just_a_girl (17 page)

Davo still drops around some weekends. He always turns up just in time for brunch. When mum’s making pancakes. Even though we’ve broken up. She dollops the last bit of batter. Flips into the air hard. Slaps it on the table in front of him. Won’t offer him blueberries. He picks up a fork and starts shovelling. Doesn’t even bother looking up. He sits at the head of the table. As if we’ve laid a place for him. As if he’s waiting for me to beg. Scrape myself off the floor.

He’s reading the
Daily Telegraph.
As if he’s on radio and his voice is getting louder. Mum has left the room to vacuum. She does a lot of cleaning when Davo’s around. But it still doesn’t drown him out.

—They’re saying now that she was
murdered
on the ship. That those guys took her back to the cabin and drugged her. But she was naked when they found her body.

Davo peers at the photo of the murdered woman and looks doubtful.

—But what I don’t get is why they would’ve been after her. There would have been plenty of hot chicks on the boat. She had four kids! Those guys were security guards. Look at them. They could’ve got anyone. And if they were going to murder her, why would they take photos on their mobiles?

Davo’s really into this story. He’s obsessed by all those shows like
CSI.
The blood, the bones, the forensic investigations. He always used to download them and make me watch. While keeping up a running commentary about what was going on. As if I couldn’t figure it out for myself.

I grab the paper off him to look at her picture too. It’s a photo taken on the ship. She looks ecstatic. Like all her holidays have come at once. I start to read.

—Well it says here that she had a shitload of drugs in her system after she died. She probably had her drink spiked. She wouldn’t have known what was happening to her.

Davo starts stabbing the paper with his fork. He wants me to say he’s right. Bow down and obey. But I don’t want to play that game any more.

—Just read it to the end, Layla. Look, it sounds like she was off her face by the time she got to their room anyway. She would’ve taken anything. And what did she expect? Everyone knows that’s why guys go on those cruises.

He points out a postcard they’ve reproduced in the paper. I look over to where his finger traces the outline. Of a hot oiled body in a red dotty bikini. She lies in the sun alongside three friends sunbaking. Their boobs are large. Their stomachs flat. A cruisy day by the cruise-ship pool. A label over her shoulder says SEAMEN WANTED.

Davo grins and watches my face for the slow dawn. He knows I never get jokes straightaway. But fuckadoodle, I don’t get this at all. It seems slimy and slippery. Like the girl’s body in the heat.

He grabs the paper again before I’ve finished reading it. Squints in to check out a photo on the next page. He laughs, looking around to see if mum’s in the room. There’s a picture of a man running around with only a life vest on. They’ve pixelated it. The life jacket chord is strategically placed. But not big enough to cover his dick hanging down.

I continue to read the man’s account over Davo’s shoulder. About meeting the woman in the bar. About how she died in his cabin. He talks about her as if she’s an animal. As if she doesn’t deserve the space to breathe.

The man’s words bounce off me like I’m playing dodgeball. I try to duck and weave but they keep scoring. I look down at my body still in PJs. My tummy poking over the elastic. The flesh on my arms. Rusty sneaks in and sits on my toes. Ready to defend me against the world. I look at Davo and see him at the head of the table. When he’s 30. When he’s 40. When he’s 50. When he’s dead. He looks at me and smiles.

I get up from the table and he shuffles up. As if to go down the hall to my bedroom. I steer him to the front door. He laughs as I push him out onto the verandah. He goes to hold my wrists again. But I lock the screen door this time and turn away.

I read the article again without Davo watching. My eyes focus this time on the photo of the woman who died. She has a big warm smile and an open face. Dark skin.
Spanish looking. Bright lipstick, thick arched eyebrows. Sunny. She seems so full of life. I think a photo can capture that. When someone wants to burst out of their skin. But now she’s gone. For drinking champagne. For dancing the night away. She never returned to her kids. Never came back from holidays.

I imagine her at my age. Just a girl. Dreaming of a future. Different from mine. With kids and family. I can see her cooking brunch. At the stove flipping pancakes. Talking fast as she looks out the window.

Conjuring up a fantasy. To cruise to Vanuatu.

I got a call from Bevan this morning offering to drop around and approve the final brochure designs and it was a bit out of the blue as he’s usually busy on Sunday, but Chelsea is taking this week’s service again and he has a few hours to spare, so then I was in a tizz because I’m not the world’s best cook and I like a bit more time to get organised, so I tried to send Layla up to the supermarket but we had a big fight because she didn’t want to go since she quit working there, but when I told her about Bevan coming for lunch she changed her tune and walked up, brought home dips and bread and olives and I thought I’d do a bit of a Moroccanny theme with chicken and preserved lemons and couscous, but it was quite dry so I made some harissa paste and he was so appreciative, he looked quite glowy in a simple white shirt, and he drank a lot of water because he said the dish was
quite spicy.

