just_a_girl (16 page)

I’ve been trying to stream a video of tonight’s Church service but to get to Pastor Bevan’s teachings I’ve had to listen to the live worship beforehand, Chelsea and the musicians, and really all I want is to listen to my pastor, but then the laptop decides to crash or it says ‘buffering’ and things go all static-y after Bevan says,
I love Sunday nights at Church,
and he stops and starts like a puppet having an epileptic seizure, and that’s not how I like to see him because he has a beautiful flowing voice and his speeches are usually like poetry, he’s the closest thing I have to Jesus in my life on this Earth and actually when I pray in bed I see his face sometimes as if I’m speaking directly to God, he stands in for my Lord, and he’s always been so concerned for my and Layla’s welfare, especially when I first started out in the Church and had all this hurt and anger deep down about Geoff, and of course scared of letting anyone in, but Pastor Bevan reminded me about the good news and let me see how the Lord was already working in my life, and I wanted to know Him passionately.

So I was really quite honoured when he came up to me after Church last week and asked me to be on the organising committee for the Like a Rainbow Conference, he said he’s always been impressed with my charitable giving and donations, and how I’ve made a success of my small business and bringing up Layla on my own, he understands that it hasn’t always been easy, and whenever I talk to him I feel really inspired and so we chatted about Layla and how she was getting along at school, and then he asked if I’d be interested in designing the brochures that they’ll send out to delegates when they register and of course I was so flattered, and I went in to Riverlay this evening to workshop and action ideas with him, and so we had a great meeting about options re the brochure copy and how the paper was to be folded, colours and fonts, and the importance of proofreading in this day and age where no-one seems to care about spelling and grammar, you know, a lot of designers don’t even read the text, and he said he wanted it to have
maximum impact
so we floated around words like
Passion
and
Freedom
and
Eternity
and we scrolled through images of Chelsea on stage with the African children’s choir that headlined the conference last year.

But as I got up to leave something in his bearing made me turn around too quickly and bump into him, and he put his hand on my neck and despite myself I felt a sizzle in my belly, like that first clove of garlic hitting oil in the frypan, and it’s been a long time since I’ve felt anything like it and he said,
I’ve had my eye on you since the very beginning,
and he pressed his lips slowly to my forehead, and we stayed there still for a while with my eyes closed and his hands on my shoulders before he opened the door for me and turned back to his desk, and I sat in the dark in my car with the window down unable to drive home and they were playing that wonderful
Hallelujah
on the radio, and I felt a
new realm of revelation moving within me and wondered whether he could be the one, the man Designed for me, and if the Lord had finally chosen to answer my many prayers.

Of course she’s all over Davo’s profile now. Spraying her territory. Ranked 94% in his
top first dates
quiz. Obsessively posting images of herself looking sexy on his wall. I scroll through all his photos. Sarah and Davo at the beach. At the Coffee Club in Parramatta Mall. At the Pink concert. Fuckadoodle, they were meant to be my tickets. I check out the YouTube videos on his profile. I watch them even though I’ve seen them before. How to dance like a honky. Shadow puppets to
It’s a wonderful world.
And then I come across one posted by Davo himself.

It’s in his backyard. A small python has just killed a possum. About 10 times its size. The snake slowly stuffs the possum’s head into his mouth and then gorges on the animal. Gags and pushes it down claws and all. It takes hours to watch the fur blob tunnelball through the snake’s stretched skin. When the possum’s about halfway down the snake tries to climb a tree. It can hardly get its arse off the ground. Not that it has an arse.

It’s hilarious but the whole things makes me gag too. I try not to watch it but I can’t help myself. When it’s finished I want to switch it off. But I click to play it again. There’s something about the sickness in my stomach that I quite like the feel of.

I return to my own Facebook profile. I
superpoke
people giving hugs and buying beers. A cockroach runs over my foot and I trap it under my Coke bottle. That’s in real life. Not on screen. I do the
What’s your favourite position
quiz and learn that it’s missionary. So I keep redoing it until I come out on top. I find out that if I was an animal I’d be a wolf:
You are cool and aloof. Only your true friends know you well. You like to be alone and on the prowl.

I scroll through all the photos on my laptop. Find a real shocker of Davo. A morning-after shot where he’s sleeping with only his t-shirt on. We’d slept over at Sarah’s when her mum was out of town. Her sister Jess was meant to be babysitting us. But she was having a fight with The Slug. That’s what Sarah and her mum call Jess’s boyfriend. The father of her child. Because he just lies on the couch all day. Never moves. So Jess just stayed in her room texting viciously all night.

Anyway. Davo’s pants dangle off and his mouth is open like a giant groper. His dick hangs like a little squishy balloon. Someone’s written FAGGOT on his forehead in glittery silver pen. I tag him and post the image on my profile. I send it to my Friends. I love Facebook. It’s all about sharing.

