Natural Born Loser

by Oliver Phommavanh

  ‘Raymond’s right, we need to think about the future of Barryjong,’ Randa says. ‘We won’t be here next year anyway.’

  ‘Our school slogan is aim high,’ I say. ‘Let’s reach for the stars, even if we have to high-five some aliens to get there.’

  ‘Alright then.’ Ally digs into her pocket and pulls out a few coins. ‘It’s not much.’

  Mr Humble gives us an empty jar and Ally drops the coins in.

  I smile at her. ‘It’s a start.’ I take out my wallet to fetch my coins to put into the jar. Everybody follows us.

  Zain sighs. ‘I guess I can survive without an iceblock for one day.’

  I grab the jar and shake the coins. ‘Think about it, Zain. If we can do this, they might name the air conditioners after each of us. The RayBee air conditioner sounds awesome.’

  Zain’s eyes grow wider. ‘How about Zain’s arctic blaster?’

  Randa laughs. ‘It’ll be more like Zain’s flamethrower, because it’ll be blowing hot air like you.’

  Zain grins. ‘At least I’ll be keeping kids warm in winter.’

  Mr Sanders knocks on the door. ‘Are you ready, prefects?’ He’s a stocky Year Two teacher with silver streaks in his hair. He’s also a pro at taking photos so he’s always our school photographer. He’s holding his fancy camera with a lens that’s the size of my head. ‘Let’s start with some shots in front of our sign.’

  We get outside, squinting at each other in the morning sun that already feels like it could set my hair on fire. Mr Humble checks our uniforms, straightening our self-cooking blazers. He stops in front of Zain. ‘Is that strawberry jam?’

  He rubs the pink stain on his shirt. ‘Sorry, Sir.’ Zain eats his breakfast like he plays soccer, in a mad rush. He runs to the toilets to wash it out.

  ‘Mum ironed my uniform twice this morning,’ Randa says. ‘My hijab feels like a helmet.’

  ‘Do your parents make you wear it?’ I say.

  Randa shakes her head. ‘Wearing the hijab is a family tradition so I’m happy to wear it.’

  ‘That’s cool.’

  We walk over to the front gate and Mr Sanders lines us up. ‘I haven’t taken any prefect photos for years,’ he says. ‘Great to see some leaders back at Barryjong.’

  Zain bursts through and stands between Ally and Randa.

  Mr Sanders turns the photo shoot into an exercise routine. Hands by your side. Smile. Hands clasped in front. Smile. Turn left. Smile. Swing your head right. Smile. Sweat like crazy. Smile.

  Just when I’m about to melt into the concrete, Mr Sanders takes us inside the office for some more shots. I wonder if this is how politicians feel when it’s election time. No wonder a lot of them look like they have a steel jaw.

  Zain makes rabbit ears behind Ally’s head. ‘Can we do some silly photos, where we pull a face?’

  ‘I thought you were already doing that,’ Randa says.

  ‘Go for it!’ says Mr Sanders.

  ‘Hey, Raymond, I dare you to pull a face that will scare Mr Sanders,’ Zain says.

  ‘I dare everyone to do that,’ I say.

  Mr Sanders aims his camera at us and I stretch out my ears like an elephant. I turn to face the other prefects and their funny faces crack me up.

  Mr Humble laughs. ‘Imagine that photo in the newsletter.’

  I can imagine the headline now:

  CRAZY PREFECTS GET AIR CON FOR CLASSROOM

  Forget the newsletter, we might even make it on the evening news. I reckon we have a shot. Team Barryjong has Randa’s brains, Zain’s soccer flair, Ally’s creative skills and then there’s me. I don’t know what my special ability is, but I hope I find out soon.

  At recess, I’m out on the field, goalie assistant again. But I’m doing a lot more these days. For a start I’m fielding questions.

  ‘So when do we get our new air con?’ the goalie asks. Tim’s from 5L and their classroom is just as hot as ours – and he has almost two years left at Barryjong.

  ‘We need to raise some money first,’ I say.

  ‘What, we have to pay for it ourselves?’

  ‘Well, air conditioners don’t grow on trees.’

  I watch the tangle of legs further up the field. Bilal lobs the ball in the air and it lands right in front of me. Nobody’s around. Should I kick it? Should I run up the field with it? Both are mega uncomfortable choices. I bash my knees together.

  Tim steps forward. ‘I’ll get it.’

