Clara in Washington

by Penny Tangey

  Campbell starts walking again and I’m relieved that he doesn’t keep asking me questions about it. He doesn’t say anything else either though. He almost liked me but now I’ve wrecked everything.

  At the station we are heading to separate platforms. We say goodbye near the escalators.

  ‘Have fun with your mum,’ I say.

  ‘Thanks. See you around.’

  ‘Okay, bye then.’ I step onto the escalator.

  ‘Hey Clara,’ calls Campbell.

  I turn around, walking up a couple of steps to see what he wants.

  ‘Come see me in the cafe some time.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I mean it,’ he says. I can only just see his face but he’s looking into my eyes and I believe him. I stop walking up the steps and he slips out of sight.

  On the train I replay the last moments of our conversation again and again. When I arrive at Metro Central I realise I’ve travelled on the yellow line after dark and I didn’t think about being mugged once.

  Chapter Seven

  A map of the world that does not include Utopia is not worth even glancing at, for it leaves out the one country at which Humanity is always landing. And when Humanity lands there, it looks out, and, seeing a better country, sets sail. Progress is the realisation of Utopias.

  Oscar Wilde, Irish writer, poet and anarchist

  My first thought when I wake up is that I will get my Year Twelve results today. Results come out at seven on Monday morning in Australia, which will be five in the evening here. Even though it’s still ten hours away I’m too jumpy to stay in bed.

  I get up, sit at my desk and check Facebook. There’s a message from Bethany: Are you nervous about results? Thinking of you. Good luck.

  Mum is rattling around in the kitchen. She didn’t come home until eleven last night and was so tired that she put her tea in the microwave and ate it in bed.

  When I walk into the kitchen she is pouring coffee beans into the grinder.

  ‘Morning.’

  ‘Did you assassinate anyone?’ she shouts over the coffee grinder.

  ‘No, funnily enough.’

  ‘Did you throw Molotov cocktails?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you at least make your own yoghurt?’

  ‘You’re mocking the wrong group now. Anarchists aren’t hippies.’

  ‘Sorry, my mistake. How was Comrade Campbell?’

  ‘Fine,’ I shout above the grinder but as I do she switches it off and my voice rings through the apartment. I can cope with her making fun of anarchists in general, but I don’t want her to start on Campbell. I wish I hadn’t told her I was going to the anarchist meeting yesterday. But I felt like I had to in case I got kidnapped and needed her to phone the police.

  ‘Did you finish your report?’ I ask.

  ‘No!’ she says. ‘I have to go back in today.’

  Normally I’d be disappointed, but today I’m pleased. If she’s not here I can visit Campbell at the cafe. That will take my mind off waiting for results.

  ‘What are you doing today?’ she asks.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say, not wanting to mention Campbell in case she starts up again.

  Mum rolls her eyes.

  ‘What’s your problem?’ I ask.

  ‘You seem to spend all day, every day, sitting around the apartment being a sad case. Why don’t you visit Campbell at the cafe or something?’

  ‘Well, it’s nice that my mother thinks I’m a sad case.’

  I walk into the bathroom. I take off my pyjamas and step into the shower. Mothers are supposed to believe their daughters are wonderful, not mock them and tell them they’re pathetic.

  The worst part is, she’s right. I am a sad case. I have no purpose, no reason for being. I’m too boring to have interesting experiences and adventures. Last night I was so excited about seeing Campbell again. But he was probably only being polite. He doesn’t really want me to come to the cafe, he must have lots more interesting people to hang around with. I should stay here, watch television and bake biscuits.

  As I step out of the shower I hear Mum call out, ‘I’m leaving now! See you tonight.’ She doesn’t even realise she’s offended me. But why would she? She’s got far more interesting and important things to think about.

  I dry off and then wrap a towel around myself and walk to my bedroom. Without getting dressed I check my Facebook page again.

  Bethany has changed her status update to: There’s no way I can sleep tonight – only 9 hours to go!

