Take Three Girls

by Cath Crowley

  Friends. Interesting. I see Clem asking me if I’m okay at detention, and Kate inviting me home with her for the long weekend before I see these guys, my actual friends.

  ‘Poor you. Wasting a whole night with the boring boarders.’ Tash eats a micro mouthful of hotcake like you hear actors have to do when they are performing scenes that involve eating and talking.

  ‘It wasn’t so bad.’

  ‘You’re too kind.’

  ‘They’re okay.’ I think about detention and the party, and I don’t want to sell them short anymore. ‘They’re better than okay, they’re nice. I like them.’

  Tash starts and the others follow – incredulous laughter. It’s contagious. I give in.

  ‘I know, all right. But I do! I didn’t know them before.’

  ‘You’ll be telling us you like Iris soon.’ Another peal of laughter.

  ‘Don’t be silly. I have to draw the line somewhere.’ Feeling a tiny bit guilty. Why did I have to laugh and seem to agree like that? And shocking bore though Iris is, even Clem manages to avoid her and not say nasty things about her.

  ‘Good to hear you haven’t completely lost it,’ says Tash.

  The three of them exchange looks again.

  ‘What is it with you guys? Do you have something to say? Say it.’

  Bec starts. ‘Well – we thought you went a bit too far with the PSST response.’

  Tash’s lip curls. ‘No guy wants his ex saying things like that, even if it’s meant to be a joke.’

  I look at them. I’m the incredulous one now. ‘No girl wants a scummy social media site telling the world she likes it up the arse, either. I decided it was better to go for humour than to get defensive and deny it.’

  ‘You were pretty unfair on Rupert, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, tough. It’s his stupid school all that PSST stuff comes from.’

  ‘We don’t know that,’ says Tash, as though I’ve offended her.

  ‘What, are you Basildon’s best friend suddenly?’

  The looping looks do another lap of the table. Things are smelling ratty. I have one of those leaps of gut instinct that leads me to a nasty place: that’s the juice – Tash and Rupert.

  ‘You didn’t!’ I’ve known Tash for long enough to see when she’s squirming. ‘How could you?’

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘Nobody.’

  ‘Well, you made it pretty clear you don’t want him. And he’s not likely to be alone for long.’

  ‘What happened to the one-year rule? It’s barely been two weeks.’

  ‘I don’t even know why that’s a thing,’ Tash says.

  The others are quiet. They know she’s in the wrong, but they also know she’s the strong one at the moment. That strength oscillates between me and Tash, and the others always know where it lies.

  But I’m not putting up with this. ‘Oh, okay, sure – recap:

  ‘In case your friend changes her mind and wants the boy back.

  ‘To avoid hearing or engaging in inappropriate pillow talk about your friend.

  ‘To punish friend’s ex for whatever part he played in dropping friend, or, acting like a douche and deserving to be dropped by friend, by denying him alternative nice girlfriend.

  ‘To avoid the possibility of any unfortunate friend-to-friend comparison by the ex.

  ‘To avoid any uncomfortable friend witnessing of friend hooking up at parties with the ex within close proximity of her having recently been the one hooking up with him.’

  I look around the table. ‘So, that’s how I remember it – it’s pretty friend-friendly. Did I miss anything?’

  Bec shakes her head. She looks close to tears.

  We wrote the rules down at the beginning of last year. And kissed the notebook with lipstick lips. (I know. But it was Year 9.) The rules are – were – sacred. It’s not like I want Rupert back, but this disrespects me, and it disrespects our friendship.

  ‘I refuse to let this affect our friendship,’ says Tash.

  ‘Too late for that, girlfriend.’ I roll the word in acid, carefully pack up my birdie sleeve and knitting needles, leave the twenty on the table, and go.

