by Aimee Said
I turned to Simon, who was trailing us as usual. “Can’t you do something about this? You must know how to delete that photo, or at least block Camille from the group.”
Simon shook his head. “I tried to log in as the group admin this morning, but someone’s changed the password. The only person who can reset it is Mrs Turner, and she doesn’t seem to be in any hurry.”
“Great, so the only Whitlam students who haven’t seen that photo are the kids whose parents block Facebook with net nanny filters.”
“Um … I wouldn’t count on that,” said Maz. “Nicko found colour copies taped up in the boys’ toilets, senior locker rooms and on every noticeboard this morning. He ripped them down, obviously.”
“What am I going to do?” I asked despondently.
“Look at it this way–” started Maz, but before she could find a bright side to my plight Chloe Rider, who hadn’t spoken to me since Year Eight camp, appeared.
“Hi, Allison,” she said, flashing a pageant-worthy fake smile. “I just wanted to say, if you’d like to come to the Crusaders meeting at lunchtime, we’d be happy to pray for your sister’s redemption.”
I was lost for words. Maz wasn’t.
“Chloe, why don’t you go find another soul to save? Al’s is fine and so is her sister’s.”
“That’s not what I hear.”
“She said go,” said Simon.
Chloe looked at both of them and then at me, flicked up her collar and walked away with her nose in the air.
When I saw Josh heading towards me, my fight or flight instinct must’ve kicked in because I ran to the lower loos so fast I could’ve qualified for the athletics squad. According to my watch it was 12.48. Twenty-seven minutes till the end of lunch break. I clutched my bag closer to my chest and breathed through my mouth to try to avoid the stench of the toilet block. I wasn’t sure I could make it.
“Come out, Al,” said Maz for the seventh time through the locked cubicle door. “You’re going to have to face everyone sooner or later. Or are you planning to spend the rest of the week in here? Or the rest of term?”
“I’m not going back out there until break’s over,” I replied. “I’ll see you in class.”
“Fine, have your pity party.” Maz stomped across the tiled floor and the door smacked shut behind her.
I knew she was trying to help, but aside from avoiding Josh, I wasn’t up to a repeat of recess. First, Tracy had given me the sympathetic smile of someone who’d been the centre of schoolyard gossip and knew how humiliating it was, then Sally Rechichi flashed her rainbow badge at me and gave me the double thumbs up, and some random Year Seven boy came up to tell me he was also Lebanese, much to the amusement of his little mates, who’d obviously put him up to it. He seemed a bit scared when I told him where he could stick his cultural heritage.
At 12.53 the bathroom door opened again.
“She’s in there, Miss,” said Maz. “I’ve tried everything but she won’t come out.”
“Allison, it’s Ms Shields … Maryanne said you wanted to talk to me.”
I heard Maz trying not to snigger. If I ever came out, I’d throttle her.
“Uh, no thanks. I’m okay.”
“Really Allison, it’s perfectly natural to feel confused and upset at a time like this. It must have been quite a shock to learn about Larissa’s … preference. I’ve got some pamphlets about services that can help you through this, um, transition. Why don’t you come out and we can have a nice cup of chai and chat about it?”
“Thanks, but I’m happy here for the minute.”
Patchouli’s voice lost some of its trust-me-I’m-a-school-counsellor gentleness. “Allison, if you don’t come out right now, I’m going to have to get Mr Weber to take the hinges off that door. Do you want that?”
The thought of the crowd that would be attracted by the intrigue of the school tradie heading into the girls’ toilets was enough to make me slide back the bolt and open the door.
“Really, I’m fine,” I said, glaring at Maz over Pathcouli’s tie-dyed shoulder. “I just needed some thinking time.”
Patchouli put her arm around me in what she must have imagined was a comforting gesture. “Yes, you’ve got a lot to think about. But you’re not alone – the door to the Chill Out Room is always open if you want to talk.”
“I had to do something,” said Maz when Patchouli finally left. “I couldn’t spend an entire lunch break in there – it stinks. You can’t keep running away from this. The fact is, Larrie’s secret’s out and you’re going to have to deal with it.”
“Fine. If you want me, I’ll be dealing with it in sick bay.”
Thankfully, the school nurse was a lot easier to convince than Mum. When I told her I had cramps, she directed me to the camp bed in the poky office near the staffroom and tucked me in with a heated wheat bag shaped like a teddy bear.
Al Miller can’t take much more.
27
Larrie was at her computer when I flung open the door to her room after school, ready to give her a few million pieces of my mind.
“You can’t come in here without knocking,” she said, closing a chat window on her screen.
I rapped three times on the open door and walked in before she could stop me. “What’s going on, Larrie?”
“I was trying to study for my English exam tomorrow, but right now what’s going on is that my pain-in-the-bum little sister is interrupting me. Again.”
“You know what I mean. The photo. Facebook.”
Larrie kept her expression blank, but I wasn’t falling for it.
“It’s all over school, Larrie. You’ve got to do something.”
Her face cracked. “What do you want me to do, Al?”
“You can start by telling people it’s not true, obviously.”
“But it is true,” said Larrie calmly. “Why would I deny it?”
