My First Lesson: Stories Inspired by Laurinda Read online

  “Alice … like Alice in Wonderland,” she said with the beginning of a smile. “And don’t worry, I forgot too. What’s your name?”

  *

  Alice walked up Esther’s driveway and kneeled to pat One Eye, who looked as though he had found heaven. On her front deck, Esther had two cups of tea and a cake out ready for a bountiful conversation of nonsense. The old woman called to Alice, “How was your day?”

  “Good. I made a friend, I think,” she called back.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Katie. And we talked about books, of all things, for the whole of lunch.” Alice had reached the top of the stairs and was cuddling One Eye.

  “Well, would you fancy that, Billy Boy. A friendship formed through books. How utterly absurd,” Esther whispered into Billy Boy’s flicking ear.

  He only meowed in response.

  A CHILD’S DEMONS

  Laura Ham

  It was my first day of school. That was the reality of it. Once you turned six you were shipped off to another planet. Or that’s what my six-year-old brain thought at the time. It was a bit late to start school, but it was a tradition in my family. You were not allowed to start until your sixth birthday had passed. And now my family were pushing me onto a ride that was scary as hell, but they didn’t seem to care.

  Why now? My six-year-old body shivered at the thought of people frantically shoving each other to find a seat. It was all too horrible and vivid. I was not so good with people back then – I was shy and refused to acknowledge the fact that I would actually have to communicate with others while I was in that place. The place where only bad things happened.

  I was no ordinary six year old, but I didn’t know the difference between normal people and “crazy” people back then. When you’re that small, things are so much simpler.

  As I walked through the tall iron gates – the only thing that welcomed you to this rotten place – I saw two girls who seemed to be giggling at a young boy at the front of the school. I was told I would be the only new student, but by the look of his all-too-perfect uniform, this was the boy’s first day as well.

  It seemed as though the girls were teasing him, even though I couldn’t hear what they were saying. They were pointing their fingers and had nasty smiles on their faces. Smiles that looked grotesque for girls of that age – or any age, for that matter. As they walked away, I decided to go see if the boy was all right, which was not easy in my condition, because I don’t normally talk to people.

  With a small smile on my face, I approached the boy and asked him if he was all right. He looked at me in confusion, as though he hadn’t heard me. I asked again with more volume in my voice. He looked around frantically; his expression had now changed from confusion to horror, like I was some sort of monster. Then again, I suppose I was, in a way, having the same name as the Japanese demon Oni.

  That name had run through my family as far back as there were records. There was not one generation that did not have a child called Oni and, lucky me, I got the sacred name. Really, it was the opposite of sacred. It probably meant that I was going to burn in hell for eternity when I died – I’d been told that all my life. You could say that my parents weren’t the most optimistic people in the world, but you’d think they would have at least chosen a reasonable name for me.

  When the boy didn’t respond, I pretended not to notice, and kept on walking towards the school building. I wandered through the front door and trudged towards my class. Everything was clearly labelled. As I peeked into the classroom, everyone stopped their chattering and stared at me, just as my teacher came into the room. She walked towards her desk and ignored me. She then cleared her throat and said, “Today we are welcoming a new student. Her name is Oni Kiera. She will be in our class for the rest of her time at this school. Please make her welcome.”

  I was about to find out that maybe there was a reason I had been sent here on my sixth birthday, maybe there was a reason I had been named Oni. As I slowly looked around at my fellow classmates, I could see a greenish tinge in the colour of a boy’s skin, and a bright feathery crown on an otherwise ordinary girl. These children were not normal, just as I was not normal. The difference in each child’s gaze, the difference in each child’s appearance, was just like my own. We all had ways of hiding our attributes, one way or another. As I gazed around in awe, I saw that not all the students in this class were my age: some were almost as old as my parents.