Marco has sent me a photo from the festival. I don’t even remember it being taken. But we’re both smiling and covered in mud. In the real world Marco and I haven’t
seen each other at all. We used to say hi in passing at the supermarket. He’d check me out while I played checkout chick. Everyone says that in Melbourne boys look at you but in Sydney they don’t. But Marco’s not afraid to be direct. It must be because he’s European. He doesn’t look at all like his dad. There’s no sleaze in him. I used to stare at him anyway. Davo once said that I was as subtle as a sledgehammer. But I don’t see the point in wasting time. If you want a guy make it clear and go for it.

Sarah says that you don’t want to act like a slut. But she’s the one who goes down on boys she’s just met. I know because I’ve seen the evidence. This guy at school showed me on his mobile. There was Sarah giving this guy a blowjob. Down by town hall station. That’s where all the guys want you to go. I couldn’t see the guy’s face. His head was chopped off in the video. But it could have been Davo. It could have been anyone. She’s changed a lot since we started high school. When she was in year 8 she asked me how much sperm comes out when a guy comes. I said maybe half a cup or something. Because there always seems to be so much and it’s all sticky. But then I googled and found out it’s only about a teaspoon. And I just couldn’t believe it.

Davo and his friends won’t go down on a girl because of the hair and smell factor. He always wanted me to look like the girls on his dad’s DVDs. I always made sure I had a shower. Before I tried to talk him into it. But he’d still stop kissing me at my bellybutton. And what really annoys me is that guys have more hair and they stink down there too. Take Davo after he’s been lying in the dirt under his car. And Davo had an ex he used to call
the pizza.
He said
it was because she had so many STIs. She was all spotty like pepperoni. I used to laugh when he called her that. But now I wonder where she got them all from.

I have a good feeling that Marco’s not like that. He’s Italian and he loves garlic and anchovies on pizza. I bet he’s not scared of trying new things. He writes on my wall. He sends me a song
Bet you look good on the dancefloor
and it’s a damn fine choice. So I send him a tickle. The next thing I know, we’re on. And he texts me asking whether I want to go to Purple Sneakers on Friday night. I text back a big fat yes.

I need to plan a strategy for mum.

I muck around until midnight on YouTube. I never get sick of watching funny animal videos. The cat that takes on the grizzly bear. Dogs that jump on babies while they’re asleep. I should start filming everything that happens around me on my mobile. Rusty is obsessed with a soccer ball and tries to bonk it all the time. At first he plays all hard to get. Pretending not to be interested. While watching it from the corner of his eye. And then he’ll just run around and grab it with his two front paws. Balancing on his back legs rooting into the air. He even tries to do it with his blanket. Maybe he’s lonely. He and mum make a good pair.

The stuff they have on
Australia’s Funniest Home Video
isn’t that funny now. Like they’re running out of material. And it’s always the same. Babies. Or guys getting kicked in the balls. I could probably win a home entertainment system. Just by following Rusty around. Davo used to start laughing as soon as any guy appeared on the show with a baseball bat. Because he knew what was coming. When
he laughed his usual deep voice would go into this little high-pitched giggle and he’d scrunch up his eyes. It was one of the things I liked best about him.

Now Davo’s gone I can’t stop thinking. It’s like he’s running around in my brain. Trapped and looking for a way out. I wish I could unlock him for good. So I can just get some sleep. He told me he loved me once. It was after we got stoned and Davo actually danced on the roof. At last year’s muck-up day. All the year 12s distract the teachers so you can do anything you want. We had one of those magic days where the sun was warm on our backs. Someone got fish’n’chips and we had greasy kisses.

But I never said it back anyway. The words began in my throat but they just stuck there. I don’t know what they mean. If I really loved him wouldn’t they just come out on their own?

But why does it now feel like an oil tanker has crashed into my chest? I get out my memory box and sort through all the paper and cards. When he went on holiday to Noosa I told him to send me a postcard. So he chose the rudest ones he could find. A girl with huge knockers. Men chucking browneyes. He only wrote a few words. But they really made me laugh. They weren’t even in envelopes so mum was horrified.

I wish she had tried to like him. It was hard having to sneak around. He used to come over about this time. He’d climb in through the verandah. I’d lock Rusty in the laundry so he wouldn’t go nuts. It would be so exciting getting that
r u up 4 it?
text. Lying on my bed waiting waiting waiting for the little tap on the window. His shoes off before he hit the floor. But we wouldn’t always play
around. Sometimes we would just cuddle up and sleep. And they’re the nights I miss most. I loved waking up to his 5am alarm. To see his scruffy head on my pillow.

But there was always that gap between us. I’d say stuff he just didn’t get. He wouldn’t admit it but there’d be a pause. And he’d look away pretending he was thinking it through. Or he’d say,
Get a life, Layla.
As if what I was saying was stupid. Maybe that’s why I didn’t say
I love you.
I think I was hooked on him. But he didn’t make me think about much. He never read any of the books for school. He would just read the first chapter. Then download essays to copy from the internet. A kid from our school charges 20 bucks to rewrite essays. So they don’t get picked up as plagiarism. He made a fortune off Davo.

