THE STORY GOES online at 4.22 a.m. the next morning. I stay up all night, waiting, thinking and occasionally running down to prep. hall to check the computer. When I refresh the website and the article comes up, I wake Lou-Anne and drag her downstairs.
‘Prestigious private school expels Indigenous student who refuses abortion,’ she whispers in her nasal morning voice.
‘It’s a hatchet job,’ I say.
‘Do you think it’ll make a difference?’
‘We’ll see.’
We print the article out and lie together in Lou-Anne’s bed reading it over and over again. My name isn’t mentioned and neither is the name of the school. This is part of Sarah’s strategy. She says that it gives me some room for ‘negotiation’. If the school doesn’t revoke my expulsion, we’ll release names. If they revoke my expulsion, Sarah will unleash another press release praising the school for its handling of the matter, and that will kill the story.
Sarah Hogan-Doran looks meek and innocent, but in fact she’s pure evil. I think she has a great future ahead of her as a lawyer. I can tell she’s really enjoying herself with my case. Not that she’s taking it lightly. No, not at all. She’s already looking for a barrister who’s willing to act in my case on a pro-bono basis (that means for free).
‘Hang in there, Shauna,’ she told me at the end of our conversation last night. ‘Be tough.’
And that’s exactly what I’m doing. I’m going through the motions, just like I did yesterday. And I mean it about the crane. I won’t leave the grounds of this school until physically forced.
By five-thirty, Lou-Anne’s snoring again, but I’m too wound up to get back to sleep. I decide to pay old Olivia a visit down the other end of the dormitory. I bet she’d like to know that I’ve made The Australian.
I’ve been sneaking around the dormitory building all night, but as I cross the upstairs foyer, I get a sudden feeling that I’m being spied on. And not by the Reverend Doctor Sterling McBride either. He lives downstairs.
I tread as softly as my rotund figure will allow, eyes peeled and adjusted to the darkness. A distinct sniffle rends the silence.
‘Who’s that?’ comes a strangled voice.
‘Who’s that?’ I whisper back.
‘It’s Shauna,’ I say at the same time as the voice says, ‘It’s Keli.’
‘What are you doing out here?’ we whisper in unison. Miss Maroney’s room is just a few metres away from where I’m standing. I edge closer to Keli’s voice.
Finally I can see the outline of her form. I wouldn’t have thought it was possible for Keli to make herself small, but she looks tiny, sitting in her pyjamas with her back against the door of her dorm room. Even in the shadows, I can see her eyes shining. With tears? I suppress the urge to say, Well, what the hell have you got to cry about, Tampon Princess?
‘Can’t sleep?’ I whisper.
‘No,’ she says, sniffing again. ‘What about you?’
‘Not a chance.’
‘Maroney’s going to hear us if we keep talking out here.’
‘I know.’
‘Wednesday detention.’
‘Who cares?’
I’m not going to sneak into Olivia’s room with Keli sitting here. I suppose I could go back to bed, but instead I decide to try something I’ve never done before. I guess I’m in a strange mood.
‘Wanna go downstairs?’
‘What for?’
‘Talk.’
To my amazement, she stands up. We tiptoe together down the staircase and then sit side by side on the bottom step under the Reverend Doctor Sterling McBride’s gaze. We’re here to ‘talk’, but neither of us says anything for a while.
‘So are they going to give you the boot, or not?’ Keli asks finally.
‘They’re trying.’
‘And?’
‘I’ll be okay, I think,’ I tell her. ‘I mean, either way. What about you?’
Keli gives this whimpering little sob, then covers her mouth.
‘S-sorry,’ she stammers. ‘I know I haven’t really got any problems compared to you . . . but . . .’
‘What is it?’
It’s lucky that it’s dark, because I don’t think we could talk like this if we could see each other’s faces.
‘Did the school send your parents your ATAR estimate in the mail?’
‘Yeah. But I’d already seen it.’
