That's Why I Wrote This Song Page 4

  Parents. My headache is getting worse. We love them. Hate them. Why can’t they trust us? Let us be ourselves? They’re important. Too important.

  I lean against the wall beside Irina. I don’t say anything. She doesn’t want me to. Not now, when she’s vulnerable in the bathroom. I wait beside her.

  ‘It’s all right Pip. Sorry.’ She pushes back her black hair with the palms of her hands. ‘I’ve got to get to the library.’ She smiles at me, before walking out of the bathroom.

  My head is crashing. It can’t get worse—then I see Karen racing along the corridor to our Maths class. I close my eyes, blocking her out. When I open them, she’s skipping towards me. It’s going to be a ‘Krazy Karen’ day for sure. She’s too excited, talking too fast, laughing too loudly.

  I sit down next to her in class. I’m not abandoning Karen today. She keeps challenging the Maths teacher until she’s thrown out of class. Privately, I’m grateful. I can concentrate on logarithms. I’d like to pass Maths. She disappears into the toilets for ages and comes back smelling of smoke. At least she’s calmer.

  I’m glad when the bell goes. Corridors cram with students and teachers, on their way to sport or other classes. Angie, with her bandaged neck, is strolling towards Karen and me. ‘Hey Angie,’ I call out, ‘are you coming to the Music Home Room? We’ve got a study period. We can practise.’

  ‘Later.’ She waves us away, then continues talking to the few girls still interested in her night with Christopher. She loves her stardom. The vampire bite. The trouble is that the bite is already fading. She turns away from us. We really need to practise.

  ‘Angie’s too busy practising something else: her ego.’ Karen raises her arms, making a huge circle around her head. ‘Ego and a big head. Angie Fat-head.’

  ‘That’s mean.’ But I can’t help smiling. ‘Angie’s having some fun, that’s all.’ It annoys me when Angie’s selfish. She should be coming to Music today.

  Irina catches up to us. ‘Sorry. Can’t make it today. I have to finish my Physics exercises before I go home. This is the only free period I can do it in.’ She opens her hands helplessly. ‘Mum needs me to take her to the dentist this afternoon.’ Irina’s voice is tense. ‘Got to go.’

  Flickers of Irina in the bathroom cross my thoughts. I wish she’d talk to me. Really talk. Sometimes she tells me things, but she isn’t Angie or Karen.

  Karen looks at me. ‘Is Irina ever going to escape?’ She taps the air.

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘At least she isn’t at the dentist’s with her mother when she’s playing her drums.’ Karen flashes an incredulous look at me.

  Karen’s right. Irina escapes into her own space when she’s on the drums. Maybe that’s why she’s so good at them. The way she plays those drums is more than the beat.

  I’ve been to Irina’s house lots of times. Her parents love having me over. Sometimes I love it, sometimes I don’t. Being there is like Russia. A different Irina lives there.

  Russia is barely under the surface in Irina’s home. Fading sepia-edged photos of her grandparents sit on the old upright piano. Irina’s father expects her to become a lawyer, or a doctor, or a genius. Somehow Irina has to make up for the crimes against the fathers, the sins of history.

  It is another world in Irina’s house, especially when her mother plays Tchaikovsky. It’s like a ritual when Pip visits. Irina’s mother piles cream-cheese pancakes onto the girls’ plates, gently brushing the sepia-brown photographs, then she plays for them. Pip loves Irina’s mother then. It is wonderful—until Irina’s father enters the room. He doesn’t understand that music. He sings modern Russian songs, especially when he has too much vodka.

  But both parents are joined in the belief that real music is violins and piano. Drums and guitars are poor cousins. ‘Drums are for idiots.’ Her father’s face creases into disapproval and disbelief.

  ‘You have the responsibilities, Irina,’ his voice echoes through the lounge room. He speaks with no anger, just certainty. Endless responsibilities. Irina plays the piano. Her parents approve. She plays the drums. Her parents disapprove. She translates for her mother, who can’t speak English properly, unlike her father, who has business in the world and has learnt. Irina repeats the news on TV in Russian for her mother, and everything else. Irina the translator. Irina the conduit to life.

  Irina sometimes tries to escape but her mother knows it. It hurts her mother. It hurts Irina. Then Irina won’t play the drums for days, until the beat forces her back.

