by Cath Crowley
I fold the schedule. ‘I need to ask my parents.’ If I don’t ask them, then I’ll have to lie to get passes for all the times he wants to meet.
‘I can wait till Sunday for the answer,’ he says, and I know it’s a definite deadline.
Dr Malik reads us Robert Frost’s poem ‘The Road Not Taken’ in Wellness this morning. Mum’s read the poem to me before, and we studied it in English last year, but today it means more.
I feel the yellow wood, the grassy road that wants wear. I feel the pull towards things I want. I feel the pull towards Oliver and Iceland, towards that strange new road I heard on the CD. I wonder how we get to where we want to go, if where we want to go keeps changing?
Dr Malik tells us our exercise this week is to think about the roads we choose. The other task is to create an artwork in response to the poem, and I know, as soon as he said it that I have been doing exactly this since I heard Frances Carter. I have been sitting in that pool, composing new roads. The old ones are perfectly fine. But they’re not the ones I want.
I want to take the other road.
But I need permission to take it.
Mum sounds tired when she answers. Or maybe I’m reading things into her voice.
I’ve had several conversations with her in my head, trying to work out how to tell her that I want to ditch my scholarship tutoring sessions to play experimental cello with a boy she’s never met to apply for a scholarship to a summer in Iceland that I’ve never told her about. And by the way, could I borrow the money for the recording studio so I can offer to pay Oliver half?
Now that I’m on the phone with her, I can’t read the speech I’ve written out. I stall, and ask her how she and Dad are doing.
‘Same, same,’ she says, and she sounds more than tired. She sounds defeated.
‘Tell me,’ I say. ‘Maybe I can help?’
‘All we need is for you to keep studying and get the scholarship. You don’t need to worry about us.’
‘What if I don’t get it? What if I can’t?’ I ask. ‘After all the money you’ve spent on me?’
‘You will,’ she says. ‘And then all the money will be worth it.’
Monday 8 August
Malik’s task this week asks us to look mindfully at our decisions. Mindfully. Ha ha. How else are we going to be looking? Elbowfully? Ribcagefully? Sort of has to be the mind, Malik.
God. The roads I should be not taking.
Top of the list, I guess, is Rupert.
Beauuuutiful Rupe. Bec and Tash and Lola and I were so excited when he asked me out. I’m going to say it: we are the perfect couple. On paper, anyway. Short honeymoon.
The kissing weeks were fun. The gazing into his lovely face and knowing it was mine. The turning heads. The awwwwwws. The envying looks. The rightness of it all. I thought I might be falling. I waited, impatient, confident: fall, Ady, fall.
To be honest, I was curious, the first few hand jobs I gave Rupert. The mechanics of it all. The penis is whack – strange and interesting. But the first time he put his hand up between my thighs I grabbed his wrist. Not to guide, but to stop. Instinct. Why? And the look on his face? Pure relief. He wasn’t going to have to navigate the girl-scape. Not such a reach for him to believe that getting him off was our shared goal. It’s not that it does nothing for me. It’s a pretty intense few minutes. If Rupert did put his fingers in the right place, he wouldn’t find me unaffected by all that hot needing and coming.
What stopped me? Was I the only person who was ever going to flick my switch? Maybe I’m autosexual – is that a thing? Hey, I actually haven’t heard of it. I might have created a whole new sexuality. Google . . . Jeez, is there nothing on this planet that someone hasn’t already invented? If only I were living a century ago I’d be appreciated as a totally original thinker.
It’s been a regular once-a-week thing for a while now. Party, his room, my room. Lots of spilly handfuls. Fun facts that surprised me: semen emerges at a very warm temperature and at high velocity; it can really travel; clean-ups in unexpected places sometimes necessary. But I’m detached, on the outside of what’s happening. Tissues at the ready.
Then, out of nowhere, he suggested that it was time for a blow job. That was it, right there – a road that I would not be taking. Nuh-uh. No way was I going to drink the stuff. How would he like it if I had really bad hayfever and I blew my nose and offered him the tissue – to eat? Who decided that ingesting guys’ metabolic waste would be a thing?
