by Alice Pung
Published by Black Inc.,
an imprint of Schwartz Publishing Pty Ltd
Level 1, 221 Drummond Street
Carlton VIC 3053, Australia
[email protected]
www.blackincbooks.com
Introduction and selection: © Alice Pung 2016
Alice Pung asserts her moral rights in the collection.
Individual stories © retained by authors, who assert their rights to be known as the author of their work.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior consent of the publishers.
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:
My first lesson / edited by Alice Pung.
9781863958707 (paperback)
9781925435252 (ebook)
Bullying—Juvenile literature.
Identity (Psychology)—Juvenile literature.
Fairness—Juvenile literature.
302.343
Cover and text design by Peter Long
CONTENTS
Introduction by Alice Pung
A New Type of Education by Keely Brown
Esther Penrose and Billy Boy by Isabella Newton
A Child’s Demons by Laura Ham
No by William Woodrow
A Sketch of Perfection by Ann Liang
Indian and Insignificant in Australia by Shayna Correa
The Art of Water Pouring by Ysabel Dungca
Camp Letters: Patrios-lundusism by Noa Abrahams
A Lasting Lesson by Coco Xiaoge Huang
Pandora’s Phoenix: The lesson version by Geena Mawby
To Cope by Mia Cummins
The Broken Fairytale by Genevieve Somerville
Lessons by Jacinta Barnard
Red in the Dark Woods by Sabira Hasanoff
Game of Hate by Shraddha Mehta
The Lesson Never Taught by Niamh Formosa
A Southern Rose by Odessa Blain
The Bench by Olivia Dimovski
Words on the Back of Bathroom Doors by Claudia Connelly
“What Did You Learn?” by Neve Traynor
Glasses by Sanna Wei
The Dangers of Overthinking by Arshya Kulkarni
Red by Sara Clarke
Blind Spot by Sarah Chahine
Life Lesson #1: People aren’t always who you think they are by Francis Cao
Notes on Contributors
Extract from Laurinda
About Alice Pung and Room to Read
INTRODUCTION
When I was growing up, I never wrote stories about my own life. I felt that my routine of going to school and going home everyday – what millions of kids everywhere did – was too boring. I thought that real life, the life I was meant to live, would happen elsewhere, at another future time. Yet as a writer, I keep returning to the stories of my teenage years. I realise now that they were pivotal in shaping the adult I became.
I went to five different high schools, each one a unique microcosm filled with hundreds of distinct personalities. Even before I understood what the term politics meant, after a couple of weeks at each new high school, I instinctively knew where different groups belonged in the school’s unspoken hierarchy. At no other point in my life as a writer have I had access to such a diverse blend of characters. Kurt Vonnegut once remarked that “True terror is to wake up one morning and discover that your high school class is running the country.”
We all remember our adolescent years vividly, perhaps because it was the first time we felt certain emotions at their strongest. When I wrote Laurinda, I’d finally become articulate enough to give voice to the thoughts of my fifteen-year-old self. I know that what is in our heads as teenagers is more expansive than what we are capable of expressing out loud. Yet the frustrating paradox is that although we expect teenagers in books (written by adults) to sound exactly the same as how they talk, we expect teenagers to write like precocious adults in essays and assignments. Is it any wonder then that teenagers writing to an audience of adults will not sound like “themselves”?
The stories in this anthology are special because they capture the school experience with rare authenticity. These are not adults writing about teenagers, but real young adult writers. I selected them purely for their voices, without knowing their names, ages, genders or schools.
The students in this anthology write with a scope of imagination that is incredible and yet unsurprising: all students, if given the support and freedom to find their voices, will test the boundaries of their internal universe. Ordinary everyday objects – graffiti, glasses, a paintbrush, a sanitary pad – become metaphors for philosophical musing. The social media and technology references – one of the hardest things to get right in the YA genre – are pitch perfect here, because this is the secret lingo of teenagers.
This book is not just “stories about school”. It is also about intergenerational friendship, heartbreak, loss of a parent, domestic violence, privilege and poverty, overseas epiphanies, mental illness and explorations of cultural identity and class. It includes diverse genres such as science fiction, horror, historical fiction, philosophy, literary fiction, unconventional romance, travel writing, memoir and comedy.
I didn’t only pick the most “eloquent” and “lyrical” writers, but also deliberately included students whose voices were the most raw and compelling: those reeling from the death of a loved one, facing social exclusion, speaking earnestly about their fears and anxieties. These voices are usually marginalised because these students often think that they are not “real” writers, as they can’t spell well, or structure a story or use thesaurus-type words. But writing about these things takes real guts, and to me, their voices are as real as it gets.
And the lessons learned? Charity, kindness, acceptance, compassion, love (of others and of oneself) – themes that carry a soft core of sentiment within them, so in the “adult” literary world must be coated by a hard shell of irony. Yet this is what I love about young adult writing – its earnestness, its uncompromising morals, its unabashed outpouring of emotion, its unapologetic insistence that the world can and should be a better place.
