Holy Crushamoly

by Thalia Kalkipsakis

  Applause bursts out at the end of the first debate, and my heart beats harder, anticipating the moment when I’m standing behind the lectern.

  We troop on stage in a line, Zara first, then me, and Jagath last, while the opposition team marches on from the other side: two guys and a girl. As they take their seats, the guy at the front eyeballs Zara, trying to psych her out. The girl at the end is so tense that she’s almost robotic.

  The debate is introduced by a woman in a navy dress suit. Then Zara stands, moving away from the safety of our team and making her way to the lectern. With her, I turn to the audience.

  Oh my gosh. First speaker has it tough.

  ‘Chairperson, members of the audience,’ Zara begins. ‘Our topic for debate today is that uniforms should be compulsory in all schools.’ She pauses and casts her gaze over the audience. ‘Let me be clear. We’re not saying that uniforms serve a purpose in just some cases. We will demonstrate today why uniforms are effective when worn by all students. Because that’s what a uniform does: it unites us.’

  She’s calm and clear, with just the right touch of earnestness. Zara continues through a summary of her points, then moves on to introduce the rest of the team before starting into her main argument.

  As Zara speaks, I scan the audience, trying to gauge their reaction. It’s clear she’s making an impact. Every now and then the adjudicators write a note. Students from the other team keep whispering. Most people in the audience sit motionless, taking in Zara’s every word.

  ‘Sure, we love to express our individual tastes on the weekend. Doesn’t everyone?’ Zara continues as a ripple of agreement goes through the room. ‘There is a place for bikinis and baseball caps. But that place is not school …’

  I’ve almost scanned the whole auditorium when I spot a familiar face. I blink, peering through the downlights …

  Dad?

  He’s on his own, second row from the front, wearing a black business suit. At the sight of him sitting there, my pulse explodes. I told him not to come.

  The crowd applauds at the end of Zara’s speech and she returns to our table. I pull my eyes away from Dad to congratulate her but I can’t stop my eyes looking back to him.

  Even though we’re in a hall full of people, all I can see is Dad. It’s as if he’s in the spotlight, lit up against the sea of uniforms. Not a student. Not a teacher. He doesn’t even seem to belong with the other parents in casual clothes.

  And even though I’m still angry with him, I’m hit with a wave of guilt for telling him I was embarrassed by him, that I didn’t want him to come.

  It’s only when there’s applause for a second time that I realise it’s my turn. All eyes turn my way when I stand. As if in a dream, I float to the lectern. None of this is real. I’ve been so busy thinking about Dad that I’m not even nervous. It’s like I’m only half-here.

  It seems like minutes before I actually come to a stop behind the lectern. I rest my cue cards against the top and then, finally, stare out at the sea of faces. Now is my time.

  Except, I have nothing. I’m completely blank.

  Breathing fast, I check the cue cards: Intro. Unite. I can barely work out what I was thinking. It’s a jumble of scribbled words that mean nothing to me now.

  I look up again at the faces watching me expectantly. Panic engulfs my mind. Pounding heart and sweaty palms. All I can hear is my heartbeat.

  The clunk of a chair being moved on stage makes me turn and I see Zara nod encouragingly.

  My focus moves to Jagath. This time, he doesn’t look away. His head dips, urging me on, and now more than ever I’m hit with the sense of what it means to be a member of this team, part of something I care about.

  More than anything, I don’t want to let them down.

  I turn back to the audience and breathe in. So many faces waiting for me. Among them all is my dad. I told him not to come, but he did. To hear me speak.

  That’s when I find my voice.

  ‘Picture a world where we all look the same.’

  There’s an intake of breath from Zara behind me as soon as I speak, but she doesn’t need to worry. I know I’ve broken the template, but I feel sure about what I’m going to say, and this is the best way to start.

  ‘A world where we look exactly alike,’ I say again. ‘How would we tell who was who?’ I scan the audience, giving them time to consider. ‘We’d have to talk to each other, for a start. We’d have to find a way to see beyond our appearances. We’d begin to relate to each other in terms of who we are on the inside. Can you imagine?’

