Beautiful Mess

by Claire Christian

  I open my mouth to say something but before I do Gideon takes my hand and walks back towards the auditorium. He doesn’t say anything, so I just follow. So happy that he’s with me, that he’s touching me, that he’s going to talk to me. I think.

  We walk in silence to the hallway at the back of the auditorium where there’s no one around; he drops my hand and starts to pace.

  ‘I had this whole thing rehearsed,’ he says, ‘this whole thing that I wanted to say. But’—he stops talking and pacing and looks at me—‘it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Me too.’ I pause. ‘I’ve tried to talk to you.’ And I did, after Lincoln came over and we sort of worked things out, I wanted to do the same with me and Gideon. But when I went to his house Susan answered the door and told me he didn’t want to see me. And with his stupid no-phone and no-internet policy there was no way to get in contact with him. I’ve started a million letters but none of them were right. I didn’t finish any of them.

  ‘I know.’ He nods. ‘I just couldn’t.’

  ‘I wanted—’ I stop. ‘I want to say I’m sorry. Again. I miss you.’

  ‘I know.’

  Neither of us says anything. All the times I’ve practised this conversation in my head and I can’t remember any of it now.

  ‘Your poem—’ I say, but he cuts me off.

  ‘Your poem.’ He looks me in the eye, scanning my face for some response and I want to tell him that I feel angry at him for reading it in front of everyone and sad about what happened and happy that he kept it and proud of him for reading it out loud and that I still think he’s amazing. But I don’t. The only thing that comes out of my mouth is ‘Why?’

  ‘Why your poem?’ he asks. I nod and he shrugs.

  I know he knows why, and I want him to tell me but I’m just so glad that he’s finally talking to me that I don’t want to push it. So we stand there silent, with him kind of pacing on the spot and me with my eyes locked on his laces as his feet fidget awkwardly.

  ‘Ava?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘This is shit, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah.’ My heart is pounding. It feels so violent that I’m positive if I looked down I’d actually be able to see my chest move.

  ‘You told me to read your poem when I was confused, and I was. I guess I realised how confused you were, too. I mean, I did your poem for Kelly, sure. People here need to think about it, about her and what happened. But mainly I did your poem because I love it; there’s parts that I think just summarise how I feel. About me and you.’

  He breathes loudly again, and I can see in his face how hard that was for him to say.

  Why is everything always so hard to say? I want to ask him which parts, and what he means exactly, and how does he feel about us, and if we can be friends. I want to ask him if the poem is the only thing he loves.

  I want to ask Gideon if he still loves me. But I won’t. Because the idea of him saying no is too freaking enormously painful and so I’d rather not know either way.

  ‘Are you mad?’ he asks.

  ‘That you did the poem?’

  He nods.

  ‘No.’

  More silence. He smiles and takes a few steps towards the door. I don’t want him to go.

  ‘I wish. I wish—’ I pause. I breathe in deep, willing the words to come. ‘I wish lots of things’ is all I can muster, and Gideon smiles.

  ‘I can’t be friends with you for a while, Ava.’ He mutters this and I’m positive my heart actually clenches. ‘I respect you and your decision, and I get why you did it, but I need you to respect this decision too. I can’t be around you or talk to you. Not yet.’

  I bite my lip hard and will myself not to cry. I nod so that he knows I understand.

  Gideon takes a deep breath. ‘But I’ll never let her waste away,’ he says, looking me right in the eye. He nods his head, takes a big deep breath in and I think he’s going to say something else but he doesn’t.

  What does that even mean? There’s this feeling in the pit of my stomach that works it out before my brain does and I feel the size of that disappointment niggle at my insides but I don’t let it in, not right now.

  ‘Bye Ava,’ he says as he pivots on his toe, turns his back to me and walks away. And I don’t say anything.

  SIX MONTHS LATER

  It’s a cloudy May day, it’s been raining all afternoon, but it’s clear now. There’s even a little bit of sun. The clouds are so thick they take up the whole sky and everything looks a little yellow, like someone’s picked the wrong filter and everything has a weird tinted tone to it. I’ve done four whole months straight of Year 12 at a brand new school and I haven’t wagged once, or yelled at anyone, or told anyone to get fucked or had to see the principal or guidance counsellor. I’m amazed by my resolve, and the fact that I’m genuinely impressed with this effort makes me giggle to myself.

  I take the long way home, stepping over puddles, kicking at crumbly gravel and flicking leaves on low-hung branches so the leftover raindrops leap off in excited bursts. I like walking the long way because I have to go past the park, right past the spot where Kelly’s family and I stood under the rotunda a few months ago, a year after Kelly died, and told stories about her. Laughing about the crazy shit she’d do and crying happy tears. We celebrated her life.

  When Dad and I walked down towards the family that day Lincoln came up to us and hugged me so tight he lifted my feet off the ground. It felt awkward and normal and different all at once. We haven’t talked much these last few months, but every now and again he’ll text me some stupid joke and I’ll reply. I think Lincoln and I will always have this complex bond, this weird not-quite-friendship, not-quite-family thing. I don’t regret what happened between us. I’m not proud of it either, but it’s okay.

  I breathe through my nose and I feel, I feel, I feel calm. All the crazy feelings are still there, I know they are: the sad, the hurt, the anger, the confusion, the grief and the love. They’re all there. Maybe they’re in the box or maybe they’re just not bigger than the sum of my parts right now.

  I still go to Nola for therapy every fortnight. She likes the analogy of the box and likes to remind me that there’s no right or wrong way to feel any of these things. It’s just the choices we make in the name of these feelings that can get us into trouble. Sleeping with Lincoln was not the best choice. Breaking up with Gideon? That was the right choice even though it hurt like hell. I haven’t heard from him since his graduation. Despite what he said about not wanting to talk to me I sent him one final letter. I worked out what to say. I needed to thank him for…well, for everything.

