That's Why I Wrote This Song

by Susanne Gervay

  All the times I cried

  I wish you’d just die

  Karen’s eyes are blurred as she sings. We play until time fades, until Karen stops playing, until she is crying quietly, ‘I wish you’d just die, Dad. I’d wish you’d just die.’ She repeats, repeats, repeats the line.

  ‘I hate him,’ Karen whispers.

  ‘I know.’

  Chapter Eight

  At last, Oliver, Christopher and their whole year have left for their seven-day outdoor school program. There are some hearts broken, mainly Angie’s. Mine isn’t. It’s a half-study, half-adventure camp. It’s hardly tough. They stay in cabins surrounded by gum trees and kangaroos grazing. They wake up to the sounds of multicoloured rosellas and pink-grey galahs. There’s a river flowing through the area for canoeing and a mountain behind for trekking. Phones are banned at camp. I’m relieved. Even though Oliver drove Karen back to my place after the party and I kissed him, they’re not enough reasons to keep going out with him. You can’t be in a relationship just because you owe something. Because you’re grateful. I’ve thought about Oliver a lot. We’re too different. I’m at second base now. I’m not going to third base or even staying at second base or first base. I don’t feel like that towards Oliver any more.

  Oliver has been sending me e-mails from camp.

  It’s rough down here, without you. Wish you were here. Hope you’re not seeing anyone else.

  Is that insecurity or what? He’s right. I’m over him—but I don’t want to go out with anyone else. I want to be single again but I can’t break up with him while he’s away.

  E-mails…

  Message from Oliver. The teachers are like guards. No drinking, smoking, dope.

  Well, that seems obvious.

  Message from Oliver. Miss your brown eyes.

  I groan.

  Message from Oliver. We just did a nineteen-kilometre hike. Everyone is stuffed.

  Maybe he’ll be too tired to message me again.

  Message from Oliver. Midnight party next week. Need vodka. Can you help?

  No way.

  Message from Oliver. Told the guys that my girlfriend will send down vodka.

  NO WAY.

  Message from Oliver. Come on. Don’t let me down. Hide it in something.

  NO WAY.

  Message from Oliver. Please.

  YOU’RE DRIVING ME INSANE.

  My girlfriends love the drama. ‘Will you send the vodka? When? How? Everyone is devising ways to send the contraband to camp—everything from parachuting a vodka bottle in on the back of a commando to baking a vodka pie. They assess the risk of being caught, the traps, the dangers. Except it is me being sent on the mission, not them. ‘You won’t get into trouble. They won’t catch Oliver anyway.’ They keep pushing me towards the inevitable.

  As the four of us walk towards the Music Block, Karen laughs. ‘Go on, send the vodka.’

  Maybe I should, as a farewell present. It would be a dramatic final gesture. But if I get caught, I’ll be in deep trouble. To send alcohol or not to send alcohol, that is the question. I’m Hamlet, except this isn’t an English lesson. Will I send it or won’t I?

  Angie and Irina don’t want me to.

  ‘He shouldn’t ask you. It’s not fair.’ Angie flashes her green eyes at Karen.

  Karen ignores her. ‘How will you do it?’

  Oliver? Vodka? Oliver? This is getting really confusing. Why are we even discussing it?

  When we get to the Music Home Room, Angie slides next to Irina at the drums. I open my folder. ‘Can we get on with our rehearsal? This is about our music, not Oliver.’

  Karen needles me. ‘Oh-oh. Angry Pip.’

  ‘I’m not angry.’ I grunt.

  Suddenly everyone laughs. I look up. I am angry. I shake my head. This is stupid. ‘Okay, you win. Can we start?’

  Karen picks up her guitar. Angie and I follow her. Irina hits the drums. I strum a few chords. There’s some playing around as we try to get the sound together. It takes a while for us to feel our connection. Then we are in it. The room fills with music and suddenly nothing else matters. We play the music. Move to the beat. Sing the songs. Belt out the chorus of ‘Psycho Dad’:

  Cause I don’t want you

  And I don’t need you

  You are so mad

  You are my psycho dad

  I had a terrible night’s sleep, but I woke up with a decision. I am sending the vodka to Oliver. It is my parting gift. My great gesture of self-sacrifice. I am defying the school (expulsion), Mum (who doesn’t know), Dad (who will never know) and the law (I’m under the legal drinking age).