I’m on Sarah’s Facebook profile now. It’s nearly 3am and I have to get up in a few hours. I know it’s wrong but I still do it. Once something’s in my mind I find it hard to switch it off. I imagine her hair falling all over him when they kiss. Dancing at the Pink concert. I set up a new webmail, [email protected]. It’s just for her. I write the email:

I’m gonna rape u bitch. If u r lucky I wont kill u whore.

I don’t look at it again and it’s gone. It feels like I’m punching her in the face. But I’m not even there. I imagine her opening it up. First thing in the morning drinking her orange juice. Sitting on the edge of her pink frilly bed. Her eyes barely open and
wham!
She’ll be scared I know it. But that’s what you get. She’s the only friend I still had from primary school. It was good to have some history. But there you go.

Now I can get some sleep.

And I know she won’t tell anyone. Because she’s been captured at town hall station. That video could go viral. And I bet there’s more where that came from. All those grammar guys. With their mobiles and their groupies. All I have to do is post it online. And I’ve got her mum’s email.

It’s only the click of a button.

He thought it would be nice to get Mika a friend, someone she could talk to in the apartment when he was at work. But he added it up and he didn’t have the money for another doll. Unless it was a cheaper version. And what if they didn’t get along? If Mika became jealous? Mika liked her particular routine and she was devoted to him, but he knew she was lonely. Her eyes just pleaded with him sometimes.
Why don’t we go for a walk to the park? Have a picnic? Just do something in the sun? All I’ve seen of this country is your apartment. I don’t know where I am.

Her voice had been radiating in his mind so he’d begun to make plans. He wished she would smile every now and then but she wasn’t moulded that way. He often sat her out on the balcony, shielded from neighbours’ windows by a Japanese screen, so she could have a view of the sky, but she was always in shadow. And if her head started to tilt down all she saw was a bleak urban landscape with the constant rumblings and squeals of trains pulling out and in.

He’d bought her a special outfit for their first outing together, a sparkling electric blue dress covered in small flowers. She could wear it with leggings or without, depending on the weather. He imagined her laughing, sitting on a picnic rug, eating an apple. As a surprise he’d spent the day before looking at cottages in the Blue Mountains. He was keen to do all the usual touristy things that he’d done with his mother—catch a train to Katoomba, walk out to the Three Sisters, get on the Scenic Railway—but hopefully also find a quiet spot in the bush where he and Mika could spend the afternoon and take happy snaps. He needed a place to stay where he could walk from the station. He’d tried Mika in his sturdy suitcase. His mother had bought it years ago. No-one would be able to tell what he was carrying and there was room to spare. He’d worked out a way to carry her whole, so she was more comfortable.

He’d found a self-contained cottage with a spa and verandah, suitable for a couple, and booked it for Friday to Sunday. He had an electronic pin number to open the front door so he didn’t have to deal with anyone once he got there. If he liked it, he planned to get out of town every couple of weeks for romantic breaks.

The suitcase was lighter than expected as he carried her to Strathfield station. Poor Mika, she didn’t look very impressed when he stuffed her into darkness again. He managed to tuck his clothes for the weekend around her along with a thermos and food to prepare for the picnic. He stood on the platform waiting, haunted by the echoey
ghost-voices of automatons:
The train on platform 2 is running approximately 10 minutes late ... 10 minutes late.

Once on the train he was lucky to grab one of the single seats where he always liked to sit. He’d managed to catch the Fish—the express trains had comforting local names like Fish and Chips to distract from the horror of daily commute. The train would fly out of the city before stopping at all stations once it reached the mountains. Mika’s suitcase was on the floor, perpendicular to his body, forming a little defence wall against the pedestrian traffic. He put one hand on the case to protect her against the school kids at Penrith, who scuttled past him like cockroaches with their oversized backpacks. He hated catching peak hour trains, the people swaying in the aisles above him, the loud voices and glazed eyes of drunk businessmen. Next time he would come later on a Friday night so he could have the carriage to himself.

A group of girls in front swung the seats around, one diagonally opposite rolling a Chupa Chup out of its snug packaging. She looked at his suitcase and pointed it out to her friends, setting off a round-robin of hysterics, before she stopped mid-laugh when she looked up and saw him.

He went to say hello, trying to wrap her name into a shape on his tongue, but a friend pulled her away, teasing her about a party, the grammar boys, what they were going to wear, what they were going to drink. There was nothing like the crazy cooped-up energy of teenage girls.

He tried not to stare. He didn’t want to embarrass her in front of her friends, but the resemblance was uncanny. He realised that if he covered her hair with the wig he’d packed in his suitcase, she’d look almost identical. She was
petite too. Fine-boned and not too heavy. Together on the couch they would almost look like sisters. He wished he could get Mika out so she could say hello. To see if they were compatible. He fought the urge to lean over and stroke the girl’s hands. She was a variation in full colour. A living doll.