  My status update still says I’m attending the Anarchist Collective meeting. I decide to leave it so there’s more chance that Liam will see it. Besides, what would I change it to? Just got called a sad case by my mum . . . again.

  I’m looking in the fridge, trying to decide what to cook for dinner. It’s hard to concentrate because my results might already be posted on the internet. I’ve spent all day telling myself that results don’t matter, that they don’t define you as a person, that there are more important things in life, but I’m not sure if I really believe it. Anyway, I’ll check them soon.

  I find a mouldy carrot in the bottom of the crisper and throw it in the bin.

  My phone rings and I trudge unenthusiastically to answer it, knowing it will be Mum telling me she has to work late again.

  ‘Hello, this is Clara,’ I say.

  A quiet little voice says, ‘Hello. It’s me.’

  ‘Um, sorry, who is me?’

  ‘Bethany.’

  ‘Bethany! I didn’t recognise your voice. Are you okay?’

  ‘I got my results,’ she says in a small, sad voice.

  I look at the clock; it’s five past five. Bethany must have checked as soon as they came out. ‘Great! How did you go?’ I say.

  ‘I got ninety-four.’ Bethany is crying. ‘I can’t get into medicine.’

  I try everything to make her feel better. I tell her she should be pleased with her score, that there are lots of good courses she can do, that she can always transfer into medicine after first year, that her score isn’t everything. But nothing helps.

  ‘My life is ruined!’

  ‘That’s stupid.’

  ‘It’s easy for you. I bet you got a perfect score. You’ll be off to do law.’

  Bethany is usually an extremely polite person with a talent for saying the right thing to everyone, but this time she’s got me completely wrong.

  ‘Actually I don’t know what my score is.’

  ‘You haven’t checked?’ She doesn’t believe me.

  ‘No. I haven’t. I might wait for the mail.’ It’s the first time I’ve considered doing that, but suddenly it seems like a good idea – delay the potential pain.

  ‘Well, anyway, I have to go. I should tell my parents,’ Bethany says.

  I try one last time. ‘Ninety-four is a really good score. Only six people in one hundred did better than you.’

  ‘Right,’ she says, and hangs up.

  I completely failed to make Bethany feel better. She has everything out of perspective. She thinks her whole life depends on her score, as if that one little number defines her.

  I try to imagine how I’d feel if I found out my score was too low to get into law. I’m not sure how I’d react. The scary thing is maybe I’d be like Bethany. Maybe Liam was right and I am hung up on that stupid stuff.

  I’m still thinking about Bethany when Mum bursts into the apartment.

  ‘Clara!’ she exclaims. ‘I just remembered, results today! How did you go?’

  I’m frying onions. I turn around and say, ‘I don’t know. Haven’t checked.’

  ‘But don’t you want to know?’

  ‘I don’t care about results.’ This isn’t quite true. The problem is, I
might care too much.

  ‘You’re going to wait for the mail?’ asks Mum, as though this would be completely insane.

  ‘Maybe. Or I might not check at all.’ It’s the first time I’ve thought of this, and it doesn’t seem like such a bad idea.

  Mum stares at me in horror. ‘Clara, that’s ridiculous! You have to find out eventually. What about uni?’

  ‘Well, if I’m offered a place it will be in the paper.’ I’m making this up as I go.

  I add the tomatoes to the pan and stir, turning my back on Mum to signal that the conversation is over.

  Mum says carefully, ‘I’ll put my things away.’ She walks down the corridor to her bedroom.

  A moment later I can hear her talking in her room. Of course. She’s rung Dad. She always calls Dad when she can’t make one of us do what she wants. It’s a weird strategy because it’s not as if Dad can either.

  Sure enough Mum walks into the kitchen and thrusts the phone at me. ‘Your father wants to speak to you.’

  ‘You watch the sauce then,’ I say, taking the phone and walking down the corridor to my bedroom. ‘Hi, Dad,’ I say.

