Feeling sorry for Celia

by Jaclyn Moriarty

  You get what I mean?

  So maybe I could make this the Final Apology? I mean, within this letter could I apologise for sending this apology? You see what I mean? When you get off the bus maybe you could give some kind of a signal that this is okay? Maybe you could hop twice or something once you get off the bus and I’ll watch from the window?

  I don’t want to stop being anonymous and tell you who I am, because I’m too embarrassed. But as a compromise I could REDUCE my anonymity by telling you a BIT about who I am.

  Okay? I’m very sorry.

  From:

  A Stranger Who Catches Your Bus, and Who Sits up the Back, and who goes to Brookfield. (Is that enough? Sorry.)

  Dear Elizabeth,

  I’m writing from home today which is strange. I feel like I’ve brought you into my room to show you around. The bed with the black doona on it is mine, by the way. The one with the twirling ballerinas and pink ruffles is Renee’s. You guessed that anyway, right?

  It was raining all morning and now the girls who live next door are out weeding their pear trees. Do you weed pear trees? Maybe they’re pruning them. They’ve got an orchard right in their front yard, and they’ve come out wearing enormous straw hats and sun dresses and crouched down beside the trees to work, and it’s like we’re in another century. It’s fantastic.

  We used to have a market garden too, but then Dad sold it so he could try and set up his front-loader business, and Mum got her florist shop in Baulkham Hills. And Dad’s front-loader business turned out to be a monumental flop, but Mum’s florist shop flourished. HA.

  I can also see the dog from the neighbours on the other side trying to get the attention of the next-door-neighbour girls in their hats. That dog has some serious issues. As soon as he sees anybody in the neighbourhood come out of their house, he comes hurtling towards them and throws himself at their feet. Literally. He just tosses himself onto the ground, puts his chin right onto the grass, and wails at you to pay attention. Then if you’re nice to him, he cries and turns onto his back and makes you scratch him. It’s strange, but it makes everyone hate him – it’s kind of like: ‘have some pride, dog! Get up onto your feet and put your head in the air!’

  I’m sorry. I hope talking about dogs doesn’t upset you. I’m sure your dog Lochie was proud and beautiful. You can send me a photo if you want to? I’d send it straight back.

  You know how you said that it feels like you’re staying still on the bus while everything changes around you? That’s wild, because it’s quite common to be sitting on a bus and feeling like the bus is standing still while the trees and letter boxes slide on past the windows. But you’re normally WRONG if you think that, because in fact you’re sliding along the road and the post boxes are just standing there.

  Only this time you’re RIGHT – you ARE standing still and everything else IS moving. INTERESTING.

  But why is it interesting?

  I don’t know.

  Sorry.

  I just wasted a lot of your time.

  Oh, HEY. Read this bit because it’s important and I think you have a Right to Know. You know your anonymous notes? Guess what. I know who’s writing them. You remember I told you a really good friend of mine catches your bus and he’s the one who described to me what you look like? Remember he said you looked like an elf with your funny ears, and Celia looked like a fairy princess about to fly out the window? Well, he’s always asking how you are because he knows I write to you, so one time when he asked I told him about your dog. Don’t worry, I didn’t tell him about anything else – just that your dog died. My God, he was SO UPSET. He seriously had tears in his eyes. He was really worried about you. (He asks about you a LOT actually – I think he might have a crush on you.)

  So when you told me someone was leaving you anonymous notes I thought of him and made him confess. So that’s who it is. Sorry if he’s annoying you.

  Gotta go because the baby’s crying, and I think by the way Renee’s yelling that Robbo might be ripping into the couch with the kitchen scissors.

  Love,

  Christina

  Dear Elizabeth,

  Ha. Mystery solved.

  The anonymous note-writer is no longer anonymous. He’s just some friend of Christina’s.

  Provisional offer unprovisionally withdrawn.

  Don’t expect to hear from US again.

  The Secret and Mysterious Association of Secret and Mysterious People

  Dear Elizabeth,

  Still.

