by Kate Gordon
Jed shakes his head. “You need to work it out yourself.”
Patience nods. “Tell us some more memories,” she says. “Maybe you’ll find one where Viggo isn’t so wonderful.”
“I haven’t yet,” I mutter. “Jed seems to think the memories prove Viggo is bad, but I can’t see it. He’s just as smart and charismatic and handsome and driven and wonderful in my memories as when I was living them.”
“Keep going,” Patience says, her voice more serious now. Her eyes drift down to my ribs. “Keep telling them. Tell us everything. I’m sure, eventually, you’ll work it out.”
Thirty-Three
We sit on a log, watching currawongs bounce and bob along on the undergrowth. “They look so happy,” I sigh. “So happy in their little, bouncy world. I guess currawongs don’t fall in love.”
“Maybe they do,” Patience says. “Or maybe they know better. Maybe they know that boys suck.”
“Oi!” Jed says. “Right here, Patty!”
Patience rolls her eyes. “You’re not a boy, Jed.”
“Thanks very much.” Jed feigns hurt before grinning. He gestures at the bird. “Besides, how do you know it’s a female currawong? It could be Colin the currawong for all you know.”
“It’s a female,” I say. When Jed and Patience both look at me quizzically, I explain. “The females have shorter beaks.”
“Viggo?” Patience asks dryly. I nod.
“He likes bird-watching.”
“But that’s an ‘outdoors pursuit’,” Jed says, aping Viggo again. I have to admit, he does a pretty good impersonation.
And it is kind of annoying.
“I know. Viggo doesn’t do outdoors pursuits,” I say. “Unless they’re mandated by Young Rotary. But he won a bird-watching day as part of a science prize a few years back. And of course, even though he didn’t want to do it, he fully committed to it and did it well. He can still reel off all the names. I don’t think he actually goes actively bird-watching anymore. Not, like, in nature. But he still knows everything about them. In fact, there are birds in my next memory of him. Seagulls. No, wait, silver gulls—the most common sea bird in Australia. Scientific name ‘Chroicocephalus novaehollandiae’.”
“You actually remember that?”
I nod miserably at my sister. “I remember everything. But wait—” I look at Jed. “You said coming here on this adventure related to a Connie-and-Jed—a Coned—memory.”
“Snowmen,” he says. “The wombat. Don’t you remember?”
I nod. My lips twitch. “Yes, I remember.”
“We had an awesome time that day. One of the best days of my life. Just Connie and Jed, doing our thing.”
I look at him curiously. “Seriously?”
“Yep. And on the bus on the way home, we worked out how we were going to get a Tardis.”
“We did too.” I laugh. And I do remember now, how much fun I had. How free and boundless I felt that day with Jed.
How I almost always felt that way, with Jed.
“So tell me about Viggo and seagulls,” he says.
And I suddenly feel deflated. Because I didn’t feel boundless in this memory. I didn’t feel free that day.
“All right,” I say. “So, we went to the beach. And yes, it was an outdoor pursuit, but we weren’t there for fun.”
Thirty-Four
Memory 18
It was the start of the new school year. Viggo and I had spent the summer doing classes at the university. I’d done sessions in Australian, American and British politics and British military history. I’d wanted to do a couple of art and music classes too, but there hadn’t been time once Viggo had planned my schedule. But that was okay. I learned a lot, and I got to spend time with Viggo.
When we got back to normal school, as well as all the other clubs Viggo and I were involved in, Viggo signed us up for the Landcare group.
I was surprised, at the time, by his choice. The only time I’d ever heard him talk about environmental issues was to dismiss those who cared about them.
