I Lost My Mobile At the Mall

by Wendy Harmer

  'Oooh, he was gorgeous, that boy. He used to sign himself "Your Romeo of Belgium" and I used to go all silly over his letters. He once sent me a photograph of himself standing in the snow in a full-length fur coat and I used to think he was the handsomest bloke in the world – a bit like Steve Tyler.'

  Who?

  'Steve Tyler from Aerosmith. Oh, I adored him – those tight pants and high-heeled boots, his wild hair and big pouting lips. I remember their slogan: We're the band your mother warned you about. And Mum did hit the roof whenever I played their albums.'

  Why does Mum always seem to wander off down memory lane when she sits on my bed? This Steve Tyler person is still not ringing any bells.

  'He's Liv Tyler's father,' Mum explains. 'Wasn't she Arwen Evenstar in Lord of the Rings?'

  Oh, that's right, I remember now that Liv's got a famous rock star father. An image of Will as an elf enters my mind and I shake my head to make it go away.

  'You know, I think I've still got some of my pen pal letters somewhere.' Mum leaps off the bed and runs down the hallway.

  I can hear her rummaging in the linen press and when I look out she's almost up to her neck in busted tennis racquets, mouldy ski gear and flippers.

  'Here! Here they are,' she says, triumphantly holding up a battered shoebox.

  We spend the next hour going through her mementos: her ID card from the Britannia Institute of Technology, her first driving licence, concert tickets, cards from Dad and all her letters. There's even some of her old poetry in here that's been typed on sheets of paper and is covered with patches of flaking white ink sort of gunk.

  Yikes! Most of the poetry is about her walking along the beach under the moon, in June and it really, absolutely, sucks. There's a lot of stuff from up until she was about the same age as Tilly, then there's nothing much after that.

  'I probably stopped putting things in this box about the time Margie and I got our first personal computer. Your pop brought home this huge clunky thing. But we loved it and it meant we could get rid of the old typewriter and ribbons and bottles of White Out that always used to spill on the desk. I suppose there's a computer somewhere down the tip with all my Britannia Institute work on it.'

  Mum packs everything away and she's singing walk this way, talk this way . . . whatever that means. She says it's an Aerosmith song. (Yikes!) I truly never knew she had this box. Amazing to think it's gone undiscovered after all the years Tilly and I have searched every square centimetre of the house looking for hidden birthday and Christmas presents.

  'Do you know,' says Mum as she looks again at the letter I am writing to Nan, 'your handwriting is quite lovely, Els. I think you just might have a talent for calligraphy. At the moment I have to pay someone to do all the table place cards and invitations for weddings and parties . . . but if you could do them? That'd be really something, wouldn't it?'

  It would! It's a brilliant idea! I've seen lots of the cards Mum gets done in calligraphy and I've always loved the gorgeous script in black ink – all the lovely loops and flourishes. I must admit I've never thought of trying to learn how to do it myself.

  Mum fishes in the back pocket of her jeans and produces thirty dollars.

  'Here, take this and when you're next down the street buy yourself some pens, paper and more ink,' says Mum. 'While you don't have a computer you might as well take up a hobby.'

  A hobby? Aren't hobbies for daggy people who've got all the time in the world and nothing to do? And then I realise that without any technology, a boyfriend, or a BF in town, I'm exactly the person who should have a hobby.

  Wednesday. 7.30 pm.

  PM. AW. PPC.

  'What are you doing?' says Tilly as she stands behind me and looks at the pile of scrunched-up notepaper, bottles of ink and scattered pen nibs where my computer used to be.

  How kind of you to visit!

  I'm looking at my black ink-stained fingers and wondering the same. This is a lot harder than it looks. I went back to the Royal Seal and bought a calligraphy set with everything I need. I've now read that the history of calligraphy goes back thousands of years and that people can take a lifetime to become a 'Scribe Master'. Sadly my attempts at a lower-case 'a' in Chancery font look like a squashed funnel-web spider.

  'Calligraphy?' Tilly shakes her head in disbelief. 'Honestly, you need a new computer. You can choose from zillions of fonts on there. Next thing you'll be sticking ballet swap cards in an album.'

  I snort. Surely no one was ever that daggy.

  Tilly grimaces back. 'Pretty sad, huh?'

  She looks paler than usual tonight and has dark rings under her eyes. Her first is exam next Monday.

  I'm really not looking forward to doing the HSC. All the Year Twelves at school are walking around like zombies.

  'Better get back to it,' Tilly says wearily. 'I've got Eddie's laptop here and I just have to figure out how to get onto the net from my room. I've still got the modem and AirPort, so it should be OK.' She stops at the door and looks at me awkwardly. 'And, uh, I just wanted to tell you that Jayden and Lily are back together.'