  Walking into the hard winter sunshine past the primary school where Tash and I started in Prep together, before we both moved to St Hilda’s in Year 6, my pace is fuelled by anger over Tash’s shitty behaviour. I’m also worrying about the whole family nightmare and imagining my dad sitting in some horrible room with a single bed, but then, like a huge happy wave knocking everything sideways, I’m thinking of Max. I kissed Max last night, and she kissed me. Not a posed, fake, musicclip kiss like we used to do at parties in Year 9 – cringe. No. Long, slow, real kisses full of sex and romance. And what comes next? I look again at the text from her that I woke up to. No words, just a screen full of ladybird emojis. I told her that I love ladybirds, and I do.

  WEEK 7

  RETREAT, REFLECT

  Week 7: Retreat

  Provocation

  In order to understand the world, one has to turn away from it on occasion.

  Albert Camus

  The three grand essentials of happiness are: Something to do, someone to love, and something to hope for.

  Alexander Chalmers

  Points for discussion/reflection

  • Happiness is an industry and an illusion. Discuss.

  • What are your ‘Grand Essentials of Happiness’?

  • We cannot know happiness as it is happening, only after.

  • Happiness cannot be planned or predicted.

  Task

  On this long weekend I hope you will find the time to unplug, switch off, tune out and take a quiet moment in nature to meditate, to reflect. If you like you can journal your reflections. Ask yourself, What does happiness mean to me? Create a happiness plan.

  Monday 22 August

  Oliver’s hired the studio for Monday. I should have told him there was no point in paying for an extra session, but I couldn’t say the words. I want another session. I want hundreds of other sessions. I want to ditch life as I planned it and spend every second composing with Oliver.

  I walk along Lygon Street thinking about the ideas that Dr Malik talked about in Wellness today. Happiness isn’t simple. There’s always something practical getting in the way of our dreams. If I ditch the exam then I have to go back to the country. And if I go back to the country, I will have lost both futures.

  I walk slowly towards the library, dragging out the seconds till I see Oliver and have to tell him. Garlic, tomato, coffee, books – this part of the city feels like freedom to me. I wonder how many of the people around me got to choose their lives, and how many had to make compromises along the way, ending up in a place that was okay but not the one they were desperate for.

  I see Oliver’s cello case from a distance, resting against the wall of the library. He’s tapping on his Mac with his left hand the way he does, his right hand steadying it, and every now and then scratching at his chin. He looks up and scans the street, but he’s scanning in the wrong direction, so he doesn’t see me approaching. He’s got one earbud in: one ear in music, one ear to the world. His eyes find me when I’m close enough. He sees me. I see him. We see each other seeing each other.

  ‘Are you ready for the fusion of information architecture and classical music?’ he asks.

  ‘I dressed for it,’ I say.

  ‘So did I,’ he says, and looks down at his feet. He’s shined his old boots. ‘An occasion such as this calls for clean footwear.’

  ‘I never know when you’re joking.’

  ‘Assume when it comes to music I’m serious. Assume all else is a joke.’

  We walk through the glass doors into the library, up the stairs and into studio. Last time, last time, last time, I think, to the beat of all our steps. There’s no window to the world in the studio, only one to another room. It’s airless and tiny, which didn’t bother me before.

  ‘You look grim,’ Oliver says.

  I give
him a small smile to convince him I’m fine, and take up my bow.

  I close my eyes and I get this image of the two of us building a city together, a metropolis. Behind my lids, in the darkness, I see the streets forming, the paths bricked by us, these skyscrapers growing. The more we loop and layer, the bigger the city, the more beautiful.

  At the end of our session I open my eyes. ‘We’re ready,’ Oliver says, and it’s the saddest sentence. Because it’s true. All the practicing, arguing, composing, kissing, living, have added up to this piece of music.

  And it’s been a waste.

  We walk out of the studio, back down the stairs, and onto the street. Later, I might remember all the things we talked about on our way to the tram stop: looping software, Zoë Keating, Emilie Autumn, electronica music, the dusky sky, the cloud above us shaped like a mouse, the myth that egg cartons can soundproof a room, the hassle of taking cellos on public transport, the Iceland auditions.

  But I have a feeling all I will ever remember from this day, this year, is the look that will be on Oliver’s face when I tell him I can’t audition.

