Beautiful Mess

by Claire Christian

  I can’t imagine how she feels. No one I love has ever died. I still have four grandparents and the same dog I’ve had since I was five. The only person I know who was even close to dying is me. And that wouldn’t have been devastating at all; that would’ve been a giant relief. Or at least I thought it would’ve been at the time.

  •

  ‘Right. Check in, Gideon, what number are you?’ Ria says. Ria is mad and curvy; her head is shaved really short except for a middle section at the top which drapes down the side of her face that she dyes different colours. At the moment her hair is silver-grey, like if your nanna was a hipster. Ria is covered in tattoos, small ones intricately placed all over her body and she has a Doctor Who–themed sleeve that runs down her whole left arm. Ria and Robbie are friends. Robbie is how I met Ria three years ago and started doing classes, then poetry competitions, then hanging out with a group of about fifteen kids my age writing, making theatre and short films and stuff. At first it was about confidence and, as Robbie would put it, ‘normal social interactions with peers’. But there is nothing definitively normal about the peers that I now hang out with.

  ‘I’m a seven,’ I say and the group nod and smile. Ria operates the beginning of every workshop like this, with a number system that runs between one and ten. One meaning that it’s the worst day of your life and you couldn’t possibly feel any worse. When I started classes with Ria I was a two, maybe three at best. I took the scale seriously, unlike some of the other people in the group who would be a one when they had a pimple or their parents wouldn’t buy them a skinny latte on the way to class. But that’s why it’s a number scale and not a whiney monologue scale: everyone can understand numbers. Who’s to say my two was different to their two? Maybe they really, really wanted a coffee. Maybe there was a promise involved, or the love of their life was the barista they’d promised to visit that afternoon and their villainous parent saying no to the coffee meant that the barista hopped on a plane to Nepal never knowing how they felt. Or something.

  ‘Seven? Good. And question?’ Ria smiles at me. She has a small plastic ball in her hand that she’s throwing up in the air as she speaks and she’s wearing a bracelet that jingles when she does it. There’s a new question every week—they vary in levels of seriousness. Sometimes we spend hours talking existentially about our purpose in the world, other times we discuss who’d die first if there was a zombie attack. This week’s question is: If you could have any superpower in the world what would it be?

  ‘Invisibility,’ I say.

  ‘Bullshit,’ Norma yells across the room.

  ‘Seconded,’ Andy, who sits next to me, chimes in with lightning speed, slapping me hard on the leg.

  ‘Why?’ Norma sits cross-legged with her eyebrows raised at me, her tight auburn ringlets springing from her head like a wild mane.

  ‘It’s true,’ I say. I’m used to this from Norma and Andy, they’re my closest friends. I met them in a circle similar to this in my first class years ago. ‘Because, imagine being able to become invisible. You could listen to people’s conversations or whisper things in their ear or move their shit around. I think it would be hilarious.’ I smile, a few of the other kids laugh and come up with their ideas about being in the boys’ locker room after sport or pulling the chair out from underneath their most hated teacher.

  ‘You already make yourself invisible, Gids,’ Norma shouts across the circle.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ Ria says, her group of unruly teenagers suddenly becoming more and more out of control. ‘Gideon do you want to respond to that comment?’

  ‘Nope.’ I shake my head and give Norma the finger.

  Andy leans in and whispers, ‘Norma’s such a bitch,’ then laughs his weird high-pitched giggle that makes him sound like one of the hyenas in The Lion King.

  Andy was the first person to talk to me on my first day. Just strolled over in a tie-dye T-shirt, all moving limbs and swirls of colour, and said, ‘Are you gay?’ before he even asked my name.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Me neither. Be careful.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Of the girls. They’re like vultures.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They mostly go to all-girls schools and the only guys they know are gay. You’re handsome. They’ll like you.’

  ‘Oh. Okay.’ The only people who’d ever called me handsome before Andy were my mums.

  ‘Do you have a girlfriend?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Cool. Then take your pick.’ He signalled around the room. ‘Except Norma, I like Norma. And not Bridie.’

  ‘Why not Bridie?’ I ask.

  ‘Because she’s a bitch.’

