Saving Jazz (18 page)

‘Put it this way, it's a supply and demand industry,' he smiled, showing me that broken tooth again. ‘It's not going to make me rich, but at least I'm not on the streets yet.'

He walked behind me to the door.

‘Nice to see you, Jack,' I said awkwardly. Shake hands? Hug? I didn't know what to do. I ended up going to pat his shoulder but instead patted his elbow. It looked and felt weird.

‘Yeah,' Jack said, beginning to shut the door.

I walked down the steps and he called out my name. The door was almost shut. ‘Why didn't you come back?'

He pulled on my heart, plaintive Jack, ten-year-old Jack who I'd left at the park in anger once and two hours later, after waiting patiently for me, believing I'd return, he'd come to my house to ask me that very same question. ‘Why didn't you come back?'

I shook my head and swallowed the tears. ‘I don't know,' I said. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘I'm sorry too,' he said, closing the door.

Dear reader, you'll notice that since re-engaging with this blog I've taken to weekly updates. I've fallen back into the social purge — airing one's innermost thoughts and actions online. It's a long way from Facebook, but it's a similar psychology.

I think about Jack often. I've started talking about him more and more. Frank wants to know about the friendship we shared, and he's commented that such a strong relationship like the one Jack and I had doesn't just end. But, unusually, I disagree with Frank. It has ended. It can no longer be the same, or even a semblance of what it was, because we are so different. And I don't mean because I'm about to study at university and Jack is
a small-time drug dealer — it's greater than that. We have changed, shaped by a single night, into people we didn't see ourselves becoming. I am closer to the person I always thought I'd be, and for the most part I'm happy. Who wouldn't be, with Frank at their side and family (by this I mean Uncle Rob, Aunty Jane and the bratpack) supporting them? But I still get dragged back into that world, where everything went pear-shaped for me. Frank tells me part of my beauty is this fragility I acquired.

‘You can look at it as the worst thing you've ever experienced and regret it for the rest of your life, or you can acknowledge it's the worst thing you've ever experienced and it's allowed you to develop into a unique, passionate and empathetic person.' Oh Frank, always seeing the best of me.

But you know what? He's right. Without that experience I wouldn't be half of who I am today. I hadn't realised I'd lived a loveless life until I met Aunty Jane and Uncle Rob — and, of course, Frank. Between them they've given me so much — so much I didn't even know I was missing. So when I think about the horrors of that night I wind it back into perspective. I allow myself to acknowledge that life
is beautiful and there are so many things to look forward to.

Soon, I'll be starting university. I don't know what to expect. I've been out of formal education for so long that the idea of sitting in a classroom sends my anxiety into overdrive. I can only imagine that it'll be different to high school. Older people, wiser people who hopefully, like me, have made their colossal mistakes and now just want to move forward. It's hard to imagine that high school bitchiness will carry over into tertiary education. But anyway, I've learnt from my errors — the power of social media — and I won't be venturing down that track again. As a devotee of blogs I'm totally aware of the differences between the two platforms — and the power this one allows me. I get time. Time to think about what I want to say. Time to consider the ramifications of every word I post for the world to read. Instead of firing off some random comment, or image, that can cause ripples, resulting in a tsunami, I get to consider what I do.

It's funny, though, how people view me when I say I don't have a Facebook account. It's like I'm an alien — or from a different culture. ‘You don't have
Facebook?' The tone is always incredulous. I shake my head.

‘I prefer real people,' I say, ‘not phantoms.'

Another lapse in communication — my apologies. I started uni a few months back and I have found myself immersed in the most wonderful world imaginable. Uni houses the most eclectic group of people I've ever met. Students from around the world, of differing religions and political convictions. I feel as though I have actually finally entered the real world. Teachers, or should I say lecturers, are human beings — with views and opinions and many swear words littering their conversations. I think I've been waiting for this my whole life. Up until now, everything has been like learning scales, but now I'm actually playing in the orchestra.