  I told him I missed him at work and that Ricky did too. I told him about the moment when Ricky said to me, ‘I don’t blame you for doing the kissy-kissy in the cold room with that boy. He was nice. Quiet, but nice. A real catch.’ I told him I was sorry for hurting him and that I felt awful about contributing to any more pain in his life, because he’s experienced enough of that. I wrote about how amazing I think he is and how grateful I am that I met him because he made me laugh, and feel beautiful. I told him how I felt like it was because of him that I was able to realise that not everything in my life was a complete waste and that it was because of him that I wanted to sort my shit out, to be better. I thanked him for the incredible poems and for helping me pick up the shards of my smashed heart so that I could start putting it back together myself.

  He didn’t reply. Which I can’t really blame him for. But still, it hurt. I assume he’s moved away, gone to uni, is living his life—like he planned.

  I’ve decided to really make a go of it this year and just see what happens. I still don’t really know what I want to do. I’m hoping it’ll become clear, as more time passes. Dad has started a counselling course so he can work on helplines talking to kids who are struggling. It sounds pretty interesting. Maybe I’ll do that. I like that idea, of helping in some way, and god knows I’d be able to empathise. But then again, maybe I’ll just work at Magic Ke
bab. Or maybe I’ll be a poet. Who knows?

  Ever since Kelly died people would talk to me about moving on. ‘Ava, one day you’ll move on and you’ll feel okay.’ I didn’t believe them then and I don’t believe them now. Part of me thinks that my life will always be kind of frozen in the moment that she died. Life as I knew it stopped then. Completely. Dead still, literally. When people would tell me that I’d move on it used to make me so mad—showed me quite clearly they had no idea what she meant to me. That she wasn’t just my best friend, she was my soul sister. And that kind of love doesn’t end. You can’t just move on from that.

  But that doesn’t mean I can’t move at all. Kelly dying will always define me in some way or another, but I can move forward. I owe that to her. Like I said: Kelly didn’t want to end her life, she wanted to end her pain. Which she did. That means I can’t let my pain end my life, I’ve got to live for both of us. I think that’s what she’d want.

  No. I know that’s what she’d want.

  When I get home, I kick open the front gate, reach into the mailbox and head inside. There’s a pale blue envelope in with the bills. Addressed to me. I thumb the stamps for a moment before ripping it open, and take out a small rectangular card. I smile and breathe out. My eyes begin to do their usual welling thing, but this time it’s a new feeling. This time my eyes are welling for no other reason than happiness. Real happy tears.

  Dear Ava,

  Why don’t you text me sometime—you know, like a normal person?

  My number here is: +44 7974 812134.

  London sends its love. So do I.

  Always.

  Gideon

  HELP IS ALWAYS AVAILABLE

  If you or someone you know needs help you can seek assistance from one of these resources. Many have immediate support options including telephone, online chat and email services.

  It’s okay to not be okay. It does get better. Talk. You matter.

  Love

  Claire

  www.claireandpearl.com

  AUSTRALIA

  Lifeline: 13 11 14

  www.lifeline.org.au

  Suicide Call Back Service: 1300 659 467

  www.suicidecallbackservice.org.au

  Kids Helpline: 1800 55 1800

  www.kidshelpline.com.au

  Beyond Blue: 1300 22 4636

  www.beyondblue.org.au

  Headspace: 1800 650 890

  www.headspace.org.au

  ReachOut: www.reachout.com

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My biggest and grandest heartfelt thanks to:

  Everyone at Text for being so gosh darn lovely; in particular, to my editor, Mandy Brett.

  Candice and Jen at RGM. The #LoveOzYA community.

  Maree Keating, Harry Wallace, Mark Mackenzie and Wren Condren—thank you for your help and for telling me to keep going with this idea.

  To all of the young people I’ve had the privilege of working with—thank you. TRACTION—you make me want to be better. I believe in you. Always.

  Jacq, Heidi, Sam—best bests ever. Carley, Ari and Emily—thank you. Poppy, Tilda, Sid and Baby Burton—you can do anything, my loves. Dave, I will be eternally grateful for your brain, your encouragement and all of the giggles.

  Nan, Granddad, Uncle Steve, Aunty Theresa, Liam, Anne, Cathy, Chris and Carla—thank you for your unwavering belief in me. I love you. And to my baby niece/nephew—I can’t wait to meet you. Dad, I love you moo. Mum, my shadow and my queen—I am who I am because of you. Thank you.

  Steve and Midge—I love you, and most importantly, I like you. My heart, always.

  Lastly, to the @claireandpearl community—for being the sparkliest of them all.

  Claire Christian is a novelist and playwright who lives in Brisbane. She has had three plays published by Playlab, and her play Bloom was shortlisted for the Griffin Award in 2009. She was one of the YWCA Queensland’s 125 leading women in 2013.

  claireandpearl.com

  facebook.com/claireandpearl

  @pearliestpearl

  textpublishing.com.au

  The Text Publishing Company

  Swann House

  22 William Street

  Melbourne Victoria 3000

  Australia

  Copyright © 2017 by Claire Christian

  The moral right of Claire Christian to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication shall be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  First published in 2017 by The Text Publishing Company

  Book design by Imogen Stubbs

  Cover art incorporates images by Shutterstock

  Typeset in Sabon 11/15.5 by J&M Typesetting

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry

  Creator: Christian, Claire, author.

  Title: Beautiful mess / by Claire Christian.

  ISBN: 9781925498547 (paperback)

  ISBN: 9781925410785 (ebook)

  Subjects: Friends—Juvenile fiction.

  Schools—Juvenile fiction.

  Children’s stories.