Feeling sorry for Celia

by Jaclyn Moriarty

  Yours ever,

  Chefs ’R Supreme, much like the pizza

  Dear Elizabeth,

  Monday mornings are like hell really, aren’t they? God, when my clock radio starts shouting at me on a Monday morning I really want to kill it. You know, crush it with my fist like a hammer.

  I hate mornings.

  It’s unfair how quickly you get out of the habit of getting up too. I mean, all you do is sleep in for two weekend days, and next thing it’s Monday and your body’s going, ‘uh, this is like four hours before getting up time or something; you want to turn off that noise and go back to sleep?’

  Anyway, right now the only thing stopping me from falling into a coma on my desk is writing to you. Thanks. It’s a combination of the Monday-morning tiredness thing and the most-boring-man-in-the-world-congratulations-come-on-down Rattlesnake. Rattlesnake is Mr Rivers, our stupendous Science teacher, and I don’t think it’s fair that he gets to be called a cool name like Rattlesnake. It started because people thought he was so thick there was all this space in his brain with bits of gravel rattling around in there. So they called him Rattles. And men it turned into Rattlesnake, a cool-ification which I really resent.

  Derek’s in this class too. He’s sitting right up the front because he was being a Distraction up the back. I think it was a mistake moving him up the front because he can be even more of a Distraction there. His smart comments are perfectly audible. In fact, Rattlesnake keeps losing his concentration, stamping one foot, and rubbing out scientific symbols from the blackboard. Everyone’s getting annoyed because they have to cross out what they just wrote down. Serves them right for copying it straight down like that.

  I still can’t work out what I feel about Derek. Even right here in this class, one minute I’m ‘oh my God, that was so funny what he just said, I love him so much’, and next minute I’m ‘what a stupid, smart-arsed thing to say; he’s such a walrus’. We hardly speak to each other any more except if we practically bump into each other, and then we’re just polite. But every now and then I catch him looking over at me with this tiny little hurt crumple in his forehead.

  Every now and then I also see Katrina Ecclehurst twirling her ponytail in his face and leaning up close to him to say, ‘Whatcha doing this weekend, Derry?’

  or

  ‘Whatcha doing for the history assignment, Dezza?’

  or

  ‘You going to the Carlingford dance, Dekko?’

  She’s going to seriously wind up with some H2SO4 up her nose if she keeps that up.

  It’s completely unlike me to be so indecisive about a guy – usually I make up my mind in about one tenth of a second and take action.

  Anyway, this is boring for you. I prefer to think about you really. Guess who else is in my science class right now and sitting here beside me? You guessed it – Mr Anonymous-Note-Writer-Extraordinaire. He’s a serious wreck. I just told him I was writing to you and he went into severe panic mode. He practically climbed out the window just then to avoid you seeing him. He really has a crush on you – oh wait . . .

  Sorry. I thought he was trying to see what I was saying so I had to stop. He just wanted to borrow my liquid paper. He’s doing some art work on the back of my science folder and he wanted white for the clouds. Anyway, he’s terrified that you’ll find out who he is because he’s so embarrassed about ever starting anything. He says you’re an engaging phantasm and he can’t stop writing poetry about you. He thinks you should be a film star. He says your pixie face and elfin ears would send any movie producer into ecstasies.

  I told him that you think it’s unfair for him to be anonymous and he agreed absolutely. But he says he can’t see a way around it.

  Still, I’ve decided that I’m on your side more than his. So I’m going to give you three clues.

  Clue No. 1. His first name begins with a ‘J’.

  Clue No. 2. He’s also in my home ec class and we made chocolate muffins today.

  Clue No. 3. You know how there’s a blond guy with a wacky laugh who’s on your bus? Well, that’s who it is.

  HA.

  That was just a joke. It’s definitely not him. He’s off the planet, that blond guy. I don’t know what he’s on but it’s something serious, and so is his anorexic girlfriend. She’s got dark circles around her eyes and her elbows are so skinny the bones are going to break through any moment.