I paused, aware in the back of my mind that this was the point at which I should say something supportive to Larrie about being a woman-identifying woman, but there was way too much at stake for me to worry about doing the “right” thing at that moment.
“Don’t you care what this is doing to your reputation at Whitlam?” I asked. “Or mine? When you’re at uni you can hook up with whoever you want – make a TV series about how gay you are, for all I care – but while you’re at Whitlam everything you do reflects on me. And right now, you being outed on the world’s most popular social networking site is making me the school leper.”
“What can I do to change that if everyone’s already seen the photo?”
“I’ve already figured that bit out. All you have to do is post a comment on the photo saying that you and Beth pranked everyone into believing you were together and that they were totally sucked in by it. I can do it for you if you give me your Facebook login.”
I didn’t see how I could be more reasonable than that, but Larrie shook her head. “I’m really sorry if you’re being given a hard time because of that photo, but I’ve spent the last eighteen years trying to live up to everyone’s expectations of what Larissa Miller should do and say and be like, and I can’t be bothered any more. Beth and I have nothing to be ashamed of.”
“If that’s true, why don’t you tell Mum and Dad?”
Larrie’s expression hardened. “I will tell them – when I’m ready. First, I have to get through my exams. I’m not wrecking my future because some people have nothing better to do than gossip about stuff that’s none of their business. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got an exam to study for.”
She turned back to the computer. When she reached for the mouse, I saw that her hand was trembling.
My first instinct was to call Maz for some therapeutic revenge planning, but I wasn’t entirely sure she’d be on my side this time, so I went online in search of distraction.
I’d been too freaked out to log on to Facebook since seeing the photo on Saturday. I entered my password, wondering what the chances were that everyone had forg
otten about it by now. When I checked the Whitlam group page the photo of Larrie and Beth had been pushed into “older items” by a string of SkoolDaze announcements posted by Simon, which bolstered me enough to check my email.
On top of the messages that had been sent on Saturday, there was a new batch, including one from Camille herself, with the subject line “Let’s join forces”. I opened it.
Hi Al,
You don’t know me, but I think it’s fair to say we both have an interest in bringing down your big-headed, big-mouthed big sister.
I’ve done my bit, now why don’t you do yours? If you’ve got any incriminating evidence you’d like to share with the world, I’d be happy to post it for you – no one needs to know you’re involved.
Think about it.
Kisses,
Camille
Subject: Re: Let’s join forces
Hi Camille,
Get stuffed, you evil witch.
Al
I blocked her from emailing me again, using the step-by-step instructions Simon had sent me and Maz a few months ago. Thank God (actually, thanks to Simon) my privacy settings were so high that only my friends could post on my wall; I shuddered to think what people would make of it if they thought Camille and I were in on this together.
I told Mum I wasn’t hungry (which was true, I had a bowling-ball size lump of dread in the pit of my stomach about facing school the next day), but there was no getting out of family dinner.
“This is the first night your sister’s been able to join us for a meal in almost a week and we’re going to sit down and spend some time together,” she said, giving me a pile of napkins and a don’t-push-me look.
“Something smells delicious,” said Larrie when Dad called us to the table half an hour later.
Mum picked extra prawns out of the marinara sauce and piled them on top of Larrie’s pasta. “I thought you deserved a special treat on the eve of your first exam.”
Larrie flashed one of her crawly, I’m-so-lucky smiles. “Thanks, Mum. I can’t quite believe the exams are finally here, to be honest.”
“Less than two weeks till it’s all over and you can finally have some free time,” said Dad.
One week and three days, I thought. I took the plate that Mum handed me. She’d only given me two prawns.
“I’m sorry I’ve been so caught up since school finished. But this is what the last thirteen years of school have been for, right? Doing well in these exams so I can become a vet.”
Dad patted Larrie’s arm reassuringly. “We understand, love.”
“Are you all set for tomorrow?” asked Mum.
“I think so. Beth and I revised all of the set texts today and I think I’ve got my quotes memorised. I just hope I’ve done enough.”
I pushed my food around my plate. I’d been toying with the idea of saying something about the photo, but something in Larrie’s voice – the hint of self-doubt – made me hold my tongue.
“I’m sure you’ll do wonderfully,” said Mum. “You always do.”
“After all the hard work you and Beth have put in, you certainly deserve to,” added Dad.
I studied Larrie’s face when Beth’s name was mentioned, but her expression gave nothing away. If she didn’t have her heart set on becoming a vet, she’d have made an excellent secret agent.
She sighed. “I just wish there was more time between each of my exams. I’ve got the tightest timetable of anyone I know.”
Mum and Dad made sympathetic faces and spouted the obligatory words of encouragement.
One week and three days, I repeated to myself, clenching my fists under the table. One week and three days and then either Larrie told them the truth or I told them for her.
Al Miller is over playing happy families.
28
I usually had the kitchen to myself before school, but Mum was flapping around in her dressing gown when I got downstairs the next morning.
“You can’t do an exam on an empty stomach,” she said, putting a plate of scrambled eggs in front of Larrie, who was already dressed in her uniform even though Beth wasn’t picking her up for another two hours.