  ‘No.’ I stand with hands on hips, doing my best super-hero pose. I bet I look more like a wonky teapot, but I don’t care. ‘I got it this.’ I tap my prefect badge and kick the ball forward. I imagine the field is my backyard, without the clothesline and Gina’s undies scattered everywhere.

  Fatima attacks my ankles, but I keep the ball away from her. I’m in the middle of the field and there’s a stampede of kids ready to kick my shins. Zain waves his hand in the air. ‘I’m open, Raymond.’

  Those are words I never thought I’d hear from him. I take a deep breath and lob the ball over to him. It bounces to his left and he quickly swoops over to get it. I follow him all the way down to the goal. I’ve never been this close to my team’s goal before. Zain shoots and misses. I collect the ball and there’s a swarm of kids around the goals. That gives me an idea. I swing my leg back and kick the ball at Bilal’s legs. It rebounds off him and it goes through the goalie’s legs. It’s a goal. My first goal. Kinda. But I’ll still take it.

  I put my hands up in the air and kids all rush over to pat my hat. I don’t feel anything because my head has already floated off like a stray balloon in the sky.

  Bilal’s team kicks off and Zain runs after it like a dog after a frisbee. I tap my badge again and spend the rest of the game trying to get more of the ball. I miss a whole lot of times, but even that’s fun. The bell rings and I’m dripping with sweat. I walk to the bubbler and nearly suck it dry.

  Zain takes a drink beside me. ‘You were on fire, Raymond!’

  ‘I just wanted to challenge myself.’

  ‘Nah, your prefect badge must have given you superpowers.’

  My badge is more like a mask that I can hide behind. Nobody knew I existed until I became a prefect. Now all I have to do is somehow morph into a leader, somebody cool like Zain.

  At lunchtime, we’re back in the library for another prefects’ meeting. Zain’s there too, probably to make sure Randa doesn’t hog the whole spotlight. Randa rolls her pen between her palms. ‘Okay, prefects, what should our first fundraiser be?’

  It’s been a while since Barryjong did any kind of fundraising. Year Six used to do some for their farewell gift like a school plaque or flag. But we’ve had so many rotten Year Sixers over the years that the gift became the fact that they were leaving the school forever.

  ‘We should do a cake stall,’ I say. ‘Gina, my little sister, would buy up everything.’

  Gina’s an expert sugar detector. One time she sniffed through a basket full of dirty clothes to find a half-eaten sherbet in one of my pockets.

  ‘I feel sorry for your parents,’ Randa says.

  ‘How about a teachers’ car wash?’ Zain says. ‘We clean cars and can stay cool using the hose too. Win–win.’

  ‘It’ll take us ages to wash all the cars,’ Randa says. ‘Get our classes to do it then,’ I say. ‘It’ll only take us an hour if we all help.’

  ‘Let’s do the cake stall on one day, and then the car wash on the next,’ Ally says. ‘Start with a one-two punch.’

  We keep adding things to the list. Sausage sizzle. Mufti day with a crazy theme. Disco. Movie night. They’re things that we’ve had before, but I remember that nobody really got into it, or a few bullymons just ruined the whole event. Maybe the school will care this time if it means getting new air con.

  At dinner that night I tell Mum and Dad about the cake stall.

  Mum raises her hand up. ‘I want to help!’

  ‘Great,’ I say. ‘Can we order a few cakes?’

&nbs
p; ‘Barryjong hasn’t had a cake stall since you were in kindy.’ Mum starts looking at her phone for recipes. ‘I’m going to bake something!’

  Dad knocks over his glass, which luckily was empty. ‘When have you ever baked?’

  ‘Never, but now’s a good time to start. It’s for a great cause,’ Mum says. ‘Oh, what about a chocolate mud cake?’

  Dad grins. ‘I get to be the taste tester.’

  Gina licks her lips. ‘Me too.’

  ‘You’ll probably eat the whole thing before it makes it to the oven,’ I say. I glance down at my prefect badge. Mum has never wanted to bake anything. Maybe it does have magic powers after all.

  I step into the school office the next morning and find Ally holding a bunch of paintbrushes.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I say.

  ‘I’m painting a giant fundraising target to put up on the wall.’ Ally puts the paints down and rolls out some paper. ‘We add the amounts we raise so everyone knows how we’re going.’

  ‘Do you need any help?’

  ‘Sure. Can you keep this paper flat on the ground?’

