Maybe this is just what it feels like to be in Year 12. Maybe it’s about stepping into the unknown.
Year 12. It’s hard to believe we’re here. It’s like I’ve been waiting forever to get to this point and now that it’s here, well, it’s a little scary. There’s already a countdown to the number of days left until exams. Words like ‘pressure’ and ‘knuckle down’ and ‘do your best’ whine about us like annoying mosquitoes.
Thank you.
Yes.
We get it.
I’m going to have a gap year next year whether Carl likes it or not. My plan is to work a little then travel. I’ve told Mum already and I know she’s worried. But, hey, legally I’m already an adult and there’s not much either of them can do about stopping me.
I think I’ll end up working in childcare or preschool. Or maybe in a mission overseas, for a while, in a poor country. When I mentioned this to Carl last week we had to have a family conference, so I could listen to his special wisdom. Mum and I sat at the dining table and Carl chose to stand, something he’d learned from one of his
How to Be Successful in Business
self-help books. This made him the power player, the person in charge of the situation. Or so he thought.
‘Charity begins at home, love,’ he said, with a nod as if that explained everything.
‘Pardon?’ I asked.
My mum gave me the frown and head shake, even though I hadn’t done anything wrong.
‘How much will you get paid for that sort of job? What sort of salary will you be on?’ he asked.
I shrugged. ‘Not much, I suppose.’
Carl spread his arms wide, as if unfolding the truth for me. ‘Look around,’ he said. ‘This is a big home. A comfortable home. You’ve got your own room. Food in the fridge. How do you think that happens, love? Do you think it comes for free?’
‘I’m pretty sure my dad paid for this house—’
‘Poppy!’ said Mum.
‘Sorry, Mum and Dad paid for this house.’
Carl’s arms dropped like I’d taken the wind out of his sails. Amazingly, it didn’t stop him.
‘All I’m saying is you need to get yourself sorted first. Get some money behind you. Get a house. A steady job. You can’t go wrong getting into real estate—’
‘No. Thanks Carl, but I’ve got it worked out. I want to work with kids. And I want to work overseas.’
End of family conference.
I LOVE LITTLE kids. Love the shining brightness of their auras. And they tend not to hide how they’re feeling. It’s really easy to get to know them.
Not that you can
know
a person, ever. Not really. What I mean is, you can know bits of a person, the bits they want you to see, but you can never know the three-hundred-and-sixty-five degreeness of them. They might let you see their scared-of-the-dark face, but what about their jealous-because-you-did-better-than-them-at-the-psych-exam face?
What I’m saying is, we all hide things from people. Maybe even more from the people we love ’cause, hey, who cares about hiding your real self from strangers? And maybe hiding some things is good.
The problem is, there are some things people can’t hide from me. I’m not bragging or anything, but there’s this thing I have that just makes me know stuff. Bad stuff. Good stuff. Stuff about people. Well, most people. Sometimes it’s like I can see their auras, like real colour pulsing out of their bodies. When I was a little kid I thought everyone could see the colours. I tried to tell Mum about it once. I told her about the knowing, about my ‘seeing’ things that other people couldn’t, about the auras that I sometimes caught a glimpse of.
She took me to an optometrist.
My mother is a very practical person. She’s in the police force. Tan aura, although everything to her is black and white. Am I studying? Yes or no? ‘Yes, I’m thinking about studying,’ or ‘Yes, I am talking to my friends online about a question in my revision notes,’ is a no to her. Have I taken out the recycle bin or did I borrow her
Year 12. It’s hard to believe we’re here. It’s like I’ve been waiting forever to get to this point and now that it’s here, well, it’s a little scary. There’s already a countdown to the number of days left until exams. Words like ‘pressure’ and ‘knuckle down’ and ‘do your best’ whine about us like annoying mosquitoes.
Thank you.
Yes.
We get it.
I’m going to have a gap year next year whether Carl likes it or not. My plan is to work a little then travel. I’ve told Mum already and I know she’s worried. But, hey, legally I’m already an adult and there’s not much either of them can do about stopping me.
I think I’ll end up working in childcare or preschool. Or maybe in a mission overseas, for a while, in a poor country. When I mentioned this to Carl last week we had to have a family conference, so I could listen to his special wisdom. Mum and I sat at the dining table and Carl chose to stand, something he’d learned from one of his
How to Be Successful in Business
self-help books. This made him the power player, the person in charge of the situation. Or so he thought.
‘Charity begins at home, love,’ he said, with a nod as if that explained everything.
‘Pardon?’ I asked.
My mum gave me the frown and head shake, even though I hadn’t done anything wrong.
‘How much will you get paid for that sort of job? What sort of salary will you be on?’ he asked.
I shrugged. ‘Not much, I suppose.’
Carl spread his arms wide, as if unfolding the truth for me. ‘Look around,’ he said. ‘This is a big home. A comfortable home. You’ve got your own room. Food in the fridge. How do you think that happens, love? Do you think it comes for free?’
‘I’m pretty sure my dad paid for this house—’
‘Poppy!’ said Mum.
‘Sorry, Mum and Dad paid for this house.’
Carl’s arms dropped like I’d taken the wind out of his sails. Amazingly, it didn’t stop him.
‘All I’m saying is you need to get yourself sorted first. Get some money behind you. Get a house. A steady job. You can’t go wrong getting into real estate—’
‘No. Thanks Carl, but I’ve got it worked out. I want to work with kids. And I want to work overseas.’
End of family conference.
I LOVE LITTLE kids. Love the shining brightness of their auras. And they tend not to hide how they’re feeling. It’s really easy to get to know them.
Not that you can
know
a person, ever. Not really. What I mean is, you can know bits of a person, the bits they want you to see, but you can never know the three-hundred-and-sixty-five degreeness of them. They might let you see their scared-of-the-dark face, but what about their jealous-because-you-did-better-than-them-at-the-psych-exam face?
What I’m saying is, we all hide things from people. Maybe even more from the people we love ’cause, hey, who cares about hiding your real self from strangers? And maybe hiding some things is good.
The problem is, there are some things people can’t hide from me. I’m not bragging or anything, but there’s this thing I have that just makes me know stuff. Bad stuff. Good stuff. Stuff about people. Well, most people. Sometimes it’s like I can see their auras, like real colour pulsing out of their bodies. When I was a little kid I thought everyone could see the colours. I tried to tell Mum about it once. I told her about the knowing, about my ‘seeing’ things that other people couldn’t, about the auras that I sometimes caught a glimpse of.
She took me to an optometrist.
My mother is a very practical person. She’s in the police force. Tan aura, although everything to her is black and white. Am I studying? Yes or no? ‘Yes, I’m thinking about studying,’ or ‘Yes, I am talking to my friends online about a question in my revision notes,’ is a no to her. Have I taken out the recycle bin or did I borrow her
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