by Cath Crowley
‘What happened with Gaffney?’
‘Nothing yet.’
‘What about swimming?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘But I want to help you.’
‘Why?’
‘What do you mean, why?’
‘Why do you want to help me? Newsflash, Iris: we don’t get on.’
‘I know, but –’
‘I think you’re happy,’ I said.
‘Why would I be happy?’
‘Because you like to see me taken down.’
‘I left a comment defending you.’
I dunked my bread in the soup and ate it without tasting it. It was a nice thing for Iris to do, a small gesture, a warming thing, but I didn’t feel grateful. I felt mean. She was looking at the photos around my mirror: the family snap from happier times; the one of me and Bronte Campbell, who won gold at Brazil; the one she defaced, Thing One and Thing Two.
‘I’m sorry I did that,’ she said.
‘I don’t care. Nothing happened because of it. It’s not like you can put white-out on my face and I’m going to disappear or anything.’
Jinx’s bed was empty and Iris kept looking across at it. Then she said, ‘Are you going to stay with Jinx on the long weekend? I’m staying at Kate’s.’
‘You don’t have to organise me, Iris.’
For a second she looked like she might cry. ‘What did I ever do to you?’ I couldn’t answer. I don’t know what the answer is. Iris is like a pebble in my shoe, and I can’t ever quite lose her. I walk a few steps and there she is, grinding again, making me feel stuff when I don’t want to feel anything at all.
Today, when Ady visited, at first I was suspicious. I pictured her reporting back to Tash, telling tales of Fat Clam, marooned in her dorm room. But no – she’d brought me the Wellness sheet – on the idea of perfection – and a gift: some art postcards, beautiful women, fatties all. I shuffled the cards in my hands and I could feel my eyes getting hot. I didn’t want to cry in front of Ady – Ady of all people – but the tears leaked out. And Ady put her arm around me, like we were friends.
Jinx walked in. Ady left.
‘What’s that all about?’ Jinx asked.
‘Wellness homework.’
Jinx nodded but I don’t think she bought it.
‘Do you want to talk?’
I shook my head. Jinx smiled sadly and put her headphones on. She lay back on her bed.
I looked around our room, tried to see it through Ady’s eyes. It was so jock: trophies, ribbons, posters of the greats, energy bar wrappers and sweaty socks scattered around. My eyes went to my mirror, the photos in the frame. I took Bronte Campbell down and put Ady’s fat ladies up.
Tuesday 16 August
So, Clare was right about rehab. Of course. The morning after my father gets picked up, things are quiet and cold. My heart rolls a slow, sick somersault remembering him slumped in the car and my mother’s look of complete exhaustion. Still, no one’s talking about it. We didn’t have dinner together last night because our mother was at a meeting at school.
Charlie has already eaten and run. Bowl and plate in the kitchen sink. I’m wondering how Absent Dad will impact on Mr Routine. He’s mostly coped with conflict by not being here much. Helpful habit.
The buried hum of hot water pipes signals mother shower, so I can breakfast without a side order of uncomfortable heart-to-heart, if I hurry. I want to talk to her and find out what’s happened, but at the same time I can’t stand the idea of talking to her and don’t want to know what’s happened.
Domestic trauma never dulls my appetite. Two eggs, fried. Two slices of toast, buttered. A slurp of Sriracha sauce. A handful of spinach leaves. Slap them together and yum. Thank you, genes, for the metabolism that lets me eat all I want and never get sucked into the misery of limiting food, rationing food, cutting whole delicious food groups, fearing food. Food is my friend.
Clare debrief before inevitable mother deep encounter might be an idea. She will be sipping her – at least – fourth cup of tea from her glass infuser teapot, positioned at exactly ten o’clock relative to her laptop. She will already have finished her disgusting own-recipe, Tuesday breakfast: extra ancient-grains, brain-food Bircher muesli with brain-cell-building nuts served with a glass of fresh orange juice for vitamin C to keep away any disempowering illness. Clare says no to losing even one optimal study day. She carries a disposable surgical mask on public transport and does not hesitate to use it if there’s any snot or coughing in her vicinity. Good practice, too, for getting used to the breathing restriction when she is eventually an actual surgeon in a surgical mask, if all goes according to plan A, which of course it will.
