Being Kalli (12 page)

I’m lying in a sweet
, dazed world when I startle and feel for my phone. One new text.

Nate:
We’ll talk about it when I’m back.

We could talk about anything and it’d be okay, so long as he’s willing to give me some type of chance.

So long as I never make a damn waste of the best guy that’s ever happened to me. I look at my dark ceiling and tip my head to Scout.
Fine, I’m damn afraid of falling for Nate in case I make us fall and fall and fall … somewhere darker than this
.

I saw a penis once before. Not in real life, ‘cause I’ve never had a Dad to accidentally see, but one of the girls at school took a picture of a boy that dacked himself at her brother’s football game and she showed it to us.

So I always wondered why people made a fuss of them. They were smaller than I thought and sorta shrivel
led.

But His one makes me breath catch in my throat. It’s not shrivel
ly like that picture and I don’t giggle. Can’t, anyway, with my socks in my mouth, tied in place. I can’t scream and I know where he’ll put it. After seeing those actors kissing and touching, I know he wants to put it there.

Still, I scream. I scream until something
breaks in my throat and no sound comes out but the fear is no less loud and overpowering, making me rattle in these tie-ups.

“Do you like this, Kallisto?”

I shake my head.

He tugs at my undies until they rip and he yanks.
Oh my God, I’m naked down there! Despite my panic, I still blush and would rather die than be here right now. He rears up his hand and slaps me down there. It sounds softer than the pain, which rings like symbols clapping.

“Do you like this, Kallisto?”

I pretend I was just moving to itch, but he sees me shake my head again and this time he looks down and studies me. I begin thrashing so hard, my skin breaks, and I see blood pool. He stares and stares, then suddenly sticks his rude finger up and shoves it into me.

My eyes clench shut and I think I can’t take it anymore. Surely w
ith enough pain, a girl can die?

I feel sick to my bones, but I’m crying too much to throw up. I literally hear a rip, clear as a piece of paper ripping in two
, and that could only be me.

I let myself get ripped apart. I am letting myself take this pain and nothing could make me happier than dying to forget this.

I’ll never forget this.

He takes out his bloody finger and when he asks this third time I
don’t answer, and he doesn’t ask for an answer again.

His thingy is so big
. He sounds a bit like a cat purring but much louder and more desperate. He touches it and strokes it back and forward. He gives me eyes that show he’s teaching me something but I don’t get what until he wraps my hands around him and tells me to pretend I’m stroking a cucumber.

Why would I want to stroke a cucumber?

But he slaps me again down there and with the blood it’s like an ice dagger ripping my mind and eyes and voice, and just everything into nothing.

I do as he says and think that maybe it is a cucumber because he is so
ft. He gets mad and slaps my arm if I lose rhythm or knees me between my legs, so I focus really, really hard on making him happy.

He tells me he’s about to do it and I don’t know what
that is but then he shoves himself in my mouth and I drown in some weird-tasting mayonnaise thing, but it’s much saltier.

“Good,” he praises me. “You did so good you get to go again but this time, we are going to do it like men and girls are meant to.”

It was that moment I started counting. I shoved down all my feelings and all thoughts and all that I could into a locked compartment. I counted rhythm as I pretended to play my violin and counted the seconds that the audience gave me a standing ovation.

I thought of al
l the ways I’d tell on him to Mum, but in the end she called me to pack away the groceries so she could have some private time with Him.

“Ooh,” she called from her bedroom. “You actually changed the sheets for once. And they’re so pretty!”

I don’t know what it was about that afternoon, but it seemed like I was lying to her by waiting to tell her the next day
,
and the next day
,
and then I never found any way to tell her
w
hat her favourite boyfriend did.

“Hey,” I call to Mum when she tiptoes out of the twins’ room tonight.

She looks over her shoulder as if to check they’re still asleep then turns back.

“Want to come down to the basement with me?”

She gets a wicked smile and bund
les our giant Reese’s Pieces bag from our local USA candy import store.

If Melbourne ever had cyclones, we’d survive for weeks
down there without a struggle. Mum grabs her cigarettes, which makes my eyes pop and I get a smiley feeling in my belly. She easily could have brought a joint with her down there.

