Leaving Jetty Road (6 page)

chapter nine

The way things change

“S
o how’s things going with that hunky chef of yours?” says Sofia to Nat one lunchtime a couple of weeks later.

We’ve just come in from underneath the Moreton Bay fig tree after a short, sharp shower. This week we’ve had the first of the autumn rains; the sky’s turned low and gray, and months of cold, wet dreariness stretch ahead of us. The rec room, heated by the school’s geriatric oil heating system, is fuggy with the smell of hot chips and microwaved meat pies. Fragments of loud, cheerful, inane conversation drift over to us as we talk. (“What did you get for question four in the math test?” “Go on—have another one. You’re so
skinny
.” “Anyway, so get this—he asked me
out.
”)

Nat looks dreamily out the window, not answering Sofe’s question straightaway.

“Things’re good,” she says. “Great. I mean—okay.” She blushes.

“So—have you two
done it
yet?” Sofia asks.

“Sofe.”
She colors again.

“Well,
have
you?”

“What about you and Nick?” Nat counters. “Or have you already broken up with him?”

“Actually,” says Sofia, “we’re still together.”

And it’s weird, but there’s the same dreamy look about her that Nat had a moment ago—only there’s something else in her face, too. She’s more certain, more confident about it, somehow, than Nat.

Nat turns to me, gaping. “How many weeks do you make that, Lise?”

I count back. “Eight weeks. No—nine. That’s two whole months!”

We stare at Sofia in astonishment. This is a record: as far as I can remember, Sofe’s never gone out with a boy for longer than a month.

Nat says slowly, “This is, like
—serious.
”

And Sofia nods, her eyes glowing. “I know.”

Things are changing. More and more, I look around me at moments like this and I realize that everyone in my life is changing, moving on. And there’s nothing I can do about it. No matter how much I try to forget it, ignore it, deny it, that’s what’s happening.

I feel so far behind, so out of sync.

When I first met Nat, at the beginning of Year 7, we were both new girls, stiff and uncertain in our starchy green school dresses. After Assembly, we got back to our homeroom and our teacher, Mrs. Botticelli, had assigned us desks next to each other. I put my books and pens and rulers down on my desk. I didn’t know what to say, was terrified of this big-boned, straight-brown-haired, freckled girl sitting next to me. But Nat just turned and smiled at me—a cheerful, open, slightly gap-toothed smile—and said, “I
hate
being new. Don’t you?”

And I knew, from that moment, that things would be all right as long as she was around.

Being friends with Nat was easy. It was pure luck, of course—I knew that even then—but it just felt so
right.
We went on trips to Glenelg at the end of each summer holiday: lay on the sand in the sun, rubbed sunblock on each other’s shoulders, told secrets in the lull of the sea. On weekends we made cakes at her house for afternoon tea, rode our bikes to the supermarket for candy, caught the bus into town to go to the movies.

And I thought I was safe. I thought that maybe, after all, things would be all right; that life would be good (as Nat’s mother always says). I told myself that perhaps I’d gotten over the worst bit. For years, I told myself that.

But then things started to change.

In Year 11, Sofia came to our school. From the moment she came up to us one lunchtime with her free, loping stride and said, “Mind if I sit with you?” I knew I’d been wrong about being safe. About being over the worst bit.

Sofia, with the cigarette packet in her uniform chest pocket; Sofia, with the ponytail that swings as she walks; Sofia, who says “
Mate,
it’s hot” and “
Mate,
he’s cool” and “
Mate,
I’m stuffed.” Right from the start, Sofe made Nat laugh in a way she never used to before; and she talked to Nat about boys, sex, condoms—all the things I can’t talk about. Nat was interested; she listened, answered, laughed.

So I knew straightaway—guilty about the way it made me feel, of course, but still knowing it was true—that their friendship was going to change everything. That just by Sofia being there, things had changed; and that they’d go on doing so, no matter what I felt about it.

But it’s not just Sofe, to be fair. There are other things, too—like Nat’s new job, for example. Now, instead of ringing me up on Saturday morning and saying, “Hey, you want to go and have a gelato at Alfresco’s?” she puts on her uniform (black jeans and an unbleached cotton T-shirt with carrots dancing wildly all over it) and catches the tram to Glenelg for the day. She loves that job; she’s walked around with a permanent smile on her face ever since she got it.

She tried to talk to me about it the other day. She started to tell me this story about working there, and I think what she was really trying to tell me about was her boyfriend, Josh. But I didn’t know how to answer her. I wondered, too, why she was telling me, what the point of it was. What do
I
know about falling in love? What could I say? We’ve never talked about it before. I felt ashamed of my lack of experience, my lack of
feeling.

It’s not that I’m not happy for her, because I am. I know how much she wanted to get a job, and I’m glad it’s turned out so well for her. It’s just that . . . I miss her.

