Feeling sorry for Celia

by Jaclyn Moriarty

  No. That’s stupid. I hate those shows.

  I’ll just tell you where she’s been.

  SHE JOINED THE CIRCUS.

  Maybe I should give you some space to get over that information.

  I hope you’re over it now.

  She said that they’ve got her sewing up the holes in the tents at the moment, but they’re gonna teach her how to be an acrobat soon. I can’t believe that while I’m doing English essays, she’s sewing up holes in a circus tent.

  Actually, I really can’t believe it. She failed sewing classes last year because she couldn’t even sew a button onto a piece of black cloth.

  (I couldn’t do it either but I wrote a letter saying I didn’t believe that girls should have to do any sewing at all in their whole life, considering the history of discrimination against women.) (I tried doing the same thing in English the other day – our new teacher found out that we were supposed to write an essay on To Kill a Mockingbird. He said he didn’t see the connection between the history of discrimination against women and writing an essay on To Kill a Mockingbird.)

  So anyway, I hope it’s not very important if the holes in the circus tent don’t get sewn up properly. I mean, I hope it doesn’t mean the lions will escape or anything.

  I can believe that Celia’s going to learn to be an acrobat. When we were little one of her favourite games was climbing up the mulberry tree in our backyard, then running as fast as she could along the fence, jumping onto the next-door neighbour’s shed and sliding halfway across the roof. I did it in bare feet one summer day and got my feet full of splinters from the wooden fence, and huge burn blisters from the tin roof. Celia got so good at it that one time she slid right across the roof and fell off the other edge. She got a broken arm from that.

  Another thing she liked to do was to stand up on the swings in her backyard, and get me to stand up on the same swing, but opposite her, so we were facing each other with our feet in a row. Then we had to swing as hard as we could, to try and get it to swing right over the top and around. Luckily, we never made it. We were trying to do that one time while Celia’s arm was still broken from falling off the tin roof. So she couldn’t really hold on properly, so she fell off and broke her other arm.

  Well, I guess I should go. My dad’s living in Sydney now, he’s got a place in Double Bay so he’ll probably call soon and want to do fun father/daughter things with me. Fabulous.

  Love,

  Elizabeth

  Memo From the Desk of Albert Clarry

  Hey there Elizabeth!

  Imagine my being able to send memos to you from my office right here in Sydney!

  This is my first day and it’s exciting to be living in my home town, if only for a short time. To celebrate, perhaps I could take you to dinner this Thursday? Is a school night okay with you again? What about somewhere really snazzy? Would that be cool for you?

  I’ll phone as it gets closer.

  Take care,

  Dad

  ELIZABETH!!!

  I AM TAKING CELIA’S MOTHER TO MY AROMATHERAPY MAN TONIGHT.

  I SPOKE TO HER ON THE PHONE TODAY AND I THINK SHE IS SUFFERING FROM POST-STRESS SYNDROME. SHE SOUNDED COMPLETELY OUT OF HER MIND.

  SHE SAID THAT CELIA’S BROTHER HAS MOVED HIS DRUMS INTO THE KITCHEN AND PLAYS THEM MOST NIGHTS AT THREE AM. AS AN INTIMATE, PERSONAL PROTEST AGAINST THE INCREASED USE OF TRUCKING HIGHWAYS BY MOTORCYCLE GANGS. I DON’T THINK THIS HELPS (EITHER THE TRUCKS OR CELIA’S MUM).

  I ALSO SPOKE TO YOUR FATHER ON THE PHONE TODAY. I WAS THINKING OF WATCHING A VIDEO WITH YOU THIS THURSDAY NIGHT BUT YOUR FATHER WANTS TO TAKE YOU OUT TO DINNER. SO TOO BAD, I GUESS.

  THERE’S A FROZEN PIZZA IN THE FREEZER FOR YOUR DINNER WHILE YOU’RE DE-FROSTING IT WHY DON’T YOU THINK ABOUT PURPLE LIPSTICK? WRITE DOWN ANYTHING GOOD THAT YOU CAN THINK OF TO DO WITH PURPLE LIPSTICK

  LOVE FROM YOUR MUM.

  Mum,

  There isn’t one single good thing that can be said about purple lipstick.

