ATAR anxiety

Alexandra O’Keefe

Friday, December 11

79.30. I failed. I blew it. Two exams, especially. I was meant to get 90 and study psychology at City University. Now, I don’t know what I’m doing or where I’m going. To a university in the suburbs, probably. If I even bother going at all.

I can’t believe it! 79.30? I didn’t even get 80. This is a mess. A complete mess. I should’ve studied harder. Or crammed better before the exams. Or left myself more time at the end of each exam to review what I’d written. I mean, it seemed OK at the time.

I thought I had done well. Maybe I did. It might be a mistake. The state education department has 40,000 kids to process. Perhaps someone messed up. How did I get only a B in legal studies? And a B+ in psychology? I was heading for an A in both – an A+ if I really nailed the final essays and exams.

I worked so, so hard. I deserve better. Maybe there’s something that can be done. I could look up the education department’s number and call them. Mum works for a lawyer – maybe I have some rights. Maybe I could sue. This can’t be happening.

I finally got through to the results line at 7:05am. It was the longest five minutes of my life. Waiting until Monday was never going to happen. I hardly slept last night. All I did was rehearse my dux speech in my head and dream of walking into City University on my first day.

All I’ve ever dreamed about is a better life. A white house with a spacious yard and a beautiful big oak tree. A kitchen window. A swing outside. A home office where I can sit and write books about psychology. In a street where kids play. Scenes I’ve seen in American movies. Consultation rooms downtown, with certificates on the wall – a doctorate, a master’s, a bachelor’s – and posters of peaceful places: beaches, forests and mountaintops (for the clients). Me in glasses and professional, conservative clothes. People who need my help. But who needs the help of someone who got 79.30?

Dad was happy. Happy?

“That’s practically 80, Alexandra. It means you did better than four out of five kids across the whole state. Come down to the pub tonight with your friends – the drinks will be on me.”

Mum was also overly supportive.

“That’s a good score, Alexandra. Don’t worry,” she said. “You have options. Uni is happening next year.”

I broke down in tears and hugged her. She wrapped her arms around me and squeezed me hard, like she always does when I need comforting. Soon, I was sobbing like a baby.

“I tried so hard, Mum.”

“I know you did, darling. I cheered for you the whole way. I’m so proud of you and I’ll keep cheering for you. Always.”

It wasn’t meant to be this way. I’d let Mum down. And myself. And the school. These results were supposed to prove to everyone that the village could produce top students. Damn, I so wanted to prove that we were as smart as all the kids in town – like Brooke and Megan – and the tens of thousands in the city. I was meant to be leading that charge.

Each day of Year 12, as I’d walked out of our morning form assembly, I’d gazed up at the honour boards near the general office. I’d looked at “school dux” and the blank, wooden space next to 1998. My name would soon be on it, I told myself. Alexandra O’Keefe. I’d even told people it was going to happen.

Oh my god. I’d actually said it. That I would be dux. And then I go and get 79.30! Worse, I’d called the newspaper in town a couple of weeks ago to tell them I’d be available for an interview once I got my results. They haven’t called today. The only call I’ve got so far is from Mrs Evans, the principal. She called around 10am. I answered it.

“Congratulations on your results, Alexandra. All that hard work has paid off,” she said. What was going on?

“Has there been a mistake?” I asked.

“Um, no,” she said. “I’m calling about Cara. Have you seen her?”

I found it hard to shift my focus. Why wasn’t Mrs Evans freaking out about my results?

“No, not really,” I said. “I mean, she’s around the place. She’s been wandering a bit. Is she OK?”

“I see,” Mrs Evans said. “We need to find her. She’s dux of the school, and the newspaper wants to speak with her.”

That should have been me. I feel so ashamed. So disappointed. Such a failure. How am I going to tell Clink that I got 79.30? What on earth will I say to Brooke, Megan and Grace? This all just sucks.

Trent Wallace

Saturday, December 12

42.65. What a disaster! I messed up, but was I expecting anything else? Not really. I thought I might get 60, though. Fifty, at least. 42.65 destroys any chance I had of going to uni. What would I have studied anyway?

I’m officially lost. But I have my high school certificate, so that’s something. My parents certainly think so. Mum and Dad both congratulated me. Neither of them finished school. I have to remind myself of that sometimes. Every kid these days is expected to want to be a doctor or a lawyer, even those like me, whose parents dropped out of school.

