Best Australian Yarn: Triumph by Beth Swift-Hoadley

Everywhere I looked, bright and cheery faces caught my eye. A pretty brunette giggled with her friend. A tall tan boy smirked bashfully at his mate beside him. They all looked so… at home. With bright neon lights tinting their faces, music humming in their ears, they just belonged.

I couldn’t say the same for me.

Fiddling stiffly with a loose lock of my curly hair, I desperately tried to quell the bonfire of angst consuming me. Fear gripped my chest, choking out any warm feelings and bright thoughts.

You’re fine, breathe, breathe, breathe… I hated how, while my mind knew I was in no semblance of danger, my body and heart wouldn’t listen. The crowd of people, they all looked threatening to me, despite their smiling faces and lack of interest in me. Breathe, breathe… In my head, despite my barking protest, images of judgemental and scrutinising eyes appeared, followed by snarky voices bouncing off me. All of them- breathe, Tasmin.

My breath hitched as a new idea settled in. I needed to get out. I jerked away from the food tables, heart staggering as I accidently collided with somebody behind me.

“I- sorry,” The words rasped out of me as I turned, eyes widening in apology.

A teenage girl, with almost liquid like red hair, gaped at her navy-blue dress, now soaked with punch. I silently cursed my lack of coordination skills, as fear continued swarm my body.

“My dress!” She squawked, brushing shaking fingers over the ruined piece of clothing.

Words eluded me as she looked up at me in horror.

“Well, aren’t you going to apologize?” She asked hotly. After a beat of silence from me, she said, “no, you’re right, an apology wouldn’t suit it.”

I opened my mouth, backing away slightly, and desperately tried to get words to form on my lips.

“Tasmin!”

I flinched slightly as a stone-cold hand wrapped around my wrist. I caught a satisfied gleam lighting the girl’s eyes as she beheld who stood behind me. My mind regained enough control to force me to tilt my head in direction of the voice, muffled over the music.

Mrs Atel stood behind me, her freckled, tanned skin cast a vibrant shade of auburn in the uncanny lighting. Locks of braided hair decorated with colourful beads cascaded over her shoulder as the grip she held on to my wrist tightened and she pulled me towards her.

Mrs Atel didn’t glance at the girl behind me, instead saying to me over the crowd, “I’ve been looking for you, for the past twenty minutes!”

I could just barely hear her, and nodded along. Was Mrs Atel mad at me? Did she see what happened? I swallowed the growing nausea that arose at the thought. I still hadn’t said sorry to the girl with her punch soiled dress.

Mrs Atel apparently took my silence as inability to hear her, and motioned for me to follow her to the exit. A wave of knee-wobbling relief washed through me. Finally, an opportunity to get out.

I bumped into many students and teachers I passed, but didn’t manage to spill any more drinks, thank God. Fresh air hit me like a punch to the gut as I stepped outside, the pale green dress I’d bought from the Op shop doing little to protect me from the sharp air.

“There we go.” Mrs Atel said, sighing.

I noted the clever choice of outfit as I beheld her in the watery light from a nearby classroom. Mrs Atel was the middle school art teacher, the best teacher out of the whole school if you asked me. She was the only teacher who didn’t shame me for my awkwardness, and instead embraced it.

“You look nice,” I said as I tucked my arms behind my back.

“Colour theory.” Mrs Atel explained with a wink.

True, the rich sienna toned dress did wonders for Mrs Atel’s completion, bringing out her shockingly blue eyes and sun kissed skin.

“Anyways,” Mrs Atel said clearing her throat. “I was wondering if I could talk to you about something.”

“Oh,” I said, prompting her to say more.

“I, well, let’s take a walk while we’re at it.” She said. “Unless, of course, you’re keen about re-joining the party?”

“No, I’m fine.” Was I in trouble?

“Good,” Mrs Atel smiled. “To the art block then?”

I nodded, hands fidgeting with my dress restlessly.

“So, Tasmin,” She began as we set a brisk pace towards her classroom. “I assume you’ve heard of the school’s annual Arts Competition.”

