A FEW WEEKS later I come first in a French test.
Our teacher, Mademoiselle Larsen, always hands the tests out in descending order of marks, and it’s my test she lays down before anyone else’s.
Jenny elbows me. ‘Not again,’ she moans. ‘How do you do it, Shauna?’
At the moment I’m beating Jenny in French and 3-unit maths, and giving her a good nudge in every other subject we do together. This is no mean feat, considering that Jenny’s parents have hired private tutors for her in every subject except English. (She doesn’t need a tutor in English because her father’s an English professor.) I, on the other hand, only have my foetus to bounce ideas off, and he doesn’t know much about Albert Camus.
I’ll admit it, okay? I’m trying hard. To be a ‘try-hard’ in Australia is to be a loser, but how can you be a winner if you don’t try hard? I’ve been hitting the books and practice papers every afternoon, even during prep., a marvel in itself. I study in my bed first thing in the morning. I study in the Year 12 common room at lunch. Bindi and I often study together at the same desk in our room until late, snarling at anyone who makes a peep. The other night, well after ten, Indu was whispering prayers to her spiritual mentor in Hindi when Bindi suddenly yelled, ‘Sai Baba, can you tell Indu to shut the hell up!’
Indu didn’t take it well. ‘You’re sharing a room with three other people, Bindi!’
‘Yeah, and two of them are quiet.’
Indu stewed in her pyjamas for a couple of minutes before unhooking Sai Baba from his place on the wall and stomping out. Miss Maroney intercepted her in the hallway, gave her a Red Mark and sent her back into our room. She ran into the bathroom and slammed the door.
Petty tensions like this keep rearing their heads. The atmosphere is heavy among the Year 12 girls, and how could it not be? The HSC results will have a huge influence on our lives, not just in terms of our options at university, but in the way we see ourselves. Will I consider myself a success if I don’t get into journalism at uni? What else can I study? What am I good at? What will I tell my parents and friends if my performance falls short? The pressure is intense and it’s driving us crazy.
During chapel, Reverend Ferguson reminds us to keep things in perspective, to remember that God sees each of us as a whole person, not as a mark or rank or even as a prospective career. It’s easier for me than most to remember that there are other things in life, like the life of my baby. At the same time, though, all our teachers seem to care about is what questions will be in the HSC exams and what scores we’ll get. When you’re doing a timed practice paper with a teacher looking over your shoulder, it’s hard to remember what Reverend Ferguson said in chapel about not panicking. Luckily, my baby never quite lets me forget its presence or value.
Lou-Anne and I have started calling my foetus by the codename ‘Fred’. We figure that talking about a foetus or a baby or pregnancy might arouse suspicion, so now it’s ‘Fred’s wearing me out’ or ‘Fred ate my lunch and now I’m hungry again’ or ‘Fred stole my period’.
Jenny hasn’t asked me about Fred since we returned to school. She didn’t return my one phone call to her during the holidays and she’s been cool with me since term began – she and I never study together – but at least she’s not trying to talk me into an abortion anymore. Though she hasn’t asked, I suspect that she knows I’m still pregnant. Probably it’s better that we don’t discuss it. Given that I’m five months pregnant now and can feel Fred fluttering inside me, I don’t think I’d take too kindly to suggestions that Fred should be dead. Also, remembering what Dr Goldsmith said about the twenty-week mark, I think it might be too late to press the delete button now, even if I wanted to.
To the uninformed observer, I probably look like I’ve put on a little weight. My face is fatter than usual, my boobs have become bazookas, and my stomach looks like I’ve eaten too much lunch. My uniform still fits – just – and to use Olivia Pike’s word, I’m ‘passable’, as long as I’m dressed. Things in the shower have become somewhat outstanding, though. When I’m warm and nude, I look as ripe and juicy as a plump summer plum. My nipples have become huge and dark, and there’s a thick, black line leading from my belly button to my pubic hair. I don’t know what it’s doing there or when it arrived, but there it is.
My skin is better than it’s ever been. I don’t have a pimple anywhere on my body, not even on my back, where I usually have at least three at any given time. My eyes are bright and my hair is lustrous. The only physical downside is that my gums have been bleeding sometimes when I brush my teeth. Mentally, I’m firing on all cylinders. Studying’s easy, my memory’s good, and I’m not suffering at all from what Lou-Anne calls ‘baby brain’. I’m just a bit tired.
That morning, Mademoiselle Larsen asks me to stay back after class. A tiny splinter of panic jabs me, but I tell myself not to worry. She can’t see Fred. She doesn’t know he’s there.
Miss Larsen, if you remember, used to hate my guts, but I can’t really blame her for that. I was not very likeable. I’ve woken up to myself since then and, like most of the other teachers here at Oakholme College, Miss Larsen has given me chance after chance to redeem myself. Now, after my stellar performance in the French test, it looks like I finally have.
‘You’re going to take out the French prize this year if you’re not careful, Shauna. I haven’t handed back the Camus papers yet, but I think you’ve probably come first in that too.’
I can’t help grinning. ‘Cool.’
‘I don’t know what’s happened to you this year,’ she goes on, ‘but you’re proving to be quite the dark horse.’
I’m a portrait of modesty. ‘There’s no big secret. It’s just hard work.’
‘Well, it’s paying off, ma chérie, so keep it up.’
I can tell we haven’t quite reached the point of our little meeting, so I’m not surprised when she changes the subject.
‘Jenny Bean tells me that you two were planning a trip to Paris next year.’
