What Does Blue Feel Like?

by Jessica Davidson

  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.