It was one of those cursed early-period Food Tech practicals, the kind most students groaned about from the second they stepped into the classroom. You could hear the collective sighs before the bell even rang. Everyone hated it. Said it was too early to be slicing onions or trying not to burn themselves. It always dragged into recess, too, which didn't help.
But me?
I loved it.
The minute I walked into that shiny, lemon-scented kitchen classroom, I felt like I could breathe properly for the first time that day. Stainless steel benches, the hum of the oven fans already running, and the smell of leftover garlic from the Year 11s who had class the day before, it felt familiar. Not like home exactly, but… I dunno. Like peace.
Don't get me wrong, I wasn't one of those people who only loved it because they liked to eat. Not that I'm judging, but food is amazing. But in my case? I barely eat what I make half the time. I'm probably as skinny as a twig and have the metabolism of a possum on energy drinks.
Cooking, for me, was about control. About creating something. Stirring things together until they made sense, until they became something better. That was comforting.
While Mr. Elias droned on in front of the whiteboard about hygiene protocols, "Make sure your hands are clean, aprons on, tie your hair back, no licking fingers"
I was halfway tuning him out. I already knew all this stuff anyway.
I stood in line behind a bunch of half-awake students waiting to wash their hands, fiddling with a thick black hair tie I had to wrap around my wrist twice. My curls were acting up today, tight spirals that were frizzing at the edges thanks to the morning humidity.
It was always a mission tying my hair up for these classes. Normal hair ties? They snapped on me in seconds. I had to buy the industrial-strength ones, the kind that look like they could hold together a tent in a cyclone.
I wrangled my curls into a high puff as best I could, grimacing as a strand slapped me in the eye.
"Stupid hair," I muttered under my breath, biting my lip to hold back a curse.
The girl in front of me gave me a weird glance, but I just smiled politely and kept tying. It was better than being the girl who got her hair in the soup.
Behind me, someone let out a dramatic yawn, and I didn't even have to turn to know it was Max Heron. He was always late, always sleepy, and somehow still managed to convince the teacher to give him top marks with that annoyingly charming smile of his.
Finally, I made it to the sink, scrubbing my hands like a surgeon prepping for surgery. I glanced around as the rest of the class got into pairs and began setting up their benches. Pots clanked. Cutting boards slammed onto counters. The buzz of early morning chaos filled the room.
I didn't have a partner yet. Not that I minded.
Cooking alone meant full creative control.
And besides, I was used to being the new girl. Again.
As the teacher droned on about food safety and hygiene, I zoned out, eyeing the station I'd grabbed. Cutting boards, knives, and a grater. Standard stuff. I scanned the recipe sheet, zucchini fritters. Easy.
Then I heard it.
"Tia? You're partnered with Demi today. Table four."
I blinked, glancing up from the counter. Demi Georgiou was already walking toward me with her apron in one hand and her usual calm, earthy vibe following her like a scent trail of lavender and eucalyptus.
We knew each other, well, kind of. She was one of Lena's close friends, part of that oddly mismatched friend group I'd seen hanging around together at lunch. I'd only ever had a few conversations with her, and they were short, polite, and usually involved someone else jumping in halfway through.
"Hey," she said with a small smile as she slung her apron on. "Guess it's us today."
"Looks like it," I smiled back, stepping aside to give her some space. "How's your morning?"
"Too early to tell," she replied, already unpacking her stuff with this practised efficiency. She even had a little container of herbs she brought from home, which, honestly, was kind of badass.
"You know we're making fritters, right? I brought my own rosemary. School stuff's always dry."
I raised an eyebrow with a slight smile. "You bring your own herbs?"
"Of course," she said with a shrug. "If I'm going to be forced to cook at 9 am, I'm not going to half-ass it."
She wasn't kidding. Within minutes, we were grating, whisking, and chopping like we'd worked together before. I liked that she didn't treat me like "the new girl." No awkward small talk. No fake politeness. Just a silent agreement to get the job done right.
"You're pretty good at this," she said after watching me flip a fritter perfectly in the pan.
"Thanks. I cook a lot at home," I replied. "My mum works late most days, so I've kind of been running the kitchen since I was nine."
"That explains it," she nodded, adding some lemon zest to the bowl. "Honestly, it's nice not having to teach someone how to crack an egg."
I smirked. "Didn't know that was part of the job description."
"You'd be surprised how many people in this class think 'whisking' means stabbing something with a fork until it dies."
We both laughed. It was the first time I'd seen Demi relax a little. She always seemed so composed, like she had her life together: planner colour-coded, garden at home, the works. But right now, she was just a girl flipping fritters with flour on her cheek and a sarcastic sense of humour.
"I always thought you were kind of intimidating, not gonna lie," I admitted as I cleaned up the chopping board.
Demi raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. "Me? Intimidating?"
"Yeah, I mean, you're always so put together. Like you know what you're doing all the time."
She scoffed. "God no. I wing it 90% of the time. You just fake it 'til people think you're unbothered."
I laughed again, feeling the nerves I didn't even realise I had slowly melting away.
Maybe being the new girl didn't mean being invisible after all.
~~~
As soon as I stepped off the bus, the smile I'd worn all day crumpled like paper in the rain.
