by Penny Tangey
‘But it’s your last summer before you go to university!’ Dad said when I told him I was going to DC.
‘So?’ I said. ‘What difference does that make? I’ll still be living at home with you. Unfortunately.’ I wanted to live in college but Dad said it was a waste of money.
Dad left a small pause to signal that he was hurt before continuing, ‘But you like Apollo Bay, don’t you?’
‘Yeah, of course. But this is an opportunity to travel.’
‘But why do you need to be there for two months? Couldn’t you come to the beach with us and then go to Washington for a couple of weeks?’
‘I want to experience living there.’
‘But you won’t have anything to do.’
‘I deserve a break after Year Twelve,’ I snapped. ‘I did work pretty hard.’
Dad’s guilt trips are relentless. He tried another angle. ‘Well, the Maguires will be disappointed. It was going to be the whole team together again this year with Liam back from South America.’
It didn’t matter what Dad said though. I’d made up my mind, I was going to DC. And I knew that Liam Maguire wouldn’t be disappointed at all.
So I got my way; I’m in DC – and I hate it.
Mindlessly, I log on to Facebook again. Despite my binge of commenting on other people’s pages, I don’t have any new messages.
I click on Liam’s page. I see the photo again. I first saw it in his Argentina folder but now he’s made it his profile picture. The girl is stunning. Liam’s arm is draped around her with his hand resting on her shiny brown shoulder.
It’s tempting to think that she must be a bimbo, but I know she isn’t. She’s studying international development at university. She’s worked as a volunteer in health clinics and on a campaign to support gay marriage. She’s selfless, intelligent and beautiful.
If only Liam had posted that picture earlier, I might have worked it out and not been such an idiot. I was such an idiot.
I rest my head on my desk. Why am I thinking about this again? The whole idea of coming to America was to get away from this stuff.
I decide to email Yingmei. I don’t really want to admit that my trip isn’t as exciting as I thought it would be, but I have to tell someone how I feel. Yingmei will understand. She was planning to work a lot this summer to save money before uni starts, so she’s probably not having fun either. If I send an email tonight, I should have a reply when I wake up tomorrow. All I need is to hear some sympathetic words to get me out of this mood.
Chapter Two
The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.
Franklin D. Roosevelt, 32nd President of the United States of America
I wake up to the sound of Mum banging around in the kitchen. There is a crash as something metallic hits the tiled floor.
Reluctantly, I get up to investigate.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Are there any Tupperware containers in this house?’
‘No. Why do you need one?’
‘To take the leftovers to work.’
‘Sorry, we don’t have anything. It wasn’t very nice anyway.’
Mum stops rummaging around under the sink. ‘Alright then. I’ll go now.’ She’s already got her scarf, coat and gloves on, ready to leave.
At the door she pauses and says, ‘Darling, I’ve just remembered – Pete had a very good idea for you.’
Pete is one of Mum’s workmates. He came to Australia last year for a six-month placement. He is a total computer nerd. I therefore have very little faith in this idea, which will probably be something like, ‘Teach yourself to program in Python!’
‘What?’ I say grumpily.
‘He suggested you volunteer.’
‘Volunteer where?’
‘Well, I don’t know. Charities or something, I guess. He wasn’t specific. Bye!’ The door clicks shut behind her. She’s gone, leaving me alone and annoyed.
She must have been talking to Pete about how much of a loser I am, hanging around the house all day.
It’s not actually a bad suggestion. I’m not against the idea of volunteering. But where would I volunteer and what would I do? It’s typical of Mum to throw out a half-baked idea and then act like implementing it is straightforward.
There are a lot of problems though. I’d have to catch the train and the idea makes me want to vomit. Also, won’t it be totally weird when I turn up by myself without knowing anyone? People will think I’m a friendless freak. And what if they find out that I’m not volunteering out of altruism but because I’m bored? A lady in a smock will point a ladle at me and shout, ‘We’re not serving soup for your entertainment.’ And then I’ll be banned from the van.
I remember the email I wrote to Yingmei last night. She should have replied by now, it’s been over twelve hours. I switch on my laptop.
But when my inbox finally appears, there’s nothing except a Qantas frequent flyer points update. Yingmei has ignored what was clearly a cry for help.
I have listened to Yingmei’s endless complaints about her manager at Gloria Jean’s and her bizarre crushes on her fellow employees. I have empathised. I have sympathised. I was there for her when they reorganised the rosters during exams. But when I have a problem, and ask for a little bit in return, I get nothing.
Now that I think about it, she never brought the Milo to school, it was always me.
I log in to Facebook and see that Yingmei, my supposed best friend, has updated her status since yesterday. It now says, Feeling happy. Just happy. So much for missing me. I notice that ten people say they like this comment. Ten! It makes me want to spew. In contrast, only Bethany likes my Lincoln Memorial status update, and that doesn’t really count since she likes everything.
I turn on the television. An episode of Friends is on. The gang are sitting around in the coffee shop, talking and laughing. They all have companionship and emotional support. I hate them. I change the channel. The Golden Girls theme song, ‘Thank You For Being a Friend’, begins.