So, ‘metabolic waste’ – not the language of love, am I right? Surely love would nibble and sip and lap and suck with relish. Wouldn’t it? Love would not speak of ‘metabolic’ or ‘waste’.
I know breaking up is the right thing to do. But even though I’m quite prepared to break up with Rupert, I am extremely reluctant to break up with my dream formal night, which includes Rupert. So, can I stretch things out for another month? Or should I set him free now? I can’t just use him as a glamorous formal night accessory, can I? Would that be a dirty little secret road that I could choose? Well, sure. Could I live with that decision? Not so sure.
Is it to do with how uncertain things are at home? Don’t want to let anyone see how quivery I am inside, so I’m constructing a barrier to make myself impervious and impenetrable? Perhaps I’ve already formed an exoskeleton because of all the secrets I contain, all the versions over the years of pretending to the outside world that everything’s okay at home when I’m not sure it is.
There’ll be a queue when he’s out there and single again. Everyone loves Rupe. What’s not to love? What’s wrong with me?
My heart has stayed so slow and cool and empty for him, and it’s my heart I want filled.
I knit and stitch love into the clothes I dream and make.
I made Kate’s wild messy bun and poked those flowers into it with love.
I’m weak-kneed in love with beauty every single day.
I was jealous of Clem’s rush to meet that boy. To see her usually scrubbed-clean sporty-girl face made up all wrong and shining eager. That’s some sort of love, for sure.
Tuesday 9 August
Mum-and-Dad Skype is just Mum this week. But excruciating – she wants me to model the new bathers. ‘Seriously? How old do you think I am?’
Iris fails to hide her smirk. I feel like kicking her; if I was wearing something tougher than my Peruvian slippers maybe I would. She starts blathering about the Winter Fair.
‘I wish we could see it,’ Mum says.
‘It’s dumb,’ I tell her. ‘All we’re doing is swimming in a loop.’
‘Muuuuum,’ I recognise Iris’s wheedling voice, and push my chair back a bit to give her the screen. She’s after money so she can get her hair styled before the formal. I let out a groan of disgust. Iris glares at me.
I look across at Kate’s pinboard above her desk. She has some interesting items on it: a picture of a man at a piano on an ice-floe; a list of band names, hastily scrawled; there’s also a photo of her and a boy – it must be from her old school in the country, because they’re standing in front of a tractor. He’s cute. I wonder if he’s her boyfriend. I swing back around to Iris, and Mum on the screen. Unbelievably, Iris is talking about Theo. ‘He said I had “good form”, and then he said, “A bit of advice – if you don’t mind: I’ve noticed you stay on the sides a bit too much.” And then he said, “In chess and in life”.’
‘Goodness,’ Mum says politely.
I mime sticking my finger down my throat and Iris’s eyes turn to slits.
When I get back to my room Jinx is writing in her Wellness journal. She sucks on the end of her pen and says, ‘Hey Clem, are you a follower or a leader? Do you take the path less travelled?’
I lie down on my bed. ‘I’m not a follower or a leader.’
Jinx makes a wrong buzzer sound.
‘And I don’t feel like I’m on any path.’
Jinx points her pen at me. ‘You’re on the path to Canberra! To Victory!’
‘Ma
ybe,’ I say. Then I turn to face the wall.
‘Do you believe in fate?’ Jinx asks, not getting the hint.
I think about Stu, the accident, the flowers.
‘Maybe,’ I say again. I don’t feel like doing the Wellness work this week. It hurts when you have to be so conscious.
Wednesday 10 August
With just a little more than a month until the formal, Bec and Tash and I find ourselves saddled with a boading house representative on the organising committee: Iris Banks. We can’t leave the precious boarders out. She’s completely redundant; we’ve got it all covered.
Basildon and St Hilda’s have always had a combined Year 10 Formal. It saves people actually having to get dates. Although many of us will have dates.
The Basildon reps are Theo Ledwidge, Bryce Katz and Jonno Nesbit.
We’re sitting around a table in a quiet study room in our library at the end of the day, schoolbags strewn about the floor. It’s our third organising committee meeting, Iris’s first.
‘Hoxton can play at the formal,’ says Bryce.
‘Wow, good get,’ says Tash.
