Lisdalia (5 page)

12

WONDERLAND

During the second week of the holidays, Michael's father took us to Wonderland; “us” being Michael, his mother and me. Mr Harrison (I suppose that should be Petty Officer Harrison, but he didn't look at all “Navy” out of his uniform) was home on leave, and I could sense a difference in both Michael and his mother.

Especially his mother.

She seemed to come alive, and her face had the same … excited glow that I'd noticed sometimes on the faces of the girls my brothers would bring home — before the novelty wore off, and they got bored senseless, listening to discussions about body-building or the advantages of a fully-blown V8. My brothers really know how to show a girl a good time!

Mr Harrison was just like an older version of his son. He had the same eyes and the same smile, and the same habit of rolling his tongue around inside his lips when he was concentrating.

We went on all the rides at Wonderland, but gave “The Beach” a miss. It was too cold, and besides, Mr Harrison said that he'd seen enough water to last a lifetime. I laughed, but I'm not entirely sure he was joking. He was counting the months to his discharge. They all were.

What I couldn't get over was how much they touched. Mr and Mrs Harrison, I mean. They held hands and linked arms and kissed more in that one afternoon than I'd seen my parents do in the previous five years — and out in the open, too. I know my parents love each other, but it's like my father always says: “Your mother knows how I feel. I don't have to parade it in public”. I don't know about that. Once in a while, I don't think it's such a bad idea.

When we got home, I stayed over for tea. I liked the easy-going atmosphere. I was used to it, of course — I'd visited often enough — but this time Michael's dad was home, and that lifted the whole occasion.

We had veal schnitzel, Michael's favourite — and his father's — and I noticed that nothing, not even the salad dressing, had a trace of garlic in it. Mr H hated garlic. It's funny how you compare everything to what you're used to at home. Just about the only things my father doesn't have garlic in are ice-cream and his morning bowl of cornflakes. And I'm not entirely sure about the cornflakes.

* * *

Later, Michael walked home with me.

As we reached the corner, I turned and looked back across Boundary Street. It was a little after seven, and the sun was setting behind the hill on the other side of Elizabeth Drive. The whole skyline was blood-red, and the trees on the top of the hill were like a handful of outstretched black witch-fingers. There was a sinister beauty about the whole scene.

In all the years we'd lived around the corner, I could never remember just standing there and looking across like that. It made me think about how much we take for granted. Boundary Park. Even the name said it. Drive for two minutes in one direction, and you were in the country: farms, cows and sheep, the whole deal. Terry Dickson country — or Franco Carniato or Slavko Jovanovich country; it all depended on which farm you happened to stop at.

Two minutes in the other direction, and you were in the middle of suburbia: brick and tile and fibro, a few small trees — and not a cow in sight. A slice of both worlds. How could you want to live anywhere else?

I looked across at Michael. Just twelve months ago, that was exactly what he'd wanted.

Who needed Sydney? Who needed Boundary Park? He'd been uprooted from his home and his friends and dragged interstate to a place where he didn't want to be, where he didn't fit in; picked on by bullies, ignored by almost everyone else … But he'd made it.

I looked down the street to the house where Riny had lived — and died. And I wondered what he might have been like now without her influence and her friendship when he'd had no one else. Without her help when he was preparing for the swimming race that had meant so much to him — which still meant so much now, but for very different reasons. There were lights in the windows; the new owners had just moved in. But to Michael — and to me — no matter how long they lived there, it would always be Riny's house.

I turned my gaze towards the sunset, and stared until the red began to burn its colour into the backs of my eyes.

“Michael …” I had to wait a moment for a reply. He was looking in the same direction as I was, and I'm sure his thoughts were miles away on the other side of that spectacular skyline.

“Yes?” He answered without looking at me.

“I'm glad you moved from Middleton.”

Now he did face me; and he smiled. “So am I.”

I know I was only just turning twelve, and at that age you're not supposed to have “those” emotions, but at that moment I felt a kind of strange, empty, warm sensation deep inside my chest, and suddenly I understood the look I'd seen on Mrs Harrison's face that afternoon, as we'd stood and watched her husband and her son on one of the rides.

I think I even began to understand how my mother could put up with so much from a man who was embarrassed to hold her hand in public. For that feeling, I'd forgive a lot, too.

We walked around to my house without speaking, but once or twice, his hand just brushed against mine, and the feeling was electric.

13

SIMPLE …

Coordinator!

Julie Vegas stared at the pile of manila folders on her desk, and then let her gaze drift longingly out through her classroom window.