  This scared me back into my shy, small hole, in which I would then become myself. But this was my first lesson at my new, eccentric school. It dawned on me why I had been sent to this specific school, and not the ones my brothers and sisters had been sent to. Why I had to hide my special little features from most people. Why I had to concentrate so hard on not changing back to who and what I really was. I soon discovered that I was allowed to come out in my own skin here, that I did not have to fight it. This was now my home.

  It may come as a quite a shock that a six-year-old was thinking all these complex thoughts, but really, I wasn’t simply six years old. I had the brain of an old woman, wise and knowledgeable. I had the body of a six-year-old human girl and I had the soul of a demon. The Japanese Oni demon. This classroom was where I belonged.

  As I stood daydreaming, the teacher told us that we would be studying the origins of our demon souls. I had never fathomed that there were this many other demons in this country, let alone this city. This was where they all came to learn about everything demonic. I was just another addition to the dumber side of the class. Not that there was much judgement in the room. As I scoured for a seat, I locked eyes with the boy from earlier. There was a spare seat next to him. I sat down in it and asked him what his name was. He replied, “Your Worst Nightmare.”

  NO

  William Woodrow

  I never really knew the boy; he was just in front of me. Well, I’d seen him before, but he wasn’t enough to matter. Sorry. I don’t really like boys like him, boys who do that to boys like me. Anyway, well, he was in front of me. He stood over me like a vulture … not a vulture – they at least have some intelligence – but more another bird-like creature, with piercing little eyes glaring at its prey through a glaze of personal pain. I don’t mind boys like him if they do it for that. I don’t mind them doing it then, not really. But when they don’t do it for that, then it changes. When the only thing their eyes are a gateway to is carnality, a primal surge of my own carnality finds its way into my thoughts and my actions too. I guess that’s why this wasn’t my first school. Anyway …

  No. This wasn’t how I felt, just how I wanted to feel. I lived the perfect life, yet craved for the worst. To have multiple nervous tics, an edgy look and a tense figure, all of which lead to the hardships of a lonely life; yet such a boy grows into a man who you look at and see wisdom, sadness and a certain knowingness about life that only a select few people have. At this point you probably think I’m crazier than the boy in my description. I wouldn’t say I’m not. But a madman never thinks he is mad. Well, that’s what I don’t like to think. Yet I feel that everyone, every single person, wants to be something they aren’t. To live in a different period, to be powerful, to be rich, to be famous, to be noticeable. The usual. Well, my thing … my thing was to be a misunderstood genius. I lay there in my bed, listening to the tree-filtered rain clash with the still pond’s surface in the courtyard. Just beyond my open all-wall window, I watched the ripples dance across its surface. All the while I thought, but didn’t quite grasp, this odd concept of mine. Even I didn’t believe it. The time was getting late, so I closed my eyes and readied myself for a new start, at my new school: Caytes Grammar. I didn’t have sleep apnoea, but I wanted it.

  Morning happened, the usual ritual. Piss and clean and dress and eat and brush. My mum didn’t want me to catch the bus on the first day, so she made my dad drive me to school. My mum’s nice, but she worries. My dad’s nice, but he doesn’t really worry. As I walked to my new housemaster’s office, I fel
t that warm fuzz in my chest. I didn’t have to try; I wouldn’t try. I felt completely out of control of my own life and I loved it. The school world floated by me as I absent-mindedly asked for directions. This wasn’t my first move; my dad’s job meant we had to move around a lot. Come to think of it, I didn’t know what my dad did. Abruptly, I stumbled upon the door that led to my housemaster’s office. It loomed above me, MR DRUMMOND stamped across its face. I knocked. I waited for what seemed like minutes before a faint voice mumbled, “Come in.” I entered to find a small old man huddled behind his desk. His spectacles were perched on his hooked nose, but not in the way that old people do, acting superior and making assumptions about the “raucous youth” of the day. No, his eyes were smiling behind those glasses, silently asking if the watcher was okay. His face was etched with lines of experience, earned through smiles. And the smile, when it came – the years melted away from his face, replaced by only warmth. I didn’t want to leave that moment, that smile. It made me think of warm grass beneath my bare feet, of a breeze turning a leaf. I had never had trouble moving: I always had a great school, with great friends, and my parents always loved me. I guess it was the leaving that hurt. I never wanted to leave. But then again it made me feel a little underprivileged, which was always welcome.

