Beautiful Mess

by Claire Christian

  ‘Mr Spirini—’

  ‘All the best, Mrs Bryan.’ And he puts his arm around my shoulders and walks me to the door, and doesn’t say anything till we get to the carpark.

  ‘What a rude, rude woman,’ he says as he gets into the car.

  ‘Dad, you were amazing.’

  ‘Just because I’m pissed off with her doesn’t mean you’re not in trouble. Punching a kid? Jesus, Ava. You can’t just go around punching people.’

  ‘I know, but—’

  ‘I know: you were angry, he said shit about Kelly. I get it. But still…’ He exhales loudly, stopping himself.

  By the time we get home it’s been decided that I will be going for a meeting at TAPs. It was Dad who made the decision. I had no say in it at all. I told him I wasn’t like those kids at TAPs and he just looked sad and told me I didn’t have an option. He lectured me about messing up my education and about being smart and despite Mrs Bryan’s capacity to be a right royal bitch she was right about the school’s ability to support me and he agreed that maybe TAPs might be a good fit for now. Only Dad didn’t call Mrs Bryan a bitch he just called her incompetent.

  I feel disappointed with myself, like I’ve let my dad down, let Kelly down, let myself down. In just a few months everything has changed. I’ve lost Kelly, everything is shit with her parents and I don’t even know what Lincoln and I are doing, I’ve told the entire school to go fuck themselves, I’ve punched a guy in the face and now I’ve been expelled. This morning when I left for school I was naive enough to think that at least things couldn’t get worse. I was wrong. I lie on my bed and fume. Things, it would seem, can always be worse.

  Dad appears in the doorway and hands me a mint-green envelope. ‘Aves, this is for you.’ When he’s gone I rip it open and inside there’s two A4 pages filled with the neatest handwriting I’ve ever seen.

  Hello!

  I told you I’d write so I am. It’s only as I’m writing this that I realise I don’t think I’ve ever written anyone an actual letter before.

  So here goes…

  Dear Ava,

  I don’t know how long letters are meant to be. Do you know? They should be longer than a text message, shouldn’t they? And they feel like they should be somewhat more important. But I don’t really know anything important to say.

  I’m glad we met.

  That’s important.

  So, what do you need to know about me? I’m seventeen. We go to the same school. I’m in Year 12. I have one sister and two mums. I write poems. I like guacamole and I hate bananas—I think they’re weird. It’s a texture thing, like their hard skin gives off the apparent vibe that they’re tougher than they actually are. I hate when you peel them and they’re all powdery and way too squishy. Have I just unknowingly come up with an exceptional metaphor for humans? Or am I just wasting your time by talking about bananas to begin with? I don’t want to waste your time. In an effort to make you think that I am not in fact weird, here is a list of other things I think are weird. I do not think lists are weird. In fact I like writing lists.

  Things Gideon thinks are weird. A list.

  1. Bananas—obviously, we just went through this.

  2. Snakes. I think it’s weird that they can swim but they don’t have arms. Did you know that snakes can swim? I didn’t either until I watched the movie version of Tomorrow When the War Began and there was that whole scene with Fi and the snake in the water. MIND. BLOWN.

  3. People who put an ‘r’ sound in the word ask. No explanation needed.

  4. People who are able to write letters that do not include lists. Okay this is a lie and a quite obvious effort to make myself look cooler than I actually am. Which I’m assuming you’ve worked out by now is not very cool at all.

  5. People who are naturally and effortlessly cool. Which, I’m sorry to have to say, Ava Spirini, is you. I don’t know if that’s appropriate letter etiquette to call the recipient of your letter weird. But, there you go: rules are meant to be broken, right?

  So, write back. If you, you know, want to. I hope you do.

  From

  Gideon

  It’s brilliant. It’s perfectly dorky and smart and cool and funny all at once. I never for a second thought he’d really write me a letter, especially not one that revealed actual information about himself. I read the letter again. Gideon is funny. I feel completely confused by him, like I’ve never met anyone like him. I don’t know what I’d say if I wrote back. I should probably write back.

