Cloudwish (8 page)

chapter 14

Art class that afternoon
was devoted to journaling.

As part of their assessment each student would be required to present a document that demonstrated the thought processes and practical studies and explorations behind their folio pieces. Ms Halabi said that the journal should ideally strike a balance between playground and laboratory. She also warned the class that examiners could always tell if a journal had been put together at the last minute. Even though it seemed like a soft-option part of the course, it had to be undertaken seriously.

The teacher went quietly from student to student to chat, still getting to know them all, while Vân Ước worked on a journal page devoted to the artist Elizabeth Gower, and specifically to the jewel-bright mosaics Gower made from product labels and packaging.

‘Aha,' said Ms Halabi. ‘So tell me how this relates to your work.'

‘It's the beauty of the overlooked object . . . an article I read talked about constructing an aesthetic from the mundane.'

‘And what does the artist have to say about it?'

‘She – for her it's political, too. Questioning consumerism.'

‘Okay. And you're giving your work some more thought?'

Vân Ước nodded, but she'd had no new insights since Friday.

‘Remember to keep investigating –
what does it mean?
and
what does it mean to me?
'

It felt amazing to have her work taken seriously, to be treated like an artist. She was buzzing with adrenalin and – she had to admit it – she enjoyed the added thrill that this was hers alone, a secret life. Secret from her parents, anyway. That felt heady, addictive. Maybe there was an element she wasn't so proud of;
keep your secrets about our family, I've got my own secrets.

As she left the art room, Holly walked up alongside her, lightly bumping her, smiling. ‘Go look at the noticeboard, bitch.'

Vân Ước knew that smile, and her euphoria evaporated. She'd gone from the category of ignored/despised to being squarely in Holly's sights. Thanks, Billy. The old dudes were at her shoulder, naturally.
She's full of herself today/Who does she think she is?/Of course she's heading for a fall/What did she expect?

The dilemma was whether to go to the common room now and see what Holly was talking about, or wait and try to go in at a less populated time. At least Holly wouldn't be there now; she'd been heading in the opposite direction. Perhaps she'd check out the lay of the land, and have a covert look at the board.

She expected the worst and wasn't disappointed. A photo of her in the rainbow wing cardigan blown up and printed on six A4 sheets of paper, with the caption:
Security warning: Certain people wear stolen goods. Lock up your possessions.

People who'd been at the board, obviously looking at the pictures of her, drifted away, leaving her uncertain of what her rights were here, and what she should do. If she took them down, would it make her look more guilty, or less? Would there be any point? Holly could just print more.

What would Jane do? Jane had been humiliated unfairly at school. She'd been punished and called a liar in front of her whole class. Then she cried. Even Jane was only human.

Vân Ước had the horrible, rare and certain feeling that
she
was about to cry. She headed out quickly, brushing past Lou, Sibylla, and Billy, running across the colonnade to the library and down the stairs to the basement level. There she shoved open two sets of swing doors, and locked herself in a toilet cubicle.

She sat down and let the crying hit her. It was powerful and engulfing, and she knew from experience that it would take a while for her to resurface. She wasn't a crier. Once, maybe twice a year she'd have a good howl. So when she did cry, she was overloaded, like a storm cloud, and miseries came pouring out in a torrent.

Her anxiety about her mother (why couldn't she have a capable, happy mother who looked after
her
, instead of vice versa?); her frustration that her father didn't get more involved, wasn't better at helping her mother; her confusion about Billy Gardiner; and all the rest of her current-release poor-me catalogue items – no money, no designer clothes, no nice clothes even, people would believe she stole something because she was poor, parents didn't even speak the language, no nice place to live, parents wouldn't even apply to live in one of the
real houses with a garden
that the housing commission owned, parents had no car, she'd never been out of the country, never had a pet (unless you counted a succession of former goldfish, which she didn't), always had to be on best behaviour because of the scholarship, must look like a craven approval-seeker, no friends at school, wouldn't get into art school even with a good folio because she'd be tongue-tied and too shy to talk about the work in interviews, never had a boyfriend, would never have a boyfriend, only ever had one (fake) Barbie (with cheap hair that matted) when she was little.

