Michael thinks for a moment and shakes his head again. ‘No, I don’t think they’re real. I’ve read almost every book here and I haven’t seen one!’
Miss Holloway lets out a rapturous laugh. She’s a bright, vibrant woman, her coloured skirts swirling around her thick waist, and her head a mess of grey-blonde that blends together whimsically, like elven strands. She fits in perfectly with the fairytale spectacle, the fairy godmother of the magical forest.
‘This is my sister, Anna.’ Michael laces his thin fingers between mine and I give them a small squeeze. ‘She came to see my winning picture.’
Michael never mentioned he won a competition. I look again at his artwork, and sure enough, next to it is a smooth white placard that says, ‘1st place’.
My heart swells with pride.
‘Nice to meet you, Anna.’ Miss Holloway gives a little wave. ‘He’s a very talented artist.’
‘I can see that. He’s definitely the talented one in the family.’ One of the talented ones, I correct myself, remembering Lily’s smarts. ‘He mentioned you went on an art excursion?’
‘Why yes.’ She shakes her head a little. ‘It’s such a shame there’s no art programme in the school anymore. I always think reading and art go together so well and try to find new ways to engage the kids with stories.’
I hadn’t known this about the art classes. ‘He was so excited about the trip. Art was always his favourite class.’
Miss Holloway beams. ‘Michael, can you do me a favour and sort the return books in the trolley, please?’ Without further instruction, he goes to the trolley and starts piling up paperbacks and picture books. I smile; Miss Holloway has her helpers trained to a tee.
‘I’m really glad you’re here, actually. Although I was hoping I would get a chance to speak to Michael’s mother?’
‘Oh.’ The heat rises to my face. ‘She’s very busy at work.’ The lie comes without a second thought.
‘I see.’ Miss Holloway purses her lips. ‘Michael told me she doesn’t work.’
‘Oh, not paid work,’ I say quickly. ‘But she’s very involved in the community. You know, volunteering, church stuff.’ Ma has never set foot in a church all her life.
‘I see.’ Her grey eyes flash behind the wispy lashes and I do my best to look the right amount of apologetic sheepish teen.
‘The thing is, I’m very interested in putting Michael forward for a special art programme. I think he’d be exceptional, he has so much talent.’
‘Oh, we can’t afford private lessons.’ I remember the fight Lily had with Baba once about signing up for drama classes or even singing. Money wasn’t to be squandered on ‘enrichment activities’, Baba insisted.
‘This would be funded by the programme. It would be on scholarship.’ She presses a brochure into my hands. ‘It’s an Inner West diversity initiative to foster young local talent and I really think that Michael would be perfect for it.’
My ears perk up and I study the paper in my hands. There’s a stern-looking Aboriginal man in dotty black ink. ‘It’s headed up by Paul Hookey, a local artist from Brisbane.’ She sounds very proud of this, so I smile and try to look impressed.
‘Wow, that’s great.’ There have been a few of these ‘diversity initiatives’ of late. Programmes and councils making sure to give minority voices a fair go. I never like to be called out as a ‘minority’, but I guess the good intention is there.
‘I think Michael would make an excellent candidate for the programme, but he’ll need parental permission to participate.’ She points to the bottom of the form where there’s an old-school printed perforation and signature line.
‘No problem. I’ll make sure our mother gets it.’
‘I’d still prefer if she could come in and I can explain it in person. Surely she can spare a few minutes out of her volunteering?’
I can feel her gaze boring into me. Her eyes make me nervous, like missiles homing in on their target. I know I’m blushing again and push at my glasses.
‘I’ll try. I mean, I’ll ask her. I mean, of course she can.’ Miss Holloway arches an eyebrow and I actually duck my head to avoid her prying gaze.
‘We’d better go. We don’t want to be late for dinner.’ I stuff the pamphlet into my bag and call out hoarsely, ‘Michael, come on.’ I’m already moving towards the entrance.
‘Wait, Anna!’ He catches up to me but then turns around. ‘Bye, Miss Holloway!’ I can still feel her watching me, and I march on with steely determination.
On the bus home, I try to broach the subject about Ma. ‘What did you tell Miss Holloway about Ma staying at home?’
Michael shrugs. He’s engrossed in a game on my phone. He’s technically not allowed screen time until he’s done his homework, but Ma’s not here to enforce it and I want to be the nice big sister. ‘She asked me what my parents did, and I said Baba works at the restaurant and Ma stays at home.’
‘Right.’ I choose my next words carefully. ‘It’s just better, sometimes, if you’re more mindful about what you tell the teachers. Sometimes they won’t understand stuff. There are some things we have to keep to ourselves.’ I say this last bit in my broken Cantonese, conscious of prickling ears on the bus.
Michael doesn’t look up but gives me a faint nod. I sigh heavily, drumming my fingers against my thigh and watch him play. Ma’s moods seemed better after Michael was born, and Lily and I thought maybe that was the end of her erratic behaviour and maybe, just maybe, we could be a normal family. But last year, she went back to bed at least twice and we’re not even halfway through first term and she’s already plunged herself into darkness. Despite us all pretending that Ma’s just sick or tired, Michael has noticed something is up. Is that why he didn’t tell us about his art competition?
The first time Lily and I realised we had to mind our teachers was not too long after Michael was born. Ma used to beat us with the end of a feather duster when we did something naughty. She only hit the fleshy bits, so I went to school with long sleeves covering the blue and green streaks.
Lily was the one who got us a visit from social services. Her marks were darker; she bruised easily and was generally less careful than I was about hiding them. She was in Year Three and I was in Year Six, so they called us both in to speak to the guidance counsellor.
‘I hit her,’ I had blurted when Ms Lawn asked Lily to pull up the bulb sleeve of her school blouse. ‘It was an accident. We were just messing around.’
‘Anna, Lily has already told me what happened. With your mother,’ she added when she saw I was about to object. ‘Now, is this kind of thing common?’
‘What? No! Of course not, it’s the first time.’ I watched Lily’s eyebrows shoot up to the same heights as Ms Lawn’s. Mirrored expressions of incredulous disbelief.
‘Anna.’ Lily had the disapproving tone of an adult. ‘That’s not true. Mum uses the feather duster all the time.’
I had clenched my fists in my chair. Now I really wanted to clobber her. I hoped they wouldn’t believe her—I mean, who owned a feather duster these days?