‘Well . . . me too. I just didn’t know that my parents were going to be so upset about it. Now I’m upset about it too.’
Oh dear. We get to the pointy end of school and, finally, even a girl as confident and full of herself as Keli begins to fret. I can’t imagine that her ATAR estimate would be sky-high, not unless the estimator was on drugs. But would that really come as a shock to Keli?
‘Is it that bad?’
‘Yeah, it’s pretty bad. I won’t be able to do a law degree anywhere, not even in a country university, not even if I pay full fees.’
‘You haven’t even done the final exams yet, Keli.’
I feel her shrug beside me. She knows as well as I do that you can’t just pull something off at the last minute, not if you’ve been asleep at the wheel all year . . . or, let’s face it, for your whole school life.
‘Why do you want to do law, anyway?’
‘I’ve always wanted to work at my uncle’s law firm in Albury.’
‘Can’t you still do that?’
‘Yeah, maybe as a secretary. But it won’t be the same. And my parents are so cut up about my marks. They were expecting more for their money. More from me.’ Keli sighs sadly. Then she says, with a hint of bitterness, ‘I suppose your parents are happy with your estimate.’
In spite of a few dodgy performances recently, my estimate is somewhere in the vicinity of – hmmm, let’s see – ninety-eight. And that’s what I deserve. Study’s a drag, and not everyone can resign themselves to the hard work. Not everyone’s meant to go to uni.
‘Yeah, they’re happy.’ I try not to sound smug.
‘I guess uni won’t be a breeze with a baby.’ She wipes her nose with her pyjama sleeve. ‘What are you going to study, anyway? Law or medicine, I bet.’
This is the first time Keli has ever asked me about my plans for the future. Suddenly, to her, I exist.
‘No, I’m actually thinking about doing journalism and communications, probably combined with languages.’
‘French?’
‘At least French.’
‘And you’re going to become a journalist?’
‘Maybe. It’s pretty competitive these days. Even the really experienced people have trouble getting work. But there are people succeeding, and I don’t see why I shouldn’t be one of them.’
‘What about the baby?’
‘I’ll study online, and by the time I’m ready to work, the baby will be ready for school.’
‘You’re a pretty wilful girl, Shauna. I’ll give you that.’
I like the way she says ‘wilful’ and not something more complimentary or ordinary like ‘determined’, because I know she means it. And for once, she’s right.
‘I’ll manage.’ I lean over and bump my shoulder lightly into hers. ‘And so will you, Keli. You’re the Tampon Princess!’
We laugh our arses off – nervously at first – right there in front of the Reverend Doctor Sterling McBride. We wake up Miss Maroney, too, who wakes up half the other boarders yelling at us.
‘Two Red Marks each!’ she proclaims in her dressing gown from the top of the staircase, before stomping back into her lair and slamming the door behind her.
‘She can stick her Red Marks,’ I tell Keli. ‘I’m expelled anyway.’
‘Good luck,’ Keli says, as we trudge back up the stairs, each of us with our own cross to bear.
‘Yeah,’ I reply, not really sure whether she means it. ‘Good luck to you, too.’
I think about Keli later on while I’m getting ready for breakfast. It has never occurred to me before that her parents might feel disappointed with her performance at school, or that she might register their negative feelings. I’ve never thought about what it would be like to be average at school, and how that might play out against a backdrop of wealth and privilege and high expectations. I mean, my parents have high hopes for me, too, but they’re just that – hopes. They’re more or less delighted by anything I do. I’m pregnant at the age of seventeen and they still support me. I don’t know which I’d rather be – mediocre and rich, or smart and poor. I have to say, even after speaking to Keli, I can see the benefits of being mediocre and rich! And not pregnant.
By the time breakfast is served, the article from The Australian has been circulated around the entire boarding house. The powers-that-be must know by now. They just must. I eat my breakfast surrounded by chattering friends. Everyone wishes me well. I have no idea what lies in store for me today.