  I take a breath. ‘This, Chairperson, members of the audience … this is why we need uniforms in schools. They help us see beyond our physical differences. They encourage us to find connections and relate to each other in terms of our opinions, our ideas, our hopes and dreams.’

  Again, I pause. ‘Our first speaker has already demonstrated that uniforms are an important aspect of school life …’

  When I get to that part, there’s a faint sigh of relief from Zara behind me, because I’m back in the template. She never needed to worry. I may have bent the rules in the way I began, but that was just my way of getting everyone’s attention. I’m still working within the rules, just in my own unique way.

  Now that I’ve found my opening, the whole speech falls into place. I’ve read through it so often, and thought about it from so many angles, that I don’t need cue cards to prompt me. I know this topic back to front.

  As I continue I’m conscious of the whole room. I’m holding their attention, pulling it tight like string, or relaxing it to let them digest.

  I’m aware of the whole space, of people sitting way up in the back row, and sitting on either side. Even the adjudicators, who seemed so spooky-intimidating, are on the end of my string. I have a sense of the entire auditorium, but most of all I’m aware of Dad. The place where he’s sitting is lit up in my mind. I’ve got his attention most of all, because I’m not only talking about uniforms and the clothes we wear. I’m also talking about skin colour. Background too.

  Imagine a world where you can’t see nationality at a glance, I try to tell him, where you see nothing about a person’s background just from looking at them. There’s so much more to each of us than the way we look …

  He might not understand the double meaning to my speech, and even if he did, I know he wouldn’t agree. But at least this time I have the chance to tell him what I think.

  This time, he can’t send me to my room.

  I’m also meant to point out reasons why the opposition’s argument is wrong, and even though I was focused on Dad while their first speaker was on, I did pick up familiar phrases from his speech.

  This is a free country.

  We should be allowed to express ourselves.

  We are all unique.

  I’m pretty clear about some things he said, actually, because I know his side of the argument inside out. I mostly agree with that point of view and, somehow, that makes it easier to argue against. In another place, during another debate, the person arguing their case could be me.

  So I don’t even try to argue that the opposition is wrong, I just point out there’s a time and place for expressing ourselves by the clothes we wear, and that’s outside school. At school, uniforms put us on equal ground and allow us to express our uniqueness through our thoughts and actions, not just our clothes.

  I’ve nearly finished speaking when a chime rings out, signalling that my time is almost up. It feels like I’ve climbed a mountain in that time but I don’t panic, just move naturally to my conclusion.

  ‘We stand before you,’ I say and gesture to include Zara and Jagath, ‘united in our conviction that uniforms should be compulsory in schools. We are also united by the very clothes we wear. We are the team for the affirmative, and our uniform unites us.’

  I nod in thanks and then take my seat as applause erupts. I’m buzzing and light and almost disappointed to be sitting back down.

  That was
way better than doing a speech in class. I had the whole auditorium listening to me. They may not have agreed with every point, but maybe, just maybe, I persuaded one or two to see it differently.

  Zara squeezes me around the shoulders. ‘Talk about a rollercoaster ride,’ she whispers with a gush in my ear.

  The applause dies down as the second speaker for the opposition stands to speak. I turn to Jagath. He nods slightly, but his eyes linger on mine and I want so much to talk to him properly. I can’t now, though, not here.

  I take a breath and face the front again. The opposition is speaking again and we all focus. I keep busy jotting down ideas for Jagath’s rebuttal, passing Zara’s ideas to him with my own. Our first two speeches might be over, but our team is far from finished.

  Every now and then I glance up at Dad in the audience. He’s already heard me speak so I’m half-expecting him to disappear back to work, but each time I look I find him standing out among the others, listening to the end.

  Dad’s in the middle of the foyer when we come out.

  I slow my pace and turn to Zara and Jagath. ‘Better go. Say thanks to your mum for the ride in.’ I tell Jagath.