  Mr Drummond had been speaking. I didn’t really notice until his question cut through my train of thought. “Do you know where to go, Sam?”

  “Yes, Sir,” I said, replacing the lost look on my face with a smile. I didn’t know where to go. Mr Drummond stood up to shake my hand and see me out the door. He had a firm shake, yet it felt like he cared about your hand. It was hard to explain. The grip was soft but secure, and that smile … It came out again, like the sun returning out from behind a soft wisp of cloud, and the darkness was only there because of the lack of that bright white light.

  I stepped outside the room and into the corridor, which was filled with light from outside. It wasn’t dark, but I wanted it to be. I wandered for an eternity, reaching my class a few minutes late. I knew the room number and the system was pretty simple, so I didn’t bother asking anyone. I peered through the small glass window just above eye height, which forced me to stretch onto my tiptoes. The class seemed so perfect, so normal. The kids at the back were making trouble, while a select few were attentive and listening. As soon as I saw it, though, it was gone. The gateway to education now had a thin film of breath-fuelled condensation laid across its surface. I was blocked out from the small slice of perfection within my slightly larger slice of a perfect world, blocked out from the real world. I stepped back and prepared myself for another perfect class, another perfect school, another perfect life, and opened the door.

  A SKETCH OF PERFECTION

  Ann Liang

  Painting has always been an escape for me. After all, who needs the mundane colours of real life when iridescent rainbows bloom in our hearts?

  Yes, an escape is what I need right now. Especially today.

  My hands first trace over the outline of the girl’s head. Her skull must be large, to contain an intelligent brain with quick wit and sharp humour. A thin streak of dark paint sweeps over the white canvas. She will not only be smart, but also wise. There is a difference between the two – one is about learning ideas, the other about forming them. She won’t always shoot her hand up in class, determined to prove her worth, but she’ll do it naturally, slowly unveiling the depth of her knowledge over time.

  I pick up my palette and squeeze out small globs of pink and brown onto it. The colours melt together, streaks of vibrant aurora-like roseate fusing into a stream of light caramel. I gently dab my brush on the edges of the surface, this time to draw the ears. She will be an amazing listener. No euphonious melody or undulation of raw music will escape her eager appreciation. She will send the music department (if there is one) into a fine frenzy, everyone tugging at her sleeves for her to tell the difference between an A and an A sharp, which she will do with modesty and ease. But the importance of these ears lies less in her ability to hear than her ability to understand. Friends will run to her with problems, weeping or laughing as she muses thoughtfully and patiently on their complaints. Secrets will be whispered into her ears. “Don’t tell anyone I told you this …” they’ll say. “I trust you.” And she will store all those secrets like scarlet roses, planted inside an immaculate garden.

  It’s always difficult to draw hands, but today my brush seems to be working ahead of me. Dashes of brown and hints of cream form slender, nimble fingers. It’s with these hands that she will master the piano and cello. People will watch in awe as she moves from key to key with the speed of rushing water, coalescing into magnificent cataracts. She will never stumble through a chord or accidentally blare out the wrong note. No, her music will remain as consistent as the ever-present sun, and it too will breathe life into the inhabitants of this porcelain planet. The principal will beg her to perform a solo at every open day, as if to say, “Look at the talent we have in our midst!” I smile now just thinking about it, carving through the crook of her knuckles and the elegant arch of her wrist. She will be the quintessential daughter as well. She will work deftly over hand-sewn textiles, cook up feasts of delicious meals and clean every plate until they glow like ivory. Her parents will not only love her, but also celebrate her. “My daughter is an angel” – that’s what they’ll say.