  ‘Hello. Your mother tells me you won’t check your results.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘I’m not interested.’

  ‘Are you worried you might not have done well? Because we’ll be proud no matter what.’

  ‘It’s not that. I just don’t want to. Why is it such a big deal?’

  ‘You worked so hard all year. I thought you’d be dying to know how you went.’

  Obviously nothing I say will make him understand so I can’t be bothered trying to explain. ‘Sorry, Dad, I’d better go. I’m cooking and I’ve left Mum in charge. I can smell burning. Bye!’

  When we sit down to eat Mum says brightly, ‘I’ve worked hard over the weekend. I deserve a day off tomorrow.’

  Mum never takes time off work. One time in Grade Six I broke my arm when I fell off the monkey bars. Dad was interstate for work so Mum asked our cleaning lady to pick me up and take me to the hospital.

  She must think I’m having a full-blown crisis. ‘You don’t have to do that,’ I say.

  ‘I want to.’

  ‘You won’t convince me to check my results.’

  ‘Of course not. I just thought it would be a chance for us to spend some time together.’

  That does sound nice so I agree, but add, ‘Just so you know, I don’t have any issues to talk about.’

  ‘Okay, fine.’ A moment later she can’t resist adding, ‘You know, you won’t be able to avoid it. The school will tell people your score, and they’ll contact you. Remember the global village.’

  I shrug and say nothing but she does have a point. I guess I’ll stop checking my email and Facebook. So what? None of my friends care about me anyway.

  The more Mum and Dad try to convince me to check my results, the more I’m convinced that I’m doing the right thing. I don’t care about my results, so I won’t check them. Of course, Mum’s right – I can’t avoid the issue forever; I do need to know if I got into uni.

  I remember what Liam said: that I only wanted to do law to show off. If I get a high score I might decide to do law just because I got in. I need to decide what I actually want to do first. This way I’ve got an extra month to think before uni places are announced in January.

  I’m still asleep when there’s a tap at my door. Mum pokes her head in. ‘Clara, I made you breakfast.’

  This is hard to believe and it turns out she’s brought me a bowl of cereal and a cup of coffee. Still, it’s a good effort for her. Maybe this perceived crisis will be an advantage.

  She sits down on the edge of the bed.

  ‘So what do you want to do today?’ I ask.

  Mum fidgets a bit. ‘Well actually, darling, that’s what I came to talk to you about. Tony phoned last night. You know I promised to go back to the coffee shop to give the staff some pointers? He asked if I could come in today, and I said yes.’

  ‘What?!’ I mean, Mum talked about doing that, but she talks about a lot of things. Like taking yoga classes to de-stress. They never happen. Anyway, we were supposed to be working on my emotional issues and life goals today. I say, ‘But won’t they be too busy serving actual customers for lessons?’

  ‘It’s a learning-by-watching-and-doing process,’ says Mum. ‘I’ll demonstrate making the coffees, and they’ll take turns to try.’

  ‘But you’re not qualified,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘How much can they learn from you?’

  ‘If last week’s coffee is anything to judge by, a whole bunch!’

  I bite the inside of my cheek in irritation. Mum has started using America phrases like ‘a whole bunch’. I even heard her slip in a ‘y’all’ last week. It’s ridiculous; most of the people she works with aren’t even American.

  ‘But I thought we were doing something together today?’

  ‘You can come. It’ll be fun!’

  ‘I don’t call watching you embarrass yourself fun.’

  ‘You could chat with the staff.’

  So this is about Campbell. The whole thing is a ploy to get me a friend. My mother thinks I’m such a desperate loser that she has to try to engineer a social life for me.

  Mum springs off the bed. ‘I’m having a shower,’ she says and bounces out of the room. ‘We’ll leave in an hour.’

  I sit in bed eating my cereal and imagining Mum at the cafe. She is so embarrassing, loud, crazy and weird.

