What Does Blue Feel Like? (16 page)

but she still gets pretty tired out

and she always thinks that people are looking at her scars.

On the last night she's here,

Bronwyn, Lee, and I gather on the beach,

to drink Baccardi out of a Coke bottle.

We pass the bottle around,

and talk about everything.

 

Lee cries,

as she tells us that she still cuts

and doesn't know how to stop it

and that she feels so goddamn ugly

with the scars from the accident

that she just wants to hide under a rock and never come out.

 

Bronwyn and I look at each other

and don't say anything

but slide our arms around Lee,

one either side,

she's bodyguarded now

and I hope

that our touch somehow comforts her.

Warm against the cold.

 

Bronwyn starts talking suddenly,

filling the empty silence

that's only punctuated by random sniffles

and the occasional nose-blowing from Lee.

Bronwyn talks about how

no matter what she does

she always feels fat.

No matter what the scales say.

She knows that she's got to change her mindset

but it seems too scary, too hard,

and that voice in her head

telling her she's fat, fat, fat,

is like a companion she's known all her life

and she's not sure she can say goodbye.

She talks about her boyfriend

and how she thinks he's going to leave her

because surely things can't be that good.

Her thoughts purge out

until the catharsis is over,

and then she looks slightly vulnerable,

grabbing the bottle off Lee

and taking a long drink.

 

I let the silence penetrate the air

and ingest some more Dutch courage

before I tell the girls how

there are nights when I can't sleep and

I want to rip off my head

and sometimes I can't believe I'm so fucked up

and that I needed their help after I had the abortion

but I was so ashamed and guilty that I couldn't breathe

a word about what was eating me up inside.

And that I still don't know if I've got a purpose for my life

or what it is

and I'm so damn sick and tired

of feeling fragile.

 

Lee leans her head on my shoulder.

It's a drunken, tired, sympathetic gesture.

Bronwyn hands me the bottle,

and I, too, drink.

 

Even though none of us has spoken

a word of comfort to each other,

the empathy and compassion

ooze around us

like a fog.

 

We stay on the beach for a long time.

I know

that even if our friendships drift apart,

I will not forget this night.

Jim and I are packing to come home,

shaking the sand out of everything

sweeping the floor

throwing away a heap of bottles

washing up plates and glasses,

when he pulls me tight

and holds me.

For a minute

I don't want to grow up.

I want time to freeze,

so I can stay here,

in this fibro shack full of sand,

with Jim and the girls on the beach,

with the smells of hot chips and

the taste of Baccardi in my mouth.

With the drives in the car,

singing along with the radio

turned up loud,

sticking our hands out the window to feel the wind.

I want to stay here,

where it's safe and peaceful and happy.

I know I can't,

but I wish I could —

just for a minute longer.

 

Jim has the suitcases by the door

and he's calling me impatiently to hurry up,

the house key jangling in his hand.

I take one last look around the place,

and walk out.

Now Schoolies is over,

I'm officially no longer a student —

and I don't quite know what to do with myself.

 

Mum hugs me at the door,

thrilled that I've made it through Schoolies unscathed.

She frowns at Jim's eyebrow ring,

and checks me all over for piercings.

Mothers!

 

Monday brings normalcy.

Back to work,

full time now.

Back to crisp white shirts and shrill telephones.

It's comforting,

sitting at the computer sipping coffee.

I suppose

that I'll have to find another job —

try to work out what I really like doing.

But for now,

I'm happy,

sitting at the computer sipping coffee.

Today the OP results are out.

The ones that tell you whether or not you can

get into the course you want.

I try to check online but I can't get through —

the net is too busy.

I don't really care, because I'm not going to uni,

but I'm curious, all the same.

So I opt to wait it out — outside.

The postie smiles at me

and as he hands me an A4 envelope he says,

‘Guess this is for you. Good luck, young lady.'

I take it into my room,

put it on the bed,

pace around,

poke it,

lie down and look at the envelope from another angle.

Mum and Dad are watching from the doorway,

and Dad tells me to just open it already,

I'm making him nervous.

I rip a teeny hole in a corner,

and examine it closely.

Finally,

I rip it open,

straight down the middle.

16.

Not bad.

I'm pretty happy with that.

I grin out of the corner of my mouth,

and hold up the piece of paper.

My parents squint, and then grin,

holler

and wahoo,

before sandwiching me in the middle of their hug.

They're proud of me,

they say,

and it's nice to know that.

They take me out for dinner,

to the local Chinese,

and tell everyone in the restaurant that I got

a great OP score.

I'm embarrassed by their antics,

but I can't help smiling.

That night

phone lines are tied up

as every Year Twelve kid discovers what everyone else got.

The rumours do the rounds

that the ‘smart girl' of the class

cried because she got an OP 2, not an OP 1.

One of the boys managed to get the lowest score possible

— and he's so proud of it.

Bronwyn rings me, subdued.

She didn't get what she needed

to get into the course she wanted.

‘Never mind Char,' she says bravely.

‘It's the big picture that's important, you know?'

She doesn't join the melee on MSN

bragging about their score.

There's quite a few people who don't.

 

I can't help but feel sorry for them.

Two weeks later

and it's New Year's Eve.

 

Jim and I share our resolutions.

His are predictable —

to do really well in his apprenticeship,

start saving his money,

that kind of thing.

I make one resolution —

to remember

that I
am
a good person

and to not beat myself up so much.

No more

being my worst enemy.

And to ask for help

when I need it.

 

I'm not perfect,

and I don't expect to be,

but the Bad Days,

no matter how vicious,

will not win.

And that is my strongest resolution.

 

It's New Year's Eve —

the night that's known for being full of

Hope

Promise

Potential

Wonder.

A clean slate, and all that, you know.

I feel as if

my life is

Beginning

Forming

Shaping

into the next phase.

 

I want to taste it,

gulp it with all of my senses,

and do more than just exist.

 

I will LIVE.