The last day of the school year was a scorcher. The hall was packed full of students and parents using their prize-giving assembly programs as makeshift fans.
Year Ten sat in our usual seats, for the last time. In front of me, Chloe Rider fiddled with her collar. On my right, Maz and Nicko were chatting about the gig they were going to later. On my left, Simon was reading a book. Even though Josh Turner hadn’t been seen at Whitlam since the school board and Student Representative Council agreed to add stalking and bullying to the list of expellable offences, I couldn’t help glancing to where Year Eleven sat, to reassure myself that he really was gone for good.
Mr Masch stood at the lectern, a table piled high with awards and certificates next to him. Behind him sat the teachers, who were as sweaty and bored as the rest of us. Despite the temperature in the hall being about forty-five degrees, Brandy was wearing her heavy, black academic robes.
“It’s my very great pleasure to welcome you all here today,” said Mr Masch.
I tuned out when he began reading out the list of prizes, starting at Year Seven, happily ensconced in my own little world. I watched the flow of students in their perfectly ironed uniforms ascend and descend from the stage, each clutching a book they’d never bother to read or a gold plastic trophy, or whatever was the reward for their efforts. After a while they became a pleasant blur in front of my eyes; it was almost meditative. Even Larrie’s ten-minute speech on behalf of Year Twelve and adolescent overachievers everywhere didn’t disturb me.
I was starting to doze off when Simon nudged me in the ribs with his Outstanding Achievement in Science trophy. I jerked awake, hoping I hadn’t been snoring. Or drooling. He nudged me again and then pushed my elbow upwards, as if he was trying to get me to stand up. Maz did the same on the other side.
I put my hands to my ears and slipped out the tiny, wireless earbuds that had been providing my aural cocoon to ask what the shiz they thought they were doing, but before I could, Mr Masch said, “Allison Miller, would you like to come and accept your award?”
A giggle passed through the audience. I couldn’t think of anything I’d done in the past year that was award-worthy. Unless they’d invented a special category for Sister Who Saved Her Sibling’s Butt. I smoothed out my uniform as I race-walked to the front of the hall.
Mr Masch spoke again, filling in time. “In Allison’s defence, this is an extraordinary award, and she wasn’t warned she’d be required on stage.”
There was a cheer when I finally got to the lectern. Mr Masch shook my hand and presented me with a framed certificate. Underneath the Whitlam insignia was my name and the words “Elizabeth Brand Award for Most Improved Student”.
“Well done, Allison,” he said. “I don’t have to tell you what an honour this is.”
I nodded, too shocked to speak, and looked past him to where Brandy was sitting. She gave me the closest thing to a smile I’d ever seen her attempt.
I couldn’t stop staring at the certificate as I walked back to my place, not quite believing my eyes. If Maz had still been in her seat when I got back, I would’ve asked her to read it herself, to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating.
It was true that my marks had improved, and I’d done well enough in my end-of-year exams to pull up my ranking in most of my classes, but I had a feeling Ms Brand’s award was for more than my academic performance. The fact that she hadn’t ordered me to her office since the Whit’s Wit grilling probably had a lot to do with it.
Thinking back over everything that had happened, I realised I’d been right about my life changing once Larrie left Whitlam. What I hadn’t figured was that what changed the most would be me.
“To end this special assembly,” said Mr Masch when the last of the prizes had been presented, “I’d like to invite to the stage this year’s southern region SkoolDaze champions, Whitlam’s own Vertigo Pony.”
The teachers were herded off the stage and their seats stacked, just as the curtain rose and Maz and the guys played the opening bars of “You Don’t Know”. It seemed a fitting note to end a bittersweet school year on.
“Congratulations, darlings,” gushed Mum when we got into the (comparatively) fresh air. “Dad and I are so proud of you both.”
“Too right,” said Dad, watching Larrie and Beth carefully place their teetering piles of prizes in the boot of his car. I tossed my certificate on top of them. “At this rate, I’m going to have to put up another shelf for all your trophies! What’ll we do to celebrate?”
“Actually,” said Larrie, “Beth and I are going to Parkville for churros.” She turned to me. “Do you want to come with us?”
“Sure,” I said, “but I warn you now, I’m getting chocolate with mine.”
Beth grinned. “Excellent, then we can share.”
“You’re sure you don’t mind coming?” I asked as we walked up Parkville’s High Street, a few metres behind Larrie and Beth.
“You know I’m always up for churros,” said Simon. “But if you’d told me a couple of months ago that we’d be going on a double date with your sister and her girlfriend, I would never have believed you.”
“Is that a) because Larrie and I are voluntarily hanging out together, or b) because Larrie’s going out with Beth, or c) because you’re going out with me?”
“D,” said Simon, pulling me towards him, “all of the above.”
Al Miller is.