Take Three Girls

by Cath Crowley

  • Frida Kahlo says ‘everything flies and goes away’ – what, if anything, comes back?

  Task

  Write a letter to your future self. It can be as long or short as you want. You can keep it in a special place, or post it on https://www.futureme.org/ (they’ll send it to you at your appointed future date), or burn after writing. Think of it as a portable time capsule linking who you are right now to who you hope to be. You can use this letter as a place to express your goals – by making yourself more conscious of your goals, you can start imagining the steps towards them. You can summarise your current self: What are you happy about? What do you wish to change? Who are your friends? What are your dreams?

  Monday 5 September

  Letter to my future self . . .

  I think that’s what Malik said: imagine what you might like to remember, looking back.

  So, sitting in the Oak Parlour for the last Wellness session on a comfy moss-green beanbag next to Kate and Clem, thumb-sisters, I listened as Malik recapped.

  He spoke about being kind to ourselves and to other people, about finding our authentic selves.

  He made a big deal about what Kate did at the formal, taking down PSST, and she said Clem and I helped, and we all clapped and cheered Kate. It got pretty rowdy.

  Iris wasn’t there.

  He emphasised again the thing about the standard you walk past. I’m going to really try hard on that one. And he talked about going easy on our families; everyone is probably just doing their best.

  I think about my father, doing his best, facing up to rehab. I hope it works this time.

  I’ve taken my time, and taken this assignment home; Malik said privacy might be beneficial.

  So, wow, dear future self, what do you want to know, exactly?

  You’re me, so I’m guessing – everything. That would take more than a letter. That would take a whole book.

  Malik said to set the scene. So, here goes. As I write this letter, I’m:

  Listening to: The Cure, my father’s favourite band when he was my age.

  Feeling: Elated that I got into MCA. Also a teeny bit scared shitless. Just heard this morning. Kate and Clem and Max are coming over for a celebration dinner tonight. I’m making spaghetti carbonara. An early night so we don’t bug Clare.

  Also feeling: Thrilled and shy about spending more time with Max.

  Eating: I have made myself a big plate of nachos with loads of jalapeño chillies and guacamole, and, boy, is it good. Malik would approve of this mindfulness because I am truly living in the mouthful.

  Sitting: In the living room overlooking the garden and it’s coming to life again after winter. The smallest clearest brightest leaves are out, and I love that.

  Smelling: I’ve picked a fat posy of violets that smells so sweetly of itself, as sweet as a bagful of lollies, as sweet as icing on a cake, as sweet as the end of winter, as sweet as purple.

  Feeling: Relieved. I had a proper talk with my mother last night. She’s proud that I investigated and prepared the whole MCA thing, and she said it was the best surprise. I told her stuff I’d seen, and stuff I’d heard, here, and she was honest with me and said to ask anything about Dad. She promised that nothing I did contributed to his problems. Adults were completely responsible for themselves. And she said that he thought having kids was the best thing in his life. We didn’t thwart him. We’ve made our ‘clear up the wardrobe’ date for Saturday, but it doesn’t have to involve any throwing out unless I want that. And there will be Figgy’s apple cake.

  Topic for this letter: ‘Why Can’t I Be You?’ (Spoiler: I can be.)

  Older me, I hope you’re a clothes artist for real, or another sort of artist, and that you love your days and you spend them dreaming and making things. Please be a maker. Be a creator. I hope you have a studio where the sun pours in, and you have a little dog with you while you work. I hope you live with someone you love, or love living by yourself with your doggie.

  These are some things you learned when you were sixteen:

  Family: Strangely, it’s a relief to have it all out in the open. The months of half-knowing everything was wrong and getting worse, and my mother pretending that it was all systems go, and me having to guess, or find stuff out from Clare, and pretending to my friends that everything was okay – they were the worst.

  Even Charlie is at home a fair bit now, proof of habitat improvement. We just found out we can stay in our house, for the time being. My mother has organised a mortgage moratorium for twelve months with the bank, and she thinks she can probably get a job before then, so we might not have to sell up.

  Sex: I – you (we) haven’t had it yet. Unless we count auto-sexuality.

  Friends: It seems so simple it’s dumb, but it took you a while to get onboard – a friend is someone you can be real with. No games, no faking it, no showing off, no putting down, no power plays. Not cool or hot or mean or popular or fashionable or competing with each other. Just being true. And how that makes you feel is . . . relaxed.

  Older me, please remember how great it felt to have real friends for the first time. Remember that it felt like something cracking open to give you the wider view, and more oxygen. Remember that it also, contrarily, felt like a nest where you were comfortable and safe and restored. Remember that it felt so loose and free when you could let your guard down and stop performing that popular girl version of yourself. I hope we’ve never had to perform that again. Bad for the heart.

  Love to you from me X

  Tuesday 6 September

  Dear Future Kate,

  At this point in time, you are sitting on a beanbag in Wellness. The sun is streaming and you are basking. Who are you currently? You are the hero of the moment. Even Tash is talking to you. It’s nice, but not important. What’s important is that you stopped PSST dead in its tracks.

  Other things that have stopped dead in their tracks – there’s no more sneaking out of the portal. I felt the need to tell Mum and Dad everything – from beginning to end – and that included Orion, Oliver and swapping scholarship study for audition practice.

  You know this already, but they didn’t take it well.

  I think we’ll remember all our lives the way Mum sighed, and said, ‘Katie,’ and handed the phone over to Dad. ‘It’s not the money, it’s the lying,’ he said. ‘You lied, for six months, over and over.’