“You’re either an environmentalist or you’re for progress.” He waved his hand in the air. “You can’t be both. I’m for progress all the way. Greenies can whinge all they want about old growth forests and special, unique species of bush grub, but economic growth must take precedence. When I am in power—” Viggo said this a lot, and I always marvelled at his complete certainty that he would, one day, be running this country. He was so confident. I was in awe. “—I will be about seeing business thrive in this country, not letting it wither and die in the name of ‘saving the planet’. Global warming is a myth, anyway. Everyone knows …”
The old Connie would have argued with him, but I knew better than to try. Viggo was a hugely successful debater. There was no point attempting to win an argument with him and, besides, I didn’t really want to. It was so much nicer when I just agreed with Viggo, even if, inside, I didn’t really. There was no harm in pretending, if it kept the peace. Viggo tended to get a bit … heated if you disagreed with him. He was passionate about his beliefs. It was one of his many great character traits.
Which is exactly why I was so surprised when he told me he was the new Vice President of the Bangarra High Landcare Group. Until he explained. “Diversity,” he said. “We can’t have all our eggs in the one basket. What if someone on the university selection panel happened to be on the board of Keep Australia Beautiful?” He prodded a fingertip into his palm. “Which is why—naturally—you will be joining the group too, won’t you, Constance?”
I had actually been thinking of joining Landcare the previous year—before Viggo arrived—but I was put off when I found out all of the überclones had already joined. I knew exactly why they’d signed up. And it all had to do with Ryan Chapman.
Ryan Chapman was the president of the Bangarra High Landcare group. And Ryan Chapman was the Hottest-Boy-In-School. And there was nothing a überclone loved more than a Hottest-Boy-In-School.
Jed and I had laughed together about it all. The shallowness! The lack of actual social conscience! The incurable superficiality of the überclone!
Since I’d started shopping at the boutique where Kacey worked, and she’d found out I was friends with her cousin Em, the überclones were actually being really nice to me. And they could be surprisingly kind of fun to hang around. Kacey and I were almost … friends.
She was nice.
It could be fun, spending more time with her in the Landcare group. And spending more time with Viggo would be brilliant, of course.
There was only one problem …
“No time?” Viggo said tersely. “Too many extracurriculars already? Constance, as you know, there is always a solution. Where there is a will, there is a way! We will simply forgo our weekend brunches to help out. We can move our book-discussions to Thursday lunchtimes. Which reminds me: how are you going with the Richard Nixon biography?”
I hadn’t started it.
“Great!” I said.
And then I sat up until two am and read the whole thing.
Patience helped me to apply my under-eye concealer, so Viggo wouldn’t notice my dark shadows. He didn’t like me to look tired.
Thirty-Five
Memory 19
So with concealed under-eyes and my perkiest smile, I joined the Bangarra High Landcare Group at Bangarra Beach clutching a long metal rubbish-grabber in my hand along with everyone else.
Well, everyone else except Viggo, that is.
He was “coordinating”. Ryan was away at leadership camp, so Viggo was in charge. And in charge is where Viggo prefers to be. He was positively bouncing.
He’d made Kacey his second-in-command.
I was trying to hide my disappointment. I knew Viggo must have a strategy. Some sort of political reason for promoting Kacey. And she did seem to be taking her role seriously, racing around to relay Viggo’s instructions to the rest of us.
She was doing a good job.
She was also wearing a boob tube
. And teeny-tiny denim shorts. And looked like a Sports Illustrated model.
Whereas I was dressed in the outfit Viggo had picked for me—three-quarter length navy capri pants, a khaki button-down shirt, sensible black lace-up boat shoes and a navy cardigan around my shoulders. I knew I looked elegant. I knew Viggo approved of my outfit.
I knew I’d look ridiculous in a boob tube, even a posh one from Kacey’s boutique, and that I really didn’t have the figure for cutoffs, but still …
Did she have to be walking quite so closely to Viggo in that outfit?
Not that I thought for a moment Viggo would look twice at her in that way. Viggo was “attracted to a brain, not a body”.
And he liked my brain. I knew that.
I didn’t know if he liked my body, too, but I assumed he did.
I mean, sure, we hadn’t really progressed past kissing—which we did as often as Viggo had time—but he spent so much time helping me plan my outfits and fixing my hair …
He must be attracted to me to do all that. Mustn’t he?
