‘Sure! I’d love to.’
She grabs my hand dramatically. ‘Thank you! Okay, let’s do a Facebook invite for our movie marathon!’
One does not simply receive a LOTR movie marathon/dress-up invitation and decline. Dress up as your favourite LOTR character.
We decide to send the invite to Adrian (because he’s smart and laidback), Jane (because Paula will feel guilty if she doesn’t), Leica and Cameron (because they’re joined at the hip). Paula’s going to ask a couple of friends from her slam poetry group too. I tell Paula about Maha and a couple of my other friends from Auburn Grove Girls High and ask her if I can invite them too.
‘Of course!’
‘You’ll love Maha,’ I tell her with a laugh. ‘Or not . . . It could go either way.’
‘Hey, I have an uncanny knack for memorising book and film quotes and a crush on a dead gay writer and a teacher. I’m not one to judge.’
*
Paula’s text comes through as I enter the school gates.
Public service announcement from Bus Route 419:
I don’t think I could survive an apocalypse. Canned food. No poached eggs on sourdough with mushrooms in balsamic. Pass.
See you soon Mina Colada.
*
We file into the school hall for a special assembly. The entire campus of Auburn Grove Girls High would fit inside this hall. Ms Ham stands in front of the podium on a stage I’m sure rivals anything on Broadway. She announces that the year tens have put on a Global Citizen Photography Reflections Exhibition following their two-week trip to Ghana. She encourages us – well orders would be more accurate – to visit the Middle School Atrium to have a look before the exhibition moves to the foyer of the local council building.
‘I am so proud of our year ten students who have demonstrated a real commitment to understanding the responsibilities that come with their privileges. You are all this country’s future leaders and that is both an immense privilege and a burden.’
As I listen to Ms Ham drone on and on about how Victoria College graduates will run the country one day, two thoughts dawn on me. The first is that all the teachers here just assume that the guys and girls standing around me have the world at their fingertips. And the second is that despite wearing the same uniform as everybody else, I feel like an imposter. Like I’m in the wrong manufacturing plant, only seconds away from a tap on the shoulder and a gentle but firm, You belong in the people-who-will-be-led production line, not this one.
At Auburn Grove Girls High, when teachers stood up to address us in assembly, it was to urge us to study hard, stay focused, remain resilient, set goals, seek support. If there was a ‘leader’, she was the exception, not the norm.
Listening to Ms Ham, I wonder if things would be different if we spent thirteen years being told that we were born to lead, and that the only thing that would ever hold us back would be a limited imagination.
I’m starting to realise that being born into this social world is a little like being born into clean air. You take it in as soon as you breathe, and pretty soon you don’t even realise that while you can walk around with clear lungs, other people are wearing oxygen masks just to survive.
*
Mr Morello decides to hold our Society and Culture class in the Middle School Atrium so we can see the year ten photography exhibition.
The photos have been blown up and mounted on canvases. There are shots of Victoria College students posing with young children. Photos of Ghanaian kids staring into the camera lens. Or just sitting. Or standing.
Zoe and Clara are standing near us and I hear them gushing to each other about how beautiful the children are. ‘Oh my God they’re just gorgeous!’
Something about the whole exhibition unsettles me, but I’m struggling to put it into words, even to myself.
I stand in front of a photograph of a young Ghanaian kid. Barefoot, in a singlet and faded oversized jeans, he has a solemn expression on his face. There’s something almost rehearsed in his pose and demeanour. A year ten girl named Sandra is crouched down on her knees, one arm around him, grinning at the camera. The whole photograph feels staged, as if he’s just playing out a role for her benefit, like some kind of third-world kid mascot helping people from the first world find themselves. I don’t know why it disturbs me, because it’s a good thing that they’re helping these kids, isn’t it? But still, there’s a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach.
‘These photos are so much better than the ones we took when we went to Botswana for our trip,’ Paula says, as we stop and look at a photo of a group of the year ten students digging a veggie patch.
‘It’s all a bit too National Geographic for me,’ I say.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Hard to explain,’ I murmur.
There are some things so deeply sedimented that the slightest excavation and the walls will start to fall in on themselves.
‘Do all the year tens go on these trips?’ I ask Paula.
‘Yeah, pretty much most of them.’
‘How much does it cost?’
‘Hmm, several grand I think. I’m not sure exactly.’
We keep moving, and then there’s Michael, standing in our path.
‘They’re good photos, hey?’ he says cheerfully.
‘Mina doesn’t think so,’ Paula says with a smile and shrug.
‘Have you gone on one of these trips?’ I ask him.
‘Yeah, with Paula too, in year ten. We went to Botswana. It was amazing. We trekked through the Kalahari Desert –’
‘I liked it when we tracked rhinos in Khama Rhino Sanctuary,’ Paula says excitedly.
‘Yeah, that was brilliant. We fixed up rundown buildings and built a sports pitch at an orphanage, too.’
‘That’s nice,’ I tell them.
Michael gives me a quizzical look. ‘What’s wrong?’
I shrug. ‘The world’s one big wide adventure playground for some people, I guess.’