  I better go because this class is almost over and I should start writing some of this crap into my folder. It’ll just fall right out though. Papers never stay in my folder.

  How was the yacht trip with your dad (and you tried to tell me you weren’t a nice private school girl) and the aquaaerobics with your mum? I wonder if you should just tell your mum that she doesn’t need to compete because you’ll always like her best. Because that’s true isn’t it – you do like her the best? Then maybe she can relax.

  Still, it’s nice that she’s spending time with you, isn’t it. She might have been leaving you alone a bit too much before.

  I HAVE to go.

  God, I forgot about Celia. The disappearing thing must get boring for you I guess – but I can’t believe she ran away with Saxon. Are you okay about that – do you think you’re over Saxon now? I also can’t believe that her mother’s okay with it. It hurts my mind trying to imagine how my parents would react if I did that.

  GOTTA go.

  You eat something delicious too,

  Love,

  Christina

  Dear Elizabeth,

  My conscience is sending me off the edge. I shouldn’t have started this. Christina says you think it’s wrong that I’m anonymous and you are so completely right. The more I make excuses the further off the edge I’ll go.

  Tomorrow morning I am going to get on the bus wearing a black cap.

  Best wishes,

  A Stranger

  Elizabeth!

  Tomorrow, you will know!

  Work quickly Elizabeth and see if you can beat the clock! If you guess before the Black Cap tomorrow you will have a fortunate and happy life and will probably win the half marathon. We offer you that in return for rapid detective work.

  So which one is it, Elizabeth? Figure it out.

  It is not Cigarette boy. (Hooray!)

  It is not Blond boy. (Hooray!)

  Okay, hush now with your cheering and frivolity.

  Therefore, it could be Feral boy, Grunge boy, or Quiet boy.

  Which one, Elizabeth?

  His name begins with a ‘J’. So listen.

  He made chocolate muffins today. So watch.

  Good God, Feral boy is boarding the bus with a muffin in his hand.

  It’s him then.

  It’s Feral boy.

  Okay. Fine.

  Although, of course, Anonymous boy could have GIVEN Feral boy a muffin.

  Ha. For example, Cigarette boy is now boarding the bus with half a chocolate muffin in his mouth. (The bus driver is speaking to him which is a mistake – yes, a mistake – he is answering and chocolate muffin is cascading to the floor.)

  So. Listen.

  You heard what Cigarette boy just said as he moved down the aisle with the rest of the muffin showering around him. You heard it.

  ‘Get a move on, Johnno.’

  That’s what he said.

  To whom was he speaking?

  To Feral boy who was walking before him in the aisle, or to Quiet boy behind him taking time with his bus pass?

  To whom did he speak?

  Which one is Johnno?

  And even if you knew which one was Johnno, does that mean that none of the others have names beginning with a ‘J’?

  You are beginning to frustrate us.

  Give it some more thought and then get back to us, hmm?

  Yours, a little irritably,

  Society of Amateur Detectives

  Dear Christina,

  Look. Just because my dad can borrow a yacht from a rich friend doesn’t mean I’m a Nice Private School Girl. Can w
e get that cleared up for good? Besides, this yacht looked more like a row boat with a sail to me. It was tiny. Completely overcrowded once it had my dad, me and a picnic basket on board.

  Still, it was kind of fun. I was impressed that my dad could sail a boat, and sailing kept him busy so he didn’t try so hard to impress me. Interesting. It’s a bit scary, sailing – I had to help sometimes and had no idea what was going on. Like winding ropes around things and then unwinding them and ducking your head out of the way and climbing from one side to the other. All at superfast speed. It was such a beautiful day though, and we went right in to the harbour, and the sun practically melted into the ripples of water, while the breeze washed against our faces. The picnic basket included ham sandwiches, a packet of Mint Slices, and a bottle of lemonade, which was a shock. I was expecting smoked salmon and chardonnay.

  I wanted to ask Dad about my Canadian stepbrother, without actually admitting that I’d written a letter to him. So I said, ‘Is your Canadian family ever coming over to visit you?’

