Her mouth twitches,
and she says,
‘I’m still mad at you for telling my mum about me cutting
but I understand why you did.
Thanks.’
Her eyes are soft
mirroring mine.
Today
Today is a Good Day.
I’ve been
pissed off at Tim for reading my diary
shitty at my broken shoelace
had a fight with Mum about getting a tongue ring
cried because I damn well felt like it
(although it could be PMT)
and yet
today is a Good Day.
Perhaps tomorrow will be too.
My first job
I get offered a job after school
working as a secretary
in an office as big as a shopping centre.
It’s not so bad,
it means I have money,
and I now know I don’t want to be a secretary
for the rest of my life.
I blow my first pay cheque
on new jeans,
jewellery,
a new stud for my piercing.
Mum looks
disapprovingly
over my purchases
and says dryly,
‘Enjoy it while you can, Char.’
It’s very cleansing, actually
It’s Saturday
and it’s raining.
I curl up in my trackies
and sit with a Milo at my bedroom window
watching the rain
fall.
It’s pouring —
loud
throbbing
raindrops
that splatter onto the path
and run down the drain.
Compelled,
I let my feet lead me out the door,
peeling off my trackie jacket as I go.
I stand
in the middle of the driveway
face upturned
arms splayed out
eyes squinshed shut against the rain.
Within seconds
my hair is drenched
and my singlet is see-through.
Dad yells from the doorway, ‘Are you mad, Char?’
I grin
and yell back,
‘It’s very cleansing actually.’
And begin to laugh.
I see Guy
that afternoon
walking through the shops
hands shoved in the pockets of his baggy jeans
cap jammed down on his head.
I smile,
tentatively,
and say, ‘Hey.’
He smiles back,
albeit guardedly,
and says, ‘Hey you.’
I guess time doesn’t always
heal
but it can
ease the pain.
In a week
I will have finished Year Twelve
and be a student
no more.
This time when we sing,
‘No more homework
no more books
no more teachers’ dirty looks’
it will be
for real.
Ol’ Yapper says
not to get too excited
because you are always a student
at life,
always learning.
It’s our last lesson with him
and I’m not too sure
that I’m ready to leave the familiarity of this class.
But whether I’m ready or not,
the bell rings,
and with a lump in my throat
I pick up my books
and head towards the door.
As I’m stepping over the threshold
he gives me a nod,
and just as resolutely
I nod back,
understanding everything he was conveying.
We lock eyes for a minute,
until I’m hustled out the door
to my next class.
It’s got great potential
It seems eons ago
when we booked for Schoolies.
The place is a little fibro shack
right on the beach,
but,
says Jim optimistically,
‘It’s got great potential.’
I crack up laughing,
throw my pen at his head.
Trust him to say something like that.
I lie in bed that night
thinking about
that word —
potential.
How do you know
when you reach your potential?
The next day
I do an internet search
and come across a site
that talks about setting goals,
not comparing yourself to other people.
It’s pretty clever,
really.
I add it to my favourites list.
Graduating
Mum cries
when I walk on the stage to get my certificate,
and my teachers look proud.
I shake hands with the principal,
and walk over to the other side of the stage
feeling
pretty damn proud myself.
Afterwards,
everyone is hugging.
Teachers,
students,
parents,
I guess they all feel like they’ve accomplished something.
I know that’s how I feel.
Inside.
I can’t help but wonder
how this might’ve turned out.
I could be six months pregnant.
Dunno if I would’ve finished school.
Dunno what would’ve happened . . .
That night,
after the celebrating has ended
and I’m tucked up in bed,
I begin to cry.
Some feelings you can’t run away from
no matter how hard you try.
Some memories hunt you down
when you least expect it,
stinging
burning
opening the wound
and making you cry.
I ask Jim
if he ever thinks about it
if he ever wonders.
He ruffles my hair
and is quiet for a long time
before he says gruffly,
‘Sometimes —
but I can never think about it
without being appalled
at the way I acted.
Tell me this, Char —
if I hadn’t been so supportive of you having an abortion,
would you still have done it?’
Then it’s my turn for silence.
At Schoolies
we get drunk
eat cold pizza for breakfast,
well,
breakfast at two pm anyway, when we’ve woken up.
Jim has an ecstasy tablet
and decides he loves everyone and everything.
When he’s coming down
his teeth chatter for ages
and eventually he goes to sleep.
Mum rings me constantly
to check that I wasn’t
the kid on the news jumping off the balcony
or in the group of girls abusing the police.
Lee comes for a couple of days
but she still gets pretty tired out
and she always thinks that people are looking at her scars.
Girl talk
On the last night she’s here,
Bronwyn, Lee, and I gather on the beach,
to drink Baccardi out of a Coke bottle.
We pass the bottle around,
and talk about everything.
Lee cries,
as she tells us that she still cuts
and doesn’t know
how to stop it
and that she feels so goddamn ugly
with the scars from the accident
that she just wants to hide under a rock and never come out.
Bronwyn and I look at each other
and don’t say anything
but slide our arms around Lee,
one either side,
she’s bodyguarded now
and I hope
that our touch somehow comforts her.
Warm against the cold.
Bronwyn starts talking suddenly,
filling the empty silence
that’s only punctuated by random sniffles
and the occasional nose-blowing from Lee.