It's exhilarating and thrilling. My life is so busy — but now I know why busy is good. And I love
study! It's bizarre. Before, study was about getting good marks, making my parents proud, proving how clever I was (remember ‘She might be pretty but she's as thick as pig shit'?). Now it's about learning and understanding the world I live in and the people in it. I love it. Every day I walk past the inscription on the wall of the Arts building,
Know Thyself
, and now I really understand. To know thyself would have to be the greatest knowledge of all.

But nothing is ever smooth sailing. Yes, things are wonderful, but there are always tests and challenges. My fear of high school bitchiness was not totally unfounded, but it is coming from an unexpected source. I do a unit in my degree called Psychology and Social Behaviour — sounds exceptionally boring, but it's not. It examines the factors that influence the way we think and behave in social situations. It allows me to examine my own values and attitudes to life. I'm learning so much in this class. But despite loving it, I fear I've run foul of the lecturer. His name is Earl Stirling and of all my lecturers he is the best, the most engaging. He's a short balding man, and wears tight jeans that hug every (and yes I mean every!) curve on his body. He
tops them with a muscle t-shirt, and for someone who must be closer to sixty than fifty, he sports a couple of guns. He wears his thinning hair in a sort of comb-over — which deludes no one, as most people are a good six inches taller than him — and what he lacks in height he overcompensates for with the loudest booming voice imaginable. Where some three-hour lectures have me drawing flowers all over my notebook, Earl's are the ones where I remain fully focused. So I was thrilled when I landed Earl for the small-group tutorials.

Thirteen of us cram into a six-person seminar room. We sit, knees touching, as we examine the weekly topic. It was at the first of these when I guess I captured Earl's attention.

‘Oh look,' Earl said, peering at me through his bifocals, ‘we've got ourselves a Teen Queen.'

I realised he was talking about me. A few of the girls snickered and I began to feel embarrassed.

‘Me?' I asked. ‘What do you mean?'

‘You don't fit the mould of a uni student,' Earl said, eyeing me up and down. I still wasn't sure what he meant, but then I assessed my appearance. Unlike most of my counterparts I had dressed nicely for
class. Many looked like they'd slept in their clothes, but I wore neat, fashionable ones, I'd done my hair, I wore make-up. I didn't know what to say. But it was Maureen, the mature-aged student, who responded.

‘I think she looks lovely,' she said to Earl in clipped tones. ‘And I think it's inappropriate for a man in your position to make such a comment.'

Talk about awkward. The rest of us shifted uneasily and I smiled gratefully at Maureen while Earl glowered at her.

‘Right,' he said opening the textbook, ‘page ninety-four.'

It probably wouldn't warrant writing about if it had ended there, but it hasn't. I'm afraid Earl has truly shaken my self-confidence. Today I met with him to receive my first marked assignment. Since the first tutorial, Earl had pretty much ignored me, but today it was face-to-face, alone in his office. I sat opposite him. I was pretty sure I'd done well on this topic. Essay writing had always been my forte and I'd ended up in the nineties for Literature at the end of last year, so I wasn't overly concerned about getting the assignment back. He sort of threw it across the
table. I picked it up and on my neatly typed work he had scrawled over every paragraph in illegible writing. I peered at his words — the characters were drawn with such force I could only assume reading my words had enraged him somehow. I struggled over each page, my confidence diminishing with each scrawled-out word and margin comment. Then I turned to the back page: twelve out of twenty-five. I looked at the digits in disbelief. I had failed. My first assignment, failed.

‘Oh,' was all I could manage.

‘The brevity of your response surprises me,' Earl said nastily. ‘With such laborious and verbose sentences, rife with tautology, I must admit, Miss Lovely, I was expecting a lot more than
oh
.'

I shook my head, my mouth dry. ‘I'm sorry, I wasn't expecting this.'

