Also by Barry Jonsberg
A Song Only I Can Hear
Game Theory
Pandora Jones (Book 1) Admission
Pandora Jones (Book 2) Deception
Pandora Jones (Book 3) Reckoning
My Life as an Alphabet
Being Here
Cassie
Ironbark
Dreamrider
It’s Not All About YOU, Calma!
The Whole Business with Kiffo and the Pitbull
FOR YOUNGER READERS
Blacky Blasts Back: On the Tail of the Tassie Tiger
A Croc Called Capone
The Dog that Dumped on My Doona
This film tie-in edition published by Allen & Unwin in 2020
First published as My Life as an Alphabet by Allen & Unwin in 2013
Copyright © Barry Jonsberg 2013
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.
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Cover design by Jo Hunt, Andre Lima and 3DUX
Cover art by Andre Lima and 3DUX
Set by Toolbox
For Janet and Steve
CONTENTS
A IS FOR ASSIGNMENT
B IS FOR BIRTH
C IS FOR CHAOS
D IS FOR DIMENSIONS
E IS FOR EARTH-PIG FISH
F IS FOR FRACES [SKY]
G IS FOR GRAVITY
H IS FOR HAPPINESS
I IS FOR INSIGHT
J IS FOR JOKE-SHOP JUNK
K IS FOR KITCHENS
L IS FOR LAUGHTER
M IS FOR MOURNING
N IS FOR NEAR-DEATH EXPERIENCE
O IS FOR OBLIVION
P IS FOR PICOULT
Q IS FOR QUESTIONS
R IS FOR RELIEF TEACHERS
S IS FOR SCHISMS
T IS FOR TALKING
U IS FOR UNDERSTANDING
V IS FOR VISIONS
W IS FOR WITNESS
X IS FOR XENOPHOBIA
Y IS FOR YELLING
Z IS FOR ZERO HOUR
A is for assignment.
I’m excited. Miss Bamford is my English teacher and she is the best English teacher in the world.
Wait. Wrong way – go back. I haven’t personally experienced every teacher in the world [obviously]. I believe in precision, so I must refine my statement. It is more accurate to say that she’s the best teacher as far as I’m concerned.
Miss Bamford is a small woman and she is between thirty and sixty years of age. I refuse to guess at ages. I asked her once, in the interests of accuracy, and she wouldn’t tell me. She wears long and shapeless dresses so it’s difficult to tell what her body is like. But she is probably thin. The one unmistakable thing about Miss Bamford is her lazy eye. It’s her right one and it rolls around like it’s skating on something slippery. This lack of control disturbs many students in my class. Sometimes she shouts at a student and, given her lazy eye, it’s difficult to tell who she is yelling at. One eye dips and bobs like a maniac and the other glares at a non-specific location.
Douglas Benson – he’s my friend in English – once said that she might have one lazy eye, but the other is hyperactive and should be on Ritalin. When I told Miss Bamford what he said, her eye flitted about even more than normal. You might assume Douglas and I got into trouble for that. But we didn’t. I’ll tell you about it later.
The assignment.
It’s a recount. She wrote it on the board.
RECOUNT: Write about something that happened to you in the past.
Of course, anything that already happened MUST be in the past and I tried to point this out, but Miss Bamford ignored me and continued explaining the assignment. We have to write a paragraph about ourselves for every letter of the alphabet. Twenty-six paragraphs in total and each one starts with a letter of the alphabet, from A through to Z. She gave us an example.
A is for Albright. I was born in Albright, which is a small town about forty kilometres from Brisbane in Queensland, Australia. Not much happens in Albright, so my birth was a cause of much celebration. People danced in the streets and there was a firework display for two nights running. Since then, the town has gone back to sleep. Or maybe it is holding its breath, waiting for me to do something else, something equally spectacular …
I wrote Miss Bamford’s example in my English book. Our school is in Albright, so I suppose she was making the example relevant. But I didn’t like the way the example made false statements. I mean, no one’s birth causes that amount of excitement. It doesn’t happen, so I put my hand up to query the point. But one of the things that makes Miss Bamford such a good teacher is that she knows exactly what I’m going to ask before I ask it.
‘Candice,’ she said. ‘In a recount, it is perfectly acceptable to play around with the truth a little. Sometimes the truth is too plain to entertain a reader, and your job in this assignment is to entertain. We’ve talked about this before, remember?’
I did remember and I would have understood her point if she had been talking about a narrative. But I thought a recount had to be factual. So she should have called it a narrative recount if that’s what she wanted. I kept my hand up, but I think she didn’t see it. It’s difficult to tell with her eye. Anyway, Jen Marshall interrupted.
‘Yeah, shut up, Essen,’ she said, even though I hadn’t actually said anything.
