3

Lou stopped Vân Ước, wandering out to lunch after a morning of physics. Vân Ước had been hoping to bump into Lou or Michael, who, while not exactly friends, were certainly friendly toward her. They would never ignore her if she sat down in their vicinity at lunchtime.

“Are you coming to the thing?” Lou was reading from a handout. “The ‘How Can I Contribute to the Community?’ briefing?”

“I forgot.” Great. More work. This was a part of CAS—Creativity, Action, Service. It was a compulsory part of IB and sought to ensure all students were also fully rounded human beings. How much spare time did the IB curriculum developers think students had? They were kidding if they thought human, let alone humane, had a chance; there was barely enough time to be efficient study-bots.

Lou had only come to Crowthorne Grammar in fourth term last year, a new girl for the Mount Fairweather outdoor education program, a boarding semester, located away from the city campus. In the space of one term, Lou had put herself into a position of strength in the pack, without seeming to try or to care. She had her own rung—or maybe she had her own ladder. She stood up for weaker animals. She had a moral platform. She had a super-high-kudos skill—singing. And she had some extra cachet thanks to having lesbian mothers. Which seemed to have been judged as cool.

When Vân Ước had told her about Lou, Jess actually whooped and air-punched at the lesbian-mother revelation, an unusual display of enthusiasm. Jess was a lesbian—or, as she preferred to describe herself, a lesbian-in-waiting.

She’d known she wasn’t straight since forever but believed to the tips of her toenails that there was no way she could come out to her parents until she left school and could support herself, because it was more likely they would get the locks changed than accept her sexuality. She was philosophical about it, seeing it for now as a generalized no-go zone rather than a cop-out, because she knew her parents would object to any brand of romantic attachment while she was at school.

The only thing Jess could imagine changing her parents’ view of the desirability of having a lesbian daughter was if Penny Wong (a hero to both the girls) one day became prime minister of Australia. Lesbian Asian prime minister might just tip the balance in Jess’s favor. But then again…

“We can take our lunch in,” Lou said. “They’re getting us used to doing at least two things at once at all times for the next two years. Cheers, guys.”

About half of year eleven was settling in the main assembly hall, with high-volume chat and rustle. This vast space of high ceilings and long windows and good acoustics and a professional-grade stage also had a parquetry floor so smooth and deeply glossy that Vân Ước had promised herself a sock-skate alone in here one day before she left school next year.

She sat with Lou and Michael. On her other side was Annie, someone who lived in such a state of perpetual motion that sitting next to her meant shrinking inside the boundaries of your own space for fear of elbows, feet, and pen jabs, while Annie reliably exceeded her own allocation of space.

As Ms. King, who coordinated CAS and was also overall year-eleven coordinator, settled everyone down and started explaining the service component of CAS—eliciting groans as she laid down the law about needing to organize your volunteer schedule yesterday—Vân Ước was aware of greater-than-usual wriggle activity from Annie’s direction. As she turned to ask Annie to stop bumping her, she found herself face-to-face with Billy Gardiner, who’d apparently swapped seats with Annie. He gave Vân Ước a satisfied smile and leaned in to look at her lunch.

“Yum,” he said, helping himself to one of her mother’s little stuffed omelets, a first-week-back treat. “Delicious!” he said, mouth full. “Did you make these?” He looked at the spilling coriander and chicken and bean sprouts as though the omelet were the subject of an intense forensic investigation. “What’s in here?”

Vân Ước felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment. She had not sat down expecting to be the subject of one of Billy Gardiner’s mean jokes. Was he about to spit the food out and pretend to be sick? She felt sick herself at what might be coming next. She covered up the rest of her lunch.

Lou, seeing what was happening, leaned forward, speaking into Vân Ước’s silence. “Quit stealing food!”

“Not stealing, swapping,” Billy said, opening a grocery-size paper bag. “What would you like?”

He put the bag on Vân Ước’s lap and rummaged about, pulling out a container of strawberries that he waved under her nose. She shook her head, eyes forward, dreading the inevitable punch line, where she’d become the butt of his joke, or perhaps the recipient of a nasty nickname. What had she done to deserve his attention? He was elbowing her now. “How about… a homemade muesli bar?” She shook her head again, determined not to look at him. More rummaging. “Orange cake?” Vân Ước squirmed sideways, closer to Lou, pushing Billy’s lunch bag from her lap. “Okay, you got it—chicken schnitzel and coleslaw focaccia… halves?” He produced a massive slab of a sandwich and offered it to Vân Ước. She turned away. “I mean, there must be something here you like. An apple? What sort of food do you like?”

“Leave her alone, Gardiner,” said Michael from two seats away.

“I’m just trying to share,” Billy said.

“Tune in, please, year elevens,” Ms. King was saying.

