That's Why I Wrote This Song Page 3

  We don’t talk. I smell his alcohol breath. Is he drunk? Is that why he has taken me to the garden where it’s dark? I can hardly breathe as he presses me against the fence. I wish he’d say something. Tell me something. I feel like a slut. Am I a slut? But everyone has done it and he wants me.

  He strokes my hair and splutters, ‘I’ve always liked you.’ Oh my God, my God. Has he? Has he? He’s always liked me.

  His lips graze my neck and my arms shiver into nervousness. Then his lips brush against mine. They are soft. I taste his mouth in mine. Is it good? What am I supposed to do? I jerk back, he jerks back too and we laugh.

  ‘Is this okay?’ he stutters.

  I don’t know. How would I know? I glance up at him. I really like him. Is this it? I nod. ‘It’s okay.’

  We kiss. It feels good. One of his hands slide down my back onto my bum. Oh God, not my bum. The other reaches for my breasts. Don’t, don’t. But it feels good. We press against each other. It feels really good.

  Mum collects Angie and me when I phone her. ‘How was it?’

  ‘Great,’ Angie answers and saves me from Mum’s questions that go on and on.

  The lights in Angie’s house are blaring. Her parents are waiting up for her. Her father opens the front door and gives us a wave. I hug Angie goodnight before she heads for the open door. ‘Call you tomorrow.’

  Home at last. Mum’s too tired to ask any more questions and I’m too tired to talk.

  Bed. I drag the blankets over my head and try to sleep. I need to sleep, but Oliver—he kissed me. Does he really like me? Or was he just using me? No, I can’t think like that. Christopher likes Angie, I can tell.

  I put on Insomniac Road. I fall asleep. Wake up. Fall asleep. What time is it? Five in the morning. Sleep finally wins.

  Is it morning? I hear noise in the kitchen. I open one eye and just glimpse the one o’clock hand. It’s the afternoon. Groan. When did that happen? Have to get up. Have to. I drag myself to the bathroom and stare into the mirror. My eye make-up is smudged and I look awful. I wash my face and stare into the mirror again. I still look awful.

  Sunday. I’ve got to practise my music and finish my English assignment, and Mum wants me to help her do something. There’s too much to think about, so I head back to my bedroom, put on Insomniac Road and crash onto my bed.

  Oliver won’t call today. I know that. No one calls on the first post-party day. Makes them look desperate. If he rings on the second or third day, he’s interested. If he rings later or not at all, then it means that he’s used me. That would be so hard. I wouldn’t be able to face my friends. I’ll feel like I’m nothing. He just has to ring me. I focus on Insomniac Road.

  …and if it’s okay today

  Will tomorrow be okay?

  Will okay be my life?

  My phone rings. Angie. My phone rings. Irina. My phone rings. Karen. I get out of bed, shower, drag on my trackpants, put on toast. I’ve got to do some work. Mum’s harassing me. ‘You’ve got an assignment to do, haven’t you?’

  I know I do. I know. Stop pressuring me. ‘Yes, Mum.’ I put as much enthusiasm into that response as someone asked to take arsenic.

  I retreat to my guitar and start strumming, play a few chords, sing some thoughts.

  I hate this feeling

  When I don’t know

  How am I supposed to feel?

  Are you putting on a show?

  If I’m really honest with myself, deep inside me I know it. My head starts to spin. I press my hands against my ears. I’m scared. Scared of having a boyfriend. I can’t admit that to anyone. I think of Dad. Why is he so controlling? Angry? Is it men? I shake my head. Not all men. Eddie’s okay. He’s annoying but I love my brother. He’s been there through everything with me. A boyfriend. It’s normal to have a boyfriend. I want to be normal. I like the feeling of being with Oliver, but is it better than being with my girlfriends? At least I know my girlfriends, I don’t know Oliver. Boyfriend or no boyfriend? I’m Hamlet. ‘To be or not to be?’ It already feels too hard and it’s only the beginning—or maybe the end. I stroke the guitar strings.

  What do I want?

  And who can I trust?

  How can I know the answer?

  Suddenly there’s a crash as Eddie bolts into my room with a battered guitar. One of my old ones that was jammed into the junk cupboard. He wants to learn to play the guitar, except he’s got no musical talent.

