Self-Portraits - 18. Legal Studies

The next day, Vicky and I walk to school. We’re early enough to get cans of Red Bull. Harriet’s waiting for us by the gate.

“Is Nicholas here yet?” Vicky asks.

“Yep,” Harriet says. “I’ll hide Richard in the library before the first bell.”

“I don’t need to hide from Nicholas,” I insist, but it falls on deaf ears. After all, this has also been enshrined in The Nicholas Plan: Whilst at school, make all efforts to minimise contact.

Vicky hands me over to Harriet like I’m a baton in a relay race. Harriet steers me straight into the library, which is empty. I’ve never been into the library before the first bell. In the morning, it’s like the inside of a fridge.

“Don’t you think we’re overreacting?” I ask Harriet through chattering teeth.

“It’s still not safe for you.” Harriet’s peeking out the library window at the courtyard. “I know it’s inevitable that you’ll probably see Nicholas at some point this week, but we should delay that for as long as possible.”

“I’m not going to throw myself at him, if that’s what you’re implying. It’s like I said yesterday, I know he doesn’t feel the same way about me now.”

“Imagine you’re an alcoholic,” Harriet says. “You gave up drinking yesterday. The last thing you should see today is a bottle of wine.”

The first bell rings.

“Alright,” Harriet says. “It’s time for assembly. Keep your head down and follow me!”

She leads me all the way to the front of the assembly hall, where the Year 8s sit. I feel like a giant next to them. I really want to turn around to look for Nicholas.

“Don’t even think about it,” Harriet whispers.

After assembly, Harriet makes me wait until most of the Year 11s have filed out.

“Okay,” she says, “it’s time for Calculus. Let’s make a run for it.”

“We don’t need to run.”

But she’s yanking me by the arm and we’re sprinting to Calculus. Everyone must think we’re insane.

The whole day goes like this. I don’t see Nicholas once. Even when I have a class that Harriet’s not in, I step outside to find her or Vicky waiting for me. They don’t leave me on my own, except to use the bathroom. Even then, they stand out the front like security guards.

“Sorry, this bathroom is quarantined due to a biohazard,” I hear Vicky telling a boy through the door. “My brother is having terrible diarrhoea.”

*

School ends up being almost completely pain-free, but then I go back to Harriet’s place to watch their rehearsal. Benny and Penny are happy to have a practice audience, but Harriet tells them not to talk to me, because they still need to focus on their sheet music.

They’re in the middle of practising one of the songs they played at Arcade Hall. It’s called On and Off and when Benny sings the chorus, it feels like an elephant’s stood on my chest.

“We’re off and we’re on and off and we’re on,” Benny sings, “and when I say I love you, that’s when you’re gone.”

The realisation comes down on me hard: Nicholas and I are off permanently. He doesn’t love me and he never will. For a second I can’t breathe. I don’t want to interrupt the rehearsal, so I stick my head in my backpack like I’m looking for a book, and I burst into tears. By the time the song’s finished, I’ve managed to stop crying, and I’ve managed not to disrupt rehearsal.

I stay for dinner. Kevin makes spaghetti bolognaise. Barry makes a tremendous mess as he eats it.

After dinner, Harriet walks with me to the Morris Street playground, where Vicky’s waiting to pick me up.

“I can be left alone for a little bit,” I keep promising, but they don’t listen.

It’s the same drill on Tuesday. Harriet and Vicky take turns sticking to me like shadows. I still don’t see Nicholas at all and only catch one glimpse of Stu’s shiny hair from the far end of a corridor. It’s not until Wednesday morning that I realise why I’m not running into them. I’m in the library with Harriet, waiting for the first bell to ring, when I catch her looking at a handwritten timetable. At the top of a page she’s written WEDNESDAY and underneath she’s written First period: Geography.

“You figured out Nicholas’s timetable?”