  Love,

  Elizabeth

  PS I would much prefer to be watching a video with you this Thursday. But don’t you have your poetry club on Thursday nights?

  ELIZABETH!!!!!!

  IT’S TRUE THAT I HAVE MY POETRY CLUB ON THURSDAY NIGHTS, BUT IF I DIDN’T I WOULD HAVE LOVED TO BE WATCHING A VIDEO WITH YOU, IF ONLY YOU WEREN’T GOING OUT WITH YOUR FATHER

  AT LEAST HE’LL FEED YOU BETTER THAN I DO.

  THERE IS SOME HAND-WASHING SOAKING IN THE LAUNDRY BASIN AT THE MOMENT. CAN YOU SLOSH IT AROUND A BIT AND RINSE IT OUT AND HANG IT ON THE LINE BEFORE YOU GO?

  WHILE YOU ARE AT SCHOOL TODAY, WHY DON’T YOU ASK YOUR FRIENDS WHAT THEY THINK OF PURPLE LIPSTICK? ALSO,WHY DON’T YOU SPEND A BIT OF TIME THINKING ABOUT THE COLOUR PURPLE ITSELF. WHAT THINGS ARE PURPLE?

  LOVE MUM

  Dear Elizabeth,

  I think you’re the coolest for writing letters explaining why you can’t do your homework. I just don’t do it, then I get busted, then I get put on detention, then I don’t go to the detention cos my mum needs me at the florist shop, plus cos detention sucks. Then I don’t do my homework again, then I get busted again, then I get put on detention again, then I don’t go. It’s a vicious cycle. It’s like a washing machine with the lid jammed down.

  Celia joined the circus? I can’t believe it. Your friend Celia sounds like the coolest person on earth.

  I read these fantastic books when I was little. There was this boy called Jimmy and the circus comes to his town, so he goes, ‘Mum, can we join the circus?’ so his mum goes, ‘Yeah, okay, go get your father.’ And his dad goes, ‘Justlet me wash my hands and we’ll join the circus.’ So they all go to the circus and luckily Jimmy finds a dog which can do magic tricks, so he gets to be a circus performer, and his dad can hammer nails and take screws out with his Swiss army pocket knife and his mum can cook big pots of stew and sew up the holes in the circus tent. (Does Celia have to cook big pots of stew or just sew up holes?) (Does Celia have a husband with a Swiss army knife and a son named Jimmy with a magic trick dog?)

  Now that I think about it, those books really sucked.

  But there was one cool bit, where this girl who’s in the circus has to ride her horse to the beach to save the circus or something, so she’s riding along and every now and then she just stands up on the horse’s back and does a somersault in the air. And the people along the side of the street go ‘cool’ and start clapping for her with their mouths hanging open so you can see their fillings.

  God, I wanted so badly for the circus to come to my town so I could do that too. I used to just stand there on my driveway watching the road in case some caravans and elephants appeared. None did, so I thought I could get a horse and teach myself to ride around standing up on it, and doing somersaults in the air. And then everyone would clap at me with their mouths hanging wide open and their tonsils in full effect.

  My parents never got me a horse though. So it all came to nothing but a pile of manure.

  Derek was very happy with the twig from your apple tree. He put it in one of the empty pots in my mum’s florist shop so that he can grow his own tree. He says he’ll send you an apple from it as soon as it’s ready.

  I tried to do the Smartie and M&M thing only I closed my eyes from the beginning to the end, so that I wouldn’t cheat, and then I couldn’t remember which one was which. Sorry. I’m gonna buy a packet of both today and try out the experiment on everybody I know, to get you accurate results.

  I’m also going to start working on your birthday present today. I’ve already got heaps of paper to use so I don’t need to collect that. We have to read The Merchant of Venice and it doesn’t make sense. Basically, not a single word of it makes sense. I think it would be fine if I ripped out most of the pages and used it for your birthday present. I mean, I don’t think it’s gonna affect the plot or anything. Also, I can get plenty of glue for your birthday present, because of the glue-sniffing habits of most of this school.

  And I c
an get wax for the candle, because Derek’s ear is full of it.

  Sorry. That’s disgusting. I’ll get clean wax for you.

  My birthday’s in December, right next to Christmas, so it’s easy to remember too, only nobody does, because it’s a STUPID time for a birthday. I want a unicorn, okay? I don’t want a horse any more because I’ve matured.