Now, sitting in the rec room with Nat and Sofe, I think, how can you miss someone you see practically every day? Someone who lives around the corner from you; someone who’s sitting right here next to you? It doesn’t make sense. But . . . I don’t know. It’s as if, even when Nat’s talking to me, she’s somewhere else; as if she’s absent, gone away. Won’t come back.

We used to be so close, Nat and I.

Just as I’m thinking this, she waves her hand in front of my face. “Wakey, wakey, Lise—anyone home?”

I take a breath, shake myself inside. “Sorry—miles away.”

She grins, rummages around in her schoolbag, digs out a packet of Tim Tams. “These’ll bring you back to us.”

Oh, no.

She grabs a couple of cookies and hands the packet over to Sofia, who takes one and offers them to me. I can smell them from here, their chocolate melting slightly in the warmth of the room. My mouth waters, and I can half taste them in my imagination.

“No, thanks,” I say quickly, shaking my head.

“You
love
Tim Tams!” Nat protests.

“No, I don’t,” I say staunchly.

“You
do.
You told me you hated your mum because she wouldn’t let you have any for afternoon tea. Remember?”

“Ages ago, maybe,” I say casually. “Not anymore.”

This takes great willpower, but I
have
to say no. I have no choice. Tim Tams are off-limits for me at the moment.

Because I’ve finally become serious about losing weight. It’s not just Tim Tams: I’ve decided that all snacks and treats are off-limits—even, sadly, cappuccinos. (Do you know how many
calories
there are in a cappuccino?) Breakfast, lunch, tea—that’s all I eat now. I mean, why not? If I can stick to being vegetarian, I can stick to my diet. Surely. After all, that sticky date pudding a couple of weeks ago was the last “bad” thing I ate. Maybe creative visualization does work.

I still haven’t told anyone about it, of course. They’d only fuss; they’d only come out with that old, old line, “But why do you want to go on a diet? You’re not fat!”

Well, no, I’m not fat. Size 12 isn’t fat. But it’s not thin, either.

Three meals a day: the books and magazines all make it sound so easy. But it’s not. It’s hard; I hadn’t imagined it could be so hard. The worst thing is, there are so many hours between each meal. I never noticed before how many hours there are. And I get so
hungry.

But guess what? It’s working already. When I weighed myself this morning, I realized I’ve lost a few pounds. Which means all I have to do is . . . keep going. Keep saying no.

Sometimes I think there isn’t anything I’m really good at. I’m hopeless at sports, so-so at music, have to work my guts out to get those famous good marks at school. And it’s not as if I’m popular or pretty, either, which might make up for all of that. So I just keep thinking, anyone can be thin if they try hard enough. I read somewhere that being thin’s not a matter of genes; it’s just discipline.
Will.

If that’s all it is, I can do it. I
have
to do it. I know it won’t make everything okay—I’m not that stupid; I know I’ll be the same person, the same old Lise. But . . . I don’t know. At least if I’m thin I’ll have something I can be proud of myself for, something I can
like
about myself.

And of all the things I want, of all the things in my life I’d like to change if only I could, this is something I
can
change.

This is something I can
do.

chapter ten

Rules

T
he Fear slithers over me just as I turn the first page of the history test.

It comes from nowhere, this feeling. It’s a feeling of panic, of
dread,
that curls and coils in my stomach. I focus on the blackboard, take a deep breath.
There’s nothing to be afraid of. Get back to your test.

I pick up my pen, bend my head back over the paper, and a wave of sickness crawls up my throat. I swallow once, twice; take another long, struggling breath. Keeping the sickness at bay. I grip my fingers around my pen with mad, determined tightness.
Write. Just write.

Under the table, my knees start to tremble. The trembling goes all the way through my body; even my breath starts to shake. Sweat breaks out on my forehead, under my arms, on the top of my lip. There’s a hotness in my throat again—only this time I can’t swallow.

Come on. Come on. Calm DOWN.

I gulp in air. Gulp. Gulp. My heart beats rapidly, getting faster. Fear—black, irrational, uncontrollable fear—swells inside me.

God, oh, God, ohgodohgodohgod—

The first time this happened—the first time the Fear hit—was during the end-of-year exams last year. For a whole fifteen minutes during the last exam, I sat there, swallowing, shaking, convinced I was going to throw up or pass out. I thought I’d never make it through that exam.

And I still don’t know, really, what made the feeling go away that afternoon. After a while, I remember, I began to breathe more easily; my heart slowed down. I picked up my pen and started writing again. I was exhausted; all I wanted to do, afterward, was go to sleep. I remember, too, how strange my writing on the paper looked when the teacher handed our exams back a week later. It looked nothing like my usual small, firm letters. This writing was faint, scrawly, out of control.