  ‘Go away, Eddie.’ He doesn’t. I try a few more times, but I know Eddie. I end up giving in and we end up playing our guitars.

  Eddie’s hopeless and has no insight. ‘I’m sounding better, Pip.’ He flicks the strings with a scratchy strum. ‘That’s good, isn’t it?’

  ‘No Eddie.’ I hit his arm. He ignores my comment.

  I feel better by the time he heads out to see a few mates. I have to do my English assignment this afternoon. Eddie isn’t interested in schoolwork. He has a minimalist approach to study. He does just enough to get through, unless he really enjoys the subject. Like Woodwork.

  I head for my Shakespeare assignment. Insomniac Road pounds through my room as Othello kills his beloved wife Desdemona. Love is so shocking. Desdemona did nothing except love him. She’s a saint, like Mum.

  I hate it when Mum is a martyr. Being a martyr doesn’t work for men. Just look at that idiot Othello. He’s jealous, angry, insane, so he kills Desdemona for nothing. Then he’s so miserable and kills himself. It’s ridiculous. Thoughts of Mum and Dad keep sliding into my assignment as I write. When did Dad become Othello? When did Mum become Desdemona? When did it start to crush me?

  Suddenly it’s dinner time. Eddie’s back and starving as usual. I am too. I wish I hadn’t eaten that peanut butter sandwich, but that idiot Othello made me do it. Two sandwiches. I avoid the hallway mirror. I don’t want to see my bum.

  ‘Look, I did it. I didn’t need to be told,’ I wave my assignment in front of Mum’s face.

  Mum smiles. ‘What are mothers for? I’m supposed to remind you.’

  ‘Nag me, more like it.’ I dig into the stir-fried chicken and vegetables. Music is beating in my head in between mouthfuls, when Eddie announces that the Black Bullets are playing soon at the Pavilion.

  ‘The Black Bullets are insane.’ I groan.

  That’s all Eddie needs to race into his room and bring out his latest CD, Black Bullets. We are forced to listen to heavy metal for the rest of dinner. Eddie’s nodding his head, rocking in his chair. Mum winks at me and we try not to laugh out loud.

  Dinner is over, dishes washed and suddenly it’s ten o’clock. The phone rings. An irrational thought zips through me. Oliver? I gulp away panic. It’s too early. I take a breath. This is dumb. Dumb, stupid, ridiculous. It can’t be Oliver. It’s too soon. My phone keeps ringing. It’s probably Angie.

  ‘Hi, it’s Oliver.’

  ‘Hi. How are you?’ It’s Oliver, Oliver. My stomach knots. Calm down. Relax.

  We talk a little bit about the party, then silence. ‘Would you like to go to a football game next Saturday?’ He adds quickly, ‘With Angie and Christopher.’

  I try to speak casually. ‘Sure, I’d like that.’

  I put down the phone. ‘Yes, yes, yes.’

  I urgently ring Angie.

  ‘Four of us. How fantastic.’ Angie burbles on and on, until the nervous tension in my stomach unknots. I’m glad it’s a double date. I’m relieved that Angie will be there. This is news. Real news. I have a date. No, I have a boyfriend. Maybe. Do I want one? Maybe. Suddenly I shake my head. I don’t care. Oliver rang me. Someone wants me.

  Sunday. Night two with no sleep. I lie in bed staring out the window. Eddie’s basketball ring looks lonely in the garden. The crooked old trees are rustling.

  I haven’t told Mum about Oliver. I don’t talk about boys with her. I tell her everything else, but not that. Maybe one day, but Mum doesn’t know anything about relationships. Dad was Mum’s first and only boyfriend. They were at university together. She m
arried him because she was pregnant at college. How could Mum? It was the 1980s, for God’s sake. Germaine Greer, the Pill, test-tube babies had already been around for a decade. Mum even used to march on International Women’s Day. She’s in photographs wearing a T-shirt with ‘We Are Women’ scrawled across it. Then it was over for Mum. Pregnant, married and over.

  Mum says she loved Dad and Eddie is her ‘love child’. I completed the ‘pigeon pair’ and she says she’s happy. Mum is lying.

  I grab Fluffy Rabbit and hold him tightly. Oliver rang. I take a deep breath. Oliver rang.

