by Fiona Wood
I was always vaguely aware that the power balance sat crookedly. But Holly and I were okay with it.
Should I worry that the passive role has never really bugged me? Is it too weird that I don’t really mind being pushed away and wooed back from time to time?
I do get it—that I was, maybe still am, mildly masochistic in this relationship. But it’s been this way for so long. And I know Holly’s fears and disappointments as well as I know her apparent confidence and arrogance. It might not be a perfectly stable structure, but it has its own center of gravity.
I’m the weak one. But I’m also the smarter one. That’s okay by Holly, because “smart” is not high on her list of desirable attributes, so I can have it. This has made a difference, too. It is as though being played is okay, so long as you are aware that it’s happening.
She is the pretty one. It’s understood between the two of us that she is still the pretty one, even after the billboard. And she still tells me what looks good on me, or doesn’t, or how I should wear my hair—all that stuff—and expects me to recognize her authority.
Only, in this odd time of celebrity, I have some glamourglow that I can see people enjoy being around. It’s not that they like me any better, just that it is such a desirable coin for no good reason—I’m friends with the model on that billboard, see that girl up there? She’s my friend, she goes out with my mate, she’s at my school, we hang out. And Holly is okay and not okay with this. She likes being in the benefit rub-off zone. But she doesn’t like threats to her automatic superiority.
She is used to having the last word on our relative merits. But now other people have an opinion, and it’s not necessarily hers. I’m going to have to look after her. She will need some extra bolstering. Worth doing, because it’s when she feels insecure that she lashes out.
So, sure, we have the seesaw ker-thunk, ker-thunk, but the moments of equilibrium are fun. She makes me laugh like no one else I know. And she’s hauled me over a gazillion social hurdles. Anyway, who says friendship is always logical?
friday 26 october
Can’t quite tell what’s going on.
Things are a leetle tense in Bennett House.
If you can believe it, Holly seems to be pressuring Sibylla to have sex. With Ben. Sibylla started out by being her usual (in my humble opinion, but I’m right) too passive, too good-humored self. But Holly is really persevering with this. Once again, is it any of her business? Once again, no. When is Sibylla going to grow a backbone? It’s getting harder and harder for me to remain silent. And why can’t Holly get one of these lovely lads on board, and have sex with her very own boyfriend?
Or is she starting to think Ben is her very own, by proxy?
Little hitch, Ben actually likes Sibylla. In his own special, emotionally deficient, unavailable way, he likes her.
He is pretty much a sociopath, I’ve decided. Or a something-path. Psychopath, maybe. You could definitely see him as a CEO or a prime minister, any job that requires a truly bloodless heart.
I talked it over with Michael, who knows about Ben’s home life, and it fits the picture. Ben’s father is some major global advertising guru; it’s all about the outer appearance. His mum has had health problems, in and out of hospital for depression on a semi-regular basis since Ben was little. He has two younger sibs who think he’s a god, basically, so there is pressure from another quarter to be godlike.
And he’s living the god life. It’s all under control.
The Sibylla attraction: my guess is that she appears to be the very opposite of someone who might slip into the depression zone. She has a profound sense of self-containment.
She is far from confident; far, even, from particularly knowing just who she is, but there is a real aura about her of safety, or comfort, or security, or home. I can’t quite name it, but I see it, too.
Michael knows it like a drug.
I’m not convinced that Ben will be true to that safe place; there are so many other places he is being pulled, and he doesn’t mind the look of any of them.
If Holly is feeling possessive about Ben by proxy, is she planning to convert the proxy to actual? Surely not up here, with all eyes upon her. And what would make her think she’d be the next name on Ben’s list, or even that there is a list?
Groan. Merill time. Again. Unexpected, but I realize I am actually being taken from a state of near contentment. Here, the bed, the ceiling with its faint outline of stick-on stars that were peeled off at the end of last term. Here, the window, the eucalypts, the sky a clear blue, immeasurably deep. Check my locked box (locked), not risking Holly’s prying little fingers on my letters.
