10

Casual clothes day was a gold-coin fund-raiser for year eleven’s sponsored student in Somalia. The Somali kid was a distant theory to most of Vân Ước’s classmates. It was a safe bet that Vân Ước would be the only person who knew actual Somali kids.

She always gave a two-dollar coin, worried that one dollar might look cheapskate. Lots of kids came with a handful of gold coins, whatever had happened to be in parental purses or pockets that morning, she guessed. And, conversely, people with plenty of money never worried if they didn’t have any. Someone like Pippa would be perfectly happy to wander in without a coin, and say, Who’s got a gold coin for little old me?

She and Jess had workshopped the outfit over the weekend. Casual clothes day was a competitive fashion parade, for girls anyway, no matter what anyone said or pretended to believe. Vân Ước didn’t expect to look good; she just didn’t want to look too conspicuously wrong. Jeans. Safe choice. Good label, good fit, thank you, Savers. Converse One Stars. Okay. Not ideal. Good color—crimson. Made unique by hand-drawn curlicues and leaf pattern. Never worn at school before. Burnt orange silk top. Savers. A designer find, nabbed before the vintage store vultures swept through for the armfuls they could mark up by a couple of hundred percent in little North Fitzroy shops. Gorgeous fabric, cut on the bias, it clung and fell just as it should.

Persuaded by Jess, she had submitted to a small amount of eyeliner, and clear lip gloss with a hint of gold shimmer to it. The only thing that could go wrong was the weather.

Being summer in Melbourne, that was exactly what happened.

By the time she was hurrying through the Botanic Gardens, hair whipped around in every direction, the last trails of the hot night had been sucked up by wind swinging to the south. The temperature dropped by ten degrees in five minutes, and cold black coins of rain were landing on the still-warm paths, releasing the scent of toasted asphalt. The rain quickly settled in. Finally, an upside to not owning strappy Italian sandals. She ran to the nearest shelter, a small gazebo with an onion-dome roof, to wait until the downpour eased. She pulled her school rain jacket from her backpack, shivering. Way to kill what was otherwise, for once, an okay casual clothes day outfit.

But what was this? A furry bundle of something on the slatted seat. She gave it a nudge with the back of her finger. It was soft and wooly. Neither mouse, nor cockroach, nor spider scuttled forth. She leaned forward and gave it a cautious sniff. Eucalyptus. She picked it up and shook it gently. It fell open like a fairy-tale dream of Gaultier: a cardigan with long, skinny sleeves knitted in wavering black-and-white stripes… and—what was happening at the shoulders? As though they’d sprouted, fabric petals emerged from each shoulder, red and orange, like wings grading down the upper arms through the rainbow spectrum of colors and flicking out in delicate tips from the elbows in shades of violet. She’d never seen anything like it.

She looked around through the sheeting rain. Who’d left this precious thing behind? Did she dare to try it on? It would make the day so much easier if she could feel warm and comfortable instead of shivering in her slimy rain jacket. She sniffed it properly now, with the experience of the thrift-shop buyer, paying particular attention to the armpits. Fresh as a flower. Slipping it on, she couldn’t help but feel as though it had been made for her. The body was cropped exactly at her hip level, the sleeves tapered down covering her long wrists. The wing-petals gave an extra layer of warmth.

As she stroked her fingers along the underside edges of one wing, admiring the amazing construction, she felt the sharp edge of a cardboard tag. Attached with a ribbon and a small black safety pin, it said WEAR ME on one side. She flipped it and read PASS ME ON. Here was some luck. She didn’t have to take it off. It was hers, at least for the day. She left the tag on; she would remove it carefully in better light.

As the rain eased, she hitched her backpack on and took a deep breath.

She had not slipped down a rabbit hole.

Nor had a film crew sprung from the shrubbery to announce that she was the subject of a new reality TV show called That Boy Who Used to Ignore You Notices You Now or Find That Attractive Garment in a Public Place.

This was just life continuing to be a little bit weird.

She hurried to school, trying to beat the next downpour. By the time she walked through the school gates, she was feeling that she might just look… better than okay.

Because it was casual clothes day, the locker area was buzzier than usual. Lots of surreptitious and not so surreptitious checking out, commenting, admiring, teasing. Holly was leaning on her locker door, looking around, hugely amused. “You can so tell that color blindness is more of a guy thing.” Tiff and Pippa, the other queens of teen couture, agreed.

As Vân Ước put her backpack into her locker, she remembered the label. She lifted a wing petal, undid the pin carefully, and removed the label, glancing around to see if anyone, other than Michael, had noticed her doing it. Surely it would look slightly strange to come to school in a garment whose tags you apparently hadn’t removed.

Holly was looking her way as Vân Ước zipped the label into her backpack pocket, but it seemed she had Michael in her sights.

“And then there’s Michael,” Holly said. “Oh, the joy of faded black teamed with faded black.”