“Of course I have. He has Geography first, so he’ll likely be walking past the gymnasium, so I’m planning for us to avoid him by going behind the staff room and getting to English that way.”

I’m not sure whether to be touched, or scared of Harriet. Maybe both?

*

In English, we’re only supposed to be halfway through David Copperfield, but I confess to Mrs Bristol that I’ve only got three chapters to go.

“Get a life, loser,” Darren mutters.

I’m too depressed to be offended. Besides, he’s right.

That afternoon, I take the rolled-up canvas of my screaming face into Art class for the self-portrait assignment.

Mrs Hansen gasps.

“Now this,” she says, “is something!”

She asks each of us to present our self-portraits to the class, but I say, “I don’t really know what to present about it,” and she gives me an A+.

I’m enjoying Art so much more now that I’m not trying to get it right. Sometimes, I just draw a bunch of meaningless shapes. Other times I draw people. Mostly, I just draw screaming faces, because that’s what I feel like drawing right now.

After school on Wednesday, I’m required to sit with Vicky in front of the television while she works on her Legal Studies assignment. I ask her if she needs any help but she won’t even let me read it. I say that I might go for a bike ride before it gets dark, but Vicky refuses to let me out of her sight.

“Sorry,” she says. “Harriet’s orders.”

*

On Thursday, despite Harriet’s careful planning, I see Nicholas.

And despite my assurances to Harriet and Vicky that I’ll be fine when I see him, I’m not fine at all.

Harriet’s escorting me from Calculus to English, our last class of the day. Harriet’s explaining cubic equations to me when we turn a corner in the corridor and find ourselves face to face, not just with Nicholas, but with Nicholas and his entire group: Stu, Lisa, Darren, Carrie, Marcus, and Georgia Johns.

They’re all laughing and talking over the top of each other. Nicholas doesn’t even notice me standing there. None of them do.

I don’t realise I’ve come to a stop until Harriet prods me in the back and hisses, “Keep walking!”

It’s too late. Stu notices me. “Sizzler boy! Where have you been hiding all week?”

Nicholas looks up. For a split second, he looks blank, like he has no idea who I am. The others don’t stop talking. Nicholas is trying to remember where he knows me from. Eventually, he opens his mouth to say something, but I don’t get to hear what it is, thanks to Harriet.

“We’re late for English, let’s go.” She grabs my arm and pulls me down the corridor. As soon as we’re around the corner, she asks, “Are you okay?”

“Yes.” It’s a lie. My ears are ringing. My head is pounding.

Harriet pulls Nicholas’s timetable out of her bag. “He was meant to be on the other side of the school! He’s got History. Those boneheads must all be skipping last period.” She looks around, thinking. “Obviously you can’t come into class like this.”

“I’m fine,” I lie.

“You look like you’re about to cry.”

“I won’t.” But I might.

“Go to the bathroom,” Harriet demands. “I’ll make up an excuse to tell Miss Bristol. I’ll say you’ve got diarrhoea again—”

“No! You and Vicky need to stop telling people I’ve got diarrhoea.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll think of something else to tell Miss Bristol. Take ten minutes to pull yourself together, then come into English when you’re ready. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Can I tell her you’re constipated?” Harriet asks.

“Nothing bowel-related!”

In the bathroom, I splash cold water on my face and replay every moment of what just happened. I can’t stop thinking about that blank look on Nicholas’s face.

He hasn’t tried to contact me all week. He hasn’t waited for me at the school gates or outside my classrooms. He hasn’t called me. He hasn’t texted. He doesn’t care. Not really.

I stand there, looking at my pitiful self in the mirror, listening to the drip-drip-drip of a tap. After five minutes, my ears have stopped ringing and the pounding in my head has stopped.

In the classroom, everyone’s working on their essays in silence. Mrs Bristol smiles sympathetically as I walk in.

“Is your stomach feeling okay?” she whispers as I pass her desk.

“Fine, thanks,” I say through gritted teeth.