Finally there flowed the generalised sorry-for-selfness that was virtually forbidden in her life, but which flavoured it completely, or maybe just reduced her life's flavour overall, about not being allowed to be unhappy about any bloody thing because if you
survived
then you were all right; no –
lucky
. What problems? You're alive! She wanted more than survival. She wanted beauty; she wanted love; she wanted
abundance.

Why was it okay for everyone around her to have more than enough, but she had to be content with less?

Her whole body was crying now, shoulders and chest heaving, tears streaming, running down her neck, making the collar of her dress wet, nose running. She was a big, snotty pile of self-pity. And she despised herself almost as much as she pitied herself. What a pathetic weakling. Now she would be red-eyed, flushed and blotchy for the rest of the day and
everyone would know she'd been crying
, and then they'd all think she was guilty.

She was shocked into stopping, with a gulp, when the door into the cubicle area opened. She flushed the toilet to cover the noise she was making, drew a deep breath through sobs still galloping to get out, yanked down some toilet paper and blew her nose. But didn't open the door. She hiccupped.

‘Vân Ước?'

Crap. Was there no getting away from him? She hiccupped again.

‘Look, I know it's you.'

‘This is the girls' toilets.'

‘Yeah, it's just you and me though, so I figured it was okay.'

‘It's not.'

‘I heard you crying.'

‘Can you please go?'

‘I just want to make sure you're okay.'

‘I'm okay.' Hiccup.

‘You don't sound it. What's with the stuff on the noticeboard?'

‘I don't know.'

Vân Ước heard the noise of a toilet seat banging shut.

‘You're not actually
using
the toilet now, are you?' Billy asked.

‘No.'

‘Cool.'

She looked up. He was standing on the toilet in the next cubicle, looking down at her. She had a momentary sense of disbelief that she had ever
ever
wished for Billy Gardiner to notice her.

The door to the cubicle area opened again and she heard murmurs as two more people came in.

‘What the fuck are you doing up there?'

Thank god. It was Lou. Not that Vân Ước wanted to see anyone. But she had no confidence that she could get rid of Billy alone.

‘Get lost, Billy,' Sibylla said.

He jumped back down. ‘Do you want me to stay, Vân Ước?'

‘NO.'

‘Okay, I'll see you in class.'

The door opened and closed again. She assumed Billy was gone.

‘Are you okay?' asked Lou.

Vân Ước was still trying to get her breathing and sobbing under control. ‘Sure,' she said, sounding only a bit quaky.

‘I'm getting eye drops,' Sibylla said. ‘I'll be back.'

‘What's going on?' Lou asked when Sibylla had gone. ‘What's the thing on the noticeboard about?'

Vân Ước opened the door and saw how bad she must look reflected in Lou's sympathetic face a beat before she saw herself in the mirror. ‘Oh no.'

‘Don't worry, Sib'll be back soon. Splash your face with cold water, and we'll talk.'

chapter 15

It was such a
relief to tell Sibylla and Lou the true story of the winged cardigan, even through the hiccups and sobs that continued while her body recovered from the crying storm.

In her measured way, Lou looked at Vân Ước. ‘I know you don't like talking, but you have to let people know how you found the cardigan.'

‘It's a cool story. It must be someone's art/life/fashion project,' said Sibylla.

Seeing the sense in telling everyone her side of the story was one thing; being able to do it would require her to speak to people. Major impediment.

Sibylla frowned. ‘The first thing we do is rip down what's on the board. And if Holly prints more and puts them back up we tell Ms King.'

‘Or at least tell Holly that we'll tell her,' said Lou.