“I’m really not hungry,” Larrie said, deleting the text message she’d just received without replying to it.
Mum’s nose wrinkled. “Who’s sending you messages this early in the morning?”
“Just a friend wishing me luck.”
“I think you should turn your phone off until after the exam,” said Mum as she swatted my hand away from the toast that had popped up. “The last thing you need now is to be distracted.”
I gave up hope of getting any breakfast and grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl. “See ya.”
“Aren’t you going to wish your sister luck?”
“Break a leg, Larrie,” I said. I gave Mum an are-you-happy-now face and left before she could respond.
The school was covered in posters wishing Year Twelve luck and reminding the rest of us not to make any noise around the Humanities building during exam times. Even the Whit’s Wit home page was dominated by a graphic that said “Ssssh!”, as I discovered when I logged on in the New Media Studies lab. Technically, we weren’t supposed to use the computers there outside of class time, but the PCs in the library were snail-slow and they didn’t have any of the design software we needed, so Mr Dempster turned a blind eye to us working there.
“What brings you in so early?” asked Simon when he sat down next to me half an hour later.
“It’s the first day of Larrie’s exams. I had to get out of the house before Mum imploded with vicarious nerves.”
“Smart move. Are you feeling better? Maz said you went to sick bay yesterday.”
“Oh … yeah, I’m fine now.” I turned back to the Hot or Not photo gallery I’d been perusing on Celebrity Meltdown. Not that being ignored by the person you’re speaking to has ever stopped Simon.
“I came in to work on the graphics for my genetics assignment. I’m using Illustrator to show the colour combinations that might result from each finch pairing. If there’s one thing Ms Morales likes, it’s plenty of colour.”
I nodded automatically and clicked through to the next photo.
“Have you thought about how you’re going to illustrate your report? I could help if you need some ideas.”
Now he had my interest. “Thanks,” I said, rewarding him with a smile. “When do you think you can do it – I mean, help?”
Simon consulted his online calendar. “Maz has us rehearsing flat out until the SkoolDaze final on Friday, but we could work on it over the weekend. It won’t take long if you’ve got all your data ready – we can bling it up a bit with a few pie charts and punnet squares.”
The bell for rollcall rang.
I logged off and gathered my stuff. “Sounds great. Email me about a time.”
At least Ms Morales’s assignment was one thing I could cross off my list of things to stress about.
I didn’t tell Maz about Simon’s offer, knowing it would trigger a lecture about taking advantage of him. Unfortunately for me, Simon had mentioned it to Nicko in rollcall, and Nicko blabbed to Maz in English.
“I accepted Simon’s help with an assignment, not an invitation for a candlelit dinner,” I protested when she called me on it on the way to the canteen. “Anyway, he loves showing off how good he is at Science.”
“All I’m saying is don’t get the guy’s hopes–” Maz stopped abruptly in front of a crowd gathered in the car park. “What’s going on?”
“Someone’s car got covered in shaving cream,” a boy standing on the outskirts of the crowd told us. “They’re trying to get it cleaned off.”
We pushed through to see for ourselves. The boy was right: the old station wagon looked like it had been caught in a blizzard. Its front and back windscreens were covered in a thick layer of frothy white foam, which had also been used to write on the doors and bonnet. Two figures in white-spattered school dresses were trying to scrape the windscreen cle
an. When I saw them I knew it was Beth’s car. Someone must’ve got to it during her exam.
“Should we go and help?” asked Maz.
If it had been anyone – seriously, anyone – but my sister trying to scrape off that shaving cream, I would’ve said yes in an instant. In fact, part of me was furious with all the other kids who were standing around watching instead of giving Beth and Larrie a hand. But I knew they weren’t helping for the same reason I wasn’t going to: guilt by association.
“You can if you want. I’m staying out of it.” I didn’t wait to see whether Maz was staying or coming with me, walking as fast and as far from the scene as I could.
When I reached the door of the Chill Out Room, I was tempted to turn and run, but Patchouli must have excellent hearing because she opened it before I’d even knocked.
“Allison, how nice to see you,” she said without a hint of surprise. “Cup of chai?”
I took a seat on the lumpy couch and clutched a patchwork cushion to my chest.
“Is this a social visit or did you want to talk about something in particular?” she asked, handing me the “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” mug.
I studied the slogan for a minute before answering. “You know my sister, don’t you?”
She smiled. “Everyone at Whitlam knows Larissa.”
“But you really know her. I mean, she came to see you – that’s how you know she takes soy milk.”
Patchouli was still smiling, but her face was less open now. “Who comes to me and what they come about is strictly confidential. I have enough trouble convincing students they can trust me without getting a reputation for having a big mouth. I can’t talk to you about anyone but yourself.”
“Fine,” I said, determined to get the truth out of her one way or another. “I want to talk to you about me and my sister. Confidentially.”
“Okay.” Patchouli took a sip of her chai. “Let’s talk.”
True to her word, Patchouli wouldn’t answer any of my questions about what Larrie had come to her about, or when, but none of what I was saying seemed like news to her. I didn’t mention the photo directly, but I did tell her about Larrie refusing to fix the situation.