They don't want a year coordinator, they want a full-time social-worker …

Shane Thomas was in the exclusion-room again; nothing particularly serious, but he just never seemed to learn. One thing after another… after another. She looked at her Tuesday timetable, to work out a time to interview him.

There goes period three …

She pencilled it in.

And they'd finally thrown Maddie's older brother out of the school. Not that it was unexpected, but Maddie was pretty upset, naturally; the poor kid really loved him. There was far more going on there than met the eye.

Maybe another talk, later in the week.

And Mr Petrantonio was home from hospital — and almost back to his usual form. Lisdalia would be …

“Cup of coffee, Jules?” Terry Price broke into her stream of thought. He was leaning around the doorpost. “Lunch is half-over. I'm sure there's some union rule about working through all your breaks.”

She smiled and closed the folder. Terry was the resident comedian, and never appeared to do any serious marking or preparation, but the kids loved him, and he seemed to get results.

“White, no sugar.” She moved towards him as she spoke.

“Hey,” he moved fully into the doorway, and put on a shocked expression. “I didn't say
I
was making it, did I? Just because I feel sorry for you, and try to take you away from all this”
—
he waved his arm around the room
—
“doesn't mean I'm willing to turn myself into a kitchen helper. Besides, you make much better coffee than I do.”

“Dream on, Terry. I don't even make coffee for my father … not often anyway. And he's far more helpless even than you. Or so he'd have us believe. Next, you'll be telling me your mum makes your lunch for you every morning.”

“Has she been talking to you again? She promised she wouldn't.”

She punched him lightly on the arm. “Go on, get out of here. And don't make it too weak. I can't stand weak coffee.”

“Yessir, Miz Julie,” he replied, in a reasonable imitation of a Mississippi drawl. And he moved off towards the staffroom rubbing his arm, and mumbling to himself.

She shook her head and followed him, clutching her folders, and wondering why some people found everything so simple.

* * *

“It
is
simple, Julie. You just have to stop caring so damned much.”

“That's easy for you to say, Terry. But you can't switch off, just like that.
”
She snapped her fingers in the air in front of her.

“Maybe not.” He placed his empty mug down on the table between them. “But it doesn't mean it has to take over your life. You're a teacher, Jules. They aren't
your
kids; they
have
parents … most of them. And you won't help any of them if you don't back off a little bit. You'll burn out. Then what use will you be?”

She didn't answer. For once, Terry wasn't joking.

There was nothing left to say; the “lecture” was over. He picked up his mug and pushed his chair back.

“Anyway, I can't sit talking all day.” He smiled. “Some of us have work to do.”

“That'll be the day!” Now Julie smiled, too. “I've got to go, too. I'm enrolling a new kid from the Intensive Language Centre. He's only been in the country for nine months, and still they expect him to cope in a normal class, with
—”

“Julie … back off, remember?” He almost reached out to touch her shoulder, but thought better of it. He scratched his nose instead. “What's this kid's name?”

She looked inside one of the folders.

“Sayanh Phothisaranasouk.”

“That's easy for you to say!”

She poked her tongue out, and turned for the door, throwing over her shoulder. “We've been asked to call him ‘Nanh'.”

“I'm glad to hear it,” Terry Price replied, but he was already talking to an empty doorway.

14

THE BUDDY SYSTEM

“His name is Nanh, and he's Cambodian. He doesn't speak a lot of English.” Miss Vegas was shuffling papers on her desk, and looking into her folder as she spoke, so I knew she was uncomfortable about asking me this favour.

“Well, I don't speak
any
Cambodian. I don't know how much help I'd be as a buddy.” It was only a token resistance; I quite liked the idea of showing him around, teaching him “the ropes”. Mind you, it did strike me as funny that she'd choose me to ask. “Lisdalia the Failure”, one of
the
great misfits in the history of the school — maybe the planet.

Of course that was probably a part of her plan: give the kid responsibility, make her look at someone else's problems and forget the fact that she feels like a spare big toe most of the time. I remember thinking that Miss Vegas must have done some psychology in her teacher training.

“Actually, Lisdalia, that's one of the reasons I chose you. He'll be in your classes for everything except English — I've put him in Mr Dunford's E.S.L. group. And the thing is, I don't want him to feel that the only kids he can mix with are the ones who speak Cambodian. He'll find those kids on his own. You can introduce him to a wider group of kids; help him adjust.”

Yeah? And who'll introduce me?

The thought crossed my mind, but I didn't voice it. She was looking far too pleased with herself for me to go and spoil her fun.

Then it hit me.
Psychology.

It wasn't just Nanh she was trying to fit in, it was
me
too!

I'd always liked Miss Vegas, but suddenly I realised why. She was good at her job because she took it seriously. She cared about “her kids”, and she didn't stop trying — even with Shane Thomas.

