Shauna's Great Expectations Page 14

  He snatches Mum’s phone from my hand.

  ‘Jackie!’ he calls to the next room, holding the phone out of my reach. ‘Your naughty daughter has been caught playing on your phone!’ I jump up and down, trying to get it back, laughing uncontrollably, and the sounds of my cousin and then my mother cracking up fill me with joy.

  It takes a few days after Julie & Co leave for me to start feeling better physically. There’s no explaining it, but the morning sickness goes. I just wake up one day feeling completely normal. After a few months of wanting to vomit myself inside out, normal is better than great. It’s ecstasy, and it makes me feel more positive in general.

  On the train trip back to Sydney, I spend a long time thinking about the person inside me, whether it’s a boy or a girl, and what it will look like. I’m about four months gone now, but you wouldn’t know it. My belly has always stuck out a little and it doesn’t seem to protrude any further than usual. The only part of my anatomy that’s exploding out of its garments is my boobs, but that’s hardly something to complain about. No one’s going to call me out for having too much cleavage.

  Now that I feel so good and I can imagine my foetus as a real person, I can’t believe that I ever considered having an abortion, let alone made it all the way into a clinic. I wonder how many other girls like me let their morning sickness and crazy hormones tip them into the well-greased abortion pipeline.

  And I imagine how hard it would have been to say no if my parents had been real dicks about it or my best friend hadn’t been so supportive. It would have been impossible. For all the wretched cant about women’s choices, there would have been no choice.

  18

  ON THE WALK from Central Station back to school, who should I bump into but my best buddy Olivia Pike? There she is, in full uniform, standing on a street corner selling badges and teddy bears to raise money for Wish Upon A Star. I feel a pang of guilt about the scene in my room, just before the end of last term, when she wanted to talk to me. I haven’t spoken to her since. Between schoolwork, stress and morning sickness, I just never found the right moment to follow up.

  Initially I spot her in profile, but then I cross the road and come up behind her. When I’m close enough that I can see the mole on the back of her ear, I lean over her shoulder and yell the black slang, ‘Give it up, sista girl!’

  I soon regret my little prank. Olivia squeals and throws all her merchandise, notes and coins in the air.

  ‘Fuckin hell, Shauna!’

  It’s the first time she’s ever called me Shauna.

  ‘Shit, I’m sorry.’

  We both get down on our hands and knees and start cleaning up the mess. Two twenty-dollar notes flitter onto the road and I dive for them, only just making it out of the path of a furiously honking bus.

  Olivia abuses me non-stop as she scoops up the badges, bears and pens.

  ‘You’ve really got shit for brains.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’re a fucking mental case.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Olivia.’

  It takes a few minutes to get everything back in its box. When I hand her the last two gold coins, she goes nuts at me, right in front of the small crowd that has gathered around us.

  ‘I told you not to come up to me at school! That goes double when we’re in public! Leave me alone, you psycho!’

  ‘What’s going on here?’

  I can’t believe it, but two young police officers – one male, one female – have stumbled upon our scuffle.

  ‘Are you bothering this young lady?’

  ‘That Aboriginal girl was grabbing her money,’ someone in the crowd says.

  As I turn around to see who said it, the lady police officer shoves me to the other side of the footpath. Instinctively I put my hands in the air.

  ‘I didn’t do anything,’ I say. ‘She’s a friend of mine. I was just joking around with her.’

  The lady police officer asks Olivia, ‘Do you know her?’

  Quick as a flash that little psychopath yells back, ‘Never seen her before in my life!’

  ‘You wait, Olivia. I’m gonna get you, you little shit!’ I shriek, and the police officer hauls me further down the footpath. She points her finger right in my face.

  ‘You’ve just threatened a child and used offensive language in public. Do you want me to write you up now or would you prefer to move on?’

  I want to snap off this cop’s accusing finger and stick it up her arse. It takes all my self-control not to get physical with her. I know that I won’t win if I do.

  I take off across the road and manage to keep the tears at bay until my face is turned away from the crowd.

