The Yearbook Page 3

  I was so pathetic… No wonder my parents preferred Adam.

  I shook my head to attempt to dislodge my self-loathing and turned the page. It was distracting that someone had underlined so much of the story in red pen, but I tried to train my eyeballs away from it. For a school set text, it really was actually okay. It was all about being a kid and playing for hours in the summer holidays. It reminded me of Ruby, and our summers together avoiding our houses. As I turned the pages, I felt the nick from the double-edged sword of nostalgia that always came when I thought of Ruby. The sweetness of remembering, combined with the bitter taste of what happened.

  I’m pathetic.

  But at least I had a story to get lost in. I read and turned pages, read and turned pages – pulled away from the din of the TV downstairs because Dad had put Sky Sports on super loud.

  Then I saw it.

  I was reading a scene where the children talk to their father, Atticus, and he tells them that they can never really understand someone until they’ve crawled into their skin to see their point of view. There was a scribble in the book’s margin. In red pen. The same distracting red pen that had been plaguing me.

  This time, they hadn’t underlined anything, but had written their own commentary at the side.

  Everything blurred around me as I read the red words. They zoomed into sharp focus, so sharp that they seared themselves into me, branding me with their wisdom.

  Learn to sit with the profound loneliness…

  At that moment, Mum must’ve made a mistake because I suddenly heard a shout float through the floorboards. Instinctively, I turned off my bedroom light and hid under the covers, feigning sleep. I tried to tune out Dad’s scolding and Mum’s crying. My intestines curled themselves into tight knots as Dad’s footsteps thudded up the stairs and their bedroom door shut just on the verge of slamming. What had happened? He’d been in such a good mood. I lay in the dark listening to Mum cry softly. Then to the noises of her coming up to apologize and beg for forgiveness. Muffled murmurs came from their room. Then, after half an hour or so, it was quiet. I’d lain there, invisible, with the book held to my chest the whole time. When it had been silent for ten minutes, I sighed, and picked up the book again.

  No one will ever understand us, and us them.

  The message made so much sense, it was like I’d always known it. I felt so much less alone than I had earlier that evening.

  Nobody truly gets anybody else. Everybody sits with loneliness.

  I sometimes felt lost being me and living in my house. The only person I’d ever told about my dad, Ruby, was long gone. Ruby was the one I’d told about “quiet time” when I was a child – the terrifying periods when it was illegal to make a noise in my home. Even though I’d only been seven years old, I still remembered the…loneliness I felt when she expressed surprise and said they didn’t have “quiet time” in her house. Then, as the years passed, she was the one I complained to about Adam and him always being better. And Mum, and that I didn’t understand why she put up with Dad’s moods. When I lost Ruby, it wasn’t just the grief of her absence that hurt, but the grief of no longer being understood.

  But maybe everyone else feels misunderstood? I thought, as I read back the red words. Maybe we are all lonely? Maybe I’m not such an invisible freak?

  And, just like that, I felt so understood and so connected to this stranger who had scribbled in the margin. I held the book’s open page against my chest like I was trying to photocopy it onto my heart, listening to the temporary peace of my parents’ sleep. Then I flipped back to the start and scanned each page to see what else this person had underlined. Looking at all the quotes they’d marked up. Seeing the book through their eyes, wondering…

  The night was long and sleep evasive. Even in their unconsciousness, you could still feel my parents’ anxious energy pulse through the house. It stained the walls, seeped into the carpets, lingered in the air like paint fumes. I ran my finger along the crimson handwriting – wondering at this stranger invading my margins, who completely and utterly got it. Who left this for someone to find. Someone who may’ve needed it. Someone like me.

  Who are you? I asked.

  Forty thousand years ago, some navel-gazing cave person wanted to leave their mark on the world. So they made paint from berries, smeared it over their palm and printed their hand against the rock. When the paintings were discovered thousands of years later, it revealed the unthinkable: that cave people dwelled on their legacy despite their constant struggle to survive.

  These ancient humans had thoughts like:

  Will anyone remember me when I’m gone?

