Am I Right or Am I Right?

by Barry Jonsberg

  Chapter 17

  Sunday, bloody Sunday

  When I woke up in the morning, it took time for the previous day’s events to come back to me. They had the texture of a dream. As the full significance of what I had done sunk in, my legs trembled. I was lying in bed, the sheets rippling all over the place. I was doing a horizontal performance of Riverdance. It took twenty minutes before I could think about swinging them over the bed and putting weight on them.

  I had a shower and got dressed slowly. I wasn’t looking forward to explaining everything to the Fridge and was happy to delay the inevitable. While I got ready I mentally prepared my own newspaper article.

  Bald Drongo in Supermarket Fiasco

  “What a Loser!” Says Supervisor

  Police are considering charging local resident Calma Harrison, sixteen, with reckless endangerment of life after a bizarre series of events at Crazi-Cheep supermarket on Saturday night.

  Harrison viciously attacked a customer with a frying pan, causing $19.99 worth of damage to the pan and $2,000 worth of damage to a skylight.

  Idiot

  A police spokesperson described Ms. Harrison’s actions as “reckless in the extreme. Frankly, we are fed up with members of the public having a go and thereby putting the lives of innocent people in jeopardy. If the idiot was my daughter, I’d slap her silly.”

  Bald

  Candy Smith, supervisor at Crazi-Cheep supermarket, said, “There will be a thorough investigation into the incident. Calma has been rude to customers before, but I didn’t believe she’d attack one. I’ve worried about her since she started work, and when she turned up with a shaved head, I knew there was going to be trouble.”

  Calma Harrison was unavailable for comment last night. Police are monitoring all flights to the Galapagos Islands.

  The Fridge was inhaling coffee when I made it down the stairs. She was dressed and appeared to be on the verge of going out, as normal. I stuck bread into the toaster and got a glass of milk as a delaying tactic.

  “I like your head,” said the Fridge as I was buttering my toast. “Very chic. Very shiny.”

  “For leukemia,” I said. I wasn’t in the mood for banter.

  She cupped her hands around the coffee mug and blew into the steam. I sat opposite her at the kitchen table. Under most circumstances I can read the Fridge. She was thinking about whether she should be proud of me for what I had done last night or angry at me for putting myself in danger. I was curious which tack she’d take. The silence stretched and she glanced at her watch. My irritation grew.

  “So,” she said finally. “My daughter the heroine, huh?”

  I kept quiet.

  “Do you know,” she continued, “I don’t know whether to be proud of you or angry.”

  I kept quiet.

  “Calma. Why don’t we talk anymore?”

  I wasn’t prepared for that, but I recovered quickly.

  “You’ve got to go, Mum, haven’t you?” I said, dropping the piece of toast on my plate. “You keep checking your watch. You’re going somewhere. Aren’t you?”

  She looked embarrassed.

  “Well…yes,” she said. “But I’ve got ten minutes. Maybe fifteen.”

  “You know,” I said, pushing back my chair, “I’ve no idea why we don’t talk anymore, Mum. It’s a real mystery. Maybe we’ll figure it out one day.”

  And I left. I went back to my bedroom, until I heard the front door close, the car start up, and the sound of the engine fade into the distance.

  I didn’t know how to spend the day, mainly because there was nothing I wanted to buy with it. I wandered around the house. I thought about doing schoolwork but quickly discarded the idea. Then I thought about calling Jason, but I wasn’t comfortable with that either. It wasn’t so much the blonde. I decided I had overreacted, though I would rather die than admit it to Jason. I just thought I should wait until he called me.

  In the end I turned on the TV and surfed channels. There was a soccer game on and I flicked past it, then thought better and skipped back. A scorecard in the top left of the screen told me it was Manchester United versus Liverpool.