I turn the television off and type Volunteering Washington DC into Google.
It’s a fifteen-minute walk from the train station to the church hall and I don’t think it will ever end. If I was in Melbourne I would listen to my iPod but now I want to be alert. It is absolutely freezing. My top half is fairly warm because I’m wearing two jumpers and a coat, but the wind cuts straight through my pants as if they’re made of orange-bag mesh.
I’m cold and I’m scared.
Last night a man was mugged and killed in the street next to ours. I heard the sirens after I got into bed. That’s nothing special, there are always sirens blaring here. This morning I was buying a bagel on Connecticut Avenue and the lady in the deli told me what happened. A couple were on their way home from the movies when they were approached by a group of men. The muggers assaulted the woman, and when her boyfriend tried to stop them they slit his throat. While his girlfriend watched.
I ran home from the shop and I stayed inside for the rest of the day. Of course, I know that sort of thing can happen anywhere but it is far more likely to happen here. DC has one of the highest crime rates in the world. The guidebook says that even posh suburbs, like Georgetown, aren’t safe at night.
So now I’m out here at night, on my own, less than twenty-four hours after a terribly violent crime was committed a block away from my house. What am I doing? It’s clearly a bad idea – a girl out on her own after dark in the most dangerous city in the world.
Mum was thrilled when I told her what I was doing. I tentatively suggested that maybe it was a bit risky to go out on my own at night. She looked at me, frowned, and said, ‘Make sure you have your whistle.’ And she did offer to pick me up at the train station on the way home.
I’m volunteering for the group Reading Beyond Bars. I chose
it because I like the sound of the status update: Sending books to prisoners, hope they like reading! Hopefully Liam will see it and realise that I am capable of doing more than studying for exams.
The streets near the Dupont Circle station are lively. People are scurrying to the train station, or rushing into the warmth of the brightly lit restaurants and bars. But as I leave the station behind the streets become residential, less busy, and no one is lingering outside in this weather.
The pavement stretches ahead completely empty. Then a woman with masses of curly hair appears from a side street and walks in front of me for a few moments. She is clearly not a threat and she is talking on a mobile phone. She can dial 911 if I scream. But then she turns down another street and I’m on my own again.
The houses I’m walking past are very large and solid. I pass a red-brick house that has decorative lanterns in the windows and a turret. It looks welcoming and cheerful. The house across the street also has a turret but it seems sinister and haunted, perhaps because it doesn’t have lanterns.
It would be so nice to visit the cheerful lantern house. Perhaps a friend of Mum’s would have invited me. I would be welcomed in, and someone would take my coat and hand me a glass of red. We’d sit next to a fire and chat. Then Mum’s friend’s son would arrive home from university. He’d be pleasantly surprised to see me and would pull up a pouf next to me. We’d talk all evening over a delicious dinner of osso bucco and red wine. He’d be very interested in what I had to say and would also be good-looking in an unconventional, asymmetrical way. Then a snow storm would hit, and I wouldn’t be able to go home that night. And I’d sleep in a cosy octagonal room in the turret with a big fluffy doona. And after I’d snuggled into bed with a hot-water bottle there’d be a tap on my door and he’d be standing there with a mug of hot chocolate . . .
I hear footsteps behind me. I turn around. There’s a man walking about fifty metres behind me. He’s a very big man. I try not to panic. Maybe he isn’t following me after all. I’ll walk to the lamppost and then check again.
Although I’ve been walking faster, when I pass the lamppost and look over my shoulder, the man is closer. I’ve been clutching my mobile phone since I left the house. Now I pre-dial 911. In my other hand I hold my house keys in a fist so I can stab him with them. My whistle, which Mum has so much faith in, is still in my bag because I only have two hands.
I try to remember advice about personal safety. I once read in a magazine that if you are attacked, people are more likely to help if you yell, ‘My baby, my baby!’ than if you yell, ‘Help!’
Up ahead I can see a busier, well-lit street. If I can make it there, I’ll be okay. I glance around again and the man is still there. He sees me looking this time, but I’m too scared to care. I could break into a run, but what if he starts running too? I’d never be able to beat him, his legs are very long. This is so unfair. I am donating my valuable time (well, it’s not actually that valuable, but no one else knows that) to help criminals improve themselves only to be rewarded by becoming a victim of crime.
If I’m murdered I’ll never find out if I got into law.
Further along, someone turns a corner out of a side street and starts walking in front of me. Thank God. Now there is a witness. It’s a young man wearing skinny black jeans and a duffle coat. He looks like an arts student. I don’t expect him to fight anyone off, but he could run for help.
Now I’m very close to the busy street. The hall is only about 200 metres away. I’ve nearly made it.
I catch up to the duffle-coat guy at the traffic lights. While I wait for them to turn green I feel around in my pocket for the address. I find the piece of paper and unfold it.
‘Excuse me?’
The guy in the duffle coat is talking to me.
‘Are you going to Reading Beyond Bars?’
‘Yes.’
I must look confused because he says, ‘Sorry, I saw the address in your hand. That’s where I’m headed.’
