I crept into Science the next morning as Ms Morales was closing the lab door. I’d stayed in bed after the alarm went off, hoping Mum would be too busy getting ready for work to notice me, but after taking my temperature and checking my glands she forced me to get up. At least I’d managed to miss assembly – there was no way I could’ve faced the entire school knowing that most of them would’ve seen the photo. I took my seat next to Simon, who appeared unaware that half the class was sneaking looks in our direction.
“Eyes to the front!” For once I was grateful Ms Morales was such a classroom tyrant. “Today we’re talking about behavioural genetics and whether some behaviours are inherited in the same way that physical characteristics, like hair colour, are.”
“Is that like ‘nature or nurture’?” asked Lily.
“It’s part of it, yes. Scientists think that, for all the traits we can measure, genetics and environment contribute about equally. Genes that affect behaviour are harder to pinpoint than ones that affect us physically, but we know that aspects of mental, psychological and personal development are at least partially heritable.”
Jamie Butcher’s hand shot up. “Including sexual orientation?”
Ms Morales looked worried. The only time Jamie had ever contributed to a discussion in Science before was when we were studying reproduction and he showed off his in-depth knowledge of female anatomy. I don’t think she wanted to risk a repeat of that lesson.
“Umm … what do you mean?”
Jamie ignored the up-close greasy eyeball Maz was giving him. “I mean, do your genes determine whether you’re attracted to men or women?”
“Well, now, let’s see …” Ms Morales frantically flipped through the index of her teachers’ edition of the textbook.
“I don’t think you’ll find it in there, Miss,” said Simon, “but it’s something that came up at biology camp last year.” Ms Morales nodded to Simon to continue. “What happened was, in the 1990s this scientist announced that he had discovered a gay gene, passed down on the mother’s side.”
“So it’s true then?” said Jamie, turning in his seat in Simon’s direction but staring straight at me. “Being a homo runs in families.”
“Yeah,” said Sally Rechichi, “just like being a small-minded bigot does.”
Simon kept talking as if neither of them had spoken. “When the research came out, a lot of geneticists started conducting studies of their own, but most of them couldn’t reproduce the results of the first study, and it still can’t be verified. And the study was only of men.”
Ms Morales looked more worried than ever. “Thank you, Simon. I think the main thing for us all to remember is that sexual orientation is part of normal human variation, as I’m sure Ms Shields explained in your Health and Development classes. Now, let’s turn to page 127 of your textbooks and read the case study about intelligence genes.”
Maz was waiting for me after class. “Where were you this morning?”
“In bed,” I admitted. “I tried to get the day off, but it’s almost impossible to fake sickness when your mum’s a nurse. I bet the photo’s all over the school by now, isn’t it?”
She rubbed at something invisible on her arm and nodded. “I did some digging around in the old Whitlam yearbooks before school and, from what I could find, there hasn’t been a student named Camille here since 1997. Whoever’s behind this created a fake Facebook profile and used it to join the group.”
It was no surprise since Whitlam’s Facebook group was managed by Mrs Turner and Ms Munce. They didn’t recognise us when we were in uniform, let alone from our random profile pictures.
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.