There are several girls [and boys] in my school who call me Essen. It’s a phonetic representation of S.N., which is short for Special Needs. Many people think I have learning disabilities, but they are mistaken. I once wrote a note to Jen saying that everyone is special and everyone has needs, so her insult [because that’s what she intended it to be] is wide of the mark. She simply glared at me, chewed her gum and ripped the note into little pieces. If I have to be honest – and I do have to be honest, it’s something I cannot avoid – then I must confess that Jen Marshall is not the sharpest tool in the shed, as Rich Uncle Brian might say. But that’s not her fault. And she is very, very pretty. So I like her. Then again, I like nearly everyone, as Mum often points out.
‘Quiet!’ barked Miss Bamford.
‘Sorry, Miss. Are you talking to me?’ said Jen, and everybody laughed. Well, not everybody. Miss Bamford didn’t. So, nearly everybody.
I went to the library at lunchtime to start my assignment. I often go to the library at recess and lunchtime because it’s peaceful and the staff make me feel welcome. I have my own seat that the librarians reserve for me. They don’t even mind if I occasionally eat a sandwich, despite the rules saying it’s forbidden. I don’t do it often, though, because rules are important. So I sat in my chair and thought about the assignment. A paragraph for each letter, and each paragraph portraying something about my life. Some of the letters would be difficult. Q, for example. And X. I have never had an X-ray, so that’s not in the e
quation. But I decided I would worry about that later. A was obviously where I should start.
But the more I thought, the trickier the assignment appeared. I wanted to tell Miss Bamford about my life, but a paragraph for each letter just wouldn’t do it. And that’s when I got my best idea. I wouldn’t do one paragraph. I would do multiple paragraphs for each letter. I’ve written eighteen paragraphs already [not counting this one] and I’ve barely even started on my life. If this was the entire assignment I would be up to R and no one would be any wiser about the life of Candice Phee. See? It’s taken eighteen paragraphs [well, eighteen and a half] just to reveal my name. And I want to do a thorough job. Because this isn’t just about me. It’s also about the other people in my life – my mother, my father, my dead sister Sky, my penpal Denille, Rich Uncle Brian, Earth-Pig Fish and Douglas Benson From Another Dimension. These are people [with the exception of Earth-Pig Fish, who is a fish] who have shaped me, made me what I am. I cannot recount my life without recounting elements of theirs.
This is a big task, but I am confident I am up to it.
It will take time [I have plenty of that]. It will take perseverance [I have plenty of that, too].
Already I am worried I have not made a proper start, so I am going to copy out the first letter I wrote to my penpal, Denille. I make copies of all the letters I’ve sent to Denille, so I don’t repeat myself and therefore bore her. Denille lives in America. In New York City. One of the teachers at my school received an email from a teacher-friend in New York asking for students interested in becoming penpals with students in her class. It is a project to learn about different cultures. I was matched with Denille. I have written to her twenty times in the last year. One letter every two weeks. This is the first. It tells Denille something about me and that is good because it will also tell you something about me. It is an informative start.
Dear Denille,
My name is Candice Phee and I am twelve years old. I attend school in Albright, Queensland, a small town forty-one-and-a-half kilometres from Brisbane. I suppose you don’t know about kilometres, because Americans deal in miles. Forty-one-and-a-half kilometres is approximately twenty-six miles, I guess (I wrote ‘I guess’ because I understand this phrase is exceptionally popular in the United States. See, I’m trying to connect).
So. About me. Well, I’m kinda average height for my age (‘kinda’ is another attempt at linguistic connection) and I have long dirty-blonde hair. I don’t mean ‘dirty’ in the sense that I don’t wash it, because I do. Every day. But more in the sense of its natural colour, which, to be honest, makes it seem as if I don’t wash it every day. Which I do. I have freckles. All over my face and my body. I can’t go out in the sun unless I use cream with a sun protection factor of one zillion. Please understand that I am deliberately exaggerating for rhetorical effect. Dad says I should only go out in the sun when I’m wearing full body armour. He likes exaggeration as well. I have piercing blue eyes. Some people say they’re my best feature. Actually, it’s mum who says they’re my best feature. She says they are like cornflowers (not to be confused with cornflour, which is white and used in baking).
I used to have a sister, but she died. This turned me into an only child.
I don’t like many things that other twelve-year-olds like. Computers don’t interest me. Most music is boring. I don’t have a mobile phone because hardly anyone talks to me in real life, so why would anyone ring or text me? I only like movies that make me cry. I don’t have friends who think they are friends. Apart from Douglas Benson From Another Dimension who I will tell you about in a later letter (see, I’m being mysterious).
What is it like being American? I only know from watching TV (another thing I’m not keen on) and it seems to me that being American must be very hard. Dad says Americans are arrogant, insular and can’t name the countries to the south or the north of them. I’m not sure this is true (but if it is, the answer is Mexico and Canada). The TV shows I’ve watched give the impression of Americans as shallow and obsessed with image. Are you shallow and obsessed with image?
Albright is not like New York, even if I don’t know what New York is like. It’s a sleepy place. I’ve heard that New York never sleeps, so we are a good match. With your town never sleeping and mine constantly sleeping, we will be like Yin and Yang.
Write soon. I very much look forward to hearing from you.
