Leaving Jetty Road

by Rebecca Burton

  She starts to walk off again, then stops, swings back around, comes over to me. Standing in front of me, feet firmly planted on the ground, she reaches out, prods me in the stomach. She looks at me, hard.

  “Oy. You. Eat.”

  Then she strolls casually out of the yard, nose ring glinting triumphantly in the sun.

  chapter twenty-three

  Afternoon tea at the Mawsons’

  That same week, summer hits. The sun glares on the pages of our textbooks during lessons, and flies buzz thickly at the classroom windows. Sometimes they drop onto our desks out of midair, landing heavily, legs up, having died in midflight.

  I stare out the windows, shading my forehead with my hand from the light, unable to concentrate. Has Mrs. Jordan rung yet? What will she say? What will my parents say? Light trickles through the gaps between my fingers, hostile and hot on my skin. I turn back to my notebook, eyes dazzled, burning.

  Starting from that week, I begin walking home instead of catching the bus. Partly, I’ve decided to do this to get more exercise; partly, to avoid the company of Nat. Ever since that day we went shopping together—ever since the strange, silent bus trip home—she’s been difficult to be with, asking constant, awkward questions like “Is everything all right, Lise? You look so pale.” Or else looking at me strangely and saying nothing at all.

  Sometimes, these days, I’d almost rather be with Sofia than Nat. I used to be so afraid of Sofe: of not being able to think of anything to say to her; of feeling hopeless, inadequate, in front of her. But since I’ve lost weight, that’s changed. It’s not that I’ve got more to say to her, because I haven’t: I still feel tongue-tied in her company. It’s just, I don’t know—I don’t care so much. Despite what she said to me that dreadful morning at Nat’s house on my birthday, I’ve done something she can’t: I’ve gotten fit, gotten (well, almost) slim. I’ve gotten disciplined. And that’s something she can’t take away from me. No matter how many times she tells me to eat.

  There’s usually no one home when I turn in at the front gate and crunch my way down the gravel drive. Mum and Dad don’t tend to leave work until well after five, and it would tarnish Terri’s “cool uni student” image if she got home before dark. So the house is empty, and I rattle around in the kitchen, enjoying the sound of my feet echoing on the wooden floorboards. My latest ritual is to open all the cupboard doors and check the fridge, gaze longingly at the containers of leftovers and Terri’s jar of Nutella.

  There has been no repeat of that midnight binge. Now, on out-of-control days, I pull out the block of cheese, put it on the countertop, cut myself the tiniest shaving. The sharp, rich taste makes me dream of toasted sandwiches, cheeseburgers, my mother’s homemade lasagna . . .

  Then I make myself a cup of green tea (good for the digestion, apparently—and, of course, it has no calories) and wander up the stairs to my room to study. All the time I’m settling down at my desk, opening my books, checking my studying schedule, there’s this little panicked whisper inside my head: I’ve got to study more. I’m going to fail.

  But one afternoon, when I get home from school, Mum’s sleek silver car and Dad’s BMW are parked at the end of the driveway. My heart sinks, and I walk through the kitchen door slowly, practicing Smile, Lise, smile.

  “How about some afternoon tea?” Mum suggests brightly, pecking me on the cheek. “I’ve just made a banana cake.”

  Imagine: Mum baking. What’s gotten into her? I wonder. She stopped doing that when I was in kindergarten. I inspect her closely: there’s a spot of bare skin on her chin where she must have missed her foundation, and the mascara on her eyelashes is clumpy. Mum never botches her makeup.

  Has Mrs. Jordan finally rung? Is that what she’s so upset about?

  Dad’s perched on a barstool at the countertop, buried in a medical journal. He smiles up at me as I put my schoolbag down.

  “Jen made the cake specially, Lisey.”

  Specially for what? To make me fat? I shake my head at the cake (imagine: me eating cake. I stopped doing that months ago) and head instead to the kettle. While I wait for it to boil, I fidget around in the cupboards, getting out a cup, cutting a slice of lemon. All the time I’m doing this, I try not to breathe in too deeply: the kettle sits next to the oven, from which the most incredible, sweet warm-cake smells are drifting out.