And I was surprised because even Layla seemed to be on her best behaviour without me asking and she was all smiles, I could even say charming, which is highly unusual for her and I thought
things would take a downhill turn and tried to change the subject when he asked her why she no longer came to Church, but she smiled and said that the music wasn’t really her style and he asked her what kind of music she was into and she reeled off all these bands, and I could tell he had no idea what she was talking about, like I never do, and then she got up and cleared the dishes and even asked if he would like coffee or tea and he watched her with approval as she sauntered out the room, and then looked at me quickly and I smiled as if,
Oh yes, she’s such a lovely girl, so helpful around the house,
and she came back in with a tray and plunger and a cute little milk jug that I’d forgotten we had, and sat down with one of her self-satisfied looks while we checked over the conference materials for typos and she lingered over her cup of coffee.

And I was careful not to let his fingers touch mine as we passed the papers between us, I mean, it’s not as if much has happened yet but I’ll say one thing for Layla, she can pick up on vibes, and Bevan is always very respectful but I think he was checking me out a few times, and Layla even gave him a goodbye peck on the cheek in that
mwah mwah
way her friends have and on the doorstep he suggested,
We’ll have to have a little celebration when the brochures are printed,
and before I could reply Layla grabbed her bag and asked out of the blue whether he’d mind giving her a lift to the mall because she needed to buy some jewellery for the formal, but it seemed an imposition so I said no, no, I could drive her, but he said no, no, no probs at all, he had to go past there anyway, and they both seemed happy in each other’s company as they got into his car.

And I really do appreciate this turn of events and I know the Lord is looking out for me bringing Bevan deeper into my life, because I think Layla really needs a healthy male role model,
a father figure closer to home and someone who’s more hands-on than Geoff, and I pray that he can offer her some extra guidance at this time and teach her that God’s spirit lives within her too.

I’ve been seeing a lot of Mr C this past month. I still can’t bring myself to call him by his first name. Bevan. It’s a little boy’s name. I use Mr C to his face. It stops me slipping up. In front of mum. It keeps him at a distance. He picks me up after school. On Wednesdays when mum goes to zumba.

He has healing hands. He places them on people and they sigh or look up to the stars. He places them on me and I feel calm. As if I’m tucked in with him. The thing about Mr C is he knows how to listen. He’s not one of those people. Who’s just thinking of what to say next while you talk. And he’s not that much older. My dad says I’m 15 going on 50. So I can cope. Mr C knows a lot about me. We have a history. We don’t have to start at the very beginning. He hasn’t forced me to have sex with him. Or brainwashed me with his religion. Those people who talk about teenagers like we’re innocents in danger of being corrupted need to get into the real world. Or they could
start in the virtual, even. Fuckadoodle, at least learn how the internet works.

What I love most about Mr C is that he takes me to high places. We met for an afternoon in the Shangri-La hotel and I sat in the window alcove. Watched the little ferries docking at Circular Quay. And he stayed with me. Didn’t leave singing my name. We just lay there talking and dozing. And we ordered nachos that cost 20 bucks. Watched
Casablanca
on classic in-house movies. I’ll have to tell dad I’ve seen it.

He took me up the Sydney Harbour Bridge. Mum was invited. But she was too afraid of heights to go. He put his arm around me for the cheesy photo. In front of the Opera House just as it was getting dark. We laughed at each other in dorky grey jumpsuits. And I saw him scared for the first time. Because it began to rain and we watched an electrical storm approach. Up there you’re a lightning magnet.

Everyone assumes I’m his daughter. He likes to hear about what’s happening at school and the goss on Sarah. He said he’d like to take me up to the top of Sacré-Cœur. Where you can see all of Paris. I googled it for the correct spelling. And to see the photos. I just smile knowing it will never happen but hey. I’m just a girl. But I can dream.

And when I walk into the room I’ve got him. I don’t have to grab his focus it’s just there. Some girls will fuck older guys for an iPod or 300 bucks. But I’m not like that. I want something more. And besides, dad gave me an iPod for my birthday. So I’m not that desperate.

When I look into Mr C’s face I don’t see god. But he does remind me of my old teacher. With Mr King it all ended on a bad note. It was the end of grade 5.

Mum told me never to talk about it.