Holly had been breathtakingly nasty to Michael at Mount Fairweather last term, publicly humiliating him by reading out loud an extremely personal letter he’d written about loving Sibylla Quinn. Vân Ước felt hotly uncomfortable for Michael all over again just remembering the way his face had frozen and turned white as Holly read his private words for a laugh. It was interesting to see how he’d gone from mostly ignoring Holly pre-letter-reading incident to retaliating now when she said something mean. He took out his copy of Ariel and his English folder from his locker and, even though he clearly couldn’t care less about Holly’s assessment, said, “Another episode of breathtaking banality from Holly Broderick.”

“Loser,” Holly said.

“Another stingingly original riposte from Holly Broderick.”

Holly looked at him with loathing, but bit her tongue. She recognized superior brainpower when she saw it.

Michael smiled at Vân Ước.

Billy came loping into class, rain-soaked, making wrecked jeans, a washed-out red T-shirt, and sneakers look entirely desirable. There were half a dozen empty places, but he sat next to Vân Ước. She could feel eyebrows go up all over the room. He gave one of her fabric feather/petals a playful tug, saying, “Hey, cool birdie.”

Ms. Norton arrived, shushing them and hoping they were old enough not to be distracted by the sartorial splendor they collectively represented.

Vân Ước tried to concentrate on what Ms. Norton was saying, but she’d seen Holly register Billy’s compliment, and that would no doubt mean trouble. And Billy Gardiner was sitting right next to her. She could hear him breathe.

Ms. Norton prefaced their discussion of Sylvia Plath with a briefing on the concept of the IB English oral commentaries—formal assessment sessions with your teacher at which selected texts would be discussed. That sounded okay; one-on-one discussion was pretty much what she’d been used to having with Debi at homework club.

Daily class interaction was much more stressful. She hated it when teachers invited her by name to contribute; it meant that she’d misjudged the minimum acceptable level of participation. Ms. Norton, an old-school, strict, English-accented English teacher, was someone from whom she dreaded negative attention.

“More about the orals as we proceed. First, though, can everyone pair up for a practice session? Please choose a partner with whom you have not worked before. I want objective feedback. No friends who already know each other’s opinions.”

Billy nudged her gently with his elbow. “I’m with Vân Ước.”

She looked at him. She could swear he was as surprised as anyone else to hear those words coming out of his mouth.

“Okay,” said Ms. Norton. “No need to call out—just take a minute now and partner up. Make a time outside class hours to have your session, and we’ll have three pairs reporting next class. And do start visiting the intranet subject page regularly.”

Vân Ước was trying not to look at Billy. She obviously didn’t want to be his partner, but nor did she want to have an attention-drawing altercation in front of the whole class. Maybe she could trade after class. She saw that Polly, a quiet scholarship semi-ally, was with Michael. Though Michael was surely a semi-friend, so maybe out of contention.

Billy Gardiner was a millstone. An attractive millstone. Strange that only days ago a one-on-one session with him would have seemed like a fine idea, but that was just in theory, not real life, so here she was, freaking out.

Couldn’t she at least try to forget that this was a complete reversal of previous behavior, one that possibly came from a wish, one that would surely draw Holly’s attention like an attack dog to raw meat, and relax and enjoy it? Gulp.

Did Sylvia Plath ever have this sort of problem? Was Ted Hughes suddenly everywhere she went, so she felt like she was tripping over him? Although, hadn’t Sylvia pursued him? Wasn’t there a famous story about her biting his lip till it bled on an early date at a party? That had always sounded more like a spectacularly incompetent kissing episode than anything else. Or maybe until that level of passion hit you, you didn’t know it was going to happen. Although, blood—surely that couldn’t be a good idea. Spit-swaps must be bad enough—glandular fever had gone around the early kissing brigade like wildfire. Of course that had never been a problem for Vân Ước.

“Please open your copies of Ariel to page twenty, and we will look at ‘Tulips,’” said Ms. Norton. “Lou, would you like to read it for the class?”

Holly was looking Vân Ước up and down at the lockers after class. Vân Ước shivered. She’d seen so many people being shredded and spat out by Holly over the last couple of years, even so-called friends, that Vân Ước consciously avoided any contact with her, but now—thanks, Billy—it looked like it was unavoidable. Holly was whispering something to Gabi, one of her cronies, and both were having a little snigger.

Holly, casually resplendent in a new-season Gorman dress, walked up to Vân Ước and ostentatiously walked around her. She plucked at the cardigan’s winglike sleeve and said, “Well, what have we come as today? Did someone think it was a costume party?”

Vân Ước turned away and concentrated on packing up her English books and extracting her French folder. It was always worth ignoring a bully as a first strategy.

“I said, what did you come as?”

“Nothing,” Vân Ước said.

“Good, just remember that,” said Holly.

Vân Ước looked down, refusing to acknowledge Holly with a look or a word. She saved her spleen till she saw Jess after school.

