The True Colour of a Little White Lie

by Gabriel Bergmoser

  ‘Yes.’

  At that she looked at me.

  ‘She deserved it as much as you,’ I said. ‘But that doesn’t change what I said. About liking you.’

  She looked away again. She seemed to be thinking. Then she exhaled and closed her eyes. ‘There was a guy who liked me, last year. I’d always thought he was a jock idiot, but he was cute and seemed really nice when it was just us. I started to change my mind and when he asked me out, well …’ She shrugged. ‘I acted all cool about it, but I was excited. Then one of my friends overheard him talking to his mates. They had a bet on who could kiss me first.’

  She looked at me, and there was a tightness to her jaw and a fire in her eyes that almost made me step back. ‘I trusted you because you seemed different. You weren’t anything like those guys. Until you were. Do you have any idea how it feels to know that the person you … that you’re just seen as some kind of sex object?’

  ‘That’s never how I saw you.’

  She gave me a withering look. ‘No, you saw me as one of two options so you made sure you had a backup.’

  ‘Juliet, I’m not asking you to forgive me.’

  ‘It sounds like that’s exactly what you’re asking for.’

  ‘It’s what I’m hoping for,’ I admitted. ‘I really, really like you, Juliet.’

  Her expression was pained. ‘I really like you too, Nelson. But I don’t trust you. And that’s kind of a deal-breaker.’

  She looked down at her watch. ‘I have to go,’ she said, voice thick. ‘We’re leaving soon.’ She paused, eyes still on her wrist. When she looked up, they were red. ‘This was our last weekend.’

  My stomach dropped. ‘What?’

  ‘Yeah, Mum …’ She shrugged. ‘Mum lost her job so, like, we can’t afford the lift tickets and stuff any more. And the Gal is expensive. So we won’t be up again.’

  I tried to think of something to say, something to convince her to change her mind about any of it. But nothing came to me because there was nothing I could say. So I just shut my mouth and nodded and hoped I didn’t look like I was about to cry.

  ‘I’ll miss you,’ I said finally. ‘A lot.’

  She nodded. For a moment we looked at each other.

  I stepped forward to hug her, but she shook her head, turned, and walked back towards the lodge.

  I closed my eyes and thought back to the first time I’d seen her, sitting in the games room, staring at her phone and making jokes about me being a serial killer.

  I put my skis away quickly before heading back to my room. It was only when I stepped through the door and my eyes went straight to the place where Juliet and I had first kissed that the tears came.

  The winter had been long, unfolding in a lazy way that made it seem like it would go on forever. But after that weekend, things seemed to speed up. There was a little less snow, then a little less again, then the days were bright and sunny and the runs patchy.

  More staff members said their goodbyes. Esther had already left and Ash wasn’t long after her. Charlie was still there, but with the customers dwindling and the restaurant dead quiet most nights, there wasn’t a lot of need for a kitchen hand.

  The boxes that had filled the halls of the Gal on my first night here were reappearing as things were packed away for the summer, and the lodge that had felt so alive with possibility would soon shut down for the long months until it all happened again. Next time, without me.

  There wasn’t much point in dwelling on any of that though. I couldn’t stop the seasons any more than I could get Juliet’s mum’s job back, so I decided to just enjoy those last days. There would be time to feel sad later. About a few things.

  Robbie stuck around; the admin staff would be needed up until a week or so after the season ended, to fill out paperwork and sign things and do all the stuff I doubted I would ever understand. I was grateful she was there, even if it didn’t change the fact that the end was coming fast.

  Late one afternoon, after Robbie had knocked off for the day, we walked up to the Salzburg; the highest lodge on the mountain with the best views. We ordered a couple of hot chocolates and moved to the window overlooking the slopes. Skiing had finished for the day, and the sky was darkening as the flashing lights of the grooming machines came to life across the glistening white.

  ‘I should ask,’ Robbie said. ‘Did you ever get a chance to watch the Hannibal movies?’

  I shook my head. I still felt more than a little embarrassed about my ‘be like Hannibal’ plan and as much as I had wanted to see the films, the opportunity had just never presented itself.

  ‘That’s a shame,’ Robbie said. ‘A real shame.’ She reached down into her bag. ‘If only you had a friend who happened to have them handy.’

  ‘That would be awesome,’ I said, ‘but …’

  I trailed off as Robbie placed three DVDs on the table.

  ‘No way,’ I said.

  She grinned. ‘Happy early birthday. Or Christmas. Or something. Just don’t tell your mum.’

  She slid them over to me and, stunned, I spread them out on the table. Manhunter, Silence of the Lambs and Hannibal. I noted the R18+ on Hannibal with a thrill of rebellious delight.