  I crouch down and lay my hands on the corners of the paper. ‘Does Randa know you’re doing this?’

  Ally shakes her head. ‘I went straight to Mr Humble. Randa would probably have shut me down.’

  ‘Yeah, she can be a bit pushy,’ I say. ‘But she’s not mean. She just wants to do things quickly.’

  Ally dips her paintbrush into some black paint. ‘A bit? It’s either her way or nothing.’

  ‘Once you get to know her, she’s pretty cool,’ I say. ‘Randa will get to know you and she’ll see how talented you are.’

  ‘Thanks, Raymond,’ she says shyly, focusing her attention on painting the target. It’s like a giant ruler.

  Ally finishes it off by writing twenty thousand dollars at the top. She stands back to check it out. ‘Wow, that target looks so far away, doesn’t it?’

  I move up close to the target. ‘Now it’s not so bad.’

  Ally laughs. ‘I can see why Mr Humble picked you … you’re just a normal kid who’s easy to talk to.’

  I feel my face go red like someone’s tipped a whole tin of paint on my head. Maybe I have some of Dad’s kindness rubbing off on me.

  Mr Humble steps out of the office. ‘Raymond, your mum called.’

  ‘Huh? Why?’ I say.

  ‘She wants to help run the cake stall,’ Mr Humble says. ‘She’s not the only one. A lot of parents have asked if they can do anything.’

  ‘Can they clean my room?’ Ally says.

  ‘Mine too.’ We both crack up. Mum wasn’t kidding about loving her old school. If I wasn’t a prefect, I’d be drowning in embarrassment. But it’ll be cool to have her around. She’ll get to see me in action.

  Everybody at Barryjong is hanging out for the cake stall today. There’s a trail of excited kids with their containers and trays of treats coming through the school gates. Ally and her friends made some bright posters which have everyone drooling. Gina keeps telling me she wants to lick the posters, and I don’t blame her. Luckily, Mum drove us to school, but I still had to guard her chocolate cake from Gina’s fingers.

  Mum’s with the other parents who are there to help set up the cake stall before recess. It’s nice of Mr Monk to let her have the morning off. The prefects help out too. I spot Mum’s cake between Zain’s box of dounts and Miss Saxena’s coconut cake. We have enough treats to spread out across five tables. The odd one out is Ally’s bowl of fruit salad.

  I look into the bowl. ‘That’s too healthy for a cake stall.’

  Ally shakes her head. ‘Well, too much cake makes me sick.’

  ‘You must be an alien from another planet,’ I say.

  Ally puts her fingers on top of her head for pointy ears. ‘Yeah, a green, leafy planet with giant fruits and vegetables.’

  ‘Now that sounds scary,’ I say. ‘No offence.’

  ‘It’s okay, my parents are health freaks,’ she says. ‘I’m used to it.’

  One of the office ladies, Mrs Chang brings over a Tupperware box. ‘Is there any room for my brownies?’ She says. ‘They’re gluten free, sugar free and dairy free.’

  Zain frowns. ‘They might as well be free then.’

  ‘I’ll buy one,’ Ally says. ‘They sound healthy.’

  ‘Um, I’ll get one too,’ I blurt out, hoping they taste half as good as they look.

  Mr Humble comes over and pinches a piece of Randa’s mum’s baklava, putting his money into the box. ‘I can’t resist these tasty delights,’ he says to Mrs Bashir who is helping with the stall. She and Randa are very alike – the same round cheeks and steely determined eyes.

  ‘Thank you, I made them last night.’

  Her pocket buzzes and she takes out her phone and diary, talking and writing without looking at her paper. Now I know where Randa gets it from.

  Randa folds her arms and beams with pride. ‘Mum’s the engine that keeps Dad’s butcher shop running. She does the accounting, paperwork …’

  ‘And making fantastic sweets,’ I add.

  Randa smiles. ‘She’s the complete package.’

  No wonder Randa is a leader. It really does run in the family.

  Mrs Bashir puts her phone away and Mum ropes her in for a chat.

  ‘You’ll have to give me the baklava recipe,’ Mum says. ‘I’ve got the baking bug and want to give it a go.’

  I love seeing Mum trying out new things, especially if it involves sweets. Baklava is like a sugary bomb in your mouth that makes your teeth itchy, in a good way.

  ‘Prefects, you can buy something to save for later,’ Mr Humble says.

