Cloudwish

by Fiona Wood

  ‘And?’

  ‘I guess I pretty much accepted the family assumption that I’d do it, like it and be good at it.’

  ‘They assumed right, didn’t they?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve been imagining what it would be like to step away.’

  She remembered the vaunting pride of Billy’s father at the after-regatta party, the row, Crowthorne, row carry on. ‘Your father would probably have a heart attack.’

  ‘Y’I guess.’ Billy didn’t look too perturbed at the idea.

  ‘You’ve only got two more seasons to get through.’

  ‘Not really.’ His tone was wry, but he looked tired. ‘The commitment and work and early mornings and ergos in the pain cave and a coach yelling at me to be better will continue in America.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘Whereas some people might enjoy taking a year off after school. A year away from timetables and up at dawn and pain.’

  ‘What might those people do?’

  Billy smiled. ‘They might bum around for a while doing whatever the fuck they want. Like nothing much. Those people might even get to sleep in.’

  ‘And that sounds good?’

  ‘Oh yeah.’ He’d obviously been mulling this over. ‘It’s starting to feel . . . like a straightjacket.’

  She listened, throwing an I can see what you’re up to look at Sam, who was getting a bit feisty with the digging in the sandpit.

  ‘Like I’ve been this thing for my family, for the school, but maybe I don’t want that anymore.’

  ‘Wow. Has anyone ever quit the first eight, evereverever? Isn’t it like abdicating the sporty crown?’

  ‘Yeah. Only it’s such bullshit. I mean, sure, I’d feel bad for my crew, but there’s at least four guys in the seconds who’d kill for a place in the firsts and do a fantastic job.’

  ‘Are you serious, or is this one of your rebellious-boy-behaves-badly stunts?’

  ‘You disapprove of me still, I see.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘Jesus yourself, I’ve never heard you swear before.’

  ‘I’ve never heard you quote Jane Eyre before.’

  They looked at each other.

  ‘This feels . . . real,’ he said.

  ‘It can’t be, can it? You didn’t know I existed until a few weeks ago.’

  ‘We’ve known each other forever, haven’t we?’

  Those words rang so true and untrue. Her response to them sprang from her well-stocked imagination as much as her keenly wakened body. She felt the tangle of sex and longing and fairytales with handsome boys and happy endings. She was peering into the well, ready to tumble in, and what then? These stories with enchantments and wishes weren’t her stories. She was smarter than that. She was nobody’s Cinderella. She wasn’t going to fall for this we’ve know each other forever, was she?

  Had she?

  Had they?

  How disconcerting it was to have an idle fantasy turn into real life attraction.

  If she could find a way of reversing the wish, of leaving the seductive land of possible false pretences, she had to take it. Urgent priority. No doubt, she was going to miss the adoring gaze of Billy Gardiner. But you couldn’t build something real on such a shaky foundation. If this were tricked-up, pretendo love, the day the wish dissolved, or passed its use-by date, would be a disaster.

  Imagine Billy looking at her in the cold light of day and knowing – or would he even remember? – she’d been having her way with him. Using him for her own pleasure and amusement. It made her blush. And what would school be like once the spell was broken? Relegated to the invisible realm once more. All his friends so relieved that he had finally come to his senses. What had he been thinking? Did that really happen?

  What, in fact, was happening?

  Free writing time out.

  Billy is attracted to me because I wished he would be (using a magical wish vial, from a creative writing prompts box). I wished that he found me attractive above all others and . . . fascinating. (Embarrassing to even write it down. Cannot be true.)

  First theory still right: Billy Gardiner is perpetrating the longest, most believable, most utterly plausible preparation of a joke in the history of the world. (Surely unlikely that he could fake all that kissing with unequivocal physical responses to being close to me – e.g. erect penis, fast breathing, soft moaning. Or is this something I don’t understand about male sexual response?? Does not discriminate between true love and potential joke victim? Loath to believe that.)

  OR: Billy Gardiner started off intending to play a mean joke on me but changed his mind along the way and has fallen for me for real. (A little bit aww, but mostly problematic: could I love someone who set out with the intention of being mean to me? Needs more thought + possible consult w Jess.)

  OR: This is dream life, and I will wake up in the morning back in real life. (Sign of current level of confusion that this one is shaping up as possible front-runner.)

  OR: Billy suddenly noticed me, and fell for me, for no particular reason. (But surely unmotivated blitz love happens at first sight or not at all (more likely the latter).)

  OR: Unbeknown to his conscious mind, Billy had unconsciously been aware of me for a longer time than he realised (e.g. he knew about my academic results from last year???).

  Hope hard drive can’t remember/tell anyone/send a message to my whole email contact list that I wrote ‘erect penis’. (That’s twice, now.) Jess would think nothing of writing ‘erect penis’. (Three times.) Though as a lesbian-in-waiting, she is perhaps less likely to have cause to write it. Why am I such an idiot? No good answer to that.