  Dad said, ‘Nope. Too far. See if you can untie that knot there, would you?’

  So much for that. I’ll just have to give up on my longlost, never-met stepbrother, I suppose.

  After we got back to Dad’s car I suddenly remembered that we were at Double Bay. And Double Bay is where Dad’s living now.

  So I asked if we could see his place.

  He gave me that panicked look of his again, and concentrated on doing up his seatbelt.

  Then I said, ‘Couldn’t we at least DRIVE past it?’

  He concentrated on the gear stick and the dashboard for a while, frowned at his keys for a while longer, and finally turned the key in the ignition.

  Then I said again, ‘Dad? Couldn’t we just drive past your place?’

  I hardly ever call him ‘Dad’. Usually, I don’t call him anything. It seems to have a powerful effect when I do, so I keep it in reserve.

  He started driving without talking and I wondered if I had to say it again. But out of nowhere he’s saying in a mumble, ‘This is my street’.

  And next thing we’ve started accelerating up a hill and he’s waving one arm fast and saying, ‘That’s my place’.

  We were past it in a quarter of a second. What’s WITH him anyway? All that I got to see was a flash of white behind fantastic red bougainvillea, and what I think was a verandah with a windsurfer and a surfboard on it.

  I’m not sure. But I think so.

  This is my mum when I got home: ‘Your father is ALWAYS getting you sunburnt like this. Your father is an IRRESPONSIBLE parent. Your father will have you in hospital with skin cancer before you’ve finished high school.’

  Anyway, I told her about driving past Dad’s place and the windsurfer and surfboard, and she said: ‘Well doesn’t that just figure. Boys and their toys. Second childhood, only he never grew out of his first one.’

  Things like that.

  The next day Mum took me to her aqua-aerobics class and we did very strange things in a small swimming pool while a woman shouted at us. I think the woman was making up the instructions as she went along. This kind of thing:

  ‘Okay now, jump up and down! Now jump from side to side! Now hold the side of the pool, kick one leg out to the side, blow raspberries and wave your hand in the air!’

  It’s true that I usually have a better time with my mum, but on this weekend I’ve got to say that Dad really won hands down.

  Although, both my parents are weird. After aerobics when we were all showered and shampooed and I thought we’d just have a relaxing night watching telly, Mum suddenly says, ‘Let’s go for a drive.’

  The entire way to Double Bay she was doing this, ‘I’ll just take this road here and see where it leads us’, and ‘Oh well, look, we may as well drive over the Harbour Bridge now we’re here’, and ‘Ever seen Vaucluse, Liz? Let’s take a look.’

  Honestly, some people can be so transparent.

  Surprise, surprise, there we were in Double Bay and Mum was saying, ‘Hey, isn’t this – isn’t tins where your dad’s living now?!’

  She wanted me to try and remember where the house was, which of course I couldn’t remember, so we drove around Double Bay for over an hour looking. After a while, Mum had to drop her ‘oh, here’s a pretty street, let’s have a look down here’ act, and just focus on hunting down my father.

  I finally recognised the street and we slowed right down outside the white house with the bougainvillea. And there were the windsurfer and the surfboard. And then GUESS WHAT HAPPENED?

  Oh wait a second, Mum’s calling me.

  ---

  Hi again. Sorry to abandon you like that. It’s the next day. Mum wanted me to help her make dinner and then she just wanted to talk all night. I started writing this yesterday afternoon right after I got your letter, and what I hadn’t got a chance to say yet was that your anonymous friend promised to identify himself. He left me a note yesterday saying that he’d wear a black cap on the bus. So this MORNING I’m all excited and nervous when I get on the bus. I look down the back at the Brookfield boys, as casual as I could.

  And guess what?

  Every single one of them was wearing a black cap.

  You tell your friend that’s not funny. It’s a mean trick. I was so angry I actually looked straight into the eyes of every one of them on the backseat to try and catch him out. But they all just looked at me with mild interest, like ‘yeah? can I help?’ Infuriating is an understatement.

