Lucy and Linh (7 page)

“Oh my God, that was
sooo
hard,” Brodie exclaimed after a math test one afternoon.

“I know, hey?” said Chelsea. “That last page was crazy scary.”

Brodie turned to the girl behind her. “Did you find it difficult, Nicola?”

“Not really,” replied Nicola, flattered to be asked. “I've been studying really hard for it for a week.”

“You mean you didn't find it very difficult?” asked Brodie. “Wow, Nicola. Wow.
Everyone
found the last page impossible. I thought there were some trick questions in there. In fact, I'm sure there were.”

Nicola's face crumpled. “What do you mean?”

“You know.”

“No, I don't.”

“Oh, then don't worry about it. You must have aced the test! You
are
a math genius, Nicola.”

And with that they walked away, leaving poor Nicola to fret for days until the results came back.

It was bad timing that Laurinda held the annual Senior School Art Retrospective Exhibition on Valentine's Day, especially as it was at Auburn Academy. The exhibition was supposed to showcase the works of last year's students, but nobody cared about them when the fresh scent of hormones from this year's male cohort was in the air.

We were walking to the boys' school, a little way up the street, when Mrs. Grey noticed that Gina's face had the flat brown color and texture of an unsliced supermarket bread loaf. “Gina Grant, what is that on your face?” she yelled.

We all turned back to look. Even a neighborhood old guy watering his camellias jolted, his hose making an arc across the footpath.

“My features, miss.”

“Answer my question seriously! I'm sick of your antics. Are you wearing makeup?”

Gina was sent back to Laurinda to wipe it off. “Look at the shitload of makeup on your face, Growler,” she muttered as she turned back.

Just as she passed the Cabinet, Amber sang in a whispery voice, very quietly and almost imperceptibly, “Slut, slutty slut slut.”

At the exhibition, we went around looking at paintings and sculptures on themes such as despair and anorexia and war, while the boys snaked their way around us in sniggering huddles. Basically, we pretended that they were there to inconvenience us, blocking our view.

Gina was the only one making it obvious that she was excited to be around the opposite sex. Others were more discreet, although I noticed the Cabinet was not immune to the charms of the Auburn boys. They had begun acting coy. You'd never think that these were the same girls who planned world domination in our politics class.

I happened to be standing near them, beside a pink papier-mâché sculpture of a brain with electrical wires jutting out of it, when an Asian boy with glasses walked by. Amber nudged me. “Look, there's one for you.” She and Chelsea giggled.

It was incredible how they assumed that I would not be interested in any other type of boy, but that's how they were. From their white-daisy bouquet of slim pickings, they cast out all the yellow chrysanthemums, and anything brown was considered wilted.

Back at Christ Our Savior, a cute boy was a cute boy, even if he was a bit of a loser. But here it seemed that cuteness had to be filtered through quite a few lenses. It reminded me of going to the optometrist and having to read the letters on the wall, how each lens would be placed before my eyes until the fuzziness disappeared and the letters became sharp and distinct. That's how Laurindans saw their boys—in fine, fine detail, down to the cut of their button-up shirts.

But it seemed to me that all these girls were myopic, because the guys they considered popular were not necessarily the hottest. Some were downright dweeby. And the hotter guys from Auburn Academy—a tall, dark, handsome one called Harshan, and the Marlon Brando look-alike Emilio—were treated like outsiders. Maybe these guys were too visceral for them. Laurinda girls were into Jane Austen heroes, not hunks.

Harshan had skin the color of a violin and an earring in one ear; I noticed it as he leaned over to poke a finger at one of the wires of the brain sculpture. When Chelsea spoke to him, she didn't ask what he thought of the sculpture. Instead, she seemed to want to foster some cultural cohesion by asking, “So what part of India are you from?”

“I was born here, actually,” he said in a friendly way. “My parents are Sri Lankan, from Fiji.”

Even someone like Harshan was not immune to the charms of the Cabinet, I saw, particularly with Amber standing there. Here was the thing about the accidental artwork of her face—a few millimeters off and her eyes would be set too close together; a few millimeters apart and her mouth would make her chin look sunken. It was this tenuousness that made her so hot, that made boys feel they were living on the edge just by looking at her.

“Same diff,” said Amber, and she and Chelsea giggled. They were flirting with him; they assumed Harshan understood they were not racist, because they had deigned to speak to him. But they had no real idea what the difference between Sri Lanka and India was—and, making it worse, they didn't care. One was Dilmah tea and the other Gandhi. We didn't study South Asian history at this school.

“Ignorant bitches,” he muttered under his breath.

“Excuse me?” Amber's eyes widened.

“What did you call us?” Chelsea turned toward him. “That is sooo offensive. Oh my God. Geez, some people can't take a joke,” she pouted. I could see she was wounded because her eyes glittered like anthracite. Suddenly, it seemed, this was all Harshan's fault—he was the brute, insulting these two young Laurinda diplomats who meant well, who were curious about his culture. They were
nice
girls, and he was a condescending, sexist pig.

Harshan looked down at them, and I could tell that all the beauty he'd seen there had dissolved. Then he did something completely unexpected, which made them squeal. He lowered his head and bowed from the waist—a long, drawn-out bow that came to just above the hem of their skirts, his back straight as an ironing board. He slowly came up and held his hands in the prayer position. Bobbing his head from side to side, he said, “Oh, golly gee, ma'am, I'm welly, welly solly—please accept my most humble apologies.” His face was hard but, unlike Chelsea's, it was not brittle. He turned and walked away.

