Beautiful Mess

by Claire Christian

  5. Depressed. This feels like flatlining, but not like I’m dying, like my energy is flatlining. I feel nothing. It’s like I can’t even smile. I imagine myself in this giant see-through cocoon, where I look normal, but everything kind of bounces off the weird external shell, like a banana. Oh man, if I was a fruit I’d totally be a banana. Shit. The thing about being in the cocoon is that nothing gets in, none of the bad external stuff, but also none of the good. Everything kind of feels muffled. When I’m in it all of the gross stuff on the inside just festers.

  Thankfully I haven’t been in the full throes of this since I started seeing Robbie and we started to work through some shit and I went on medication. I still have days, or moments or afternoons, where I can feel it creep in, though. Like it’s one of those jerks who stands behind you and taps you on the opposite shoulder to them so you turn and look and no one’s there. That’s what it feels like.

  When we finish talking about the freak-out and the parallel park, Robbie asks, ‘Now tell me about the good stuff.’

  ‘I’ve been writing letters,’ I tell him and he turns his bearded face to the side like a confused Labrador.

  ‘What kind of letters? Because right now I’m thinking you’re sending politically motivated threats to free-to-air TV or something.’ He chuckles to himself.

  ‘To a girl.’ My heart starts to race.

  ‘Better than trolling Channel Nine. Good. Tell me more.’

  I fill Robbie in. I tell him about Magic Kebab and Ava Spirini, how she barely said a word to me for a month until the thing with the MC battle, which I tell him about and he laughs loudly. I tell him about the conversation about letters and the consequent three letters that have since followed.

  I don’t tell him about Kelly or about Ava telling the whole school to get fucked, or about her wagging. I don’t want him to get the wrong idea about her and ask me questions that make me think about things like why she is actually talking to me, and that maybe it’s because she’s not her normal self right now.

  I don’t want him to try and make me believe that it’s not really a big deal, because it feels like it is, even though I know that it’s not because billions of normal people have normal conversations every single day, and for a change I feel like I’m one of them.

  I’m enjoying feeling like a normal person. I’m enjoying making a friend. Getting to know someone who knows nothing about me.

  ‘So, she is a heterosexual girl?’ Robbie asks, eyebrows raised.

  ‘A real-life one, yes.’ I pause. ‘I think.’ Actually I’ve got no idea who Ava finds sexually appealing. I haven’t wanted to think about it, because it will never be me.

  ‘And you are a real-life heterosexual boy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So?’ Robbie asks, eyebrows raised so high that if they weren’t attached they’d most definitely fly off his face.

  ‘No!’ I quickly reply.

  ‘No?’

  I nod.

  ‘Okay. You seem pretty sure about that.’

  ‘We’re not even friends yet.’

  ‘And that’s what you want?’

  ‘To be her friend? Yeah,’ I say confidently.

  ‘Cool,’ Robbie smiles.

  Cool? Yeah. It would be. Cool.

  There are three boys staring at me as I sit on the orange plastic chairs wishing I hadn’t worn my denim shorts because I’m feeling particularly exposed. They’re staring at me through the glass window of a door that leads to a courtyard. The one with a stupid mohawk nods his head in my direction and smiles and the others laugh, patting him on the back. I roll my eyes and give them the finger. They think this is hilarious.

  ‘Hi, Ava.’ I spin around and Rahila, the head teacher at TAPs looks at me, then through the glass window out to the boys. She quickly signals them to leave, and they scuffle off.

  ‘So, you’ve’—she pauses—‘met some of our students?’

  I nod. She touches the corner of the bright blue headscarf that sits loosely on her shoulders, then touches my arm. ‘Don’t be nervous,’ she smiles.

  I look at her big eyes and her small smile. Her voice is calm and quiet, and I trust her immediately. After our meeting last week I felt better about the whole TAPs idea and if I’m honest I even felt a little excited. I don’t need to wear a uniform, there’s only forty kids in the whole school, they do shortened days and all of these extracurricular programs that you can be a part of if you want, and you call all of the teachers by their first name. In our meeting Rahila spoke to me, not about me; we had a conversation about what I wanted, what my goals were. I told her I didn’t really have any and she said that that should be my first goal, to make some goals. I told her I’d try, and as I said those words, which I meant, I could see Dad’s whole body relax a little.

