Laurinda Read Free Page A

shirt sleeves.”
    The largest box from each new shipment Uncle Sokkha brought over became the Lamb’s new playpen, which was just as well because by then he would have decorated the last one with scribbles. Mum only thought to buy him a packet of washable textas when one day he made his open-ended circles with a red permanent marker across a pair of beige shorts she had just sewn.
    Uncle Sokkha wasn’t our real uncle. He had a moustache and a Cambodian afro – a Cambofro. I’d never seen one on an Asian man before. He liked patterned shirts and gold chains, and looked like he should be selling Sunkist soft-drink on television, except for three things:
    1. He didn’t speak English;
    2. He had a scar running from the left corner of his mouth to the edge of his nose, which puckered his lip up a bit at the end so that it looked as if he was constantly snarling at some sick joke; and
    3. He didn’t have the sort of chilled personality required of a soft-drink promoter.
    Besides his shonky lip-curl, which I didn’t think he could help, I’d never seen him smile. Whenever he delivered a new batch of clothes to my mother, he always stressed that it was urgent , like a Triad master directing a hitman. Then he’d drive away in his white panel van, only to reappear two weeks later with a new batch.
    I carried the Lamb outside on my hip and took him to have a look at the Donaldsons’ front yard. He pointed to one of the gnomes hiding behind the gerberas and squealed with delight. He also scrambled around in my arms, trying to get down, but I held on tight. I didn’t want him trespassing in the neighbours’ garden. This was not Ramsay Street. As friendly as the Donaldsons were, in our neighbourhood we all knew our place.

W hen the letter arrived in the mail a few Fridays later, my first thought was just to throw it in the bin and not tell my father. After all, the envelope felt so thin. But then I thought, what the hell, I’ll have a look to see what polite rejection they’ve come up with, and then call and congratulate Tully. I ripped one end open so carelessly that I ended up tearing off part of the letter.
Dear Lucy,
As we approach a new century, we must equip our students to become leaders in myriad far-reaching social, economic and cultural fields. Laurinda is proud to introduce and embrace experiences of diversity in our strong tradition.
It is with great pleasure that I write to inform you that you have been awarded the inaugural Laurinda Equal Access scholarship.
    It was signed by an E. Grey, Head of Middle School, with instructions to call the school to arrange for an interview. I think I must have made a noise that sounded like eeeek, eeeek, eeeek! because Mum came rushing into the house thinking the smoke alarm had gone off. “What’s wrong with you?” she asked.
    I told her.
    In an American family sitcom, Linh, this would be the moment when the mother and daughter jump and hug each other and shed some tears. The mother would tell the daughter how proud she was, and then they would joyfully get in the car and go shopping.
    “That’s good,” said Mum. “We don’t need to get the refund.”
    “It was never a refundable deposit, Mum.”
    In the same sitcom, the mother and daughter would probably sit down over a cup of brewed coffee (and perhaps some cupcakes) to talk about the future. Half a year ago, my mum had bought a tin of Nescafé on sale. For her, happiness was hoarding seventeen tins of sweetened condensed milk in the cupboard. We drank our coffee in silence.
    “You’d better call your dad,” she said finally.
    So I did. By the time he came home that evening, he had told his workmates and his friends, and they had passed on the news to their wives and children.
    “Lucy Lam!” they were probably exclaiming. “Who would have thought?”
    A day later, everyone knew.
    As people started calling to congratulate me, at first I felt pride and anxiety in equal measure. They were pleased for me, but not