Assembly is on a Tuesday every week. We have year-level assemblies on the grounds that Year Twelve students apparently believe that being in the same room as Year Eights is a shame beyond description and might necessitate ritual self-disembowelment.
That’s fine for us Year Eights (not disembowelment, which is very messy if reports are to be believed), although it does mean you’re more likely to be spotted by patrolling teachers if you’re chatting to a friend. And it means we can be told about stuff that is specific to Year Eights, rather than having to listen to senior school pronouncements regarding university entrance. Not that we listen anyway, even to Year Eight–specific things.
Our assemblies are normally run by the year coordinator, but this Tuesday we were graced with the presence of the school principal, Ms Huddlestone. This meant we had to pretend to listen, which was somewhat annoying. The year coordinator made some general remarks and then handed the lectern over to the Big Cheese herself. We sat cross-legged on the floor and tried to seem interested. She muttered something about academic excellence and the reputation of the school and then … she mentioned my name. At least, I think she mentioned my name. Judging by the way everyone turned to look at me, she had mentioned my name. I was stunned. Then she repeated herself.
‘I would like Caitlyn Carson to join me on stage, please.’
What? I didn’t want to join anyone on stage, let alone Ms Huddlestone, who had been known to reduce senior students to tears. Year Eights she chewed up and spat out for fun. What had I done wrong? I couldn’t think. But my legs had obeyed a summons I wasn’t even aware I’d issued. I stood and walked between the rows to the front of the hall. Then I looked at the steps leading to the stage. No way could I get up there. Not with legs made of rubber.
But the next minute, I was standing beside her. And the lectern. I looked down and rows of Year Eight faces gazed up at me. I got the strong feeling most were hoping I was about to be punished in ways beyond their wildest imaginings. Maybe disembowelment. But when I glanced up at the Enormous Cheddar I was relieved to see that she was smiling. I hadn’t done something wrong. But I also couldn’t remember anything I had done right. So I waited.
‘Mr Carlisle, your English teacher,’ she said, ‘has let me know some very exciting news. Apparently, Caitlyn, you wrote a short story a while ago and Mr Carlisle entered it into a competition. And not just any competition. This is the Victorian Premier’s Short Story Competition – an annual event that attracts high-quality entries by some of the best Australian writers. And I am delighted to tell you, Caitlyn, that your story won second prize in that competition. I should stress here, that this is not a competition limited to school-age writers, but to the best and finest throughout the country.’ I was having difficulty absorbing all this. My face was burning and there was a rushing in my ears. ‘The winner, I am told, is someone who has in the past been shortlisted for the Stella Prize – one of the most prestigious literary prizes in Australia.’ She paused and looked down at me. ‘And our very own Caitlyn Carson was runner-up.’
The Huge Haloumi placed a hand on my shoulder, which made me shudder. I didn’t mean to; it was the shock. I really hoped she wasn’t going to interpret that shudder as me finding her repulsive. I mean, I do find her a bit repulsive, but honestly – it was the shock. Anyway, she didn’t seem to notice.
‘Caitlyn has an invitation to attend an award ceremony in a few weeks’ time, where she will be given a certificate and two thousand dollars in prize money by the Premier himself. I’d like us to show just how proud we are of her with a huge round of applause for our very own Caitlyn Carson.’
I was stunned four ways. I’d come second in a literary competition. I was going to meet the Premier of Victoria. The whole of Year Eight was applauding me as I made my unsteady way back to Elise. And two thousand dollars. I mustn’t have heard right. It must have been two hundred. But even two hundred. Wow. It felt so good to have made money from writing. More than that. It felt miraculous. I sat down next to Elise, who put her arm around me. I kept my head down for the rest of the assembly and didn’t hear another word that was said.
‘Mr Carlisle?’
‘Caitlyn.’
‘I looked up the Victorian Premier’s Short Story Competition on the internet and there is a fifty-dollar entry fee for each story.’
My English teacher looked at me over the rims of his glasses.
‘I believe that’s correct,’ he said.
‘You can’t pay fifty dollars of your own money for my entry. That’s not right.’