  Now, I know what you’re thinking. As soon as a guy comes on the scene, you watch soccer! Pretty soon you’ll be dyeing your hair, if you had any, window-shopping for time-saving domestic appliances, and taking embroidery classes at night. Yeah, well, I can understand this cynicism, but I want it placed on record that I’m the kind of person who is open to new experiences, who believes that minds are like sharks—if they stop moving, they die. Now, I’m not suggesting a soccer game will change your life. But I’d never seen one, and that’s an omission. I had nothing better to do, after all.

  Okay, smart-arse. I had remembered Jason supported Liverpool. And that I’d said I was prepared to learn about the game.

  It’s a strange business, soccer. At the final whistle I wasn’t any wiser. As far as I could understand, to be a player you either had to have flowing locks, honed leg muscles, and a face with chiseled features or a stubbled pate and the kind of appearance that causes small children to wet themselves. There were plenty of these. At times they formed a line and put their hands over their private parts. This explained the general group ugliness. The ball, smacked at high velocity, must have rearranged a number of features that had previously been in tolerable condition. Their private parts, afforded protection, were undoubtedly in mint condition. It crossed my mind that some of them would have been better leaving their gonads alone and putting their hands across their faces.

  I know I would have felt better.

  The good-looking ones were good-looking, mind. They ran at full speed, kicking the ball toward the ugly ones, who would gently tap their finely honed legs, causing the hunky guys to scream in agony, roll over twenty times, and writhe on the ground. This would result in the lineup of willie-fondling ugly buggers previously mentioned. Getting injured at soccer is drastic, if short-lived. I mean, these guys react as if they’re in the last stages of disembowelment, but within moments they are running around again, locks flowing and chiseled features intact.

  The game involves getting the ball between the goalposts. Given that most players were trying to do this, it amazed me no one succeeded. In fact, the ball seemed to go everywhere except between the posts. Basic communication and elementary team-building skills should have enabled twenty-odd blokes to achieve this modest task. They were hopeless.

  One part of the game I enjoyed enormously involved individual spitting contests. The players had a seemingly inexhaustible supply of phlegm. Every time the television camera was on them, they’d produce a huge slimy ball and blow it with considerable force into the ground. Sometimes they’d create divots. The more skilled were able to do this out their noses. They’d stick one finger against a nostril, closing it—presumably for maximum explosive potential—and send a tracer into the turf at the speed of sound. If they’d hit an opposing player in the leg, it would have had the same effect as a round from a .44 Magnum.

  I enjoyed the game—in the same way as I’d enjoy watching an Italian opera. I didn’t have a clue what was going on, but it was all very exciting. At least I’d have something to talk to Jason about. He could explain the snot hurling. Were there judges in the stands, awarding points for force, accuracy, and artistic interpretation? I’d ask him.

  When the game was over, I tried Discovery, but it was a repeat so I turned the television off and attempted to read. I gave up after five minutes. I couldn’t concentrate. I paced. I even thought about tidying my bedroom, but I hadn’t yet reached the absolute pits of boredom, so I went into the garden and sat in a plastic chair.

  I looked out over wilting palm trees and thought. My insides were a knot of anxiety. Or rather, a number of knots, all churning and mixing together. The Fridge, of course. And Vanessa. And Jason. My dad. But the more I thought, the more anxious I became and the more inextricable the mess of my personal relationships. I spent the rest of the day out there. I didn’t even get
anything to eat or drink. I didn’t trust my stomach to keep it down.

  Darkness fell abruptly, like it always does in the tropics, and I didn’t budge. The stars freckled the sky and I watched. The more I stared, the more stars I saw—not directly, of course, but crowding the periphery of vision. If I concentrated on one spot, kept my gaze fixed, then stars appeared at the edge, one milky dot after another, until the sky became impossibly full. Apart from the black well, with its light dusting, in the center of my gaze. It occurred to me then that I spent too much time looking directly at things. Maybe I would see more if I watched less.

  It seemed a profound realization at the time, but I had no idea how it could help.

