‘Ahem.’
Two Balmoral mums sit at a table about ten metres away and I literally did not realise they were there until now.
Their table holds matching glasses of champagne and a full bottle of champagne on standby, which seems quite keen for a cocktail evening that starts at 6 p.m., plus an array of school merch and some amateur ikebana and raffle tickets. Their expressions are set somewhere between puzzled and disapproving and they’re sporting the Balmoral Mum uniform of tailored asymmetry, chunky jewellery and patterned scarves—Old Girls for sure. Women who never got over the glory days of their time at the school and still hang their entire identities on being Old Collegians and making sure their own daughters repeat their very same experience at Balmoral. So very very sad.
I tilt my chin in a haughty manner and glide to my chosen site of peaceful protest next to the hideous balloon monster. I hold the placard in front of me and set my gaze to forward.
The mums exchange murmured assessments of my behaviour.
The doors squeak open, letting in a rush of outside air. Dad flashes his headlights at me in what I suppose is encouragement or solidarity or whatever and I hope isn’t a warning. Cars gather around him as the car park fills.
A family walks past, slowing slightly to read my sign. The girl smiles and takes a photo, the parents do not.
‘Honey, are you supposed to be there?’ One of the mums calls out. ‘You’re Kasha’s daughter, aren’t you?’
I flip my placard to reveal the other side.
FREEDOM TO EXPRESS NOT FREEDOM TO SUPPRESS
They read my second message and fall back into their chairs, more murmur more murmur more murmur. One takes a pic of me, the other taps at her phone.
The doors open again; more people arrive, more eyes slide sidewards. No one seems confident enough to fully acknowledge my presence.
I’m used to breathing through my nose by now, but my arms are getting tired from keeping my sign at chest level. Very occasionally someone gives me a confused nod. A Year Eleven flashes me the peace sign.
‘Is this performance art, Natalia?’
Nouri appears magically by my side and almost gives me a heart attack.
‘PLOH-TESS,’ I say through my tape.
‘Right.’ Nouri smiles and waves as more parents and Old Girls and students arrive.
She lowers her voice. ‘I’ll consider this as going towards the grade for your project. It’s thematically consistent with what you’ve already handed in.’
I nod and definitely don’t appear too grateful. It didn’t occur to me before she said it, but yes, while I deserve a medal for this, a B+ will also do.
Nouri moves away quickly, as if she doesn’t want to be associated with me. The gaping loneliness of the activist fills me. Chloe should be here to see this.
A grey-suited security guard wanders into the lobby, stares and retreats. She soon multiplies into two security guards. I smize at them. And then, inevitably, Vice Principal Mackenzie marches into sight.
‘Natalia, good evening. Would you mind explaining what you’re doing?’
I shrug, raise my sign, and try to convey that my whole deal for tonight is silence.
‘Who are you here with this evening?’ It’s a pity Mrs Mackenzie has such a pointless job because she could be quite nice if everything about her life was different. ‘I’ll need you to speak now, Natalia.’
I roll my eyes and peel off my mouth tape. That sounds simple, but it’s basically ten times more painful than getting my bikini line done.
‘Oh my god.’ I wince and roll the tape into a ball. When I recover feeling in my lips, I talk. ‘I’m protesting, miss. I’m exercising my democratic rights.’
This makes her frown. ‘One moment, please, Natalia.’
No doubt she has gone to call Mrs Christie on her batphone and receive orders about what to do with me.
I take the opportunity to tuck my sign under my arm and sprint down the hallway towards the exhibition, pretending to be a secret agent while I do it. Now that most people have arrived for the evening, maybe I can stand in the blank space where Chloe’s artwork should be hung. Speeches are going to be every kind of awkward tonight.
I wedge myself into the spare stretch of wall.
At the end of the corridor is a table of drinks and canapés. Parents and students stroll up and down, passing comment on their daughter’s work (the best), their daughter’s friends’ work (a nice attempt) and their daughter’s enemies’ work (a toddler could have done that). I seem to be winning more than a few indulgent and condescending smiles so I keep a permanent scowl on my face so everyone knows how serious I am about fighting the power.
When I’m not demonstrating my political credentials I crane my neck, trying to see who has come tonight. I see Brooke and Bochen and some of the other boarders including that nasty supremacist Jody and wonder if Petra has the gall to be here when she has ruined everything and is clearly anti-Art.
The front doors thump heavily. Even though the entrance is a good thirty metres away I swear a gust of air races up the corridor. A trick of the sunset sends rosy light angling through the glass doors, filling the lobby with dusty sparkles.
Standing in the distance is a still figure dressed in a silk blouse, tailored pants, pale shoes. Familiar blonde hair, spun gold in the sudden beam of light.
The sunset glow smoothes out her skin, turns her into an angel with a halo. When she spots my Marcel Marceau act among the paintings and collages and drawings she grows even more still.
Viewed as if from another world, barely glimpsed.
A cord that connects her to me and me to her.
Mum?
I stare. Fair and golden and