  How can I ensure people know I existed?

  So, in order not to be forgotten, they left us cave-paintings.

  You can still see their handprints today. You can hold your palm up to theirs and wonder. Who were they? What was their story?

  They were here and they wanted us to know it. They left their mark, their legacy, to ensure we did.

  And, forty thousand years later, we had the St Benedict’s School loo graffiti…

  I finished writing my message in Tippex and sat on the toilet to watch it dry. The paint of my I exist cracked into its chalky finish. I wondered if, at some point in the distant future, this cubicle door would hang in a museum. Maybe people would queue to see this toilet door and drink in this profound slice of history left for them.

  We existed. We were at school and we existed. Oh, and, by the way, Amelia has crabs.

  It was ten minutes before my supposedly-important newspaper meeting, and I decided to hide and read until the crowds died down. Another school day had passed without incident. Charlie was still villain of the year for the group detention. He couldn’t walk anywhere without people yelling, “THANKS, CHARLIE.” Additionally, a ridiculous rumour was going around that Chloe had rabies. Her best friend, Hannah, had been stupid enough to tell Amelia in form time that she’d been around Chloe’s house the night before when Chloe’s hamster had randomly died. Apparently Chloe had it out on her hand, when the thing started fitting and then dropped dead in her palm.

  “It kind of looked like rabies,” Hannah had said, betraying her best friend in exchange for a brief moment with Amelia. Who then, of course, told everyone that Chloe’s hamster had bitten her before it died of rabies, and so now Chloe had rabies. All completely stupid but stupid enough to catch ablaze. People had been growling at her all day, laughing, “Watch out, in case she bites.” My insides ached with the injustice of it, and with anger at myself for just letting it happen, like I’d let Charlie have the worst week of his life in exchange for a quiet life for me.

  I pulled out To Kill a Mockingbird, hoping to find more messages from the red-pen person. I read as quickly as I could, turning the pages in a flurry, losing track of where I was and why I was so angry.

  I caught sight of red ink and my heart quickened.

  I’d got to a scene where the children are almost attacked by a rabid dog but their father shoots it dead with only one shot. The kids were surprised their dad had hidden how good he was with a gun.

  “I wanted you to see what real courage is, instead of getting the idea that courage is a man with a gun in his hand,” Atticus told the children.

  I rushed past to look at the red handwriting scribble next to the quote.

  My eyes closed as the words dissolved into me. For a few seconds I felt like I was swirling outside of my body. Then, without warning, tears leaked from both eyes.

  If you’re not scared, then it’s not courage.

  What if you’re scared but you do nothing? I asked myself, staring at the page. What was the opposite of courage? Cowardice? Not only was I a nobody, I was a cowardly nobody. At home. At school. Invisible to all. Nobody would ever write a story about me and how brave I was. People hardly knew I existed… Noise from outside got louder as the bathroom door swung open. The clop of footfall. I sniffed, and stayed as quiet as I could. The intruder locked herself in the neighbouring cubi
cle and I heard the unmistakable sound of her tears.

  School.

  I flushed the perfectly clean toilet to give them some noise privacy and put my book into my bag. Then I scraped back the lock and opened the door to the row of mirrors, revealing my blotchy reflection. I washed my clean hands, then squatted to check under the door. They were snuffling gently, obviously waiting for me to leave.

  Their shoes were black, chunky, with pink nail polish patterns adorning the edges. I couldn’t place them immediately but then remembered I’d seen them in art. They were Chloe’s shoes. The stupid rabies rumours had inevitably got to her.

  I hovered outside the sniffing stall, unsure, and held my hand out uselessly, like I was trying to comfort her invisibly through the door.

  Ask her if she’s alright. Be a human. Don’t leave her crying alone in a cubicle.

  I opened my mouth but closed it again. If I spoke, that would draw me into the situation. I didn’t want to be involved in any situation. I couldn’t face the thought of people saying I’d caught Chloe’s “rabies” and being barked at all day – not on top of everything I had to endure at home. I was scared, but I didn’t have courage. So I told myself Chloe wouldn’t want to be comforted by some random anyway, and pushed my way into the corridor, leaving her to fall apart in peace.

