Shauna's Great Expectations Read online

  Cyberstalking Keli Street-Hughes is like watching porn. It’s titillating at first and then it just makes you feel sick and bored and like you never want to lay eyes on the real thing again. Yet in quiet and sometimes unhappy moments, when a phone is available, I find myself clicking on Keli’s profiles. Instead of finding social proof of her inherent despicability, I find that she’s got a zillion friends and followers who make overly kind comments about her mediocre looks and abilities. It’s very vexing. And if she ever discovered the level of my online interest in her, I’d never be able to show my face on Planet Earth again.

  From what I’ve been able to garner, Keli doesn’t have a boyfriend, but she’s often pictured online in the vicinity of her handsome, boofy-looking neighbour from Coleambally, Matt Adler. Matt goes to St Augustine’s and is often spoken of in Keli’s circles. He’s a rugby hero and I get the impression that it’s cool to drop his name. There are girls who follow the St Augustine’s rugby teams around Sydney to watch their matches, and Keli is among them. I personally can’t think of anything more boring than loitering on the sidelines like that, pretending to be interested in football when all you’re really interested in is boys in little shorts. It’s pathetic.

  The bell for the next class rings in the distance, so I sling my bag over my shoulder and head for the staircase, determined not to let Keli or anyone like her get the better of me. It’s ridiculous to care about the opinions of people I don’t even like, let alone think highly of.

  Later that afternoon, someone I do think highly of, Lou-Anne, gives an opera performance in the school chapel. She’s practising for her live audition for Opera Australia, which will take place at the Sydney Opera House at the end of the year.

  Unfortunately Lou-Anne suffers from stage fright and when she sings in front of more than a few people she gets the sweats and the jitters. This is obviously a problem she needs to get over before her big audition, so her singing teacher, Miss Della, is getting her to practise in front of small audiences first. The ‘small’ audience this afternoon is the whole of Year 12.

  Lou-Anne’s so big-boned and her speaking voice is so deep that you’d never think she could sing at such a high pitch. It’s stunning to hear her produce sounds that should make the stained-glass windows shatter. It’s times like these that the existence of God seems beyond dispute. Lou-Anne’s voice is supernatural.

  She’s singing from Bellini’s Bianca e Fernando with her back turned to the pews. For the moment, that’s how she’s coping with all the people. But near the end of the song, Miss Della takes her by her big shoulders and turns her around. She grimaces and closes her eyes but keeps on singing.

  I can’t help but glance across the aisle to Keli & Co, who are doing their utmost to avoid looking impressed. Arms crossed. Eyes studying the ceiling. Annabel says something to Keli and Keli sniggers. Talentless scrubchooks.

  After the final note, Lou-Anne opens her eyes and says in her normal, deep voice, ‘Was that okay, guys?’

  The chapel erupts into laughter and applause. Miss Della frantically shushes us.

  ‘We’re in a chapel, girls!’ she shout-whispers, as if Lou-Anne hasn’t just tested God’s ears and every pane of glass in the building.

  The applause fades into murmurs, muted enough for me to clearly hear Keli make this comment: ‘You can see the beads of sweat in her moustache.’

  I know that she’s talking about Lou-Anne. It makes me so angry that I want to throttle the lot of them, right here in the chapel. All the awe I felt listening to Lou-Anne sing leaves my body like breath after a good winding. Lou-Anne comes down the aisle, smiling, wiping her face dry with her shirtsleeves. I force a smile.

  ‘My ears have died and gone to Heaven, Lou-Anne.’

  5

  I GET ANOTHER note in roll call. It’s from SRF:

  Shauna, see me now in my office.

  I hope it’s about the support courses at St Augustine’s. Maybe she wants to tell me that my parents have finally sent in the permission slip.

  ‘Shauna, where have you been?’

  ‘I came as soon as I got the note.’

  ‘No. I mean, where have you been as Olivia Pike’s mentor?’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I met with her yesterday and she told me you hadn’t spoken to her since that morning in the withdrawing room. And that was weeks ago.’