  ‘I didn’t get you Red Dragon,’ Robbie explained. ‘Because Manhunter was the original. Made in the eighties, before Silence, and it’s a way better film.’

  ‘Robbie, I can’t …’ I picked up the DVDs one by one, as reverently as if they were holy texts.

  ‘Look, a film buff like you not seeing Silence of the Lambs,’ she said, ‘it’s criminal. As far as I’m concerned, I’m righting a major injustice here.’

  I rounded the table and hugged her. After a moment, embarrassed, I let go.

  ‘Just one condition,’ Robbie said, a twinkle in her eye. ‘Don’t get any more ideas from the doctor, okay?’

  I wasn’t ready to laugh about it just yet. But I smiled and promised her I wouldn’t. ‘As long as you watch them with me before you leave.’

  ‘It’s a deal,’ Robbie said.

  The Friday before the final weekend of the season, Madison and I spent both recess and lunch going over the script for the film we would shoot at the end of the year. It was a crime thriller, something that I was pretty sure would be awesome.

  Madison had turned out to be a more enthusiastic collaborator than Pat ever was, although I had wondered if part of that was because I’d filled her in on my feelings about the season ending and she was trying to distract me. Either way, I appreciated the effort.

  Driving up the mountain that final weekend with Dad, I flicked through the pages of our rough-draft script and tried to keep my mind off the Gallagher.

  ‘Another film?’ Dad asked.

  I shrugged.

  ‘What’s it about?’

  I glanced at him. My parents seemed to be trying to take a more active interest in what I was doing lately. It would have been nice if it wasn’t so forced.

  ‘Just a film,’ I said.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Your mother … she told me about the conversation you had. And about what happened with those girls. I had no idea.’

  I turned another page. ‘You never asked.’

  ‘We were busy.’

  ‘You’re always busy.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean we don’t care.’

  I looked at him then. ‘Do you know why I loved being up on the mountain so much? Because Robbie, Matt and the rest, they listened. They didn’t just dismiss me as a kid. I get that the stuff that goes on with me might seem unimportant or whatever to you, but it doesn’t to me, okay? Just once, I wish you’d take me seriously.’

  He was quiet, and I wondered if he would even reply.

  Then he said, ‘You’re growing up, Nelson. That’s scary.’

  I opened my mouth to tell him I didn’t need a high-school counsellor’s speech.

  ‘For me,’ he added.

  I stopped.

  Dad grimaced, eyes still on the road. ‘It’s just … being a par
ent is like being on a roller-coaster that you’re never properly strapped in to. The moment you have a handle on it, there’s another sharp turn or sudden drop and …’ He shook his head. ‘It goes fast, Nelson. All of it. And right when you reckon you know what you’re doing, the rug gets pulled out again. Part of me thinks that if I start talking to you like an adult, then the next thing I know you’ll be an adult. Which makes me an old man.’ He looked at me. ‘And that’s scary.’

  ‘I never thought about it like that,’ I said.

  ‘Me neither,’ Dad said with a short laugh. ‘Anyway … I’m sorry, Nelson. I’m just doing my best.’

  I nodded. I wanted to tell him it was okay, but I didn’t quite trust myself to speak.

  I went out early on Sunday morning. It was a beautiful, sunny day; not the last of the season, but the last of mine. There were a few people on the runs already, but even at its busiest the mountain wouldn’t be especially hectic any more. The people left were mainly the staff members of closed lodges, enjoying their free time and the lack of tourists.

  I took the main lift straight up, before skiing across the slight valley to the base of the Summit Run. As this was the highest point of the mountain, the snow coverage was consistent enough to let you imagine it was just a sunny day in the middle of winter and there was still plenty of season to go.

  It was especially easy to believe this as I sat on the lift and looked over at the Summit Jump, which was still being built up again every day.

  I skied off the lift and refocused on the jump. From up here it looked small, but I knew that would change the closer I got. It would loom up in front of me, impossibly steep and ridiculously huge, and I would freak out and swerve away at the last minute, finishing the run to a soundtrack of everyone nearby laughing at me.

  I thought of Hayley. I remembered her brilliant 360 and the look on her face afterwards.

  I dug the tips of my poles into the snow and pushed off towards the jump. Nobody else was lined up to take a shot at it, which was good and bad all at once. Fewer people to see me fail; less time to change my mind.

  The jump got closer by the second. Every instinct was yelling at me to move off course, and enjoy the rest of the day with limbs intact.

  I didn’t.

  I hit the base. Lurched up. The snow dropped away below me and I was flying.

  For just a moment, the mountain, the village, the fields and trees and towns that surrounded it, were all far away. I was as close to the sky as I had ever been. My scream turned into a laugh.