Mum and Dad know nothing about university. I did ask them for advice earlier this year about what courses I should apply for. They honestly had no idea. My sister, Janelle, is the golden child in this family. She has a childcare diploma from TAFE and works full-time at a daycare centre in town. She’s 21 and engaged. Janelle got 48.80 three years ago in Year 12. I can’t remember her being either elated or devastated. People in my year level are meant to be one or the other. Life’s worked out for Janelle. I hope it can work out for me. I need something to go my way.

Mum and Dad are now expecting me to settle into something resembling a life. But I have no idea what. We have graduation in a few days, then it’s practically Christmas and the New Year. In late January, I’m going to the Big Day Out with Clink. (Manic Street Preachers, Ash, Regurgitator, TISM.) So, I have stuff to do while I work out some plans.

The pub was kind of weird last night. It wasn’t the celebration I’d expected, mainly because Alexandra had planned it all, but was practically in tears the whole time. She got 80. Basically, double my score. Yet, she was acting like someone had died. I asked her what was up. She said something about trying to challenge her score (what the hell?), before quickly changing the subject. Alexandra didn’t ask what score I got; presumably, she doesn’t really care. She figured I didn’t do well, which nicely fits her worldview, so there was nothing to talk about.

I could only imagine the storm in Alexandra’s mind at not getting 99 – or whatever she was aiming for. Her world would be crashing down. Mr O’Keefe was pouring drinks for us all in his usual boisterous way. He was either oblivious to Alexandra’s mood or actively trying to change it. It didn’t work – but Alexandra sure did drink more than she usually does. She vomited in the gutter outside by about 9:30pm.

I felt bad for Clink. He did well, but he didn’t really want to show it around Alexandra. We had a conversation at the bar about it, then continued it outside later. He aced that literature exam. The screeching of my tyres must have spurred him on. It was his best result. He was talking about uni, but he’s still pretty clueless about what to study. His dad’s a prison guard, so his best advice to Clink is about how to survive if he ends up behind bars. (Heaven forbid.) But Clink’s mum is a primary school teacher, so she knows how uni works.

CJ is apparently school dux – not a huge achievement for a Year 12 class of five kids, but worth celebrating. Alexandra had invited her to the pub, but she wasn’t there. No one, actually, has seen her for days. A couple of barflies, who are friendly enough to Alexandra’s dad (but are generally annoying drunks), told us they’ve seen CJ “wandering around like her crazy mum”. I felt like punching them in the face. Seeking advice from Clink’s dad about prison life, however, is not something I have time for right now, so I walked away.

Yes, CJ’s wandering. She’s trying to sort her head out. Her mum’s dead. But CJ’s not crazy. I wish we could help her. I’d start, but what the hell do I know? We’ll see her at graduation. Sam wasn’t at the pub last night either. Apparently, he hasn’t called up to get his results yet. He’s waiting for the letter to arrive on Monday. One hopes that no magpies nest in front of his letterbox.

Justin “Clink” Kennedy

Sunday, December 13

70.30. I’m going to uni! I got a good score. A better one than I expected, at least. It gives me options, even if I don’t really understand what they are. Uni is still a bit of a mystery to me. I’ll have to talk to Mum more about what I need to do from here. She didn’t go to uni as such – in her day, they called it teacher’s college – but from what I understand, it’s kind of the same thing. She has more education than Dad, anyway.

I don’t really want to be a teacher. Not yet. I’ve got so much to learn first. I want an education, not just training. I feel like I could help people – eventually. So, maybe teaching would be a good career. But I’m not thinking about a career right now. I want to read more first. I want to know more about literature, history and politics. And I want to write more. Essays, poetry and fiction. Even plays. I got a glimpse in Year 12 of where writing could take me, if I got good at it. I sensed, with each novel and history book I read, and each essay I wrote, how it might help me connect with people around the world.

70.30 is a good score. My parents were rapt. I mean, so happy. Yes, they want me to have a crystal-clear career plan, especially if I spend thousands of dollars going to uni, but they’re so happy that I put the work in and did well.

We went out to this Chinese restaurant in town last night to celebrate. I drove us, with Jake next to me, and Mum and Dad in the back. It was sort of a double celebration of getting my results and getting my licence. Driving my parents for the first time as a licensed driver was kind of weird. I was unusually nervous, so I took the road into town extra carefully. Even though I drove along them heaps of times with Patrick, 100 roads still freak me out a bit. I think it’s worse since that idiot Bobby drove us home that night.

