‘I’ll talk to Evie.’
‘Thank you, darling. She’ll listen to you.’
I grab my laptop and the singalong version of Frozen, then head up to Evie’s room. I open the door and poke my head in. ‘Do you want to build a snowman?’ I ask, holding up the DVD.
Evie looks up, her face wet with tears. She sniffles and nods. I carry the movie and my laptop over to her bed and sit myself down next to her. Neither of us says anything as the disc starts to play. We stack pillows into a big pile against her bedhead and sink into them.
It finally gets to the part that I’ve been waiting for. Evie is forever begging me to sing the song with her, but I’ve always refused. There’s something about it that’s just too raw for me. Let it go. I don’t get it because it makes it sound so easy, as if you can just release it all like that. But this time it’s about Evie, not me. I join in the song, reading the words off the screen. Evie sings too. By the time it gets to the chorus, we are belting out the words and it feels so good. They can probably hear us downstairs. As the words leave my mouth, they take on a different meaning. I thought the song was all about freedom, but it’s actually about isolation.
When the song finishes, we fall back on the bed, out of breath. I pause the movie and roll onto my side to face Evie. ‘When you don’t speak at ballet, is it hard or easy?’
‘Hard.’
‘Are you holding the words in or are they refusing to come out?’
‘Holding them in.’
‘So what are you going to do?’
Evie giggles. ‘Let them go?’
I nod encouragingly, feeling like the lamest person on earth.
Evie cocks her head like a small bird. ‘Why don’t you let them go?’
I look down at the Elsa and Anna quilt cover on her bed. ‘I want to but it’s difficult for me.’
‘Maybe you’re not trying hard enough.’
‘I’ll tell you what. If you speak at ballet and at school – in fact, I want you to get into trouble for talking too much – I’ll try extra hard.’
‘Okay,’ says Evie.
I hug her tight and we watch the rest of the movie. Or at least I look like I’m watching it, but I keep thinking of West and the way I reacted to his questions.
When the movie finishes, I ask Evie one more time, ‘So what are you going to do?’
‘Let it go!’ she sings.
I kiss her on the forehead and take my laptop back to my room to try and fix things with West. I can’t believe how selfish and stupid I was. My SM is not only my problem; it’s my entire family’s problem and now it’s West’s problem too.
I wait a few minutes for a reply.
Mr Lyons, my geography teacher, is a reminder that there is a bit of crazy in everyone. For our new assignment, he wants us all to email a tree. And apparently it will reply. That’s how Mr Lyons starts off the first lesson back from the holiday break. He walks around the room, handing out slips of paper with email addresses on them. ‘Each of you is being given an ID number that corresponds to one of 77,000 trees in Melbourne.’
A slip of paper lands on the desk in front of me. I read the information on it. My tree ID number is: 1041161. Apparently, it’s a smooth-barked apple myrtle. I have no idea what that type of tree looks like. I couldn’t even say if it was small or big. The last thing on the paper is the email address.
I look up at Mr Lyons. Surely he can’t be serious.
‘Over the next twenty years, half of the trees in Melbourne are expected to die. The Urban Forest Plan is attempting to connect people with the trees to create a growing awareness of the importance of nature in urban environments. Your task is to email your tree. Your emails can be about anything. I won’t read them or the replies. What will be assessed is your log, recording when you emailed your tree and a reflection in week six of next term. You have a fair bit of time for this task, so I’m expecting a minimum of ten emails to your tree.’
‘Are you going to be answering the emails, sir?’ asks Alice.
‘Didn’t you hear him?’ calls out a boy with dreadlocks. ‘A big gum tree will sit down at a cafe and reply.’
Mr Lyons coughs. ‘Staff at Melbourne City Council will be answering the emails, I imagine. But don’t think about it that way. Imagine you are talking to the tree. Some of these trees are more than one hundred years old. What would you like to ask them? What would you like to tell them?’
A few people snicker.