‘Indeed,’ said Mr Carlisle. ‘Worse than not right. It would’ve been unprofessional. No, Caitlyn, I took your short story to the Head of English, she shared it with the faculty and we agreed to pay the entry fee from the English department’s budget. The school paid, not me.’
‘Well, I should pay the school back out of my winnings.’
‘No, you shouldn’t. That fifty bucks is a bargain when it comes to our bragging rights. Plus we want to publish it in the school magazine. Is that okay?’
I nodded. ‘Of course.’
‘Do you know who came third in the competition?’
I didn’t. Mr Carlisle said a name, but it didn’t mean a huge amount to me. I mean, I think I’d heard it before, but it’s difficult to be sure. If someone expects you to find a name familiar it puts pressure on you to do exactly that.
‘She was longlisted for the Booker Prize last year,’ Mr Carlisle continued. ‘Caitlyn, you beat a Booker Prize longlisted writer. Have you any idea what that says about you as a writer?’
‘That the judges felt sorry for me because of my age?’
Mr Carlisle sighed, took off his glasses and rubbed at the bridge of his nose.
‘The judges didn’t know your age, Caitlyn. They didn’t know your name. Your short story was a number only. That’s standard procedure to ensure fairness in the judging process. Lay not that unflattering unction to your soul …’
‘That’s Shakespeare,’ I said. ‘Except he said “flattering”.’
‘Yes,’ said Mr Carlisle. ‘And he came fourth.’
I laughed even though it wasn’t very funny. Teachers expect you to laugh at their jokes and it doesn’t hurt anyone.
‘You have enormous talent, Caitlyn,’ said Mr Carlisle. ‘And a remarkable imagination. Make sure you don’t waste either.’
‘I’ll try,’ I said.
Mum and Sam wanted to take me out for a meal to celebrate, but I liked the idea of staying at home, so Sam asked me what my favourite meal was and said he’d cook it for me. I went for spaghetti bolognese and he seemed a little disappointed.
‘Are you sure, Cate?’ he said. ‘That’s pretty basic stuff. I’m not a bad cook, if I say so myself, and I can do fancy.’
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I’ll have lobster thermidor.’
‘Spaghetti bolognese it is,’ he said.
I’d tried ringing Dad during the day but he didn’t answer, so I’d left a message. He rang me back while Sam was chopping onions and I retreated to my bedroom.
‘Huge congo rats, Cate,’ he said.
‘Congo rats?’
‘Why not? That is just brilliant. Tell me all about it. Go on. Run through the whole day.’
So I did. I told him about the announcement in assembly, that I’d won two thousand dollars (I’d looked it up – I had heard right), that I’d be attending a ceremony with the Premier, that of the top three writers, two were legends in the literary world and the other was just a leg end, that I felt … kind of giddy. I gave him the website address where he could find all the details.
‘Do they know how old you are?’ said Dad.
‘Nope. The only thing they know is my name.’
‘I want to be there when they see you. I want to see the jaws hitting the floors. I want to see my daughter make her entrance into the literary world. I want to see the expression on the Man Booker longlisted writer’s face when she sees she was beaten by a scrawny, wimpy, tiny tacker.’
‘Oi, Dad. That’s me you’re talking about, remember?’
‘Can I be there, Cate? Are you allowed guests?’
‘I don’t know.’ I didn’t either. I hadn’t even thought about it and the official invitation hadn’t arrived yet.
Sam called through my bedroom door that the food was ready.
‘Gotta go, Dad,’ I said.
‘Sure. You celebrate hard, okay? And then we’ll do that all again on Friday when I see you.’
‘Dad?’
‘Yes?’
‘Thank you.’
‘For what?’
‘For your belief and for … well, for my imagination.’
‘Not sure I can take credit for your imagination. We talked about that, remember? Who knows how those genes fall?’
‘I don’t mean that. I mean for feeding it.’
There was silence for a beat or two.
‘You are one weird, scrawny, wimpy tiny tacker,’ said Dad. ‘Now, pardon me but I’m due back in the real world right now. You should give it a visit sometime.’
And he hung up.