The distant muted thumping is her maniac forty-second flat-out spin on the exercise bike in her room. She does that a few times a day. It keeps her fit without eating into any significant study time. I’m really going to miss her next year. Not at all.
*
Living as she does in the super-fit study zone, alert, one ear cocked like a dog, Clare always knows more than I do. She instructs me with a downward glance to lower my sorry-to-interrupt-your-study chocolate frog onto the side table arranged at a forty-five degree angle to her desk.
‘You might have to be the one to find your next school, you realise that?’ she says.
‘My what?’
‘St Hilda’s has refused to continue the fee repayment scheme our idiot parents entered into.’
‘The what?’
‘They’ve been paying our fees in small, affordable instalments for the last year, but they’ve missed the last couple of payments.’
‘They have?’
‘School has waived my final year’s fees, as a “scholarship”, because I’m obviously going to ace the year, so it looks good for them.’
‘Our parents?’
‘The school. Sharpen up, Ady. You’re a different case.’ She softens for a nanosecond. ‘If they had scholarships for great art, you’d be fine.’
It becomes clear. ‘Wow.’
‘She had a meeting with the school accountant and Gaffney last night.’
‘Do you think they’ll get divorced? Who will we live with?’
‘I’ll be in Sydney. You and Charlie will be with Mum. Dad’s got too many substance abuse problems to get custody – if they do go down the divorce road.’
Fuck my life. ‘You don’t seem fazed.’
‘Can’t afford the time.’
‘How has this happened? What about all his awards?’ A whole crowded shelf of them. He’s like the king of advertising.
‘It’s not that he lacks talent.’ Clare shrugs. ‘Forty-four is pretty old for advertising. Newer, younger, better directors have come up behind him. It’s the way of the world.’
She jots that down, the way of the world. She must be going to use it in some killer essay. Can’t wait for that one.
She sees me looking at her note. ‘Congreve,’ she says impatiently.
I have no idea what that is or means. ‘How do you know about our life, and I don’t?’
‘I asked Mum. You should try it some time.’
‘What’s she going to do?’
Clare has a very expressive way of raising her eyebrows. ‘Well, she’s re-watching The Good Wife.’
‘But she hasn’t worked as a lawyer since . . .’ When, actually?
‘Yup.’ Clare has already spun back around to face her desk. ‘So: find new school. Sorry I can’t help you out there. But I’m happy to check out your shortlist.’ She puts her earbud back in.
I only ever warrant one earbud out. I wonder what it would take for her to remove both.
Tuesday 16 August
I dress carefully, hair combed, tights straight. I don’t have to fake a contrite expression. Last night Jinx was trying to brainstorm excuses for me: ‘Say you had temporary insanity, you slipped in the change room and hit your head’. But we both know it’s hopeless. When I open my door there’s a package for me in the hallwa
y. It’s a CD with a note from Kate. She’s written: Music helps. A CD? How old school is Kate? No time to listen to it now. I shove it in my bag and make my way to Gaffney’s office for my big dressing down. The office lady lets me in. It’s Gaffney and Beaz and they’ve brought Malik in as well.
Gaffa says, ‘Clementine. Sit please.’
I sit. The old pleather chair farts and I dare to smile, but only Malik smiles back. The fact that Beaz doesn’t almost breaks my heart. Gaffa goes straight in. ‘Clementine, we need to talk about your attitude. Ms Beazley tells me you’ve missed quite a bit of practice this term. And after Sunday’s debacle I’m afraid you leave us no alternative but to act.’
‘Maggie Cho is replacing you on the relay team,’ Beaz says. ‘And you can’t come to Canberra.’ She’s looking at me like I’m supposed to say something, so I say, ‘Yes,’ and look down. Beaz is in her civvies and it just looks wrong – like an alien trying to join the human race. She’s even wearing lipstick.
