by John Marsden
Sunday he kept trying to pick me all day, but with Mum and Dad around it was like the top was still on the bottle. Monday was the same, only worse — you’ve got no idea how bad he can be. If he wants something, it’s like ‘Come here slut,’ or, ‘Get me a sandwich, bitch.’ If I’m feeling brave, or stupid, I’ll say ’Get it yourself; if I’m feeling weak but smart, I do it.
Tuesday I went to T.C. and Me, with Maria Kagiasis, and a friend of hers, a girl called Sophie. It’s not a bad movie. Have you seen it? I don’t usually like Trent Smith but the part suits him. And I love Jean Rawicz — I’ve seen every movie she’s made.
Wednesday. Yes, well, Wednesday. We’ve got this computer game called ‘Rum Jungle’, OK? It was a Christmas present, and not a bad one. And although I’m not into computers much, I’ve been playing this one a bit and doing well (top score 12660). Well, Wednesday morning Steve decided he’d have a go. It took all of ten minutes for him to start steaming. When he got into swearing, hitting the computer and kicking it, I went over and stood behind him. Like an idiot I thought that if I gave him a clue or two, he mightn’t get so mad, and that way I could save the disc, the computer and me. And he might even get some satisfaction from posting a high score. OK, I know it was dumb, but that’s what I thought. See I made the mistake of treating him like a normal person for once.
It didn’t take long to work out what he was doing wrong. Or one thing he was doing wrong. So I said, ‘You have to get that green one, and that slows down the yellow ones.’ No reaction. A minute later the green thing appeared again, Steve deliberately ignored it, the yellow ones started accelerating, and five seconds later they wiped him out.
For that I got hit twice in the face and twice in the tits, a whole lot of computer stuff got hurled across the room, and Steve took all the discs so I couldn’t use the computer. Plus a threat: ‘Try lagging on me this time bitch, and I’ll get you at school again.’
That’s the trouble, see. Last year I lagged on him, and a few days later someone crapped in my bag, during recess at school. Now how do I prove it was him? I can’t, but I know it was, from things he said to me — little hints and sick jokes.
Yesterday and today were average — I got a dead-leg about an hour ago for disagreeing with him about a TV show.
What I can’t stand is the tension. Even if he’s been quiet for days it doesn’t mean anything. I can’t relax when he’s in the house.
When I write about him in these letters I go out and post them straight away. Ever since you asked about people reading my mail. It’d be terrible if he knew I was telling you about it.
So, that’s the story of my holidays. Not quite Porpoise Beach, but there it is. It’s funny though, no matter how bad your life is sometimes, you still wouldn’t swap it for anyone else’s. You might say you would, but you wouldn’t.
Trouble is, there’s two more holidays to go before Steve finishes Year 12. And even then he might live at home. I don’t know what he’s applying for, and I don’t think he’ll get much anyway. He hasn’t done any work since Easter, as far as I can tell.
Well, normal life resumes Monday, for better and for worse. At least it means you shouldn’t have pages of Steve any more. So, good luck for Term 2 — lots of love,
Mandy
May 8
Dear Mandy,
Well, like you I’m back at school. You sort of dread it in a way, but in another way it’s not so bad, having something to do again. Not that I’ve been bored, but it’s good seeing everyone.
Greg keeps ringing up, but he can’t come down this way for a while, so everything’s cool with Casey. He doesn’t know about Greg, and I plan to keep it that way.
As for your brother, I don’t know. He sounds like a jerk. Don’t you have a counsellor or something at your school? Those people who are meant to help when you’ve got a problem? I don’t know how good they are but.
I’d get a knife and wait till he’s asleep, then cut his balls off, tie a string round them and give them back to him for a yo-yo.
No, I didn’t think of that myself. Wish I had. A girl here said it.
I’m watching TV while I’m doing this, but not concentrating. It’s only the news. But listen to this: some English politician was on, and they were asking him about a car crash he was in. See, he survived this crash, but his chauffeur got killed. And he was smiling and laughing, and saying: ‘Yeah, I guess someone up there likes me.’ Now, you reckon you believe in God, so what I want to know is, did someone up there hate his chauffeur? I’m never going to cross the road again, if that’s the way it works.
Hey listen Mandy, do you ever show these letters to anyone? Like Cheryl and them? I’m curious.
I don’t show your letters to anyone.
Well, have a good term. Don’t forget what I said about Steve. If that doesn’t work, try microwaving his condoms (they shrink).
Love,
Tracey
May 12
Dear Trace,
Thanks for your letter. I liked the bit about the car crash. The answer’s simple: the guy on TV, the politician, is a nerd. I don’t think God works that way. I think he creates it all, but after that he just lets it happen. But he gives you things like reflexes and brains, and your conscience, so that the world doesn’t go crazy, and end in anarchy. And I think things like car crashes and people dying young of cancer and all that stuff are pure chance: out of a hundred people, one might the young, in a car accident or something, and it’s pure luck (bad luck) if it happens to be you, or a friend of yours.
