"Are you going to check?" she asked.
"No," I replied flatly.
"But there's only 8 minutes," she said.
"But you're here," I countered. "I need you to be out of the house. I'll check when you go to work tomorrow."
She honestly doesn't get it, and it sort of amuses me, that she can't seem to comprehend the pressure she puts on me, explicitly and implicitly. But then I can feel her smile evilly, really, just the vibes shifting.
"Well, I don't think I'm going to work tomorrow," she says nonchalantly. "You know... I think I'll do some cleaning, and I have some shopping to do."
And I can't help but think how eeeevil she is, my mother. I sleep after midnight, but I absolutely cannot make myself check. Although I'm not usually a dream/nightmare person, I have vague recollections of a kind of dream or nightmare, numbers of a possibly ATAR or study score spinning around, not making any sense.
In the morning, my mother's in my room.
"Are you going to check?" she asks, her voice sing-songy.
I pretend I'm still asleep, moaning and pulling my sheet over my head. When she's gone, I take my phone off my charger, turn on the WiFi and hide under my quilt. My friends' group on Viber, AWESOME, is alive and kicking. Hundreds of messages pile up and keep going, and I try to go back, get updated, but it's impossible. The only thing I get is that everyone seems to be alive.
Of course they note that I'm online, and then they're asking me. Are you alive?
I can't check. Up until now, the waiting period was torture, like being on death row, waiting for the execution date. But right now, the waiting is a mild comfort, because as long as I don't know, there's this possibility that I may still do well. Whatever happens after, of course, cannot be changed, and that's even scarier than not knowing.
When they realise I can't contribute to the group, Star messages me personally. Pep talks me into it, mingling motivational and demanding. It's weird - I have never been this nervous in my life. My eyes literally tear up, my stomach feels like it's holding stones, my throat hurts, and my hands are sweaty. It's gross, but as my fingers tap against the screen of my phone, they leave little pixelated rainbows.
But she tells me that she's alive and kicking, which is what she said last year when we got our Literature/Methods results, and it's enough. I log in. I check. I die.
98.70
It's jizbillions more than I expected. Okay, not jizbillions. I was arrogant enough to think I'd do better than my sister, though not by much. But this is a lot. This is huge. I can't even speak.
I crawl out of bed and traipse to the kitchen and show my mother. Her eyes scan the screen, they widen, light up, and she screams a little. Envelopes me in a huge hug.
And it's too much for me, so I go back to bed and crawl under the sheets. Inform the rest of my friends that I'm alive. Start checking up on my comrades. Outside my room, the house is abuzz. My cousins shouting their congratulations, then hushing 'cause they think I'm asleep. My dad coming in to see my room. The calls start coming in, because that's what it's like, being a part of the Curry community. They start going out too - we have a whole family to inform. It's insane.
The best part is that 90% of my friends so far are alive. And well. And happy. And I'm so proud of us, I really am. My school in particular - we're usually considered a part of the ghetto, you know, with the leftovers, the rejects, the thugs. And I know 7 of us so far have 90+ results. Star got 99.35. We killed it.
An annoying side note: the Herald Sun newspaper published an article on the high achievers. They mention a whole bunch of schools, taking the time to mention Dandy High's highest result was 96.1. They did not mention our school, when, excuse me, we did a lot better. Let me repeat: STAR GOT 99.35.
The same day, Monash uni calls up and informs me that I've won a scholarship. That very day, they're having a ceremony for high achievers. That very day. I don't even know what to do anymore. It's all above me.
So there you have it. I'msohappylikeyouwouldn'tbelieve. I could cry. I could cry because my peers killed it, because we put in the effort and we got the rewards and no one can say that our school is crap. I could cry because I showed my mother that I don't need to go to a posh private or select entry school to get a good result, nor do I need to have a million tuitions, or do all the sciency mathsy subjects. I could cry because I haven't let anyone down - not my parents, not my teachers, not my friends, not me. I could cry because everyone's so happy. I could cry out of gratitude, thank God, literally. I could cry just out of relief.
The funny thing is how little all this will mean in a couple of months. We'll all start university, and we'll realise how insignificant the ATAR - this number - is. We may even forget what we got, like my sister did. I used to think it was unfathomable. Now I'm not so sure.
But until then I'm going to enjoy it :)
Peace in,
Laila