Mum agreed to drive back so Dad and I could enjoy a couple of beers at the restaurant. I suspect Dad liked having a drinking buddy, so the double celebration was a good excuse for both of us.

“Here’s to not ending up a prison guard,” Dad said, as he lifted his beer bottle towards mine. “May a university degree help you find a good career.”

My brother added: “And a better nickname.”

I’m disappointed for Alexandra, I guess. Does that sound harsh? It’s not meant to. I’m just a little confused. I know she wanted 90 to get into psychology at City University. But I don’t understand why she’s so devastated that she only got 80. I got 70 – and I’m happy with that. Proud even. I feel like I succeeded. I feel smart and ready to keep studying. I have options.

Alexandra must have more options than me. She got 10 percentage points higher but thinks she is a complete failure. She told me as much on Friday night. Granted, it was late on Friday night and she was absolutely trashed. Talk about drowning your sorrows but forgetting they could swim. I consoled her as best I could in the pub’s beer garden, before sneaking her out through the bistro without her dad seeing her so upset.

We went back to my house, where she eventually calmed down, after speaking incoherently for a while about how “spoiled” Brooke and Megan were, whatever that meant. At one point, she mentioned Bobby’s maniacal driving again, which she’s clearly still angry at me about.

Alexandra ended up sleeping on the lounge in Jake’s TV room. We both had to work in the morning and for once, she was more hungover than I was. In fact, she was quiet all day at the furniture store, and didn’t mention her results once. Neither did I. Alexandra did much better than me – yet she’s distraught and I feel OK. It’s kind of a strange position to be in, and I’m not sure what I should say to her next.

Sam Hensley

Monday, December 14

92.70. I can’t quite believe it. 92.70. Seriously? I wasn’t expecting that. 92.70. It’s an aesthetically pleasing number. To begin with, I was worried I was going to get an odd number. It’s a relief that it’s even. More to the point, though, it’s high. Incredibly high.

When I opened the letter this morning – it finally arrived at 11:17 – I had to read it several times before it registered that I’d done well. Very well. I’ve never dreamed of doing this well. I’m so happy. I had no idea what I’d get. At the start of the year, I just decided to try. That’s all. I committed myself to pushing through and studying every night. It was mainly just to calm my nerves. If I did that, I told myself, I should at least pass.

On May 23, I sensed that perhaps I’d do better than just scrape through. On August 17, I did some calculations and estimated that my first semester results – mostly A pluses – would help me get 40, even if I bombed on absolutely every assessment henceforth. I guess I didn’t. I knew I did well in the exams – yet, I was still worried I’d fail.

That typifies the sense of mismatch I’ve always felt. I’ve never known if I was smart, average, stupid or what. But I have always felt as though I haven’t quite understood things the way everyone else does. The whole world seems in on something – inside knowledge – that I’m not.

That feeling has worsened in the past two years; I feel like an egg has cracked inside my head and the contents have poured out, evaporated into the air and fallen like rain back into the eggshell, refilling it. The upshot: the contents are the same, but I’ve changed. I’m more confused and my identity is much less stable than it was.

This exceptional result is something to give me confidence, I suppose. I’m so happy and proud. My parents – when they’re home from work – will scarcely believe it to be true. Their baby boy scored 92.70. No one – and I honestly mean, no one – was expecting that. I’ll become the stuff of legend in my family, and my parents’ workplaces. Dad will talk about me at the train station to anyone who cares, and even to some people who certainly won’t. Mum will be a reference point for years to come.

“Ask Glenda what extra study can do for your child; her son got some astronomical score.”

I’m no less confused than yesterday. I’m still me, with the reconstituted contents of the egg inside my head. But I’ve realised in the past two hours that doing well – getting 92.70 – gives you options. Choices. Decisions to make. I never wanted that. Secretly, maybe I yearned to fail – so I could go back and repeat Year 12 next year. And the year after. And after. I wouldn’t really want that, but it’s better than the alternative.

Maybe I knew that getting above 70 would bring the city into the picture. I’m not going to the city to study. The intense traffic. The one-way streets lined with buildings that close in on you. The suburban sprawl that stretches on forever. And that’s saying nothing about the noise. Cars. Trains. Buses. Men. Women. Children. Babies. No way. No way in the world. I’m locking my door and never coming out. The world’s opened up to me – and I need to fight it. Already, I know the arguments I’m up against. The mindset. I hear the voices. Everyone knows them.

