Before you forget, p.19
Before You Forget, page 19
The principal is known for never doing her own dirty work. That’s usually the deputies’ job.
‘Oh,’ I say.
‘She didn’t even come back and get her things.’ Bec hauls one of the bags off her shoulder and passes it over. ‘Give these to her when you see her. And give us the goss, okay? Either someone’s died or she’s been doing it with the Phys Ed teachers.’
‘Sure.’ I swallow.
It comes as no surprise, then, that my second problem is Poppy, who approaches me at recess with red-rimmed eyes and a stony face.
‘What were you thinking?’ she says, snatching her bag from where it’s perched next to me on the quadrangle wall.
‘I wanted to protest about what happened to your painting,’ I say.
‘Why didn’t you tell me that’s what you were doing?’
‘You knew I was doing something,’ I say. ‘You didn’t seem to mind.’
‘I didn’t mind because you didn’t tell me,’ she yells. I didn’t know Poppy was capable of yelling. She’s not a yelling sort of person. ‘How embarrassing!’
‘Why?’ I say. ‘You shouldn’t be embarrassed. It’s an amazing painting.’
‘You made a spectacle out of it,’ she says. ‘Of me. I just wanted my mum to come to the exhibition and see a painting that I actually think she’ll like for once. Not all this.’
‘It was about the way they carried on over a female form, remember?’ I say. ‘It wasn’t supposed to be you literally.’
‘Argh!’ Poppy yells. ‘This was about you, not about my painting. I can’t believe it! They were about to expel me.’
I stare. ‘Oh God. Did you tell them it was me?’
‘Of course I didn’t,’ she hisses. ‘But they’re not stupid.’
‘Unlike me,’ I say, getting in first.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Unlike you.’
‘So, um,’ I say, ‘is it still okay if I stay over after the exhibition opening tonight?’
‘What do you think?’ Poppy says, and storms off toward the science block.
I watch her go. I feel like I’ve swallowed a brick. I can’t believe she is so angry. I didn’t think she was capable of it. But I was only trying to help. Why doesn’t she see that?
Then along comes my third problem.
‘Amelia,’ Ms M says. ‘Come with me. Now.’
Ms M walks fast. I try to catch up.
‘Miss,’ I say. ‘The principal shouldn’t have banned it. It’s censorship. You don’t believe in censorship, do you? You can’t do anything about it because you’re a teacher. But I did.’
Ms M doesn’t say anything. Somehow, this is worse than any of the scathing replies I would normally expect of her.
‘Miss?’ I say. ‘It was such a good painting. I just wanted people to see it. It wasn’t fair on Poppy if –’
Ms M won’t even look at me.
‘She wasn’t banned from painting it,’ I say. ‘Why shouldn’t she show it, with everyone else’s work?’
Ms M stops suddenly. ‘You went into the Exhibition Hall and attempted to ruin the exhibition,’ she says. ‘That’s what’s happened, and that’s what you need to apologise for when we get to the principal’s office.’
‘But –’
Ms M glares at me in a way that shuts me up completely.
She opens the principal’s door for me. At which point I see problems four and five.
Four, the principal.
Five, my mother.
I’m about to start with ‘But I only’ when I see Mum’s face. Her eyes are red and she’s got a wad of mushed-up tissues in her hand.
‘I’m sorry,’ she’s saying. ‘I probably should have told you this before.’
It only takes me a microsecond to figure out what she’s talking about. Oh no.
‘We take our duty of care to our students very seriously,’ the principal is saying. ‘And we are understanding of their personal circumstances. But Amelia needs to understand that reasons are not excuses.’
‘I’m sure she does understand that,’ Mum says, sniffling and looking at me.
‘I’m not excusing anything,’ I say. ‘Poppy’s painting should have been in the exhibition.’
‘Amelia,’ Ms M warns.
I can feel tears starting up. No. I can’t. ‘But Miss, you don’t agree with it either.’
Ms M shakes her head. ‘This is a school, not The Factory.’
‘It’s kind of a factory, if you treat us like this,’ I say.