  I know that already. Unlike Tilly, I haven't been living under a rock.

  'I'm trying to find out from Georgie Daniels what went down. Who dumped who and all that, but a lot of people are off this week on study leave and keeping weird hours, so it's been kinda hard.'

  I stare at the bare corkboard in front of me and tell Tilly that I don't care and I really should put some shots of . . . something . . . in the empty space where Will used to be.

  'Good. Move on. That's best,' she says. She's distracted and doesn't notice that I'm lying through my teeth, because I do care. 'I'll see you later.' She sighs noisily and plods off to the South Wing.

  Do please come again!

  I haven't moved on. Not yet. I miss Will so much. I'd love to write him a letter, but I don't know what I'd say. In about a thousand years when I'm a Scribe Master, I might have just about worked it out.

  Yours most sincerely, Miss E E Pickering.

  Thursday. 10.30 am.

  PM. AW. PPC.

  It's torture time in Drama with Fergie again.

  'How many of you people have visited the library so far?' she squawks.

  I look around and see that quite a few people have their hands up. I accidentally look Bianca in the eye and she makes this sad face at me and I almost laugh. This morning she's got two straggly bunches of ratty hair hanging either side of her face and she looks like an Afghan hound! I'm pleased to see that without my supervision her hair's going from bad to Woof!

  I'll never forgive her for saying that I was dumped by Will because no-one likes me. I haven't spoken to her for two whole days and I suspect she is spreading stories about me – in person and by every available known technology.

  It certainly feels like everyone's avoiding me at the moment. Without Bianca and Carmelita I don't really have that many close girlfriends here at Oldcastle. I guess I relied on being with Bianca and Carmelita for years and I didn't bother to make new friends. I stare back at Bianca until she turns away and starts gossiping behind her hand to that total airhead Rosie Di Masi who's sitting next to her. Then Bianca and Rosie both look sideways at me, point their fingers and start smirking.

  Fergie harrumphs and stomps her feet for attention. I can see her temperature rise until all her freckles stand out like brown pebbles on Wobbegong Beach.

  'Bianca Ponsford! I'm looking at YOU! Although I can hardly see your face under all that silly hair. Have you been to the library yet?'

  'No, Mrs Ferguson.'

  'Then I will be expecting you to GET ON WITH IT!' Fergie yells from the front of the room. 'I want those assignments in by Monday!'

  I'm looking beyond the classroom to the beautiful spring day outside when I see Will's blond curls bob by the window. I make an instant decision to spend this lunchtime inside the library. For once, maybe old bat Fergie's had a good idea.

  I'm sitting in the library in a sunny spot by the window.
I figure that if Fergie's ordered Bianca to come here, then it's the last place she'll be. I'm up to the bit in Jane Eyre where Jane has first gone to Lowood School and has no friends.

  Those poor wretched girls endured coarse straw bonnets, scratchy woollen dresses, freezing cold beds, frozen pitchers of water, no heating, not enough blankets, burnt porridge, thin slices of brown bread and scrapes of butter – it makes my heart ache to read about it. I'll never complain again when they forget the cheese on my ham and salad roll at the tuckshop!

  Now I've just read chapters seven and eight where Jane Eyre's humiliated by the hideous Mr Brocklehurst for breaking her slate (i.e. she loses her mobile at the mall). It's the quiet and gentle Helen Burns who, in the middle of all this hideousness, has the humanity and generosity of spirit to come and comfort Jane.

  'Hush, Jane! you think too much of the love of human beings; you are too impulsive, too vehement: the sovereign hand that created your frame, and put life into it, has provided you with other resources than your feeble self, or than creatures feeble as you.'

  It's another way of saying what I already know – that I shouldn't care so much what other people think of me – or don't think of me. It's what Carmelita always says. (Although if Carmelita had been at Lowood, she would have had everyone dancing on the tables, using chunks of brown bread as maracas and chucking burnt porridge at that slimy toad Brocklehurst.)

  Now that I'm not checking FacePlace or my phone every five minutes, I'm starting to see all this stuff around me that I never noticed before. There are more resources to call on other than my feeble self.

  Sun Tzu, sand mandalas, Scrabble, stationery, love letters, calligraphy and now Jane Eyre. It's all crazy stuff I'd never have really thought about if I was still sitting with Bianca at the mall spotting fashion crimes.

  I remember what I thought when my handbag first went missing with my mobile and my friendship ring: I wonder if things go missing for a reason. As if by their absence, they might be trying to tell you something. To make you see life in a new way.

  In the library stacks there are heaps of books about the Brontë sisters. I read a bit here and there, photocopy some pages, write my bibliography and my assignment is done and dusted. That should get that bag Fergie off my back.