‘Well, surely you weren't expecting to pass?' Earl said. ‘Girl, you are verging on illiterate. All I can think is that the once lofty standards of this institution have dropped markedly to allow someone of your calibre in.' His voice was softer than the booming lecturer, but his comments were so snide that I felt stupid. I started to feel that I had no place
whatsoever at this uni. I felt tears in my eyes.

‘Oh for God's sake don't cry,' Earl snapped, pointing to a box of tissues (which made me wonder if they were on his desk solely for this reason). ‘You need additional help. Hopefully it'll be enough to get you over the line. You need to meet with me weekly, for private tuition, if you want any chance of passing. So,' he looked at his calendar, ‘we'll start next Thursday.'

I was too mortified to speak. I felt the old, scared Jasmine creeping back in.
Fight her off
, I told myself. I wasn't going to let the old patterns of thinking in. I liked the new me so much better.
Toughen up
, I told myself, and to Earl I said, ‘Thank you. I'll see you then.' I decided immediately that I wouldn't allow myself to fail this unit and I wouldn't be a crybaby over it. I needed to learn resilience. I'd meet with Earl weekly to improve my marks and reach my goals.

So it's been two months since I last posted and I'm pleased to say my results (with the exception of Psychology and Social Behaviour) have all been distinctions and high distinctions. I still love uni, walking along the footpaths, listening to the squawk of the peacocks as they strut around fanning their tails, overhearing the debates in the coffee shop and inhaling the distinctive smell of the library. It's addictive. I keep looking at my units and where I'm heading. I have no real fixed plan but to keep learning, and I have my weekly tutes and my weekly private tutes with Earl still. He believes that I have to continue this extra tuition until the end of the year.

One day I was in the Reid Library, asking the
library attendant where I would find a particular book to help with my latest assignment, when my phone vibrated in my pocket. I looked at the number and frowned — I didn't know it. I tapped on the message.

Teen Queen. You need to go to High Demand and stop wasting time posing around the library. The information you need is in the book I marked on your tute notes. Earl.

I may have gasped when I saw it and looked around the library suspiciously, anticipating I'd see Earl peering at me between the bookshelves. The library attendant looked up from the computer. ‘It's listed in High Demand,' he said, nodding in that direction.

‘Thanks,' I said, stuffing my phone back in my pocket. ‘Yeah, stupid, I should have read my course papers better.'

‘Oh not really,' the library attendant said, ‘it was only listed there this morning. Understandable mistake.'

I was fuming as I headed for High Demand and pushed the glass door open. I'd spent the better part of the morning looking for that stupid book. If Earl
was going to list it High Demand — when the only person in the course it was relevant to was me — why wouldn't he have told me earlier? Seriously, I think he got off on making my life difficult.

It was only much later that it occurred to me that he had somehow accessed my mobile number, so I made him a contact in my phone — that way I wouldn't be caught off guard by him again.

Not long after this, Maureen, the mature-aged student, was enraged after our tute. She grabbed hold of my arm and whispered, ‘I'm going to complain about him.' I was puzzled. In group tutorial Earl pretty much ignored me now, whereas in our private sessions he was totally different, belittling me, reminding me how dumb and superficial I was. So I wasn't sure what had Maureen so mad.

‘Why?' I asked.

‘I hate the way he speaks to you,' she said. ‘I can't stand it. I have a daughter your age and if I thought any man spoke to her the way Earl does to you I'd want someone to stand up for her.'

‘Oh Maureen,' I said. She didn't know the half of
his treatment towards me. ‘It's fine, really.'

‘It's not,' Maureen hissed. ‘It's an abuse of power. He cuts you down, his tone is rude. He doesn't speak to anyone else the way he speaks to you.' I had to agree it was true, but at least he wasn't making public the nasty comments he made to me privately. ‘It's akin to sexual harassment.'

Sexual harassment? I wanted to laugh. There was nothing sexual coming from him. He certainly had never made any moves on me — that, I'd have reported in a heartbeat. No, he was just a mean old man, who had made me his target.

‘Please don't,' I said. ‘Really, I can handle it. I think that's why he does it. It's just a bit of banter.'