  Yeah. I wouldn’t want him to think that I didn’t want to be his friend.

  Tonight’s competition is in a coffee shop in the middle of town. There’s about thirty people huddled around small tables or sitting on small couches and cushions. Norma and Andy and some other kids from my drama group are sitting right at the front. Mum and Susan are standing at the back. Mum has her glasses on and is taking about a million photos. The two of them spend a good five minutes trying to work out how to switch it to video so they can email it to Annie when we get home.

  When it’s my turn I inhale deep and take a step towards the microphone.

  ‘This is called “Broken”,’ I say.

  when i was nine i broke my ankle; / a scooter slide into a concrete drive will do that / the doctor, a lady, i noticed her eyes, / the blue of satellite skies, / caught me off guard when she asked, / ‘what colour do you want your cast?’ / ‘pink. i think. yeah, that’ll be cool.’ / i don’t care about the boys at school, / oh doctor lady, all i care about is you / but the boys didn’t care about the colour of the cast, / wrote messages that’d last / for twelve whole weeks about getting better sooner.

  when i was fourteen i broke my brain / a depressed slide into the dark side will do that / no doctor lady could fix this break / no gas could I take / that would take me away to another place / i was in the corner of a doorless space / no stars / no light / no gravity / i fell / waiting for the pen marks on the cast around my thoughts / to heal what i had broken / but the only cast was me: outcast / weakened by a stigma / wrapped in a taboo / wound so tight it nearly killed me.

  i learned i can break my body but not my mind / i can break my bones but not my brain / i was depressed / that does not make me less / i am sick / not getting better sooner / or perhaps i am / because i’d sooner be alive than not.

  every day i battle to wrap casts around breaks that no one can see / every day i battle /

  every / single / day.

  I finish. They all clap. Norma and Andy cheer and Mum and Susan are both crying. I blush and laugh, embarrassed, when I get back to them. ‘A new one? Why didn’t you warn us?’ Mum sobs, smiling and hugging me tight. I shrug.

  To me it doesn’t feel that new. I wrote it about a year ago, but this is the first time I’ve shown anyone. Something happens when I write stuff down, it stops whirring around in my head and becomes this tangible thing that I can look at and prod and get used to. And get over, I suppose. When I first wrote this poem I was sure I’d never show anyone; even writing the word ‘depressed’ was hard because it was like admitting something. But the more I read it, and the more time that passes, it just becomes a poem. Something I made rather than a confession or a part of myself. Tonight when I read it, it was just a poem.

  A poem that got an honourable mention and a ten-dollar voucher to a coffee shop. Who said the life of an artist wasn’t glamorous?

  When we get home there’s a letter for me. A white envelope with my name quickly scrawled on the front and nothing on the back. Not even a stamp. I rip it open.

  Dear Gideon,

  Thank you for your letter. It made me laugh, especially the part about me being cool, you idiot. Um. No. Is it bad letter etiquette that in the second sentence of my letter I’ve called you an idiot? Or are we even now because you called me weird?

  Sorry for calling you an idiot. If this was real life and my dad had heard me say that I would’ve been grounded for sure. He has lots of rules about what is appropriate.

  Seei
ng as you like lists, I’ve compiled one of all the things my dad thinks are unacceptable.

  Ways to piss off Ava’s dad: a list

  (it’s mostly just a list of words he immensely dislikes—see, this is the best example because he hates the word hate so you have to say immensely dislike). He also immensely dislikes the words idiot (sorry again), stupid and wog. I feel like I’m not as skilled as you at writing lists. He immensely dislikes the word wog because he’s Greek, which by the laws of genetics means that I’m Greek too.

  The only time I can remember writing letters is to my Yiayia when I was little because they live down south. I should probably still write to her. But she calls once a week and sings me ‘You Are My Sunshine’. That’s our song. She’s pretty funny, mad about the pokies and deep-fried food, and she’s really racist. My Pappou is quiet and grumpy and he barely says a word, unless it’s about Family Feud which is his favourite show ever. If it ever gets cancelled God help the people in that office. My dad and his brothers were all born here in Australia and they’re all still down south, it’s just me and Dad up here.