  Hastily, I pick my cup up, ready to take it back to my room with me to study.

  “Lise . . . ,” says Mum.

  I stop. Here it comes . . .

  “You know how you told me you’ve been having trouble sleeping?”

  I nod, cautiously. I mentioned it to her the other day, when she told me off at the dinner table for yawning all the time.

  “Well . . . I got something. To help.” She looks at me worriedly. “I know you’re into herbal things, so I bought it from the health food shop.”

  “Health food shop,” my father mutters scornfully, going back to his journal.

  She ignores him pointedly and hands me a brown paper bag. I put down my cup again, relieved: if that’s all she’s going to say, I can handle it. Maybe Nat’s mother kept quiet after all. Calmly, I open the bag. Inside, there’s a packet of valerian tea bags and a CD—one of those do-it-yourself meditation/relaxation CDs.

  Oh, Mum. I stare down at the brown paper bag, breath suddenly catching, unable to speak. The gesture is so unlike my mother (who couldn’t relax if you paid her to), and so close to the bone, that I’m overwhelmed. For one long, insane moment, all I want to do is curl up on my mother’s lap and bawl my eyes out. If she only knew . . .

  Because the truth is, every night now I struggle to sleep. It’s become the time of day I most dread: a time when the Fear hits and there is no one to talk to, nothing to distract myself with. I try everything: listening to the radio, playing solitaire, reading recipes. Nothing works. Sometimes I have to get up and pace my room, fighting my way through bout after bout of it.

  And when the Fear has finally run its course and I do eventually get to sleep, I dream about food: Nat’s chocolate cake, iced with dark, thick, glossy icing, smothered with cream; bread spread with butter an inch thick; hot chips, salty and sharp and fragrant with vinegar. I wake up in the morning, stomach growling, the memory of food guilty on my tongue.

  Mum, Mum, I can’t sleep, and I can’t eat, and I can’t talk to boys, and I can’t talk to my best friend anymore, and I feel so goddamn LONELY . . .

  I look up at her, heart brimming. But then, just as I’m about to speak, I notice the way her stomach, tightly corseted by her short, narrow skirt, bulges underneath the waistband. Instantly I am diverted. How can she LIVE with herself ? I wonder. How can she handle the way her stomach sticks out like that? Why can’t she show some self-control?

  Dad’s no better, either. His belly sags over his trousers, and his chin is receding into his neck. In the mornings, when he scoots back from the bathroom to the bedroom after a shower, towel wrapped around his waist, you can see the way the skin on his back hangs slack and his hips, above the folded-over top of the towel, are loose with middle-aged midriff flab.

  And they’re not the only ones. Lately I’ve been seeing fat people everywhere I look: people with cellulite-hatched thighs, droopy breasts, swollen stomachs. It doesn’t seem to matter whether I’m looking at strangers or at friends. The other day I even checked out Sofia—yes, Sofia, the ultimate boy magnet—and realized what a big butt she has. The whole world seems suddenly to be full of people who have too much flesh, people who spend the day stuffing themselves with food. Why didn’t I ever notice this before?

  Dad’s still reading, but Mum’s eyes are fixed anxiously on me, as if she’s waiting—hoping, even—for me to spill the magic beans, confess my dreaded secret so she can make it all better. But the moment of weakness has passed, and I’m strong again. I am not going to confide in my overweight, dimply-thighed, sweaty-cleavaged mother.

  “Thanks for the CD, Mum,” I say quickly, heading toward the kitchen
door, toward sweet, beckoning escape. “It’s really nice of you.”

  For a moment, I think I might get there. But I don’t even make it past the oven.

  “Your father and I need to talk to you, Lise,” says Mum abruptly.

  I lean against the oven door, cup in hand, suddenly trapped.

  “What about?” I say quietly, knowing already. So Mrs. Jordan did ring. I should have known she wouldn’t let me go.

  Mum turns to Dad expectantly. He gazes back at her, not saying anything, a page of his medical journal between his fingers.

  “Rob.”

