You’re the Kind of Girl I Write Songs About

by Daniel Herborn

  ‘Yeah, tell me about it,’ I say.

  She does, in great detail.

  Tim

  I remember a couple of years ago Matt’s brother, Simon, and some of his mates, decided to take a Friday off school and go down to Waterloo Skate Park with their boards. I asked him how he was going to get the day off school and he said he’d just write his teacher a note saying he was sick. ‘They’re not going to analyse the handwriting and see if it matches your parents’ handwriting,’ he said and it made perfect sense. It was like being handed the keys to the kingdom. Since then I’ve bludged the odd day here or there, and at one stage a whole week, writing myself a note when I feel like I need a break.

  I’m determined to make good use of today though and I start working on Neil Young’s ‘Heart of Gold’, which is a simple song to learn. It’s pretty amazing to hear what he does with those three chords in the intro, four chords in the verses. I record a couple of versions of it, and settle on one I really like and upload it to YouTube.

  When I go out to the kitchen to make myself a snack I get this weird feeling like I’m not supposed to be here in the mid-afternoon, and I realise that I’ve completely forgotten over the last couple of hours that I’m supposed to be at school right now and that I might have completely wrecked things with the one person who makes me the happiest.

  I watch the toaster, waiting for my Pop-Tarts to rise, and suddenly it seems like the most pathetic thing in the world and the house seems so quiet and lonely I can hardly bear it.

  Mandy

  Alice invites me to some kind of charity sleep-out at the university, and as a fan of sleep-outs and as someone who badly needs a distraction, I instantly agree.

  When I get there, I immediately feel a bit less enthusiastic. The quadrangle where everyone is camping is gorgeous though. There’s an old jacaranda tree in the corner, and gold-coloured gothic-style buildings with stained glass and gargoyles that look like something out of Hogwarts. The lawn is absolutely packed with people, some of whom are running around hitting each other with pillows like kids on a birthday-party sugar high. I wonder whether I’m really up for this and wish I was at home, in my bedroom, with my earphones in and the blankets pulled up over my head.

  Alice is busy with people for the first hour or so that I’m there, but finally we get a moment to talk.

  ‘I haven’t seen you for a bit. How have you been?’ she asks.

  ‘Oh, you know, been better.’

  ‘How’s Tim? Have you seen him since we got back?’

  ‘Well, it’s been a bit complicated —’

  ‘Alice! There’s my bitch!’

  I turn and see a girl with dirty blonde hair who Alice introduces as Abby. Her eyes are somewhere between brown and green and her face is so pretty it’s like a solar eclipse; it feels like it would be dangerous to look straight into. She is also very, very loud and she immediately plunges into a conversation with Alice, or, more to the point, a very long and winding monologue about people I’ve never heard of.

  I tune out, and eventually Alice excuses herself to go and find a friend who’s just arrived. Left alone with me, Abby suddenly looks at me strangely, as though she’s forgotten I’ve been there the whole time.

  ‘So … this is awkward,’ she says.

  This is seriously one of my least-favourite sentences ever. I don’t think there’s ever been a social situation in human history that has suddenly become more comfortable because someone had the foresight to announce that it was awkward.

  ‘Do you have a boyfriend?’ she asks.

  ‘Um, kind of.’

  ‘Kind of? That sounds like no. Me neither. And while this place is a total meat market, there’s slim pickings here, I tell you.’

  ‘I wasn’t really … um …’

  ‘What do you study?’

  ‘I don’t study. I work at a fast-food place.’

  ‘What else do you do?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, who is the real Mandy?’

  God, I think, I don’t even know the answer to that myself.

  ‘Well, I like listening to music.’

  ‘That’s not doing anything.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘What music do you even like?’

  ‘I love The Gaslight Anthem.’

  ‘They’re crap.’

  ‘Well, it’s subjective, I guess.’

  ‘No, they’re definitely crap.’