  ‘Well, she told me she didn’t want to talk to me.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I assumed she wanted to do things under her own steam.’ I sound flippant, though I don’t really mean to. I can tell that Reverend Ferguson doesn’t like my tone one bit. The soft lines of her face have hardened. Her mouth is small and set.

  ‘Why on earth would you assume that?’

  I can’t answer, and I don’t think she wants me to.

  ‘When you arrived at Oakholme College, you were just as brittle and abrasive as Olivia. You were just as closed off from people, from help. But that didn’t mean you didn’t need the help, did it?’

  ‘No, Reverend Ferguson.’

  ‘You’ve gone from a sullen introvert who couldn’t spell or recite her times tables to one of the top students at the school. Did that happen because you were left to your own devices?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No, it didn’t. We worked hard to get you to come out of yourself. To think about something other than your own sorrow and your own problems.’

  ‘I’ll talk to Olivia,’ I say, now feeling quite embarrassed. ‘I promise.’

  ‘You’d better, Shauna. Even though you’re busy with your studies and about to get busier.’

  ‘The revision classes? Did my parents sign the slip?’

  ‘They sure did.’ Finally she smiles.

  At lunchtime, I scour the canteen queue for Olivia Pike. She’s with a group of Year 8 boarders.

  I don’t beat around the bush. I wade through the queue right up to them.

  ‘Olivia.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Her blue eyes flash icy daggers that aren’t reflected in her voice, which stays light for the benefit of her friends.

  ‘Come and talk to me once you’ve bought your lunch. You can come into the common room if you like.’

  ‘No thanks.’

  I stand over her, really loom over her. The icy daggers glow brighter.

  I decide to play my trump card. ‘If you don’t come with me, who knows what might come shooting out of my mouth?’ ‘Okay,’ she says, suddenly jelly-backed at the prospect of being outed. ‘Just let me get my sandwich.’

  Her tweeny friends huddle around her. What does she want? What was that all about? Are you in trouble?

  She buys a ham sandwich and walks with me to the common room. We find a table in a quiet corner. She unwraps her lunch slowly, looking around the room as if it might swallow her. One thing I know about Olivia Pike: her veneer of aggression and arrogance is baking-paper thin. Between terrifying and terrified is a fraction of a millimetre.

  ‘So how’s Oakholme treating you? You seem to have made some friends.’

  She bites into her sandwich, chews, swallows and scowls before responding. ‘And I’d like to keep them.’

  ‘I don’t want to turn your friends away from you, believe me.’

  ‘So leave me alone.’

  ‘That’s not possible.’

  ‘Look, I’ll tell Reverend Ferguson that we’ve been talking, okay? She put me on the spot yesterday. I didn’t know what to say.’

  ‘SRF wasn’t born yesterday, my friend.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘SRF. Reverend Ferguson’s initials. Self-Raising Flour. That’s what Lou-Anne and I call her.’

  Olivia’s dimples sink into her cheeks. What’s that? A little smile? Some evidence of a sense of humour?’

  ‘She’ll know you’re lying,’ I say. ‘She’ll ask you what we

  talked about and you won’t be able to lie quickly enough.’

  ‘Try me.’

  Now she’s beginning to remind me of
myself.

  ‘Well, why don’t I throw you a bone by covering some topics? Help you along with your fabrications.’

  ‘I don’t even know what that means.’

  ‘Your lies, Olivia. Let me help you.’

  She shrugs. ‘Okay. Fine.’

  ‘Where are you from?’ I ask her.

  ‘I’m from the Black Forest. Where are you from?’

  ‘Barraba. New England. But my mum’s people are from North Queensland. Now tell me where you’re really from.’

  She takes a long pause, as if silence could kill me. Then she blinks quickly.

  ‘Bourke.’

  ‘Bourke?’

  ‘Yes,’ she hisses. ‘Bourke.’

  ‘I don’t know anyone from Bourke.’

  ‘Thank God.’

  I could give up now, really I could. But then I think about that bright spot. The spark of humour. Where there’s humour there’s intelligence.

  ‘So, Olivia . . . are the boys hot in Bourke?’

  There’s no smile, just an upward flick of her eyebrows. Then her face darkens. She looks down.

