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Papakura lies on the shores of Pahurehure Inlet, in the southernmost reaches of Auckland’s sprawling supercity. To the east are the wealthy farming districts of Hunua and Clevedon, and Karaka, with its multi-million dollar waterfront mansions, is across the motorway to the west.

The name - papa; flat, kura; red - is a nod to the district’s rust-coloured earth, said to have been stained red by the blood of those who died during a fierce battle at the local pa. At first a strategic site for Māori, during the New Zealand wars Papakura became a military outpost, the government’s launch point for its invasion of Waikato.

When the fighting ceased, Papakura transformed to a farm service hub. The population was mostly European, with Papakura High’s first school photos showing rows of hardy farming children in matching blazers.

During the 1960s, a cluster of light industry - a biscuit factory, a formica plant - set up on the outskirts of town. The factory work combined with low-cost housing saw the beginnings of a demographic shift. As gentrification in central Auckland ramped up, low-income families were edged further and further south. At first, there was almost full employment, but after the economic reforms of the 1980s, more Māori and Pasifika found themselves out of work. Subsequent benefit cuts saw deprivation levels soar, with almost one third of children living in poverty by the end of 1992.

Papakura stratified. The more expensive homes were perched high in Redhill, or next to the estuary at Pahurehure. The poorest suburbs became those east of the train station, and in the north - home to the students who attend Papakura High. In those suburbs money is scarce, and life is tough. Many children don’t have desks at home, or internet access. Often, there is only one parent. Teenagers mature fast, burdened with looking after their younger siblings, or obligated to get an after-school job. Life has a way of interrupting study that is not shared by students from more affluent backgrounds.

Rachel Fagan, the year 13 dean, understands this better than most. She is patient when her students can’t pay for something, when they are late, when their homework is incomplete. But she also desperately wants to them to succeed. At the end of the first term, she holds a prefects meeting to ensure the students are on track, with the hope of picking up any potential issues as early as possible.

When she walks in, laden with sticky buns and orange juice, the school’s head girl, Moananoa Rountree, is admonishing Robert.

“You haven’t been in English all week.”

“Yes I have,” he says.

“Once,” says Moananoa.

“I was busy,” Robert says.

Fagan has known this group of students since they were shy, giggling juniors. They trust her, but even then it can be a struggle for particular kids to open up when they have a problem. She waits until the students have eaten, and then asks each one for an update on their progress.

Robert doesn’t volunteer an answer until everyone else has spoken, giving a long pause before he admits his attendance is way down.

“I just need to buck my ideas up to be honest. I’ve just been slacking off. No relevant reasons ... Just, you know, home stuff.”

When he was born, Robert’s father was in jail. His mum, struggling to juggle four older children, offered him to an uncle for adoption instead. The pair now live together in nearby Drury, where Robert’s younger step-siblings visit at the weekends. Robert is expected to help around the house and with the kids, but his full schedule sometimes causes friction.

“It’s just little arguments,” Robert says. “Who’s right and who’s wrong. Chores. Not being home often because I’ve got lots of commitments outside school.”

He’s also been staying up late to talk online. Despite denying he wants a girlfriend this year, Robert is constantly chatting to girls on Facebook, meaning he arrives at school either late or tired or not at all, and has missed handing in some assignments.

“I’ll try my hardest to pick up my attendance,” he promises Fagan. Robert wants to get a scholarship to study sports science at the Manukau Institute of Technology. It would make him the first in his family to attend university.

As summer fades the oak trees along the avenue from the school gates begin to lose their leaves. Sharp winds strip the branches bare, carpeting the road in layers of orange and red.

Winter sport begins. Robert, a talented forward, will play both rugby and league, with the teams struggling for numbers because of the school roll. Wendy Savieti is the girls’ rugby captain. This year she plans on making the Counties Manukau representative team for the first time.

“I want to do as many things as I can before I finish school, just to finish with a bang,” she says. “And rugby is kind of like that door for me to do all those things, it’s where I found my grounding, where I got to know heaps of people, where I was first recognised.”

Helping Papakura “get a name” for girls’ rugby is also a way Wendy thinks she can help boost the school’s reputation. It’s a goal that gains extra importance after she reads a disparaging newspaper story about Papakura’s sports department.

In the article, which celebrates the generosity of a wealthy girls’ college donating old sports gear to Papakura, the journalist reports the school didn’t have enough equipment to support its students. Wendy is so frustrated she writes yet another Facebook post expressing her outrage.

“I was really offended. Like it was saying we are not capable of producing outstanding sportsmen because we don’t have the right gears, which is so not true,” she says.

“I guess it’s embarrassing because everyone is eating it up. They see this article and they think, that’s the truth of it all. Like we were a sob story.”

While during the day, the school seems quieter than ever, after the final bell Papakura comes alive. The fields are suddenly busy, filled with trainings and games. Families come to watch, bringing young siblings and cousins with them. Students who don’t play sit on the sidelines talking and playing music through tinny, hand-held speakers.

Most of the year 9s now have shiny Chromebook laptops, thanks to the support of the Kotuitui Trust, a local education charity aimed at supporting digital learning. If their parents agree to pay, students can lease the computers for $3.50 a week over three years. For many it is the first time they’ve had their own computers and they tote them everywhere, alongside their giant bottles of fizzy drink and oversized schoolbags.

Rohs is happy with the changes, and pleased to see more parents attending school events, despite a frustrating turnout at the recent Board of Trustee elections. Only one Māori member was voted on - incumbent chairman Peter Goldsmith - despite the school’s majority Māori roll. No Pasifika members made the cut.

“It showed clearly that the process that’s used to undertake that exercise doesn’t really meet the needs of our Māori and Pasifika community,” Rohs says. “That result tells me there’s something wrong with the system and we need to change that.”

Papakura isn’t alone in this dilemma. Just 40 per cent of schools in New Zealand have fair Māori or Pasifika representation. In low-decile schools, it is just one governance issue among many, where boards are also likely to lack leadership and expertise. Often, parents on low incomes are also those who gained little from their own schooling, and struggle to connect with their children’s learning. Financial pressures may mean they are unable to prioritise attendance.

To increase representation, Rohs has co-opted a Māori parent, a Pasifika community leader and the school kaumatua to the board. Next year he plans to hold a fair with a bouncy castle and free hangi to encourage voting, but it is unclear whether even with a higher turnout the school will be able to convince the Government its future is in safe hands.

At the end of May, Wendy’s own future plans go astray. She is concussed in a particularly hard-hitting tackle during a rugby game, and taken to hospital. Although her head is fuzzy, she hears the doctor mandate a three-week ban, and her parents discussing whether she should end rugby for good. She wants to cry.

“My parents have never been too happy with me playing sports in the first place. They think I’m taking on too much. But I don’t see it that way,” Wendy says. She is determined to keep playing.

“I’m really good at talking my parents around. I’ve got until the three weeks are up to change their minds.”