Great get – Hoxton is mostly former Basildons; they’ve had a successful album release and done lots of touring in the last couple of years following a Triple J Unearthed win when they were in Year 12.
‘I’m surprised they said yes – aren’t they way too famous for a Year 10 formal?’ I ask.
Jonno is turning crimson, poor guy. ‘Hamish is my brother.’
I can see it: lead singer Ham Nesbit is a hotter, cooler, hairier, larger, older version of shy Jonno.
‘His mum told them they had to do it,’ says Bryce.
‘Well, send thanks to your mum from us,’ I say.
‘They don’t mind,’ says Jonno, crimson deepening further. Fascinating.
‘So that’s our work done – what are you girls bringing to the table?’ asks Theo.
I like this dude a little less each time we meet. I know he’s some kind of chess whiz, and he’s kind of good-looking, but his manner is Mr Patronising. Iris has not stopped staring at him since the boys arrived. He hardly seems to notice her.
‘Tash has a food report,’ I say.
‘So, yeah, we’ve got tables and chairs hired, and we’ve booked River Cafe Catering. The menu is roaming appetisers with drinks, two types of paella and salads, and we’ll be having a gelati and patisserie table. Every course has vego, dairy-free, gluten-free and fructose-intolerant options.’
‘Sounds good,’ says Jonno.
‘It’s no-frills, but yes-delicious,’ says Bec.
‘We’re putting together a “Moments” powerpoint – Basildon and St Hilda’s fun times, year to date. You can send me pics that we might not already have,’ says Tash. ‘Combined activities only.’
‘And I’m editing some footage to play behind the band,’ I say. ‘Unless they want to bring their own stuff?’
‘No, they’ll do an hour and a half, and then we’ll Spotify.’
‘Let’s make sure we’ve got an agreed list,’ says Tash. ‘Lola’s party list is excellent.’
‘According to . . .?’ asks Theo.
‘Every party-going teenager in Melbourne, basically,’ says Tash, clearly implying he’s not in that group.
‘Agreed,’ says Bryce, tapping a note to himself.
I make a mental note to ask Kate for music suggestions, too.
‘Who’s having pre-s?’ asks Theo.
Bec and Tash and I sit tight-lipped. There is no way he’s getting asked to our pre-s, which are at Tash’s.
‘So,’ I say. Theo gives me a cold look. Tough. ‘Let’s have two laptops on the night. I need lots of grunt for the film, and we’ll use a different one for lighting, I guess . . .’
Iris pipes up. ‘One from each school?’
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘We’ll do a tech check on the afternoon.’
‘Kate Turner and I are St Hilda’s tech support,’ says Iris.
‘And I’m Basildon’s,’ says Theo.
‘Dance floor’s getting laid on the day,’ says Bec.
‘Main decorative element is lots of potted trees with white fairy lights,’ I say. We can get them at a super cheap rate from Lainie’s parents, who own an events hiring company – Henry the Hirer.
‘Okay, that’s it for now, then,’ says Theo. ‘Unless you want some help with editing the footage, Ady?’
‘No, thanks – I’ve got it sorted.’ I haven’t actually, and I need to get started, but I don’t fancy hours in front of a computer rubbing shoulders with Theo Ledwidge. Seriously.
Sunday 14 August
I’ve spent most of this week trying to work out how to get what I want without breaking any rules. How do I keep everyone happy? The old Kate keeps chiming in, informing me that music is a dream. How will I feel if I fail the exam and have to go back to Shallow Bay next year?
I will feel like shit. Thank you, old Kate.
I wake on the morning of the Winter Fair convinced that I just have to explain the problem fully to Oliver. If I do that he’ll be reasonable. He’ll tell me that, together, we can work something out. For now, choosing one road closes off the other, Robert Frost. So why can’t I stay at the crossroads for a while and hedge my bets? This seems like the obvious, sensible solution.
I recite all this to myself as I head across to the auditorium. I told Iris I felt like being alone this morning and left early. I haven’t been speaking much to her this week. She’s been accusing me of being in a bad mood, and even though I denied it, I have been. At her, at the old Kate, at Oliver, at my parents, at everything that is making what should be a good thing difficult.