  I went to bed early. I unplugged the phone, took it with me, and plugged it into the phone jack in my bedroom. For some reason, I was incredibly tired. Maybe it was the emotional exertion of the night before. Maybe I was simply tired of thinking. But as I drifted off to sleep, I wondered why Jason hadn’t called to see how I was. He’d been so concerned the night before, yet I had heard nothing from him all day. But if I’m honest, that wasn’t the most important thing. What I really wanted was for Vanessa to call. I knew she would be home late from her dad’s. If her mum gave her my message, and I wasn’t convinced she would, then I wanted to be close to the phone when it rang.

  It didn’t. When the alarm went off at six-thirty, the first pale streaks of dawn were filtering through the curtains. They gave a sickly light and I didn’t want to get up. The day offered no promise.

  The phone, resolutely silent, lay on the floor beside my bed.

  Chapter 18

  The seal on the Fridge comes unstuck

  Dear Calma,

  I’m sorry. You’re right. I can’t complain about a lack of communication when I’m rarely around. Things are difficult at the moment. There’s a lot going on. I’ll tell you about it soon. Just give me time, please, and don’t judge me too harshly. I love you, you know. I might not show it too often, but I do.

  Keep Wednesday evening free, if you can (or you want). Birthday girl! I thought I’d take you and Jason for a meal. Invite Vanessa, if you like.

  Love,

  Mum

  P.S. What do you want for a present?

  Dear Fridge,

  It’s funny, isn’t it? You want so badly to stay mad at someone, but as soon as they apologize, all those resolutions evaporate. I would love to have a birthday meal with you. Particularly at your expense. I’ll ask Vanessa, and Jason if the bastard ever deigns to call me.

  There’s only one thing I want from you for my birthday. More time. More conversation. More honesty. Sorry, I guess that’s three things. I know I sound corny, but it’s true.

  Love,

  Calma

  From: Miss Moss

  To: Calma Harrison

  Subject: Free verse

  * * *

  Calma,

  As you know, free verse poetry follows no set rhythmical pattern. The writer uses her judgment to establish a pattern on the page. It is not an easy form to get right! You must be aware of the sound quality of individual words and how they can be put together to create music. And sense, of course.

  Take a memory from childhood—any memory—and write a free verse poem that captures that memory and shows its effect upon you now.

  Miss Moss

  The night my father left

  * * *

  The night my father left, he cried;

  So Mother says—I don’t recall.

  The memory I possess predates that time—

  A holiday, the three of us in snow,

  Happy and powdered in laughter.

  I lay on a bed of winter and watched

  As, far above, a snowflake

  (Individual as a poem in the oneness of its pattern)

  Was minted, pressed from water and cold

  In the stillness of the sky.

  It crowded toward the gathering white below

  Where, settling on the landscape of my face,

  It fell in upon itself, shrank to a drop

  I wiped away with my hand.

  It is intensely sad,

  The ease with which we brush aside

  Something that can never be again,

  With the semblance of a tear.

  Chapter 19

  Vanessa and the stars

  Vanessa sat next to me in English, but we didn’t get a chance to talk. Miss Moss set a close reading to do under timed conditions and it was a tricky little beggar. In fact, once I got into it, I forgot everything else. It’s what athletes call “the zone”—an area of such concentration that a small incendiary device could be detonated next to you and you wouldn’t blink. That’s how I was with this piece of writing—totally absorbed by the ways the writer created atmosphere.

  All right. You can smirk. Some people get fascinated with Justin Timberlake’s facial hair, others with the relationship between sentence structure and characterization. Hey, everyone’s different. So shoot me!

  Anyway, the time flew and then it was math. Vanessa isn’t in my math class, so I didn’t catch up with her until lunch. I went down to our stamping ground by the canteen and there she was, gazing into the distance and nibbling another banana. I plopped myself beside her and followed her line of vision. As far as I could tell, she was staring at a trash bin on the edge of the oval. Even by the general standards of trash bins, this wasn’t a particularly interesting one, but everyone has their personal “zone.” We sat in companionable silence for a minute or two while I thought about the best way of broaching the subject of Friday night. Unfortunately, my thoughts were interrupted by Jamie Gallagher passing by and making an observation about my head, which was gloriously and unashamedly bare.