  Andy and I became immediate allies and then friends. Norma and Andy got together right after that, and thus have been a couple for as long as I’ve known them. You know those couples that are creepily kind of destined for each other? At fourteen, that can only mean they’re bound to fail. Except for the rare exception.

  Andy and Norma are that rare exception.

  Class proceeds and we discuss important topics like what Sally should do with her hair, if Travis should break up with his boyfriend and the podcast we’ve all been listening to.

  I like coming here. It’s like exhaling amid an existence of holding your breath. There’s no pressure or bullshit. The only expectations are that you’re honest and considerate of others, you give everything a go and you don’t act like a dick. I think the world could learn a lot from Ria and how she runs her class.

  This week they lay a heap of different pictures on the ground and we have to use them as stimulus to write something. I take a picture of a trampoline and write a poem about a girl lying underneath a trampoline, feeling the adrenaline as her friend jumps on it above her. Issy has to read it out loud and does a great job. Issy has a pixie cut and phenomenally long eyelashes. She is equal measures confident and self-deprecating, and the worst part of having no internet at the moment is not being able to chat to her. Just stupid conversations where we’d send shit memes to each other, but still.

  ‘I hope that was okay,’ she says as she sits down, and I nod.

  It was. She was. She’s a really good performer. ‘I think I fucked it,’ she goes on.

  ‘Yup. Totally. I’m glad you said something because you were really shit actually,’ I crack, shaking my head.

  ‘Shut up.’ She whacks me on the shoulder and turns away just as I catch Norma and Andy looking at me with raised eyebrows and Andy mouths: You’re in.

  ‘She was so flirting with you,’ Norma says as we stand around outside waiting for our parents to pick us up.

  ‘Piss off.’

  ‘She was. Wasn’t she, babe?’

  ‘There was a definite aroma of flirtation in the air,’ Andy smiles.

  ‘That’s disgusting,’ I say, shaking my head.

  ‘Do you like her?’ Norma asks.

  ‘She’s nice.’

  ‘Yeah, but do you want to make out with her face?’ ‘What other part are you meant to make out with?’ Andy shakes his head, disappointed. ‘So much to learn, my friend.’

  ‘I think you’re in with a definite chance,’ Norma nods.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ I reply.

  Think about it? It’s probably all I’ll think about now that Norma has planted the seed. Do I like Issy? I’ve never thought about it. Not really. We get along, but it’s not like there’s some unavoidable chemistry or anything. But then I would have no idea if there was anyway, because I have almost zero experience when it comes to girls.

  I have kissed two, Stacey Knight and Rebecca Simons. On the same night. Within five minutes of each other. I was in Year 9 and we were in Andy’s garage. I had just joined Ria’s class and Andy had what he called a ‘gathering’. It was the first thing I’d ever been invited to that I’d agreed to attend.

  There were only about ten people there and we were playing a game of ‘prison rules’ Uno, which is basically where you assign actions to the nu
mbers. Like if you’re the last two people to place your hands on your head when a red eight is placed on the pile, you have to kiss.

  WHAT I THOUGHT WHEN I KISSED STACEY KNIGHT (IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE IN MY BRAIN)

  1. I can actually feel her tongue in my mouth.

  2. This is disgusting.

  3. Slugs.

  4. How do I get her to stop licking my chin?

  5. This is incredibly disappointing.

  6. Don’t act disappointed. This could entirely be your fault. What if you’re a crap kisser and you made this happen?

  WHAT I THOUGHT WHEN I KISSED REBECCA SIMONS (IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE IN MY BRAIN)

  1. Oh. Okay. This is different.

  2. This is better.

  3. THIS IS THE BEST THING IN THE WHOLE FREAKING WORLD.

  4. Why aren’t people just making out all of the time? Because it would be completely understandable.

  5. Phew. It’s not my fault. Either that or I am an incredibly quick learner.

  I have not kissed anyone else since. The opportunity has not arisen, mainly because of my deep-seated fear of, well, everyone. And when you add crippling fear to a propensity for anxiety and panic attacks, you know what that equals?

  Fear + panic attacks + generally anxious persona = Gideon’s failure as a social being.