Despite Mu
m’s normal mood, her body is a giveaway of what I know about her. Her drug habits keep her slimmer than most Mums—or any regular thirty-seven-year-old for that matter. But I notice that in the last couple of weeks it’s like she’s disappearing before my eyes. Times before when she tried to clean up, she put on weight.

So, what else is going on?
If she keeps transforming this way, it’s possible she could waste away.

Mu
m’s not much of a coffee drinker; she doesn’t have the shakes in her fingers like many coffee-drinking addicts do. However, her hands shake as she attempts to open the zip-lock of the Reese’s bag. She has to put it down, wipe down her hands on her pants, and shake out her fingers.

Her arms. T
hey’re gangly. I used to look like that when I was in my first years of high school.

She takes her
couch and puts her feet up on a stool, placing the open bag between us on the end table. I also put my feet up on a footrest in front.

“Want one?”

She hands over the cigarette packet and I light one, too. After a long drag, a calming breath, I’m more at ease.

I’m about to
get into Mum about why all that happened that day when she walked out on the rest of our family, but pretend I’m yawning, and crunch on some chocolate instead. Accusation, as I’ve experienced, doesn’t make me want to spill my guts out. It wouldn’t for Mum either.

“
Hey,” I start. Mum waits. I rest the cigarette in the ashtray beside me, and go on. “Why did things get like this between you and Aunty Nicole—and Grandpa and all.”

“Kalli, that’s so old!” She
throws back her head, tossing in a handful of the chocolate pieces, and makes a shooing motion until she finishes chewing. “It’s so long ago. You don’t have to worry. Aren’t you morbid? We’ve got so much other better things to talk about.”

“It matters to
me
.”
I want to know why.
“Because I know you’re still hurting from it. I could never not speak to Seth and Tris again. I’ve been home catching up on studies and busy with work, and I’ve had quiet time to imagine if I became too busy for my loved ones. It hurts thinking about it. It’s just always been an important thing to know about my family.”

“You’re getting all worried. This is why I like to forget about it. It’s nothing.”
She shrugs. “I barely remember why now, anyway.”

Lies
. But her face is infallible. I’d never know if I wasn’t already in on the secret.

“It’s not nothing
. Loved ones are everything. I want Seth and Tris to know their extended family—
I
want to know them. Don’t you? Don’t you feel lonely sometimes? There’s that, and I’m so damn proud of you cleaning up and being awesome with the twins and me. Maybe I want to show off how proud I am of all this. And, deep down, I think you’d want them to know how you’re doing now, too.”

Mu
m points her cigarette at me. “You’re astute, Kalli.”

“No, I
was
good at being ignorant. I think we can help each other if we finally talk.”

This silences her. I let her finish off that cigarette in
the quiet. I let her stub it out way after the red ember dies.

“You sure? You don’t have to.”

“Mary, I need help too.”

She nods.
When she reaches out her hand, I take it. We’re linked in the space between us with our forearms dangling off the couch shoulders.

“
Kalli.” She smiles, and that glow tells me it’s genuine. You can’t fake the cosy feeling when someone gives you a smile from the heart. “It’s great you want to help me, but the thing is, I want to do it quietly, without any outside pressures. It’s hard to sleep sometimes, and I’m loaded on painkillers—go figure—but it’s worth it for you guys. It’s always worth it.”

“I’ll just listen. I w
ant you to know how proud I am.”

At this point, the air
is so thick I have to adjust the angle of my face to find a way to swallow. My muscles are so tight that this moment with Mum, it’s like a breath from an air conditioner in the heat of summer.

“Let me do this my way, Kalli.” Her voice is stronger now; not mad
, but certain.

I remember my cigarette,
resting in the ashtray beside me. I give Mum a look and finish off the bit that’s left, emptying the tray in the trash can on the other side of the basement. When I come back and sit down, I swear the world is moving on without me and I don’t know why we’re here or how to say what I need to when I’ve always been fine to keep this to myself.