  Select All. Delete.

  chapter 35

  A Friday movie with Jess had been the weekly highpoint for a long time. The tradition started because their year six teacher, Ms Clegg, had been worried about the parents putting too much pressure on the girls in the lead-up to high school entrance exams. She took the trouble to write a letter and get it translated. The thrust of the letter was that the girls needed leisure time as well as study time; that it could be instructive and help their English study. She knew the way to the mothers’ hearts. An example she used was the selection of suitable DVDs, which could also help the girls understand popular culture and improve their idiomatic English.

  Ever since that fateful letter, the Friday movie had been acceptable timetabling to the mothers, as much as music practice or maths or French grammar. They’d come to think of it as actual homework. And it coincided with Vân Ước’s parents’ regular dinner with her dad’s cousin in Footscray, to which Bảo Mac was also invited, and from which Vân Ước, the only kid, was excused.

  Thank god for Ms Clegg. They’d started off with anthology packs that Jess’s mother sourced from who knew where, such as Classic American TV Shows of the 70s, Sitcom Medley, Favourite Hollywood Musicals etc., but had long ago graduated to whatever they wanted to watch.

  Mind you, the Favourite Hollywood Musicals boxed set had prompted many hilarious nights teaching themselves to tap dance, an adaptable life skill. And even though dance scenes from Pulp Fiction and 500 Days of Summer had replaced those from early musicals as their favourites, films like Singin’ in the Rain would always rate highly with them.

  Jess was able to report back favourably on Billy from the afternoon’s encounter at homework club.

  ‘Okay, he came and found me – I was upstairs, so good effort. He called me Jessica, making eye contact.’

  ‘You sound like a private investigator.’

  ‘I was investigating him – assessing his suitability as a possible boyf for my bestie.’

  ‘He seems to have been reading Jane Eyre, too.’

  ‘Check. He is stuck in the quagmire of Jane’s stay with the Rivers family.’

  ‘Understandable. It does get very religious there.’

&
nbsp; ‘Some, including me, would say boring. But it’s also a good two-thirds of the way in, so he’s put some time into it since last week.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘He’s passed my tests and I can only confirm that my original diagnosis was correct. He is besotted.’

  ‘For whatever reason,’ Vân Ước said darkly.

  ‘You are loveable, whatever you choose to think. And he can’t help it that he comes from the right side of the tracks.’

  At the mid-movie more-food break, she told Jess about the L-word conversation.

  ‘“Despite your beauty being . . . great . . . it’s the least of the reasons I love you.” They were his exact words?’

  ‘Yeah. He may have been like three-quarters flippant.’

  ‘But he didn’t take them back? Or make a joke of it?’

  ‘No, he seemed surprised to hear himself say it. He said, I’ve never said that before.’

  ‘That sounds more like three-quarters serious. Or even four-quarters.’

  ‘Or like someone who is under an influence he can’t control.’

  Jess held up her hand. ‘No crazy talk on film night.’

  While they assembled their food, Vân Ước also divulged the physical status of the Billy relationship.

  ‘You let him flick the bean?’ Jess nearly choked on her mini-frankfurter in a bun with jalapeno sauce and coleslaw.

  Vân Ước was breaking up the family-size block of Snack, feeling dreamy as she remembered. ‘I would not have thought I could – you know – with someone, but it was like we were under a spell. I’ve done it so many times with imaginary Billy, it was kind of weird to actually have him there in real life.’

  Jess rolled her eyes. ‘Is it time for our visit to a faraway land to buy you some condoms?’

  ‘Nope. That’s it for now. At least till I sort out what’s going on.’

  ‘What’s going on? You’ve committed school crime with the guy. Which I still think is dumb. He’s stood up for you in public against former friends of his, like horrible Holly and tedious Tiff. You’re going out. And he explicitly asked you. He loves you, and not just for your looks. And he said those words, too. You let him flick –’

  ‘Hey, you were totally against him until this afternoon.’

  ‘It’s called an about-face. He was a probable arrogant twat who, surprisingly, has proved himself to be a possibly-worthy mew for you.’

  ‘And you know what I mean. Sort it out. IT. The wish. I’ve got that writer’s address. I’m going over there tomorrow. I hope I’ll have the guts to knock on her door.’

  ‘Be serious, what could you possibly say to her?’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘But say that first thing was a wish, and you got another wish, you would just take a moment and think carefully about how you phrase it, wouldn’t you? You know that whole “be careful what you wish for” thing?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘It’s a thing for a reason.’

  ‘Of course I’d be careful.’

  ‘Okay, good, but seeing as how in real life there isn’t a wish on the horizon, the only things you really need to sort out are, one: how you feel about him, and two: if it’s serious, how you can hide it from your parents.’

  Jess hit play and they each selected their number-one Snack choice: pineapple for Vân Ước and Turkish delight for Jess. The last flavours left would be caramel and coconut ice, but the existence of the least-favourite flavours only served to make the best flavours seem more desirable.

  Vân Ước was only half tuning in to the film. It would be tricky phrasing a re-wish. She ran through some options:

  I wish Billy just liked me to an appropriate extent.

  (Appropriate according to whom?)

  I wish Billy liked me as a friend, and let’s see where that takes us.

  (Not bad. But what if it took them nowhere?)

  I wish Billy loved me for all time.

  (No. What if she only had Billy-love maximum capacity of a few months?)