  ‘I don’t have a boyfriend,’ she mutters. ‘I’ve never had a boyfriend. Probably never will.’ Her blue eyes move up to mine. ‘You?’

  I immediately think about Nathan O’Brien and start stammering. ‘Well, not really. I mean, I’ve had boyfriends, but . . . I can’t really be bothered with boys right now because I’m going to Paris next year. That’s in France.’

  ‘I know Paris is in France.’

  I notice Keli Street-Hughes & Co saunter into the common room. They line up at the coffee machine and they all get the same thing. A cup of black coffee. They really are the biggest try-hards God ever put on this earth.

  Keli surveys the room and Olivia cringes as her eyes settle on our corner.

  ‘Hey, Ollie!’ calls Keli stickily.

  ‘Hey, Keli.’ Olivia’s smile is tight.

  Buxom Keli comes up to our table armed with her long black and her long-black swilling crew.

  ‘My buddy from Bourke!’ She hugs Olivia’s shoulders lightly and glares at me. I’m not quite cute enough to give her the ‘Say thanks to your dad for me’ line, but I wish I could.

  ‘What are you doing in the common room with this article?’ Keli says to Olivia. ‘Is she lecturing you about identity politics?’ She waggles her finger in Olivia’s face and croons, ‘Check your white privilege, Olivia.’

  Olivia looks scared and lost. She clearly has no idea what Keli’s talking about, but one of the Tampon Princess’s pet bitching topics is identity politics. Apparently people like me take particular political positions just because we’re Aboriginal or African or gay or whatever group we’ve decided to ‘identify’ with. As if someone who looks like me has any choice about which group they belong to. I don’t get to decide! Usually other people choose for me the second they clap eyes on me.

  I smile sweetly at Keli. Keli smiles sweetly back and shakes her head. She wants to say something crippling, but she’s afraid of my response. I can tell. She’s not in control anymore, and she knows it.

  ‘You know the common room’s for Year 12 students only,’ she says eventually.

  ‘I was just about to leave,’ says Olivia, standing up. I stand, too.

  Annabel coughs ‘coon’. The rest of them snigger.

  ‘Did you just call me a coon?’ I ask.

  Annabel looks suddenly terrified.

  ‘She just coughed,’ says Keli.

  ‘You know guys,’ I begin, holding onto self-control by the ragged tips of my fingernails, ‘some of us were invited to a meeting in the withdrawing room last week to discuss HSC University Pathways. I was truly astounded to see none of you there. Astounded.’

  ‘As if you were there for any reason other than affirmative action,’ says Keli.

  ‘As if I was there for any reason other than the fact that I’ve completed an HSC subject early.’

  ‘They feel sorry for you because you’re a . . .’ She coughs.

  I walk out, knowing I won’t be able to stop myself from smacking her if I stay a moment longer. Olivia follows me, her eyes blazing with hurt and fear.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ I tell her.

  ‘That’s why I don’t want you talking to me,’ she says. ‘Keli’s my friend.’

  ‘So next time we don’t go to the common room.’

  ‘There’s not going to be a next time,’ says Olivia, and she storms away, blonde ponytail swinging furiously behind her.

  6

  TODAY IS A shit pie. A tasty but thin pastry encasing a craptastic filling. I always walk around with a chest full of lead on this day, looking for something or someone to distract me, because a shit pie with no pastry is just a bucket of shit. It’s the day of the first introductory support course at St Augustine’s (pastry) and it’s also the anniversary of the death of my brother, Jamie (filling).

  Jenny Bean is crazy-excited. She hopes that the highly sought-after Stephen Agliozzo will be there. I hope he’s not. I hate it when every girl and their sister flock around the same handsome guy.

  In English class, Jenny keeps looking at the clock. Like, ten times a minute. It’s really making the period drag.

  She must have washed her hair this morning, because it smells strongly of apples. I can tell she’s trying to make herself as appealing as possible to attract Stephen Agliozzo’s attention. But attraction doesn’t work like that, does it? If a guy likes you, he likes you, and apple shampoo makes no difference. Shit-flavoured shampoo might not make a difference either.

  Finally the lunch bell rings.

  ‘Only four hours to go,’ chirps Jenny, with a final glance up at the clock.