  Chapter Three

  Monday morning. I want to get to school early. I gulp down my orange juice. As I rinse my glass, Angie rings. She’s breathless about Christopher and wants to discuss Oliver. I try to talk, except Eddie is in his very annoying Eddie mood. ‘Leave me alone,’ I tell him.

  That’s all Eddie needs, to NOT leave me alone. ‘Great that Angie rang. A lot must have happened between last night and school this morning, Pip Squeak.’

  I try to bang his arm with my fist, but he swerves and I end up whacking my leg. ‘Can you stop?’ If tone could kill, Eddie would be dead. Eddie just laughs.

  ‘Come on, you two. I’ll give you both a ride to school.’ Mum rattles the keys to the car. ‘I’ve got time for a detour today before work.’ Mum is never late for work. She is the administrative assistant, or slave, at a trade college. Mum does everyone’s slush-pile work and gets no credit. She even brings work home. I get so angry at her. Mum says she’ll finish her teaching degree one day. She never will and it makes me get angrier.

  ‘Come on, Pip,’ Mum calls out from the car. I grab my bag. Eddie’s already racing for the front seat.

  ‘Stop being so immature, Eddie.’ I refuse to chase after him. I never get to sit in the front when Eddie’s around. I decide not to speak to him. I’m angry at him anyway. He’s still told me nothing about his new girlfriend, except that he’s going out with her. When she rings, he runs. If she asked him to jump off a cliff, he would. I can’t stand it. I’m not in the mood for Eddie.

  School at last. Eddie’s school is next door to mine. They’re only divided by a wire mesh fence, which has that many holes in it it’s like a freeway between the schools.

  Mum drops us off on the corner. ‘Don’t be late for dinner. It’s roast lamb, your favourite.’

  I wave as Mum heads to work. I say nothing. Roast lamb is Eddie’s favourite, not mine. I shake my head, because I don’t care today. I’ve got my own boy news for a change.

  Karen is rocking from one foot to the other, waiting for me outside our classroom. Everyone is dissecting Saturday night.

  Angie is surrounded by girls. There’s a love bite the size of a tomato on her neck. She’s wearing a bandage to cover it. She’s being teased about the bite and enjoying every second of her fame. The teachers and parents are in the dark. The class teacher actually asks her if her neck is all right. ‘An infection,’ Angie answers without smiling. We’re killing ourselves laughing.

  I pull Karen aside to tell her about Oliver. She smiles, but she’s edgy, jumpy. ‘Is he going to be your boyfriend?’ She laughs too loudly. ‘Oliver and the big date. Lucky Oliver. He likes you. Who wouldn’t?’ She flashes her blue eyes at me. ‘Turned out to be a good party for you.’

  The party. Guilt. It wasn’t a good party for Karen. I wasn’t a good friend. Not that Karen ever judges me. That’s why I love her. I hesitate. ‘So were you okay after the party?’

  ‘Okay? I was fine.’ She boxes the air with her fists. ‘Except my father gave it to me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ My guilty feeling is growing. Karen’s father can be scary. ‘I should have—’

  She stops me mid-sentence. ‘Hey, I’m good at dodging. It’s not your fault. Anyway, no pain, no gain. I’m used to it. I like a party and he can get really angry.’ Karen laughs. ‘He’s grounded me. I think it’s forever.’ She sings sarcastically and pretends to play the guitar.

  And that woman, that woman, that woman Agrees, of course, of course, of course, of course.

  Karen always calls her stepmother, ‘that woman’. ‘That woman would agree. She’d hold up banners if she could. She hates me. Well, the feeling is mutual.’

  I press my lips together and put my arm around her. I’m quiet. Karen hates it when people gush clichés, spreading them like globs of butter on toast: Clichés like, ‘Everything will be all right…’ ‘Your stepmother is just concerned about you…’ ‘Your parents love you…’ It makes her choke. It makes me choke. It’s the lying. People say the words to make themselves feel better.

  Karen and I are honest. We’ve been through bad stuff together, my father’s anger and her father’s rages. Things have got even worse for Karen since her father married ‘that woman’, the stepmother, the evil witch. One day that woman will produce a shiny poisoned apple for Karen to bite into. That woman and Karen’s father make up a united anti-Karen front—a Karen-is-out-of-control front, a Karen-is-bad front.