  I wish Billy believed we were destined to be together.

  (See above.)

  I wish Billy liked me the same amount he did before that creative writing class.

  (That was not at all. And, it wasn’t much fun.)

  I wish Billy thought he’d like to get to know me better.

  (Tepid.)

  I wish Billy wanted to get to know me really well, and that would lead to love.

  (Better. But what would the perimeter of this love be? Timeframe, extent, exact nature of the love, etc.)

  I wish Billy only had eyes for me.

  (Could risk falling over and injuring himself or others. Unappealing, narrow worldview.)

  I wish Billy loved me.

  (Could be caught out in a past tense technicality: loved, not loves?)

  I wish Billy liked me, in real life, to the same extent that he likes me now, but not because of a wish.

  (Could be like a double negative equivalent to wish for an outcome that was not the result of – a wish.)

  More work needed.

  chapter 36

  Twelve Balmain Street, Abbotsford. This had to be her house – assuming that the one listed R. Bartloch in the directory was the writer who’d given the creative writing masterclass. The shutters were shut. She could see some fresh junk mail in the letterbox, despite the Addressed material only sign. A Tibetan prayer flag, fraying and fading, flapped in the breeze, and a collection of china birds was visible inside on the left-hand front window ledge. A flowerbed alongside the gappy paling fence sported some alarmingly tall, large-faced sunflowers in full, fake-looking but real, bloom. All these things fitted very neatly into the realm of domestic accessories she imagined would be favoured by a pink-haired, witchy-booted, retro-sundressed, shoebox-toting, possible-wish-trouble-causing writer.

  She was relieved to see that the house looked shut up and unoccupied. Wimp that she was, it was the only thing that allowed her to walk up the weed-lined path to the front door and knock. No answer. Phew.

  Well, what a pathetic waste of effort – and why bother knocking? It was as though part of her brain really did believe that the old dudes saw everything: Credit where credit’s due: she marched right up to the front door and knocked very firmly/Only because she was sure no one was home/But at least she stopped herself looking like a random lurking fool – in the event that any of the neighbours were peering from their windows/Of course there were neighbours peering from their windows – what else are neighbours in a quiet street going to be doing at ten am on a Saturday?/In that case she acquitted herself well, eyes to the front, good posture, minimum street loitering and, by gee, she made a quick getaway/And the big question is, will she front up again next Saturday?/Only time will tell . . .

  chapter 37

  Home after work, she walked in to find her mother in the living room, on the sofa, hands folded, looking grim. Her group therapy session – or friendship circle, as they called it – had finished half an hour ago. Usually at this time, Vân Ước could rely on having the place to herself, knowing that her mother and father and Bảo would be over at the Footscray market getting the week’s food and not back for at least another hour and a half; they went late for the bargains.

  ‘Hey, Mama.’ Vân Ước sat down next to her. ‘Are you okay? How come you’re not with Dad? How was friendship circle?’

  ‘Today we were talking all about when we were children.’

  Why couldn’t she just ask her about the photo? Ask her why they never saw her aunt? Now, right now, would be a perfect time. Only she felt like such a snoop.

  ‘So, talking about when you were a kid – that made you . . . how’d that make you feel?’ What to do? Did she need her hand held?

  No, her mother took her hand away and put it back in her lap. It was clear that she was feeli
ng uncomfortable. She was visibly composing herself, folding herself back together, straightening out the raggedy edges, smoothing hair away from her face. ‘It was hard for me to talk about my mother. Thinking of times in my life I have wanted her and not had that comfort.’

  ‘Can I make you some tea?’

  ‘Thank you, Vân Ước, con. Tea would be nice.’

  Vân Ước put the kettle on and prepared tea. Through all her mother’s past struggles with the effects of post-traumatic stress disorder, she had never spoken of how she was feeling, never given voice to her vulnerability. Her more typical mode was simply to disappear into the bedroom. So was this a good or bad thing? She imagined that some freeing up of feelings following group therapy was perfectly normal.

  ‘Can you tell me some of the things you talked about?’

  ‘Her cooking. We had a small area to prepare food, but it was always so fresh and delicious.’

  ‘Like when you cooked at the hostel?’

  ‘Yes. And we all got into such trouble, but I could still make a good meal over the little radiator if I had to.’

  Her parents had told her of their time living in the hostel in Moreland. The food there sounded like bulk-order, cheap cafeteria fare, not at all suited to their tastes or diet or digestive systems. When new people arrived at the hostel, they went eagerly to the canteen for free food, but numbers dropped off sharply after each new wave tried it.

  So people bought pots and small bar radiators at the local second-hand store and cooked in their bedrooms, using the radiators lying on their backs as hot plates. A pan, some noodles or rice, a few vegetables, some fish, some chilli, lemongrass. One family would cook rice, another family vegetables, and they would share the meal. They constantly got into trouble from the hostel management, who claimed they were creating hygiene and fire hazards and confiscated all the cooking implements. They were easy to repurchase. In this haven – a bed, a door that locked, a toilet that flushed, clean water flowing from the taps – it had seemed so strange to her parents that someone should be angry with them simply because they wanted to cook dinner.