  By lunch I feel like I’ve kind of got an idea of how TAPs works.

  ‘Bullshit, and you know it’s bullshit.’ Minda, a girl with big pink cheeks and bright green hair is yelling across the room at Allan, a skinny blond boy wearing a backwards cap and a death metal T-shirt.

  ‘Language.’ Jason, my new English teacher, smiles, sitting on the edge of a desk.

  ‘No, he’s being a dick.’ She’s grinning though. ‘He knew that’d piss me off, he does it every day. He didn’t even read the chapter so he needs to keep his mouth shut.’ Minda’s hand sways wildly in the air as she talks, pointing at Allan, who pulls faces at her.

  ‘I read it. I told you, it was shit,’ he mutters.

  Minda exhales loudly and Jason jumps to his feet. ‘Robust conversation! Yes. This makes me happy.’ He slaps the book he’s holding. ‘Tell me why you think she is immediately prejudiced against him.’

  ‘Because of bullshit stereotypes,’ Minda smiles.

  ‘Language,’ Jason mutters again and we spend the rest of the class talking about the things that people use to make judgments about us. Jason makes us share one each and I rack my brain to try and think of a good answer. There’s only ten people in the group and they say things like their clothes or piercings, hair colour, the music they listen to. Minda talks about her son, who is one, and how everyone thinks she’s a skank because she had a kid when she was fifteen. Rae, a girl with short, black, black hair, tells the group that people think because she’s fat, she’s unhealthy, but then she reminds everyone that she can bench-press some insane number and everyone howls, impressed. Then it’s my turn and I don’t know what to say.

  ‘Maybe use a personality trait, some way you are, or how you act,’ Jason said.

  ‘I’m funny. People think that means I’m happy,’ I say. ‘Are you?’ Minda asks.

  ‘No.’ The word spills out of my mouth and my own honesty catches me off guard.

  ‘Join the club, sister.’ Minda smiles at me and the others in the class just nod. No one says anything about my answer, no one cracks a joke, and no one even looks surprised. Jason continues with the class as though no grand confession was just made. I instantly feel bad for ever saying stupid or dumb stereotypical shit about TAPs and the people who go here. I also feel this glimpse of relief peek in to my chest—like sunlight peeking through a window—because no one cares about who I am or what’s happened to me because they’ve all got their own shit to deal with, and this makes me feel incredibly calm. Happy even. Go figure.

  Two days later I get home from TAPs later than normal because I spent the afternoon with Minda and Rae, who I find out are dating. We go to Minda’s house. She lives with her grandma and her son, Maddox, in a small brick duplex. I really like Minda, she’s confident and smart. She tells people they’re being inappropriate or racist or whatever and she asks good questions, but she’s not rude or a dick, it’s just like she’s got it together. I think she’s cool. She adopted me straight after that English lesson on my first day and she’s been introducing me to everyone and making sure I know what the deal is.

  ‘Is it weird for you that I have a kid?’ she asks, as I hand Maddox a plastic train.

  ‘
Not really, you seem like you’re good at it,’ I tell her. ‘I think it’d be weird if I had a kid’—I smile—‘but I can barely look after myself right now.’

  ‘You get on with it. You don’t really have a choice. Things would be a lot different if I didn’t have my nan though.’ She smiles as Maddox toddles over to her and gives her the train. ‘What’s your family like?’

  ‘It’s just me and Dad at home; he’s great, really awesome actually.’

  ‘You’re lucky.’ Rae mutters this; she doesn’t talk much.

  ‘Yeah, I guess.’ It’s weird when that happens, when someone says something that makes you realise that what you think is normal really isn’t.

  I buy Dad a Mars Bar on the way home as a present and write him a note just thanking him for…whatever. Not kicking me out like Rae’s parents or dumping me with Yiayia like Minda’s mum did when she was little.