‘It’s an Andy Warhol reference,’ Ms M adds, which does not relieve the frown on the principal’s face. ‘Art history has never been Amelia’s strong suit.’
The principal leans forward. She clasps her hands together and looks at me earnestly.
‘If anyone had complained about the depiction of a young woman’s breasts at a public family exhibition, one involving students from the age of twelve, it could have compromised the whole art program.’
‘She wasn’t naked,’ I say. ‘And it wasn’t an identifiable student. It was a painting. In fragments, like the cubists did. It was a commentary on the way females are objectified in this society.’
See, I want to say to Ms M. I did learn something this year. But she is looking as earnest as the principal.
‘But you can see, Amelia, that others might have a different opinion,’ the principal says.
I think of Will and his expression when he saw it.
‘Well,’ I say, ‘but it’s still censorship.’
‘And you are free to express your view on that in the appropriate forum, which is not a school exhibition with young children attending,’ the principal says. ‘But you are not permitted to deface the exhibition of your colleagues’ work.’
I want to argue: How can I be defacing an exhibition with a painting? But I can see from the solemn faces that I’ve lost every argument, no matter how convincing. I nod reluctantly.
‘I did consider expulsion –’ Mum tenses, alarmed, ‘– or suspension, or forbidding Amelia from sitting her final exams. However, I am satisfied that these courses of action are not necessary, as Amelia does seem to appreciate the consequences of her actions.’
I want to protest that I don’t, but a warning look from Mum stops me.
‘I am, however, requiring you to seek counselling to deal with your personal issues.’
‘Personal issues?’ I say.
‘Your father,’ Mum says. Not ‘my husband’. Your father.
‘Why should I have counselling about that?’ I say. ‘That’s got nothing to do with it.’
‘It might help,’ Ms M says quietly.
I turn on her sharply. ‘Help Dad not have Alzheimer’s anymore?’
‘It might help you cope,’ Mum says.
I snort. ‘Like you are?’
‘Amelia!’ Mum says.
‘Our priority is to get you through these final weeks and into your exams with as much support as possible,’ the principal says. ‘We have a counsellor here, or you may prefer to find your own.’
‘You’re forcing me to go to counselling?’ I say.
‘Not at all,’ the principal says. ‘If you would prefer to take the other options I mentioned, that is your choice.’
It takes me a moment to realise that those ‘options’ were suspension, expulsion or being prevented from finishing year twelve at all. In other words, they’re forcing me to go to counselling.
‘Fine,’ I say.
‘Great, I’m glad we could come to a consensus on this,’ the principal says. ‘I appreciate your cooperation, Amelia.’
The principal stands up and shakes hands with Mum.
‘I appreciate your understanding,’ Mum says. ‘It’s been very difficult.’
The principal nods, and Ms M ushers Mum into the corridor. I follow.
‘I’ll see you later,’ Mum says to me in a ‘we have to talk’ way.
‘I’m staying at Poppy’s tonight.’ Then I think for a second. ‘Oh. Actually. Probably not.’
‘I’ll see you later,’ Mum repeats.
Mum and Ms M move to one side and confer briefly, before Mum nods and disappears.
‘So,’ Ms M says.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say.
‘No, you’re not,’ she says.
‘No,’ I agree. ‘But – I don’t know. I wanted to do something. Everything happens to you and you’ve got no choice, and it’s horrible. I hate it. But I thought this might make it better. Just a bit. That’s all I wanted.’
Ms M is silent for a moment. She looks as if she’s assessing me, or thinking of what to say next. I don’t know if I want to know what she’s thinking. I hope she’s not going to take up where the principal left off. I have this absurd wish that she would put her arms around me, and that I could bury my face in her shoulder and cry until I have no more tears left.
She doesn’t put her arms out. I don’t cry. Instead, she says simply, ‘You’re not alone.’
I’m not sure whether she means that I’m not alone in not being sorry about the exhibition, or that I’m not alone having a father who is – well, Dad’s not dead, not like her father. But he’s also not my dad anymore, either.
I would ask her what she means, but she’s already walked away.