  The Music Home Room is open. I’ve always liked the name ‘home room’. A home, in this world of concrete and grass. The home room makes sense to Karen as well. I take out Insomniac Road’s new album and Karen raises her thumbs. ‘Hope Oliver likes Insomniac Road,’ she teases.

  ‘He does.’ I’ll persuade him.

  The football date is this weekend. At least I understand the game through seeing Eddie play. I’ve never followed it because Mum doesn’t. Dad’s too busy, although he watches a late night game on TV if he’s got the time. Oliver has already messaged me. What will I wear? I’m not wearing team colours, but I have to look good. I’ve got to ask Angie. The expert.

  Karen’s humming an Insomniac Road track. I’ve converted her into a fan. Not that she needed much converting, especially after their last concert. I smile at her. ‘Mood music.’

  Stab the bastard

  Kill the bastard

  Die

  ‘That’s some mood, Pip.’ Karen pretends to stab herself.

  ‘Not funny.’

  She heads for one of the computers, punching her fists in time with the music. I tap a rhythmic beat onto a desk. Passages of Living and Dying blasts through the room.

  Karen pulls her chair forward and turns on the score-writing program. It took us ages to learn to use it. Mr Connolly has been teaching us more about it every year. We have to put in every note of the scores for the drums and guitars, as well as the melody and backing vocals. Karen and I are pretty good at it, but Angie isn’t and it isn’t a priority for Irina.

  Karen signals to me. ‘Ready, Pip?’ I turn off the CD and slide beside her. A rush of excitement zips through me. I look at Karen. We laugh, because she feels it too.

  ‘Backing vocals and melody, Pip?’

  I nod as we start on our music. Intermittently we sing Insomniac Road lyrics, playing around with their sounds. It’s difficult to know when our lyrics separate from Billy’s, when the ideas and music become ours. Not theirs. Not anyone else’s. But it happens.

  Dad’s so bad, so mad

  He thinks he’s great with his fake life, fake wife

  Screaming down the street, barking like a dog

  Angry like a psycho

  Psycho, psycho bastard

  Karen and I keep singing, ‘Psycho bastard’, stabbing out the words and sounds, experimenting, reaching for honesty in the lyrics. When it doesn’t work, it’s boring. When it works, it’s like electricity.

  An off-key note cuts the air as the melody and back-up vocals clash. I shudder. Karen throws a pick at me. I catch it and throw it back. ‘We can do this.’ She jumps up from the computer chair. I follow her and we shuffle around the room, getting the sound into our heads.

  Suddenly we find the sound and it’s good. I shiver as we sing it over and over again, adding, subtracting words and other lines. Images of Karen’s father gatecrash the lyrics. Karen yells. Rhythm pounds through the room taking us into a personal place.

  ‘Psycho dad.’ ‘Psycho dad.’ ‘Psycho dad.’

  We discover the title to our song.

  Our minds are wrapped in music as we walk towards Geography, the last class before lunch.

  I wave at Angie. She’s missed it all. Too busy becoming the school soapie heroine. As she walks into the Geography class, she has half the class fixated. ‘Christopher held my hand. He plays front forward. Blah, blah, blah.’ Angie only stops when the dreaded Geography teacher arrives to start her usual droning. ‘Psycho Dad�
�� has been beating in my head, but the Geography teacher’s droning stops the music.

  I look over at Karen. Nothing can stop the music for her. Not today, anyway.

  I look at Angie again. She’s definitely the antiboredom crusader. Her love life has everyone awake as under-the-desk romance messages are passed around the classroom. There are some great comments, like ‘Has Christopher got an older drop-dead-gorgeous brother?’ ‘Does he own a yacht?’ ‘Has he got a hairy chest?’ I smile. Angie is turning into my heroine, saving me from Geography.

  Time rushes past and the notes become filled with more and more questions and answers and jokes. I glance at the wall clock. Fifteen minutes to go. I write on one of the notes, ‘Is Christopher going to get a tattoo?’

  The answers: ‘A tattoo of Angie on his heart sounds good.’ ‘Needs to be a big tattoo with green eyes.’ The messages are getting stupider and stupider. That’s what boredom does to you: fries your brain, except music keeps my mind alive.