  ‘Oliver . . .’ I say, about to lay the problem out for him so he can help me decide.

  ‘All your thoughts move across your face while you’re thinking. You know that?’ Oliver says.

  ‘What am I thinking?’

  ‘You mumble. I can’t quite understand it. When you play the cello your face is dead serious and twitching.’

  ‘Oliver,’ I say again, and then he leans in and kisses me.

  ‘Can I come to the formal with you?’ he says. ‘I mean, will you go with me?’

  ‘Yes,’ I tell him, and decide to give us this moment, this night.

  I’ll tell him when I get back from my weekend at home. I think maybe I’m hoping for some kind of miracle.

  Wednesday 24 August

  A text from Stu: Hey Zaftig Clem, we’ve got a room! Belongs to a friend-of-a-friend. Abbotsford.

  A note from Iris: What’s up with you? Are we Skyping tonight? Why won’t you answer my messages? When are you going to tell Mum and Dad about swim squad/Canberra? Are you staying with Jinx for the long weekend????????

  Being in love is like being in a fog.

  I think of Stu when I wake up and then pretty much all day. I go to sleep hoping I’ll dream about him too. Jinx is sick of seeing me staring at my phone. ‘You’re boring, Clem. You’re like a zombie. Who is he, anyway? What school does he go to? It’s not Anton D’Angelo is it?’

  ‘No. Ew.’ I tell Jinx a little, but not everything. If she knew how old Stu was there’s no way she’d cover for me. I’ve never been to a Feminist Collective meeting, but I’m sure they spend the whole time making up new categories for skeevy guy behaviour.

  The rare moments that I come out of my love fog, what I see is enough to send me straight back. Winter just won’t go – everyone’s got colds and is sniffling and covering their mouths with their jumpers so they can’t catch germs. And PSST just keeps on giving. My fat photos are history, but on Sunday there was a double whammy. First, a photo of Lainie sitting on some Basildon boy’s lap, with the quote from him saying St Hilda’s girls would benefit from a specialist class in hand jobs. Lainie came to Wellness, her face grey as a slug. She’d had a crush on that guy for ages. She thought he really liked her. Malik talked about the importance of self-care, and Lainie said, ‘What I really want to know is, how come boys are such pigs?’

  Malik: ‘I, uh, some context, Lainie?’

  But she just closed up again.

  What would he do if he knew? Would he do anything? We’re supposed to report this kind of thing but no one does, and anyway, what would the teachers do? What could they do? Turn off the internets! HA.

  Yesterday, there was a new twist on Rupertgate – Tash and Rupert have hooked up. Ady’s walking around, acting like it doesn’t bother her – but I know better now.

  *

  After History, Kate and I confer.

  ‘I read the St Hilda’s bullying policy,’ I say. ‘We could report it. Girls are twice more likely to be both perps and victims of cyber-bullying.’

  Kate frowns. ‘It can’t be a girl – what girl would say stuff like that?’

  ‘It’s because we’re brought up to be all nice and smiley and agreeable. It’s not acceptable for girls to act on their aggressions, so we have to get creative. At least boys get to duke it out.’

  Kate’s quiet. The way she’s looking at me – something else is going on.

  ‘What?’ I say.

  ‘Did Ady talk to you yet?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘She’s in the assembly hall. You should go see her.’

  ‘You’re being very mysterious. Hey, Stu texted me – we’ve got a room. I think it’s in a share house. Should I bring my own sheets or would that be weird?’

  ‘You know, if you want to come to the farm on the weekend, you’re welcome to.’

  I look at her – didn’t she hear me?

  ‘Clem –’ The bell rings and Kate looks relieved.

  I make my way to the assembly hall. Ady, Tash and Lola are walking around with measuring tapes and clipboards. There’s a plate of doughnuts on the table in front of them, untouched. I linger by them and wait for Ady to come over. Tash and Lola act like I’m not even there.

  ‘Hey,’ Ady says.