It always happened around this time, right after the jokes faded, the laughs died down, and the goodbyes were waved. I kept my head low and shoved my hands into the pockets of my hoodie as I started the familiar walk toward home.
I always got off near the primary school, even though it was a bit further from my place. The extra few minutes of quiet before stepping into chaos were worth it. A few kids were still playing on the swings behind the rusted gate, their high-pitched laughter cutting through the early afternoon air. For a second, I almost smiled again. Almost.
My music buzzed through my knockoff AirPods, some indie playlist I'd been stuck on lately, nothing too loud. Just enough to drown out my thoughts. The rubber of my soles scuffed the footpath as I watched them move: left, right, left again. Mechanical. Like muscle memory.
By the time I reached my street, my pace had slowed. I could already feel the shift in atmosphere. I pulled my key from my bag and slid it into the front door, bracing myself.
The smell of stale cereal and something burnt hit me as I opened the door.
Great. Another masterpiece by Dad, who was currently sunk into the couch, half-asleep with some reality show blasting at full volume. A bowl of something unidentifiable sat on the floor beside him. I didn't bother saying hi. He wouldn't answer unless the house was on fire (or if he ran out of beer)
I stepped over a pile of toys and what I hoped was just laundry and made a beeline for my room at the back of the house. As I reached for the door handle, a neon pink sticky note caught my eye. It was slapped onto the wood like a reminder from hell.
Could you pick up Elle from her kindy after-care at 5 pm? Thanks XOXO
-Mum
I stared at the note for a second before peeling it off slowly and crumpling it into my hand. Her handwriting was rushed, tired. Probably written during a break at work. I didn't blame her. She worked herself to the bone trying to keep us afloat. But still, every day it felt like more was being dumped on my plate.
I sighed and shoved the note into my hoodie pocket. My fingers found the key on my necklace, and I unlocked my bedroom door, twisting the knob like I was entering a different dimension.
And honestly? It kind of was.
My room was a sanctuary, a total contrast to the warzone that was the rest of the house. Everything had its place. My bed was neatly made, the pillows fluffed just the way I liked them. My books were stacked on the desk by subject, highlighters lined up in colour order beside them. Clothes were folded, and drawers closed. The faint scent of vanilla and coconut lingered from the candle I wasn't technically allowed to burn.
It was mine. A tiny bubble of peace in the middle of noise and clutter and exhaustion.
I chucked my bag onto the floor next to my desk, kicked off my shoes, and flopped onto my bed with a dramatic exhale. The springs gave a soft bounce under my weight, and I closed my eyes, letting the sound of my music fade into the background.
I just needed a bit to breathe. Then I'd go get Elle, make dinner, maybe clean up a bit if I had the energy.
But right now, for these few stolen minutes, I didn't have to be the responsible one.
I could just be Tia.
~~~
The walk to Elle's kindergarten wasn't long, but it felt longer than usual with my bag pulling at my shoulder and the sticky note from Mum still crumpled in my pocket like some passive-aggressive reminder. The streets were quieter now, most people either home or still at work. The sky was starting to soften into that golden hour glow, and the breeze tugged gently at my curls.
I reached the small red-brick building that housed the local after-school care program, the sound of squeaky swings and high-pitched laughter greeting me before I even walked through the gate.
A tired-looking supervisor glanced up from her clipboard when I stepped inside. "Tia, right? Picking up Elle?"
"Yep." I nodded, forcing a polite smile. My feet were aching, and all I wanted was to collapse back into bed.
"She's in the corner, building a zoo out of blocks," the woman said with a small chuckle. "Good luck pulling her away."
I followed the direction she pointed in and spotted Elle immediately: curly-haired and tiny, crouched over a rainbow mess of plastic blocks, a plastic giraffe in one hand and a tiger in the other. She was talking quietly to herself, giving each animal a silly little voice. My chest softened a bit. For all the chaos at home, Elle was my soft spot.
"Hey, munchkin," I called, crouching beside her.
Elle looked up, her eyes lighting up when she saw me. "Tia!"
She launched herself into my arms, nearly knocking me over. I laughed, hugging her back tightly.
"C'mon, Mum wants me to bring you home," I said, standing and brushing grass off my knees.
"Do we have to go now?" she pouted, looking back at her elaborate zoo.
"I'll help you rebuild it at home, yeah?" I offered, holding out my pinky.
She grinned and wrapped her tiny pinky around mine. "Pinky promise."
Once we were walking, Elle swung our joined hands back and forth dramatically, chattering nonstop about her day. Something about a kid named Henry eating glue, and how she got two stickers for "being really good at sharing."
I wasn't even fully listening, half of me was focused on making sure she didn't trip on the pavement cracks, the other half just quietly appreciating the peace of this moment. No yelling. No mess. Just me and Elle under the setting sun, walking home like nothing else mattered.
We passed the corner shop, and her eyes lit up. "Can we get a lolly bag?"
I sighed, checking the few coins at the bottom of my pocket. Barely enough. But she looked up at me with that hopeful kindergarten face, the kind that could make you feel guilty for saying no to anything.
"One small one," I said. "Don't tell Mum."
"Deal!" she beamed.
And just like that, I didn't mind the walk anymore.