Billy leaned in so he was almost touching Vân Ước’s face. She braced herself. Here it came, the punch line. “You know her name’s Jo, right?” Billy was nodding to the front of the room. His blue eyes shone with the silliness of the revelation—that miraculously had nothing to do with her. “Joanne. Jo King. True story.”

She risked meeting his glance for a second. Nothing but his wide, mischievous smile, directed at her with no apparent malice. This made no sense. Billy Gardiner did not initiate conversation or crack jokes with the Vân Ước Phans of the world.

“What about your name, Vân Ước—what does that mean? What’s the translation?”

“Cloudwish.”

“Cloudwish? Cloudwish. That’s so cool. And unusual. Is it, like, a family name, or what?”

He was waiting for a response. He had to be taking the piss. Didn’t he realize most names meant something? His name, William, for instance, meant “helmet.” Tragic that she’d looked it up. She gave herself a mental shake and looked around for one or more of his friends laughing on the sidelines. The dare, the bet, won. Pretend like you’re friends with the povvo Asian chick.

She tuned back in to Ms. King without giving him an answer.

“Now, for anyone without work lined up, can we have some brainstorming—some networking—hands up—sharing some ideas, please, for where we might look for work.”

A couple of reluctant hands went up.

“Visiting old people.”

“Children’s hospital.”

Annie’s hand shot up. “Refugees!” she said, obviously relieved to have thought of something. She leaned across Billy to Vân Ước, looking mortified. “OMIGOD, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean you.”

Billy bristled. “Vân Ước’s not a refugee, you retard; she’s Australian.”

Lou bristled. “Can you not use ableist language, Billy?”

Annie bristled. “I said I didn’t mean her.”

Vân Ước bristled. “There’s nothing wrong with being a refugee.”

They were all confused. The roles were muddied. What on earth, Vân Ước wondered, was she doing speaking out like that? She, the silent one. Sounding so bossy. And what was Billy Gardiner doing defending her?

“Billy, Vân Ước, Lou, Annie—you can stay and pack up chairs when we finish, thanks,” said Ms. King.

“Great. This is the thanks I get for thinking of the refugees,” said Annie, slamming another chair onto the pile and looking at Vân Ước. “Sorry. Again. It’s just I wouldn’t mind having ten minutes of my lunchtime. Have you guys got your volunteer stuff organized?”

“A couple of maybes, but nothing interesting,” said Lou.

Billy picked up four chairs as though they were feathers. “Me neither. Only thing on offer is crunching data on my father’s research project. Which I’d rather blow off my own balls than do.” Billy’s father was a high-profile doctor involved in developing new treatments for melanomas.

“What I really hate about it is that I know for sure a whole lot of people will fake at least half their hours, and suckers like me will actually be doing the work,” said Annie.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” asked Lou.

“I’m trying to get onto a coastal revegetation program,” said Annie. “Who knew you’ve got to beg to be allowed to help places?” She crashed another chair onto the pile. “And I’m only marginally eligible for IB, so I’m basically screwed from day one.” Annie had just scraped into the program, but her parents had promised the school she’d lift her game academically if they let her in.

“What about you, Vân Ước?” asked Lou.

“I’m working at a tutor program for kids whose parents have English as a second language.”

“Oh, I’d love to do that—do they need anyone else?”

Vân Ước hesitated. Someone like Lou would be fantastic to have at homework club, but if she encouraged her to come along, she’d be breaking one of her golden rules: keep school life and home life separate.

“It’s pretty grotty. Very noisy. Mostly kids from the East Melbourne public housing apartments.” Kids like her, actually. It was thanks in part to her weekly sessions with her tutor, Debi, that Vân Ước was as well-read, with as good an English vocab, as anyone else in her class.

“When is it?” asked Billy.

“Fridays at five o’clock.”

“And what’s the deal?”

How to describe the heaving bustle that somehow sorted itself into shape every week? “About two hundred kids and about two hundred tutors meet at the St. Joey’s church hall and sit around tables, and for an hour the tutors help the kids with their homework. Or schoolwork in general. Or life in general. Sometimes the mothers come and get help, too. All the kids get a snack and a juice box. The ones who need a lift get bused back to the apartments that are farther away.”

“Sounds excellent,” Billy said. “And it’s my only training-free afternoon—I can do it, too.”

“Yeah, only you weren’t invited yet,” said Lou, rolling her eyes at Vân Ước. “Despite being an entitled white male, you do still need the occasional invitation.”

“I can come, can’t I?” Billy looked at Vân Ước beseechingly. “Please let me.”

Vân Ước, Lou, and Annie looked at him. What was going on with that?

“I’ll ask,” said Vân Ước reluctantly. “You can’t just show up, though. You need to get a Working with Children check.”

“Okay, well, let me know, Vân Ước,” said Lou. “I’d love to do it if they need someone. I’m happy to tutor any subject, any age group.”

“Me too,” said Billy.

She was so used to Billy Gardiner mocking, joking, and generally doing anything to get a laugh that it was difficult to believe he was being serious.