  “What?”

  “You’re the doctor.”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “You promised—”

  Dad sighs, exasperated. He lets the page of his journal drop.

  “I didn’t promise anything. I said I’d be here—”

  Mum goes red in the face with anger. She swings back to me.

  “I had a call from Natalie’s mother last night.” Her voice is harsh, offended: she and Nat’s mother have never gotten on. “She said—”

  “This has nothing to do with Nell Jordan,” Dad says.

  They glare at each other. Antagonism—heavy, unbidden—hangs suddenly in the air. I watch them, feeling the warmth of the oven door against my back, pushing myself farther into it. I hate the way they argue like this.

  Mum faces me again, the anger still red in her face.

  “It’s time you stopped losing weight, Lise,” she says brusquely. “You’ve lost enough already.”

  I don’t speak. I am starting to sweat, a warm, moist patch forming under the back of my sweater, where I’m leaning against the oven. Is this all anyone’s ever going to talk to me about?

  “You’re too thin,” Mum goes on. Her voice rises, on the lower rung of hysteria. “Look at you! You look unhealthy.”

  “I’m not!” I protest hotly. “I don’t.” I turn to my father, appealing to his better—his more reasonable—nature. “Dad?”

  “Rob,” says Mum. This time it is a command.

  His eyes on me are apologetic. “You do look a bit thin, Lisey. Enough is enough.”

  I go over to the sink, put my cup of cold green tea down on the draining board. My hands are shaking. Part of me is exultant—Yes, I’m thin! They said I’m thin!—but the other part feels suddenly afraid. What if they make me gain weight? What if they make me get fat?

  “I’m okay. Honestly. It’s just the exams.”

  “Terri never got like this about the exams,” Mum snaps.

  Oh, yes: the old Terri trick. But Terri’s smart! I think. Terri’s brainy. And Terri’s never needed to lose weight. I mean, look at her: she’s even got part-time modeling work now.

  Mum folds her arms, determined now. “I’m going to book an appointment with a doctor—”

  “But Dad’s a doctor!” I protest. “He didn’t say I look unhealthy.”

  And he didn’t: he just said I looked a little thin. There’s nothing wrong with thin.

  Dad looks puzzled, out of his depth. “I wouldn’t go as far as ‘unhealthy’ Lisey. Not medically speaking—”

  “You see?” I say triumphantly to my mother.

  Just then, the alarm on the oven goes off. It beeps insistently into the silence between us. Mum rushes over to it. She switches it off and opens the oven door. Instantly we are bathed in the warm, loving smell of freshly baked cake. Despite myself, I breathe in deeply, savoring the smell, tasting its sweetness at the back of my throat.

  Mum and Dad, too, have stopped. Their faces soften; Dad is on the verge of a smile.

  “That smells great, Jen.”

  “Does it?” Her shoulders drop, the tension gone, and she gives him a silly, pleased look. “It’s my normal recipe—you know, the one with the cardamom in it. I was going to put some cream-cheese icing on it when it’s cooled.”

  “Can’t we have it now?” Suddenly he sounds almost boyish, mischievous. “Come on, Jen. Let’s have some now.”

  “Well . . .” She hesitates.

  Dad turns to me. “Lise? You’ll have some, won’t you? If we cut it now?”

  I glance at the cake. It smells so good. But I can’t; I can’t—

  And that’s when I think of it. The answer to everything, the perfect solution . . .

  Upstairs, I sit at my bedroom desk. The cake I’ve just eaten lies heavy in my stomach. It doesn’t matter, I tell myself over and over, trying to rid myself of the old, familiar guilt. It was only this once. And it was worth it to get my parents off my back. I’ll just have to run extra hard tomorrow morning to make up for it.

  “If I have some now,” I said to them back there in the kitchen, “will you forget about the appointment you were going to make with the doctor?”

  I can still see their faces when I suggested it: searching, trying to figure me out, not coming up with anything concrete. Finally, they had to agree. They had no reason to disbelieve me. And besides, I even made a promise.

  “I’ll have a piece every afternoon. When I come home from school. If you leave some cake out for me, I’ll have it, I swear.”