‘That’s such a coincidence!’
He smiles. ‘Well, not really. The hall’s just across the road.’
‘But it’s not just that,’ I stammer. ‘I’ve been watching you all the way down the street. I was worried that a man was following me. I thought he was a mugger or a rapist or something and I was really scared. So when you started walking in front of me I was so relieved. And now it turns out you’re going to the same place I am.’ I am babbling at a complete stranger.
‘Which man?’ he says.
‘He might have gone,’ I say, looking around the street. ‘No, actually, he’s over there.’ I point to my left, where the man is walking into a restaurant. He’s carrying a briefcase, and wearing pleated pants. I wish I’d noticed that before; he wouldn’t have seemed so scary.
‘How did you know I wasn’t a mugger or something?’ duffle-coat guy says.
‘I guess I didn’t have that feeling,’ I say.
I’m turning bright red. The boy in the duffle coat doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to. We’re both thinking it. I wasn’t scared of duffle-coat guy because he isn’t black. It’s the same as the man on the train. I’ve done it again, only this time someone else noticed.
My face is hot and I try to shrink down into my scarf to hide. The lights change and we start to cross the road. I expect the guy to walk off ahead of me. He won’t want anything to do with me now he knows I’m racist. Arts students hate racists.
‘Anyway, I’m glad you’re not scared anymore. My name’s Campbell,’ he says.
I’m sitting at a table, holding a pen, unsure what to write. Campbell explained the process for sending books to prisoners to me, but he didn’t give much guidance on what to write in the letter.
My first prisoner, Doug, asked for books in the fantasy genre. He named some titles, but we didn’t have them. Campbell told me to choose a random fantasy novel. I chose Blade of the Black Dragon’s Sword. I don’t read fantasy but I liked the picture on the cover, which, interestingly, didn’t contain a dragon or a sword. Campbell said I didn’t have to write a letter unless I wanted to. But everyone else is. I write:
Dear Doug,
I’m sorry but we didn’t have books three or four in the ‘Golden Chalice’ series. I hope you like the book I chose instead, and that you haven’t already read it.
What now? Normally at the end of emails I write something like Hope you’re having a good week, but that doesn’t seem appropriate. Yours sincerely is too formal and Cheers seems a bit flippant. I write Best wishes. It is a very short letter and it’s unlikely to give Doug much of a thrill.
After Best wishes I’m not sure what to do. Should I sign my name? I glance across at Campbell, who is sitting next to me. He is writing furiously. He told me he’s been writing to this guy for the past year because they have similar interests. He didn’t say what those interests were. I hope not armed robbery.
I don’t want to sign my name, but at the same time I don’t want people to think that I don’t want to sign my name. And I don’t want Doug to think I didn’t sign my name because I’m scared of him. I am a bit scared of him though. I take a deep breath and decide to be brave. I scrawl Clara but I make it a bit ambiguous so that it could be read as Clare.
I wrap the book and letter in a brown paper bag. I weigh my parcel and put it in the less-than-one-pound pile. I take another prisoner’s letter. This bit is actually quite fun. It is thrilling that real-life prisoners wrote the letters. It is also nice to think that even though they might have done and seen some horrible things in their lives, the books that we send provide a rewarding and maybe even improving pastime.
I open the letter and read, I would like to receive books on true crime.
I laugh. A girl standing next to me looks up. She is wearing a tea-cosy on her head. Not a beanie that looks like a tea-cosy, an actual tea-cosy. I can se
e the holes for the spout and handle. I’m intimidated by her. I’m sure she thinks I’m incredibly boring.
She says, ‘What is it?’
‘This guy wants books on true crime. What should I do?’
‘Oh right. Yeah. That’s a problem.’ She nods and drums her fingers against the side of the bookcase. ‘You can try the fourth shelf on the left but we’re probably all out. That stuff is super popular.’ She grabs a letter from the pile and wanders off.
Glancing around to check that no one is watching, I put the letter back. I can’t deal with it. I pick up another letter, hoping for the best.
It takes me over an hour to prepare six parcels. Most of the prisoners want fantasy or science fiction, which is a bit dull. I stick to the same letter format I developed for Doug.
Campbell has finished writing his extremely long letters and is now wrapping up his parcels. He has quite a large pile.
‘Wow, you’ve done a lot,’ I say.
‘Yeah, well I didn’t come last week so I had a few of my regulars to catch up on.’
‘How many parcels does Reading Beyond Bars send out each week?’ I ask.
‘Between one and two hundred. We could do more, but we can’t afford the postage.’
‘Do you want me to help you wrap them?’
‘If you could cut up tape that would be great.’
I pick up the tape and scissors and start cutting, lining the pieces up on the edge of the table.
‘So, where are you from?’ Campbell asks.
‘Australia. Isn’t it obvious?’
‘No. Why would it be?’
‘From my accent.’
‘Well, I thought you might be from England or South Africa or something. How long are you in DC for?’
‘Two months. My mother’s on an assignment with the World Bank for six months. So I’ve come here for the summer holidays.’
‘Summer?’
‘Um, yeah. It’s summer in Australia.’