  ‘Kate said I should come and see you.’

  Ady looks cagey. Whatever she wants to tell me, she won’t do it here.

  ‘Meet me in the quiet area.’

  ‘I go here, I go there,’ I complain, smiling, swiping a doughnut on the way out.

  The quiet area is a small square of garden paved with commemorative bricks. I sit on the bench and read the names of families who donated money and feel the warmth of winter sun. Ady comes through the door, looking grim. My good feeling starts to slide.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I wanted to talk to you.’

  ‘So talk.’ I tear off some doughnut and pop it in my mouth.

  ‘Okay.’ She exhales. ‘This is hard. Saturday night, at the party, just before we left, I saw something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Stu with a girl. They were kissing. He had his hand in her pants.’

  The doughnut tastes like Clag. I stop. Swallow.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I saw.’

  Ady’s grey eyes look right into mine. I wait for her to smile and say, Joke! but she just continues looking worried and I’m holding half a doughnut I can no longer eat.

  The quiet space suddenly feels loud. Ady is sitting too close.

  ‘But – he wouldn’t. He was with me.’

  Ady bites her lip and looks down at her nails.

  I try to come up with reasons for what she says she’s seen.

  ‘It was dark. It was some other guy. I don’t believe you.’ Suddenly I’m shaking. Full of lava. ‘You bitch!’ I shout. ‘Why are you saying this?’

  I throw my doughnut at her. Ady ducks, but some Nutella has stuck to her hair. She combs it out with her fingers. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, standing. ‘If it was me I’d want to know.’

  ‘Well that’s the difference between you and me, isn’t it? Go back to your real friends and leave me the fuck alone.’

  I text Stu.

  I need to see you. I’m having a bad day.

  I’m at the Blue House all night.

  Can I come there?

  Tricky.

  I wait, holding my breath.

  It’s quiet time after seven. Don’t ring the doorbell. I’ll meet you out back.

  He texts the address. I feel like running back to Ady and waving it in her face. There has to be some way to turn this day around. There has to be. I go to the rest of my classes but I can’t concentrate. I don’t believe Ady, but why would she make it up? She must be mistaken.

  Iris is looking for me, we’re supposed to Skype Mum and Dad, but I manage to dodge her. I stay in my room until everyone’s gone
to dinner. Then I fling on a t-shirt and my old green velvet jacket. I put on lipstick and stare at my reflection for a good few seconds. A wild, awful feeling beats inside of me.

  The Blue House is right next to the train line. I have to walk down an alley to get to the back. It’s a dark, dark night. No stars. I wish I had my scarf and gloves. The back of the house is just a cement area with dead ferns and a washing line with some Y-fronts on it. There’s an overflowing ashtray and a couple of crates to sit on. I sit and text Stu, I’m outside.

  Ten minutes pass. Ten long, cold minutes. I can hear shouting from inside the house and it makes me nervous. I shouldn’t be here. This is where he works. It’s where his clients live. I’m trying to tell myself it’s just like a regular share house, but I know it’s not. Stu tells stories – like the one about the guy who lost it because someone ate his pie. He shat on a plate and put it in the fridge. ‘The things that I have seen, Clem, the things that I have seen.’

  The back door opens. Stu presses a finger to his lips. He takes my hand and leads me up the narrow stairs. I can see three people in the TV room watching The Bachelor. They don’t see us. Stu’s room is tiny. It smells like old socks and energy drinks. He has a single bed, a clock radio, his guitar and a handful of books – that’s all.

  As soon as he closes the door, Stu is all over me. I don’t stop him. We don’t even make it to the bed. He unbuttons my jeans with one hand, while working his jeans off with the other. And then it’s the condom, the silence, the weight of him. Stu keeps his eyes closed. It doesn’t hurt as much this time; it just feels like he’s in a hurry. I wish I could lose myself. I want to get it – IT – the feeling people write about in songs and books, of being so connected, so close you want to die.

  This time is even shorter than the last. As soon its over Stu starts putting his clothes back on.