  I told Derek about Celia, I hope that’s okay? He wants to know if you can use your connections to get him into the circus. He’s got this act worked out, where he lifts weights and whistles the soundtrack from Titanic the whole time. It might sound sad but it’s pretty impressive when you see it.

  Oh, something else has happened. My cousin Maddie is in love again. It’s a relief – she was starting to get on my nerves badly. She phoned yesterday to say that a new guy has just started at her high school, and she thinks he’s the hottest thing since baked potato with sour cream and mango chutney. (I know. Gross. But she goes ape for it.) He hasn’t spoken a single word to her yet, she just saw him on the other side of the locker room and she swears that he winked at her. I said he probably just had something in his eye. But even if he did, she’ll get him because she always does.

  Good luck with your dad. Don’t forget that it doesn’t matter if he takes you to the poshest restaurant in the world, you will still be the coolest person there.

  Love from Christina

  Over one-third of the world’s coffee is produced by people living in poverty. Think before you Drink.

  Dear Lizzy,

  HI. This is the most fantastickest thing that ever happened to me!!! The people here are the best. There’s this girl called Patricia who lets me live in her caravan with her, all I have to do is polish her candelabra every now and then (she uses it as part of her act - she does a kind of elegant dinner party thing on the tightrope at the top of the tent). The circus manager is so nice to me. He’s treating me like a kind of daughter and giving me all this advice about life and playing my cards right and stuff.

  Love, Celia

  PS I got this stack of old postcards for free at our last venue.

  Dear Miss Clarry,

  So you found your best friend again. Congratulations. That’s a step.

  But you know what? You have the weirdest best-friend relationship we ever saw. You don’t see her, you don’t have her phone number, you don’t even know where she is. She gets to talk to you. And you can’t say a word to her.

  I am really very sorry, hut unless things improve soon we will have to ask you to leave our society.

  Best regards,

  The Manager,

  Best Friends Club

  Dear Christina,

  I’m writing this in the backyard and it’s Sunday afternoon and the apple tree thinks it’s spring, and Lochie’s fast asleep beside me. He’s got both paws and his chin on my leg; it’s the cutest thing you ever saw. Actually, it’s not just cute, it’s amazing. I just did a 6k run. I must smell like a compost heap.

  I’m looking at your letter (Lochie dribbled on it, sorry. It’s kind of disgusting, which it wasn’t when you sent it to me) and I’m glad Maddie’s practically got a new guy. But does that mean she’ll get in trouble again, I mean like running away with him and that? And does it mean you don’t get to see her as much? Still, it’s good that you don’t have to keep being her counsellor, or like her magazine problem page.

  If I ever actually talk to Celia again I’ll tell her about Derek’s whistling and weight lifting thing. She hasn’t phoned me yet, just sent postcards. She probably thinks our phone’s tapped or something – she’s kind of paranoid like that.

  I think I read those books too, the ones about the circus and the girl standing on the horse? I think it was Enid Blyton, which my mum never wanted me to read, but my dad used to send them to me for birthdays and Christmas, which made my mum just go ape. But she had to let me read them, cause they were my ‘only link with my biological father’. (I heard her say that to a friend of hers on the phone one day when I was about seven – ‘Oh, I don’t know Barbara, you and I can both see that Blyton’s a pile of crap, but what can you do? It’s the only link she has with her biological father.’)

  After that my Biological Father started coming over here for work, so I got to see him for a weekend holiday once a year anyway. Which some people might consider a better link than an Enid Blyton book but I couldn’t ever completely make up my mind on that one.

  Last Thursday night was the first linking experience of my dad’s year-long stay in Australia. I just hope they’re all as special and rewarding as that one was.

  Ha ha.

  The first thing that happened was I missed the bus. I catch me Glenorie bus, which goes right at three o’clock, basically while the bell’s still ringing. I was just running along the year nine balcony when Mr Bother it stepped out of a classroom and stood right in my path. (Kind of like a mafia movie, where the FBI guys suddenly come out of a doorway and everything stops, dramatic like?) With most teachers, all you have to do is say, ’I catch the Glenorie bus’ and they practically give you a police escort out to the bus stop.

  So I say to Mr Bother it, ‘I have to catch the Glenorie bus.’