I nodded again.

“Lovely,” Mrs Atel said, lips tugging up at the corners. “I know you’re definitely not the loud and proud type of person.”

“Talk about understatement of the century,” I muttered.

A soft laugh from Mrs Atel at that.

“But, I really wish for you to join this year.”

I winced.

“I could hardly stand lingering on the outside of that dance,” I said. “What makes you possibly think I could enter such a large competition like that?”

“You’ve got a talent for drawing I’ve only seen in very few students.” Mrs Atel said, suddenly serious. “I’ve managed to get the rest of your class to at least consider joining. I think this kind of task is one that could improve your art and character if you place yourself in an uncomfortable situation.”

I shivered, not just from the cold. “Mrs At-”

“Just please, Tas. Give it some thought.” Mrs Atel’s eyes were almost pleading as they met mine. “I’ll send you an email concerning the entry form. Just…” she sighed, “give it a chance. Give yourself a chance.”

I stopped outside her classroom’s doors, considering the words my favourite teacher had just offered to me.

“Okay,” I croaked.

Mrs Atel grinned and I gave her a shaky smile back. I couldn’t possibly back out of this now.

Once I had returned back home to my old Queenslander, I mentally debated checking the email my teacher had sent me.I’d been eyeing the competition myself for the past handful of weeks, watching some of my distant friends begin to construct their works of art, may it be a beautiful melody on an oboe or a clever story shown by an enthralling drama piece. Almost every classmate I knew had something to offer.

The idea began to take a deeper root.

But what could I do? A charcoal study of the front yard? A rough inked representation of a well-known celebrity? I’d obviously have to take copyright into hand, photographers of Google were artists as well.

I opened my computer and opened Outlook before I could change my mind. There, an email from Cassie Atel. I opened it, skimming over the basics of what Mrs Atel had sent. I opened the attached file and read the entry form as well. What caught my attention was the awards ceremony. To be held at the end of term, in the theatre. The whole school would attend, all crammed into the place like sardines in a can.

I could always pull a sickie for that, not that I had any chance of winning anything anyways.

I could do this.

Give yourself a chance. That’s what Mrs Atel had said to me. A chance.

How hard could that be?

I continued to muse over the subject over breakfast the next morning. Biting into a surprisingly flavourful piece of raisin toast, I watched my dad saunter into the dining room, jug of apple juice and a pair of drinking glasses in hand.

My dad and I didn’t share many features, I instead took after my mum. I had my mum’s chocolate brown eyes, dark, curly hair and pale skin. My dad on the other hand, was pretty much your stereotypical Australian. Sun tanned skin, tall build and blondish brown hair that had once reached his shoulders in his youth. Eyes of soft green met mine as he sat down at the table.

“How was the dance, mate?” He asked, his Aussie accent swarming his words.

Yep, stereotypical Australian alright.

“OK,” I said, pouring myself a glass of apple juice. “I was mostly a clutz the entire time.”

The image of the redhead’s shocked and disgusted face waltzed into my mind uninvited. A tremor of guilt rocked through me in response.

“Such as?” My dad prompted, smiling.

“Ugh, I don’t want to talk about it.” I grumbled.

My dad laughed, saying, “Well that’s one thing we’ve got in common, mate. I’m pretty useless at dancing.”

“Well, thanks for that.” I snorted.

He laughed again.

“Look there’s something else I want to talk about.” I said, giving him no opportunity to tease me. “There’s this competition for the arts.” I gulped down a mouthful of apple juice, steeling myself. “And… I’m going to join.”

“That’s wonderful!” He exclaimed, grinning at me.

I smiled authentically for once and told him the important details he needed to know and a brief rundown of the competition. My Dad had to leave a few minutes after I finished my breakfast, after getting a text from work.

“Shouldn’t be gone for long. Be back at six.” He told me as he left, stealing a quick kiss on my forehead.

That left me with practically the whole Saturday to myself. Pretty good time to get started on an art project if you ask me.