  The bell. There’s a mass sigh of release. I laugh. The excruciating voice of our teacher stops. I look at her thin face. She’s no intrepid explorer. Geography is just in books for her. Books without adventures or dreams. She’s destroying Geography and the world. But she can’t destroy my world. I won’t let her or anyone do that. I’m going to travel and find out what’s out there. Music pounds inside me.

  Lunch. Karen races towards the front lawn, our usual spot. Irina is still glued to the library. Angie threads her arm through mine. ‘I like your Christopher notes, Angie.’ She smiles as we start talking about the football match and our double date and yes, how much make-up to use and what to wear.

  The weather is sunny and the grassy lawn is soft. Angie sprawls on the grass next to me. Karen is lying on the other side of me, beating the grass with her fingertips. It feels warm in the middle. We’re the Kindergarten Kids again where the world is safe. Where fathers are normal and funny and there for us. When did things change? How did they change?

  Karen’s blonde hair tangles in the light breeze. Angie’s dark hair does too. My brown hair looks like chocolate spread gluing us together in a sponge cake. We know each other’s secrets. Best friends.

  Angie’s mother has baked chocolate cookies. We eat two cookies each. As I take a guilty bite into my second cookie, I know I’ll never look like Karen or Angie. It hurts.

  I roll onto my stomach and let the sun warm my back. Karen’s still half ‘krazy’ and I’m only half listening to her.

  Schoolwork is piling up. I’ve got so much to do but I still like Senior School. We’re freer even though the subjects are harder. I have to do well because I refuse to end up like Mum. I want choices. I wish Karen would study so she’d have choices too. Angie. I shake my head. She’s decided she’ll be a princess, so she’ll never have to study.

  Secretly I hope I’ll work in the music industry after I leave school. Maybe even write my own songs. I can’t tell anyone because they’ll think I’m a loser, or tell me it’s impossible. I want to write songs with Karen. Angie loves music but is not in love with it like me. Like Karen. Like Irina. Music is me. I watch Angie lying in the sun just enjoying the day and being with girlfriends. She doesn’t have any battles to win or anything to prove. She’s happy. Angie’s lucky.

  Wednesday afternoon classes begin. Karen and I go to a practice room in the Music Block. We are working on the new jazz piece for our trumpet performance exam. It’s complicated and my blowing sounds like a train wreck. I haven’t been practising at home and neither has Karen. She has an excuse, since she always forgets which house her trumpet is in, and no one checks whether she practises or not. Karen blows her trumpet. She still sounds good, but it’s not her usual smooth sound. We end up laughing at our playing.

  Suddenly Karen jumps up, swinging her trumpet as if she’s a baton twirler. She grabs something from a bench. ‘Look what I’ve got. Look.’

  She dances around the music room with her trumpet in one hand, shaking bottles of gold, silver and blue sparkles with the other.

  I try to grab the bottles. She’s going to do something crazy. ‘Don’t, Karen,’ I shout, but she’s too fast. She pours glitter into the school trumpet, wets her lips, then blows. The mellow sound showers sprinkles all over the drums and guitars and cellos. It’s so beautiful. Sparkles light the room with diamonds and rubies and emeralds. We dance with the glitter falling on us like fairy dust.

  Then the trumpet stops. Clogged. Karen blows and blows. I try too. We escape, leaving the practice room looking like a carnival with the trumpet hidden between the other trumpets and clarinets.

  That night I can’t sleep. Mum asks me if I’m sick. I think of pretending to have pneumonia so I can stay home from school, but that’s cowardice. Anyway, if I don’t go back Karen will have to face it all alone.

  Thursday is a day of misery. The trumpet and glitter are discovered. The investigations begin. Students are interrogated, questions asked. When was the glitter discovered? Who was scheduled for practice? Where are the trumpet players? Everything leads to the inevitable conclusion. Karen and I are identified.

  Even though Mr Connolly’s angry about the trumpet, he tries to help us. ‘These girls are the backbone of the jazz band.’ I don’t feel like I even have a spine. I should’ve stopped Karen. ‘It’s not typical of them.’

  Mr Connelly’s backing doesn’t work. No parents, no Mr Connelly, no support. The interview is like a Secret Police grilling. ‘Did you do it?’ ‘You did, didn’t you?’ ‘Why?’ ‘How?’ ‘You’re Seniors. You should be role models.’ It goes on and on. You’d think we committed murder.