  ‘And we’ll see you at school!’ Zara flings her arms around my neck and rocks from side to side. ‘Don’t forget, next Wednesday …’

  ‘… team meeting,’ I finish, after coming up for air. No time to celebrate our victory. We’re through to regionals, which apparently includes something called a ‘secret-topic debate’. Terrifying. And sort of intriguing …

  Zara pulls away and I turn to Jagath, lifting my arms as if a hug goodbye is the most natural thing to do. We’re fellow debate winners, wartime survivors.

  But Jagath stiffens slightly, and that moment in the cafe comes back in a rush.

  I drop both arms and tilt my head. ‘See you at school?’

  Which also means, Are we okay? I want to ask more than that, so much more, but I can’t in front of Zara. Definitely not in front of Dad.

  ‘Sure.’ Jagath nods. But I can’t read his face.

  I make my way over to Dad and stop in front of him, feeling suddenly awkward with him here among the crowd.

  ‘You came,’ is all I manage.

  His jaw muscles clench. ‘Of course.’

  We turn together and make our way through the exit. We’re already starting down the steps when Dad clears his throat. ‘Congratulations, koukla. Your win was … impressive.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I pause and glance back towards the foyer where I left Jagath. When I swivel back, Dad’s waiting a couple of steps down.

  ‘It was a team effort,’ I say and start towards him.

  ‘I know …’

  Then we go quiet, as if there’s this weight hanging in the air between us. We turn away from the car park for Archibald Hall and head towards a side street, walking side by side.

  After a while, Dad says, ‘Your friend, this Jag-at.’ The name comes out awkwardly. ‘You think I insulted him?’

  ‘I don’t know …’ I haven’t asked Jagath about that yet. But that’s not the only reason I was upset. It was also because Dad didn’t give me a chance to explain what I was trying to say.

  We near the car and Dad bips it open. Instead of starting the engine once we’re in, Dad turns to me, keys still in his hand.

  ‘I’m sorry I embarrassed you.’ He says it slowly. ‘I know I don’t always act the right way, I’m not … relaxed around strangers.’

  He waits for my response, so I nod. It’s not easy getting to know new people. Don’t I know that.

  ‘Growing up in Greece,’ Dad continues, ‘we had family all around, people I knew. But here … it’s not the same.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’ I check out my hands in my lap, feeling weird to have made Dad explain himself like this but, at the same time, wanting him to keep going.

  Dad slips the key into the ignition. ‘To me, family is all that matters. More than anything.’ He shrugs as if it’s settled now, and turns the key.

  The engine hums to life while I just sit there. That’s it? He still hasn’t tried to understand my side. Not really. He might have explained why he says the things he does, but that still doesn’t make it right.

  Frustration bubbles in me, but I’m not angry like I was last night. More … I don’t know, like I’m seeing the world through slightly more grown-up eyes. It’s as if I’m standing in the middle of a seesaw, starting on my side and then leaning the other way, trying to see it from Dad’s point of view.

  Coming to Australia when he was still learning the language. People hearing his accent and assuming they wouldn’t understand. Being called names …

  Maybe that’s why he finds it hard to trust strangers, people who seem different from him.

  And even though I wonder if he’ll ever understand what it’s like on my side of the seesaw, I want him to know that I’m sorry I told him not to come to the debate. I want to tell him that although these past months have been the worst in my life, worrying that Mum might never come home, in some ways they’ve been the best, because through all this Dad and I have been a team. We’ve been through our own family’s war zone, and we’re almost out the other side. Stronger, now. All of us, not just Mum.

  For a moment the dream feels so close that I can reach out and brush a fingertip against it. The day that Mum would be home, for good.

  ‘But, what about … Mum?’ I say, picking up the conversation where we left off. ‘She’s family …’ I pause. ‘But she hasn’t always been. And you trust her.’ She didn’t grow up in Greece, so she counts as different. At least, different from Dad.