  Some mysterious boy has a crush on you.

  We await further developments with interest.

  Sincerely,

  Young Romance Association

  Dear Elizabeth,

  So, here’s what we have.

  He talked about Celia floating away like a kite.

  So he is poetic.

  He says sorry too much when he plays tennis.

  So he plays tennis.

  He likes dogs.

  He seems smart.

  He wanted you to signal him when you got off the bus, so he must get off at a stop after you.

  He has a guilt complex.

  So which one is he? Figure it out.

  Yours, in anticipation,

  Society of Amateur Detectives

  Dear Elizabeth,

  You are on the bus. Neither Saxon nor Celia are here to distract you with their giggling and murmuring. Celia must have been too ill to come to school and Saxon has probably rushed to her side like the noble suitor that he is.

  That is by the by.

  The important thing is this: use the opportunity.

  Who sits at the back of the bus?

  Five Brookfield boys.

  Consider your options.

  One is loud, wears a lot of Adidas, is always tapping the top of his cigarette pack, and has dirty old trainers way out in the aisle for people to trip over.

  One has black hair, black eyes and a grunge leather jacket, and enormous boots which are also jamming up the aisle.

  Look away! Act like a detective!

  Okay, look back again.

  One has blond curly hair and cheek bones, good God, the cheek bones, and a loud laugh that makes old women turn around.

  One is feral. Half his head is shaved and the other half is dreads. His nose is pierced twice. How did he do that?

  And one leans forward on his elbows and speaks the soft lines that make the blond one laugh.

  So which one is he? Figure it out.

  Yours, a little impatiently,

  Society of Amateur Detectives

  PART

  six

  ELIZABETH!

  CELIA’S MUM CALLED ME AT WORK TODAY. IT TURNS OUTCELIA DISAPPEARED IN THE NIGHT AGAIN LAST NIGHT. HAVE YOU HEARD FROM HER?

  HER MOTHER WAS A BIT HYSTERICAL, SO MAYBE YOUSHOULD GIVE HER A CALL.

  LOVE,

  YOUR MUM

  Dear Elizabeth,

  I’m assuming that was just a joke. You realise that Celia has disappeared again? You realise this could be SERIOUS? And your immediate reaction is ‘Who gives a damn? I’ve got to run 15k today and there’s only one month till the Forest Hill Half Marathon’.

  Excuse me, Elizabeth, but even if your ‘who gives a damn?’ WAS a joke, this is simply not a laughing matter.

  Please proceed immediately to Celia’s house and ascertain the circumstances of her disappearance.

  Sincerely,

  Best Friends Club

  Dear Christina,

  Your last letter was just like being invited into your home. I could actually SEE through your window – the pear trees and the hats and the obsequious dog. (In the previous sentence you will notice an example of my new vocabulary – our English teacher is giving us a Word A Day.) You’re a fantastic letter writer, you know. Thanks for having me over.

  And you’re right too, my dog NEVER grovelled like that. Lochie was proud and magnificent. I’m enclosing a photo which demonstrates that. I wonder how come your neigh-bour’s dog is
so desperate? What are its owners like? I hope they don’t beat it up or something? Maybe it’ just that that dog’s a peasant-dog and my dog was nobility.

  Guess what? Celia’s run away again. I know, surprise, surprise. She disappeared in the night last night, taking the family cuckoo clock with her. But when we phoned Saxon’s family it turned out that he’s vanished too. So nobody’s especially worried, except Saxon’s parents and they’re having a joint apoplectic fit. Celia’s mum was a bit frantic at first, because Celia’s still sick so she’s too fragile to be joining more circuses. Plus because Celia’s brother Ben ran away to join the navy last week (they sent him straight back; he’s thirteen years old) – so the family stress levels were up.

  But as soon as she found out that Saxon was gone too, she told everyone to chill out because Saxon would take care of her. My mum said if I ever thought about running away with a sixteen-year-old guy I better not expect her to chill out.