  ‘Pip had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘Yes I did. I was there and…’

  Karen freezes me with a look. ‘Don’t protect me, Pip. It’s my fault,’ she says to the Secret Police. ‘My fault totally.’

  It wasn’t just her. I was dancing in the glitter too. But I say nothing else. Her parents are called in and Karen is suspended from school for a week. The trumpet costs a lot to repair. Her father has to pay and he hits her.

  Once my father hit me. I was twelve.

  Pip’s father comes home from work early. The house isn’t tidy and Pip’s mother is tired from work. Pip has put on her favourite music. Her mother has ordered pizzas. Eddie has a large supreme pizza just to himself. ‘I need it, I’m growing.’ He burps.

  Pip and her mother moan. ‘You’re disgusting.’

  They are laughing so hard that they don’t hear the taxi drive up. Or the door open, or the footsteps down the corridor.

  Pip’s father’s voice blasts across the kitchen table. ‘So this is it. No dinner. And the house is a mess.’ He throws his briefcase onto the floor. ‘I work hard. What for? Who for? You.’

  Pip’s mother reaches for Pip’s hand. She presses her lips together giving Eddie and Pip, the say-nothing look, the Dad’s-in-a-bad-mood look.

  Pip’s father is more than that tonight. He’s shouting as he heads for the liquor cabinet. ‘You do nothing around here.’

  Her mother says nothing as she pushes Eddie and Pip behind her.

  Injustice seeps through Pip. She stares at her father in his business suit as he reaches for a glass of Scotch. Why does he ruin everything? Why? Suddenly Pip’s enraged. The words erupt like electric prods. ‘That’s not true. It’s not true. Mum works hard. Hard. Hard…you bastard.’ As soon as Pip says it she wants to swallow back the word ‘bastard’.

  The whack seems to come from nowhere. Across her back, stinging her into shock as she crashes to the floor.

  Suddenly her mother is there. Standing in front of her, facing him. ‘Don’t touch her. Don’t ever touch her,’ she screams, with her arms stretched back guarding Pip with her life.

  The hit never leaves her. It is there like a tattoo, inked into her head. Her father never says sorry, but afterwards, he gives Pip money to buy clothes. He thinks clothes will fix up everything because she’s trivial, but she’s not. Pip thinks about life, relationships
, the world. She hates the way her father brings fear into her life. His aggression is just beneath the surface. The words, the shouting, a push, a shove, a threat. Insomniac Road gets her through it. Billy gets her through it.

  Her mother tries to explain to her. ‘Your father used to be different. He’s overworked. He doesn’t mean to get angry…’ Her mother’s voice peters into silence. She knows there are no excuses. Pip’s stomach knots. ‘It’s not about you or Eddie or me.’

  Mum is wrong. It is about us.

  Chapter Four

  I make a face in my mirror. I hate my mirror. My bum. Shrink. Shrink. My breasts. I’m exploding. I look disgusting. The game is today. I look at my watch. Piles of clothes are heaped on my bed. Angie said I should wear my faded jeans and light-blue top. Everything looks bad on me. Really bad.

  I flop onto my bed among the clothes. No choice. I drag on the faded jeans and light-blue top, turn on some music and close my eyes. I sit up, when Eddie charges into my room. ‘Get out, Eddie.’

  ‘Oooh, sensitive Pip. Pip’s got a date.’

  ‘Shut up, Eddie.’ I want to start on about his ‘secret’ girlfriend, but can’t go there now. ‘I’ve got to get ready.’

  ‘Date. Date. Date.’

  Mum pulls Eddie out of my room by his T-shirt. ‘Leave Pip alone.’

  I don’t want to go to the game with Oliver. Suddenly tears well in my eyes. I rub them away, because I know. I’m scared. Scared of a boyfriend, scared to be like Eddie keeping secrets, scared to be like Mum, scared of fathers like mine, like Karen’s.

  I look at my watch again. Oliver is coming at eleven. Five minutes.

  I drag myself into the kitchen. Mum is waiting around for me. Has she ever heard of privacy? Go away, Mum.

  ‘You look lovely, Pip.’ Mum, please. You make me feel hopeless. ‘Why don’t you invite Oliver inside, Pip?’