World Peace isn't Just for Beauty Queens

Chapter One: A Day in the Life of Emily Finch

Emily Finch awoke to her silent room. No light streamed to say the day had begun; rather the room was in complete darkness. It was difficult to gauge the time, looking at her clock she realised it was early, well early for her. She stretched; sleep wouldn’t come to her now. She wondered what needed to be done today as she finally willed herself out of her bed. With nothing to do, the day looked bleak. That was when she saw the posters leaning against the bed, a note attached.

Morning Darling

These came yesterday, I forgot about them, maybe you can put them up today?

Love Mama xxx

Emily smiled as she read the note and excitedly looked through the posters, there were lots them ranging from standard band posters, to political ones. She smiled at the thought that her room would no longer look bare, and pleased that at least for university, if she had to move, she would have the perfect room decorations. Getting dressed she looked for her most comfortable t-shirt, pulling it out from the back of the cupboard. The face of Che Guevara stared at her, intently. No, she was not a rebellious teen, she understood what the man stood for, but she admired his ability to act and also, it was a damn comfy t-shirt. It didn’t take long for her to get ready, meeting the day head on. She looked at the posters and laid them upon her bed. The first was ‘The Smiths’, a band she thought quite awesome and with that she went to work.

It was only around lunch time when her room was done. She looked at the sections she divided the room into. One section was full of band posters, ranging from Pink Floyd and Joy Division to Australian bands like Midnight Oil and a variety of genres from Kraftwerk to her favourite band The Smiths. Another section was full of political posters, and World War propaganda. ‘Careless talk, costs lives’ and ‘Keep calm and carry on’, screamed at her from their positions. Lord Kitchener and Uncle Sam stood side by side, inviting those into the British and American forces respectfully. The final section was her ultimate goal, the list of Nobel Prize laureates stood out. One day, she hoped to achieve the Nobel Peace Prize, like her heroes. The list was more aspirational than inspirational, and some days she wondered if she would truly make it.

She made herself a quick lunch and went back to her boredom. Everything seemed dull today, the weather, and the internet, just everything. She looked at her large bookshelf and nearly jumped when she saw it. The Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn book lay flat on its back, but it beckoned to her. She picked up ‘The Gulag Archipelago’ and started reading. She didn’t notice when her mother got home, nor when her father did either, it was by late afternoon when her mother finally roused her attention. 

“Em, I need you to go over to Mr Rosenberg’s, he’s having trouble with something again,” she said. Emily sighed, she didn’t wish to stop reading, but Mr Rosenberg was an old family friend. He liked Emily, but was still a cantankerous old man. There seemed to be some hidden bitter quality within him. She had often heard her parents talk about him, and sometimes accidently eavesdropped. They always talked about a camp, though what sort of camp Emily could only imagine. She thought of Nazi Germany, and had a suspicion that Mr Rosenberg, being the very old man he was, may have been involved in something like the concentration camps of the time. But she daren’t ask him, least she open some painful emotional wounds.

The cycle to Mr Rosenberg’s was difficult, large hills and even larger pot holes in the road made it uncomfortable. It felt like an age had passed by the time she had gotten to his house. The old man sat uncomfortably in his chair staring at the device in his hand.

“Afternoon Mr Rosenberg,” Emily said as she entered the house.

“How am I meant to get this bloody think to work,” he said, she sighed. You never did expect a hello from him; he was too forward for that. He passed the iPhone towards her and she shook her head. It was pointless for his family to give him such gifts. It was as if they were trying to show their love through their material positions. Emily doubted if any of them visited him.

“You need the pass code Mr Rosenberg, do you know what it is?” she asked.

“How am I supposed to know, Jesse does, maybe I could…no I can’t call, can I?” he said.

“You could use the landline…”

“No…you know Emily that I can’t talk to that family,” he said as he looked away from her. She didn’t ask why, she knew that there were problems in the family. If Mr Rosenberg was in a bitter state, it had nothing to do with any experiences during World War Two. She knew Mr Rosenberg treated her family, more like his own. All he had was his grandchild Jesse, she sounded like a good person. Always coming in to talk and look after her grandfather.

“Jesse sounds like a lovely person,” she said. Mr Rosenberg nodded as he stared at his phone. Emily couldn’t fathom a family who didn’t want to be with such an elderly member.

“Mr Rosenberg, if Jesse is coming over I might as well go home, I’ll see you soon sir,” she said as she placed the helmet on her small head. Mr Rosenberg didn’t reply and Emily realised she had hurt his feelings. Sighing she left the small home, hoping that Jesse would get there soon.

She wasn’t looking where she was going when she hit him. The front of her bicycle had slammed into the side of the BMW. Her bike was dented, as she looked at it, calculating how much it would cost to fix and deciding she could do it herself. A young man stepped out of the car, and by some coincidence he looked around to be her age.

“Look where the fuck you are going,” he said as he checked the damage to his car. The dent was prominent and Emily winced. The dent wasn’t probably going to cost much, but as Emily looked she saw the warm spread of blood over her leg. Her knees gave way and she landed, dry sobbing, on the ground. It was an interesting sight and the young man had no patience for it.

“I’m so sorry about your car,” she sobbed as he looked at the dent, she attempted to stand, her leg was starting to bruise.

“Ouch!” she shouted, clutching her leg.

“Who cares about your leg, look what you did to my car?” he shouted. At this Emily stopped crying, and anger overtook her.

“Have some freaking compassion your absolute horrible human being, my leg is fucking bleeding, my bicycle is ruined and all you have is a dent,” she cried. She looked at him properly, his tall and gangly form stood out with his school uniform. It was for Knox Grammar and with that she realised that he was one of those spoilt, North Shore, Sydney school kids. As he phoned the NRMA and without another glance Emily got herself out of there, walking home with a bleeding leg, each step painful. When she finally arrived she left her bike in the garage, her dad and she would have to fix it later, and went to clean her leg. It wasn’t as bad as she thought, but it needed stitches. With that she called her dad to take her to the hospital where they eventually patched her up.  

Dinner was tumultuous; her parents had finally decided it was crunch time, despite the day she was having. She sat there as they told her about how much the HSC meant to them. She hadn’t even started the preliminary course yet, and now they were stressing about the importance of the HSC. It wasn’t as if it was the end of the world, but to every parent it seemed to be.

“We only want what’s best for you, and if you get a ninety-six and can do say, law, I mean imagine what you could do with a law degree?” her mother said as she served.

“I’d rather do a Bachelor of Arts…”

“My daughter’s not doing a bugger all,” her father interrupted.

“You should do a science degree, good money in science,” he mother suggested.

“Well I would but I’m not doing any science subjects and I’m dropping general maths as soon as possible,” she replied.

“Where are you going to go without maths?” her father asked.

“Dad, don’t worry, there’s only like three or four degrees in which maths is a prerequisite…and that’s usually four unit,” she replied. She tried to swallow some of her food, but her parents talking about her future made her feel ill. It’s as if they were deciding it for me. She thought as she twirled the pasta around her fork. The evening went slowly and she dreaded tomorrow, it was finally the end of her holidays and year eleven would begin. She heard year eleven was harder than year twelve, but she wasn’t so sure of that. All she knew was that she would be very nervous tomorrow morning as her timetable was bestowed upon her. It was the same thought that stuck with her as she climbed into bed, as she finished reading the Solzhenitsyn book and turned off the old lamp. She lay there in darkness as a frog croaked outside, dreading the dawn and the day that would come.