  I’m saved from more of this conversation by Alice returning with her friends Grace and Belinda in tow. I’ve met Belinda before, at the Balmain gig, though she seems more boisterous now. She also seems to have forgotten she’s no longer on the internet and says things like ‘so much win’. She actually says ‘LOL’ out loud, repeatedly. Grace is less annoying and I get to talking with her about her acting career. She’s been doing it for a couple of years now, short films and TV commercials, but she says she keeps getting offered parts as either a medical student or someone working at a yum cha restaurant because she’s Australian-born Chinese.

  She’s talking about one time she got to branch out and play a martial arts expert when we all get distracted by a skinny boy in a lion T-shirt who approaches us sheepishly. He looks a bit intimidated by the group of us, but obviously only has eyes for Alice.

  ‘I think we’re in Russian history together,’ he says.

  Alice looks at him without any recognition for a second but says, ‘Yes, I think I recognise you!’

  ‘I’m Justin.’

  ‘Alice.’

  ‘That’s a pretty name.’

  ‘So is Justin! Well, not pretty — it’s a good, solid, very manly name.’

  ‘Thank you … So, do you like Russian history?’

  ‘It’s my favourite.’

  ‘It’s good, isn’t it? I do it as well.’

  ‘I think you already established that,’ Abby says.

  ‘Can I sit down?’ Justin asks.

  ‘Sure,’ Alice says.

  He sits down on the grass next to her in a way that suggests he’s never sat down before in his life and is a bit unsure of how to use his legs. It reminds me of that footage you see in nature documentaries of zebras being chased by big cats and their limbs splaying out in all directions. He looks at Abby and me as if he’s going to introduce himself, then decides not to risk it and starts chatting to Alice while looking at a piece of grass near his shoes. Now this is awkward.

  ‘I like your T-shirt,’ Alice says, trying to meet his downcast eyes.

  ‘Thanks.’ He twists a blade of grass around his finger. ‘I made it myself,’ he says, trying to be all casual about it, but obviously burning with pride.

  ‘I made a glow-in-the-dark lion once, when I was little.’

  ‘Oh, that sounds cool, I’d like to see it.’

  ‘I haven’t got it with me sadly, it’s on my wall at home.’

  ‘Oh, of course, yeah.’

  Abby sighs, stands up and brushes some stray pieces of grass from her skirt. ‘I think we need to go and get some hot chocolate. Grace, Mandy, come with me.’ She turns to Alice and Justin. ‘Are you guys going to be here for a bit?’

  Justin looks uncertain. ‘Uh, yes? I think so.’

  ‘You sure?’

  He nods, but still looks uncertain. Alice smiles.

  ‘OK, we’ll bring back hot chocolates for you crazy kids,’ Abby says. As we weave between campsites to get to the drinks tent, she adds, ‘Was that guy a virgin or something? Most feeble kid I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘I thought he was cute,’ Grace says. ‘I like his shaggy hair.’

  While they’re still talking about Justin, Abby is approached by a much more confident boy with an Ed Hardy T-shirt and slicked-down hair. He has an entourage with him that hangs a couple of steps back.

  ‘Have I seen you around before?’ he says.

  Abby looks at him with complete boredom. ‘How would I know who you’ve seen?’

  ‘I bet you’re one of those girl
s who’s so attractive guys never approach you because you intimidate them.’

  ‘No, I get hit on all the time.’

  ‘You’re funny, I like that. I’m Jordan.’

  ‘I know I’m funny. I’ll see you later.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Thanks for playing. Bye.’

  When we get back to Alice, Justin scurries off to join his friends. The people organising the event start playing The Hunger Games on a screen at the end of the quadrangle, and the air chills and bats start swirling overhead. I get caught up in the whole thing and actually feel a little let down when the movie ends and people start getting ready to sleep.

  I’ve brought along the toy kangaroo I have in my bedroom, Joey Ramone, as a kind of decoration for our campsite. But then I see Abby come back from getting changed into a sexy camisole and I instantly feel about eight years old and decide Joey will have to stay hidden at the bottom of my bag.