As if he was reading my mind and sensing my insecurities, Viggo turned and looked back at me. “Constance? Can you come and help us?”
I raced forwards, breaking up a gang of silver gulls, who were fighting over a discarded bucket of chips.
I bounced up to Viggo, offering my cheek for a kiss. Viggo shook his head. “Did you not see the takeaway food rubbish?” he hissed at me.
“Oh, sorry.” I turned on my heel, raced back to the chip bucket, rubbish-grabbed it up and into my Glad bag, and sped back to Viggo’s side. He was smiling again now.
“Hi, honey,” I said, grinning back.
Viggo winced. “Professionalism, Constance,” he said, his eyes darting to Kacey.
My chest tightened. I forced a professional smile.
Viggo cleared his throat. “Anyway, I was wondering if you might run us an errand?”
“Sure!” My chest loosened. Viggo did value my contribution after all! I knew he was only making Kacey his second-in-command for strategic reasons. He was going to give me an important job—one that Kacey couldn’t manage.
I knew he had faith in me.
“Kacey has a pain in her ankle,” Viggo went on. “I need you to go to the nearest chemist shop and procure her some painkillers. Paracetemol, not Ibuprofen, as this gives her a stomach ache. Take the cost out of your own funds and Landcare will reimburse you.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“Sorry,” Kacey mouthed. I gave her a half-smile and then turned to walk away, feeling deflated.
But then …
“Constance?”
I looked over my shoulder. Viggo’s arms were open and his sea-green eyes were twinkling at me. I felt a rush of warmth. I sprinted towards him, towards his open arms. He clamped me firmly by the shoulders. “Thank you,” he said gently. “I know it’s not a glamorous job, any of this, but I appreciate you doing it. You’re a great girl, Constance Chase.”
“You’re a great girl, Constance Chase,” Jed and Patience parrot.
“What?” I ask, unable to wipe the grin from my face despite their mocking. “Viggo thought I was a great girl.” My shoulders slump. “Thought. Past tense. He doesn’t think it anymore.”
“Then he’s a bast—”
“Patience!” I snap. “Can you a) stop using nasty words—you are far too young and clever to be talking like that, and b) stop applying them to Viggo. He is not a bast … bad person. Has everyone forgotten this whole breakup is my fault? I’m the one in the wrong here, not Viggo! You should both be saying that I’m a … bad person instead. Besides, were either of you even listening to that memory? In it, Viggo not only joined an environmental cause, he displayed great leadership capabilities, he knew the scientific name for sea birds, he helped me with my fashion decisions, he was helpful to an injured person, and he called me ‘great’. That memory does nothing but show how wonderful Viggo MacDuff was. Is. Viggo MacDuff is wonderful. He is, at this very moment, out there being wonderful. Without … me.”
Tears are rolling freely down my cheeks. I don’t even bother to try to stop them. I can cry in front of Patience and Jed. They are the only people in this world—apart from my parents and Beezus—who I do feel comfortable crying in front of.
I never would have cried in front of Viggo. Viggo hates weakness. Viggo hates tears.
Except, of course, I did cry, didn’t I? That last night. The night of my party.
The night I wrecked the world.
“Do you want to get off this mountain?” Jed asks gently. “Maybe there’s too much quiet up here. Too much space for reflection. Maybe what we need is some noise.”
Thirty-Six
Jed shakes the hand of the guy in the tight red tee-shirt and baggy pants. The tee-shirt says, “I’ve never had to knock on wood, but I know someone who has”.
I get the reference: it’s a song by The Mighty Mighty Bosstones. I’m not sure many people our age would have even heard of that band. But this guy has not only heard of them, he likes them enough to have a tee-shirt. Which is part of the reason I am immediately intrigued.
The other part is that Jed has brought us to some sort of old, disused warehouse, between a muffler repair service and a pie factory. The whole place smells of pastry and petrol.
There’s a sign on the door that says, “Keep out unless you are Doctor Worm (and if you are … Good morning! How are you?).” Again, I know what that means. It’s a song by They Might Be Giants.
