survival instinct to flock together to get through high school? I spent a lot of time observing them, like characters in a novel, trying to decipher the motivation behind their behavior.
When Tamara had joined our group, I wondered if even names played into being popular. Before Tamara had arrived from Sydney, everyone had called Tammy by her given name, also Tamara; but Miranda had decided that it was easier for Tammy to be renamed. So for the sake of distinction, Tamara, with her serious scowl and black hair and pale skin had retained her name, while Tammy with her mountainous chest and short strawberry blonde locks was rechristened; because Miranda had decreed it, everyone followed.
It wasn’t till they’d turned the corner that I realized Miranda had called me, “New Girl.” I laughed. Miranda had created a way for me to enter the pop peeps without having to admit that I’d been sitting at the popular table for years. I hated high school politics; graduation couldn’t come soon enough.
***
The lunchroom was teaming with pubescent creatures trying to survive the awkward social hierarchy the cafeteria created as much as the abysmal food. The room constantly smelled like burnt oil. It never ceased to amaze me how many ways the cafeteria managed to serve potatoes--French fries, roast potatoes, chips, mashed potatoes, potato gems--the potato tide was endless. I picked my way through the crowd to the back table overlooking the waterfront, where the pop peeps always sat.
While I couldn’t see the tourist path that wound around Corio Bay, seeing the changing blues of the sea soothed the mind-numbing monotony of high school politics. It reminded me there was a world beyond high school; a place where people were judged on merit and character, not looks and designer labels.
By the time I’d arrived the whole group had convened at the table. Miranda was sandwiched between Tamara and Julia on one side of the table, while Jaimie, Tim and Tammy sat opposite them. Everyone greeted me as I took a seat beside Jaimie. I blushed mumbling a lame greeting in response. The pop peeps talking to me felt weird. I pulled out the volume of Tom Sawyer I was planning to read.
“You’re not going to read, are you?” Miranda said, raising a manicured eyebrow at me.
“No,” I responded, blushing and pushing the book under my plate piled high with potato gems.
“Good,” Miranda informed me, “it’s rude to read at the table. And we only read books that have been made into movies.”
“But Tom Sawyer…” I began to object.
“This decade,” Tamara qualified.
“Right.” I chewed my lip. I left out that Tom Sawyer had been reincarnated in many movies, TV series and Broadway shows.
“Was Twilight this decade?” Tammy asked seriously.
“Yes,” Jaimie responded, kindly.
“That was such a great movie.” Tammy sighed.
“The book was better than the movie,” Miranda said, with a sophisticated air.
“Yeah,” Tamara agreed.
“Definitely,” Julia added.
“For sure,’ Jaimie pitched in.
They all looked at me expectantly. “I haven’t read it,” I admitted.
Miranda looked at me with disdain. “Tell me about John,” she demanded. I had failed the pleasantries and the real reason for my invitation was being made clear. I didn’t get to eat my potato gems as Miranda peppered me with endless questions about John.
“So, what’s he look like?” Tammy asked for the thousandth time.
“He’s attractive,” I hedged.
“Jaimie said he looked like a young Brad Pitt,” Tamara stated, pointing her apple in my direction.
“He had his eyes closed,” I replied exasperated, feeling protective toward John. “The guy was unconscious. I can’t tell you any more than I know.”
“So he wasn’t that hot?” Miranda asked, giving Jaimie a pointed look. Clearly my graduation to popularity had been prompted by Jaimie’s insistence. Miranda was willing to keep me providing I had access to John and my presence enhanced the group’s social status. Jaimie had put her own friendship with Miranda in jeopardy; and if I didn’t corroborate Jaimie’s observations about John, she could lose her position at the popular table. Friendships with Miranda were flimsier than negligees.
“I didn’t say that.” I back peddled to be loyal to Jaimie.
“Even with his eyes closed he was like a 9.5 on the Richter scale,” Jaimie defended. During science class Miranda and Jaimie had started ranking boys’ hotness on the Richter scale so that Mr. Hardy would think they were studying. The habit had stuck and was now the definitive scale for hotness in our group.
“That’s higher than anyone in this school,” Miranda said, unconvinced.
“Well, he’s not from our school, is he?” Jaimie replied.
Miranda nodded; she was dating Dylan Sands, a senior from a private boys school she’d met during the modeling contest. He was an 8.9 on the Richter scale; his looks were great and could cause serious damage, but he wasn’t devastating like a young Brad Pitt who was a 9.9. We’d never recorded a ten, just like on the earthquake scale, because a guy like that would be too hot to handle.
“Do you agree?” Miranda cornered me. “Was he a 9.5?”
I thought about John’s golden skin, his long eyelashes, his proportionate nose and golden hair. There was something unearthly in his beauty even as he slept.
“Yes,” I agreed with Jaimie, who beamed with triumph, “he’s a 9.5 on the Richter scale.”
“Then I look forward to meeting him at the party.” Miranda smiled like an evil ice queen. The look in her eyes warned that disobedience would not be tolerated, if Jaimie and I wanted to keep sitting at her table, John had to be at her party. While I was happy to eat alfresco, Jaimie deserved to keep sitting with her friends.
“What if he’s still unconscious Friday?” I asked, trying to find a way out.
“Then you should get busy waking him up,” Miranda ordered.
visiting hours
After school I got off the bus at the hospital. I felt like an idiot walking into the ward; I wasn’t John’s family or a friend. I felt like the friendly neighborhood stalker. I checked my phone hoping to find a message from the nurse; there was nothing—though I reasoned the message could have been lost in his transition from the emergency room to recovery ward. The smell of hospital food, Dettol and flowers from the overpriced gift shop assaulted my nose as I made my way to the recovery ward.
A friendly young nurse with a dimpled cheeks and wholesome smile greeted me at the nurse’s desk. “How can I help you?”
“I’m looking for John Smith,” I said, blushing from scalp to toe.
“You’re Mya.” She smiled knowingly. “You pulled him from the water
.”
“Yeah.” I nodded, surprised.
“I recognize you from the news,” she explained, flicking her red curls out of her butterscotch eyes. “I’m Hannah. I’m John’s—or whatever his name is—nurse. No one’s come for him yet, and he’s still unconscious.”
“Oh,” I acknowledged, a pang of sorrow reverberating through my chest for John being alone.
“I think you should go talk to him,” she encouraged. “Research suggests that unconscious people can still hear you.”
I let her usher me into John’s closet-sized room, where he was lying peacefully, as though he were asleep. I wondered if true love’s kiss would wake him, just like Sleeping Beauty. I dispelled the thought as quickly as it had come, chastising myself for thinking of taking advantage of an abandoned unconscious boy.
The white room was bathed in fluorescent light and overlooked the main street that led into town. I could hear cars zooming by below, ferrying children home from school or just enjoying the last offerings of summer’s fading warmth. The trees below were already performing their autumn strip tease in preparation for a naked winter. I was glad for the conservative evergreens of Australia that kept their leaves throughout the seasons. It gave color to a world that would be bathed in muted grey tones throughout winter.
“We took all the machines off, except his nutrition and fluids,” she explained, seeing my confusion. “He’s fine, just not waking up for whatever reason.”
She scurried off as a buzzer trilled in the distance. Suddenly John and I were alone; his golden skin glowed against the white hospital sheets.
“Hey,” I said, awkwardly. “I’m Mya. I pulled you out of the water…”