  It kills me that in this age of stifling political correctness, I can still end up on the wrong side of the law for nothing more than having Aboriginal facial features and brown skin. As I walk through Rushcutters Bay, bawling my eyes out, I think about all the things I could have said to those cops. I could have explained that Olivia and I go to the same school. I could have shown them my student card. I could have told them that I’ve been appointed Olivia’s mentor. I could have calmly stood up for myself and cleared up the misunderstanding.

  Why did I run off? Why didn’t I stand my ground?

  I’ve been in some trouble with the police before. It was during the months I wasn’t going to school back in Barraba. I was lonely and I fell in with a crowd of older kids. We talked tough but, apart from binge drinking and occasionally shoplifting, we never did anything really bad. The police had it in for us though, and it got to the stage where we couldn’t hang out together at the park or pool, or anywhere in public, no matter what we were doing.

  Back then, I had no confidence. I was insecure and surly and rude, and whenever an adult criticised me, I had the feeling that I deserved it. Now that I’m older and surer of myself, I know that I didn’t deserve to be moved on or called ‘black dross’ or accused of vandalism that I had nothing to do with. I know that I was entitled to be out in public with a mob of other kids like me. Sometimes when I think back to those days, I get so angry I could kill someone.

  So why have I let it happen again? And in front of Olivia Pike!

  I wipe my eyes and clear my throat, determined to be out of this state when I get to school. By the time I walk through the front gates, I’ve pulled myself together and I’ve decided that I will never, ever allow myself to be stood over by the powers that be again. I’m done with that damper.

  Up in the dorms, Lou-Anne’s lying face down on her bed with her backpack still looped over her shoulders. She’s in the throes of her usual post-holiday depression. I lie down beside her and lay my arm over her shoulders. I can see that the side of her face is all scrunched up against the pillow.

  I whisper in her ear, ‘You wouldn’t believe what happened to me on the way here.’

  ‘Shauna,’ she grunts without really moving her mouth, ‘I’m in no mood for your crap this afternoon.’

  Lou-Anne’s often like this after she’s been with her family. It’s the only time she’s ever in bad humour. I know she’ll get over her sullenness in a few days, but it’s always difficult in the meantime.

  ‘Olivia Pike almost got me arrested!’ I throw it out there but Lou-Anne doesn’t blink.

  ‘Seriously,’ I add.

  Lou-Anne still doesn’t blink.

  ‘I could be in the lockup right now!’

  Lou-Anne finally moves, shifting onto her side.

  ‘Well, obviously you didn’t get arrested,’ she drones, ‘because here you are, driving me up the wall as usual.’

  I know she doesn’t mean it. I try a different tack. ‘Guess what?’

  Lou-Anne sighs heavily. ‘What?’

  ‘My morning sickness has disappeared.’

  ‘I’m so happy for you. I’m so glad you feel like a hundred dollars.’

  ‘You mean a million dollars.’

  ‘What did I say?’

  ‘You said a hundred dollars. Maybe you feel lik
e a hundred dollars, but I feel like a million dollars.’

  ‘You know I’m no good at maths.’

  I start laughing, but Lou-Anne doesn’t join in.

  ‘Laugh away, Shauna. You won’t be laughing when that baby gets here.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Lou-Anne sits up suddenly. Her eyes narrow. Her expression curdles.

  ‘Well, let’s see. First you’re going to go through twenty hours of the worst pain you’ve ever experienced. Think diarrhoea plus period pain to the power of infinity.’

  ‘I thought you sucked at maths, Lou-Anne.’

  My joke makes no dent on her whatsoever. She ploughs on as if I never made a peep.

  ‘Then you’re going to get ripped from your fanny to your arsehole by a human head. If you’re lucky the doctor will make the cut with a scalpel and it won’t just tear by itself. After that you won’t get more than two hours sleep at a time for at least a few months. Your nipples will bleed. Your fanny will bleed. You won’t be able to go anywhere or do anything you want for ages. You’ll be so tired that you won’t be able to think straight.’