  And then the ground was coming right back up and the sky dropped away and I hit hard. The impact went up one unbalanced leg and I fell, sliding down the slope, my skis lost in the collision, my poles sliding into the sky.

  I came to a halt, gasping and aching. I felt like I’d been hit by a truck. But I was alive.

  I sat up. My skis were several metres up the slope. Beyond them was the jump. And here, below it, the size of the thing was staggering.

  Wincing, I stood and dusted myself off. My eyes remained on the jump. I had been so close.

  I trudged back up towards my skis and felt a smile come over my face.

  I might have screwed up that time, but I had all day to get it right.

  Acknowledgements

  I doubt it’s a huge shock to anyone reading this that The True Colour of a Little White Lie is a very personal book; not quite autobiographical, but not entirely fiction either. It was something I wrote largely for myself and as such there are quite a few people in need of the most effusive thanks for getting it over the line.

  To Tara Wynne, literary agent extraordinaire, for advocating for this book even though it was so vastly different to the rest of my output, and Caitlan Cooper-Trent for always having the right feedback to help me look at least a little like I know what I’m doing. To Lisa Berryman, for not only acquiring True Colour, but for loving it as much as I did. Also for the long chats and for your patience with my babbling about whether something was working or not. To Shannon Kelly for your passionate support of Nelson’s story and your wonderful editorial support. To Nicola O’Shea for your copy edit, helping the story move in a way that was previously eluding me, and to Eve Tonelli, my project editor, for making some absolutely book-saving last-minute catches and Pamela Dunne for your meticulous proofreading.

  To the gangs at Melbourne Young Writer’s Studio and Bitten By Productions respectively for always having my back; many of you read this story in its earliest form and gave me the encouragement I needed to know it was worth pursuing. There are too many of you to name, but I hope you know how grateful I am.

  I do, however, want to name a few of my students at MYWS; Tex Wise, Ella Nekvapil, Wesley Gunning and Elliot Harris. It’s one thing to get an adult’s perspective on a book for teenagers, but to know something is working you really need the eye of its target audience, and your enthusiasm for the book was one of the earliest and strongest signs I had that I wasn’t barking up the wrong tree.

  To my parents, Kim and Christian Bergmoser, for their perpetual pride and support. To my brothers, Tristan and Mischa; sorry I didn’t include you in The Hunted acknowledgements or in this book. Hopefully this makes up for it. To Molly McPhie for, well, everything. Thank you all.

  But I want to step back in time for a moment. Because in 2005, my parents did run a ski lodge on Mt Buller, and a lot of this book is lifted straight from my experiences up there. When I was that age, lost and lonely and unsure of who I was, to have this home away from home where I could escape every weekend, surrounded by adults who treated me like one of their own, was special. I would say too special for words, except I’ve written nearly 51,000 words about it, so that would be a lie. It’s been a lot of years since then, and many of the names and faces have faded away, but this book is, in part, my way of paying tribute to a time that mattered a huge amount to me.

  Among all the people I met up there though, one stands out. Robbie Ryan; I loved every second we spent talking Hannibal and playing Daytona and giggling ghoulishly as we worked on my creative writing assignments for school, packed full of puns about cannibalism. But beyond all of that, your honesty, kindness and wisdom have inspired me until this day. I love that we still talk, sometimes for hours on end. I love that you were one of the first people to read this book. And I love that you gave me permission to use your name, to lift you almost verbatim from reality and place you in this story. Because frankly, you’re too cool to fictionalise.

  About the Author

  GABRIEL BERGMOSER is an award-winning Melbourne-based author and playwright. He won the prestigious Sir Peter Ustinov Television Scriptwriting Award in 2015, and was nominated for the 2017 Kenneth Branagh Award for New Drama Writing. His first young adult novel, Boone Shepard, was shortlisted for the Readings Young Adult Prize.

  Copyright

  Angus&Robertson

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers, Australia

  HarperCollinsPublishers

  Australia • Brazil • Canada • France • Germany • Holland • Hungary India • Italy • Japan • Mexico • New Zealand • Poland • Spain • Sweden Switzerland • United Kingdom • United States of America

  First published in Australia in 2021

  by HarperCollinsPublishers Australia Pty Limited

  ABN 36 009 913 517

  harpercollins.com.au

  Copyright © Gabriel Bergmoser 2021

  The right of Gabriel Bergmoser to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.

  This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of Australia

  ISBN 978 1 4607 5909 7 (paperback)

  ISBN
978 1 4607 1283 2 (ebook)

  Cover design by Hazel Lam, HarperCollins Design Studio

  Cover images by istockphoto.com