‘Which brings us to why she's being such a complete bitch to you,' said Sibylla. ‘It's obviously Billy. You're stepping on her territory. More so since they've hooked up recently. Not that that means anything. To him, anyway. But there's no way she's going to welcome you into the fold.'

‘I mean, are you in the fold?' Lou wanted to know. ‘Is there something happening with you and Billy?'

Vân Ước shook her head. ‘I have no idea why he's . . .'

‘Climbing up onto toilets to talk to you?'

‘He's just . . . I don't think he even knew who I was last term, and now he's following me around.' Saying it out loud didn't make it seem any more plausible.

‘Not that you're not crush-worthy, Vân Ước. But it is a bit weird,' said Lou.

‘It's just that Billy's –' Sibylla paused, looking worried.

‘– a dick,' Lou finished.

‘He's so used to everyone thinking he's this great guy, he's funny, he's popular, that he'll happily trample over anyone to get a laugh and not even notice that he's done any damage.'

‘He's like a really annoying puppy – he chewed your shoes but, oh, look, he's still wagging his tail. Remember how he went on and on about your big undies, Sib?'

Sibylla smacked her forehead in mock despair. He'd continued a ‘once seen, never forgotten' series of gags about her knickers for the whole time they were at Mount Fairweather, Vân Ước remembered. ‘He's a guy who doesn't give a shit about collateral damage if he gets a laugh.'

‘Did you hear he set up a fake Crowthorne Grammar School email account last year and sent a pile of emails that looked like they came from the year ten coordinator to all his friends' parents, complaining of – what was it? –
lacklustre
academic performance, and encouraging them to set more rigorous study timetables at home,' said Lou.

Vân Ước couldn't help smiling. It was pretty funny. But that sort of prank didn't happen on the spur of the moment. It took some planning.

‘Also, he's never really had what I would call a relationship,' said Sibylla. ‘He periodically succumbs to being someone's boyfriend, so long as they do all the work and don't make any demands.'

‘And I think we've all heard the revolting line he uses about rowing: oars before whores?' said Lou.

‘Gross,' said Vân Ước. It really was. In which case, why, since she first laid eyes on him, and despite everything she'd since discovered about him, had he been the one to persistently invade her daydreams?

‘I mean, I guess the message is, keep your guard up. Whatever he's up to, following you around like you're his new hobby, he's never shown himself to be good boyfriend material,' said Sibylla.

‘Bottom line, he's your standard-issue two-dimensional hot jock, and you can do better,' said Lou.

What
was
Billy up to? He certainly had no history of interest in a girl on the outermost ring of the social circle. In fact, even the inner-sanctum girls had a hard time getting quality attention. And if it was the wish –
it couldn't be the wish
– shouldn't she hear a shimmer of fairy bells or something every time he came near?

They kept chatting as they headed upstairs, by which time a quick check in the mirror showed Vân Ước that her eyes were brightly, vaso-constricted white, thanks to Sibylla's drops, and her face only a little bit blotchy.

chapter 16

After the horror she
had not sought to hide following the fried bird incident, after the firm
go away
message in the library toilets, after successfully dodging Billy all day Thursday – the one day they didn't have a class together – Vân Ước was astounded to see him front up to homework club on Friday. He hadn't even double-checked the time or location with her. She assumed he'd forgotten. But he just strolled in, right on time, relaxed, confidently scoping the room.

It was awful, truly awful, that even though her official response was horrified, her heart betrayed her with a distinct skippety-thud when he arrived. She made eye contact with Jess and nodded in his direction. Jess took one look at him and mouthed ‘wow', eyebrows up. He was a show-stopper in the looks department, no doubt about it.

He saw Vân Ước and sauntered over, deftly weaving his way around the tables, chairs and wandering kids.

Jess had been making a beeline for Vân Ước as soon as she realised that Billy was Billy. They arrived at the same time.

‘Billy, Jess; Jess, Billy,' Vân Ước said.

‘Hi,' said Jess.

‘Hi,' he replied, not really looking at Jess.