Except, the problem was that I couldn’t think of anything. The theme for this year was victory. I could draw a gruesome battle in dramatic and bold inks. But… that was pretty unoriginal, and I couldn’t exactly get a good reference for that without surrendering to Google. What about a bloody weapon held up in victory, presented in Prisma Colours? Again, unoriginal, and the thought of it didn’t spark any interest for me.

I was hitting dead end after dead end the entire morning and I soon found myself sitting in the middle of a sea of rejected drafts.

I laid my head in my hands emitting a groan of frustration.

Art block is officially the worst.

Well…. social anxiety might take the title for that one.

Wait.

Images of dramatic interpretations exploded into my mind. Different artists showing the world what their disorders feel like. There’s nothing unoriginal about those pieces, since they come from the heart. I distantly remember Mrs Atel once telling the class all art should come from your heart.

A stick of charcoal was in my hand before I could think on it anymore. Some victories aren’t dramatic. They can be small. Like for example, attending a school dance. That was a big step for me.

I smiled to myself. Perhaps this wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

Give yourself a chance.

I succumbed to sleep late that night, after working on a combination of drawing and homework all day. I was officially spent. As I drifted into slumber, I was suddenly somewhere else.

The school theatre.

The stage was illuminated in a smoky light, like moon rays tinted by the presence of a translucent cloud. A mist hung over the theatre, heavy with moisture.

I was cold, unbearably cold.

I stood upon that stage, frozen, as I watched as an image flickered onto the screen. A photo of an artwork, barely visible through the mist. My artwork.

Jaunting laughter erupted from behind me, followed by sharp and icy insults. Unable to move, a bone rattling shiver rocked through me.

“That looks pathetic!” Somebody called out.

“I didn’t know Tasmin was that bad.” Another added, voice thick with laughter.

The words piled on top of each other, until only a layer of fuzzy sound remained.

I couldn’t breathe.

Everything began to fade. One final phrase slammed into me. I knew that voice. Mrs Atel.

You

Don’t

Deserve

That

Chance.

I awoke with a gasp, my hands grappling at my sheets. The words of the dream still echoed around my head. I continued to suck in uneven breaths, shaking. Those jeering taunts didn’t leave me for the rest of the night. But what hurt that hardest, was what Mrs Atel had said.

You don’t deserve that chance.

What if… in some shape or form, she was right? What had I done to deserve a victory? What, did ruining an innocent girl’s dress at a middle school dance suddenly make me deserve a victory, a chance?

I don’t deserve that chance.

When that thought arose, nothing in my mind protested against it. And that definitely hurt the most.

My dad awoke me the next morning, telling me he wanted to get in a round of Rummikub before he departed for work. I couldn’t get last night’s words out of my head, despite my best efforts. I ate my breakfast in silence, brushing off my dad’s concern.

“I didn’t get much sleep last night.” Was all I said.

After returning from a brief trip to the bathroom, I found my dad sitting on the living room couch, face unbearably tight and expression grim as he read something on his phone.

“What?” I asked.

He kept on staring at his phone as he said, “what makes me think the worst about our world is the sheer amount of people who didn’t get a proper shot at life. Those people who live in undeveloped countries, wasting away.”

I stalked over to him, reading what was on his screen.

Fatality statistics of the past year. The numbers on his phone were sickening.

“Do you think,” I croaked, sliding down next to him, “that everyone deserves a chance in life?”

“Yes,” he said.

And because the sincerity, the utter rawness in that one word… I believed him.

The day of the awards ceremony arrived. I’d promised myself after that morning with my dad, that I’d give myself a chance. Like how Mrs Atel had asked of me.

So, I entered my piece and titled it Triumph. It was a charcoal sketch, with dramatic lighting and bold streaks of black. In the middle, me. Standing there with a crowd behind me and whispered words rising from them. But still, there I was. Standing against my fears, how unnecessary or undesirable they may be.

I didn’t win any awards. And I was OK with that.

I won my own battle, triumphed against my own doubts. I gave myself a chance.

And I deserved my victory.