  The school felt tired, like it needed a yawn to punctuate the end of the day. My stomach was in its usual tension knot. I hugged my bag to my chest, my precious book snuggled safely inside, and kept my head down as I passed Grace and the Awfuls clumped around Amelia’s locker.

  Grace sniggered cruelly as she tossed her ponytail back. “Chloe wasn’t in my last lesson today. Oh dear. Do you think she’s gone to the vet?” They all laughed without showing their teeth, in case boys were secretly watching them.

  Laura nodded like the eagerest beaver in the universe. “I still can’t believe Hannah told everyone. I mean, that’s a little harsh.”

  Amelia shot her a look. “Oh, come on. It’s a dead hamster. It’s not like her gran died or anything. She should see the funny side. Nobody can take a joke these days. Anyway, Grace, we need to get our prom dresses soon. Otherwise someone might get the same one in the spring/summer drop.”

  I managed to pass without my face betraying me. Wondering what life must be like if that’s your major life concern – someone wearing the same dress as you. Especially when you’d made a person cry that day for literally no reason, other than their pain briefly amused you.

  I climbed the steps to the newsroom, not passing anyone else as I went up. I felt all discombobulated – from the second message I’d found in the book, from how it had made me feel: guilty and angry and itching with self-loathing. I didn’t like it when emotions hit me in school. I didn’t like it when emotions hit me anywhere. Emotions always had consequences.

  “Paige, you’re here. Take a seat. Did you have a nice afternoon?” Ms Gordon was perching on the front desk of our cramped newsroom. I spent almost as much time here as I did in the library. In this tiny box filled with slightly dated computers.

  I nodded but said nothing as I sat down next to Daisy and pulled my sleeves over my hands.

  “Yes, Ms Gordon, I had a brilliant day,” Ms Gordon said in a high-pitched voice. “Every day at this school is a total dream, especially with you here as my librarian.” She smiled kindly. She was in a red and pink suit – clashing beyond all reasonable doubt.

  Daisy laughed and I reluctantly joined in. Ms Gordon was obsessed with “getting me out of my shell”.

  I’d been working on the newspaper since Year Eight, after Ruby left, but still didn’t really know the rest of the team that well. Some of them, like Daisy and Candise, were super close – bonded by the years of stressful deadlines. But I, unsurprisingly, kept myself to myself. What I liked about the paper was I could see my name in it as my byline, without the story having to be about me. When I got my first ever front-page splash in Year Ten, with a story about vegan food in the canteen, I took it home proudly, wondering if it would get framed and put up next to Adam’s stuff. But all Dad said was, “Ha, veganism is for pussies.”

  I took out my pen and notepad and wrote the date at the top.

  “What’s this meeting about then?” Daisy asked. “Surely enough news hasn’t happened to print the paper yet?” We printed one edition near the end of each term normally and it was only October.

  Ms Gordon tapped her nose with a finger adorned with a giant plastic ruby ring. “Let’s wait for the others and then I’ll tell you.”

  “Others?”

  I glanced around and we all seemed to be present and correct. Candise and Daisy were there. As was Luke, our photographer, who spoke even less than me, but took brilliant photos. Then two Year Nine girls and one Year Eight boy – all of them at the bottom of the ladder, to do the crappy jobs, until the end of the year when everyone else was too stressed with exams.

  Ms Gordon looked at her red leather watch. “They should be here any minute, they knew it started at four…oh, here they are. Come on in, girls.”

  And there, coming into MY newsroom and sitting with MY Ms Gordon, were Grace, Amelia and Laura – collectively smelling of vanilla and jasmine and the scent of other people’s worst living memories.

  “Hi, is this the right place?” Amelia asked, looking around my beloved newsroom like someone had pooed themselves and then rubbed it all over the walls. Admittedly, it was an oversized cupboard, with only one small window and a collection of refurbished Macs, but still…

  “It is indeed.” Ms Gordon gestured for them to sit next to me, NEXT TO ME.