Vân Ước looked from Jess to Billy and back again, hoping one of them would say something. Billy stared at Vân Ước, ignoring Jess. Jess looked at Billy and clocked that she was being ignored. She crossed her eyes and pulled a Jess face, and still Billy didn't glance at her.

And, hello, this was familiar. As soon as Billy had said his perfunctory
hi
to Jess, his eyes had skated right over her, through her, as though she were a chair or a rock. He'd made a summary assessment: she was a nobody. An irrelevance. Vân Ước's heart sank. This was exactly how Billy had looked at her until a week and a half ago. It wasn't malevolent; it was simply a case of utter disregard. It guaranteed Jess would not be remembered next time they met. Jess was a sharp-looking girl – and, more importantly, smart, funny and nice; plus, she was a
human being
who deserved his attention, and his courtesy.

That careless, disrespectful arrogance rekindled the anger in Vân Ước's heart. She made sure she kept her distance from Billy as she led him over to meet Eleanor.

Oh, it was nauseating. The eye contact. The firm handshake. The warm smile. Eleanor's
oh, you must be Jonathan's son
. The brief summary of the summer's volunteer work at the lifesaving club. The reference from the club's president. Eleanor gave Billy a form to fill out and welcomed him on board.

‘Vân Ước, given Billy's background with younger children and sport, I think I'll put him with you and preps, ones and twos – on playground duty. Can you make sure he settles in?'

‘Sure,' Vân Ước said.

‘Do whatever Vân Ước tells you, Billy – she's the boss. We couldn't manage around here without her.'

Vân Ước smiled at Eleanor, in spite of being freshly lumbered with Billy, whom she had assumed would be assigned an older student and be sent upstairs where she need not cross paths with him.

Billy turned away from Eleanor, expecting Vân Ước to lead them back to the small kids' area, but at the same time a boy behind Vân Ước pulled out his chair and trapped her into staying where she was. So as Billy stepped towards her, she was sandwiched between his body and the chair. The surge of sensation that shot through her was so extreme she felt like a pinball machine on tilt. Billy's
whoa
, and
sorry
, and step backwards to give her some room was all that stopped her from throwing her arms around him.

She frowned at the insistent kaleidoscope of romance-cover-worthy images flipping through her mind and gave herself a mental smack on the head. This was a boy she did not particularly trust. He was going to be working for her here. That was all. At school she would continue to do her best to avoid him, and with any luck he'd eventually leave her alone.

She pushed the obstructing chair back in and led Billy to the front of the church hall. She turned back to check he was following and he gave her the most confident, amused smile she'd seen. A smile that surely said he had felt what she had felt – or maybe it said he had read her mind and knew what she was thinking about. The smile distracted her again and redirected heat flow. She took a deep breath. Maybe mewing wasn't so unbelievable after all. Maybe Billy Gardiner produced the sort of sparks that meant a mew was some kind of scientific inevitability. She almost laughed out loud; that was ridiculous. They reached the side door nearest to the playground. ‘Okay, brace yourself.'

Vân Ước introduced him to a few of the little kids. Mahad and Barney immediately involved him in a hot dispute as to which of them had farted.

‘You farted!'

‘I did not.
You
farted.'

‘Did not, you did.'

‘You stink.'

‘No,
you
stink.'

Just when things were about to boil over, Billy intervened. ‘Who mentioned the fart first?'

Mahad pointed at Barney.

‘Okay,' said Billy, his manner serious. ‘You work out the fart fight using ancient wisdom:
A fox smells its own scent first
. And in addition to that:
He who smelt it, dealt it
. Barney, you farted.'

‘Okay, I did!' said Barney.

The boys burst out laughing, and ran over to the cobweb-shaped climbing frame, shouting to each other, ‘He who smelt it, dealt it!'

Billy smiled at Vân Ước, a self-satisfied look on his face.

‘Yep, you fit right in here,' she said, heading back into the church hall.