The Long Distance Playlist

by Tara Eglington

Two bites into dinner, Dad leaps up from the table. The toilet door bangs in the hallway, and there’s the sound of retching.

  For a second, I feel bad. Then I realise that he’s probably hungover from drinking too much wine in the Hunter, having a great time without Mum, and then I’m straight out of sympathy.

  Serves him right, I think.

  Dad’s in the guestroom now with a bucket next to the bed just in case, even though he hasn’t thrown up again. Mum’s back in her office.

  Just after 10:30pm, as I’m packing my dance bag for tomorrow’s class, my phone rings.

  Taylor.

  I don’t want to answer. I feel exhausted after this weekend – all the anger at Dad, and the worry about Mum, and the question of what happens now? – because not spending their anniversary together, well, it’s not good. At all.

  You need to pick up, my head says. Rip off the band-aid, already.

  I take a deep breath and swipe ‘answer’.

  ‘Hey,’ Taylor says, sounding surprised. ‘I caught you.’

  My whole mouth is dry from nerves.

  Say something. Anything.

  I swallow and get the words out. ‘You did.’

  See, you can do this, Isolde.

  ‘It’s been two weeks! Jeez, I’ve missed you.’

  How does his voice do this to me? Make my heart feel like it’s curving up at the edges, ready to hug his words?

  We talk about silly things for a while.

  We’re both laughing at a story he tells me about his dog. I know I could keep the conversation light-hearted all night if I wanted to. But that’s just fooling myself, right? I need to be the one to bring up the topic so the radio silence from my side doesn’t look so suspicious.

  ‘So,’ I say, immediately feeling sick. ‘How was your date?’

  I don’t think he was expecting the question because the line goes quiet. The silence seems to last an eon.

  And then he finally says, ‘Um, it was okay. She was nice. But there wasn’t really a connection. So no second date.’

  His voice is weird. All the words run into each other, like he’s trying to get through the whole sentence in one breath.

  I don’t know what to say, so I go with the most generic reply possible. ‘Oh. That’s disappointing.’

  ‘I know what this kind of thing is meant to feel like,’ he says, his words slower now. ‘And that wasn’t it.’

  Why is he doing this? Saying he isn’t really into this girl when I know from that playlist that he literally ‘can’t stop thinking about her’. He’s lying to me and I don’t understand why. Friends don’t lie to each other. Or at least, we don’t.

  It must be because he thinks I’m going to react badly. That I’ll start interfering, or harping on about how I don’t think this other girl is good enough for him.

  I’m not like that, I want to say. I CAN be happy for you. It hurts like hell, but I can.

  Maybe he’s lying because he thinks I’ll get jealous? I can feel my cheek, the one pressed against my mobile screen, burning at that thought.

  ‘Anyway, enough about that,’ he says. ‘What’s been happening your side? I figured it must be something big for you to be M.I.A. so long.’

  He’s quiet on the other end of the phone, waiting for my answer. I can’t tell him the truth – or at least the truth that relates to him – so I tell him about Mum and Dad instead. I can hear my voice getting louder because I’m angry at Dad, of course, but I know the hard edges on some of my sentences is anger at Taylor too.

  ‘Listen, Is . . .’ He pauses for a moment.

  I wonder if he’s about to tell me the truth, even though we’re smack-bang in the middle of a whole different conversation now. He’s like that though, always skittering from subject to subject.

  ‘Do you think your mum and dad . . . might be going to split?’

  I wasn’t expecting this from Taylor. Not the way he said it. The word he used. Split. A word that feels like it weighs nothing. When what’s happening right now in this house feels so heavy, my whole body aches from the weight of it.

  ‘Why would you say that?’ I reply finally, trying to keep my voice steady.

  ‘Is, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have . . . it’s just . . . your mum and dad seem unhappy.’

  ‘So they should split, then,’ I say. ‘’Cause that’ll make the whole thing instantly better.’

  ‘I’m not saying that, Is.’ Taylor sounds upset now. ‘I don’t know what the answer is. With Finn, his parents were happier people after the divorce.’