  I am a slow burn. Like a really slow burn. It takes me a very long time to feel comfortable enough to not freak out. Which is why my sister is my best mate, why I have no friends at school and why the idea of Issy liking me is making the muscles in my throat constrict so I’m finding it kind of hard to breathe.

  I’ve never been drunk. Ever. And now that I’ve done four full weekend shifts at Magic Kebab and seen a throng of intoxicated people falling over themselves, yelling ridiculous things and spewing in bins outside the shop, I can’t see the appeal. Last Saturday there was a stupid drunk girl wearing a flower crown and holding her shoes who’d been crying so much her cheeks were eighty-five per cent mascara and she yelled at Ava over and over again that she was ‘a fucking pescatarian’ and that she could only eat chicken. Ava tried to tell her what a pescatarian is but the girl just cried louder and ended up throwing one of her heels over the counter at Ava, yelling, ‘I just want a chicken kebab.’ One of her friends had to grab her and pull her away and I couldn’t help it, I started giggling as I was filling up the tomatoes. Ava just rolled her eyes at me and mouthed the word, Watch. She quickly filled the girl’s kebab with Ricky’s chilli sauce and burnt bits of lamb, then walked around the counter and handed the kebab to the girl with a curtsy. The girl just rolled her eyes and scoffed down half of the kebab before dropping the other half all over her boobs. By which point Ava and I were slumped behind the counter laughing.

  ‘What an idiot,’ she said, tucking her wild brown hair behind her ear. And I just smiled and said nothing, because that’s what I do.

  The three shifts before that she hadn’t said anything to me apart from ‘We need more onions,’ and ‘Be careful with the olives, you’ll get a rash.’ I did get a rash and I had to get Mum to come and pick me up.

  Thursday nights are better. Quieter. More opportunities for talking. For banter. I have a pre-prepared list of appropriate or possible topics for attempting to banter with Ava tonight, because I figure if I just keep nodding and smiling when she talks to me she’s going to start to think that I’m a complete doofus, or more of a doofus than she no doubt already does.

  APPROPRIATE OR POSSIBLE BANTERING TOPICS

  1. Movies

  2. Music.

  3. TV.

  4. Something funny that happens at the shop.

  5. The weather.

  I ask Susan for help in the car on the way to work.

  ‘Do not under any circumstances talk about the weather,’ Susan sighs.

  ‘Okay,’ I reply.

  ‘And do not make a list.’

  ‘I’m not,’ I tell her as the list in my pocket burns a metaphorical hole in my leg.

  ‘Just ask her questions. And don’t be weird,’ she says as she checks the rearview mirror.

  ‘Yeah, easier said than done,’ I scoff.

  ‘Take the pressure off. You just want to talk to her, you don’t want to sleep with her.’ She smiles, knowing I’ll freak out.

  ‘Susan,’ I freak out.

  She quickly cuts me off. ‘Unless you do and that’s fine too. Like mother like son,’ she says with her deep raspy giggle.

  ‘You are disgusting. You have been with the same woman for twenty-five years, you don’t know shit.’

  ‘Back in the day I was a force to be reckoned with.’

  ‘I do not want to be a force or anything else. I just…’ I pause. What do I want? ‘I just want her to not think I’m an idiot.’

  ‘You’re not an idiot, my boy. You’re the smartest person I know.’ She pats my leg. ‘Just be natural and stop thinking about it. Which I know for you is like telling the Pope to stop being Catholic, but you get what I mean.’

  When I walk into the shop I throw the list in the bin and count to thirty before I go back and retrieve it and put it in my pocket. Just in case. It doesn’t matter, though. Ava only says one word to me.

  ‘Hey.’

  ‘Hey!’ I reply. So far, so good.

  Later in the night Ricky puts on another one of his records and whacks me on the back. ‘I bet you don’t know who this is, Skinny.’

  ‘It’s Led Zeppelin,’ I say as Ricky dances around me.

  ‘Ava didn’t know who it was, did you Ava?’

  She looks up at us. ‘Nope. Time for an iPod, Ricky.’

  ‘Bullshit. I don’t want that digital crap. Records are better.’