Paula and Michael both look at me but choose not to reply.
*
Michael appears at the library during second period of my double free period.
He says hi, throws his bag down and takes out his Macbook. He starts working, no fuss. I don’t comment. Maybe all his friends are in class and he’s a bit of a loner for this period too. But then, why me?
We settle into a quiet rhythm, each of us doing our own thing. I’ve got my iPod hooked up to my earphones, as does he.
‘Are you always so cynical?’ he suddenly asks.
‘Pardon?’
‘Cynical. I thought rich kids going to poor countries would be the last thing to feel offended by.’ He quickly raises the palm of his hand. ‘Wait, I’m not trying to provoke you. I’m genuinely interested in why that exhibition annoyed you.’
‘It didn’t annoy me,’ I say hesitantly.
‘Yeah. It did. I could tell.’
‘Things can be more complicated than just being annoyed. Anyway, let’s just leave it, hey?’
He shrugs. ‘Suit yourself. Do you know Grouplove?’
I smile, and hold up my screen so he can see my favourites album playlist. He scans it and grins.
‘I have “Tongue-tied” on repeat so much even my mum can practically sing it,’ I say. ‘She hates it of course.’
‘Every respectable teenager should love the kind of music their parents hate.’
‘Definitely.’
Smiling his approval he adds, ‘Impressive playlist.’
‘Yeah, the Taliban gave me a solid education in indie music.’
He laughs uncertainly.
‘It’s okay,’ I reassure him. ‘You can laugh.’
‘Hard to tell when every joke manages to offend somebody.’
‘Oh, give me a break. People only pretend they don’t know
the difference between being a dumbass racist jerk and, yeah, er, not being one.’
‘You better polish that one before using it as your next Facebook status.’
I make a face at him and he gives me a mischievous smile.
‘Wait a second.’ He feigns a look of offence. ‘So are you saying I’m a dumbass racist jerk?’
‘Not necessarily.’ I snort.
‘Wow, thanks.’
‘I’d say we’d pretty much disagree with each other on most things –’
‘– except music and the pitfalls of public transport and movies.’
‘You keeping tabs?’ There’s more grinning.
‘Anyway, you don’t know anything else about me. And I don’t know anything else about you.’
That just sits in the air as I contemplate a response. Have we upgraded from classroom screaming match, to Sunday coffee for an assignment, to needing to get to know more about each other?
Saved by the phone. It’s Baba. He never calls me during school hours. Worried, I answer. He tells me a man came into the restaurant throwing around accusations about halal food funding terrorism. Baba is upset and I apologise to him, tell him that the man came in last week but things got so busy it slipped my mind. I calm him down, tell him it’s probably just some stupid prank. He’s going to call the police if the man shows up again.
‘Is that Farsi you were speaking?’
‘Yeah,’ I say, distracted. Who is that man and what does he want?
He cocks his head to the side and grins at me. ‘Talking about the brilliant company you keep?’
‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ I say, but I can’t help but laugh.
Michael
I get a job at a call centre. I’m working two afternoon shifts a week and the money’s not bad.
I go through training first. How to answer calls, how long to speak for, clocking in and out, monitored toilet breaks (what the?), how to deal with complaints (otherwise known as Don’t Say The F Word).
Then Anh, the manager, plants me down at a cubicle, hands me my headset and says: ‘Don’t screw this up.’
My first day’s charity is the Salvation Army. I open up the document with the list of people I have to contact in my shift. I have a target to meet. It seems easy enough. Everybody loves the Salvos.
I dial the first number. A man answers. He sounds groggy, like I’ve woken him up.
‘Um, hi sir, my name is Michael and I’m calling on behalf of the Salvation Army –’
‘Are you a telemarketer?’
‘Um, no sir.’ I read out the script, trying to sound natural. ‘With winter approaching, more and more people at risk are finding it difficult to make ends –’
‘Then they should bloody get a job like the rest of us and maybe I’ll be able to do mine properly if I get some sleep before my shift starts. Don’t call again!’
He hangs up on me. The rejection is hard.
But I get over it. Fast.
Twenty calls later I’ve been called a dick and a nuisance and a liar. When people agree to donate, they spend most of the call yacking on about their personal lives. I know I have to cut the calls short because there are strict time limits. I try to tell one woman that I don’t have the time to hear her out about her husband’s affair with the next-door neighbour and she gives me the wrong credit card number as punishment. Every time I hang up, convinced I’ve spoken to the rudest person on the planet, the next call proves me wrong.
I make twenty dollars in total.
My target was one thousand.
Anh shakes his head at me. ‘You’re not here to play counsellor. Get the money, cut back on the small talk and move on to the next call.’
‘Okay. Sorry.’
‘Next charity will be guide dogs. If you can’t get money for guide dogs, do yourself a favour and get a job selling Big Macs.’
Such an encouraging mentor, Anh is.
*
I’m ravenous. I charge through the front door and straight to the fridge. Nothing appeals to me and I call out in desperation to Mum. She emerges from the family room.
‘I’m starving,’ I moan.
‘Let’s order pizza.’