  ‘Your father can’t ground you forever.’

  She raises her middle finger defiantly. ‘That’s for him.’ She raises the middle finger on her other hand. ‘That’s for her.’ Her blue eyes flash. Then suddenly there’s a twinkle. ‘I have to admit that I was pretty trashed after the party.’ She starts giggling. It’s contagious. I giggle too. But trashed is right. She was poured into her father’s sports car. It’s not her fault. It’s just not. She gets drunk because of him. It’s like spitting in her father’s eye. Karen has too many parents, and no parents. It’s not working.

  ‘I’m staying at Mum’s this weekend. So it’ll be all right.’ Karen and her mother get on, except since the boyfriend, they don’t talk like they used to. ‘I just have to survive the week at Dad’s.’

  ‘How do you remember where you leave your things?’

  ‘I don’t.’ She waves away any hope that things might change.

  Karen lives with her father half the time and with her mother the other half. Her mother’s terrace house has no room for Karen. It’s being renovated. That’s her mother’s excuse, anyway. It’s easier than fighting her ex-husband for their daughter. She pretends to herself that it’s better for Karen. ‘And the terrace will be finished soon’. Who is she kidding? There won’t be room for Karen, finished or not. Karen sleeps in the building-site lounge room. Her mother and boyfriend have the main bedroom. I don’t ask Karen when she’ll get her room back any more, or whether her mother’s house will ever be her home. Karen misses her mother so much. Misses the times they used to talk. She’s given up on a home. She’s given up on lots of things. But not her music.

  Karen has her own bedroom in her father’s huge apartment. What an apartment. It’s on the second floor, with picture windows overlooking the harbour and views of sailing boats and sandy coves. It’d be paradise, if only they weren’t there. Or if she felt loved.

  ‘You can stay with us any night this week,’ I tell her. ‘Dad’s away at work.’ Karen knows what I mean. My father at home means aggression. He’s not as bad as Karen’s father, but it’s not good. ‘It’ll be just Mum, Eddie and me there.’

  She hugs me tightly. ‘You’re a good friend, Pip.’

  The party shoots through my head again. Good friend? I want to be there for her. I’m ashamed when I’m not. She cried when her mother agreed to split custody last year on condition that her father paid for her terrace renovations and stopped dragging her into the Family Court. No, cried is the wrong word. It was deeper than that. She kept repeating, ‘My mother sold me for money, Pip. Thirty pieces of silver. That’s what I’m worth.’ Their relationship changed after that.

  I used to go to Sunday school with Karen when we were little. I loved God. The thought of a great powerful protector made me feel safe. I don’t know what I think about God now. There’s Judas. God let Judas betray his only son for thirty pieces of silver. Is that what a father does? Is there any reason good enough to do that? Suddenly the story of King Solomon
flashes through my head. Cutting a child in half? It kills it. Mum would never split us in half. Never.

  I hugged Karen when she said that, but in the end she pushed me away, shrugging. ‘I guess it’s Mum’s life and she can do what she wants. Choose who she wants to live with.’ I didn’t believe her then and don’t believe her now.

  It feels mad at school today. Angie is queen of gossip and talk is running hot and furious. It’s about the usual topics—guys, music, teachers, study, work, clothes, parties, guys, guys, guys. Gradually Oliver drips into the discussion. ‘So you like him, Pip?’ girls ask.

  I want him to like me. I think I like him. I don’t know yet. My stomach knots. ‘He plays football.’ I’ve seen Eddie play football a lot of times. Once he was knocked out. I thought he’d died and I cried on the sidelines. Guys play football. Girls watch them play. ‘Oliver’s all right.’ I quickly escape to the bathroom. Angie might like the gossip but I don’t. Do I even want a boyfriend? Will he like me? Once he gets to know me, he might hate me. Dump me. If he does that I’ll be a real loser. Headache. I’m splashing water onto my face. Guys.

  I turn around when I notice Irina next to the corner basin. Her head is bent and she’s trying to blend into the cream tiles. Something’s wrong. This is turning into a horrible day. I breathe deeply. ‘Irina. Are you all right?’ Talk about a stupid question.

  She focuses on me. Irina is private, careful about who she trusts. Slowly she whispers, ‘My parents…’