  There’s never a moment when Alice and I are alone, and it doesn’t seem the right time to talk about anything, so I end up shivering in my sleeping bag and staring up at the stars, trying to sleep and trying to forget.

  Tim

  Eventually, I get Mandy on the phone and we agree to meet at the Summer Hill Hotel on a Sunday afternoon. I instantly feel a bit better, but when I actually meet her, it’s like I’ve used up all my energy just psyching myself up to get there and I’m deflated and boring and sit around nursing the beer she’s bought me and not really saying anything.

  A lizard crawls out of the lattice on the patio wall and boldly sits there in the falling sun, looking at us curiously and occasionally flicking its tongue at us.

  She goes to hug me and I sit there stiff and rigid, not returning the hug. I feel disconnected and weird, like I’m thinking through this moment instead of being in it. I think about the words I’ve rehearsed but can’t remember them. All I can think is that I have to apologise.

  ‘Don’t be sorry, darling. Just tell me what I can do to help.’

  ‘Thanks, but there isn’t anything you can really do.’ I register the word ‘darling’, what it might mean for us, but I can’t even process it at the moment. ‘I just think we shouldn’t talk about it any more, not right now anyway. I’m sorry … I don’t know … Can we talk about something else?’

  ‘If that’s you want, sure.’

  ‘OK?’

  ‘OK. You can talk about anything.’

  ‘Well, I don’t want to be rude, but …’

  ‘No, it’s fine, anything.’

  ‘Well, this is weird, but your house really smells like a swimming pool.’

  She looks stunned for a second, then laughs in surprise. Sometimes all you can do is laugh.

  Mandy

  I start to see every day as a unit to be ticked off, some minor progression towards the end of the week, some minute marker on the road towards another page in the calendar, another month, something closer to who knows what. Or maybe just something further away than this. My laziness and drifting have got me into a state where all these sleepy-eyed days are interchangeable except for nights with gigs, which loom like some oasis on the Roman Holiday calendar on my bedroom wall.

  My shift on Friday gets cancelled so I don’t even have that distraction, nor the money to buy replacements for the Chuck Taylor All Stars I’ve just worn out. My old tiredness is back. I get up at midday and listen to the Kate Bush Spotify station in bed for an hour. Going to the letterbox feels like a real chore, and leaving the house seems an epic effort that I can’t summon the energy for. For once I’m grateful that I’ve not been invited to any parties because I couldn’t be bothered going.

  I end up sitting on the couch with Heather and making the totally unoriginal observation that we now have a hundred cable channels that, between them, don’t show one thing worth watching.

  Heather’s deflated. She went for what she thought was a job interview today, but it turned out it was for an unpaid internship. She’s still in her interview outfit, with a necktie and a black suit jacket. It’s so far from the jeans and lumberjack shirts she normally wears she may as well have been to a fancy-dress party.

  We drink from a disgusting bottle of sherry June has left lying around and watch a show about a ‘dating doctor’ who whips women into shape by recording videos of their efforts to meet men and then watching the footage with them to point out their shortcomings.

  It’s sad, but it occurs to me that I could use this kind of assistance, someone who could watch footage of my life and provide a helpful voice-over on where I’m going wrong.

  Tim

  Mr Taylor comes up to me at lunch, when I’m sitting in the music room by myself, strumming the school’s acoustic.

  ‘That’s good, Tim, what is it?’

  ‘Just one of my own, sir.’

  ‘It’s very good, a nice riff. And uh, you don’t have to call me sir, you know.’

  ‘Cool. I’m just used to it, I suppose.’

  ‘What’s it called?’

  ‘The song? It doesn’t have a name yet, or any words. It’s just an idea, I guess.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’

  I start to play something really old to please him, and maybe to make fun of him a bit: the beginning of Iron Butterfly’s ‘In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida’, one of the songs that Ned always plays. He nods along to it.

  ‘Did you know the title was supposed to be “In the Garden of Eden” but they were too … they were, ah, really tired when they recorded it,’ he says.

  ‘Yeah, I heard everyone was really tired back then.’