  They’re angry about the sneaking out, too.

  They called the school.

  (I’m practically locked in at night by Old Joy, now.)

  They still love us, though. They call us every day to tell us – and to check that we’re behaving.

  I don’t know who we will be. I know that we don’t have a scholarship for next year, but I know that Mum and Dad are in serious talks about how to help us stay at St Hilda’s. There’s talk of applying for assistance because we’re from a country area. There’s talk of a state school with a good music program and boarding with a friend of Mum’s.

  But at the moment the future is unknown. I love that. I’m not making long-term plans. I’m playing cello with Oliver, kissing him quite a bit (cello, kiss, cello, kiss), seeing him during the times sanctioned by Mum and Dad.

  There’s been no sex yet. But I am greatly looking forward to it. What’s it like? Actually, don’t tell me. I’d rather find out for myself.

  I don’t know if we won the scholarship to Iceland (you know that, future self, but I don’t). Maybe we change again along the way. Maybe in the future we’re playing cello onstage at Parliament House with Oliver, or maybe we’re accepting the Nobel Peace Prize for something scientific. Maybe we’re still in love with Oliver, maybe we’re in love with someone else. That’s an unsettling idea. That past me is falling for Oliver while future me is falling for someone else.

  Good exercise, Dr Malik. It’s making me think.

  We can be anything, Future Kate. We’re allowed to change our minds.

  So, if you’re looking back and thinking, I didn’t get Ice
land, I didn’t get the scholarship, don’t regret it. We got more out of this year than money or pieces of paper.

  We got the future. Whatever that is.

  Love,

  Kate

  Friday 20 December

  Dear Future Clem,

  Sorry I took so long to write to you. Malik set the assignment back in September and now it’s December. I’m writing from seat 14A of the V/Line train to Shallow Bay. Iris is in Singapore with Mum and Dad, and I’m going to Kate’s for Christmas. I’ll be staying at Kate’s but Ben is just across the fence and we’ve got a date with the aliens on December 21st.

  Ady says I am living proof of the indomitability of youth: one week I’m a wreck over Stuart Laird McAlistair and the next I’m kissing Ben Tran on the dance floor at the formal. But while it was happening, I felt it all. What can I say – time is trippy.

  Two weeks ago I was walking past the laundromat and I saw Stu with a girl in a Sacred Heart uniform. I went in – she looked about fourteen. Stu goes, ‘Uh, hi?’ I ignored him and patted her hand and said, ‘I’m telling you this as a sister – sure, he’s cute, but he sleeps around. Use protection. I’m not just talking about your lady parts – I’m talking about your heart.’

  I don’t know if she believed me. Probably thought I was an unhinged ex. But I hope she did.

  Ben and I are having an epistolary romance. On the night of the formal he said he knew that I was broken-hearted and he wasn’t going to be pushy. He said if he had to settle for being just friends, well, he wouldn’t love it, but he could stand it. But then I kissed him, and since then we’ve written letters and sent photos. I send him silly selfies and he sends me photos of rocks and clouds, and baby birds. I can’t wait to see what happens.

  Future Clem, where are you? What do you do? Are you happy? I wonder if you’re married with children, or single with a great collection of shoes. When I think of all the possibilities for you my brain can’t cope. You’re in Paris or you’re in Melbourne, you’re on the Trans-Siberian express, you’re making pancakes for your children in a unit in Frankston, or you’re getting a back rub from a male escort before your important meeting with the network. The truth is, I can’t really imagine you at all.

  This is me, now, Clem-at-sixteen: I love my family, my friends. I maybe have a boyfriend. I know good things are coming.

  I promise to look after me so you can become you.

  With love and selfies,

  Clem

  Acknowledgements

  Our thanks to Claire Craig, Katelyn Detweiler, Georgia Douglas, Catherine Drayton, Amarlie Foster, Minna Gilligan, Melita Granger, Jill Grinberg, Philippa Hawker, Alana Kelly, Michael Kitson, Julie Landvogt, Lousie Lavarack, Ali Lavau, Mark and Willeford Luffman, Chris Miles, Reba Nelson, Cheryl Pientka, Denise St. Pierre, Libby Turner, the Crowley family, the Howell family, the Wood family; and Writers Victoria, Iola Mathews and the National Trust for the Glenfern Writers’ Studios.

  About the authors

  Cath Crowley, Simmone Howell and Fiona Wood have written lots of books, won a respectable number of prizes, visited hundreds of schools and festivals, and run scads of workshops. Their work is widely published and translated. They are all, for better or worse, in touch with their respective inner teenagers.

  Find out more here:

  www.cathcrowleyauthor.com

  www.simmonehowell.com.au

  www.fionawood.com

  And follow them on Twitter here:

  @CathCrowley @postteen @f_i_o_n_a_w_

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, institutions and organisations mentioned in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously without any intent to describe actual conduct.

  First published 2017 in Macmillan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd 1 Market Street, Sydney, New South Wales, Australia, 2000

  Copyright © Cath Crowley, Simmone Howell and Fiona Wood 2017

  The moral right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.

  This ebook may not include illustrations and/or photographs that may have been in the print edition.

  The author and the publisher have made every effort to contact copyright holders for material used in this book. Any person or organisation that may have been overlooked should contact the publisher.

  Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available from the National Library of Australia http://catalogue.nla.gov.au

  EPUB format: 9781743518267

  Typeset by Midland Typesetters

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