We went on a school camp just before christmas holidays. Back then I was one of those girls who people call
well-developed.
They always said it in a hushed tone. As if it was dangerous. Or maybe contagious. I never could work out exactly what those words meant. There were a few of us in grade 5. We towered over the boys. I never took my jumper off on sports day because I was teased for jiggling about. But us
developed
girls never really bonded. Just eyed each other suspiciously. Hating what our bodies had become. A collective failure for growing beyond acceptable boundaries.

We already had our periods. So Mrs Wilson showed us how to use the pad bin in the toilets at camp. Hardly rocket science. But I was still embarrassed that I had to use pads. And mum wouldn’t buy me tampons. The pads were like surfboards. Sometimes you could see them through your clothes. And during sport they were impossible to hide. Especially if you had to do gymnastics. Or high jump and you leaked.

When I first got my period it was school holidays. And we were staying at a holiday house in Evans Head on the beach. I was in the bath and thought I had some sort of injury. There was blood on my towel. I don’t think mum could believe it either. I was only 10 years old.

When mum explained pads and bleeding it felt like a punishment. A life sentence.
This is going to happen to me every month?
I think I was in denial. I’d forget to have pads
in my bag at school. Spend the whole day sitting in various positions to hide the blood. I got to be an expert in the jumper around the waist trick.

And once at dad’s I couldn’t find anywhere to put my pads. Red, soggy, sad. It took two bloody days to get the guts to knock and ask.
Dad, where do I put my pads?
My eyes on the floor. He was distracted cooking in the kitchen. And thought I meant my undies.
Just put them in the washing basket,
he pointed. And I couldn’t ask again. I wrapped the pads in newspaper. Stuffed them behind the washing basket in the bathroom. He told me later that he found them. We were walking on the beach and he said,
Why couldn’t you tell me? I’m your father, for christ’s sake.

Anyway. I didn’t even have my period at the camp, thank god. Because we were going kayaking and Mr King was teaching us. I pulled on my long jumper to hide my legs. They were so white and lumpy and went blue and veiny in the cold. Not like Sarah’s. She had blonde hairs that seemed to melt into her tan like cocoa butter. But I didn’t want my jeans to get wet. So I wore some little board shorts. When I walked down to the river I pulled my jumper down as far as it would go. People started whispering around me. I thought they were laughing at my liquid paper legs. Mr King gave me a sharp look and turned away. Sarah asked me,
have you got anything on under that jumper?
Everyone thought I was naked underneath. So I pulled it down more. Fuckadoodle, let them think that.

Kayaking is just not my thing. I don’t get how it’s meant to be fun. Sloshing about in a boat straining to turn in circles. I gave up. Sarah churned away with her paddle up front. Trying to make up for me. When we were all
drenched we headed back to the campfire to make damper. Connecting with nature and all that. We melted chocolate and dipped strawberries. No-one was talking to me. Sarah was pissed because I made her come last in the race. I ate on my own. And Mr King wouldn’t dare look at me. He pretended to help the other kids unpeel the foil from their baked potatoes.

I smiled to myself. Because I knew he was just waiting for the right moment. I wouldn’t have him as a teacher next year. And it was time for us to say goodbye.

I went off to have a shower before bed. This girl, Madison, was standing up on the toilet seat. Leaning over into the showers. Taking photos of other girls washing themselves, starkers. She had already been through my backpack. She pulled out my undies and hung them on the toilet door.

Look at the skiddies!
she kept screaming.

I just didn’t get why people liked her. She once threw a chair at Mr King. But she was tough and strong. She had a neck like a bulldog. And people always went on her side. Even if they told me they didn’t like her.

I locked myself in the shower right down the end. And crouched down and waited until she had left. Until everyone had left. Not wanting to risk further punishment.

I was still standing there when Mr King came down the corridor. He knocked on the bathroom door.
Okay girls, time for bed and lights out soon. Finish up in the bathroom.
I didn’t answer so he came in to check for stragglers.

I yanked off my clothes and opened the shower door. Stripped to the bone. Except for my soggy sneakers. Eyes to the floor. I wanted him to really see me. I just knew he
would open his arms. So I could fold into them. I went to reach out. But he backed out slowly with his hands up. Warding me off as if I was a wild brumby. Eyes to the toilet block roof.

He left me there with my arms dangling.

When I got home mum told me the school had called her.
Inappropriate behaviour.

Mr King didn’t come back to teach the next year. Sometimes I wish he had made a move. Even a step towards me.

But I’m not allowed to talk about it.