That was the lowest mark I’ve ever gotten on an exam. Oh, I passed, but . . . it wasn’t anywhere near the kind of mark I usually get.

The thought that this might happen to me again has terrified me ever since.

And I’ve tried so hard, this year, to make sure it wouldn’t. A couple of weeks ago, sometime around Easter, I wrote myself out a study schedule, pinned it up on the corkboard above my desk at home. One hour of studying in the morning, before school, and three hours after school, at home. On the weekends, I study from nine to five on Saturday, and nine to one on Sunday.

The other day, Terri wandered into my bedroom and came over to my desk, where I was sitting, trying to do a math assignment. Her eyes darted up to the corkboard, and she read my schedule.

“What’re all those colored marks? The ones in pink and green highlighter pen?”

“Pink’s for when an essay’s due. Green’s for tests. And the blue one’s for free time.”

“Christ, Lise. There’s only one blue mark a
week.
”

“Yeah—but it
is
the whole of Sunday afternoon.”

“But
why
? Why d’you want to study so much?”

I shrugged. “It’s Year 12.”

She stared at me. “Are you mad? I was lucky if I got any studying done at
all
on the weekend when I was in Year 12. And as for before school—wouldn’t you rather be in bed?”

Yeah, right, Terri.
It’s okay for her to say that; she doesn’t
need
to study. Terri could have passed Year 12 with her hands tied behind her back. Unfortunately, I’m just not that smart.

What I’ve been thinking is, if I study harder, I’ll get better marks, so I’ll be less worried. Which means there won’t be any reason to feel the Fear.

I’ve stuck to it, too, that schedule. Religiously. So why,
why
am I feeling like this now? Why is it happening all over again?

*                  *                  *

But there have
always
been feelings like this.

In Year 5, right at the end of the year, my best friend, Sally, left the state. Her family moved to Perth just after Christmas. We’d been friends for years.

Year 6 was the worst year of my life. I didn’t make friends again. I don’t know why; I just . . . didn’t. I felt so alone, so silent. Waves of sickness and Fear used to wash over me as I trudged, head down, through the endless school corridors. I spent my lunchtimes out behind the art room, reading, and on rainy days I went to the school library and helped Mrs. Birchill, the school librarian, with the reshelving. She was the only person I could talk to (even if it
was
just about books and the weather). I’m sure she was just nice to me because she felt sorry for me.

I’ve always been shy. I don’t know why; I just
am.
But after Year 6, I stopped believing people could even
like
me; and, except for Nat, I’ve never been able to change my mind about that. I don’t know . . . People didn’t like me then, so why would they like me now? I haven’t changed.

And even with Nat, I’ve always known, in my heart, that it wouldn’t last. Sofia’s arrival just proved me right.

Once, in one of my primary school reports, one of my teachers wrote:
Lise tries almost too hard.
I’ve never understood that comment. I thought that trying, making an effort, was a good thing. Besides, you
have
to try hard—to do well, to be liked, to be attractive. If you stop trying . . . well, then people see who you
really
are. And they don’t like you.

The other thing is, the shyness is worse—much worse—with boys. I clam up in the company of them, go as stiff as a board. For one thing, I don’t have any experience of boys: I’ve never spent any time with them. At home, there’s just Terri and me. All my cousins live out of state; my parents aren’t friends with any of the neighbors; and, of course, I go to an all-girls school.

But it’s not just that. Boys don’t like me. Instinctively they don’t like me, I mean. They look at my face, and—even more than most people—they see something in it that makes them walk away. I tell myself it’s because I don’t wear trendy clothes or makeup; because my stupid curly hair won’t stay tied up; because I’ve got big thighs and a flabby stomach. Let’s face it—I’m not exactly Miss Australia.

“Just don’t
worry
about it, Lise,” Nat said to me impatiently the last time we talked about it. “Sofe’s not exactly a model, either, and look at
her
record with guys.”

“They think I’m ugly,” I said, trying to explain. “And fat. And
. . . boring.
”

“Well, of course they’ll think you’re boring if you don’t say anything,” she said, exasperated. “Who wants to talk to a brick wall?”

When she saw the look on my face, she was horrified. She almost fell over herself trying to apologize.

“I didn’t mean it like that! I
didn’t.
I just meant
—relax.
Just be yourself, and everything’ll be okay.”

But that’s my point.
Brick wall.
That’s exactly what I am. I couldn’t have put it better myself.

Other girls seem to follow all these complicated unwritten rules I don’t know anything about. With boys, especially . . . but with other things, too. They just seem to
know
what to wear, what to say, how to act. It comes naturally to them, somehow; it’s something they were born knowing.

And I feel so awkward, so heavy, so out of place. Sometimes I think that if I knew the rules—if I could learn them somehow—I’d be all right.

But it’s not just that I’d be all right. If I knew all the rules, I’d be
normal.