  For a while, Dad’s quiet. I watch his face side on, seeing the wrinkles and lines deepen into a smile. ‘Your mother’s one of a kind.’

  ‘Yes, but how did you work that out?’ I’m onto him straight away, even though I know the answer.

  I never get sick of hearing how they met: Dad lost and struggling to ask for directions, and Mum walking him all the way to the right building at uni. In the time it took them to go from one side of campus to the other, they’d started a conversation that’s still going today. I’ll never get tired of hearing their voices go quiet and gentle when they talk to each other.

  ‘I worked out your mum was special,’ Dad says slowly, ‘when I got to know her.’

  And all I hear is the humming of the engine.

  I’m not sure if Dad realises what he just said but his eyes flicker towards me, then back to the road. I can see him thinking it through. He’s just echoed the words I asked him last night: How can you be so sure that you don’t like someone unless you get to know them?

  ‘Listen, Phoebe,’ Dad says after a while. ‘You know I’m proud of you, don’t you? Not just today, but proud every day.’ He makes a point of looking right at me, making sure I understand.

  I smile back, nodding awkwardly, not sure how to respond. He’s never said that before. But it’s easier between us now. I managed to explain to him how I feel and this time, he listened. For now, that’s enough.

  Early the next morning, my eyes flutter open. There’s a small smile on my lips, thinking about Jagath.

  Now that the debate is over, I’m able to think properly about what happened. He did pick up on the vibe between us. He must have. Somehow I have to show him that I pulled away out of surprise, not because I don’t like him back.

  I shower quickly, humming as I shave my legs and arms. I rub down with a towel, moisturise, then blow-dry my hair. Once finished, I wipe mist from the mirror and stare at my reflection.

  Right now, I feel really good about the person who stares back. She feels strong from the inside out. This is the way to get back my power, I decide. By looking good and feeling good, but doing it for myself, not because I’m worried what anyone else thinks.

  Instead of packing my magic bag of make-up tricks, I spend time fixing my hair with pins – neat but with a touch of style. It’s part of me that I’ve always been glad to have. The part that shows I’m half-Greek.<
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  The part I get from Dad.

  He’s stacking the dishwasher when I make it to the kitchen.

  ‘Sleep okay, koukla?’ asks Dad, drying his hands on a tea towel.

  ‘Slept great.’ We’re out of Up&Go so I grab the last two slices of bread from the freezer and drop them in the toaster. Fresh bread hasn’t been a top priority on The List.

  ‘I’ve put on a load of washing,’ Dad says. ‘But that’s the last of the bread, so …’ He pulls some money from his pocket. ‘Want to buy lunch?’

  ‘Really?’ Steph’s head pops up over the back of the couch. ‘We’re having a LUNCH ORDER!’

  She gets busy writing hers out while I slip a note and some coins in my pocket. ‘I’ll do the pick-up?’ I ask Dad.

  One nod. ‘And I’ll take Steph to school,’ he says.

  We smile at each other then, aware that this is the last day we’ll be working through The List on our own. When Mum comes home tomorrow, everything will change. But she’ll still need rest, so we won’t go back to the way things used to be. And I don’t think I’d want that, even if we could.

  I keep an eye out for Jagath as we traipse into the hall for Friday morning assembly. Briana’s busy chatting about volleyball. I guide our group towards seats at the back of our year level, so we have a view of everything without being expected to join in.

  Mr Chiu takes us through the usual boring stuff, excursions for next week, something about hockey training. He welcomes back the year nines and tens from science camp and Erin gets the wriggles.

  Then Mr Mendes takes the microphone and I take the chance to vague out, scanning the rows in front of me for Jagath’s black hair. But I can’t find him in the crowd.

  It’s only when I hear the phrase ‘junior debating team’ that my ears zing to the front.

  ‘The adjudicators’ report came back,’ announces Mr Mendes, ‘and I’m proud to announce that our team achieved the highest score of the day. Please come down and accept your certificates, Zara Waters, Jagath Rajapakse and Phoebe Cholas.’