  My thanks are due to those who have inclined an indulgent ear to a plain tale with few pretensions.

  Friday. 6 pm.

  PM. AW. PPC.

  CARMELITA! CARMELITA! Carmelita!

  I'm singing her name in a flamenco rhythm and she's dancing wildly to it at the Palace gate, tapping her feet and waving her arms in the air. Her gorgeous black curls are whirling about her face. I can't believe she's here!

  'OMIGOD! AAARGH! ELLY! ELLY!' she drops her bag and runs down our driveway screeching like a crazy Spanish chicken. 'I've missed you so, so much! And thank you for the letter. Those bluebirds were the most gorgeous things ever!'

  In a moment Carmelita's in my arms and I am snuffling and crying into her hair. It's like every bit of emotion from the past two weeks has rolled into one big, steaming . . . paella.

  Soon enough we're in The Dungeon and I'm watching her reacquainting herself with her vast collection of pigs. She's cooing over every one with motherly affection. It's an incredibly cute reunion. She's brought me a present: a pig candle. It's scented with mandarin and bergamot.

  Once Carmelita's propped up on my bed, cradling my pink stuffed pig, and I've extravagantly admired her black lace-up boots, paisley skirt, little black jacket, silver locket and, sigh!, everything about her – and then she's complimented me on my new white peasant top and jewelled thongs – it's time to get down to business. There's so much to talk about and I'm not sure where to start.

  'I've got a boyfriend,' Carmelita blurts.

  Ooh, this is BIG news. Carmelita's never had time for boys. She's always been too busy laughing at them to take them seriously.

  'He lives on the pineapple farm up the road, his name's Henry and he's D.I.V.I.N.E. – divine!' she gives the pig a smothering smooch. 'Here's a snap of His Loveliness,' she says and hands over her mobile.

  I'm looking at a face smattered with freckles, a pair of bright blue eyes with fair eyelashes and a haystack of ginger hair. His smile's so wide you'd think he'd swallowed a banana.

  'We've been seeing each other for about a month. He comes over to our farm on his motorbike to help me with Viscount. He brings me pineapples and, Els, that's so appropriate because he really is the sweetest, sunniest thing in the universe.'

  Carmelita's dark eyes are shining with happiness and I'm thrilled for her.

  'And Els, you want to know something?'

  I do. I want to know everything!

  'We were down the back paddock with the tractor on Wednesday night, by the river watching the sunset, and he told me . . .'

  Carmelita pauses here for dramatic effect and I know what's coming.

  '. . . that he loved me!'

  This is the best news and in an instant I'm jumping on the bed with Carmelita – even as one self-obsessed part of my brain is remembering that in ten whole months Will never told me that he loved me.

  After I've heard every necessary detail about this Henry – even down to the fact that, tragically, he's allergic to macadamia nuts – it's time to get around to the multi-car pile-up that is my life.

  Carmelita notices that there are no pictures of Will on my wall.

  'Have you talked to him yet?' she asks.

  No. It's been a week now since that night he was at Lily Cameron's place, and we haven't spoken since that Saturday morning on Winchester Headland.

  'You know you're going to have to,' she says, taking my shoulders in her hands and giving them a shake, her eyes drilling into mine. 'You can't just throw ten whole months of your life on the scrapheap without any explanation.'

  I tell her what Bianca said – that I wasn't cool or popular enough for Will.

  'Ha ha ha, that's hilarious!' Carmelita throws the stuffed pig at my head. ''Cos, of course Ponsford is an expert in human relationships and everyone at Oldcastle is just drooling over Jai the Jerk!'

  I duck my head. What can I say? I'm a stupid idiot!

  'Bianca is utterly brainless. You can see right through her head – in one ear and out the other! I can't believe you'd take her word for anything. If she said it was raining you'd have to open the window to see for sure. You have to speak to Will himself. Has he tried to call or come over or email or anything?'

  I tell Carmelita that he came to visit but Dad sent him away, and there was that eye2eye that Tilly deleted.

  'And why do you think he'd bother to contact you if he wanted to be with Lily Cameron?'

  I swear that I really don't know. And, BTW, they're not together any more.

  'If they ever were,' Carmelita says with a shrug.

  But the photos . . .

  'Hah! There are still people around who reckon NASA faked the moon landing. Never take anything at face value, Els. Ya gotta find out for yourself. And if you're too pathetic to see Will, then I'm going to.'

  Don't bother, I sniff. Will never loved me, so maybe he's happier without me.

  'Yeah, right! The only time Will Phillips ever says he's in love is when he's got a new surfboard. He's never going to admit that he loves a girl!

  Well then, maybe he's not the sort of boy I want to be with.