Half an hour later, Nathan, Mum and I are stuffing our faces with pizza and garlic bread and watching a couple who are planning to turn an old wool mill into a modern mansion on Grand Designs. Mum’s in multitask mode, watching as she works on her laptop.
‘Marking essays?’ I ask her.
‘Nope. Editing our Who We Are page on the website.’
Ten minutes into Grand Designs, Nathan airily blurts out: ‘Why are we watching this show? Dad’s not here, and Michael doesn’t want to be an architect any more.’
I stiffen, slowly swallow the piece of pizza that’s threatening to lodge in my throat.
Mum looks up sharply from her laptop. The woman misses nothing. ‘What was that?’
Nathan jumps up on the couch and lands on his knees. ‘Why are we watching this show? Dad’s not –’
‘Yes, I heard you Nathan,’ Mum says, her voice strained. She turns to face me, dabbing a bit of sauce on the corner of her mouth with a tissue. ‘What’s Nathan talking about?’
There’s a long pause. Caught off guard, I have no game plan for this discussion. I haven’t rehearsed my lines and I certainly would have preferred the chance to break it to her gently.
‘Well?’ she presses me.
‘Jesus, Nathan,’ I mutter. ‘How’d you know?’
‘I heard you talking to Terrence.’
Mum stares at me, confused. I heave an exhausted sigh.
‘I want to go to UTS Design School.’
She sucks in her breath. ‘What do you mean? Instead of architecture or alongside architecture?’
‘Instead.’
She purses her lips. She’s silent. Half a minute passes.
‘Obviously it’s your life, Michael,’ she finally says, so slowly and carefully I can practically picture her selecting each word with the attention and care you would apply to the task of picking apples at the grocers. ‘But you’ve always wanted to do architecture. You have everything it takes and all the support you need to make a promising career of it. It’s a prestigious profession, Michael.’
‘Prestige is overrated, Mum.’
She scoffs. ‘Don’t be silly. Is it anxiety? Are you worried you won’t get the ATAR? Your last report was excellent. Why would you begin to doubt yourself now?’
‘I’m not doubting myself.’ I shift uncomfortably in my seat. ‘But I want to do graphic design. I want to create things, be part of something that’s changing all the time. I mean, who knows what designs will be possible by the time I go to uni? Do you know that medical students can use AR to examine cross-sections of human anatomy?’
‘AR?’
I give her a mini lesson on augmented reality. But I can tell by the look in her eye that she thinks I’m proposing to go on Centrelink and play Minecraft for the rest of my life.
‘Architecture is solid and reliable,’ she says. ‘Life isn’t all about sitting in front of a computer, Michael. Gaming doesn’t pay bills. Art doesn’t even pay bills. Those aren’t careers. They’re hobbies you pursue on the side of a career.’
‘It’s my life. I’m sorry but I don’t want what you and Dad want for me.’
We go back and forth. Mum wants me to understand how lucky I am. She pleads with me to not decide on anything yet. To just get the highest ATAR I can and then make a decision.
We fight. I’m bringing this up at the wrong time. I’m being impetuous and ungrateful for an opportunity other people would dream about. Dad has enough on his plate with Aussie Values and this would seriously demoralise him.
I hear enough and storm upstairs to my room.
Mina
The restaurant doors s
wing open and the guy who questioned me about halal food the other night walks in. He strides up to the counter and asks Baba if he can talk to him privately, suggesting they step outside.
‘Why?’ I say, standing close to Baba.
‘We can do this in front of all your customers,’ the man says, ‘or outside. Your pick.’
‘What’s this about?’ Baba asks.
‘We don’t have to speak to you,’ I say. ‘Get out of here or I’m calling the police.’
The man smirks, and then turns around and walks out.
*
Baba’s feeling stressed and I insist he go home early and leave me and the other staff to handle things tonight. He’s stubborn but no match for me. Finally he relents, puts his jacket on, lists off a string of instructions and leaves. But just as soon as he’s closed the door behind him he’s back, calling me outside. The restaurant is full so nobody’s really paying attention. But I can see the panic in his face. I rush outside.
There’s a guy in a suit, a man with a hand-held camera with a News Tonight insignia, standing with the man I’d kicked out earlier. Baba is yelling at them to step away from the restaurant, but the pavement is a public area and the reporter’s not about to leave.
‘With reports of halal food funding terrorism overseas, can you confirm whether you know where the money you spend on halal food is actually going?’
Baba looks utterly stricken. I run over to him, blocking him from the camera.
‘You have no right,’ I cry. ‘We don’t have to answer your questions.’
‘If you’ve got nothing to hide then why won’t you talk to us?’ the reporter says.
‘I’m calling the police,’ I say.
‘We’re well within our rights here,’ the reporter says.
The doors to Pizza Hub open and a couple step out. They take in the scene and raise their eyebrows at us. Tim steps out behind them.
‘Piss off with your trashy program,’ he shouts at the reporter.
‘Do you have any concerns about where halal funds go?’
‘Mate, you’re scaring customers away. Piss off or I’ll call the cops on you.’