I could kill Harriet Hayes.

*

After school on Thursday, I tag along with Harriet to another rehearsal. I’ve already memorised a lot of their lyrics and find myself singing along. Whenever I do, Harriet whips around and glares at me.

“I’ve told you, we need silence for the rehearsal.”

“Sorry, sorry!” I exclaim and press my lips together. But even my quiet humming bothers Harriet.

“Go easy on him,” Benny tells her, pausing mid-lyric. “He’s in the middle of a personal crisis.”

It’s hardly a crisis, but before I can say anything, I commit an even worse crime. My mobile phone begins jingling in my backpack.

Harriet’s eyes bulge at me.

“Sorry, sorry!” I fumble in my backpack for the phone. It never rings. I go to reject the call but it’s Mum, who never calls. Straight away I expect the worst.

I stumble out of the living room and take the call in the hallway.

“Is everything alright?” I ask breathlessly.

Mum’s out of breath too. “It’s Vicky,” she says, and I feel like I’ve jumped in cold water. “Where are you?”

“At Harriet’s.” My chest is so tight I can hardly speak. “What’s happened?”

“Mr Jane’s just called me.” Mum sounds angry, not grief-stricken, so I relax. About 5%. “He’s got her waiting in the reception. I’m heading there now.”

I’m dizzy with relief (that Vicky’s not hurt) and anxiety (that she’s in deep trouble). A single word flashes in my mind: expulsion.

“Did you know she was planning something?” Mum asks.

I gulp. “No!”

But that’s not the whole truth. I knew Vicky’s behaviour was too perfect. I should’ve done something, should’ve found a way to stop her from doing whatever she’s done. Stop her from getting expelled.

Mum exhales. “This girl. I don’t know what we’re going to do with her.”

Then without saying anything else, she hangs up on me.

*

I fly out the front door without telling Harriet I’m leaving – and break into a sprint.

As I run, my brain conjures up scenes. Vicky throwing dog poo at Mr Jane. Vicky chaining herself to a flagpole. Vicky spray-painting something vulgar, or lighting fireworks. Or maybe Mr Jane found out what she did at the Ball. He found out that she gave Darren a black eye.

I get to the school. It’s empty and quiet and dark now, although a lot of the teachers’ cars are still here.

I spot Mum’s car too. I run through the front gates, and towards reception.

They’re both inside. Vicky’s red in the face, hissing at Mum. Mum’s shaking her head, rummaging for something in her handbag.

“I’m not breaking any rules!” Vicky whispers loudly. “So, if you’re here to drag me away, I’m going to kick and scream and report you to child services for abuse.” She sees me and grabs me by the collar. “Did you tell her, you goody-two-shoes?”

I try to explain that I have absolutely no idea what’s going on, but Mum finds what she’s been looking for. Out of her handbag, she pulls a hairbrush.

Vicky lets go of me and stumbles backwards. “Hitting your child with a hairbrush is definitely abuse!”

“Don’t be silly,” Mum says, turning Vicky around. “I just can’t let you go in like that.”

She starts dragging the hairbrush through Vicky’s brambly blonde mop. Vicky squeals and squirms.

“That hurts,” she whimpers.

“Well, just stay still for one minute!”

I feel like I’ve time-travelled backwards ten years. Within a minute, Vicky’s hair is tamed into submission.

“Now you don’t look like you’ve just crawled out of bed,” Mum mutters. “But for goodness’ sake, your blouse hasn’t been ironed. I’ve told you a hundred times, you need to hang it up each night, not just toss it on your floor. Here, put this on.”

Mum shrugs off her jacket and pulls Vicky’s arms through it. For the first time, the two of them look like they’re from the same family. But still, nobody explains anything to me.

I open my mouth to demand an explanation before my head explodes but then, from the end of the hallway, a door creaks open and the receptionist pokes her head out.

“They’re ready!” she calls.