  Moving on to the legs now, I grab a soft piece of tissue and smudge the blushed complexion at the lower ankle. I dip my brush into the murky water, now brimming with layers of colour, and apply a faint tinge of auburn. She will walk to every corner of the world, her feet covering entire countries at a time. She will overtake everyone at every race, barely even breaking a sweat as she launches herself across the finish line. I make the muscles a little more defined – she should be a dancer as well. Yes, the epitome of grace and control. I see her leaping across a starlit stage. How she will twirl and spin, her legs carrying her past the sound of thunderous applause …

  I have no time to admire my work. A strange nauseous feeling has turned itself over in my stomach and I’m determined to ignore it. I focus on the eyes instead. They’re startlingly wide and mesmerising, the exact colour of the ocean on the first day of spring, waves of crystalline turquoise lapping over the iris. Her eyelashes are like birds’ wings, constructed through countless strokes of dark black. Boys will take one look at her and fall into a state of unreturnable enchantment. She will command power and respect, authority and attention with only one fleeting glance across the room. And when she does something she loves, this spark will blaze in her eyes, like incandescent Christmas lights twinkling from a holy tree.

  A knock on the door sends me spiralling out of the zone, and my stomach squeezes up again instantly. “Elle, are you not sleeping yet?” My mother appears at the door, an ironed blazer in her hand. I stare at the foreign logo embroidered on the chest, forlorn and uninviting. “Remember, it’s your first day of school tomorrow.”

  My eyes are moist all of a sudden – it must be a reaction to the paints – and I mumble, “What if it isn’t perfect?”

  She crosses the room in five quick steps, her eyes darting to the canvas. When she puts her arms around me, her dark hair tickling my shoulder, I feel a new lump rise up in my throat. “When I was small, do you know what my first lesson was?”

  I shake my head.

  “No one is perfect, Elle,” she whispers. “We can only ever give it our best, and that’s enough. Understand?” Just like that, she places the blazer by my wardrobe, gives me a sad smile, and retreats from the room.

  In silence, I turn to the girl in the painting – a caricature of everything I could never be. Her eyes are no longer warm but mocking, her legs at disproportionate angles, her fingers almost curled into fists. Perfect, or not?

  Gripping the palette knife tightly in my hand, I slice through the canvas and cut it into pieces, scraps of perfection tumbling to the ground like art.

  INDIAN AND INSIGN
IFICANT IN AUSTRALIA

  Shayna Correa

  The lights from the streets outside look like small hazy white circles floating in the sky. I am fighting fatigue, trying to keep my eyes open during the taxi ride home from the airport; sitting on a plane for a total of ten hours and twenty-four minutes certainly has taken its toll.

  My name is Shalini Patel and this is my first day, or rather first night, in Australia. Only three months back my parents sat me down in Mumbai and broke the news to me. “Shalini, we are moving to Australia as we want a better life for you. You can do well there, but you’ll have to work twice as hard as the white person next to you.”

  You can only imagine my surprise! There I was, going about my average life as a fifteen-year-old, before this bombshell was dropped on me and I was forced to move to what feels like the other side of the world. Isn’t it ironic that my parents said they want a better life for me, but gave me no say in the matter? However, being the obedient child that I am, I succumbed to their wishes and here I am, sitting in a taxi driving to my new home in Australia.

  Suddenly I am no longer feeling so tired. As the taxi’s GPS says, “You have reached your destination,” I realise that I am at what is now my new house. It’s a small cottage but appears cosy at first glance, with a short pebble pathway leading to a white wooden door.

  “Your bedroom is here, Shalini. Everything is set,” says Daddy, as I walk with my small suitcase into my room. Practically collapsing onto the single bed in the middle of the room, I begin to close my eyes once more after reading the time on the clock hanging above my door: seven p.m. Well, I guess it’s early bedtime for me – which is a good thing, too, because I have my first day of Year Nine in Australia when I awake.