(later)
Hello, Lou.
Hello, Merill.
Eyes to the side.
So how have you been feeling since our last encounter—encounter said with a subdued but warm twinkle.
Pretty well.
Anything you’d like to talk about—feelings/thoughts/incidents… A thoughtful pause. Just in case I have a second-thoughts blurt.
No, nothing in particular.
Accepting nod. She’s not pushy.
How is your management of the negative thoughts going?
Say: they seem to be pretty much under control, I mean of course, from time to time…
Merill nods, accepting, encouraging.
Don’t say: I still think of the moment frequently: impact, shock, pain. I think of the beautiful brain being smashed too hard against the beautiful skull. I think of the mouth and no more smart words, loving words, living words, funny words, no more kisses, soft or hard. No more. Nevermore. Ever. How can that be so?
And what about activities? Are you feeling more engaged?
Say: yes, a little bit at a time, I do feel that this, the present, the new school experience is becoming my focus.
Don’t say: my self, that which defines me, the heart of me, is looking at my watch, standing in a street, sitting in a hospital, holding my friends, choking on the salt of tears that stream from me (my friends, who aren’t even in this country, waiting on their every letter, thought) and here, this is nothing to me. Nothing. But before, on the bed, looking at the gum tree. There was a moment, a brief moment, when I allowed this world to exist.
And friends, are you getting to know some of the girls in Bennett?
Say: we’re all getting to know each other a bit better each week.
Don’t say: Sibylla fine, Holly bitch, Eliza useful, Annie stupid, Pippa innocuous.
Now your academic work is going extremely well, I can see there are no problems there, conspiratorial smile.
Say: I am enjoying it, still getting used to my new teachers, but advanced math is fine.
Don’t say: it’s my Novocain; I’m going through the motions like a zombie. Actually I do like one of my fellow nutcases in advanced math. I like Michael.
Anything you want to share?
Do: close eyes, look thoughtful, in manner of one investigating soul, in all its minor crevices, where the little bits of self-hate and grief get stuck if you don’t floss often enough.
Don’t: stand up, slap her face, walk out.
Say: I still miss him. (Jeez, you’ve got to throw her a bone sometimes.)
Don’t say: The chasm is endless, or I’m still on that slow spin in the void, or I don’t want to come out, and certainly not: I don’t deserve to come out.
That’s understandable, and you’ll probably always miss him, but (with a small brave smile, why is she playing brave?) it will diminish over time. Not Fred’s importance to you as a friend, but the prominence in your daily thoughts that his memory might take up.
Say: nothing. A quiet nod should suffice.
Don’t say: let me out of here before I strangle you for the crime of irrelevance to my life, and the second crime of daring to say his name, and the third crime of referring to him as my friend.
A pause. Keep looking down. Don’t let her see your eyes glowing red.
Lou, tell me how you fe
el about this, and I will quite understand if you prefer us to keep meeting twice a week, but I believe you’re making very good progress, you have great insight into where you’re at, and we could reduce our sessions to just once a week. But only if you’re comfortable with it…
Say: I think I could manage with one session a week. Very small smile. Keep it small. Small.
Don’t say: halle-fucken-lujah or tap-dance to the door.
Mr. Oxley is yelling so we can hear him over the water. Who knew water could be this loud? The outdoor experience never disappoints in delivering ghastly new phenomena. They’ve driven eight of us, and four canoes, to the very loud water.
“Can’t you at least give the poor guy a blow job,” Holly is yelling in my ear.
“I’m not going to start my first sexual relationship here,” I say.
“Will you tune in? I’m not talking about sex—I’m saying a blow job—” She’s yelling so loud that Mr. Oxley stops.
“Would you like to share your comments, Holly, as you consider them to be more important than the potentially lifesaving information I am giving you?” Mr. Oxley is a creep, and probably would like nothing better than to hear the real conversation. Holly stares him down, but leaves me to dig us out.