“Break a leg,” Mum says, sliding her hairbrush back into her handbag.

Vicky looks suspicious. “You’re not going to try to stop me?”

“You,” Mum tells her, “are unstoppable.”

“That’s correct, I am.” Vicky snatches a sheet of printed paper from a chair and strides down the hallway. Mum and I follow her, to a mysterious door. And we step inside.

*

The first thing I see is giant moose. A spectacular set of antlers and unblinking black eyes, its strong neck protrudes from a wooden crest. Along the wall, there’s a whole series of animal heads: a warthog with tusks, a huge bear, a goat with curled horns.

Surely I’m going to wake up from this dream any minute now.

There are rows of chairs, completely empty except for one woman sitting at the front. At the back of the room there’s a long banquet table. Sitting along the table, there are eight men in suits and ties. The only one I recognise is Mr Jane. The other seven all have faces like crumbling chalk and wispy white hair. The man in the middle is the oldest and crumbliest of them all – and the most important. He’s got a plaque of his very own, on the table: President.

The receptionist takes a seat at a computer in the corner of the room and the crumbly president clears his throat. “Ah, yes, our final item is a student item, I believe?”

“That’s correct, sir.” The receptionist clicks her fingers at Vicky and points to the empty space at the front of the room, in front of the table. Vicky squares her shoulders and marches up to the eight men. Mum and I sit down right up the back.

“Good afternoon, Members of the Board,” Vicky reads from her notes in a syrupy sweet voice that I’ve never heard her use before. She introduces herself formally: name, year, age. “Thank you for letting me address you today. It’s about a topic you may have read about in the news over the last few weeks. There have been two articles about a policy at Crampton Collegiate, written by a local journalist.” Vicky gestures to the woman in the front row. With a jolt I realise it’s Molly, scribbling at a notepad. “The same journalist is here again today to make sure this important issue gets the attention it deserves.”

The men squirm.

“As you know, Crampton Collegiate has a policy that, for all school dances, tickets can only be purchased in pairs, not singles, and only for one boy and one girl. Same-sex couples can’t register their names to purchase tickets. It’s my respectful assertion that, under the International Human Rights Charter, this constitutes a clear breach of human rights. Schedule A, Part 7, section 2, subsection 17 of the Charter confirms that freedom from discrimination based on sexual orientation is a fundamental human right. Schedule C, Part 1, section 5, subsection 8 confirms that minors are included in the definition of human.”

I’m gobsmacked. Since when has Vicky been able to respectfully assert anything?

She continues to refer to laws that I vaguely recall from last year’s Legal Studies class. She refers to sections and subsections, clauses and subclauses. If this wasn’t my fifteen-year-old sister, I’d think I was listening to a professional lawyer. She even starts referring to court trials from overseas.

It’s impressive but, after five minutes, it starts to get boring. For me, at least. Mum’s on the edge of her seat and Molly’s furiously scribbling. Most importantly, the board members are all wide awake, even the elderly president. I’m the only one having to hold back a yawn. In my defence, the adrenalin rush I had while sprinting back to school is wearing off.

In total, Vicky speaks for less than ten minutes but by the time she’s summing up, it feels like I’ve been in this room for an hour.

“Thank you for taking the time to listen to me,” Vicky says, still sweet as sugar. “I hope this has persuaded you to change the rules so that we can bring Crampton Collegiate from the last millennium into this one.”

You could hear a pin drop in this stuffy old room that smells like stale cigar smoke. Mr Jane’s face resembles a swollen tomato.

Finally, the president speaks. “Well, er, yes, thank you. Your statements were very well-researched. The Board has heard your concerns and ...” His eyes flick nervously to Molly, whose pen is flying across her notepad. “Er, yes, the Board has heard your concerns. We will now close the meeting in order to, er, take your comments into consideration.”