  There’s another mint envelope in the mailbox. I rip it open before I’ve even put my key in the door and unfold the letter and five stamps fall to the floor. I stand reading it on the porch.

  Dear Ava,

  First things first and most importantly, I am fine with all fruits, it’s just bananas that I think are gross. Phew. I’m glad I was able to get that off my chest and be honest with you. I guess letters are about ranting, yes. Can I tell you something? It’s not like you can answer so I’m just going to pretend that you’d say yes. I’ve given myself thirty minutes to write this letter, I even got the timer out of the kitchen, and I’ve made a promise to myself to not read it back. I just wanted to write and be honest and not think too much about it. In case you haven’t noticed I think a lot, about pretty much everything. I don’t know if I should’ve told you about the timer thing. Obviously I want you to think that I’ve pondered meticulously over the details in these letters that I’ve sent you but my friend Robbie is trying to convince me to be bolder, or as he puts it, ‘Stop being shy, dickhead.’ So, yeah.

  As for the phone and internet thing, it’s a long and occasionally boring story that I don’t particularly want to burden you with. Maybe I’ll tell you one day, but the short version is they weren’t making me happy, so I thought I’d see if not having them would make me happy. I tend to not really make choices that are based on my own happiness and so I figured I’d start trying to do that a bit more. I don’t think I’m one of those people who are naturally happy, you know? I’m definitely not one of those carefree people who go with the flow and wake up every morning in a good mood. I’m not that guy. I tend to live in a state of, well, anxiety. I’m not confident. I know, shock horror, I hardly think you’d have worked that out by now.

  I guess what I’m trying to say is that I am fully aware of my foibles, and also that seventeen-year-olds aren’t meant to use words like foibles. I don’t know what I’m trying to say. Please tell me this makes some sense? Do you like swimming? I think swimming is a perfect example. When we did swimming lessons in primary school I was the kid who would sit on the edge and watch the others playing. I wouldn’t jump in. I think it mostly had to do with the story that my sister told me about kids weeing in the pool and that when they did a blue ink spot would appear and follow them around. I was too repulsed by the idea of swimming in wee water to ever enjoy it. Also, I kind of felt duty-bound by this information to sit on the edge and wait for the inky alert so I could tell everyone that it had happened. Maybe I was destined to be a lifeguard. I dunno. Do you want to go to uni? I think I want to do creative writing. I think. Please don’t tell Mr Randall I don’t know because he’s on at us in every life skills lesson about our choices and convincing us that if we fuck up the form we will literally be swallowed by mutant tertiary education zombies and our lives will be ruined forever. I think he’s an idiot.

  The buzzer just dinged. I hope you’re well, Ava. I’ll see you at work tomorrow night, but you won’t get this by then, so I hope I don’t do something dumb and that by some miracle you think I’m more or less normal, only for it to all be dispelled when you finally read this.

  From Gideon

  P.S. What is this post office in which you speak?

  His P.S. makes me laugh out loud. I really like receiving his letters and I quickly try and think back to what he was like at work the other night. We talked a little. Neither of us said anything about writing to each other. We made stupid comments about the drunk people in the shop and he made me laugh with his references to books I’d never read or movies I’d never seen. I like being around him. He just talks to me. He doesn’t flirt, he asks me questions or he doesn’t say anything at all. There’s no expectations or history or weird anticipation about sex or pissing each other off. It’s light. It’s fun.

  I decide to write back straight away. I unlock the front door, take my notebook out of my bag, set the timer on the oven and stand at the kitchen bench and quickly scrawl out my reply. It’s long and I’m surprised by how much I tell him.

  Of all the places in the world where you can have an argument with someone, standing next to the drinks fridge in 7-Eleven on a Saturday night has got to be up there for inspired locations. Other customers keep interrupting you with apologies as they try and get past, or they say nothing, just wrench open the fridge to get their Powerade.

  ‘So what you saying, Aves? You don’t want to come?’ Lincoln shakes his head, frustrated. We’ve been circling around this conversation for about five minutes and it’s getting more and more heated with every passing second.

  ‘No. I don’t. You told me we were just gonna hang out.’

  ‘What do you call this?’