  How are you enjoying the wonder that is Magic Kebab? You’ve lasted longer than any other dishie Ricky has hired so you should probably get a certificate or something for that achievement. Leave it with me.

  I don’t like snakes either. But I love bananas. How do you feel about mangos or avocados or lychees? They too have protective coverings. There’s not very many foods I don’t like, except caperberries, I think they’re foul, but you don’t seem to come across them all that often so, you know, props to my taste buds for that one.

  So, Gideon, tell me more about this no phone or internet or acting normal thing. I’m intrigued.

  Thanks again for writing, I thought for sure you were bullshitting when you said that you would so it was a nice surprise to actually get your letter. It’s super late and I can’t sleep so soz for my rank handwriting. Are letters just an excuse for ranting? I feel like I’m ranting. Can you even read my handwriting? You have nice handwriting. I feel like I have shit handwriting. I don’t know what else to say.

  Love Ava

  P.S. Write back. If you, you know, wanted. I hope you do.

  P.P.S. I hand delivered this because I didn’t know where to buy a stamp. And then I felt like the dumbest person alive and didn’t want to ask. And then I realised on the way here that normal people buy stamps at a post office. But I’ve never been to a post office so I don’t know where one is and then I had like an existential life crisis about technology and my involvement in the world because I just looked up your address on my phone and then I realised I could’ve done that with a post office. Long story short, your house is nice.

  Ax

  My insides quickly pump out this feeling of giddy happiness, like pumping soap from a bottle—it’s quick and squishy and makes me feel better about myself. She is directly mocking me with her P.S. and I like it. She wants me to write back, which means that my letter wasn’t a complete disaster. I wrote four drafts before I sent it. I could actually recite it off by heart by the time I put it in the envelope. I feel like Ava did not write four drafts. I feel like this is the one and only copy of this letter. I really like that idea. Like, there’s a chance that she’s probably forgotten what she wrote but I have it, and now only I know. I was so nervous that mine would go down like a lead balloon and it would make everything more awkward at work, but not only did it go down well, but she wrote back and she even wants me to write again.

  This is actually the best-case scenario, which is a place I’m not used to being in. I feel like some kind of intrepid traveller who’s just landed in a new place and I need to quickly work out how to navigate this new and tricky terrain and where exactly I should plant my flag as a sign of me being there. In this instance my flag will be my second letter. I feel like I might need to take a different approach this time around and just write it and send it and not think too much about it because I’m all too aware of my propensity for obsession and if I fuck it up, well, that will mean no flag and no Ava.

  So, I just need to write it and send it like in class with Ria. We do stuff like this all the time. Ria is all about diving in and seeing what happens. You’re not allowed to make justifications about what you write or make. ‘You apologise too much, Gids,’ she yelled at me once. Her hair was fluorescent orange at the time. ‘If you start another sentence in the class with the word “sorry” I will body-slam you,’ she joked as her wicked smile cracked her pink cheeks.

  ‘Sorry. Okay,’ was my reply and she came running at me, laughing.

  ‘The only time you need to apologise is if you offend someone or you physically hurt them.’

  ‘Or if you fart,’ Andy added and everyone cracked up laughing.

  Ria thought this was hilarious. ‘Yes, great; they’re the only times, got it?’ Everyone nodded as Ria quickly turned to me, the light catching the glint of her diamond septum piercing. ‘Got it?’

  ‘Yes.’ You don’t argue with Ria.

  ‘You do not need to apologise for being on the planet. You have a right to be here. What you have to say is valid. We want to hear it. None of this bullshit martyr stuff. Own your art. Own your existence. Don’t be dickheads. Simple?’ Ria mimed dropping a microphone on the floor as we all shouted with glee.

