Feeling Sorry for Celia (27 page)

EXAMPLE–

Celia’s mum: It’s like pruning a rose bush with an axe! Can she not see that our children are in LOVE? Can she not see that the rose of love is a thorny one and that of COURSE there will be glitches as it heads its way to a glorious flower of togetherness?!

My mum: Once a fascist dictator always a fascist dictator. Why, I knew this sort of thing would happen way back when she was the driving force behind banning rollerblading in the shopping mall. Banning rollerblading! I know, I can’t believe it either. Thin edge of the wedge is what this is, you mark my words.

Celia’s mum: Freedom! The children must have freedom!

My mum: Thin edge of the wedge, I tell you. Mark my words.

I’m not sure what my mother means by ‘thin edge of the
wedge’. Does she think that someone who bans rollerblading will automatically ban her son from seeing his girlfriend, and that someone who bans her son from seeing his girlfriend will automatically take control over the country via a military coup and lock everyone up in their laundries?

But I do kind of like the way she hates Saxon’s mum – especially as she secretly also seems to hate Saxon. She confessed it to me driving back from Celia’s the other day. ‘It’s COMPLETELY the wrong thing to separate a young couple who are as smitten with each other as those two are,’ she was ranting away. Then, just before we pulled in to our driveway: ‘Still, it’s beyond me what Celia actually SEES in that boy.’

It’s strange how happy I was to hear that. But I have to agree with her – I’ve been spending a lot of time over at Celia’s trying to be a supportive friend – but it’s impossible because he never stays more than a millimetre away from her, and he never stops gazing and moping at her. Actually, he reminds me of that dog you told me about that belongs to your next-door neighbour. He practically throws himself on the ground in front of Celia and begs her to scratch his tummy.

It’s just not attractive.

I tried talking to Celia about her letter to me (difficult with Saxon the puppy-dog always around, but I got Celia on her own in the kitchen), and asked her if she wanted to talk about everything. She said maybe one day, but not right now and that she wasn’t herself when she wrote that note and I should forget it. Then she climbed up on the kitchen table and did a trapeze jump through the living room door and onto the couch, nearly killing Saxon.

She’s supposed to be taking it easy while she recovers but she’s definitely getting her energy back.

My parents are being stupendously nice to me at the moment which is very weird. They were both at the hospital for most of the night when Celia was there – somehow Dad got phoned in the Celia crisis. He and Mum asked the doctors all the right questions, and were perfectly supportive and soothing with Celia’s crazy mother and Saxon’s outraged parents. We were actually like a FAMILY.

Although a weird sort of family – with the parents being eerily polite with each other. EXAMPLE:

Mum: So, Albert, how is your work with the airline?

Dad: It’s going very well. And how is your work at the agency?

Mum: It’s going very well. And how are your family?

Dad: They’re very well. And how are your family?

Mum: They’re very well. And (etc, etc, etc).

Mum was watching him VERY closely when she asked about his family, trying to get clues about the
affair
(she also asked questions like where was he living, oh, and what’s that like, oh, and how big is your place, oh, and is mat big enough for you, oh, I suppose if you’re living on your
own
it must be, etc, etc, etc). But she got nothing out of him except for a classic performance of Mr Smooth and Polite.

Dad actually drove out here on Sunday afternoon and took me for a movie and a coffee just in Castle Hill, if you can believe it. Downmarket for him, huh? He was really nice about Celia, and somehow got me talking about the whole thing – about how Celia seemed to be changing, and about how I felt guilty about not being a supportive enough
friend, but that deep down I was just tired of feeling sorry for her, especially since I rescued her from the evil circus and all she did to pay me back was steal the boy I liked.

I know, I can’t believe I told him all that stuff. I think I partly did it because I was hoping to get something personal out of him too. Like: ‘Well, all this is very interesting, Elizabeth. And it reminds me of my own personal crisis. I’ve been cheating on my wife, you see, living with another woman, what do you think about
that?’

But all he said was that friendships go through fluxes and to hang in there and it would turn out for the best, he was sure. And then he asked me about the half marathon and said he thought I might be overdoing it, and too much running could wear me out. (He also said that he’s heard you can stop pantyhose running with a little clear nailpolish, so maybe he should stop ME running with the same thing, ha ha ha. Why do ALL fathers have the WORST senses of humour in the world, please?)

Wait a minute.

--

SORRY. I just had to stop writing for a minute. I’m in English at the moment and I was writing along happily with Mr Botherit’s voice like a kind of background music when suddenly the background music began to turn into eerily familiar words. It turned out he was reading out MY assignment to the class. You know we had to write a letter explaining why we shouldn’t write an essay on
My Brilliant Career?
He gave mine the best mark. Ha. It was a dirty trick getting me to do it, and now he’s pulled another one giving me the best marks. Now I feel like I HAVE to do the next
assignment so I can get more praise. It’s evil psychological game-playing and I’m going to resist it at all costs.

The bell’s ringing and I’m going to miss my bus if I don’t leave right NOW.

Love,

Elizabeth

Dear Elizabeth,

I know I told you I’d be out of the state by now and you should forget my existence. But you’ve probably already noticed that I’m still on your bus every day. All us Brookfield boys are still here.

I also promised that I wouldn’t write to you again, but Christina told me today that she met you at the hospital when her little sister was sick. She told me how you stayed with her the entire night and she told me you were wonderful.

So I just had to write and say that you’re a legend, you know that, don’t you?

You’re also incredibly beautiful.

The Stranger

Dear Elizabeth,

We regret to inform you that your application must be refused.

A ‘crush’ does not count unless it is directed at somebody specific. A
‘
crush’ that is directed at three young men simultaneously, which will crystallise into a specific crush when a specific condition has
been met; a crush which is entirely contingent upon which of three boys happens to be the author of a series of short, garbled and inconsequential anonymous notes, simply fails to meet our definition of a
‘
crush’.

You must try a little harder, Elizabeth. Along with the Association of Teenagers, we are just about ready to throw in the towel.

Yours,

Young Romance Association

Dear Elizabeth,

Well yes, we see your dilemma, but we don’t think that we can help.

To tell you the truth, we can’t figure it out and we don’t think you’re going to figure it out either.

It is perfectly possible that it is Grunge boy, Quiet boy or Feral boy. All of them are plausible.

You can sit there on that bus seat and turn around as many times as you want on the pretext of working out what vehicles happen to be following the bus today. You do that, Elizabeth. You can run through your measly collection of clues backwards and forwards and upside down if you want to. You can stare into the eyes of every single one of those boys and watch as every single one stares straight back.

But you’re just not going to work it out.

Yours,

Society of Amateur Detectives

Elizabeth,

On second thoughts. WHAT just happened? WHAT did you just hear?

Keep trying, Elizabeth! We’re rooting for you!

Society of Amateur Detectives

Elizabeth,

Yes, we can replay that for you, sure.

‘
You’re a legend, you know that, don’t you?’

No, we cannot isolate the person who said it. Yes, we agree that the words were just spoken by a boy who was heading past you up to the back of the bus. Yes, we also agree that this may be of vital importance, given that an anonymous person used exactly that phrase in a note to you this morning. Yes, we can confirm that a short conversation took place, as two boys headed down the aisle past your seat, as follows –

Boy 1: You can have my ticket to the sax concert if you want.

Boy 2: You’re a legend, you know that, don’t you?

But we are not, nor do we have any association with, the Society of Amateur Detectives, and we therefore have no interest whatsoever in which of the boys at the back of the bus spoke those words. We are, quite frankly, bored by your dilemma.