  Although, if I’m honest, other people don’t seem to mind. In fact, most people really like her. If I really try, I can almost see her through other people’s eyes. She is bright and vivacious and confident. She makes people feel special by asking them questions and laughing at their jokes.

  No one can believe that someone as conventional and boring as me could be the daughter of the lively, exotic Camille. Even my hair is drab compared to Mum’s. For years I’ve tried to convince Mum that dyeing her hair crazy colours doesn’t make her look younger, it makes her look desperate. But she doesn’t listen.

  I picture Mum at the cafe, laughing with Campbell, flicking her hair around and flirting. Maybe he’ll be attracted to her. It wouldn’t be the first time. In Year Nine I overheard Tom Banks saying that Mum was hot. I had a crush on Tom at the time.

  Anyway, what are my options if I don’t go to the cafe? If I stay in the apartment I’ll have to fight the temptation to check my results or look at Facebook all day.

  My phone beeps and there’s a text message from Bethany. I’d like to know what it says, but I can’t take the risk. I delete it without opening it.

  Tony greets Mum with exaggerated pleasure. ‘Camille! Our saviour!’ he cries.

  ‘Tony,’ she says warmly. ‘So good to see you again.’ You would never know that she’d only met Tony once, and that was when she was making a formal complaint.

  Tony turns to me. ‘And it’s great to see you again too, Carly,’ he says.

  ‘It’s Clara,’ I say.

  But Tony has already turned away and is beaming at Mum again. ‘Shall we start?’ he asks.

  ‘Sure,’ says Mum.

  ‘I’m going to the bookshop,’ I say. I’ve been trying to subtly scan the cafe, but I can’t see Campbell. Maybe he’s out the back washing dishes? Or perhaps he’s on a break? What if he isn’t working today? It would be horrible to hang around for hours if he isn’t even here. Perhaps I can sneak a peek at a roster hanging up somewhere, or maybe I’ll overhear one of the other staff mention him.

  ‘Is Campbell working today?’ asks Mum.

  ‘Yes, he’s out the back restocking the chiller,’ says Tony.

  ‘Clara is a friend of his,’ says Mum. ‘She was hoping to say hello
.’

  Tony looks at me knowingly. ‘Aha! I hope you’re not here to distract him,’ he says. And he winks.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ I say, trying to sound dryly unamused and detached. ‘I’m here to look at books.’

  ‘Of course you are,’ says Mum. ‘Well, I’ll come and find you when we need you to test some coffee.’

  Mum and Tony head towards the counter. I go over to the bookshop. Campbell told me to visit him but what am I supposed to do now that I’m here? Campbell is busy working. The chiller won’t restock itself.

  I wander around the bookshop, not looking at anything in particular. I enjoy being in a calm, peaceful room, away from my mother. There’s a special display of copies of Barack Obama’s book The Audacity of Hope. On the cover, Obama is leaning forward, smiling. He seems way too young to be president.

  Mum shouts from the other side of the shop, ‘Clara! Come and try this.’ Everyone in the shop turns to stare at her. I slink over. She’s holding an espresso cup.

  I taste the coffee. ‘Very nice,’ I say.

  ‘What do you mean nice?’

  ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘Just fine?’

  ‘It’s good.’

  ‘Better than anything you’ve had in the US?’

  ‘Yeah, probably.’

  ‘Guess who made it?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Campbell.’ She looks at me expectantly like I should be doing celebratory star jumps.

  ‘Clara says it’s the best coffee she’s had in America,’ booms Mum.

  Campbell raises his hands in the air in triumph and when Mum goes behind the counter he hugs her. They’ve clearly become quite a team. I’m left watching from the sidelines as usual.

  Campbell beckons me over and asks eagerly, ‘So did you really like the coffee?’

  ‘Sure. It was good.’

  Mum is excited. ‘You see, Clara, I discovered that Tony had some bizarre notion that the quality of the coffee was proportional to the darkness of the roast. So they were using these terribly burnt beans. I managed to find some lighter roasted beans below the counter and we’ve been using those instead. With terrific results!’