Suddenly, I have an idea. ‘Baba, I can help you.’
He scoffs. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. What do you know about working in a kitchen?’
I’m hurt. ‘I used to help you all the time.’ When we were still living up the coast, Lily and I had spent most of our time after school at the restaurant. We mostly did prep work and took orders, but Ah-Jeff had shown me how to work the grill.
‘You have schoolwork. Your mother would be angry.’
‘Please Baba, I want to help. Maybe on the weekends?’ With Ma in bed, I can’t bear to be stuck in the house. ‘Miss Kennedy at my school said I need more extracurriculars, like an after-school job. To prepare me for the HSC.’
He doesn’t answer, and we sit in uncomfortable silence for a long while. I can just make out the ticking of our IKEA clock, like my heartbeat loud in my own head. Eventually, my hopes deflate, and I know he’s not going to budge on the restaurant front. But then he surprises me. ‘I’ll think about it.’ We smile at each other, and Baba finishes his beer. ‘It’s a little cool, be sure to put on a jumper. You don’t want to catch a cold.’
I’m already wearing a hoodie, so I know that it’s part of his secret code, to tell me, I care.
I hang my head. ‘Okay. I’ll take care of myself, I promise.’ That’s how I’m supposed to tell him I love him back.
6
Luk6
It’s the final period of the last day of Term 1 and I have English. Every single person has their eyes fastened to the clock, waiting for the seconds to tick past until we’re finally on break.
‘My family’s going to the Gold Coast. It’s going to be so boring, but at least the hotel has wi-fi,’ I overhear Connie boasting to the girls. She’s perched on her desk with her back to me, while I try to disappear in the last row.
The past few weeks have been exhausting. Ma has stayed in bed for almost two months now. If she gets up to shower or eat, it’s only when the three of us are at school. On weekends we don’t see her at all. Lily has been staying at her friend’s house most days, saying she needs to study. Ma has never allowed sleepovers, because she doesn’t trust the parents. But with her in bed, who’s around to stop Lily doing whatever she wants?
I wish Lily and I were closer. We used to be, stuck together like glue when we were growing up. In Gosford, people used to mistake us for twins with our home-cut bobs and thick bangs, and likely because the locals had problems telling two Chinese girls apart.
When we moved to Ashfield, we grew apart. With the city at our doorstep, Lily was always trying to push the boundaries of what she could and couldn’t do. It started with little things, like eating snacks we weren’t allowed. By Year Six, she was putting on jewellery and make-up in school. She hid boxes of tampons in her drawers; Ma was adamant young ladies should only use pads.
Last year, not too long after she started at Montgomery and made new friends, Lily came home one afternoon with pierced ears. Ma had been in bed for a few days at this point.
‘What the hell, Lily?’ I pinched her inflamed lobes. The rhinestones she chose were sparkly and tiny, a blush pink. ‘Ma is going to flip when she sees this.’
‘Leave me alone.’ She jerked away. ‘You’re not my mother. And she won’t even care.’
When Ma finally got up, two weeks later, she didn’t say a word. The pink rhinestones became dangling tassels and gold hoops. Ma didn’t discuss it, not once.
Then one night, without warning, she came into our room and yanked open all our drawers. She strewed everything about, socks and bras and undies, until she found the pencil box Lily used to store her illicit jewellery. She upturned it on the floor, stomping and crunching the contents under her feet. The cheap rhinestones and tassels came apart and the thin wire hoops got tangled in the soft soles of Ma’s indoor slippers.
Lily and I cried quietly but we didn’t try to stop her. Ma left after a while, and I helped my sister pick up the pieces, putting everything in the bin. Her earring holes eventually closed up, but I know Lily still keeps an assortment of clip-ons alongside her tampon stash.
To this day, my ears remain unmarked and bare. I still skip swimming when I have my period. And I stopped babysitting for the checkout lady at Woolies even after she begged me to reconsider. Lily doesn’t agree with me, but it’s just not worth it to incite Ma’s wrath.
‘How about you, Miss Chiu?’ I snap back to Standard English and try to focus on Mr Murray’s question. ‘Who is the speaker in question?’
‘Um, Mac-Macduff?’ I reach for the most recent literary name I can remember.
‘A good guess, Miss Chiu, but we’re well past Shakespeare now.’ He waves the small volume in front of my eyes so I can glimpse the title. Leaves of Grass.
The class sniggers and it takes every bit of my will not to hide my face behind my hands.
‘The character in question, of course, is the speaker himself—Walt Whitman, the focus of the work “Song of Myself”.’
The class drags on. If Mr Murray is aware of how antsy everyone is to get out early, he doesn’t show it. I think that’s a special skill teachers develop, torturing their classes to the very bitter end. Or maybe there’s some contractual obligation, like 46 minutes and 57 seconds of rambling or the school docks their pay.
46 minutes and 58 seconds.
‘Now class, I know you’re all excited for the break,’ Mr Murray says, and the class emits a single groan. ‘But before we formally take off, I’m handing back your Term 1 assignments.’ More groaning, and I swear Mr Murray lets out a not-so-subtle chuckle as he traverses up and down the rows, handing back papers.
I’m packing away my stuff so I won’t miss the bus. A stack of pages lands on my desk with a heavy thwack and Mr Murray hovers over me, tapping on the top sheet before moving to the next desk.
The red mark at the top of the page takes up way more space than it needs to. It’s meant to highlight a single line, but instead it lopes across the top paragraph like an elephant onto a stage. Next to it, three angry question marks scream up at me, and then a single word, written in all-caps.
???THESIS
Mr Murray is well-known for his flair for the dramatic, but I think three question marks is overdoing it. Plus, in the top-right corner, where my grade is supposed to be, he’s written a demure little ‘SEE ME’, just a pinkie’s-width high. As though he can’t bear to write the letters.
I shake my head as the bell rings. Everyone is out the door and I’m late to pick up Michael, but suddenly I can’t make myself get out of my chair. The legs of the desk-metal-chair-monstrosity scrape against the ground as I clumsily extract myself. I grab my messenger bag and head towards the front of the room. Mr Murray has his head down, his fingers tapping on the touchpad to shut down the computer for the next couple of weeks.
‘Mr Murray?’ My voice is shaking like an out-of-tune windchime. I clear my throat. ‘You wanted to see me?’
He peers up over his rimless glasses, surprise on his face. ‘Oh, Anna, you’re still here. I thought you’d be out of here, ready for the break.’ He glances at the paper with its red scrawl across the top. ‘Ah, your essay. Yes, let’s talk about that.’