‘I’d want to ask how many times they’ve been peed on.’ This comment puts the whole back row in hysterics. Mr Lyons continues as if a comment about public urination had not been made. ‘Express yourself. Write whatever is on your mind.’
I look down at the email address sceptically. What’s the point of this task? What would I even write? I’m done with journal writing. Why can’t we be given an essay on sustainable forestry or something?
Listening to the conversations going on around me, I seem to be the only person who has a problem with the assignment. Everyone is in agreement that it’s going to be piss-easy. Mr Lyons does address this piss comment. ‘Do not think of this assignment as a walk in the park,’ he says, struggling to get everyone’s attention. ‘I will be able to tell from your reflections whether you took it seriously or not.’
Then the bell goes and everyone takes off after 0.3 seconds, leaving Mr Lyons standing at the front of the room looking like someone who has been knocked aside by the force of a speeding freight train. I suddenly feel sorry for him. He was so excited and passionate about the assignment. When I stand up, I’m the last to leave. I hold up the slip of paper and smile at Mr Lyons. He nods and smiles back.
That day, like the others that week, I don’t see West much at school. He either has this meeting or that practice. After dinner, I login to Facebook and send him a message.
I read West’s last message over and over until the words become a string of letters that glow like fairy lights. Until West, there was no future after the exams. It was just a dark cloud hovering in the distance. I still don’t know what I will do with myself after graduation, but I know I want to go to Melbourne with West.
My hands freeze on the keyboard. I try to remember telling West about Cassie and what exactly I’d told him. It was the night of the glow-worms and I was upset about the Post-it note and Cassie. I can’t believe West remembers.
I bite my lip until it hurts. Maybe I should tell West what happened. If I don’t, then maybe he’ll feel like I don’t trust him. It’s not like we aren’t already dealing with communication issues. But if I do tell him, then he might think of me differently.
I take a deep breath.
I don’t tell West about Liam’s bet with his friends. It’s too painful and embarrassing. Bet or no bet, Cassie would still have been angry with me. I could’ve said no to Liam but I didn’t. I wasn’t thinking about Cassie when it was happening. I should’ve been a better friend. Perhaps then I wouldn’t have found myself in that situation. I hate to think how far things would’ve gone with Liam if Cassie hadn’t walked in.
So much for not telling West about the bet.
I smile, imagining West and I driving from farm to farm, getting fat on cheese.
I start typing a message but I delete it. It’s too late to open that can of worms. I look at the time at the bottom of the screen. It’s almost midnight.
Before I turn off my laptop, I pull my geography book out of my schoolbag and find my tree’s email address. How do you begin an email to a tree? Dear apple myrtle? To 1041161? I decide to keep it simple.
Hi,
I’ve never sent an email to a tree before, but then there’s a lot of things I’ve never done. My name is Piper Rhodes. If I was a tree, I would be a bonsai. They look like normal trees in almost every way, but they’re not. Just like me.
I remember going to a friend’s house when I was little and her dad grew bonsais. At first I couldn’t believe they were real. I thought her dad was a wizard who shrunk things and that
he might shrink me too. He did have a grey beard. Later on, I found out what they were. They are made things, shaped and cultivated. It makes me wonder how much of who I am is shaped and cultivated.
The first thing everyone wants to know is what happened to me. The answer is nothing. I’ve led a normal, happy and safe life. But then I wonder: would I be the way I am if I grew up in Japan? Or Turkey? What if I had grown up on the street with no parents? What if I had been born in the middle of a war? Maybe the smallest of circumstances, the moments that pass without making us blink, shape us. Would I be the same girl tomorrow if I spoke today? Would he like me more or less?
I think too much.
There’s this boy I’m sort of dating. We’re planning to come and visit you after graduation. What’s it like in Melbourne at the moment?
Bye for now, P.R.