  ‘Fighting in 7-Eleven,’ I yell and then glimpse the attendant in his bright green T-shirt staring at us.

  ‘This is not a fight,’ Lincoln yells back, his square jaw locking with tension. I groan loudly. I’m so frustrated. Lincoln isn’t listening to me. He texted me earlier asking if I wanted to hang out and I told him I didn’t want to go out. I was feeling shitty and tired and not up for being around people; he said we’d just hang out, get some food, chill. Chill was his exact word. But about two seconds after we pulled into the shop to buy lollies he got a text about some party and he’s been trying to convince me to go with him.

  ‘You go, I’ll just walk home,’ I say, and start to head up the chip aisle.

  ‘No. I’m not going if you don’t wanna go,’

  I spin back on my heel. ‘Why?’

  ‘Cause then you’ll be in a shit mood with me for leaving you.’ His hands fly from his side and hit his legs with a clap.

  ‘Oh, fuck off, Lincoln.’

  ‘And now you’re in a shit mood because I said you’d be in a shit mood. You’re a psycho, Ava.’ He turns and marches off the other way.

  I open my mouth to yell at him and catch a glimpse of my reflection in the glass of the fridge. I barely recognise myself. I’ve got a giant black hoodie on, the same denim shorts I’ve worn all week and my Docs, which I haven’t even bothered to tie up. My hair is even more wild than normal and the black bags under my eyes are huge. ‘Just take me home.’

  ‘Fine.’ He marches out of the electronic doors.

  ‘Fine.’ I yell back and scurry after him.

  We sit in the car and don’t talk; I keep my head turned away from him and look out the window. He drives fast, faster than he should, speeding around corners and slamming the brakes so the whole car jolts.

  ‘Don’t be a dickhead,’ I grit, but he doesn’t say anything.

  Being with Lincoln is the complete opposite to being around Gideon. There’s nothing but history and expectation and he flirts with me one minute and then cracks the shits with me the next. I never know what to expect.

  He pulls up out the front of my house and I unclick my seatbelt and look at him. He’s gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles have turned white.

  ‘Why are you so pissed?’ I ask.

  He bites the side of his cheek then spits: ‘I dunno what you want.’

  ‘What do you mean?’


  ‘I dunno.’ He turns his head but doesn’t look at me. ‘Just get out.’

  My throat constricts and I swallow hard and the words fly out. ‘Fuck, you’re a jerk.’ I grab the door-handle with such force that I’m pretty sure it’ll snap off. Lincoln takes hold of my arm.

  ‘No. Shit, Ava. I’m sorry. Don’t.’ He stops.

  ‘What?’ I pull away and he lets my arm go.

  ‘Can we just…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just sit,’ he says. ‘In the car. And just not say anything for like a minute.’

  I huff and sit back, cradling my bag on my lap. He makes me so mad when he can’t just say what he thinks or what he wants. It’s like I literally see the thoughts flying around behind his eyes. It’s like he can’t connect them to his mouth, so instead he just ends up getting annoyed and saying weird sentences that don’t mean anything.

  I listen to him breathe. Watch the white of his hands slowly loosen on the steering wheel. Finally, he turns and looks me in the eye and my anger softens too, my shoulders relax. Whatever is happening between us feels so heavy; I have to cross my eyes, and poke out my tongue so we don’t have to deal with the weight of it all. He laughs and touches my cheek. Looks me in the eye; slowly leans over and kisses me. Soft at first but then I feel his other hand on my face as we kiss harder and he holds me gently against him. I pull away and we breathe quickly, then I lean over and kiss him again. The handbrake digs into my leg but I don’t care. It’s frantic and messy and noisy. It’s so hot. I feel Lincoln’s hand moving up my thigh and his fingertips edge the hem of my shorts moving to the inside of my leg and then suddenly I become all too aware of where we are and what we are doing.

  I pull away and place my hand on top of his. ‘I’m gonna go.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yup. I’m going inside.’

  ‘Do you want me to come with you?’ He’s undoing his seatbelt.

  I pause, picking up my bag, open the car door again and put one foot on the road. I don’t look at him.