  As soon as I hear that last word, my anger goes into overdrive.

  ‘We’re not talking about Finn’s family,’ I burst out. ‘We’re talking about my family. You know what split means? It means torn apart. So don’t give me the whole maybe-this-is-for-the-best speech.’

  ‘Don’t put words in my mouth,’ Taylor says. ‘That’s not what I’m saying.’

  His voice is sharp now, and it hurts.

  ‘You don’t get what I’m going through,’ I say, feeling close to tears. ‘Your family is perfect.’

  ‘My parents might not fight like yours, Isolde, but that doesn’t mean everything’s rainbows and sunshine here. You think the last few years have been perfect?’

  We both go quiet. I can feel the anger hovering over the line from both sides.

  ‘I’m going to go,’ I say finally, once I trust myself to speak again.

  ‘Right, okay.’

  ‘Bye.’

  ‘Bye.’

  MAY

  From: taylor_hellemann@gmail.com

  To: IsoldeByrne@hotmail.com

  Sent: Thursday 2 May, 6:54pm

  Subject: I’m sorry

  I shouldn’t have made out that I knew what was going on with your parents. I don’t.

  I guess my mind goes to the worst possible places sometimes. But that’s my %^&*-up thought track, not real life, so forget what I said.

  Listen, are you mad at me for something else? It’s just . . . you seemed kind of mad before the ‘split’ thing came up. Have I said something in the last few weeks that’s upset you?

  Have I done something that’s upset you?

  ’Cause I don’t like doing that. I hope you’d tell me if that’s the case.

  X Tay

  Isolde

  Friday 3 May

  The words leap out at me from his email.

  He knows there’s nothing else he could have said or done since our last conversation to ‘upset me’.

  I feel like he can see through me. It’s obvious he knows how I feel about him, and it’s mortifying.

  From: IsoldeByrne@hotmail.com

  To: taylor_hellemann@gmail.com

  Sent: Monday 6 May, 9:17pm

  Subject: No

  You’re imagining things.

  And I can’t just ‘forget’ what you said. You’ve always been able to move on from things like they never happened, and I’m not like that.

  From: taylor_hellemann@gmail.com

  To: IsoldeByrne@hotmail.com

  Sent: Monday 6 May, 11:31pm

  Subject: Right

  Okay, Isolde, I get it, you’re stubborn, and you’re going to hold a grudge for however long you think I deserve, just because I said the wrong thing.

  I’ll stuff off, then.

  Isolde

  Wednesday 15 May

  I’ve read the email I fired off to Taylor last week a hundred times over. I know I was harsh. Especially when he sent me an apology email too.

  I should have just said ‘I need a time-out’ because honestly? I do. I have nineteen days to get myself to a place where I can walk into the arrivals hall at Queenstown airport, and see Taylor and feel happy.

  Just happy. Not upset about what he said about Mum and Dad, or stinging with jealousy because he has feelings for someone else.

  I want to hug him hello and feel nothing else but happy, because when it comes down to it, Taylor’s my best friend and I’ve been waiting to see him for two a
nd a half years.

  I also need to get myself together because the date of the Sydney-based audition for the National Ballet School was released this week. Saturday 29th of June. Six weeks and three days from now. Thirteen days after we fly home from Queenstown.

  The timing is the pits. If I’m a mess right now – when every time I think of the fight I had with Taylor, or that playlist Finn posted, my chest aches and my fingers start trembling – then how much worse am I going to be when I’m in the same room as Taylor and he’s treating me like a friend? When this girl he can’t stop thinking about pops over to his house, and I have to smile and say hello to her? Watch them laughing. Hugging. Kissing.

  This is the audition. The one I’ve spent my whole life working towards. I can’t let another guy and another heartbreak throw me off again. I won’t let that happen.

  I need to finally get over Taylor.

  So, as I fill out my application for the audition, I decide that clicking ‘submit’ means I can’t think about him any more.

  From that moment, I go back to ballet being the entirety of my world, and I pretend that nothing else ever existed outside of that.