What starts with a Facebook message about the German homework somehow ends up in a game where West gives me a crazy concept and I have to invent a German word for it. German is known for its extra-long compound words. They take known words and join them together to describe the function. Take Straubsauger, which is the word for vacuum cleaner. It’s: dust + to suck = dust sucker. This is how I explain it to West. And that’s when we begin inventing our own German words.
I think for a minute.
I have no idea if a German person would be able to read my word and know what it means but it doesn’t matter.
That’s a hard one. The best I can do is put ‘dirty’ and ‘word’ and ‘search’ together.
West doesn’t answer and a few minutes later, it says he is offline. The first thing I worry about is what I’m going to wear on Saturday. I message Tanvi for help. She replies straightaway.
I hadn’t thought about how this date might ‘expose’ West and me.
The next afternoon, I go with a pair of faded jeans but I can’t decide between a dark blue knit with white stripes or a loose black top with lace cut-outs. Tanvi preferred the black one, so that’s what I put on but ten minutes later, I change my mind and go for the knit instead. It doesn’t take me long to question that choice as well. I decide to ask Mum.
I walk into the study and hold up the two tops. ‘Which one should I wear?’
Mum turns away from the computer and examines the choices with a serious expression. ‘The stripes,’ she says.
‘Stripes it is. Thanks.’ I’m about to walk off when Mum stops me.
‘Piper, I wanted to talk to you about West.’
I sigh. ‘You said you were okay with the date this morning.’
‘I know that West is a lovely boy,’ she says. ‘But I want you to be careful. I don’t want you getting hurt.’ Her fingers knot themselves together as she speaks.
I look away and wonder if she would be saying this if I didn’t have SM.
‘All I ever am is careful, careful with words, careful with people. West is what I need. He shows me what life can be if I’m not careful and I like that life a lot more. I know I could be setting myself up to be heartbroken, but I can live with that. I can’t live wondering what could’ve happened if, for once, I stopped being careful.’
Mum stands up and kisses me on the forehead. ‘Okay, I trust you. But don’t think that means you don’t get a curfew. I want you back by 10 o’clock.’
I raise my eyebrows, but I don’t think Mum sees. Even Tilly stays up later than ten on the weekend. I wonder if it’s just Mum being cautious about West or if my curfew has something to do with coming home drunk from that party months ago. Either way, I don’t push my luck.
I’m almost as indecisive about hairstyles as I am with my clothing choices. Evie comes into the bathroom a few times and makes some very unhelpful suggestions including a side braid like Elsa or a Mohawk. Just before five, the doorbell rings and I have no choice but to leave my hair out.
I grab a parka on my way downstairs, in case the date is outside. The nights are middle-of-winter cold, even though it’s only the first week of June. The intense cold seems to come to the Blue Mountains before anywhere else. When I get to the front door, Mum is already there, speaking to West.
‘Hey,’ he says when he sees me. ‘You look really nice.’
I smile and shrug.
‘Have you got your camera?’ he asks.
I nod and hold it up for him to see.
‘You two have fun. Home by ten, okay?’ says Mum.
‘Sure thing, Mrs Rhodes,’ says West. He takes my hand and leads me down the driveway to his car.
‘Call me Shelly,’ Mum calls after us.
‘Okay, Mrs Rhodes,’ returns West with a wave. Still laughing, he stops on the kerb and opens the passenger door for me. My heart backflips. I should be a proud modern woman who insists on opening her own door, but the gesture makes me feel like a woman for the first time. I’m not the girl who Liam intended to use or the girl whose former best friend hates her.
As West heads up the highway towards Katoomba, I try to work out where our date might be. We could be going to see a movie or to a restaurant for dinner somewhere. Both of those things sound nice but they’re not what you’d consider a surprise. A few minutes later, West turns off the highway and drives a bit further until he has to slow down because of all the cars parked on the side of the road. Then I see why. Down the road, set up in an open stretch of paddock, is a circus tent lit up with different-coloured lights. With the colours of dusk, it looks magical, probably even more so than at night. I feel a rush of childlike excitement. It’s not very often circuses come up to the Blue Mountains. Actually, I don’t ever remember a circus being around here. The only time I’ve been to the circus was a couple of years ago, down at Penrith with Cassie.