‘I’m going to start a campaign for you on Indiegogo,’ says Bindi.
Indu rolls her eyes. ‘You’re going to crowdfund Shauna’s baby?’
‘What do you think we should do, Indu?’ Bindi replies. ‘Put in a special request to Sai Baba?’
‘Works for me,’ sniffs Indu.
I go to roll call with a strange sense of calm. I sit next to Jenny. She turns to me and smiles tentatively. I smile back, even though this could be my final roll call.
It doesn’t surprise me when a note arrives. It comes stuck to the front cover of a great paving brick of a book called Sex and Destiny:
Board meeting this morning following Australian article. Keep you updated. Chin up. SRF.
I go to English class with Jenny by my side. Our English teacher, Mrs Arnold, gives me a cautious, curt ‘Hello, Shauna’ as we take our seats. She begins the lesson, never quite taking her eyes off me. I wonder what the executive order to the teachers has been? Keep Shauna Harding in sight at all times.
Instead of following the lesson, I dive into Sex and Destiny. (I’m thoroughly sick of John Donne and Charles Dickens anyway.) In its opening pages, the author, Germaine Greer, says that in the industrialised West we have created a society that does not like children, and more than that, children who don’t like their parents.
The book was written over thirty years ago, but so much of what I’m reading rings true. It rings particularly true for me because I’ve been on the pointy end of other people’s fear of children. Greer says that rich, greedy, infertile Caucasians are afraid that their standard of living is threatened by the economic demands of the over-fertile poor (Say thanks to your dad for me, Keli). She says that mothers, children and old people in the developed world are marginalised, and that we may never return to the riches of a family-centred world.
I realise that I am one of the over-fertile poor, part of a family-oriented black culture that white people are afraid of. It’s not that I believe that white Australians are actively, consciously out to get me or Bob, but I do agree with parts of Greer’s theory. When I read that opening chapter, I feel like she’s talking directly to me. And what she’s telling me is that I’m right to want my baby. I also know that Reverend Ferguson thinks that I’m right to want my baby. That’s what she’s telling me by giving me this book.
‘Shauna?’
Mrs Arnold says my name for a third time before I look up from the pages of the book.
‘Mrs Green would like to see you.’
Jenny squeezes my arm and mouths ‘good luck’. A bit rich coming from the person who put me in it. Though I understand her reasons, I still feel raw about what Jenny did. I don’t like it when someone else decides what’s good for me.
At Mrs Green’s office, a battle scene awaits. I swear the whole school board is crammed in there, between the door and the delicately bubbling tropical fish tank. They all stand as I enter the room. I know that the article has made a big impact. Why else would they have called in Oakholme College’s infantry, cavalry and artillery? In fact, they look like relics from the First World War. It’s like ANZAC day lunch at the old folks’ home. They’re all ancient, all crotchety, all dour. And, it goes without saying, all white.
Mrs Green, the young gun, tells me to take a seat, and as usual, I refuse. Everyone else sits back down.
‘Am I expelled or not?’ I ask her. The urge to get out is very strong. The sheer number of people in the room is making me very nervous.
‘We think we can come to an arrangement,’ says a doddery, blue-rinsed man I vaguely remember from chapel services. Reverend Bennett, maybe? I don’t know. I’ve always just thought of him as the Blue Rinse Guy.
‘What kind of arrangement?’
Blue Rinse clears his throat. ‘Obviously, you were very upset by the school’s decision, or you would never have approached the media.’
‘My lawyer approached the media. I had nothing to do with it.’
‘But you must have agreed to the article being written.’
I shrug. ‘I suppose I could get my lawyer to withdraw my complaint and put out a more positive press release. You know, if the right arrangement were reached. I’d need to speak to my lawyer first, though.’
All the old people turn to look at the guy sitting next to Blue Rinse. He introduces himself as David Sachs, Oakholme’s lawyer. He gives me his card and tells me to have my lawyer get in touch.