  ‘Jesus, Lou-Anne. You’ve never told me this before. You’re making it sound like hell.’

  ‘I just think you should know,’ she says with a tight smile, ‘that I watched my sister give girth and it’s not a bowl of bloody cherries.’

  ‘But after the first few months, it gets better, right?’

  Lou-Anne raises her eyebrows and then slowly shakes her head. Oh God, there’s more.

  ‘Maybe you’ll get a little more sleep, but it’ll get worse.’

  ‘Worse how?’

  She shakes her head and looks to the ceiling, as if the words she’s searching for might be written up there. She opens and shuts her mouth a few times before finally speaking.

  ‘Because you’ll have to follow them around every second of the day to make sure they’re happy and they don’t get hurt.’ She levels her gaze at me. There are tears in her eyes. ‘And they’ll break your heart because they’re so cute and you love them so much. But they’ll drive you crazy, too, and sometimes you’ll wish they’d never been born and then you’ll hate yourself for thinking like that.’

  ‘Is that the way Beth feels?’

  Lou-Anne nods.

  ‘It’s not something people talk about, is it? But it’s true. Sometimes I feel the same way, too, and I’m just their auntie. Most of the time I love being with Chelsea and Charlotte, but sometimes I get sick of the crying and fighting and whining and the bloody running off. Then you realise that the only thing worse than being stuck with them is being stuck without them. God, I miss my family. Sometimes I just want to pack my bags and go home. And never come back.’

  ‘Don’t you ever do that. I couldn’t stand it here without you.’

  ‘You should know, Shauna, that your life from now on is going to be one big worryfest. You’re about to become a hostage to good luck. Like my sister.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean you can be the best mother ever, keep a real tight watch over your kids, and still lose them. You have no control over whether your life will be wrecked.’

  ‘Did something happen during the holidays, Lou-Anne?’

  She nods and struggles to control her voice. ‘Beth picked Chelsea up off the bottom of our neighbour’s pool on the weekend.’

  ‘Oh my God! Is she all right?’

  ‘Yeah, she’s fine. But it could have been a disaster. She swam into the middle of the pool and took her floaties off. Beth was there, but she didn’t notice until Chelsea had sunk right to the bottom. If Beth had been distracted for ten more seconds, Chelsea might have . . . well . . . it could have been a lot worse.’

  Lou-Anne wipes away her tears and shrugs.

  ‘I’m sorry that happened.’

  ‘Beth was beside herself. And that’s what you’ve got to understand about kids. You can lose them and then your life’s over. That’s the worst thing about them.’

  I think about the way my brother ruined my parents’ life. I know what Lou-Anne’s talking about all too well. Sprinkle some bad luck over a handful of mistakes, and hey presto! – you get a dead kid and a life sentence of grief. All of a sudden the terrible responsibility of what I’m doing crashes down on me. I’ve taken something the size of a grain of rice and I’ll be shepherding it all the way into adulthood. Until it’s older than I am now. It’s an awesome task, and I don’t necessarily mean that in a good way. That’s the truth of it, I realise. Even with the right intentions, if you’re not careful and lucky parenthood can go horribly, horribly wrong. And I’m not just talking about your kid calling you a bitch and stealing your credit card and maybe smoking dope. It’s much deeper and more dangerous than that.

  Do I have what it takes? Can I be a good mother? Will I get the good luck and the help that I need? It’s really a wonder that any girl or woman’s prepared to take on motherhood. Anyone who gets as far as Lou-Anne’s sister deserves a bravery medal.

  ‘So you were saying that something happened to you on the way here?’ Lou-Anne finally smiles at me, but not with teeth.

  ‘Oh yeah. Well, I just got Piked.’

  I cheer up Lou-Anne with the tale of Olivia and the cops. Lou-Anne, whose support for Olivia is at a particularly low ebb, is outraged on my behalf.

  ‘That little turd,’ she hisses through her teeth. ‘After all you’ve done for her.’

  ‘She is definitely the most ungrateful person I’ve ever met,’ I agree self-righteously.

  19

  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 ti
me, 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.