The guy in the red tee-shirt catches me checking out the sign. “You like TMBG?” he asks, abbreviating the band’s name to show that he is a true fan.
I nod. “Yeah. Especially their early stuff.”
The guy nods at Jed, obviously impressed. I feel proud. “Dude,” he says. “I think we got a live one here.”
I know I’m grinning like an idiot. Why does it feel so cool that this guy I don’t even know is impressed by the fact I like a semi-obscure indie band?
The guy turns to Patience. “Hey, kiddo, do you share your big sister’s awesome taste in music?”
She shakes her head. “Nope, sorry. I’m just your typical thirteen-year-old. Total Swifty.” She smiles. “Sorry to disappoint.”
He shakes his head. “Not at all. I totally rate Taylor Swift. Awesome songwriter. We won’t be playing any in our set, though. Sorry to disappoint you.”
Our set?
I look quizzically at Jed. The guy catches it. “Ah! I forgot Jed said in his text you’ll have no idea why you’re here,” he says, smirking. “Welcome to the home of Barenaked Ween. We’re a nineties’ cover band. For now. Until we hit the big time and they let us play our own songs. Your mate here has been filling in on some drums for us the past few months. He’s great on Korn and System Of A Down. And you should hear him rock Alien Ant Farm’s ‘Smooth Criminal’. He’s got some wicked lyric ideas too, for when we make the crossover. We’re thinking we might just keep him on.”
Jed’s mouth drops open. “Really? Dude …”
I know my mouth’s open too. Jed? In a nineties’ cover band?
“How did I not know this?” I ask.
“You’ve been … preoccupied,” he mutters.
“But Jed? Really? You hate nineties’ music.”
The guy laughs. “Like hell he does. This guy has an encyclopaedic knowledge. He’s a nineties’ music Rain Man.”
Jed shrugs. “You kinda got me into it. Don’t tell my metal friends though, okay?”
I shake my head. “I really have missed out on your life, haven’t I? While I’ve been with Viggo.”
Jed shrugs again. He turns back to the guy. “Connie, this is Gus. Gus, Constance Chase.”
“Awesome name,” says Gus, holding out his hand. “Sounds like an album title. You prefer Connie, though?”
I’m caught off-guard by the question, and I have to take a moment to think about it. I always did prefer Connie, before Viggo, but he convinced me Constance sounded more grown-up and profession
al.
I never did really feel like it fit me, though, did I? It was like the suits and the heels—stiff, restrictive, uncomfortable. Not me.
“I prefer Connie.” I ignore the nagging feeling of disobedience that swells inside me as I say it.
It feels as if I am betraying Viggo.
In fact, I feel as if I’m betraying Viggo by even being here, in this place he would have called “dingy”.
I feel as if I am betraying him by talking to Gus—Viggo didn’t really like me talking to other males unless it was for “professional or educational reasons”.
I feel as if I betrayed him by colouring my hair blue, by putting on my Snoopy Vans the day after we broke up …
I look at my feet.
Why did I put on my Vans the day after we broke up?
What was I thinking? What the hell is wrong with me? No wonder Viggo doesn’t want to be with me anymore. I’m hopeless. I’m weak. I’m …
“You ready to rock?” Gus asks. As he smiles, light glints off his lower lip and I see he has a silver stud pierced through it. His septum is pierced too.
I stop myself thinking it looks cool. It doesn’t look cool. How will he ever get a proper job with something like that in his face?
That’s what Viggo would say, if he was here.
I wish Viggo was here. I wish it so hard.
He’d put a stop to all this nonsense. He’d pull me into line again, get me back into shape. He’d—
I look over and notice Jed is already seated at the drums. I feel a hand on my elbow.
“You okay, Connie?” Gus asks softly. “You don’t look like you want to be here. But … if you don’t mind me saying this, from everything Jed has told me about you—and the guy never, ever shuts up about you—I think you belong here.”
Jed is fiddling with a screw on the hi-top cymbals. He doesn’t see me looking. But Gus does.