‘You had a setback. No one expected you to jump straight back in. But, Clem, enough. I’m supposed to be your coach, not your babysitter. Something’s going on with you. I think it would help if you told us what it is.’
Malik has a turn. ‘Clem?’
I feel sick. The porridge I ate for breakfast sits high in my throat.
‘We’ll need to inform your parents,’ Gaffa adds.
Malik clears his throat. ‘Maura, if I may – perhaps Clem should have the opportunity to talk to her parents about this first.’ He looks at me. ‘Take a couple of days, if you need to.’
‘Yes,’ Gaffa says. ‘That will be satisfactory.’
I can’t face class. Jinx and Lainie will be at me, wanting to know what’s gone down, so I go to the old pool. It’s full of rubbish from the fair – with all that crap and the leaves you can hardly see the bottom. I lean on my tree and think about how disappointed Mum and Dad are going to be, and how they’ll know I’ve been lying to them. At least we’ll have a screen between us. I can turn the camera off, that way I won’t be able to see their faces slide. I feel a bit lost – which is unexpected – I thought I didn’t care about swimming anymore, but now that Canberra’s not happening I know it’s really over. No more Swim Clem, at least, not like I was. Now the future is just like a white blur of skywriting that time has made unreadable.
Just as I’m wishing I had someone to commiserate with, my phone vibrates in my pocket. A photo from Stu. His face with a thought bubble drawn on. Thinkin’ of you. I pause – he’s sent me this photo before. Is it a bad sign that he’s already recycling his photos? But he looks so cute, it’s enough to carry me through the rest of the day.
Thursday 18 August
I haven’t spoken to my mother alone since my father got picked up. Even though I feel sick every time I think of that scene in the driveway, I need more information.
She’s packing some of his clothes into a suitcase.
‘How long’s he gone for?’
‘It’s a six-month program.’
‘He didn’t even say goodbye.’
‘I’m sorry we haven’t talked properly. I was trying to sort things out with your school, and trying to get your dad into this clinic.’
‘Yeah, so don’t worry, Clare already told me I have to leave.’ I’m angry even though I’ve done my share of avoiding her. My adrenaline doesn’t seem to know whether it’s flight or fight time.
‘Sorry, Ady, the last few days have been a nightmare of forms and consent, and – you don’t want to know . . .’
‘No, it’s fine. I get it. You protect Charlie and you talk to Clare, but you don’t give a shit about me. I can go to hell and get yanked out of my school and lose all my friends.’
‘You know that’s not true, Ady. I am sorry about St Hilda’s, but to be perfectly fair, you’ve done nothing but complain about it for the last couple of years.’
‘Everyone complains about school. It’s still where all my friends are.’
‘I’m sorry it’s happening like this.’
‘I feel so embarrassed.’ That sounds childish as it tumbles out of my mouth, and I wish I hadn’t said it.
‘Addiction is a sickness – it’s no more embarrassing than . . . having cancer.’
She wouldn’t have done so much venting lately if she really believed that. She thought he should just get his shit together. She said it often enough. At least cancer is something people understand.
‘Everyone’s going to think we’re such losers.’
She smiles, which is infuriating. ‘Real friends won’t think that. Your dad’s going to get better. I’m going to get a job. And we’re going to live within our means, for a change.’ Now she’s sounding evangelistic. Come back, sole remaining parent.
‘Why is he even like this? Why couldn’t you help him?’
‘Sometimes people need things to get . . . really bad . . . before they can even admit they have a problem.’
‘Will we be able to see him?’
‘Not much for the first month or so, and then, yes, of course.’
‘I don’t even want to see him.’
‘Well, that’s up to you.’
‘Are you getting divorced?’
A pause. ‘Not at this stage.’
‘Is this what happened in Year 7, when he had to go away to “work in Sydney”?’
‘Yes.’
‘Will he have his own room?’
She does the reassuring smile. ‘Yes.’
