‘You and Lily, no use the Facebook. They take the girl away from her parents. Because of the Facebook,’ Ma had said to us.
‘Okay Ma.’ Neither of us had looked up from our phones.
At home, at school and all things social, I figure it’s better if I can just fly under the radar.
I know it means I miss out on normal teen stuff, like parties and fun, but that stuff doesn’t really matter in the long run.
(Right?)
A boy in his school uniform comes on board. He’s dark-haired and tanned, half-smiling, so I can see the dimple in his cheek. I don’t recognise the crest or the school colours, so he must not be local. He gives me a small nod and his smile widens. I lower my gaze shyly.
The boy sits across the aisle, two seats in front of me, an arm draped across the back of the chair, taking up the entire seat. He turns his head, catches my eye and lifts an eyebrow. I drop my head again, my cheeks blazing. I wish I had the nerve to look up and smile coyly, maybe bat my eyelashes through my glasses or toss my hair the way I see the girls at school flirting.
Instead, I spend the rest of the bus ride looking everywhere but at the boy, even though every single nerve ending in my body is aware of him.
I’m hopeless and clueless when it comes to boys—like, zero, zilch, nada. Hopeless. And it’s not just Ma’s threat to break my legs. The closest I have ever come to having a boyfriend was when I used to play with the Turkish boy named Berat from next door when I was six. Our family still lived in Gosford and I was happy to finally have a friend. But then some of the neighbours joked that we would get married one day, and Ma quickly put a stop to that friendship.
Other than that, there’s been nothing, not even a primary school game of Spin the Bottle. I can’t even look at the couples making out behind the buildings at school. I rush past them, red-faced, using my notebook as a shield. They don’t stop what they’re doing, though. It’s like when it comes to matters of sex, I don’t even count as an observer.
It’s likely for the best. My parents have made it clear that I am not to have a boyfriend of any sort before I finish school. Boys are distracting, Ma reminds me all the time. In addition to the Facebook stories, she is constantly pointing out stories of pregnant teenagers who have ruined their lives and are working menial jobs because they were ‘tricked by a boy’. Growing up, there were no parties, no sleepovers, or any real socialising outside of school and family. The normal kid stuff. It was just family, restaurant, study, Ma’s moods and Chinese stuff.
The bus pulls up in front of Michael’s school and I rush off, not looking back at the boy. Only when I’m safe on the curb do I sneak a quick peek at the window, pivoting my head as if I’m just checking for the cars coming from behind. Yep. He’s smirking at me and lifts the eyebrow again just as he falls into my line of sight. I pretend not to notice, but he’s laughing as the bus pulls away. Mortification bubbles under my skin and I clench and unclench my fists as I hurry past the zebra crossing towards the school gate.
Hopeless.
But there’s no time to consider that. The bells chime in a poppy radio tune to signal the end of the day. Kids emerge from the buildings like tiny blue penguins, all oversized bags and floppy hats. They stream towards the entrance, which is already chock-full of impatient parents, peering over each other’s heads to glimpse their tardy offspring.
I hurry through the crowds keeping an eye towards the ground to make sure I don’t trample a small body; I forget how little primary school children are.
I spot Michael skipping towards the office, clutching another boy’s hand. I call out to him and he turns, and I watch his eyes light up.
‘Anna!’ Michael’s chirrupy greeting is music to my ears. His schoolbag hangs half open, bouncing on his back. His smile is so wide, I’m wondering if that’s how he maintains the cute little gaps between his baby teeth.
I ruffle his hair and reach to zip his bag shut. ‘Come on, let’s go before we miss the bus.’
‘Wait, Anna. I want to show you something!’ He takes my hand at the same time he drops his mate’s. ‘See you later, Albert,’ he says with a quick wave. Albert is already calling after two girls that are starting up a game of tag. They remind me of six-year-old me and Berat. Friendships are easy when it’s just about play. But when we get older, they become more about favours, support and status.
Like family.
‘Where are we going?’ I ask. Michael’s flying like a dart. I take long strides to keep up with him as he leads me through the school grounds.
The school library is a nondescript building at the back of the block. But the moment I step inside, it feels like magic. The space seems bigger on the inside, like the TARDIS, and the lack of natural light adds to its whimsical ambience. It’s all decked out to look like a real fairytale forest. There is an actual tree trunk in the middle, with thick branches that wend their way between the shelves and bear all sorts of plush forest creatures. A wise owl watches us from his perch, his big yellow eyes catching little bits of light so they look like twin moons. Fluffy clouds dangle from the sparkling ceiling, coated with fairy dust.
I’m absolutely stunned. That almost-adult part of me sees that it’s all craft paper, glitter and cotton balls, but my inner child is willing to suspend disbelief and accept that this is all real.
‘Wow.’ I suck in a breath. There are a few children strewn about the space, tucked into corners, cradling books. A father sits with his daughter on the carpet, reading together.
‘Over here!’ Michael has raced to a far shelf. His faded hat stands out amongst the bright posters. I go over to read the display.
I STILL CALL AUSTRALIA HOME. The wall is peppered with paintings of people holding hands, playgrounds, living rooms and kitchens. I recognise one drawing which is the big tree in the middle of this library. Everyday spaces, all of them unique. Once again, I’m surprised. When I did art in primary school, we all did the same exact painting of Uluru and Sydney Harbour. The more ‘creative’ students (not me) added a koala on top of the Opera House or a kangaroo hopping across the bridge, but that was it.
‘This one’s mine.’ Michael points. Wow, I say again to myself. I recognise the scene, the jellyfish exhibit at Sydney Aquarium. We went there last summer holidays on one of Ma’s good days. The dark rooms had been packed with families and prams pinballing for space. Lily and I used our little brother to shamelessly shove up to the glass and gawk at the translucent fluoro pink and electric blue blobs. Hard to believe they were part of the same world as us.
Michael has recreated the memory with heavy oil pastels on dark paper, scratching away at the oil so it really looks like you can see through the jellyfish. It makes a cool 3D effect, like they’re ready to spring from the page. It’s avant-garde, stylistic and very, very cool.
‘Michael, you’re still here?!’ The sing-song voice is bubbling over with energy even after a long school day. ‘Didn’t I see you here for lunch, too? You don’t live in the library, do you?’
‘Don’t be silly, Miss Holloway.’ My little brother shakes his head so that his hat teeters from side to side and his shiny mop of hair slides about. ‘No one lives in the library.’
‘What about the bookworms?’