“You can’t waste that score by staying here.”

“This is your chance to get out of the village.”

“People don’t stay here unless they have to.”

“You want to stay here in the whitest, most small-minded place in Australia?”

I have one counter: This is my home. The village? Yes, that’s sort of it. But more so: this room, in this house. Nothing obstructs me here. Nothing stifles me. Nothing crashes into my vision. Nothing deafens me. It’s peaceful. I’m at peace. There’s no compromising that. It’s a simple fact. 92.70 doesn’t change that – it just makes it harder.

92.70! 92.70! Wow, that’s a good score.

Cara Jane “CJ” Brown

Tuesday, December 15

People think my world collapsed a year ago, when Mum wandered out of the house and never came back. The whole village thinks her death was the beginning of my sadness. It was the point at which it intensified, for sure. I was finally allowed to break down and collapse into a heap. Before that, I had to hide everything. All the sadness of years and years of seeing someone slowly disappear, without explanation. But life frayed long before that.

I’m at the old pool today. Not swimming, of course, but lying on the earth in the peppercorn trees, gazing through the chain-link fence at what’s left of it. I crept out early this morning. I wasn’t even tempted to open the letterbox and get my results. I have no connection to them. They belong to another world that may as well have ended centuries ago.

Mum used to take us here as kids. She didn’t much like swimming but would always dress in her bathers, set up a towel and sit and read her books. Man, she could fly through them. She’d get so engrossed in each novel that I doubt she would’ve noticed Andy or I drowning in front of her. Anyway, we’re both strong swimmers and it was a pretty shallow pool.

Mum began unravelling years ago. Five years ago – in Year 7 for me and Year 9 for Andy. It took a while for us to notice; it was subtle to begin with. She retreated slightly, into her office. She withdrew inwards as well. Life became like a scene at the pool. Mum somehow stopped noticing us. She was distracted by something in her mind.

I can’t explain it in terms of what she was experiencing, only by describing what she stopped doing. Mum cooked less. She tidied less. She stopped cleaning altogether. But so what? That wasn’t it. Andy and I were getting to the age where we could – and should – help with all that. It was the other stuff. She stopped asking about us. How was school? How was your day? How are your friends? How are you feeling? What are you thinking? That connection – for reasons unknown to me – was fading.

Mum would still embrace us, but it was a different embrace. It lacked context. It was a frustrated attempt at making herself feel better, and belatedly restore some connection. I wish I could understand it more. Mum was sad; she was melancholic; she was hurt and broken – that was all I understood.

I didn’t realise at first how badly it damaged me. I was in Year 8, just having survived the throes of puberty, and was being told I’d failed practically everything and was at risk of being kept down. Six months of my education had happened without me. I’d sleepwalked through it, distracted by my crumbling home life. A confused sense of sadness and fear about Mum’s strange behaviour had left me oblivious to all else.

Mrs Pyre talked to Dad, who told me to “pull my socks up”. He didn’t know about Mum and I doubt he spoke to her. At all. Mrs Pyre talked to Andy as well, and he helped take the lead.

“We’re going to steer this ship, CJ,” he said. “We’re going to do everything we need to.”

We talked about Mum. Both of us were seeing the same thing, so I wasn’t imagining it. We couldn’t explain it in terms of major life events. Nothing had changed. Mum still worked, had money and a place to live. And nothing had happened to her. No one in the family had died recently or anything like that. Our only reference point was Mum’s traumatic, though mysterious past. She had suffered immensely early in her life. It was all we could use to rationalise what was happening.

Andy and I cooked. We cleaned. We studied. And we covered for Mum. It wasn’t conscious at first. We kept it all hidden, worried that we’d lose our place along the train lines, opposite the school. Our home, our backyard, our Bricks of Tranquility.

God bless Andy for taking the lead. He helped me. But we both found strength. I discovered a way to live, to love, to be present. After my meeting with Mrs Pyre, I decided that no one was going to love high school, their friends, their home and their village more than me. I was CJ, the girl who could be everything to everyone.

This an an excerpt from Five Roads Out of Here, a coming-of-age novel set in regional Australia. Available here.