  There was another Event on the bus this morning too. Cigarette boy jumps on (wearing his stupid black cap backwards) and starts to walk up the back, and suddenly the bus driver says, ‘Pass?’

  Cigarette boy just ignores him and keeps on sauntering down the aisle.

  The driver turns right around in his seat and says, ‘Bus pass?’

  Cigarette boy keeps walking.

  The bus is just sitting on the curb rumbling, the door’s still open, and everyone’s looking from the driver to the aisle.

  Finally, when Cigarette boy’s reached the back and sat down in the middle with his legs strung out down the aisle, bus driver half stands and bellows, ‘Boy! Did you show me your bus pass?’

  Cigarette boy finally answers.

  ‘Yep.’

  Bus driver turns around and holds the steering wheel again and the bus rumbles.

  Bus driver turns back.

  ‘No you didn’t.’

  ‘Yep. I did.’

  ‘Well get back down here and show me again.’

  Cigarette boy sits still.

  Bus driver stares straight ahead with one eye on the rear vision mirror, watching the back of the bus.

  Cigarette boy finally stands up, moves slowly back up the aisle, flips a pass in the driver’s face, and turns to walk back again.

  Bus driver says, ‘That’s not your pass.’

  Cigarette boy keeps walking to the back and sits down again.

  Bus driver says, ‘That pass belongs to the dark-haired lad beside you. I saw him give it to you.’

  Everyone’s looking back now. The dark-haired lad beside him is Grunge boy.

  If Grunge boy really gave his pass to Cigarette boy, the driver has sharp eyes. I never saw it and I was watching the whole time.

  Bus driver says to Grunge boy, ‘Now you show me your pass’.

  Feral boy calls out, ‘Come on. Give us a break.’

  Blond boy calls out, ‘We’ve gotta get to school, sir. We’re running late.’

  Bus driver sits still for a moment, staring into the rear vision mirror.

  Finally, he flaps the door closed, puts the bus in gear and drives down the road.

  Anyway, the bus driver got his revenge this afternoon on the way back home from school. This old woman was waiting at a bus stop and the driver stopped and everyone heard the conversation:

  ‘Do you go to Church Street?’

  ‘No, love.’

  ‘I don’t mean Church Street, I mean Factory Street.’

&n
bsp; ‘I don’t stop till I get to Baulkham Hills, love. Sorry.’

  Cigarette boy shouts out from the back of the bus, ‘Let her on. Take her where she wants to go.’

  Next thing the bus driver’s out of his seat and heading down the back.

  He says, ‘Get off the bus.’

  Cigarette stares at him.

  ‘You didn’t have a pass this morning and you didn’t have one this afternoon either. You can walk home.’

  The other guys start going, ‘oh, come on, fair go’ and stuff like that. But the bus driver just says, ‘Off my bus. I’m not moving till you get off my bus.’

  So Cigarette says, ‘fine’ and gets off. He hits the side of the bus as he walks away, and the driver’s face gets so fluorescent it looks like he’s going to get out and belt him.

  But he doesn’t.

  We just drive on.

  So anyway, at least your friends make the bus trips entertaining. But seriously I was so mad about that black cap thing.

  Hey, I never finished telling you the story about driving to Double Bay with my mum. You know how we slowed down outside Dad’s house, and saw the surfboard and windsurfer out the front? Well NEXT thing we see a woman walk out of the front door in a swimming costume, shift a deck chair out of the shade, sit back in it, and start to read.

  Mum was just, ‘oh my GOD’ and driving away fast.

  I said, ‘It could be just a visitor.’

  And Mum said, ‘That’s no visitor.’

  It was true – she looked like she lived there, the way she was so casual with the deck chair and the book.

  After a while, Mum said, ‘I suppose she came over to see him then.’

  And I said, ‘Well, no. That can’t be his wife. She’s still in Canada.’

  Then Mum’s screeching the car around corners in this frenzy of talking: ‘Well. I should have known. If he cheated on me then he’d cheat on HER too. She should have known what she was in for. Once a snake, always a snake. It just figures.’ Blah, blah, blah.