They set down their afternoon snack on a tray between them on the sofa at Jess’s—watermelon, rice crackers, hummus, gummy snakes—took off their shoes, and put their feet up on the coffee table.

“What a bitch,” said Jess.

“It’s her life’s work,” said Vân Ước.

“So, what would old Jane have done?” Jess knew Vân Ước’s Jane Eyre habit, and indulged it. She, too, had read and enjoyed Jane Eyre, though not to the same semi-obsessive extent as Vân Ước.

“Ha, Jane would wipe the floor with Holly. She’d use the John Reed put-down; she’d say, Wicked and cruel… You are like a murderer—you are like a slave-driver—you are like the Roman emperors!”

Vân Ước had a suitable Jane quote for most occasions.

“And what would Holly say to that?”

“She’d say, What are you on, you loser? And she’d say, Stay away from Billy.”

Uh-oh. She hadn’t planned to mention the Billy thing.

“Whoa, back up, sister. Billy? Are you talking Billy Gardiner? Dream boy Billy? Numero uno mew? You’ve stopped your preferred charm offensive of pretending to ignore him completely? Give, give, give.”

Mew was their own word for anything good or attractive. It started when they were on a reading mission for intel about sex in year seven and came across a steamy romance in which the sappy heroine, Brandy, mewed in a moment of sexual passion. That cracked them up; they cried with laughter. They immediately chose a preferable animal whose spirit they might invoke while having sex—if that ever happened. Jess decided on a walrus, thinking a loud honk might be just the thing to get a laugh in the sack; Vân Ước went for a hooting owl. Mewing? Pathetic. Brandy also did a lot of purring. It was possible that Brandy had a secret wish to be Catwoman, which, had it been explored by the author, might have made for a better read. But mew had earned a permanent place in their vocabulary.

She gave Jess the full story of the shift in behavior of—yes, her number one mew—Billy Gardiner: the vial, the wish, the fascinating, the unprecedented attention from Billy, the initial strong suspicion that something mean was being planned, the let me come to homework club, the Hey, cool birdie, the I’m partners with Vân Ước.

“Okay, let’s get systematic. So—we know that magic wishes aren’t a thing, right?” Jess gave her a look, as if checking to see that Vân Ước hadn’t given up on the whole idea of sanity.

“Right.”

“But we also know you are a smokin’ babe, plus smart-as, and all things great…” Vân Ước shook her head in embarrassed denial, but before she had a chance to object, Jess continued, “Seeing as how I am the only lesbian-in-waiting present, I’m going to appoint myself as the expert on female beauty, so don’t argue about that. The only question is, why now? And, given his track record of general meanness, I guess you were right to be suspicious about his motives. But that hasn’t played out. So, what’s the plan?”

“The plan? There is no plan. And his jokes are sometimes long-term and quite elaborate, so that’s still a definite possibility. So, there’s just, how do I avoid him?”

“Nuh-uh. You’re thinking public humiliation still likely, Billy-likes-Vân Ước long shot. Am I right?”

“Yeah.”

“Whereas I’m thinking public humiliation long shot, Billy-likes-Vân Ước very likely.”

“But I’m the only one present who has actually met Billy Gardiner, so I’m going to appoint myself as the expert on his behavior.”

“Though you admit yourself that his behavior at the moment is uncharacteristic?”

“Bizarrely.”

“So, your mission, if you choose to accept it, is to discover his true motivation.”

Vân Ước picked up another rice cracker, scooped up some hummus, and crunched thoughtfully. “I guess.”

“And how do you plan to do that?”

“Continued surveillance?”

“You need to step it up.”

“What are you thinking?”

“Let him come to homework club, like he wants to.”

“Really?”

“Show yourself to him, and see what he makes of the real you. Also, how else am I going to meet him?”

Jess was probably right. Homework club would at least let Billy see her in her own world.

Jess started laughing.

“What?”

“I’m just thinking, worst-case scenario, say he is a bastard, and he does try something mean—you’ll get to use your favorite Jane quote.”

Vân Ước laughed, too. And they said it together, in their best English accents. “Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless?—You think wrong!—I have as much soul as you,—and full as much heart!”

It brought on a bad case of contagious giggles, and they were soon killing themselves laughing.

Fatal error. A banging on the wall started. The sounds of too much fun had filtered into the land of do-your-homework-study-hard.

Vân Ước got up, letting herself enjoy the lightness of heart that only came after a really good laugh with Jess, and left to face the music with her mother.

Walking along the corridor, she prepared herself for a talking-to about wasting valuable study time. She carefully stuffed her found cardigan into her backpack and unlocked the front door, wilting at the thought that she was going to get into trouble for messing around with Jess, as though she were a child, and yet she was also going to be the one checking up on her mother’s medication—counting pills and taking responsibility for doctor’s instructions being carried out, as though she were an adult.

She wouldn’t mind having a run of just being a regular teenager.