  Now, with her words ringing in my ears, I get the timer out of the kitchen and put it on my desk. I give myself thirty minutes. Whatever I write in thirty minutes has to go in the envelope. In the envelope that I will address and stamp so it’s ready to put in Mum’s handbag in her room so she can stick it in the post tomorrow and I won’t be tempted to mess with it. If I can do this it’ll be the greatest act of willpower I’ve ever enacted. I spin the dial on the timer and I start to write. It’s kind of difficult at first, but then I start to ramble about all sorts of things and get on a roll. It dings. I sign my name.

  From Gideon.

  I don’t read it back, I just fold the letter up, put it in the envelope, seal the flap and give it to Mum with the explicit instruction to post it tomorrow and under no circumstances is she to listen to future Gideon when he asks for it back.

  I don’t ask for it back and I barely sleep thinking about it and all of the possible disastrous ways it could go.

  ‘How are you?’ Robbie asks. Today he has a denim vest on with all of these obscure badges pinned all over it. There are flat, colourful versions of the Golden Girls staring back at me as I say, ‘Good,’ and he throws a stress ball that’s shaped like the world at my head.

  ‘Try again, doofus.’

  ‘School is fine. Home is fine. I am fine. I had one micro-episode last week but I’ve made some pretty impressive out-of-character choices, so that’s good.’

  ‘Tell me about the episode.’ He rests his hands on his stomach and as he does the Betty White pin bounces slightly so it looks like she’s nodding. I tell him about the panic attack I had after my driving lesson. The instructor had asked me to parallel park on a busy street. I got super nervous because I am awful at parallel parking and then this car came up behind me and stopped and I stuffed up my park twice, and then because I knew I was being inconvenient I freaked out and felt like I was disappointing the instructor, also the woman with the blonde bob in the four-wheel drive. I got all flustered and just pulled out, told him I couldn’t do it, drove home and sat in my room for hours feeling like my chest was being crushed by a large boulder.

  ‘I think it’s interesting that you’re more concerned about the lady in the four-wheel drive than you are about yourself.’ Robbie pauses. I wait for some kind of profound wisdom to fall from his bearded mouth but he shakes his head, pissed off. ‘Plus she’s driving a useless piece of petrol-guzzling machinery for inner-city life and thus she deserves to wait,’ he scoffs. ‘But that’s beside the point. She can see that you’re a learner. Why do you think she cared?’

  ‘I just don’t want to put anyone out.’

  ‘But you need to learn how to parallel park.�
��

  ‘Do I though?’ I crack and Robbie nods, smiling.

  ‘Would you be upset if you were driving and a learner driver was doing a parallel park and you had to wait two minutes before you could continue your drive in your overpriced shitbox?’

  He’s right. I wouldn’t be. I wouldn’t care. But this is what my brain does, turns seemingly normal things into moments of high catastrophe. Over the years of therapists, hospital visits, drugs and doctors I’ve worked out that at any given time I feel one of five possible states.

  1. Pre-anxiety. Mild panic. Heart racing. Slightly sweaty. I take deep breaths and feel jittery. The thing with the parallel park and the lady started here. Usually I can use loose mindfulness strategies to talk myself down, but if I can’t, well, that leads me into a place of high anxiety.

  2. High anxiety. The world is going to end. I can’t breathe. I and everyone I care about are most certainly going to die.

  3. Hyper-aware. This is like my go-to state, where I’m conscious of everything. I notice details and conversations and remember everything. This is a skill that would probably make me a really outstanding spy or something. But then what tends to happen is I over-process the information I’ve taken in and assume that everyone is talking about how much they hate me, or how I messed it up, or how my very presence is a hindrance to their capacity to get on with their day.

  4. ‘Normal’ or at least my version of normal, where I can pass as a regular awkward teenager and suppress numbers 1 to 3 to a smaller, more manageable size. They’re still present but for these brief moments of reprieve they aren’t my most dominant modus operandi. When I’m in class with Ria, when I hang out with Norma and Andy, when I’m writing, when I’m doing my poems live and when I’m at home: these are the times I can pass as normal because I feel normal, albeit fleetingly.