I’ve been lucky — the only people who’ve died in my family are one grandfather and one grandmother. My grandfather died when I was too young to remember, but my Nanna died two years ago, and that was awful. I still miss her, and I talk to her quite often — I have little chats to her inside my head and tell her what’s happening and how I feel about things. She got burnt in the shower, but the worst thing was, my Poppa was at bowls and didn’t get back till late, so she was there all day before they found her. She died the next day, in hospital.
We still go and put flowers on her grave. I’d like to go again soon — we haven’t been in a while.
So I’ve got one of each left. Grandma (Dad’s mum) lives in Speakman Bay, which means we don’t see her often, and Poppa’s in a home near here, and we go over about once a fortnight and take him food and stuff. He’s so sweet but the home’s depressing, even though it’s a good one. I guess even the good ones are depressing.
School’s been OK so far. Today was above-average. There’s this weird guy in our class, called Darren Small, and he does disgusting things like sticking pins through his skin and turning his eyelids inside out. He can fart ‘Baa, Baa Black Sheep’, he gives concerts when the teachers are late for class. He can do anything with his body. He is quite funny. Anyway he’s got this big mouth — I mean literally — and he puts things in and takes them out again — like tennis balls, Poppers, stuff like that. He can fit his whole fist in his mouth.
So today, Paul Bazzani gave him this huge apple, the biggest I’ve ever seen, and told him to put that in. And Darren, being a bit of a Richard, did. There was only one problem: he couldn’t get it out again. God, it was funny. We thought he might suffocate, he was going so red in the face, but I guess he could get air through his nose. Then Mr Prideaux arrived, for Geography, and after he grasped the situation (that took about ten minutes, which is fast for him), he went and got a knife and he had to cut bits out of the apple till Darren could get the rest out himself. Fair dinks, I nearly wet myself. Darren sure is one of life’s losers. But it was funny.
Anyway, gotta go. Homework calls — not very loudly, but it does call. Oh by the way, thanks for the advice about the yo-yo and the condoms — they’re the only laughs I got out of the whole holidays. Is there a Plan C though? I don’t think I’ve got the guts to try Plans A or B. . . though it’s tempting.
See you,
Love,
Mandy
May 15
Thanks for your letter. Sorry if mine are getting boring. But don’t stop writing, please. I love your letters. And I admire the way you write. Bet you get good marks in English. You seem so honest. I don’t know how you do that.
Your writing about your grandparents made me think a lot, and remember a lot of things. I had this kind of flashback. I think I must have been staying at my Nanna’s. And she gave me Coco Pops for breakfast, which would have been a big treat for me. Then she must have left the room, because I remember reaching over to get the milk and knocking my whole bowl on the floor. So what I did was to get down on the floor with the milk and my spoon, pour milk over the Coco Pops, and start eating. It must have seemed easier than picking up each Coco Pop. I can’t remember what happened after that.
I would have been about three or four I suppose. We’ve got this English essay we’re meant to be writing: ‘Keep on Goin’ till it all stops Flowin’’. It seemed like a dumb topic at first, then I thought maybe I could write about Nanna. But I dunno. Among the people I don’t trust are teachers and I don’t like to write personal stuff that they can read and show other people. I poured my heart out in Year 7 once, in this journal we had to keep, and the teacher wrote at the bottom: ‘Very good Tracey, keep writing.’ Then they wonder why you don’t bother.
School’s a kind of drag already. What are you guys doing? I’ll tell you our exciting topics. In Maths, quadratic functions; in English To Kill a Mockingbird; in History, the Industrial Revolution; in Geography, rainforests; in Chemistry, molecular structures. . .
Exciting isn’t it?
What’s your ambition in life? I heard a song the other day: ‘Live fast, die young and leave a beautiful memory’. Or something like that. That’s the way, isn’t it?
See ya!
With love and depression,
Tracey
May 18
Dear Trace
Thanks for your letter. I do like getting them. You know, when we started this I never thought it would last as long as it has. I was reading in the paper about these two old grannies who just got in The Guinness Book of Records. They’ve been writing to each other for seventy-eight years. I know you want to live fast and the young, but if you change your mind, let’s go for the record, OK?
One of the old ladies is in Australia and the other is in England. They’ve met three times — once in Australia and twice in England. Wonder if, or when, we’ll meet. I often think about it. It’d be strange. The worst thing would be if it was a real flop — like, if we didn’t know what to say to each other. I’d hate that. But I don’t think that would happen.
Which reminds me, you never sent a photo. OK, I know I didn’t send you one either, but I was waiting for you to make the first move. You send me one and I’ll send you one, fair enough?
If you saw me now you’d think I was the Freak Queen herself. I’m sitting here wearing Ug boots, track suit (we had netball this afternoon), two jumpers and a black Russian hat. It’s so cold! I hate the cold weather. There’s been thunder all day — just hanging around growling and scaring the dog. Then as I sat down to write this, a massive storm broke, and bombarded the house. It’s still raining now — the roof’s leaking over Steve’s desk, so he’s working in Katrina’s room. Not that he does any work.