‘We were talking about it, yeah.’
‘She says that you pulled out for some reason.’ She pauses, obviously waiting for me to tell her why, but of course I can’t. ‘Is it a financial problem, Shauna?’
‘Partly.’
‘The cost of accommodation in Paris is very high, isn’t it?’
‘And the flights.’
Mademoiselle Larsen sits daintily on the corner of her desk and crosses her ankles, as if this conversation might take some little time.
‘Look, if you still want to go, I might be able to help you out. Especially if you decided to stay there for a while.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, what if you did a French language course, or even got a job, or both? If you stayed there for six months or a year, it’d make the cost of the flights worthwhile. It’d be more than just an expensive holiday.’
As she continues, I smile, though I really feel like crying.
‘I have some friends who own an apartment in the fifth arrondissement,’ she says, ‘and their son’s just moved out of home. I’ve spoken to them about you, and they’ve told me that you’d be welcome to stay with them. They wouldn’t charge you board, though they might expect you to help with housework.’
As she talks, an image opens in my mind. I can see myself in Miss Larsen’s friends’ apartment. It’s on the third floor. We’re eating breakfast in the sun-filled kitchen. I’m slurping hot chocolate from a bowl. Monsieur offers me a pain au chocolat, and I take it. Madame says that there’s chocolate on my lip. I lick it off and we all laugh.
It’s tantalising, but with Fred on board, I know it’s out of my reach.
‘That’s such a nice offer,’ I tell Miss Larsen, ‘but there are other reasons I can’t go to France next year. It’s not just about the money.’
‘Something to consider, though.’
‘What about Jenny?’ I ask. ‘I’m sure she’d love to stay with your friends.’
‘Jenny’s parents can afford to keep her in Paris,’ Miss Larsen replies firmly. ‘The offer’s only open to you, okay? And it’s confidential.’
‘I won’t tell Jenny,’ I say.
Afterwards, I find Jenny waiting for me in the hallway.
‘What was that all about?’
‘The French prize. As in I’m getting it.’
‘She did not tell you that you’re getting the French prize!’
‘Nah. She just wanted to know why I don’t want to go to Paris anymore.’
‘And what did you say?’
‘Can’t afford to.’
Jenny gives me this hard, searching look, like she doesn’t quite believe me.
‘Well, I can’t!’
‘You still have options, Shauna.’
‘I know,’ I say coolly.
Frankly, I think Jenny is still miffed because Reverend Ferguson managed to withdraw me from Introduction to Legal Systems and Methods without any consequences for my academic record. Somewhere, deep down, Jenny wanted me to be punished for my decision. Well, tough luck. There’s no failure on my record. Not yet, anyway.
She asks me if I want to go to the common room for recess, but I can’t. I have a hot date with Olivia Pike.
Ugh, Olivia Pike.
After she almost got me charged with public misdemeanour offences, I honestly felt like cutting her off for good. I had visions of confronting Self-Raising Flour and telling her that I was done being Olivia’s mentor. The main reason I decided against it was to deny the little jerk the satisfaction.
This is only our second mentor/mentee meeting since the new term began. The last one went a little like this: twenty-seven minutes of silence.
Olivia: ‘Look, are you waiting for me to apologise? I’m sorry, okay?’
Me: ‘Apology not accepted.’
Olivia scoffs.
Three further minutes of silence.
Today I plan to continue the silent treatment, with some study thrown in. I’ve brought my Biology notes with me.
I’m absolutely charming to Reverend Ferguson when she arrives at the withdrawing room with Olivia, but the moment she’s gone, so is my smile. I take a seat at my usual end of the boardroom table and start reading.
This time Olivia holds out for fourteen minutes before cracking.
‘Keli Street-Hughes’s a real vile twat,’ she says.
Well, I think, like fucking duh. But this is an interesting turn of events, if it’s not a trick. Olivia has my full attention, but my eyes don’t move from my notes.
I measure my response carefully. ‘I thought you two were friends?’
‘Not anymore.’
I glance up at her to see whether I’m being had. Then I look back down. If she’s got something to say to me, I’m going to let her say it.
‘She’s telling everyone I stole from the Wish Upon A Star collection.’ Olivia’s voice cracks on the word ‘Star’, so I suspect she’s being genuine.
‘And?’
‘And she says if I don’t pay the money back by the end of the week, she’s going to report me to Mrs Green.’
‘Did you take the money?’
‘No.’
‘So what’s the problem? Tell her you didn’t take it. Go to Mrs Green now and tell her you’re being falsely accused.’
Olivia looks decidedly dissatisfied with my solution.
‘How much has gone missing?’
‘Eight hundred bucks.’ She gulps. ‘That’s what Keli says, anyway.’
‘Go and tell Mrs Green about it. You don’t have to sit on your hands while Keli Street-Hughes shakes you down.’
‘Shauna, I can’t.’
Whoa! That’s the second time Olivia has called me by my name! Then she has the nerve to ask, ‘Can you talk to Mrs Green?’
I explode into laughter, sounding much smugger and meaner than I intend to.
‘Fine. Don’t worry about it.’ She folds her arms and slumps.
‘I’m not pleading your case with Mrs Green for you. I’d rather gnaw off my own genitals.’
‘Okay. You don’t have to rub it in.’
Her gaze drifts to the side and I notice that her eyes are shining with tears.
Tant pis pour toi, Olivia. Too bad for you.
It serves her right for bargaining with the Devil, otherwise known as Keli Cailey Street-Hughes.