  ‘I kind of collect records,’ I mutter.

  Ricky laughs loudly. ‘See?’ His whole belly moving. ‘You kind of collect records?’ Ava looks at me. ‘I do,’ I say. ‘Collect them.’

  Ava nods and walks off. I guess that kind of counts as banter, doesn’t it?

  I take a moment with my elbows deep in greasy water to pat myself on the back for the two relatively normal interactions I’ve managed this evening.

  Later a group of young African guys are sitting at the corner table beatboxing and freestyling lyrics, every now and then cheering or cracking up, pointing at the one who was just rapping. I eavesdrop as I empty the bins and realise that the majority of the reaction comes when they say stupid shit about each other’s mums. When I walk back into the shop after taking the rubbish bags to the big industrial bin outside, the shop is empty apart from their table and one of the boys calls me over. I look over at Ava for a second. She’s standing behind the counter, just kind of smirking as the four boys start hassling me to join in with them.

  ‘You do a verse. You do a verse,’ the one with the hat asks.

  ‘No. I couldn’t,’ I say. ‘Thank you for asking, though,’ and they laugh at me. The smallest guy, who is wearing a zebra-print button-up shirt, puts his arm around my shoulder and ushers me back to their table.

  ‘You can. You can,’ he says.

  ‘I can’t. I dunno what…’ I stutter, but the boys just yell that yeah I can, and to say the first thing that comes to mind.

  ‘No pressure,’ says a guy with the biggest smile I’ve ever seen in my life. They start banging on the table and cheering, one of them freestyles a bit, then the next guy takes his turn and then all at once they look at me and the guy beatboxing continues. My cheeks flush as they all stare at me, waiting for me to do something. Anything. I can literally feel the pump of adrenaline course through my body. I take a second to thank Ria for the hundreds of improvisation games and freestyle writing prompts she’s made me do over the years.

  And I open my mouth.

  I don’t know what you want me to do, in fact I kinda feel sick. / I don’t wanna be rude about your mums, cause that’s kinda misogynistic. / If they heard the way you rapped about them I think they’d get a fright, / But don’t worry boys I’ll make them feel better, when I’m in bed with
them tonight.

  I’m shocked. Like dead-set floored. My mouth is gaping, my eyes wide and my eyebrows wilder. The four African boys erupt, jumping in the air shouting and laughing as one of them picks up Gideon over his shoulders hugging him and the others pat him on the head.

  ‘That was sick, yeah?’ one of the boys yells over to me.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. Who the fuck is this guy? He’s all shy and nervous and barely says a word and then he turns out to be some random MC. I giggle as I watch them and it quickly turns to fully blown, gut-tensing laughter as I watch Gideon get thrown around by the boys patting him on the back.

  I listen to them talk about music they all like and hip-hop artists they all know and eventually the boys come back to earth shaking their heads in disbelief, saying things like, ‘Boy, you smooth,’ and ‘Yes! Yes!’ Gideon just grins, awkward, his cheeks bright red as the boys walk out of the shop, completely impressed. Then he turns on his heel, looks at the floor and walks straight past the counter. Two seconds later he appears with a broom and starts to sweep.

  ‘You’re not going to say anything about what just happened?’ I ask, and he shakes his head. ‘What? You’re just like secretly Shakespeare over there with the broom?’

  ‘Nah, nah,’ he mutters.

  ‘Bullshit,’ I say.

  ‘I write.’

  ‘You write?’

  ‘Yeah. Poems,’ he says.

  ‘Cool.’

  ‘Yeah?’ he asks. He’s looking at me properly for the first time.

  ‘That was cool,’ I say, smiling, because it was.

  ‘Yeah?’ he asks again, and I nod.

  I think he’s cute, in a nerdy hipster kind of way, only he’s not a hipster because his hair is too messy and his clothes are way too big.

  Once the shop is closed and we’ve packed everything up Gideon and I wait out the front. I don’t know why, but the words that come out of my mouth next don’t actually feel like my own.

  ‘You should ask me for my number,’ I say as I fumble around my backpack for the last cigarette I stole from Lincoln.