Bronwyn talks about how
no matter what she does
she always feels fat.
No matter what the scales say.
She knows that she’s got to change her mindset
but it seems too scary, too hard,
and that voice in her head
telling her she’s fat, fat, fat,
is like a companion she’s known all her life
and she’s not sure she can say goodbye.
She talks about her boyfriend
and how she thinks he’s going to leave her
because surely things can’t be that good.
Her thoughts purge out
until the catharsis is over,
and then she looks slightly vulnerable,
grabbing the bottle off Lee
and taking a long drink.
I let the silence penetrate the air
and ingest some more Dutch courage
before I tell the girls how
there are nights when I can’t sleep and
I want to rip off my head
and sometimes I can’t believe I’m so fucked up
and that I needed their help after I had the abortion
but I was so ashamed and guilty that I couldn’t breathe
a word about what was eating me up inside.
And that I still don’t know if I’ve got a purpose for my life
or what it is
and I’m so damn sick and tired
of feeling fragile.
Lee leans her head on my shoulder.
It’s a drunken, tired, sympathetic gesture.
Bronwyn hands me the bottle,
and I, too, drink.
Even though none of us has spoken
a word of comfort to each other,
the empathy and compassion
ooze around us
like a fog.
We stay on the beach for a long time.
I know
that even if our friendships drift apart,
I will not forget this night.
Time marches on
Jim and I are packing to come home,
shaking the sand out of everything
sweeping the floor
throwing away a heap of bottles
washing up plates and glasses,
when he pulls me tight
and holds me.
For a minute
I don’t want to grow up.
I want time to freeze,
so I can stay here,
in this fibro shack full of sand,
with Jim and the girls on the beach,
with the smells of hot chips and
the taste of Baccardi in my mouth.
With the drives in the car,
singing along with the radio
turned up loud,
sticking our hands out the window to feel the wind.
I want to stay here,
where it’s safe and peaceful and happy.
I know I can’t,
but I wish I could —
just for a minute longer.
Jim has the suitcases by the door
and he’s calling me impatiently to hurry up,
the house key jangling in his hand.
I take one last look around the place,
and walk out.
Now Schoolies is over,
I’m officially no longer a student —
and I don’t quite know what to do with myself.
Mum hugs me at the door,
thrilled that I’ve made it through Schoolies unscathed.
She frowns at Jim’s eyebrow ring,
and checks me all over for piercings.
Mothers!
Monday brings normalcy.
Back to work,
full time now.
Back to crisp white shirts and shrill telephones.
It’s comforting,
sitting at the computer sipping coffee.
I suppose
that I’ll have to find another job —
try to work out what I really like doing.
But for now,
I’m happy,
sitting at the computer sipping coffee.
I’m waiting at the letterbox
Today the OP results are out.
The ones that tell you whether or not you can
get into the course you want.
I try to check online but I can’t get through —
the net is too busy.
I don’t really care, because I’m not going to uni,
but I’m curious, all the same.
So I opt to wait it out — outside.
The postie smiles at me
and as he hands me an A4 envelope he says,
‘Guess this is for you. Good luck, young lady.’
I take it into my room,
put it on the bed,
pace around,
poke it,
lie down and look at the envelope from another angle.
Mum and Dad are watching from the doorway,
and Dad tells me to just open it already,
I’m making him nervous.
I rip a teeny hole in a corner,
and examine it closely.
Finally,
I rip it open,
straight down the middle.
16.
Not bad.
I’m pretty happy with that.
I grin out of the corner of my mouth,
and hold up the piece of paper.
My parents squint, and then grin,
holler
and wahoo,
before sandwiching me in the middle of their hug.
They’re proud of me,
they say,
and it’s nice to know that.
They take me out for dinner,
to the local Chinese,
and tell everyone in the restaurant that I got
a great OP score.
I’m embarrassed by their antics,
but I can’t help smiling.
Gossip
That night
phone lines are tied up
as every Year Twelve kid discovers what everyone else got.
The rumours do the rounds
that the ‘smart girl’ of the class
cried because she got an OP 2, not an OP 1.
One of the boys managed to get the lowest score possible
— and he’s so proud of it.
Bronwyn rings me, subdued.
She didn’t get what she needed
to get into the course she wanted.
‘Never mind Char,’ she says bravely.
‘It’s the big picture that’s important, you know?’
She doesn’t join the melee on MSN
bragging about their score.
There’s quite a few people who don’t.
I can’t help but feel sorry for them.
Char/New Year’s Eve
Two weeks later
and it’s New Year’s Eve.
Jim and I share our resolutions.
His are predictable —
to do really well in his apprenticeship,
start saving his money,
that kind of thing.
I make one resolution —
to remember
that I am a g
ood person
and to not beat myself up so much.
No more
being my worst enemy.
And to ask for help
when I need it.
I’m not perfect,
and I don’t expect to be,
but the Bad Days,
no matter how vicious,
will not win.
And that is my strongest resolution.
It’s New Year’s Eve —
the night that’s known for being full of
Hope
Promise
Potential
Wonder.
A clean slate, and all that, you know.
I feel as if
my life is
Beginning
Forming
Shaping
into the next phase.
I want to taste it,
gulp it with all of my senses,
and do more than just exist.
I will LIVE.
What Does Blue Feel Like? Page 14