The only good thing about the exhibition is that there are so many people there I can avoid Poppy and The Bitches who have turned up to support her, looking sympathetically at her and shaking their heads at me.
‘What?’ I say to Bec when she gives me a look as I squeeze past her to try to find the least-populated corner I can.
‘You’re the reason she was called out of class,’ she says.
‘It’s not my fault,’ I say. ‘Well, yes, actually it was my fault, but it’s not my fault they thought it was her.’
‘It wasn’t a big deal for her not to have her painting in.’
‘Yes, it was,’ I say. ‘She was really upset.’
‘Not as upset as she is now,’ Bec says.
‘The Bitches wouldn’t help,’ I say.
‘Sorry?’
I forget that The Bitches is the nickname Gemma and I made up.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ I sigh.
I skulk around, pretending to spend a lot of time examining the work of the different years. In my list of people to avoid I now have to include the principal, who has turned up in preparation for the interminable speech she’s no doubt about to give. Ms M is with her. I try to think of vulgar exchanges between them – especially when the principal puts a hand on Ms M’s shoulder – but there doesn’t seem any point.
‘Amelia,’ a voice says behind me. It’s Eleanor.
‘Oh, hi,’ I say. ‘Are you mad at me too?’
‘It’s out of character for you to do something like that,’ she says. ‘But Poppy should have taken it for what it was.’
‘Which was?’
Eleanor smiles at me. ‘You’re a loyal friend,’ she says. ‘It’s a rare quality.’
I feel good for a second. I look at Poppy and The Bitches. ‘Yeah,’ I say.
Then I think of Gemma. Have I been loyal to Gemma?
My good feeling dissolves like sugar in hot chocolate. ‘Nah.’
‘This, too, shall pass,’ Eleanor says.
‘Will it?’
‘It is the law of the universe,’ she nods. ‘As well as a cliché. But clichés only become so because they are true. Or contain profound truths.’
‘Do you like Poppy’s work?’ I say. ‘I mean, the other work she’s got up. The stuff from the tutor groups.’
‘She does well without putting in effort,’ Eleanor says. ‘It has no meaning, but it is decorative.’
‘Ouch,’ I say.
‘It’s the truth.’
‘Decorative is good,’ I say. ‘The world could do with looking a bit better.’
‘But it’s not art, is it?’ Eleanor says. ‘Art that means something to somebody. I’m not saying she’s not capable. But if you don’t have anything to say, perhaps it is best to say nothing. Until you do.’
‘You didn’t see the painting they took down,’ I say. ‘It actually did have meaning.’
‘Well,’ Eleanor smiles. ‘I’ll have to trust your judgement on that, Amelia. Until she shows me.’
Chatter and laughter presses against my skull. The artwork is on display: our whole year’s effort, laid out. We’ve spent so many hours, days, weeks on our pieces, for this. Nobody is really paying proper attention. Suddenly, I want to leave. To breathe air. To remember Ms M saying you can produce art. Because that was the point of the techniques we’ve learned, the practice on form, scraping off and starting again. Practising and practising until the thing in your head is out there in the world. Just the way you imagined it.
‘I think I need to go,’ I say. ‘But can you apologise to Poppy for me? I wanted her artwork to be seen, but I didn’t want to upset her the way I did. I just assumed she’d want me to make a stand for her.’ I sigh. ‘I’ll message her later, after it’s all over.’
‘Come and visit, if you need to,’ Eleanor says. ‘Don’t worry about Poppy. Her emotions are like water.’
‘Thanks,’ I say. She’d said need to. Not want to. I guess she knows there’s a difference.
I turn to leave. And there’s Mum.
‘Hi, petal,’ she says. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
Behind her, looking bewildered, is Dad.
‘It’s noisy,’ Dad says, putting his hands over his ears.
‘Mum!’ I hiss. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘It’s your exhibition,’ Mum says. ‘Did you think I wouldn’t come?’
‘I thought you’d be too busy working,’ I say. ‘Or crying to the principal.’
‘Amelia,’ Mum says. ‘Don’t speak to me like that.’
‘And what’s he doing here?’ I lean closer so no one else can hear me.