  And you know what he does? He says, ‘Oh really?’ and leans against the bag rack making his mouth twist around like he has something caught in his teeth. Maybe he had just eaten a biscuit and it was kind of packed into the gaps between his teeth, and he was trying to scoop it out with his tongue? I don’t know. Your guess is as good as mine.

  Anyway, he just looks at me, scratches the back of his hand and says, ‘I’m wondering whether you enjoy our English classes?’

  Give me a break.

  Do I enjoy his English classes?

  What are you supposed to say to that – ‘Well, if you’d just liven up your delivery, throw in a few jokes and hand out occasional bags of chips, they’d be perfect, sir’?

  Strangely, I don’t say that, I just say, ‘Yeah, I guess.’

  And he keeps on standing there, tipping his head sideways so it’s practically breaking off his neck, and says, ‘Do you enjoy writing essays?’

  That’s a tricky one because I don’t think I’ve ever written an essay in my entire life. I usually just write a letter, explaining about how wrong it is to write essays.

  So I say, ‘Not really.’

  And he tips his head up and down and goes, ‘hmm’ and closes his eyes like I just told him something very meaningful. Like he’s my psychiatrist and I just told him a dream about my childhood or whatever. You know?

  So he goes, ‘If you ever want to come and chat with me about your essays, do.’

  I pretend to be really glad about that, and then I say again, more slowly this time, ‘I have to catch the Glenorie bus’ and he finally seems to click and goes ‘oh!’ and lets me go.

  But it’s too late, of course.

  I miss my bus.

  If you miss the Glenorie bus, you have to wait one hour and take the Castle Hill bus, and then change onto the Kenthurst bus, and then you have to walk half an hour to get home.

  Fantastic. All so I can reassure Mr Bother it that his English classes are good. I should have just recommended he go see the school counsellor if he really wants to deal with his insecurities.

  So I finally get home and Dad’s already there, sitting on the front verandah, trying to play with Lochie, and Lochie’s looking at him like: ‘Excuse me, do I know you?’ and Dad’s trying to get Lochie to fetch sticks, which Lochie doesn’t do, because it’s below his dignity, and Dad goes, ‘Hey, I thought all collies fetched sticks! Guess he’s not so bright as we thought, huh?’

  And I feel like punching him on his stupid nose.

  For one thing, Lochie is about one hundred times smarter than my dad.

  I don’t have time to take a shower or iron a dress, so I just throw on jeans and my white t-shirt which I know are completely wrong, and my father pretends not to notice but you can see his face go into a kind of ‘whoops’ expression when he see
s me. But he doesn’t say anything, he just drives me halfway across Sydney to this snazzy restaurant.

  Our table has one of those white paper tablecloths which makes me think ‘why can’t they afford real tablecloths if they’re so snooty?’ and blue and white checked napkins which make me think we should be eating hamburgers. It also has a magic blue-glass bottle in the middle, which I like, with a green candle stuck in the top of it, and candle wax making a big lumpy mess down the sides of the bottle, that makes me want to scrape it all off. Plus a big chunky glass ash tray which I feel like ripping off, only I don’t, because I don’t have a handbag to put it in. (Also because I don’t actually want a big glass ashtray.) (Also because I’m not actually the kind of person who rips things off from restaurants. Are you?)

  So I order the chicken in orange sauce and Dad orders the spaghetti carbonara, and Dad fills up my glass with disgusting red wine, and we start having our stupid father– daughter dinner conversations.

  You know, like my serviette’s falling off my lap and I’m reaching down to pick it up at the same time as Dad’s going, ‘Take a look at those picture windows, would you?’ Or I’ve just taken a big bite of chicken which is caught on a bit of bone in my mouth and I’m trying to get it untangled with my tongue and Dad’s going, ‘What do you think of my tie?’ and flipping it up and down in my face.

  After a while we stopped talking and just ate, which is better, but embarrassing. Also I was really annoyed at the sound of my dad eating the spaghetti carbonara. He kept pushing his fork around in it, and it makes this disgusting wet, gooey noise, like people kissing or rubbing their eyes. And anyway, Dad can’t keep his mouth shut for more than thirty seconds. He’s always saying things out of nowhere like ‘let’s go crazy, hey?’