  Irina is worried. Angie doesn’t want me to do it either. But Karen thinks it is a brilliant decision. Somehow I think it’s not for the same reason as mine. She keeps saying, ‘Stuff them. Stuff the rules.’ I’m not doing it to stuff anything or anyone. I know now that I’m not ready for a boyfriend and Oliver is not for me.

  I message Oliver. It’s coming.

  Karen enjoys the conspiracy. She buys a small bottle of vodka from Tommo. ‘I’ll be seventeen soon.’ She dances around. ‘In another year’s time, I’ll be able to buy vodka without any middle man. I’ll be the legal age. An adult.’ She laughs. Adult? My stomach knots into nervous spasms. What are we doing? What am I doing?

  After school, we go shopping for the packaging. Karen leaves me with brown paper, bubble wrap, ribbons, the bottle of vodka and a wink.

  Dinner is tense. No one really speaks. I slide looks at Dad, hoping he can’t see my nervousness.

  The meal is over at last and I head for my room, open my books, listen to music, watch the clock. It’s hours before the house is quiet and no one is moving around. When I’m sure it’s safe, I put on Passages of Living and Dying for courage, take a deep breath, then drag the contraband out from under my bed. ‘Forgive me.’ I hug the crinkly brown teddy. With a sharp thrust, I stab him. His stomach opens like in a murder movie and he squeaks. ‘Sorry, sorry,’ I whisper. I can’t look at Teddy’s face. Those glass eyes seem like they are crying. The scissors are the red-handled kitchen ones, used for cutting the tops off cartons and the string around an uncooked chicken’s neck. Am I the chicken? No, I’m the roaster.

  It’s hard slicing through his stomach. Multicoloured foam spills out like bits of intestine. Gritting my teeth, I grab handfuls until Teddy has a big hole in his stomach. I test the depth and width. The vodka bottle fits perfectly inside him. It must be a sign. This is meant to be.

  I search my sewing box for some brown thread. I bite my lip. Teddy looks pretty sore and sorry. Ouch. Blood. Oliver had better appreciate my courage. I’ll owe him nothing after this. I hold up Teddy. He looks like he’s had a heart transplant. I pull the fur around the stitches. Better.

  Karen and I meet up the next morning. She watches me as I pull the handle down on the post box. ‘Go on.’ She giggles. She thinks this is hilarious.

  I’ve packed lots of bubble wrap around Teddy to dull the splashing sound. There is a thud as the package drops into the post box. Or is that my stomach?

  Teddy is gone and Eddie is back in our lives again. At least for a while. His girlfriend has gone away on a six-week exchange program to California. Hopefully she’ll find someone else to dominate while she’s gone. Her parents don’t like Eddie anyway. He’s not good enough. Apparently she’s too smart for him and they have big plans for her. Well, if that works for them, it works for me.

  Since the jailer has left for the sun and surf of California, he’s been annoying me instead. That’s the job of a brother. He plays more sport, sees his mates and fiddles with his guitar. Maybe he’ll get good enough to make a guest appearance in our one-day-to-be-created girl band. He’s excited about Rockfest this Saturday, except he’s not going with us. Oliver and Christopher are at camp, so there’s no chance for them to come—like Oliver threatened to a couple of weeks ago. Relief.

  Eddie bounds into the kitchen. He has two tickets to Black Bullets. Freebies from a mat
e who can’t go. It’s for tonight only. ‘So do you want to come, Pip?’ He looks at me, trying to be casual. ‘Even though you don’t like heavy metal?’ He elbows me.

  I’m not going to give in to Eddie’s teasing. I push his arm away. ‘I might come.’ I’m dying to go. Eddie knows that.

  ‘Thought you didn’t like Black Bullets.’ He waves the tickets in my face. ‘If you want to come, you’ve got to say you like them.’

  I break down. ‘I like them. I like them.’

  ‘Then I might just take you. But you have to be really nice to me.’ Eddie smiles like a crocodile. ‘They’re at the Pavilion.’

  Mum is over the top with sentimentality: ‘That’s so lovely that you’re going with your brother.’

  ‘Lovely. Did you hear that, Pip Squeak?’ Eddie digs his finger into my stomach.

  ‘Lovely? I don’t think so.’ I hit his finger. ‘Let’s get out of here before Dad gets home.’