She opens her arms and offers a hug. Crossing my arms, I turn to leave the room. I won’t be able to hold my tears in if she starts hugging.
‘We still need to go through your wardrobe. We’ll get some Figgy’s apple cake for energy and do it this weekend?’
‘I’ve got detention, remember?’ Obviously not.
She sighs as she zips the suitcase closed. ‘Okay. We’ll do it another time. The hug’s here when you’re ready.’
A suitcase should be on its way to somewhere good, greeting you at a funny angle on an airport carousel, not heading for rehab.
PSST
Ady Rosenthal likes it up the arse, courtesy of ruckman Rupert
Go, Basildon!
Don’t forget to share that sweet arse around, Rupe
rateme: good take down for a StH stuckup bitch
h0RnyT0bi@s: Id tap that one just to teach her a lesson
noBs: chix like the ruffstuff true
Hilarian: Loving the advanced spelling skills of you PSST pea-brains. It meshes well with your understanding of the world and the size of your dicks, no doubt.
rateme: you want to be raped
Hilarian: No, rateme, I don’t. And I’m sure you don’t want to be raped either. But I hope you enjoyed typing all the bad words, you fool. Biggest thrill you’ll ever get, I imagine.
rateme: yur prob 2 ugly to rape anyway, just die
noBs: u wouldnt waste a load on ugly sluts
sufferingsuffragette: It is a comfort to me knowing that you strange little fossils will never attract partners and reproduce
load 185 more comments
Thursday 18 August
At dinner everyone is buzzing. Iris sidles up.
‘Did you hear?’
‘What now?’
‘Rupert gave a report on Ady – sexual proclivities and so forth. It’s all over PSST. That means your photos have been bumped down.’
‘Great,’ I say, thinking PSST, like life, rolls on inexorably. I’m about to do the same, but the mean glint in Iris’s eyes stops me. She barely knows Ady. She’s never even had a conversation with her. The way she says ‘sexual proclivities’ – so prudish; so the opposite of what I’m sure the post actually says. I bet it calls Ady a slut. Because according to PSST all girls are. Sluts and bitches and skanks and hos.
‘Why do you even care?’ I ask Iris.
Her face shifts to sour. She doesn’t have an answer.
‘I don’t want to hear about that shit,’ I say, ‘and you shouldn’t b
e spreading it.’
‘I’m not spreading it. God, you make it sound like I’m personally responsible. Get a clue, Clem.’
‘I’ll get a clue when you get a life.’
Late in the night I listen to Kate’s mix CD and scroll through my Stu gallery. Just when I’m thinking about turning in, my phone pings. A photo of Stu’s ankle.
He texts: Your turn.
I take a photo of my knee. It looks like a lumpy face. I can’t send Stu my knee.
I’m waiting.
I want to tell him I miss him. I want to tell him what my week has been like. The PSST photos, the cancelled Canberra trip.
I text: I want to see you.
He texts: I want to see you too.
Followed with: All of you.
I look across at Jinx, dead to the world, her mouth quivering in snores. I take my PJs off and lie back and try out a few poses, shuffling my singlet off one shoulder, sinful skin-full, promise of curves. I take a full frontal, neck down, because cyber safety, then I sketchify it. Send.
Wow. You’re so beautiful. Zaftig Clem.
I have to google ‘zaftig’. It means deliciously plump, ripe, juicy, sexy. Beats being called Orca. So weird how one pretty word can almost cancel out all the ugly ones.
Friday 19 August
When I wake up at six-thirty am, I read it again.
Could my life actually get any worse at this stage?
I am still numb.
I read it again again again again again . . . Heaps more comments have been added, are being added, as I read.
People are so happy to join in.
I like it up the arse?
It’s not true.
What’s true is I’m a virgin.
Not that being a virgin is a virtue. But it is a fact.
So the facts of my life get kicked away and I’m not a virgin anymore because someone posts lies?
I lose my virginity without getting to have actual sex?
Seriously?
I texted Rupert as soon as I read it last night.
He hasn’t talked to anyone about what we did or didn’t do together.
I believe him.