Even with me.

It would have been easy for her to sit back and say that “the Pain” was just a lost cause; why bother? Or to stick Nanh into the E.S.L. group and close the file until he found his feet on his own, or ended up like Maddie's brother, Minh: angry, confused and in trouble. And it would have been just as easy for her to say, “Lisdalia's bright. She'll get on; she'll work things out for herself”. But that wasn't her way.

And if she wasn't going to give up, neither was I. How hard could it be?

“All right,” I said, “I'll give it a go.” And I meant it.

She smiled. “Thanks, kid.”

I think she was the only teacher who ever called me that. It felt good.

I smiled back. “That's okay. You'll get my bill in the mail.”

“You sound like a doctor. Is that what you're planning to be?” She was fishing.

“Actually, I hear plumbers make more money.” I bent down, picked up my bag and turned to go.

“Good luck with Nanh.” Her voice followed me out of the room. I nodded; I was feeling lucky.

Naturally, the first person I introduced Nanh to was Michael, who in typical Michael fashion nodded his head and said, “G'day.”

Nanh bowed slightly, but didn't say anything.

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence.

“Nanh's from Cambodia.” I couldn't remember if I'd already told Michael that, but I was looking for something to say. I didn't want either of them feeling awkward. Michael took the hint.

“Do you play basketball?” A predictable question. Anyone who had a first name ending in “h”
had
to play basketball. Nanh looked confused.

“You know,” Michael mimed what I thought was a pretty good imitation of a free-throw. “Basketball.” He wasn't getting through.

It was recess, and we were standing in the main quad, which overlooked the basketball courts, where what seemed like half the school's male population, plus a number of the braver girls, were throwing far too many multi-coloured balls at the six worn-out rings. He pointed down at them, mimed again and repeated, “Basketball.”

This time it registered. Nanh nodded, and a slight smile grew on his face.

“Bathketball …”

Apart from a nervous “Hello” outside Miss Vegas's staffroom, it was about the first word I'd heard from him, and I couldn't decide whether he had a problem with his “s” sound, a lisp or something, or if it was just the new language that was throwing him. As it turned out, it was a lisp — or, as he said, when his English got better, a “lithp” — and it caused him quite a bit of trouble early on, especially with Shane Thomas' “Morons Anonymous” until … But I don't want to move too far ahead of myself. I'll get to
that
particular episode later.

“Come on, I'll take you down and introduce you. Maybe we can get a game in before the bell goes.” Michael looked across at me. “Do you want to come down and watch?”

I was about to make an excuse, but then I remembered what I'd promised myself.

It's hard to break the ice with people when you're sitting in the library, and Mr Parnell screams at anyone who looks sideways. Besides, most of the basketball freaks only made it into the library if their teachers dragged them in during classtime; they were far too busy at recess and lunchtime playing half-court and dreaming of the day they might get up high enough to jam it.

If I was ever going to make contact, it would have to be on their terms and on their turf, not mine. They were quite happy the way they were; I was the one with the problem.

I nodded. “Let's go.”

Of course, the Year Sevens and Eights got to use the worst rings in the school. They were bent down from all the weekend wannabes and tryhards thinking it was cool to jump up and hang off them, and it meant that anyone trying to score had to hit the basket directly, because any shot that came off the backboard rolled off the end of the ring. Michael explained the problem to me afterwards — to account for the fact that he missed so many inside shots.

Mind you, it didn't explain why Nanh never missed one. He might have had trouble with English, but he certainly spoke “basketball” — their language.

They were playing five-on-five half-court, so everything was pretty crowded, but he seemed to be able to cut through the confusion and do the most amazing things with the ball. Shooting, passing off, dribbling behind his back, between his legs. I felt sorry for the kid who was trying to stop him, but no one on the other team seemed to mind. That was the thing that really surprised me about all of the basketballers. I expected them to be competitive and argue all the time, like the soccer players on the oval behind us, but they didn't. They even clapped when he slid past three of their players, jumped into the air and rolled the ball over the end of the ring.

Here was a new kid, a stranger, walking into their game and taking them apart, and they clapped him. He could hardly speak a word, but they shared something that worked on a totally different level. He was accepted.

I almost felt jealous, but I forced the feeling down. This was the new me.

“Go, Nanh!” I shouted, as he sank a shot from outside the three-point line.

He turned, smiled at me and bowed slightly. Then he caught the return ball and lobbed it across to Michael, who turned, shot and finally got one to fall.

The game rolled on, but I was still thinking about Nanh's smile.

If only life could be as easy as a basketball game
…