  That’s enough to make Eddie move. Fear works. We’re out of the door and into his car in five minutes.

  As soon as the motor start, the skies open. Rain, not ordinary sprinkling rain, but buckets of water crashing down like a broken water main. ‘It’ll stop,’ Eddie the optimist says, but it doesn’t. Eddie parks and we run along the footpath past hundreds of goths and punks all heading towards the Pavilion. Then we stop. The line is huge—big and black—and everyone’s locked out of the venue. It’s an angry, wet and shouting mass. People are piling up behind us already as the line grows longer and madder. The metal roller doors at the entrance are shut and the rain keeps belting down. There is shouting from everywhere: ‘Open those bloody doors.’ ‘This is f—ing bullshit.’ ‘Open up, you bastards.’

  I stand close to Eddie. We should be wearing black like nearly everyone else. I look pornographic in my green and wet, very wet T-shirt. Not that the crowd cares. They are very wet too and some of them are psycho. And they are on the move. Human waves of pressure pound against those metal doors. Eddie and I are part of the wave. We sway back and forward, shivering and starting to get mad too. This is insane. Why don’t they open the doors? The dreadlocks of the guy in front of me hit my face as he jumps up and down. ‘Open the bloody door.’ The yelling is intense—and they’re right.

  When the screams break into chanting, Eddie and I scream too. ‘This is bullshit. This is bullshit. This is bullshit.’ And the rain pours down and it is bullshit. It’s near hysteria when the dumb organisers eventually open the roller doors. ‘About bloody time, you f—wits.’ ‘F—wits, f—wits, f—wits.’ Yelling bombards the air and the line starts to trickle forward. Trickle is right. The waves and yelling move forward in a wet, slippery, snaky line.

  Five ticket collectors relieve the pressure as they scan soggy tickets and move fans towards the security searches. No drugs or alcohol allowed. From what I can see the drugs are already inside plenty of the fans. Some are so doped that they look like they’re on another planet. The bloodshot eyes are a giveaway. They don’t worry me. It’s the speed freaks Eddie and I keep clear of. Alcohol is no problem. You can buy that inside the Pavilion at high prices when you show ID.

  ‘Are you right, Pip? Do you want to go?’ Eddie is looking around, in protective mode. Superhero Eddie.

  ‘No. I’m fine.’ The excitement, the unpredictability send tremours through me. I’m glad Eddie’s here, but I’d stay anyway.

  The support band has started playing. Their music pierces through the entrance and into the line of fans still edging into the Pavilion. This means more trouble. ‘Let us in, you shitheads.’ ‘What are these tickets for? Crap paper?’ ‘We’ve paid to see both the bands.’ ‘Let us in. Let us in. Let us in.’ The chanting starts up again with new energy.

  There’s a scuffle at the front of the queue. A bulky security guard is battling with an out-of-control fan. Three other security guards run up. They’ve got the guy pinned to the ground with the rain spitting down on him. At least it isn’t pouring any more. He’s punching and kicking. The first security guard is talking to him, trying to quieten him down. In the end the guy is dragged out towards the road. He’s not going to be seeing Black Bullets, that’s for sure.

  We’re inside at last. I’m so wet my T-shirt clings to me like skin. Everyone is squashed together and it’s dark. But no one cares. Black Bullets are coming and I’m screaming. Everyone is screaming. Lights are flashing. Music is psyched to ear-splitting intensity and suddenly Black Bullets are on the stage.

  ‘Black Bullets. Black Bullets. Black Bullets.’ Yells rise like body blows.

  Heavy guitar chunks pound the sounds. The drums go mental and the singing is intense.

  ‘Jump, everyone. Jump.’

  The band go wild on stage, screaming and leaping onto everything, into each other. The audience jump and scream with them.

  ‘Everyone put your mother-f—ing hands in the air.’ I do. Thousands of fans do, jumping, pushing, screaming.

  ‘Jump as high as you can.’ Black Bullets are flying high, all over the stage. We’re flying too, crushing each other, sticky with the rain and sweat. Jumping, shoving. My feet can’t touch the ground. I’m stuck in limbo between these massive human forces of grunge and black eyeliner.

  A girl in front of me slips between the masses, who just keep jumping. I see her and scream. I don’t have any room to move, but Eddie hears me, follows my eyes towards the girl disappearing between the bodies. No one can move, but Eddie’s behind her, and he starts shoving, pushing, bellowing, ‘F—ing move. F—ing move.’