  Instagram DM Conversation

  Friday 24 May, 9:46pm

  Ana Zhang: Hey, stranger! :) :) Where you at?

  Isolde Byrne: Studio floor, warm-down.

  Ana Zhang: This late?

  Isolde Byrne: Hey, I have an audition in thirty-six days, remember?

  Ana Zhang: And you’re going to kill it.

  Isolde Byrne: I hope so.

  Ana Zhang: You’re getting enough sleep, right?

  Isolde Byrne: I know not this thing you speak of.

  Ana Zhang: Don’t burn out before the audition rolls around :(

  Isolde Byrne: Yeah, I know. Hey, can I ask you a question? Ana Zhang: Sure.

  Isolde Byrne: All this is worth it, right?

  Ana Zhang: Issy, once you’re here, you won’t even think of anything that came before. I promise.

  Isolde

  Saturday 25 May

  I didn’t tell Ana that when her DM came in, I was sitting on my studio floor, crying.

  I desperately wanted to ask her, Have you ever thought about quitting? But I couldn’t get that question out. Maybe it’s because I’m worried it’ll scare her – she’s been so excited since I told her I’d put in my application for the audition – or maybe, more truthfully, it’s because the question scares me.

  How can I be this close to where I’ve always wanted to go and want to give up?

  I’m not meant to feel like this. The other dancers in class can’t stop talking about the 29th of June, their voices full of excitement. There’s nervousness mixed in there as well, of course, but with what’s at stake for all of us, that’s natural.

  This horrible feeling isn’t.

  I don’t know why the tears started on Friday. Maybe it was sheer exhaustion. I shouldn’t have been in the studio after class, after five days of classes, but I was because the classes didn’t seem like enough any more. Not when I was falling short all the time.

  Maybe the tears were frustration as well.

  I’m not making the kind of mistakes I was last year, but I’m not where I want to be, this close to the audition. I know what I can do. What I’m capable of – and this isn’t it. No matter how much I’m putting in, it’s not enough for what I’ll be up against.

  I’m so tired, my body screams as I finally warm down. My arms and legs are trembling from exhaustion. For a second, I’m dizzy.

  You need to stop.

  I bend from the waist and put my head down so the blood rushes through it.

  Just suck it up, Isolde! my mind screams back. You have just over a month to go. You can rest later.

  Maybe it’s the timing that’s getting to me. Having to be on my A game right before Vi’s wedding. All the excited conversations Mum and Maia are having with Vi – I’m missing out on that. The bridal shower that Mum’s surprising Vi with, here in Sydney the weekend before we fly out – I’ve barely been able to help. Any spare minute outside of dancing has gone to schoolwork, to the pile of assignments that seems to triple every time I think I’m getting a hold on it.

  I feel like a terrible sister. A terrible person, really. A selfish one. I have nothing left of me to give to anyone else.

  That’s why this has to be worth it. All of this – the years of bloody, bruised feet, aching joints and muscles, tears and frustration – every item I’ve thrown on the sacrificial pyre along the way – time with my family, my friendships, romantic love, normalcy – it has to be worthy of something.

  I don’t know why lately some tiny part of me, way deep down, has lost faith in that.

  Up until last year, my favourite movie was always The Red Shoes. When I was seven and Dad said I had to see it because it was a classic, I made a face. I wanted to watch something modern, like Center Stage, or the Dance Academy series, not some movie from the 1940s.

  ‘Dad, that was before you were even born. It’s going to be boring.’

  ‘Trust me, you’ll love this, Issy-kins.’ Dad hit the ‘play’ button and passed me the bowl of popcorn.

  ‘Fine,’ I sighed, not believing him.

  Fifteen minutes in, I forgot about the popcorn. I forgot about everything except the movie. The colours on the screen were brighter than bright, like a painting come to life, and the music made me want to dance.

