14

Art class that afternoon was devoted to journaling.

As part of their assessment, each student would be required to present a document demonstrating the thought processes and practical studies and explorations behind the portfolio pieces. Ms. Halabi said that, ideally, the journal should strike a balance between playground and laboratory. She also warned the class that examiners could always tell if a journal had been put together at the last minute. Even though it seemed like a soft-option part of the course, it had to be undertaken seriously.

The teacher went quietly from student to student to chat, still getting to know them all, while Vân Ước worked on a journal page devoted to the artist Elizabeth Gower, and specifically to the jewel-bright mosaics Gower made from product labels and packaging.

“Aha,” said Ms. Halabi. “So tell me how this relates to your work.”

“It’s the beauty of the overlooked object… an article I read talked about constructing an aesthetic from the mundane.”

“And what does the artist have to say about it?”

“She—for her it’s political, too. Questioning consumerism.”

“Okay. And you’re giving your work some more thought?”

Vân Ước nodded, but she’d had no new insights since Friday.

“Remember to keep investigating—What does it mean? and What does it mean to me?”

It felt amazing to have her work taken seriously, to be treated like an artist. She was buzzing with adrenaline and—she had to admit it—she enjoyed the added thrill that this was hers alone, a secret life. Secret from her parents, anyway. That felt heady, addictive. Maybe there was an element she wasn’t so proud of: Keep your secrets about our family; I’ve got my own secrets.

As she left the art room, Holly walked up alongside her, lightly bumping her, smiling. “Go look at the bulletin board, bitch.”

Vân Ước knew that smile, and her euphoria evaporated. She’d gone from the category of ignored/despised to being squarely in Holly’s sights. Thanks, Billy. The old dudes were at her shoulder, naturally. She’s full of herself today/Who does she think she is?/Of course she’s heading for a fall/What did she expect?

The dilemma was whether to go to the common room now and see what Holly was talking about, or wait and try to go in at a less crowded time. At least Holly wouldn’t be there now; she’d been heading in the opposite direction. Perhaps she’d check out the lay of the land, and have a covert look at the board.

She expected the worst and wasn’t disappointed. A photo of her in the rainbow-wing cardigan, blown up and printed on six A4 sheets of paper, with the caption, SECURITY WARNING: CERTAIN PEOPLE WEAR STOLEN GOODS. LOCK UP YOUR POSSESSIONS.

People who’d been at the board, obviously looking at the pictures of her, drifted away, leaving her uncertain of what her rights were here, and what she should do. If she took them down, would it make her look more guilty, or less? Would there be any point? Holly could just print more.

What would Jane do? Jane had been humiliated unfairly at school. She’d been punished and called a liar in front of her whole class. Then she’d cried. Even Jane was only human.

Vân Ước had the horrible, rare, and certain feeling that she was about to cry. She headed out quickly, brushing past Lou, Sibylla, and Billy, running across the colonnade to the library and down the stairs to the basement level. There she shoved open two sets of swinging doors, and locked herself in a bathroom stall.

She sat down and let the crying hit her. It was powerful and engulfing, and she knew from experience that it would take a while for her to resurface. She wasn’t a crier. Once, maybe twice a year she’d have a good howl. So when she did cry, she was overloaded, like a storm cloud, and miseries came pouring out in a torrent.

Her anxiety about her mother (Why couldn’t she have a capable, happy mother who looked after her, instead of vice versa?); her frustration that her father didn’t get more involved, wasn’t better at helping her mother; her confusion about Billy Gardiner; and all the rest of her current-release poor-me catalog items—no money, no designer clothes, no nice clothes even, people would believe she stole something because she was poor, parents didn’t even speak the language, no nice place to live, parents wouldn’t even apply to live in one of the real houses with a garden that the housing commission owned, parents had no car, she’d never been out of the country, never had a pet (unless you counted a succession of former goldfish, which she didn’t), always had to be on her best behavior because of the scholarship, must look like a craven approval seeker, no friends at school, wouldn’t get into art school even with a good portfolio because she’d be tongue-tied and too shy to talk about the work in interviews, never had a boyfriend, would never have a boyfriend, only ever had one (fake) Barbie (with cheap hair that matted) when she was little.

Finally there flowed the generalized sorry-for-selfness that was virtually forbidden in her life, but which flavored it completely, or maybe just reduced her life’s flavor overall, about not being allowed to be unhappy about any bloody thing because if you survived, then you were all right; no—lucky. What problems? You’re alive! She wanted more than survival. She wanted beauty; she wanted love; she wanted abundance.

Why was it okay for everyone around her to have more than enough, but she had to be content with less?

Her whole body was crying now, shoulders and chest heaving, tears streaming, running down her neck, making the collar of her dress wet, nose running. She was a big, snotty pile of self-pity. And she despised herself almost as much as she pitied herself. What a pathetic weakling. Now she would be red-eyed, flushed, and blotchy for the rest of the day and everyone would know she’d been crying, and then they’d all think she was guilty.

She was shocked into stopping, with a gulp, when the door into the bathroom opened. She flushed the toilet to cover the noise she was making, drew a deep breath through sobs still galloping to get out, yanked down some toilet paper, and blew her nose. But didn’t open the door. She hiccuped.

“Vân Ước?”

Crap. Was there no getting away from him? She hiccuped again.

“Look, I know it’s you.”

“This is the girls’ bathroom.”

“Yeah, it’s just you and me, though, so I figured it was okay.”

“It’s not.”

“I heard you crying.”

“Can you please go?”

“I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m okay.” Hiccup.

“You don’t sound it. What’s with the stuff on the bulletin board?”

“I don’t know.”

Vân Ước heard the noise of a toilet seat banging shut.

“You’re not actually using the toilet now, are you?” Billy asked.

“No.”

“Cool.”

She looked up. He was standing on the toilet in the next stall, looking down at her. She had a momentary sense of disbelief that she had ever, ever wished for Billy Gardiner to notice her.

The door to the bathroom opened again, and she heard murmurs as two more people came in.

“What the fuck are you doing up there?”

Thank god. It was Lou. Not that Vân Ước wanted to see anyone. But she had no confidence that she could get rid of Billy alone.

“Get lost, Billy,” Sibylla said.

He jumped back down. “Do you want me to stay, Vân Ước?”

“NO.”

“Okay, I’ll see you in class.”

The door opened and closed again. She assumed Billy was gone.

“Are you okay?” asked Lou.

Vân Ước was still trying to get her breathing and sobbing under control. “Sure,” she said, sounding only a bit quaky.

“I’m getting eye drops,” Sibylla said. “I’ll be back.”

“What’s going on?” Lou asked when Sibylla had gone. “What’s the thing on the bulletin board about?”

Vân Ước opened the door and saw how bad she must look reflected in Lou’s sympathetic face a beat before she saw herself in the mirror. “Oh no.”

“Don’t worry, Sib’ll be back soon. Splash your face with cold water, and we’ll talk.”