I nod solemnly while quietly crapping myself. I wonder how tiny Sarah Hogan-Doran will stack up against someone as experienced as Mr Sachs. But she hasn’t let me down yet, has she? Her strategies have hit their target every time.
I go back to the dorms, call the Aboriginal legal centre, and leave a message for Sarah. The receptionist tells me that she won’t be in the office until the afternoon.
Then I get Bindi to text my dad to let him know I’m about to call. He answers after a lot of ringing.
‘Shauna?’
‘Dad!’
‘Is everything all right? We’ve had about thirty missed calls from the school. And yesterday we got a letter via express post telling us we’d better pick you up or they’d call social services!’
‘Ignore it. Everything’s changed since then. I’ve got a lawyer now, and I think they’re going to let me stay.’
‘How did you manage that?’
I explain how I went to the Aboriginal legal centre and met the cleverest, most devious law student on the planet. Dad says that he hopes I sort it out soon, because they’re dying of worry. Then he puts Mum on the phone.
‘Shauna, love! How are you?’
Mum sounds emotional, but also excited and clear headed. She doesn’t sound like she’s talking under the weight of antidepressants. I assure her that I’ve got an appointment with the hospital, that I’m being responsible. She wants to know if I know the baby’s gender.
‘I’ll probably find out tomorrow. I’m going to the hospital for some tests.’
I tell her that I’ve been calling it Fred the foetus and now Bob the baby.
‘No grandson of mine’s going to be called Fred or Bob, Shauna,’ she says.
Just before we hang up, Dad gets back on the phone and asks about Nathan.
‘He’s being a jerk, Dad,’ I rage, knowing damn well that I’m being a bit of a jerk, too. ‘What can I do?’
‘I could speak to his parents—’
‘Jesus, don’t do that.’
‘I think they’d want to know. If it was my son . . . well, I’d wanna know. Then they can talk to him. It’ll give them all a chance to do the right thing.’
‘I don’t want to give him a chance.’
‘Shauna . . .’
He’s never quite been able to stand up to me, my old man. Sometimes I wish he would.
For the rest of the morning and into the afternoon, I lie on my bed reading Sex and Destiny and waiting for Sarah to call. Lou-Anne brings me a chicken burger and we eat on our beds, which is a big no-no, but at this point, who cares?
‘If you want to know my opinion, I think you should never speak to Jenny again.’
‘Try to see it from her point of view, Lou-Anne.’
‘She couldn’t hack getting beaten by a black chick.’
‘It wasn’t about that.’
‘Promise me you’ll whip her butt in every subject, Shauna. Just to teach her a lesson.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘I told you from the beginning that she was bad news.’
‘You did.’
Knowing how peeved Lou-Anne gets when she’s talking about Jenny, I change the subject. I ask her how she’s feeling about her Opera House audition, which is later this month. A well-known Aboriginal soprano called Deborah Cheetham is on the judging panel. Deborah is Lou-Anne’s idol, which adds an extra layer of pressure on top of her already frayed nerves. She’s too shaky to even call back her beloved Isaac, who’s left three messages.
‘I’m feeling bloody jittery.’
‘At least your mo’s grown back. That’s one less thing to be in a funk about.’
She punches me in the arm.
‘Is that how you treat a pregnant woman? You bash her?’ I demand in mock outrage. Then I ask her how she’s going to deal with her stage fright.
‘Indu’s aunt’s going to smuggle me some Xanax.’
‘So you’re an opera drug cheat?’
‘We’ve tried everything else! If I go out on stage and get nervous and my throat clams up, I’ll be barking like a frog!’
‘No one wants to see that.’
‘Exactly.’
Sarah Hogan-Doran calls while we’re still having lunch. Miss Maroney comes to fetch me with a hoity-toity expression. Once in her office, I shut the door firmly behind me and tell Sarah how the school board ambushed me and I give her David Sachs’s number.