  I wonder when I’ll hear from Celia this time. Maybe never. Maybe she’ll never come back. Maybe Saxon’s all she needs.

  So now the bus has changed again and I’m catching it alone. Hey, thanks for telling me who the Anonymous Notewriter is. You are a True Friend. It was driving me crazy. Though of course, now it’s driving me crazier.

  Can you tell your friend thanks for the note about my dog and he can stop apologising for his apologies if he wants? But how come he has to stay anonymous? Tell him he should keep feeling guilty about that and sending me apologies won’t help. Because it’s not fair. He knows what I look like and I don’t know what he looks like.

  Maybe you could just give me a clue. There are five Brookfield guys down the back of the bus. One has bad skin, wears a lot of Adidas, and carries a pack of cigarettes and a mean frown; one’s kind of grunge with dark hair which he pushes out of his eyes all the time with a look on his face like he’s surprised it keeps falling back down; one’s blond and loud and has beautiful cheek bones and a really crazy laugh; one’s feral and has scabby elbows; and one’s quiet, but he must be funny because he makes the others laugh.

  Can’t you just give me one clue? Yesterday something strange was going on down the back. It was something to do with the quiet guy having said something wrong – I think he must have insulted the one with the Adidas and the cigarette pack. Maybe he made a joke about his clothes? Cigarette boy was talking to him in this low down ominous voice, like a snake sliding underneath the bus seats. The whole bus was bristling with tension, and everyone was sitting perfectly still trying to hear what he was saying.

  Blond boy was doing his loud crazy laugh in an attempt to switch off the tension, but it just intensified the feeling that something brutal was about to happen, because it’s so manic, his laugh.

  Grunge boy was staring out the window.

  Quiet boy was just nodding along to everything Cigarette boy was saying, just agreeing, like: ‘absolutely, absolutely, absolutely’. Which didn’t seem to be helping, because Cigarette boy’s low words were building up and up like a truck getting onto a highway.

  Finally, Feral boy took control of the situation, turned his back on Quiet boy, put his arm around Cigarette boy’s neck, and started talking to him at high speed.

  It seemed to work, because then Quiet boy said something else quiet and Cigarette boy kind of half-smiled, Feral boy hit them both on the back of their heads, and everything was okay. The bus driver changed gears and the bus relaxed.

  But you see my dilemma? I didn’t know which one I was supposed to be backing. What if next time they start fighting it turns into this huge rumble and they all come tumbling down the aisle belting each other up? What if one of them lands right by my seat? How will I know whether to knock him out with my school bag or put a cold steak against his black eye?

  More importantly, where will I find a cold steak?

  My dad wants to take me on a YACHT this Saturday. He was really pleased with the idea because it will be introducing VARIETY into our father–daughter relationship. I have a feeling a yacht’s probably exactly the same as an exclusive restaurant except that it floats.

  And my mum wants to take me to aqua-aerobics with her on Sunday. It’s her competitive thing – if Dad can get me ONTO water, she can go one step further and get me INTO water. I don’t know when they expect me to get any homework done. Not that I ever do any anyway, but still. What if I wanted to recreate myself as academically inclined?

  Talking about homework, my English teacher’s given us a weird assignment. We’re studying My Brilliant Career at the moment and instead of getting us to write an essay on it he wants us to write a letter explaining why we shouldn’t be writing an essay. I can’t work out whether this is some wacky new teaching method, or a conspiracy to get me to write an essay. Either way he stole the idea from me.

  Maybe I’ll just write a letter explaining why I shouldn’t write a letter?

  That reminds me, maybe YOU should write a letter to Derek explaining how you feel? How DO you feel about him now? Or maybe not. Letters don’t always work. I wrote to my Canadian stepbrother WEEKS ago now, and he’s just ignored me. So that’s embarrassing.

  God, I just remembered I had to go to the library today and photocopy a map of Africa and colour in the deserts and jungles and cities in different colours and it’s due right after lunch and the end of lunchtime bell’s ringing as we speak. Have to go.