  It wasn’t just the dance sequences I loved. I loved how the main character, Victoria, had the same dream as I did – to be the best dancer in the world. But most of all, I loved how the movie captured that feeling I had for ballet. The type of love that was all-consuming – where it was all you wanted to think about, or do – because when you were doing it, hours slipped away and you were lost to something. Beauty. Feeling. Art.

  The love was so powerful you knew there was no other option but to hand your whole life over to it.

  There’s this bit in the film where the ballet director, Boris, asks Victoria: ‘Why do you want to dance?’

  ‘Why do you want to live?’ Victoria replies, like it’s obvious.

  I used to mouth the words on cue with her every time I re-watched the film. That used to be every few months. Now I can’t bear to put it on.

  I don’t want to watch Victoria agonise between giving her heart and soul to the man she loves, or the thing she loves doing. I hate that she has to choose. That she can’t have both, or some semblance of both – instead it’s one or the other, and the thing not chosen is the thing that dies.

  What once seemed like love and dedication to art, looks like obsession and destruction. Because I get it now – that the beautiful ruby-red toe shoes that glistened with magic, that I desperately wanted to slip on once upon a time, they keep you on pointe forever, dancing on and on, no matter how tired or exhausted or unhappy you are.

  The red shoes are not tired. The red shoes are never tired.

  Maybe I can’t watch the film any more, because these days, I feel like Victoria must have moments before the shoes dance her right off the station platform and in front of the oncoming train.

  I want to stop, but I don’t know how.

  JUNE

  Taylor

  Saturday 1 June

  Claire opened our session on Wednesday by asking me how I was feeling about the driving test the next day.

  ‘Yeah, fine.’

  ‘Nervous?’

  I shrug. ‘If I fail, I can book another test in a few weeks. No big deal.’

  What I wanted to say was, Don’t make this a big deal.

  This is step eleven – Get my Ps.

  I knew she was quizzing me about how I was feeling because a year ago, driving a car was the last thing I wanted to do. I could handle being a passenger in a car – or at least, with someone I trusted I could – Mum, Dad, Finn’s parents. Adults who had been driving for decades. Even still, I’d find myself sweating sometimes, especially if it was winter and the roads were wet. I’d sit in the
passenger seat, pressing my left foot right down on an imaginary brake, like I thought that could slow down the car I wasn’t driving.

  Dad had tried to bring up the licence thing a few times. After all, before the accident happened, I’d been gung-ho about getting my Ps as soon as I could. I’d done the theory test the day I turned sixteen. A licence meant I could drive myself up to Cardrona anytime I wanted to – instead of sitting on a shuttle bus that absolutely crawled up the slopes.

  ‘I don’t need a licence any more,’ I said to Dad, the sixth time he raised the subject.

  ‘Everyone needs a licence,’ Dad said. ‘This job you just scored in town. How are you going to get to your shifts?’

  ‘You can take me.’

  ‘What if I’m over in Wanaka with your mum, setting up for a wedding? It’s not a quick drive back.’

  I shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Drop me off earlier or something.’

  I was getting mad. I didn’t want to be on the road. I hated the road. Didn’t Dad understand? How the sound of screaming brakes, or the putrid smell of someone’s tyres after a burnout, could bring it all back in a second?

  ‘What happens when you get a girlfriend? Girls aren’t keen on being ferried around by someone’s dad.’

  I knew he was doing the tough-love thing, but at that moment, I hated Dad. Making out like a girlfriend was possible.

  ‘That’s not going to (bad word) happen, is it?’ I replied, shooting Dad a filthy look.

  Dad dropped the convo, but a couple of weeks later, on Easter Thursday, he rocked up in our driveway in a second-hand 2008 Barina, its accelerator specially converted to the left-hand side. The car was an early seventeenth-birthday present from him and Mum, and the Byrnes, and Finn’s parents too.

  What could I say to that? Thanks but no thanks?

  Guess I was learning how to drive.

  The Barina’s number plate is BAE. Finn gave me hell for that.

  ‘Oh heeeeeey, Bae!’ he said, for at least six months every time he saw the car. There was always an eyebrow waggle thrown my way. ‘You’re driving a luurrve bug, dude.’