‘I think they want to make a deal,’ I say, trying to sound tough.
‘Doesn’t surprise me. That article must have scared them.’
‘It has. Nothing seems to scare them more than embarrassment.’
Sarah promises to call me back when she’s spoken to Sachs.
After the call, I start to feel jittery and anxious, so I go for a walk outside. One of the first people I see is Keli Street-Hughes. I don’t know which of us looks the more sheepish after our tête-à-tête in the early hours, but we make eye contact.
‘Shauna,’ she says stiffly.
‘Keli.’
‘My dad saw the article in The Australian.’
‘Did he?’ I’m going for a façade of nonchalance.
‘He’s really disgusted by what the school’s trying to do to you. He and some of the other parents are threatening to pull us out if Mrs Green doesn’t change her tune.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Yep.’
I’m knocked over flat with tyre tracks by this development. It’s hard to know what to say – or what to do. Forgive her for all the hurtful shit that’s gone down over the years and become her best friend?
Suddenly it hits me. With tongue in cheek, I grin at Keli. ‘Say thanks to your dad for me, Keli!’
My words could be taken either way, but I’m hugely relieved when we both burst into uproarious laughter.
While I know I can never be friends with this girl, I marvel at how help and support can come from the most unexpected places. Imagine the man who spawned a piece of work like Keli Street-Hughes being outraged by the injustice of my situation! He doesn’t even know me, but he’s decided to do the right thing anyway. It’s easy to forget that often people do the right thing, the brave thing, without being forced or even asked. Not to prove anything, but just to be good. Sometimes even people like Keli Street-Hughes are capable of that.
Later that afternoon, Reverend Ferguson sends a note with Lou-Anne up to our room. It says:
Shauna, please see me in my office. SRF.
I go to Self-Raising Flour’s office, but it’s empty.
‘Shauna?’ Reverend Ferguson calls out to me from the doorway of Mrs Green’s office. That’s when I find out that Mrs Green’s resigned and that SRF is the new sheriff in town.
All the board members are gone. The only sign of them ever having been there is seven extra chairs and the unmistakable whiff of old person. In a tone so different from Mrs Green’s intimidating coolness, Reverend Ferguson explains that she’s now the Acting Principal appointed by the board. She tells me that I’m no longer expelled, and that a letter to that effect has been sent to my parents.
‘I am sorry for all the stress and offence this school has caused you,’ she says. ‘It’s been very upsetting for all of us.’
She asks me when the baby’s due and I tell her around stuvac.
‘You’re welcome to stay in the dormitory until the baby’s born,’ she says, ‘but we can’t accommodate the baby. It would be too disruptive for the other students. You’ll still be enrolled at the school, and you’ll still graduate, but as a day girl. I’m afraid that’s the best I can do.’
‘That’s great.’ I break into a huge smile.
‘I’ve spoken to your lawyer, Sarah, and she says that provided that you’re happy with what I’m offering, she will release a statement to the effect that the school is supporting you. She says that with your permission, she can also withdraw the complaint against the school.’
Asked nicely by Reverend Ferguson, I’m raring to fulfil my side of the bargain.
‘Okay, I’ll call her and tell her to take care of it.’
I can hardly believe it. I’ve won. I’m still standing, and Mrs Green is gone. Maybe I should feel sorry for Mrs Green, but I don’t, not after hearing the way she spoke about me and the Indigenous scholarship in general. How can someone who holds those attitudes, even privately, be trusted to act in the interests of vulnerable people? It doesn’t matter how politically correct you present yourself to be, if you’ve given up on a particular race of children before they’ve even finished school, then you obviously don’t understand much about education. It’s all about transformation. I don’t think Mrs Green ever saw me as transformed.
But I have been transformed. And so has Lou-Anne. On the basis of our transformation alone, the Indigenous scholarship program should be considered a success, not a failure. Why couldn’t Mrs Green see that?