Mu
m nods—an agreement between us. “There are some things you should know that I discovered through my mistakes. You can’t ever erase the impact of the terrible things you do to someone; that sits between you forever. Making up, turning a new leaf, etcetera—it’s all well and good, but for everything you do wrong, it needs to be made up two-fold. Impressions do fade—good or bad—and so anything bad you do can be superseded, but also anything good you do can easily be forgotten under all your mistakes.

“I know you haven’t had it easy because of me. I don’t know how to say so many things I need to.
”

She looks to
my hand and reaches over to swipe her fingers over the back of mine. It feels therapeutic, being able to speak to her like this. As Mum said: the bad can always be superseded, and it gives me hope for my nightmares and fears. And for my mistakes.

“When I’ve tried quitting in the past, it was always for someone else. My dad saying I’ll end up like my mother.
To impress Chester. Somehow it’s taken me two decades of my habit to find out nothing will work when it comes to being serious cleaning up unless I do it for me.”

“Aren’t you morbid?” I mimic. “You’re no fun at all.”

My tone is playful, and even after all this we both throw our heads back and chortle, like these sounds come from fat old women with hairy moles on their faces. We couldn’t care less.

“But you always go on about
‘fun’ and such,” I say. Suddenly my approach has turned defensive without my knowledge of wanting to sound that way. Why am I doing this? We’re finally getting somewhere.

“Part of having fun is letting go, you know. Forcing fun only gives you so much
satisfaction, like
getting drunk to smother whatever you need to. Part of enjoyment is trust. Trust that you can open yourself up to someone and that person will take care of your mind and heart. Betsy isn’t the smartest or the wisest, as I’m not, but none of my old friends or family accept and understand me as she does.”

Mu
m taps my hand with hers and gazes deep into my eyes. “I know you’re a private person but you can’t be truly happy until you allow someone to know who you are, deep inside. You don’t need to share everything, but they do need to know what makes you who you are, even if it’s downright ugly. Otherwise, you shut off parts of you until you only have the tip of the iceberg to show off, and that’s like a sign asking people to keep you this way, lonely and isolated.

“And,” she says, her tone changing to
something I can’t place, but my heart knows and beats faster at it, “Scout and Nate are the type of friends I’d have loved to have had years ago.”

It takes forever to shake myself back
here. “Um, wow? You sound so prophetic. How did you come up with a speech like that?”

“I didn’t. Nicole tried telling me this and I’ve sp
ent years figuring it out for myself.”

Nate’s back tomorrow; tonight, Friday, still seems impossibly far.

I’ve been slightly distracted, thankfully. T
here’s an annual violin concert coming up. It’s a great showcase event where students in grade four and above can compete, and the night ranges from new violinists and pianists to experienced ones and a select few national “celebrities” in the violin and piano world.

I round up some of my favo
urite pieces over the years. I have a soft spot for
Arioso
by Bach, but I played that last year when a couple of my students were selected. I pull out my written piece. It’s still nameless, so I start penning possible names. The first ones are cliché, including words such as “survive” and “love”, so I keep writing and scrunching, aiming for the can until I have a decent list.

Scrolling down, I choose, “I Will”.

It fits perfectly with the musical story, from the staccato to the longer notes where I accentuate my vibrato.

I text Scout to tell her the good news about
finally finding a name for my piece, and letting her know this year’s concert details. Naturally, we end up at one of the university cafés, give our stiff texting fingers a break and hang out properly.

Walking in I notice the corner
couches are free and force my excitement down so I don’t run and do a bomb onto them. The leather is the softest, and once I lounge back, I’m overcome with want to close my eyes and stay, let my back tension ease away.

“Yo.”

Scout bumps my leg, and I lift it up to let her through.

“So,
” she starts.

That
so
puts her on the spot as much of me.

Have you told your family the truth about you, and Steph?

What’s going on with you and Nate?

She sets the mood when her answer is a waggling tongue poking out. Fine. I lift my legs and place them over her thighs. She death stares me, so I settle my legs into a comfortable crossed over position and lean my back on the
couch arm.

“Hey.” I hold my hands up helplessly. “That’s what besties are for.”

“Has Nate spoken to you?” Scout tips her head at me, grinning. “
That
’s what besties are for.”