‘Is this a lame idea?’ asks West as we get out of the car.
I shake my head and smile.
West doesn’t look convinced. I hold up my camera and take a photo of his face. ‘Hey,’ he says, cracking a smile. ‘Now I get to take one photo of you.’
I bite my lip, pretending to consider this and shake my head. He comes around to the passenger side, wraps his hands around my waist and kisses me. There are people around who might see, but I don’t really mind.
‘Want to take a look at The World’s Greatest Circus? That’s what it says on the ticket.’ He checks his pocket to make sure he has them.
There are people of all ages wandering around when we reach the tent. Carnival music blasts through speakers positioned near the ticket booth. I inhale the smell of popcorn.
‘There’s still half an hour until the show starts. What do you want to do?’ asks West. ‘We could go on some rides? Or get something to eat or just walk around?’
I look at West. How do I answer that question without rubbing my tummy like a two-year-old or pretending to eat?
‘Rides?’ says West.
I shake my head.
‘Food?’
I nod.
West smiles as though he has cracked a puzzle. All I can wonder is: how long till he gets tired of this? How long till I get tired of this?
We walk around the outside of the tent, holding hands. I stop next to an old Russian caravan selling chips-on-a-stick, which is basically a potato sliced into one long spiral and deep-fried on a stick. ‘Do you want one?’ asks West.
I nod. Who would say no to deep-fried potato?
As he is taking out his wallet, I shake my head and hand over a twenty-dollar note. West gives me a look and I give him a look back. He paid for the tickets, which I’m sure cost a lot more.
We sit down at a plastic table nearby with the world’s biggest slinky potatoes. I don’t bite into mine straightaway because of the steam coming off it. But West goes for it and immediately lets out a yelp. ‘Hot, hot, hot,’ he gasps, his mouth hanging open. The look on his face is priceless. I set my stick down on a napkin and lift up my camera, taking a photo of him. He blows on the stick to cool it down. I take another photo. Turning in my seat, I look around, suddenly caught up in the photographic possibilities. I zoom in
on the cracked face of a plastic clown, as it rotates to the side with its mouth wide open in one of those games where you have to feed the balls into the clown’s mouth. I capture the departing backs of an elderly man and woman holding hands. I point my camera at the mini Ferris wheel silhouetted against the darkening sky. I lose count of how many photos I’ve taken.
‘The show will be starting in ten minutes,’ comes an announcement from a speaker nearby. ‘Please proceed to the tent entrance.’
‘Are you ready?’ asks West.
I nod and pick up my chips-on-a-stick, taking a quick bite. It’s really good. The potato is crispy and the seasoning is lemony and peppery. It has ruined all potatoes for me. This date has ruined all dates for me.
We line up near the entrance and wait to have our tickets checked by a friendly looking clown. Inside, it’s a lot bigger than it looks from the outside. It’s lit up brightly, making the candy-striped roof come to life. There’s a faint smell of hay. We take a seat in the second row of chairs.
‘Can I have a look?’ asks West, motioning to my camera hanging around my neck.
I hand it to him and he examines it intently. ‘So this takes film and you develop the film in your darkroom?’
I nod.
‘I’ve never seen a camera like this. It’s really cool.’
He continues to turn it over and examine it. My attention shifts to the people filling the tent. As I’m still looking around, I hear the shutter go off. West is pointing the camera in my direction. He lowers it. ‘Can you develop that for me?’
I grab the camera off him in mock anger, and put it under my seat so that he can’t take any more photos of me. At that moment the lights go out and the show begins. It’s everything a circus should be: amazing, breathtaking and funny. In the intermission, we get fairy floss and when West kisses me, it’s sweet and sugary.
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