  “Hey, Calma,” he said. “Love the head. You know what would look good on it? A cue stick.”

  “Thanks, Jamie,” I replied. “Do you know what would look good on your head? A pit bull terrier.”

  His eyes took on that pained glaze of concentration people get when they’re searching for a clever response but can’t find it. He scurried off, still thinking, and I turned to Vanessa.

  “What did you think of the film on Friday?”

  She turned her head so slowly I wondered if her neck mechanism was in need of service.

  “Okay,” she said finally, investing the judgment with no emotion whatsoever.

  “Johnny Depp was hot, hey?”

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “The parrot was the best actor of the lot of them, mind.”

  “Yeah.”

  “How was the weekend with your dad?”

  “Okay.”

  I was used to Vanessa’s monosyllabic style of communication, but this was ludicrously unforthcoming, even by her own standards. Under other circumstances, I would have poked her in the eye with the nonmushy end of her own banana, but I was considerate.

  “Did your mum give you my message?”

  “Oh, yeah. Too late to call, though. Sorry. I was really tired.”

  I decided a change of topic might loosen her up—you know, the stars on the periphery of your vision and all that—so I told her about the incident at Crazi-Cheep on Saturday night. I tried to make it as funny as possible. I guess, in a way, it was funny, but I really hammed it up, exaggerating it to bring out all the comic details. I was pleased with the way I told it. Vanessa even laughed at one stage, though I got the impression the laugh escaped unwillingly. But at least I broke through her reserve, the barrier she constructed without even being aware of it. By the time I finished, she had relaxed slightly. Physically, she was carved from a single piece of mahogany, but I could tell that emotionally she wasn’t as inflexible.

  I followed the hilarious incident of the runt and the frying pan with the invitation to dinner on Wednesday night and she agreed to come, though not without considerable urging after I told her Jason would probably be there. She trotted out all the reasons about not wanting to be a
fifth wheel, but I managed to wear her down.

  The conversation went so well I pushed my luck. The bell had rung and we were wandering over to our legal studies class.

  “Nessa?” I said. “I saw you Friday night. After the film. You were sitting on a bench by the river and you were upset. I was going to come over, but you took off. Is everything okay?”

  As soon as I asked, I knew it was a mistake. I wasn’t looking directly at her but I knew she stiffened. You can tell these things. And the atmosphere—I’m good at atmospheres—suddenly became arctic. It was ninety degrees in the schoolyard, but we were walking in our own refrigerated capsule. I didn’t say anything else. I shoot too often and too wildly from the lip, but even I realized damage control was best achieved through silence. When Vanessa spoke, I knew she was lying. I also knew I couldn’t confront her with it.

  “You must have been mistaken, Calma,” she said. “It wasn’t me.”

  “Oh? Yeah. I must have been. Sorry,” I replied.

  We sat together in legal studies and I worked on defrosting the situation. By the end of the class I’d made some headway. We were only up to cool, but to my mind that was better than frozen.

  Jason was waiting for me at the end of the day. He was smiling and leaning up against an old but neat-looking black sports car in the student car park. I couldn’t help it. I gave a loud whoop and ran, dragging Vanessa behind me.

  “Cool,” I said, not even bothering how unoriginal I sounded. “Is this yours?”

  Jason’s smile broadened. He was beaming so much that if his grin got any wider the top of his head would drop off.

  “Like it?” he said.

  “It’s great!”

  “Got it yesterday. Had to go out of town, down the coast a ways.”

  I thumped him on the arm.

  “Bastard!” I said. “So that’s why you didn’t come to see me?”

  Jason rubbed his arm ruefully.

  “God, Calma. For a chick, you pack a hell of a punch. That’ll bruise.”