It is then fitting that proceeds of this book will go to Room to Read, an organisation that partners with local communities around Asia and Africa to help develop literacy skills and the habit of reading among primary-aged children and ensure girls can complete secondary school with the skills necessary to succeed in education and beyond.
I am very proud of these stories. I thank all our contributors for their insight, courage and skill, and I hope you will find their voices as captivating as I do.
Alice Pung
A NEW TYPE OF EDUCATION
Keely Brown
“Have you got your lunch?”
“Yep.”
“Have you got all your books?”
“Yes, Mum.”
“Is your phone on? I might need to call you.”
“Yes, Mum.”
“Are you sure? I’ll call it.” Mum leaned over and started groping through her handbag, one hand still on the steering wheel.
“Mum! Traffic!” I lunged at the steering wheel, fighting to keep it straight. A car horn blared beside us.
Mum sat up slowly, her eyes on her phone. I said, “Do you even realise that we’re in a moving vehicle?”
My phone started vibrating in my blazer pocket.
“Is it ringing?” she asked.
“Yes. Now please focus or I won’t need a phone for too much longer.”
Thankfully, Mum was silent for a minute as she remembered the route to get to my new school. But it didn’t last.
“Let’s put on the radio.” She pressed a button and Billy Joel slammed out of the stereo. As Mum started singing, her voice like a cat’s yowl, I leaned my head back against the headrest and stared out the window.
Moving schools wasn’t easy, but I was feeling quietly confident. I was doing everything right – pristine uniform, neat hair, plus I was running wonderfully early. Mum was more nervous than me; she had spent all morning bent over my bag, pulling things out, and putting things in that she thought I might need.
It wasn’t long before we pulled up in front of College High. Mum killed the engine and turned to me, her bottom lip trembling.
“Don’t you dare cry,” I said.
She looked down.
Grinning, I gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and climbed out of the car, my school-regulation bag slung over one shoulder.
The first thing I noticed, as I climbed the infinite steps, was that none of the students, hunched over their laptops, were wearing the uniform. I frowned. They were just asking for a detention. The second thing I noticed was how big the campus was. Buildings soared like mountains on all sides of an enormous open space littered with wooden tables. A metal bridge stretched from one building to another.
I sat down, opened my bag and pulled out a science textbook. I had science first, so I wanted to prepare. I flipped through the perfect pages, savouring that sanitary smell of printer ink.
When the bell rang half an hour later, I placed the book back in my bag and stood up. The quadrangle was now teeming with students. I paused. None of them were wearing the uniform; I looked like a unicorn among horses. Maybe I should have worn my hair out. I was knocked and jostled as kids streamed past on all sides. A wave of longing washed over me, making me feel small and overwhelmed. I was stuck in a place where I didn’t want to be and where I didn’t know anyone. What were my friends doing? They were probably already in classes, maybe maths. I wished I was with them.
Navigating the maze of corridors was a lot easier on paper than it was in real life. The second bell had rung well before I located my classroom. I opened the door gingerly, an apology ready on my lips.
“I’m really sorry I’m late, I—” My words were drowned out by a torrent of laughter emanating from the students. A man in a T-shirt and shorts stood behind the lab bench that served as a teacher’s desk, scribbling lazily on a piece of paper. He looked up when he saw me enter the room, cocking his head to one side.
“I think you have the wrong school,” he said. “City Girls Grammar is about two k’s that-a-way.” He pointed a finger out the window then looked back down at his paper.
“I don’t think you understand. I’m the new student. Charlotte Georgiana Underwood.” I smiled, but he didn’t look up. I stood there for a moment longer, waiting for some acknowledgement that he had heard me, but he didn’t react.
I sighed and moved past him to sit down at the only empty seat, in the dead centre of the front row. Getting to the chair was hard enough, sitting in it harder still. A girl with long blue hair and thick eyeliner glared at me as she swung her feet off my chair.
“Thanks,” I said stiffly, sitting down.
The teacher still hadn’t moved. I raised a hand. “Excuse me, sir?”
“Yes, Charlotte?”
“You realise the second bell has gone, don’t you?”
“I do, actually.”
The girl sitting next to me piped up. “What’re you, stupid? Do you actually want to learn stuff?”
I turned to her. “Of course I do. That’s why I’m enrolled in school.”
“I’m only here because it’s compulsory,” she replied, studying her black-painted nails. “And anyway, why’re you in uniform? We don’t have one of them here.”
I looked down at my clothes. That would explain a lot. “But it says there is on the website.”
She snorted. “Don’t believe everything you read on the internet. And besides, why’d you want to wear one? I’m sure your old school wouldn’t have allowed blue hair.” She ran a hand through her electric-blue mane. “By the way, I’m Jamie.”
I was about to reply when the teacher started talking, finally bothering to move. I hushed instantly. “I’m Mr Woods. Welcome to science. Who knows the differences between a plant and an animal cell?”