  ‘I don’t think that Stephen Agliozzo’s going to be there,’ I say. ‘I doubt that he has what it takes to do a uni subject and the HSC.’

  Jenny pouts. She’s going to defend the smug little prince, I just know it. She’s such a fool for him.

  ‘You’re only saying that because he’s so good looking,’ she huffs. ‘You’re judging him by his appearance.’

  ‘So are you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, you’re not going gaga for his ugly friends, are you?’

  ‘I’m following my heart, Shauna. Is that a crime?’

  ‘You’re following something, but it’s not your heart,’ I mutter.

  ‘Shauna!’ she gasps, clasping her hand to her mouth as if she were the one who made the off-colour joke.

  ‘And no, following that isn’t a crime either,’ I add in a whisper.

  Above her clenched hand and behind her smudged glasses, Jenny’s eyes shine and crinkle. I can tell that she’s up for a gossip-filled lunch together, but I excuse myself. I have a phone call to make. I have to call my parents and talk about Jamie, like I do every year on this horrible day.

  I sneak into Miss Maroney’s empty office. Well, to be honest, I don’t sneak. I just walk the hell in because I don’t care how many Red Marks I get today. I’m always reckless on the anniversary of my brother’s death. It’s a day when anything short of death doesn’t seem worth worrying about.

  By the time I’ve dialled my parents’ number, there are tears running down my face. My voice is potholed when I speak to Dad. I’ve planned what I’m going to say, but it’s hard to get the words out.

  Two years ago, when he’d already been dead for three years, I decided that I would only tell funny or happy stories about Jamie on this day. We’ve raked over all the other stuff enough. Whether it was an accident or suicide. Whether Dad should have let him take the car out. Why the staff at the hospital told us to come and see Jamie without letting us know that he was already dead. How his face was unrecognisable.

  ‘Do you remember when he put the box of rocks under the Christmas tree?’

  Dad laughs. ‘Yeah. How could I forget?’

  Jamie liked to mess with my mind on occasions of gift giving. One year he put this beautifully wrapped present tied with c
urly ribbon under our tree.

  ‘It’s for you, kiddo,’ he said.

  Even though my eight-year-old self had total confidence in Jamie’s fifteen-year-old self, I just had the feeling that the expensive-looking gift was nothing but a pretty box full of rocks.

  ‘Is it a box of rocks?’ I asked him.

  ‘Oh no, kiddo. It’s not a box of rocks.’

  ‘What is it, then?’

  ‘If I told you, it would ruin the surprise.’

  In the week leading up to Christmas, my curiosity ran wild. I could spend an hour at a time handling the box, shaking it, listening to it, weighing it in each hand. I fantasised about what it might be. Jewellery. Maracas. Amethyst crystals.

  When Christmas morning arrived, I shot out of bed at dawn and ripped open the box. Lo and behold, the box was full of . . .

  Not jewellery. Not maracas. Not amethyst crystals.

  Rocks.

  Jamie almost pissed himself laughing.

  ‘I guess I shouldn’t have thrown that rock at him, Dad.’

  ‘It wasn’t easy finding someone to stitch his lip on Christmas Day.’

  ‘How’s Mum?’

  ‘Sleeping. She got up for a while this morning. Then she looked at some photos and went back to bed.’

  The photos of Jamie are all we have left of him. Of his overbite my parents never had fixed. Of his eyes that sparkled when he smiled. Of his cherubic nose and lips. Of his coltish, caramel limbs. What’s Mum to do but look at photos and cry herself to sleep? What can anyone do?

  ‘Can you wake her up?’

  ‘I reckon it’d be better if I didn’t.’

  ‘Okay.’

  I really do love my parents. I suppose almost everyone does. You love them even when they’re on the disappointing side. It’s shameful to admit that my parents have disappointed me, that I do blame them at least a bit for letting my brother’s life go to hell, but that’s the truth. They never stood up to him. They never said no. After the age of about fifteen, he was never told, ‘No, you can’t do that.’ No, you can’t leave school. No, you can’t stay in bed until midday. No, you can’t have sleepovers with girls. No, you can’t steal from us. No, you can’t get pissed every night.