“Thank you.” Vicky spins around and practically skips out of the room. Mum, Molly, and I get up and follow her out of there, and out of the building, as quickly as we can.

*

As soon as we’re out the front of the school, an uncontrollable laugh bursts from Mum. It’s contagious. Vicky joins in, then me, until tears are sliding down our faces. Molly must think the three of us are insane.

“You did a great job,” Molly says to Vicky. To Mum, she says, “You’ve got a marvellous daughter.”

Mum wipes her eyes. “She keeps us on our toes, that’s for sure. I nearly had a heart attack when Mr Jane called.”

Molly frowns. “She told me you were fully aware of what she was doing.”

Mum shakes her head. “Not a clue. Although, in hindsight, her silence was suspicious.”

Molly says she’s going to stick around to try to get a comment from the Board members as they leave.

The three of us head home. In the car, we calm down enough for Vicky to tell us everything. When Mr Jane still wouldn’t consider changing the rules after Molly’s articles, Vicky’s first reaction was to get louder, bigger, angrier. But then she thought about what Stu said when they were planning their protest – if she broke school rules, then she’d only be getting more detentions (or be getting expelled) and they could still ignore the message. Then she thought about what Dad said about operating within the system, by going to the school board.

She realised the best way to get under Mr Jane’s skin – and to get a result – wasn’t to pull a big stunt. The best way was giving them the message in a way that they couldn’t ignore. To speak their language, play their game.

That was why she was reading those books in the library. There was never a Legal Studies project. She and Stu were researching their arguments.

But two days ago, Stu chickened out.

I can probably guess why: Nicholas. Nicholas wouldn’t want his boyfriend doing something that uncool. Nicholas doesn’t think it’s cool to come out to anyone, so he definitely wouldn’t think it’s cool to come out to the school board. Vicky almost chickened out too, but Molly encouraged her to go.

Then, today, Mr Jane called Mum, hoping she’d stop Vicky from speaking, but no luck.

“I’m so proud of you,” Mum tells Vicky, as we turn into our driveway. Then she glances at me. “Both of you.”

That’s nice of her to say, but I haven’t done anything. This is just another story that I’m not the hero of.

Harriet’s sent me a text message about my abrupt departure. You are in clear violation of The Nicholas Plan, she informs me. I call her to explain what happened and she agrees not to impose any penalties for my infraction.

Mum lets us celebrate with fish and chips for dinner. She pours herself wine and lets Vicky have a very small glass as a “one-time treat”, but Vicky fills it up to the brim when Mum’s not watching.

Halfway through our meal, the phone rings. It’s Molly, for Vicky.

Mum and I watch Vicky’s face closely as Molly speaks, but it gives nothing away.

“Okay ... Okay ... So what would that mean? Right. And what are you going to write? Alright. Okay. Thanks for calling.” Finally, she hangs up and turns to us. “They’re still not changing the rules for couple tickets. You can still only buy couple tickets in boy-girl pairs—”

“Those useless old farts!” Mum exclaims.

“But,” Vicky adds, “they’ve agreed to let students buy single tickets from next year. So, in theory, two same-sex students could register separately but still go together.”

Mum gasps. “Oh! That’s something, then.”

“Oh, wow,” I breathe. “So ... you did it?”

Vicky shrugs. “Kind of, I guess.”

But she’s being modest. She did it – and she did so much of it on her own. I didn’t help her at all. In fact, I wanted to stop her almost every step of the way. Have I been as bad as Mr Jane?

“But you know what that means, right?” Vicky grins at me. “You’re going to have to decide which boy to ask to the Year 12 Ball next year.”

Mum makes a silly wooing noise and I shudder. Right now, I can’t imagine anything worse than going to the Year 12 Ball.

The next morning, the Board’s decision is outlined in one final article from Molly, on page 2. The headline is School Board Softens Anti-Gay Stance. There’s a terrific photo of Vicky looking professional and important – and I wonder whether she might be the real hero of my life.