  ‘You’ve been away from school a couple of days, I noticed.’

  ‘Yeah, I was really tired … No, I’m kidding,’ I say. ‘I just had a bit of a cold. Needed a rest. I’m fine now.’

  ‘Have you played any shows lately?’

  ‘No, I was supposed to play at this thing last night, but I didn’t feel like doing it. That’s the good thing about not really having any fans yet — there’s nobody to disappoint.’

  ‘You know, there are people at the school you can talk to if you need to,’ he says.

  ‘What, like the school nurse? She’s terrible. Whatever problem anyone has, she just gives them aspirin. One aspirin.’

  ‘I think you’ll find some of your teachers are prepared to listen.’

  ‘Which ones?’

  He frowns.

  ‘No, I’m joking. That’s, um, well, that’s good to know, I s’pose.’

  I look back at the school guitar I’m holding. It’s interesting, a beaten-up old cheapie, a Mexican copy of a better brand. Somebody almost ruined it by putting in steel strings when it should only have nylon strings, but there’s an interesting quality to its sound, which you don’t get in new instruments and which would be hard to replicate on a supposedly better guitar.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it, Tim.’

  ‘Thanks, sir.’

  Mandy

  I get more details from Tim over the next week. Nothing ever came of that night in terms of punishment for his dad, but, soon after, he moved to Melbourne where he’s now working for a friend who has a construction company. He hasn’t ever done any work like that before, but he just wanted to get out of Sydney.

  Tim tells me his father isn’t what you think of when you think of someone who hits a woman, nothing like the clichéd wife beater. Instead he’s popular and talkative and funny and charming. He’s a good actor, someone who’s comfortable on stage, a great storyteller, the life of the party. Most people who know him simply couldn’t believe that he’d ever do anything like that. People know about it, but they haven’t really taken it in. Some people said to Tim that it was a real shame his family was having ‘those kinds of problems’, which he found insulting.

  I kind of assumed when Tim first told me about all this that Ned was his mother’s brother, but he’s his uncle on his father’s side, his father’s much younger brother, the sensible, quieter one and apparently nothing like Tim’s dad. Tim says he didn’t know
Ned all that well before he lived with him. He was around a lot but he didn’t say that much, he just has that personality where he’s happy to be in the background. Tim said he didn’t mean this in a mean way or anything, but when he first started working at the newsagency he was surprised by how many people Ned knows well and how many people seem to really like him.

  His mum also moved away for a while, to live with her sister in a small town in Queensland, but she’s coming back soon.

  I don’t really know what to say, so I just try to listen and be supportive. After we’ve talked, details swirl in my head and I think of questions I should have asked hours ago. I wonder why he didn’t go with his mum, whether he feels abandoned at all, whether it was really what he wanted, to go back to school and finish off Year Twelve properly.

  He tells me that he used to drink a lot last year, and he’d have a Three Kings before school each morning so he didn’t feel agitated through the day. I have to ask what a Three Kings is. I’m so naive.

  He tells me it’s a shot of Jack Daniel’s, a shot of Jim Beam and a shot of Jose Cuervo combined. It wasn’t fun drinking, he tells me, his eyes cast down. It was just to get by, to feel normal.

  I ask him if he went to rehab, and he says no, it wasn’t that bad, he just quit drinking for a couple of months and since then he’s never been blind drunk.

  I don’t know what else to ask. I try to put it all together in my head, but it feels beyond me, too big and scary, too adult.

  As the days go on, I worry that Tim won’t see me the same way any more, that I won’t be exciting and new, that he’ll see me as part of the whole mess somehow. I get the impression that very few people, or maybe not even anybody else, knows the full story.

  Time goes by and we don’t kiss like we used to, or hold hands like we once did in those golden, carefree days that were only a few weeks ago. It was only a handful of nights, at the hotel and his place and the swimming pool. It was a dream that taunts me by ending abruptly and ejecting me back to dull reality. He hugs me like you hug your aunt and his voice is dead as he tells me more of the story.