‘He’s your father,’ Mum says.
‘He’s got Alzheimer’s!’
‘He’s still your father,’ Mum says.
‘Hello, sweetheart,’ Dad says. I think he’s only just noticed I’m here.
‘Hi, Dad,’ I say.
‘Hug for your old Da?’ He puts out his arms.
‘Maybe later,’ I say.
‘So,’ Mum says, ‘why don’t you show us your pieces?’
‘All right,’ I grumble. We’re near the clay display, so I point out the hand I made, groping as if it’s breaking through the ground from a grave below.
‘Look, Simon,’ Mum says to Dad, who’s looking out the glass window to the ocean in the distance. ‘Amelia made that.’
‘Oh, great, sweetheart,’ he says, but his eyes brush over it, and return to the view. The sun is setting: the horizon is flaming orange, turning pink at its edges. ‘Nice sky,’ he adds.
‘What else have you done?’ Mum says in her fake cheerful voice.
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘A few other things.’
‘There’s some paintings,’ Dad says. ‘You do paintings, don’t you, sweetheart?’
‘Yes, Dad,’ I say.
‘I love your paintings,’ Dad says.
‘Thanks,’ I smile weakly.
I edge through the crowd, Mum following me, ushering Dad as we go. I try and edge past Poppy, standing with Bec and Michael. Poppy avoids my gaze, but Bec doesn’t.
‘Hey, Mr S,’ she says. ‘How are you doing?’
Dad used to teach Bec chess at primary school. She also visited our house the year before last, when her folks picked me and Gemma up to take us to camp, and she and Dad renewed their acquaintance. The year before last is a long time ago.
‘All you young people,’ Dad says. ‘Look at you. You’re all so good-looking!’
‘Dad,’ I say. ‘You remember Bec, don’t you?’
‘Of course he does,’ Bec says. Bec always liked Dad because he favoured the girls and hammered the boys when he was coaching chess.
But Dad’s gaze flickers uneasily over her. ‘There’s another one,’ he says suddenly, pointing to Poppy. ‘Hello, there!’
Poppy turns red. ‘Hi,’ she mutters.
‘It’s nice you’re all here,’ he says. ‘All you young good-looking people together.’
Bec frowns. ‘Okay,’ she says. ‘Well, nice to see you.’
She turns back to Poppy and Michael. Poppy leans in and whispers to her. When Bec turns back, her expression has gone from puzzled to horrified.
I drag Dad away by the arm. He laughs. ‘Being dragged along by my daughter!’ he says. ‘That’s all right, isn’t it?’
I barge through people until we’re in front of the self-portraits. I watch Mum’s face as she spots my painting. At first she looks surprised, and moves closer to it. She examines each part of it, moving closer, then away. When she has finished, she looks at me. She puts her hand on her heart, and nods.
But Dad’s not looking at the paintings. Not seeing them.
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘We can go now.’
‘Not yet,’ Mum says. ‘I know, it’s a bit noisy.’
I become aware of a ting-ting sound. It’s not loud, but it’s insistent. I see, on a platform in front of a microphone, Ms M tapping a glass with a fork.
Quiet falls like a parachute.
‘That’s better!’ Dad says.
‘Shh,’ Mum says.
‘Don’t shh me,’ Dad snaps.
‘There’s going to be a speech,’ Mum says.
Oh God.
‘Students and staff, mums and dads, brothers and sisters, ladies and gentlemen,’ Ms M says, ‘I would like to welcome you to this year’s exhibition of the Specialist Arts program at the college.’
‘Yeah!’ calls Dad, clapping loudly.
Please, floor, swallow me now.
‘It’s always a huge effort getting the exhibition in order, hung and catalogued, and this year was no exception,’ Ms M says. ‘Thank you to all of those who took part – I think this is the best exhibition yet.’
Dad cheers. Everyone else applauds politely.
‘I know you all have exams coming up, and it is a busy time of year, so we won’t keep you too long,’ Ms M says. ‘But I would like to extend a special congratulations to the young artists who produced the work you see around you.’