  ‘Cool, we get first pick, another prefect perk.’ Zain brings out his wallet and grabs a piece of macadamia and chocolate fudge, a pistachio tart and a slice of hazelnut cake. ‘I love anything with nuts.’

  ‘No wonder you’re so nutty,’ Randa says.

  Zain bites into the brownie. ‘When I was living in Ghana, my mother used to bring back nuts for us after a hard day of work,’ he says. ‘She said it would give my big brother and I heaps of energy.’

  Sometimes I forget Zain has a big brother, because he hardly talks about him. I still haven’t asked Zain about why his brother didn’t come over here with his family.

  I choose a few sweet treats and then pick up a bowl of fruit salad.

  Ally hands me a fork. ‘Don’t forget to eat that first, before your tongue goes numb with sugar.’

  Mr Humble gathers up all the teachers and parents and brings them to the staffroom for morning tea. He turns to Randa. ‘Are you sure you don’t need any more help?’

  ‘We appreciate the help to set up but this was our idea, so we should run it ourselves.’ She leans towards Mrs Tseng. ‘Besides, we have a teacher looking out for us.’

  ‘We’re feeding crazy kids with sugary treats,’ Zain says. ‘What could go wrong?’

  Mr Humble gives us all high fives. ‘Good luck, prefects!’

  Zain roars. ‘Thanks, coach.’

  The recess bell rings and the kids charge towards us with their grubby hands. They soon gobble up all the tarts and cakes. Zain shakes the bucket full of coins and notes we’ve raised. ‘If we do this every week, we’ll get the air cons by next month.’

  Khaled from 4T, makes his way up to the table and he spots a tray of ten cupcakes with layers of icing.

  ‘How much for one of those?’ he asks.

  ‘Fifty cents,’ I say. I’ve seen Khaled hanging around Russell Carney and I wonder if he’s acting as Russell’s delivery boy today.

  ‘I’ll take the whole tray,’ says Khaled, slapping down a five-dollar note and walking off with the tray, sampling a cupcake. He walks past Russell and winks at him. Russell gives him a thumbs up. Could Russell be encouraging his cronies to support us? Maybe you can tame a bullymon with sweets. I’m thrilled to see him using his bullymon powers for good.

  Khaled shares his cupcakes with his friends and they walk into t
he middle of the playground. Khaled finds Tien from 6S who has a muffin in his hands.

  ‘Yo, Tien!’ Khaled yells as he quickly launches a creamy missile straight at the back of Tien’s head.

  ‘Oi! What do you think you’re doing?’ he says, wiping the icing from his hair. He spots Khaled and aims his muffin at him. ‘You want some of this?’

  ‘I dare ya,’ Khaled teases. His friends aim their cupcakes at Tien’s friends.

  Tien rubs more icing from his neck. ‘Let’s see how you like it.’ Tien unleashes his choc-chip covered rage at Khaled by chucking his muffin at him.

  Khaled ducks. ‘Food fight!’ Khaled’s friends throw their cakes at anybody near them.

  Howard, another one from Russell’s gang, runs up to Khaled with a bag full of jam rolls and lamingtons that didn’t come from our stall, and they’re soon being thrown in all directions.

  Randa howls like a wounded wolf as she ducks a coconut-coated bomb. ‘We need to stop them before it’s a full-on food war.’

  ‘I’ll get Mr Humble,’ Mrs Tseng says, scurrying away to the staffroom.

  ‘Let’s go, prefects!’ I yell, grabbing an empty foil tray to shield myself.

  ‘Choose your weapon,’ Zain says, grabbing a donut and holding it like a frisbee.

  Ally squeals. ‘No! Don’t waste any more food.’

  Zain drops the donuts and grabs an empty tray instead. We all run into the playground, where it’s raining coconut, jam, and chocolate icing. It’s Gina’s dream come to life. But she doesn’t looking like she’s having fun. Her friends are getting pelted by donuts. Randa comes to their rescue, waving her arms around like she’s trying to signal a plane to land.

  ‘Thanks for saving my sister,’ I say.

  Randa nods. ‘It’s not over yet.’

  Ally’s yelling at a bunch of boys who are picking up pieces of cake off the ground and throwing them again. It’s disgusting but not as gross as the kids who are eating them.

  A few kids are reloading cakes and treats straight from our tables. Zain and I stand in front of them. Zain dives to swat down a tart as if he’s saving a soccer goalie. He crashes into two tables and they both collapse, tipping all of our remaining cakes onto the ground.