Velvet stared at the Mandarin test that had just been handed back to her. It was nearly the end of first term. She had developed an uneasy routine at Yarrabank High. She wrote long, passionate essays, and her English teacher told her she was brilliant. The other students in her English class thought she was a stuck-up snob and a try-hard. The maths teacher, Mr Axiotis, was quite nice and algebraic factorising and simultaneous equations made sense to her at last. Mandarin, on the other hand, remained a complete mystery. There was a giant D on the top of the page. Velvet had never got such a low mark in her life.
The Mandarin teacher, Mrs Dwyer, was a pretty young Malaysian woman who wore cute outfits. The boys all fancied her; the girls all wanted to be her. She cracked jokes and everyone enjoyed Mandarin lessons. Everyone except Velvet. Mrs Dwyer spoke perfect English, but she gave all her instructions to the class in Mandarin. The only time she spoke in English was when she was explaining new grammar. Velvet didn’t understand a word she said – in Mandarin or in English.
Mrs Dwyer was writing characters on the whiteboard and saying something in Mandarin. The other students were busily writing down the answers. Velvet stared at the characters. The only one she recognised was the verb “to be”.
Velvet hated lunchtime almost as much as she hated Mandarin. At St Theresa’s she’d had lots of girls in her friendship group, and other girls who were desperate to hang out with her on any days when she wasn’t speaking to her friends. At Yarrabank, she sat by herself. Even the newly arrived refugees had each other to sit with, though they didn’t speak the same language. Velvet spent her lunchtimes in the library.
At St Theresa’s she’d ordered sushi or rocket and haloumi salad from the refectory. At Yarrabank, she ate sandwiches made by her mother. They were awful. Velvet forced herself to eat one sandwich. As she was walking to the bin to throw the rest away, she could smell smoke. A crowd was gathering.
Velvet saw Peter. “What’s going on?”
“Someone set the rubbish skip on fire,” he said. “Three guesses who it was.”
Miss Ryan was putting out the flames with a fire extinguisher.
Velvet stood on her toes so she could see over the crowd. Mr Kislinski was marching Drago to his office.
At least lunchtime on Thursdays was short.
Cultural studies wasn’t exactly the highlight of Velvet’s week, but it did mean it was almost the weekend, and it was better than doing fifteen laps of the oval or having some jock hurl balls at her. Velvet spent the time doing her homework and reading the complete works of Jane Austen and Douglas Adams. She texted her friends at Saint Theresa’s, but they didn’t text back.
The other cultural studies students kept pretty much to themselves. All Velvet had to do was put up with Drago’s obscene clay models, Hailie’s endless chat about boyfriends and period cramps, Roula’s unbelievable stories and Taleb’s tinny guitar playing.
Jesus didn’t speak much, he mainly grunted.
“Hi, Jesus, how are you?”
“Urgh.”
“Hey, Jesus, how’s the knee?”
“Urgh.”
“Want a chewy, Jesus?”
“Urgh.”
He was the only one who wasn’t happy being in the cultural studies class. Peter told Velvet Jesus’s story. As well as winning interschool swimming medals and playing in the hockey and lacrosse teams, he had been the school’s star soccer player – a celebrity because he’d scored sixty-two goals in a season.
“But he was jumped in the changing rooms by six thugs from another team that lost badly. They beat him up – fixed his knee so he would never play again.”
Jesus spent most of his time staring longingly out of the window at the students playing sport on the oval. Velvet almost felt sorry for him.
Velvet had no friends at Yarrabank. That was okay. She would be studious, come top in everything (except Mandarin). She would be aloof from the Yarrabank students. The last thing she wanted was to become one of them.
Velvet would have gone on all year reading her way through the classics and feeling superior in peace every Thursday afternoon, if it hadn’t been for Roula’s Uncle Dimitrios. When she arrived at T6 the following Thursday, the cultural studies class was in uproar. Instead of the usual background noise coming from computer games and Taleb’s guitar strings, there was shouting, swearing and the sound of a chair being hurled across the room. Velvet timidly put her head around the door.
“Your uncle’s a stupid old fart!”
“You wouldn’t say that to his face, you knob!”
Roula and Drago were facing each other, standing so close their noses were almost touching. They were both seething with anger. Peter was trying a little quiet persuasion to stop the argument.
“Come on, you guys. Who cares what her dumb uncle says?”
“He is not dumb. He’s smart. He’s the Mayor of Yarrabank and he says Croats are sneaky liars.”
Drago went for Roula’s throat. Velvet rushed over to help Peter separate them.
“Let her go, Drago. You don’t have to take any notice of what she says.”
“Who asked you, stuck-up snobface?” Drago let go of Roula and turned on Velvet. “What would you know about this stuff?”
“Yeah,” Roula said. “What would you know? This is … it’s … European!”
Everyone was shouting. It even woke up Mr MacDonald. Roula had a hockey stick raised over Velvet’s head, Jesus had Drago in a headlock, Hailie was throwing Drago’s sculpture against the wall, Taleb had scrambled onto a desk with his arms wrapped protectively around his guitar.
The door swung open. It was Mr Kislinski.
“What is going on here?” he said in his best headmaster’s voice. “Where is your teacher?”
They all turned to Mr MacDonald, who was reading the paper with clumps of red tapestry wool stuffed in his ears.
Once sporting equipment had been laid down, clay and wool returned to appropriate containers, and everyone was sitting down again, Mr Kislinski gave a speech about how fortunate they were, what great resources the school had and how they’d Let the School Down. He went on for ten minutes. Drago stared at Mr Kislinski, his eyes glazed, his chin resting in his hand.
“MacDonald, I think it’s time the cultural studies class did something for the school in return,” Mr Kislinski said.
Dig a big hole in the oval and bury themselves in it? Velvet couldn’t imagine what he had in mind. Emigrate to Greenland?
“As you know this is the school’s diamond jubilee year.” Velvet didn’t know. “There will be a week of festivities in November for parents of prospective students.”
Drago’s elbow slid off the desk as he pretended to fall asleep.
“Pay attention, Domitrovic. We’re planning a sports cavalcade to show off Yarrabank’s fine athletes. What we need is something artistic in between the gymnastics demonstration and the track and field finals, while visitors are having afternoon tea.”
“Art-is-tic, sir?” Jesus pronounced the word as if it was a foreign term he’d never heard before.
“I want you people to put on a performance.”
“I thought we just did that.”
Mr Kislinski ignored Roula’s comment and scowled at Mr MacDonald.
“I’m talking about something cultural. Prospective parents are looking for an all-round education these days. A flute ensemble or a string quartet. Or perhaps a short play.”
Mr Kislinski was staring at the water-stained ceiling, searching for inspiration.
“Shakespeare. Now that’s the thing to impress the arty parents. A Shakespeare play. MacDonald, I’d like you to organise something. I shall look in from time to time to see how things are progressing.”
Mr Kislinski left T6 and jogged back across the oval.