You asked me before if I show your letters to anyone, and I forgot to say. Yeah, I do show them to Cheryl sometimes. She’s cool. She’s just interested in how it all started. And I trust her totally. But if you don’t want me to, I won’t.
She was going to write to you too, but she never does half the things she says she will.
She came over here after netball for a while, with Rebecca. Bloody Rebecca’s being a bitch again. She found out I like this guy in Year 11, George Vlahovic, and she went and told him! Fair dinkum, you’d trust her like you’d trust Jack the Ripper with a chain saw. George is cool about it but it’s embarrassing. We’re going out tomorrow night to a movie or something, but no thanks to Becca.
So, my love life’s looking good for once. But that’s about the only thing that is. We’re doing Mockingbird, same as you, and we’ve got this massive assignment on it, due Monday, would you believe? He only gave us a week, and it’s ten questions, 100 words on each. ‘Mini essays’ they have to be. So there goes the weekend.
Well, catch you round, like Rebecca’s stomach. See you.
Love,
Mandy
May 22
Dear Mandy,
So your love life’s hotting up huh? You’re a sly operator. Who is this guy? What happened to honest letters? Hope you had a good time Saturday night!
Casey and I went out Saturday too. It was our first anniversary. We went to this really dressy restaurant, then to Blue Velvet. We didn’t quit till 3 a.m. I was just warming-up but Case was starting to drag his feet.
Oh, I’m sick of writing this garbage, but I don’t know what else to write about.
Tammy Wynette was just on TV, and they asked her why country music was so lasting. She said it was because it was simple and it was honest. I thought that was a good answer. Do you like country music? I don’t mind it at all.
You remember that English essay I was telling you about? ‘Keep on Goin’ till it all stops Flowin’’? Well, I wrote it like I said I would, about my Nanna, ’cos that’s what her life was like — she kept fighting away, twenty-four hours a day, never giving up, till she broke her hip. It wrecked me when she died — I miss her so much. I swear to God, if that essay comes back with some dumb mark or comment on it, I’ll turn it into confetti.
I honestly think it’s the best essay I’ve ever written.
You know what my horoscope says today: ‘Your past will cause you new complications but the solutions are in your hands. Expect good news about money, bad news about romance. Take special care when travelling but this is a good time to revisit old friends.’
The money part sounds OK.
Hey listen, what do your parents do? I mean, what jobs? You never said.
Bye. Write soon.
Lots of love,
Trace
May 29
Trace, what’s going on? The Greek exchange students had another meeting yesterday, and it was at Prescott High. Remember Prescott High? That’s the school you said you go to. I had a letter for you, so I gave it to Phil — I thought a hand delivery’d be nicer, and faster.
Well, Phil checked at the office — they said they’d never heard of you. So he asked a few Year 10s — they’d never heard of you either. So he brought the letter back. Then I thought, maybe Phil’s English isn’t good enough and they didn’t understand him. So I rang the office this morning — and guess what? I got the same answer as Phil.
So what is this? I can’t believe you’ve changed schools and not told me. I found your old letter and it’s there in black and white: Prescott High. I don’t understand. Please write back.
Mandy
May 31
Dear Mandy,
Don’t worry about it — it’s simple. The truth is, I use a different name at school. Different surname, that is. See, my father’s not my father, he’s my stepfather. My real father died after I was born. I reckon he took one look at me and carked it. But I use his name for most things, like writing to you. I only use my stepfather’s name at school, and that’s because my brother and sister changed to his. It causes some complications, but not often.
Sorry I didn’t tell you before. I didn’t think it was important. And it never occurred to me that you’d send a letter to the school.
So, hope that clears it up. Do I get my letter now?
Lots of love,
Trace
June 4
Trace, I’m no Sherlock Holmes, but this is still bugging me. You said, a long time back, that your parents have been married for twenty-five years. Now you say your father died after you were born.
Something sucks. Please write back.
Mandy
June 13
Dear Tracey,
It’s been a long while since your last letter, the longest gap ever. What’s going down? I don’t understand what you’ve been doing. Please write back and level with me — I need to know.
Love,
Mandy
June 20
Trace, don’t do this to me. I can hack anything except silence. If you want to stop writing, that’s OK, I guess, although I don’t want to stop. But I’ve got to know the truth, at least. Please answer this letter.
Love,
Mandy
June 26
Dear Trace,
I’m going to write every day if I have to, until I get an answer. To tell you the truth, I’m a bit scared about this now. Cheryl said something that freaked me out. I mean, in one way, I don’t know much about you. I don’t know where you live, or what school you go to. I don’t have a photo of you. I’m not even sure if I know your name any more. Like Cheryl said, maybe you’re a psycho or something. But you know, I don’t think you are. I’ve got to trust myself, and my feelings, and I really believe that you’re an OK person. But I think you’ve been bullshitting me a lot. When I go back over your letters, there’s some funny things. For example, you seem to have lost a dog and gained a horse somewhere. I think I can almost tell which bits are real and which bits are fake. So I hope you write at least once more and tell me what the hell’s going on.