  Actually, are you kidding? I’m not going to do that Africa thing. I think I’ll just explain that I learned colouring-in back in third grade, thanks all the same.

  But I’d better go anyway. Have lots of fun and eat something delicious for breakfast tomorrow.

  Lots of love,

  Elizabeth

  Elizabeth,

  Welcome to the afternoon bus. Assume your undercover agent persona. Use your fist to wipe away the dust on the window, and watch through the window with a casual, dreamy expression as the Brookfield kids beat each other up to get aboard.

  Okay. Grunge boy is first and he’s carrying a tennis racquet.

  Think, Elizabeth. Tennis racquet. Tennis player.

  It’s him. It’s Grunge boy.

  Interestingly, Feral boy also has a tennis racquet sticking out of his bag.

  Ah. I see Quiet boy and Blond boy have racquets too.

  I guess it must have been sports day at Brookfield today, huh?

  Yours with some irritation,

  Society of Amateur Detectives

  Elizabeth,

  Cigarette boy just got off the bus. BEFORE YOU.

  It’s not him.

  Try not to feel quite so elated. This is a serious breakthrough in a serious assignment.

  Yours with a stem reprimand,

  Society of Amateur Detectives

  ELIZABETH!!!

  I FORGOT TO TELL YOU LAST NIGHT. YOUR FATHER E-MAILED ME AT WORK AND SAID YOU SHOULD BRING A WINDCHEATER ON THE YACHT TOMORROW. WHEN YOU SEE HIM YOU SHOULD REMIND HIM THAT THERE’S A PHONE RIGHT HERE IN OUR HOUSE WHERE HE CAN LEAVE MESSAGES FOR YOU. WHY DOES HE KEEP CONTACTING ME AT WORK? YOU SHOULD ALSO REMIND HIM THAT ‘WINDCHEATER’ IS A WORD FROM AN ENTIRELY OTHER ERA.

  DON’T RUN TOO FAR TODAY; I WANT TO MAKE YOU A SPECIAL LEMON SOUFFLE FOR DESSERT TONIGHT AND WE CAN WATCH A VIDEO. THE RECIPE FOR THE LEMON SOUFFLÉ IS IN THE BOTTOM DRAWER AND YOU’RE WELCOME TO BEGIN IT AT ANY POINT.

  DON’T OVERDO THE RUNNING. IT’S SUPPOSED TO BE EXTREMELY HOT TODAY, AND AREN’T YOU TRAINING A BIT TOO MUCH THESE DAYS?

  HEARD FROM CELIA YET?

  LOVE,

  YOUR MUM

  Mum,

  I’m running down Glenhaven Road to Dural if you feel like driving over with a fresh water-bottle for me. Yes, it’s too hot to be running and dehydration is a serious issue.

  I made the lemon soufflé and it’s in the fridge ready for baking. Don’t start it because I want to monitor the baking process. If you start it and it collapses it’s your own responsibility and I will have to kill you.

  See you soon,
/>   Liz

  PS No, I haven’t heard from Celia yet. How about you?

  Dearest Elizabeth,

  Recently, Housewives of the World United sent your file to us, and we were decidedly impressed. We have been toying with the possibility of offering you membership in our association, much as one toys with a sticky caramel in one’s mouth.

  It is your conduct this evening, however, that has clinched the decision for us, much as a dusting of walnut pieces might clinch the success of a rich chocolate cake.

  Elizabeth, we were gobsmacked.

  Never before have we witnessed a first timesoufflé so golden, so gilded, so aureate! Never have we seen a first time soufflé so light, so airy, so feathery! Never have we endured the delirious, mouthwatering anguish of a first-time soufflé rising with the grandeur of a mountain of strawberry ice!!!

  We implore you to accept our offer of membership, much as a grandmother might implore a skinny grandchild to accept her offer of a thick slice of meatloaf.

  Please do say yes or we will weep salty tears into our pastry.