  What could they say? They pulled their stools up to the countertop, gestured to me to join them. I can still see it now: Mum cutting the cake—slowly, reverently; Dad looking at Mum in the mirror, stupid with I-told-you-so relief. Both of them watching me eat.

  The cake was sticky. I could taste the bananas in it, overripe and cloyingly sweet. A lump of it sat in the back of my throat, making it hard to swallow. And there was something else clotting my throat, too: something akin to anger, to tears. I could have eaten the whole thing. In one sitting, I could have eaten that cake.

  “Thanks, Mum. That was delicious. Thank you both for coming home for afternoon tea today.”

  They won’t be home tomorrow afternoon, of course. Not tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that. Today was a one-off—a day sneaked from the office in the name of their daughter’s health. Tomorrow they will be back at work, making up for lost time—lost sales, abandoned patients—and I will be alone in the house. Me and my slice of banana cake, crumbling, crumbling, into the rubbish bin.

  I take out the box of tea bags Mum gave me, read the instructions on it thoroughly. Then I put it on my bedside table. According to the nutritional analysis on the back of the box, they have no calories, so perhaps they’re worth a try. I’d give anything for a good night’s sleep.

  But I put the meditation CD in the bottom drawer of my desk. I don’t want to “sit still and let my thoughts go,” as the blurb on the cover suggests. I can’t think of anything worse. When I let my thoughts go, they drift and wheel and return to me, full of hunger, and longing, and guilt.

  And huge, black Fear.

  chapter twenty-four

  Jessica

  The last day of Year 12 is a tradition at our school. Not only is there just the one week of studying left before the exams, but it’s also the last day of secondary education forever. And who knows what will come next?

  Our year is no different from any of the others before it. All day, my classmates run around the schoolyard squirting each other (and everyone else) with shaving cream. They tear up each other’s uniforms and autograph them, and then race up the stairs to the top of the science building, throwing flour bombs at teachers and students passing below. They sing rude songs at the top of their voices and write swearwords on the covers of their prayer books.

  And some people have their own private rebellions, too. Sofia, for example, disappears at lunchtime and returns an hour later with her nose repierced.

  “Got it done at the hairdresser’s down the road this time,” she tells everyone, grinning. “They can’t expel me now.”

  “Did it hurt?” someone asks.

  She shrugs. “It was worth it. Mate, I am so not going to miss this place.”

  It’s about then that I creep away from everyone else and retreat into the school library. I’ve tried to get into the spirit of things, tried to join
in. But my heart isn’t in it: I don’t feel remotely like celebrating. Apart from the fact that I can’t get the exams off my mind (I’m-going-to-fail-I’m-going-to-fail-I’m-going- to-FAIL), I, unlike the others, will miss school.

  Because despite the loneliness I often feel here—the feeling of not being like anyone else; the feeling of not being liked by anyone else (even my best friend)—at least here I am accepted. People put up with me; I know what I’m supposed to do each day; I know where I fit in.

  And I’m not sure that’s going to happen once I’ve left this school. Not sure at all . . .

  It’s not until just after lunch, when we’re all back at the locker room changing out of our uniforms and cleaning our lockers out before leaving, that Nat, Sofe, and I finally converge on each other.

  “You want to go out for a coffee?” Nat suggests, shoving pens, paper, and loose-leaf notebooks into her bag. “To celebrate?”

  Sofia glances through the window at the blue sky. “Let’s go and sit on the grass in the park, hey. It’s too nice to sit in a coffee shop.”

  We walk out of the schoolyard together. Sofia and Nat take their backpacks with them, staggering slightly under their weight. I leave mine in my locker, planning to come back via the school on the way home: there are still some textbooks I need to borrow from the library for studying. We stroll down the road, soaking up the sun. It’s the first time in weeks that the three of us have been together.

  “I can’t believe it’s the exams in one week’s time,” says Nat as we reach the entrance to the park. “I’m nowhere near ready for them, you know? I even had to ask Michael to give me time off work until they’re over. And I made Josh promise not to see me till then, either.”