Oliver is out the front of the auditorium when I arrive. Here early, like me. I explain to him all the reasons I need him to bend a little on the times we practise. I go through all the lists I’ve been making, all the reasons why I can’t ditch the exam, how I want to do it all and how I can’t see why I shouldn’t be able to.
He listens without interrupting. I can’t tell from his face if he’s going to say yes, but I don’t think he’s going to immediately say no. People from the orchestra start arriving as I finish my speech.
I wait for Oliver to answer, keeping the nerves in check by counting the number of tents set up on the oval. I get to thirty.
‘When can you practise?’ he asks eventually.
‘Friday nights I can get a pass, no problem. Mondays are hard because it’s after the weekend and they don’t like us going out, but I could maybe do Tuesday. Not Wednesday. Saturday morning is okay, but Sunday I have to study.’
‘So, Friday night, maybe Tuesday and Saturday morning.’
‘Two nights and a morning,’ I say.
He looks at his cello, then nods at some people going inside. ‘It just seems like you’re not serious. And I know it seems like I’m being harsh, but, we won’t be ready if you can’t commit. Do you know how competitive this thing is? The other people auditioning have been working for years.’
He waits for me to change my mind. I wait for him to do the same thing.
When we can’t wait any longer I pick up my cello. Please compromise, I think. Please, please, please.
But he doesn’t.
And I can’t.
‘Then I guess you have to ask Juliette to partner with you,’ I say.
And he agrees.
Sunday 14 August
I wish this change cubicle was a tardis. If it was I would go forward to tomorrow so this day could be over.
Jinx thumps on the door, ‘Clem! Come on!’
There’s nothing I can do. I have to go be a Marlin, loop the loop, in public. My bathers are bifurcating me. I cover myself up with trackies and my bomber, and reluctantly open the door. Jinx does a little dance. I feel numb all over.
When we get to the pool the crowd is already filing in and filling the seats. There must be a thousand people and all the glass and concrete is hurting my head; it’s a prism. I want to die.
Beaz
’s face never shows surprise. She nods at me when I come out of the stall, red-faced in my pinchy suit. I see a few looks from the rest of the girls. No one says anything though.
‘Clem, you’re in the third stream. After Jinx.’
I nod but I’m feeling sick. Outside, announcements are happening. There’s applause, and then silence, then we file out. It’s horrible standing out there in front of all those eyes. I remember to breathe, try to grasp some sense of calm. But there are photographers, and smirks, row upon row of death-masked old girls. Special guest singer Deity Haydn-Bell dances in, swinging her hair extensions. She starts to warble; the acoustics are sonic-spectacular and my sick feeling intensifies. At the end of her song, Deity cuts the ribbon and it flutters into the pool. Principal Gaffney gushes, the press take photos. The first Marlin dives and then the next and the next and soon it will be my turn.
On the block there’s a roaring in my head. I pinch my arm but my skin feels like rubber. The water’s so very blue. The trail of bubbles from Jinx is fast disappearing. A voice hisses, ‘Clem, GO!’ But I can’t seem to move. I’ve broken the loop and it’s obvious. I look up. Faces blur. Everything blurs. I feel a shove on my back. I suck air and smack water. I swim, but not in the direction anyone’s expecting. I do a dog-leg to the ladder and climb up and out. And then I run. I am cold but I am on fire. I bolt the length of the pool, past the crowd, who are all staring at me and not the elegant athletic display that I’ve just wrecked. I run outside to the quadrangle, smack into the non-choreographed heart of the Year 7’s silent disco. Fifty kids, wearing headphones and spandex, shaking like maniacs, inadvertently blocking me. I stop and sink onto the asphalt. Mini disco divas circle me, dancing and staring with serious faces.
Firm hands pull me to my feet. Kate and Ady half-guide, half-shove me out of the disco mob towards the old building. The reception is empty. We pad down the hall with its ancient plaques and photographs, into the Oak Parlour, the Wellness room, but there isn’t a beanbag in sight. It’s set up with refreshments – cakes, pastries, fruit and cheese. Ady closes the door and it’s like the outside world has evaporated. For a few seconds all we do is look at each other. The muffled quiet of the room makes it feel like a compression chamber.