Your penpal,
Candice
I never got a reply to that letter. Actually, I never got a reply to any of the letters I’ve sent [twenty-one and counting] and I’ve wondered about that. Either Denille has changed her address and didn’t give the postie her new one or she is too busy to write back. I suspect it’s the latter. Americans are busy people. New York Americans must be even busier. But I like to think my letters might brighten up her day, so I continue to write regardless of her lack of reciprocation.
Rich Uncle Brian says it’s probably better she doesn’t reply. He thinks this way I cannot be disappointed. It upsets him when I am disappointed.
I wasn’t there at my birth.
Well, I was, obviously, but I am an unreliable witness because I can’t remember a thing about it. So, I must rely upon the reports of others who were present. It would have been wonderful if the actual witnesses to my birth –
my mum
my dad [not actually a witness, as such]
Rich Uncle Brian
the midwife
– had got together at some time to share their experiences. That never happened. For one thing, the midwife was a hospital employee and may not have been available for a family discussion. For another thing, Rich Uncle Brian and my dad are no longer on speaking terms, for reasons that may [or may not] become clear. But I have spoken to all of them about it at one time or another. Well, not the midwife, obviously. I don’t even know her name, so I’ll have to miss her out, unfortunately.
A couple of years ago, I asked Mum. She was having a good day.
‘Mum? What was it like giving birth to me?’
Mum sipped her tea and put a hand over her eyes. There was no particular reason for this, since we were sitting in the front room and the curtains were closed. Mum often has the curtains closed. The light hurts her eyes.
‘Your birth? It was like passing a basketball.’
This puzzled me for a moment. I thought she was referring to the game where one player passes the ball to another so she can score a hoop. I think that’s what it’s called. I thought she meant it involved teamwork. I kept quiet.
‘What do you want to know, Pumpkin?’
Mum often calls me Pumpkin for reasons that have never been made clear. What reading I have done on the subject of nicknames [not much, I have to admit] doesn’t throw a great deal of light on the enigma. Apparently, in France it is common to call someone ‘mon petit chou’ which means ‘my little cabbage.’ So it is acceptable, if you are of the Gallic persuasion, to refer to someone affectionately as a green, leafy vegetable. This is hard to understand. It is clear, however, that what with pumpkins and cabbages, people of different ethnic origins associate the world of gourd-like squashes /coleslaw ingredients with the warm and affectionate. It is strange. Then again, many things are strange but still ARE. What would Jen Marshall say if I called her an asparagus or a bok choy or a kohlrabi or a Jerusalem artichoke? She would slap me. Even if I meant it affectionately. Especially if I meant it affectionately. I once asked penpal Denille if it was the custom to show affection in the USA by referring to people as potatoes [for example], but like I said earlier, she hasn’t replied, so I am still in the dark.
‘Everything,’ I replied.
‘You were a tricky delivery.’ Mum sighed. ‘I was in labour for eighteen hours and when you finally arrived I was completely exhausted. I’d sworn that I wouldn’t scream and carry on. I had done all my pre-natal classes and had practised the breathing, all the relaxation techniques.’ She rubbed in a distracted fashion at her brow and closed her eyes. ‘But when th
e time came, all my good intentions went out the window. I screamed. I bellowed. I pleaded for an epidural. I had to fight Rich Uncle Brian for the gas and air, he was that disconcerted.’
‘Where was Dad?’
‘He was in Western Australia, attending a conference for the business. You arrived early. He thought he’d be back in time. He wasn’t. Not for the actual birth. He made it to the hospital when you were about three hours old.’
‘So Rich Uncle Brian stepped into the breach?’
‘Yes. He held my hand while I screamed abuse at him and tried to tear the gas and air from his hand. You arrived in this world, Pumpkin, accompanied by pain, blood and tears. It was a violent entry.’
‘Was I worth it?’
Mum opened her eyes.
‘Every second, Pumpkin. Every second.’
Rich Uncle Brian’s version was different. He picked me up from school and took me to a fast food restaurant for something lacking in taste and nutrition. This happens a couple of times a month. I nibbled on a beef burger of dubious origin while he looked out the window and jingled coins in his trouser pocket. Rich Uncle Brian does that a lot. It’s a nervous habit.
‘Rich Uncle Brian?’ I said.
He turned his light blue eyes on me and stroked his moustache. He does that a lot as well.
‘Yes, Pumpkin?’ RUB is also keen on gourd allusions.
‘Mum said I came into this world accompanied by pain, blood and tears. Is that how you remember it?’
He frowned.
‘I do not, Pumpkin. I most emphatically do not.’ He reached over the table and tickled me in the ribs. I think it was the same hand he used for coin-jingling. I pointed out to him that coins are the worst carriers of disease since they have so many owners in their lifetime and I did not relish being poked with a disease-carrying hand. He appeared slightly puzzled, but stopped. ‘It was the most wonderful experience of my life,’ he continued. ‘You sailed into this world on a sea of love. You cruised through calm waters and berthed, with scarcely a ripple, into our hearts.’ He made to reach over again, but thought better of it. ‘And there, my sweet mariner, you remain. Docked in love.’
H is for Happiness Page 1