  Eddie’s rock-climbing arms keep shoving, shoving until he’s got the girl. I can’t help him. I’m stuck in a sea of people. He’s got her around the waist when the security guards spot her. They lock arms in a chain that stretches right over the heads of the screaming masses.

  Eddie is sweating as he lifts the girl up as high as he can. Arms grab her. Security pull her out of Eddie’s arms, out of the mosh pit, thank God. Blood is dripping from her nose and mouth.

  Black Bullets go crazy. The music is deafening as they push each other on, as they push the crowd to sing until their lungs are bursting. ‘Love you all. Love you all.’

  Suddenly there’s electricity, thunderous smoke, insane sounds, bright lights. Then Black Bullets is gone.

  The screaming’s not gone, though. It feels like the world’s crashing in on itself. Rage exploding, changing, regrouping. Eddie got a girl out. I put my hand on his shoulder as I follow him into the dark.

  It’s been an insane night. But I don’t care about the insanity. I care that Black Bullets is honest. Playing what they believe. I want to play what I believe. I want my own band. I do. I do…

  Black Bullets rock through the car as Eddie drives home. He parks on the street. We walk quietly past the study, with its light blaring out through the window. Dad’s working.

  Mum opens the front door, making sure Dad doesn’t hear us. He’d be angry that we’re out late on a weeknight. Mum is still playing those doormat games. I’m glad she is tonight.

  ‘Did you have a good night?’ Mum asks.

  ‘Great,’ Eddie answers.

  ‘We had a good time, Mum.’ She wants more, but I can’t tell her. She watches us go to our bedrooms. ‘Thanks for taking me to the concert, Eddie.’

  ‘No worries, Pip Squeak.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  We close our doors. I know now that doormat Eddie is not a doormat.

  I fall asleep thinking about Black Bullets and being in my own band. I dream about the music. Guitars, drums, Black Bullets. Shouting at my father, murdering Karen’s father, holding the girl with blood seeping from her nostrils, falling off a cliff. The music is panicky, imperfect, as I safari through Africa saving the world, buy shoes with Angie, create songs with Karen, smash a drum into Irina’s house, hover above a cemetery overlooking the sea.

  Nothing’s perfect. I want a band. A real band.

  Mum wakes us up. Dad’s left for work already. I’m exhausted. I feel like I’ve ha
d no sleep.

  ‘How was last night?’ Mum tries to get some information as she puts cereal on the table.

  ‘Okay.’ Eddie stuffs toast in his mouth.

  ‘Okay.’ I kiss Mum quickly.

  ‘I’ve always liked concerts.’ Mum does some sort of strange hand and foot movement.

  ‘Is that meant to be dancing?’

  Mum does another step. She has no idea, and I don’t plan to tell her the truth about the Black Bullets concert.

  I glance at Eddie. ‘Got to go.’

  Lunchtime. Karen, Irina and Angie are in the Music Home Room already. ‘Hey, I’ve got news.’ I pull Karen’s shirt. They follow me to the back of the room and we sit on the desktops near the window.

  ‘So what’s the news?’ Karen yawns. ‘Sorry, late night.’

  I don’t want to know what Karen did last night. It was something stupid for sure. ‘I had a late night too.’ I pause for effect. ‘Eddie got two free tickets to the Black Bullets concert. I saw them. Live.’

  Karen shrieks. She’s awake now. She loves Black Bullets. Irina is impressed. ‘They have an incredible drummer.’

  ‘We’ve got an incredible drummer.’ I point at Irina. ‘We could be a real band. With real music. Our own music.’

  ‘We are a band, Pip.’

  ‘No we’re not, Angie. There are always excuses not to turn up. Not to practise. If we’re serious we have to play all the time, write songs, perform. Real stuff. We don’t even have a name.’

  ‘What’s in a name?’ Karen opens her hands like a question. Romeo and Juliet. I smile. Karen must listen in class sometimes.

  ‘Commitment, that’s what’s in a name. Music is your life, isn’t it? You always say that. Well, is it or not?’

  Karen stops. ‘Sure, it is.’

  ‘It’s mine too.’ I press my hands into tight fists. ‘Come on. Let’s do it. Let’s be a band.’