My hand narrowly avoided Jamie’s face in its eagerness to be seen.
It was halfway through the class when Jamie slid a piece of paper onto my desk. It had two columns, one titled “questions answered” and the other “questions answered wrong”. I counted the tallies underneath: 35–34. I frowned.
“… the process of mitosis?” Mr Woods finished.
My hand shot up without thinking. Jamie kicked me under the table.
“Ow!” My hand fell to my shin. Behind me, I heard the class sigh collectively, Mr Woods included. I blushed.
In what was a first for me, I picked up a pen and scribbled a reply. “Oh, is that not normal?” I slid it across to Jamie.
My hand stayed by my side for the rest of the class.
As I left the room, Jamie fell into step with me.
“I think I have a lot of work to do with you,” she said. “How about we start with an education in independence? Meet me at 7-Eleven after school.” And with that, she dropped back into the crowd.
ESTHER PENROSE AND BILLY BOY
Isabella Newton
“Meow?” A cat called in the thickets of a bush. Its emerald eyes were locked on Alice. She stared at the strange creature. Only its face could be seen in the afternoon light, making it impossible to guess what colour it was. If she was a paint salesman she may have said something ridiculous like Lightning Yellow or Ember Ginger or maybe even Delicate Red. But in reality the cat was yellow with white streaks, like butter melting onto toast.
“Meow.” The cat was now stretching out, anticipating a pat.
“No” was all Alice said as she turned towards her new home.
“Can you go drop this over to our neighbour, Alice, the one across the road?” Her mother handed her a plate decorated with a small apple pie. An ample meal for an elderly neighbour. The apple pie – along with volunteering for the school canteen, joining a gym and connecting with the neighbours – was part of Alice’s mum’s scheme to fit in. So far it was working but Alice didn’t think she could handle any more forced socialising. Shouldering her backpack, she walked across the road to a house that better fitted a witch from a fairytale than an old lady.
“Meow.” It was that cat again. It zigzagged in front of Alice, on a mission to trip her over. The curious creature followed her right to the door where Alice proceeded to knock three abrupt times.
“Hello,” called an old voice wizened by age. The woman moved through the house, searching for her keys. Success was found with them sitting on her chest of drawers. She opened the door, revealing a bored-looking schoolgirl and the woman’s eternally hungry cat. “Can I help you, dear?” she asked the girl.
“My mum just wanted to give you this, that’s all.” The pie was thrust into the woman’s hands as though it was cursed.
“Oh, thank you. I’ll have that for tea. Billy, stop fluffing up her stockings, you naughty cat.” The guilty animal looked up.
“It’s okay, I don’t mind him. He’s kind of cute.”
A quick sidenote from the author: Alice, although a reasonably shy girl when talking to strangers, could talk to anyone about three topics:
a. cats
b. books
c. her desire to visit Vienna, due to a certain Ultravox song.
This elderly lady had brought up the topic of cats, and hence a short but sweet conversation ensued on the topic of ginger cats whose sole purpose was to fluff up your stockings.
And if you asked Alice to pinpoint the exact moment when her friendship with Esther
Penrose started, it was this one. With a cheeky cat and a plate of pie. From then on their conversations grew. Esther Penrose had lived a life rich with experiences. She had lived on that street for so long she could remember when some of the pine trees were only saplings. Her friend Bill, her gentleman friend (as Esther called him, for she was far too old for a boyfriend), sometimes joined them. Billy Boy and Esther’s other cat, One Eye (who did in fact only have one eye due to a nasty incident with a currawong), joined them too but only if they were fed. The conversations were nonsensical – about hair that changed with the sun, or about flowers that wilted too soon. Sometimes they would just sit and listen to the magpie song, as those birds are incapable of making an ugly sound. And although Alice’s mother wanted her to make a friend who was at least born in the same decade as her daughter, Alice and Esther soon had a friendship that was hard to match.
*
“What are you reading?” a girl with freckles speckled across her face asked Alice, while trying to peer at the cover that sat firmly on Alice’s lap. It was lunchtime and, as on other days, Alice was curled into a corner of her new school’s vast library.
“Just a book about stuff.” It was actually an old fairytale book Alice had borrowed from Esther. Alice liked the stories found inside as they were simple – stories where good conquered evil and love was simple, where solutions could be found with just a wish. However, admitting she was reading fairytales at her age would probably place her in a spot beyond her mother’s power of friendship matchmaking.
“Oh, is it the Brothers Grimm? That is one of my favourites.” Her face seemed to explode with happiness in finding a fellow reader. “Have you read any of Schönwerth’s?”
“Yeah but they are a lot more violent.” Words were coming to Alice faster now. “Do you think I should keep reading this one? It’s the original ‘Snow White’ and I really can’t see a happy ending happening.”
The girl just laughed. “Ah, look, it’s like running. It sucks while you’re running but when you get to the end it is worth it. Just keep going. Oh, I’m sorry.” A slap of the forehead. “What’s your name? I forgot to ask.”