“Uhh
…” I look down at my top, shaping it over my leggings, trying to figure out the best answer until I feel the shadow of someone looming behind me.

“Two skinny caps?”

“Thanks, just put them on the table,” Scout says.

The lady leaves our coffees on the table, walking away, as Scout says, “And that
, too.”

The cappuccinos were a low move on her part. The
smell of the rich, roasted beans, not burnt, makes me smile and sip, feeling warm and capable.

“So?”

“I’m not sure. As expected he isn’t speaking to me yet. He’s said, like, one sentence to me in a text. I’m not whinging about it. I deserve it.”

“Kalli!”

Scout realises her voice was loud enough to make another customer turn and scoff at her.

Lowering her voice, she says, “Kalli, you’re killing me here. Yes, you fucked up, but do something about it. You guys will never speak if you let this silence happen.”

“What do I say? It’s too late. He won’t listen to me.”

“Do you know that? Give him a chance
.”

I shrug. I don’t want to fight, but it’s obvious that forgiving or accepting what a slutty, bitchy girl
I am won’t come fast or easy.

“Prove you
’re worth it, Kalli. I know you are. Because of you I spoke to Steph about everything I was feeling. Finally, after I let go with you, I felt like I could trust others. She wants to be there with me when I tell my parents ‘cause she knows I’ll be crapping my panties. I wouldn’t be feeling more and more okay with being gay if it weren’t for my best friend right here.”

Especially s
ince Nate left for his photography trip more so than before, I’ve wondered about him getting sick of me. What if I’m too late? What if I pushed him too far?

Do I have a chance to work out whatever is going on between us?

But the simplest one sticks: What if he does hire a private room to shoot a sexy, thin, impossibly-long haired model in? How on earth do I live up to that? What if she’s topless or completely naked? What if she spreads her legs for the camera, or does bedroom eyes, looking over her shoulder at him? Would he even want to resist temptation like that?

Scout lifts my ankles and hugs them to her chest, like a girl with her little dolly. Scout’s stupid, but she’ll always make me laugh, which is why I say, “Fine, I have an idea.”

•••

Friday morning I ge
t the email. Not only are two of my violin students performing at the concert in a few weeks’ time but they want
me
to do a special piece to finish off the night as well as my standard at the beginning. No one ever closes the night’s concert until the organisers feel they have something special to leave with the audience.

Since
Nate comes back tomorrow, I practise for two solid hours after I return from a lecture and a tute. I concentrate on a section of bars that I keep playing off tune. Those I tend to forget.

F
or those two hours I relish my fingertips callousing, and the black string lines embedded in them.

After I pack my bow and violin away, brush away the white resin
dusted on my jeans, I get on my computer and start on Operation Nate. I find all the ones I want to find, find the book I need to and get started.

I don’t stop until dinnertime, and even then,
I gladly suffer the consequences of indigestion from stuffing my face because it means I can get back to my room faster to finish off.

Later when I’m done, I tell myself I’ll call Nate. I dial his number and repeat to myself it’s okay, stay on the line, while each
ring mocks me more. One, was this a good idea? Two, he might not pick up. Three, he’s busy. Four, crap, hang up now before you annoy him. Then on the fifth ring, his voice comes on puffed, saying, “Hello?”

“I’m sorry, I interrupted you. Uh—”

“Hey, Kall. I just made it. Didn’t see it was you.”

Legs hanging over the side of my bed, back laid over the cover, I close my eyes and wonder if he means he wouldn’t have picked up if he saw it was me calling, or if
he’s happy I’m calling him and is pleasantly surprised.

Can’t imagine it’s the latter.

“I’ve got something of yours here. Scout told me you were back tomorrow and I’d like to give it to you. That’s all.”
No sex, no crazy Kalli.

“Oh, well, maybe. I’ll text you if I’m free.”

“Oh, sure. Sorry about the last-minute thing. Okay, bye.”

Crap, shit. This is bad. Not only does he sound disinterested
, but I foresee myself making a bigger and bigger fool of myself. I am already shaking, feeling cold without
being
cold by the chills on my skin, knowing I’m ending my first chat with Nate in a week so soon, but it’s for the best. It is.

“All right.
See ya, Kall.”