  My body clamped up. I hunched my shoulders and put my head down so my hair covered my face. I could feel Daisy trying to catch my attention to exchange a What the hell? look but I didn’t dare glance up in case they saw.

  Grace took out a ridiculous notepad and even more ridiculous pen. I was so angry I wanted to swipe it onto the carpet and scream, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?” Instead I just focused on her notepad. It was neon-pink, with GIRLBOSS written all over it.

  “So, you guys probably want to know what’s going on,” Ms Gordon said. She sat straighter, like she was trying to impress them. “I’m really excited to have Grace, Amelia and Laura with us today. They’re on the official Leavers’ Committee, meaning they’re in charge of all the events like the Leavers’ Assembly, the Ball, and…” She drummed her hands on the desk. “…the reason we’re here today…putting together the school yearbook.” She jazz-handed the hell out of her jazz-hands while I took a deep breath. I should’ve known.

  The yearbook. A concept metabolized into compulsory school tradition from American TV. A bound monument to the collection of people forced to spend five years together. A leather-clad keepsake of that specific social experiment. Or “nostalgia” as idiots would call it.

  “The girls here were hoping we’d be able to pitch in and help a bit,” Ms Gordon announced. She clearly thought this was a brilliant idea by the way her eyes shone, glancing over at them several times. I instantly lost ten tonnes of respect for her. I honestly believed Ms Gordon was above all this school stuff, but she was sucking up to the enemy. “They’ve got some exciting ideas to really shake things up, haven’t you, girls? Do you want to explain?”

  I had to force myself to look at them – these intruders. Amelia was chewing gum and Ms Gordon hadn’t even told her off. Laura was looking all around, like she couldn’t believe this place had existed the whole time. Grace took the lead, unsurprisingly, opening up her notepad and addressing us with the confidence of a CEO leading a morning briefing.

  “Yeah, so,” she said. “As you know, most yearbooks are totally basic. They’ve always been just a few photos and some dumb letter from the head of year, acting all sentimental.”

  “Please don’t call them dumb,” Ms Gordon said, remembering she was a teacher.

  Grace ignored her. “Yeah, so. We think ours can be so much more than that. I mean, think about it. Think what a yearboo
k signifies. You keep it for ever. It’s, like, a relic.” I couldn’t believe Grace had just used the word relic. “It’s a memory of the best years of your life.”

  Best years of YOUR life, I thought. Worst years for everyone else.

  “…and, yeah, so we decided to raise the price of them so we have extra budget to really make something, you know?” She twirled her hair around her gold pen. “Leave some legacy behind?”

  I was also floored that she knew the word legacy.

  Grace smiled with false modesty. “But, of course, we don’t know anything about journalism or whatever, so we asked Ms Gordon if she’d help us out. And she said you would.”

  At that moment, I lapsed and shared a dangerous look with Daisy. Daisy spent two weeks off school in Year Nine after Amelia told everyone she’d had anal sex in a car park with the lead singer of some sixth-form band. Once I overheard Daisy telling Candise that she’d only ever kissed him. But he’d made out it was more and boasted to Amelia’s older brother she was the first black girl he’d got with. I’d detailed the whole awful thing in one of the notepads under my bed.

  We. Were. Not. Happy.

  Grace, Amelia and Laura. The three of them were dangerous. Irredeemable. Poison…

  “I think it’s such a sick idea,” Ms Gordon said, beaming at them like an SAD lamp while I winced. “And, guys, the extra project will look great on your uni applications… So, if you’re up for it, today is about brainstorming ideas. We’ve got most of the year to put it all together, but it’s good to get thinking. What did you girls have already?”

  Please notice how, at no point, did anyone actually ask “us guys” if we were “up for it”. Just like that, we were recruited.

  Amelia took over – getting out her very own expensive notepad that said BE KIND on it, which would only be more inappropriate if Hitler had a matching one.