“She was just reminding me of the blowhole at a beach we once visited,” I say, frowning at Holly. “It was very loud. Like this.”
The crashing water is making me as cranky as the inappropriateness of Holly telling me to blow my boyfriend. I’d like to find the off switch for both of them.
“Anyway, a blow job is sex—ask Bill Clinton,” I shout, when Oxley is back droning on about canoes.
“Bill who?”
“You really need to do politics,” I say.
“So I can bore everyone to death like you do? No thanks.”
That’s harsh. I was telling the Ben brigade yesterday about why I thought the current Greens campaign was right in its intention but wrong in its strategy. God, there were a few glazed expressions now that I think of it. But not Ben’s. I’m pretty sure…
“Tiff gives you two more weeks if you keep banging on about stuff like that without banging him,” Holly says with a smirk.
“Since when are you and Tiff discussing my relationship?”
“My relationship? It’s his, too. And you wouldn’t even have it if I hadn’t practically forced you together.” Of course, she’s cast herself in the starring role.
“Typical,” I say. Wrong.
“Typical, how?”
“That you put yourself in the middle of something when it’s really not your business.” Wrong again, but too late. I’ve done it. I’m feeling reckless and why not? I’m about to break my neck on thundering water smashing its way over a mile of jagged rocks. Well, smooth rocks. But hard rocks.
I see that look arrive on Holly’s face. The look that says now you’re in trouble. I strap on my helmet. Talk about appropriate metaphor timing. Bumpy ride ahead. Next up: placating, apologizing, cajoling, soothing, making it all better. I know the drill. I’ve been here—we’ve been here—so many times.
The first time I saw the look was in our first year together. I had no idea what I’d done wrong; Holly wouldn’t tell me. I begged her, but she kept saying, you work it out. It was horrible. I felt the unfamiliar weight of doom on my puny shoulders. I think it was the first time I worried. Or even knew what worry was.
I was quiet that night at home but told my mother nothing was wrong. And to be fair, I didn’t know what was wrong; it was more like I was suddenly wrong, the very fact and fabric of me.
The next day, Holly had a little posse of girls in whom she had confided, but she still wouldn’t tell me. “You’ll work it out,” she said, with an exaggerated solicitude that made me feel sick. Not sick because she disgusted me, sick because I was so stupid.
By lunchtime, I was so upset I couldn’t eat my lunch. Our teacher, Ms. Yeats—close talker, bad breath—asked me what was the matter. “I don’t know,” I started howling. “I don’t know, Holly won’t tell me,” thinking, desperately, I’ll do anything to make it right if only Holly will tell me.
Holly came up with her best shiny-bangs good-girl teacher look. “I’m not sure what Sibylla means,” she said, her little voice as clean as a slap. “Would you like me to take you to the bathroom to wash your face?” she asked. I nodded, too miserable to talk.
Aware that I was red and snotty—I may have blown a snot bubble—and everyone was staring at me, I couldn’t look up from the speckled carpeted classroom floor. “Do you need a tissue?” Holly asked. I nodded—I would never disagree with Holly again—and Ms. Yeats smiled when she saw Holly offer me a tissue from the neat plastic pack in her pencil case.
“You go with Holly now. Try to settle down, and we’ll see you both back here in two shakes.”
“I’ll tell you, but only because you’re about to tell on me like a big fat baby,” Holly said when we hit the red-tiled corridor. “What you did was—you didn’t pass around your box of raisins, and a few of us agreed that is pretty bad manners.”
I was bewildered. Who would want raisins? They weren’t lunch box currency, not like chips or cake. Holly gave me her official smile.
As we reached the bathroom, she said, “So why don’t you wash your face, and if you remember your manners next time, there won’t be any more problems.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
She handed me a paper towel. “You’re forgiven.”
But I’m not sorry this time. Sulk all you want, I can’t be bothered with the game playing. I’ve got enough to deal with up here.