Amber and Chelsea burst into laughter. “Stupid curry muncher,” said Chelsea, and then told a story about how guys like that were always trying to pick her up at Urban nightclub and how they couldn't dance for shit.

I moved away from the brain sculpture.

Amber returned from Auburn Academy with a pen. It had a plastic heart at the top that lit up, and it played a tinny song when you wrote with it. I'm not sure which boy had given it to her, but Amber was ecstatic, flashing it around class, showing teachers and using it to write, until Mrs. Trengrove said that the music was too distracting; could she please use a normal pen like everyone else? Even that did not ruin her heart-thumping joy, and she bounded to class, skipping and leaping, showing off her gazelle legs.

There was love elsewhere too.

In politics, someone had put a single heart-shaped chocolate wrapped in gold foil on Mr. Sinclair's desk. We all knew it was Gina. He walked to his desk, put down his planner and lesson folder, and pretended not to see it.

“Sir!” Chelsea called out. “Sir, someone left something for you!”

He also pretended to be deaf.

“Sir,” Chelsea repeated, “I think someone left you a present.”

He looked down at his desk, at the very spot where the chocolate was, so we knew that he knew it was there. As much as he tried, he wasn't very good at feigning surprise. His face was turning as red as his hair.

“Oh,” he exclaimed.

Poor guy. Perhaps teachers' college hadn't taught him what to do in this scenario. We could tell he was wishing for the chocolate to disappear. To acknowledge that it was there, and that it was intended for him, would be like, well…like taking candy from a minor.

We all started to laugh, which gave him an opportunity to try to be a teacher again. “All right, cut it out. That's enough carrying on.”

“What are you going to do with it, Mr. Sinclair?”

“Ooh, you have a secret admirer!”

“I wonder who it is!”

“Someone loves you, sir!”

“Yes, very funny,” he said drily. “Now, where did we leave off last class? The American electoral system, I believe.”

You had to hand it to him—no one gave a toss about how the Americans elected their president, but he plowed on regardless. The girls were too distracted by that little gold object on his desk, a symbol of their power over this awkward but endearingly attractive man.

I could look at them all, Linh, and tell myself how ridiculously these girls were carrying on, but during recess, sitting with Katie, who genuinely didn't care about the art show visit or about getting presents, I felt a pang. As she talked, I started to fall into my usual reverie about the sort of year I might have had if I hadn't changed schools. Maybe, if I had stayed at Christ Our Savior, I might have had a boyfriend from St. Andrew's….

There's a secret to getting a boyfriend at fifteen, and it is this: you have to have a group of friends. You'll never get picked up alone unless by creeps, or unless you are extremely beautiful (and even then you'll mostly get creeps), because alone you have no personality. It's only when you're with your friends that you start to shine.

Boys are the same. You see a boy around his mates, and you can pick whether he is the clown of the group, the quiet philosopher or the alpha male. Alone, you can't tell because he'd act differently, and of course he can't tell anything about your personality either. When alone with a member of the opposite sex, we feign indifference, even though we yearn to be exaggerated versions of ourselves, filled with extra bravado or extra niceness.

My problem this year was that I no longer had a group. I had lost you and Yvonne and Ivy. Even Tully had been worth tolerating. As much as I liked Katie, we weren't really a group. We never did anything together outside of class or lunch break. We never called each other up in the evening. And our dynamic was that Katie talked and I listened.

In my first week, Katie had asked me, “What do you do during school holidays?” but before giving me a chance to reply, she said, “I usually spend them on my cousin's place near the countryside, in Mallah. They have seven acres and four cows and some sheep. It's only a hobby farm, though, because my uncle owns a small business in town. It's beautiful and real peaceful there. My cousin Dick and I ride horses. You should come up with me next school holidays!”

Oh my God, Linh, this girl was straight out of a 1950s picture book! She had called her cousin “Dick” with no sense of irony whatsoever.

I wondered what it would be like to be admired or desired by a boy, and thought about how lucky Amber was. I guess Gina was thinking the same thing, because she came up to us at recess. “Did you hear what Amber called me when the Growler sent me back to school to wash my face off?”

“No,” Katie lied. “What did she call you, Gina?”

Just as Gina was about to tell us what we already knew, she spotted something that made her jaw clamp like a clam. The Cabinet was approaching!

If the rest of the school had not taken them so seriously, I would have laughed then, because they walked like a movie mean-girl gang, with heads held high and each with one hand (the right) in her blazer pocket. What was this, some kind of Western where they'd pull out their pistols and have a shoot-out?

Gina bared her teeth in what she hoped was a smile.

Brodie acknowledged Katie and me by giving us a small nod that barely tilted her chin. Then she turned to Gina. “Hey there, Regina. We hear you've been going around the school telling all and sundry that Amber has damaged your good name.”

She actually used the words
all and sundry,
Linh.

“Oh yeah?” demanded Gina, but her voice was fearful. “Who told you that?”

“It doesn't matter who told who what.” That was Chelsea—she was less articulate. “If you have a problem with any of us, you should have the guts to say it to our faces.”

“Yeah,” said Amber. “I thought we were friends.”

Gina looked stunned: she'd never so much as contemplated the possibility that the Cabinet would consider her a friend.

“I'm hurt that you've been backstabbing me, Gina,” said Amber. “I thought that, as friends, we could joke around about stuff like that. I didn't mean it! If anyone is the slut, it is obviously
me.
”

Gina was even more flabbergasted.

“Come on, who was the harlot who came back with the tacky pen?” Amber pulled it out and waved it around for emphasis.

“Yeah,” Chelsea added. “Imagine all the tricks Amber had to turn to get her cheap, materialistic thrills.”