Holly intercepts Lou giving me a half-curious, fleeting look of approval, and that sets the steel even harder. Oh, well, it will take some time for the thaw to come. I’ve lived through this before, and I can do it again.
I can see my mother somewhere in this picture. Really, Sib? Is this what friendship looks like? And me giving the usual answers: you don’t understand, it’s none of your business, you’ve never liked Holly—and thinking, sometimes, sometimes this is exactly what friendship looks like.
saturday 27 october
It was raining, so we ate lunch inside. Michael and I ended up sitting right next to Sibylla, Holly, and Ben.
Ben had two hamburgers, two buns, four cheese slices, and a pile of salad.
Michael had hamburger buns but had acquired grilled chicken. He finds it hard to come to terms with pulverized anything.
Holly had one hamburger, no bun, pile of salad. She ate her salad and perhaps a quarter of the hamburger.
Sibylla sat with her burger and her bun and her condiments. She had tomato sauce, tomato relish, peach chutney, hummus, whole seed mustard, regular Dijon mustard, pickled cucumbers, pickled onions, and beetroot dip. And salad. But that is beside the point.
I was staring. Michael was unmoved. He’s seen it before.
She layered it all together, lidded up, and started eating.
I couldn’t help it; I asked, would you like a burger with your condiments?
Michael: She likes the condiments best.
Ben: Isn’t it a bit… disgusting?
We watched the steady leak onto her plate. Sibylla’s mouth was overstuffed with the concoction. She couldn’t talk.
M: To Sibylla, condiments are to a hamburger as icing is to a cake.
Ben would be incapable of looking annoyed, or unwilling to; it would give too much away. But he has what I have decided is his annoyed equivalent, which is neutral, with a half smile. He doesn’t like that Michael has the inside running on Sibylla.
Michael went to take another mouthful, then added: They are the good bits. They make eating the hamburger worthwhile.
B: I got that. Thanks.
M: Sorry, hard to tell, Benjamin. (snap!)
Holly was looking on with great interest. Just as Ben doesn’t do annoyed (too exposing), Holly doesn’t do eager (too uncool).
But I know her eager; it is an extra shine of bloodlust in her e
yes. She smelled conflict and she had a front-row seat.
B to M: Why do you always say people’s full names? He was carefully still not showing his annoyance.
Michael shrugged, not showing his pleasure in annoying Ben: No reason. It is just an idle preference.
In the actual wilderness, these two would have come to blows by now.
We all spend a lot of time together. They are together a lot. They get along really well, and it’s lovely when your best friend and your boyfriend are friends. It can be a big problem if they don’t get along. All the magazines say so.
The wooden slats of the shutters slice them up, pieces of a boy, pieces of a girl. Ben, my boyfriend, is laughing. Holly, my best friend, is making him laugh.
I flip the shutters up and they’re gone. Open. Slice them up. Flip the shutters down and they’re gone.
Open.
Holly leans in. She touches Ben’s shoulder. She is emphasizing something. Emphasizing that she’d like to touch his shoulder.
Jealousy.
Shame. It’s a shame. I feel shame.
I would say that Charlotte and I hate each other from time to time, but jealousy is not something that happens in my family as far as I can see; my parents trust each other. They like each other’s friends.
Though, I guess, what do I know?
I look at them as parents to me, not partners to each other.
But they are big on generosity—I know they enjoy their friends’ good fortune.
It’s not like that at Holly’s. The Gorgon is competitive about everything. And so nosy about what other people have and how it compares to what she has. Is she thinner, richer, prettier? Is her car, personal trainer, hairdresser, beach house, ski trip better? If not, why not?
It’s why our parents aren’t friends, even though we are. I used to ask my parents if we could have Holly’s family to dinner. We had lots of families over for dinner. Why not them? My mum used to fob me off with, We don’t know them all that well, which developed over time as I got older to, We don’t have all that much in common. By the time I knew what that meant, I’d stopped thinking it was a good idea anyway. A little Gorgon goes a long way.