Wildlife (13 page)

wednesday 24 october (night)

*     *     *

Well, wrong gender pronoun, but the last stanza packs its punch. The cyclic certainty of it grinds over me like a wheel. Dear Fred.

Upsetting letter from Dan today. He is getting to know his French family. And he really likes them. He told Henri about you, and Henri’s little brother was listening, which they didn’t realize, and so he found out, too. And it caused big trouble because Claude is only eight. He was so upset that Dan’s friend (you) had died. He thought only old people could die. So there was this big thing in their house about how it is so unusual, and it doesn’t happen very often… You can imagine: basically a whole lot of comforting half-lies to make the poor little guy feel okay about the order of the universe again.

And when I read the letter, thank the god I don’t believe in, I was in my cave. I cried like a tap, Fred. Because I realized I thought only old people could die, too.

Somewhere deep inside my stupid heart, that’s exactly what I’d thought.

The tent is empty when I wake up, Holly’s sleeping bag gone. I’m hot, sweaty, sticky. I’d love a shower; just one of the many awful aspects of hiking is roughing it.
Unwinding Ben’s scarf from around my neck, I sit up and reach for my boots.

I walk far enough away from camp for a private wee, and go to the water’s edge for a wash using the smallest amount of soap possible—we’ve been drilled to death about trying to minimize polluting the perfect water. It’s refreshing to a painful degree, and I’m hyper-awake when I get back to the tent, dig cereal out of my pack, and head for the fire to see if I can scrounge some milk.

Hiding my surprise should put me in line for an acting award when I see Holly and Ben, side by side, asleep by the edge of the still-glowing fire. The blond streaks and the dark curls are touching.

“With friends like her… am I right?” says Hugo, gleeful, as he sees me.

I take his milk, add it to my cereal calmly, hand it back, and stroll toward the sleeping bags, giving Holly a nudge with the toe of my boot to wake her.

“Oh,” she says. “Whoa!” She jumps up as if something has bitten her. “This is not what it looks like.”

“What does it look like?” I ask.

“We were just talking. We must have fallen asleep.”

“That’s what it looks like.” I’m eating my cereal slowly, trying not to bite the spoon in half. I refuse to get jealous: Holly is just being Holly. “You were very quiet when you came and got your bag. Thanks for not waking me.”

Ben groans and turns, wakes, and smiles. He has none of Holly’s discomfiture. He is Ben. The prince of
entitlement. “Hey, Sibs,” he says. “Got some cereal for me?”

“No,” I say, carefully not annoyed. I sit down near him, but not near enough for him to grab my cereal.

“I’ll get us both some,” Holly says. “My head hurts. Did someone give me alcohol?”

“Me,” says Vincent, helping her stand up.

“You are evil,” she says happily.

Holly only wants this—popularity, with the smallest of bad edges. I could do a diagram of it: daisy-shaped bad girl: enough risks so she’s “fun,” but not so many that she ever gets called a slut.

We spend the morning dozing, eating, fabricating our hiking notebooks, and planning our staggered reemergence at school. Different times and different directions, so no one will guess that one mixed-gender group of eighteen spent a “weekend” lounging around three hours from school, resting and partying, when six single-gender groups of three were supposed to be conquering new terrains and hiking many miles.

It wasn’t worth the stress. And it has left me feeling grumpy, for no real reason, with Holly and with Ben. But, uncharacteristically, Holly has exerted herself and packed up the tent when I get back from a wander downriver with the—yes—still-beautiful boy.

Eliza has had a ball—she’s found (another) perfect running course and plans on coming back here soon. She’s
happy prattling on about twitch fibers and the differing requirements within her training regime for building speed, endurance, and muscle, and how much and what sort of protein she needs to consume before and after exercise. Holly joins in every so often, offering bizarre “facts” from the world of the Gorgon’s eating rules book, which includes weird stuff like no carbs after 7
PM
, and sundry other tasty and calorie-free tidbits that she’s picked up from various celebrity diets.

They are walking a bit ahead; I am half listening and wondering about the hows and whys of being friends with Holly. Since we were first friends, it was understood that she was the more important one. She called the shots, and I went along. I had to put her first, but she could put me second. I had to be available, and ready to be dropped if a better offer came along. I could be, and often was, in trouble with her over various things entirely based on her whims. I, on the other hand, did not have automatic rights to be cross with her. Although even Holly understood that I would occasionally reach a breaking point resulting from active abuse or neglect, and crack. Then she had the option of soothing me and assuring me we were best friends, and I would sooner or later accept the assurances.

I was always vaguely aware that the power balance sat crookedly. But Holly and I were okay with it.

Should I worry that the passive role has never really bugged me? Is it too weird that I don’t really mind being pushed away and wooed back from time to time?

I do get it—that I was, maybe still am, mildly masochistic in this relationship. But it’s been this way for so long. And I know Holly’s fears and disappointments as well as I know her apparent confidence and arrogance. It might not be a perfectly stable structure, but it has its own center of gravity.

I’m the weak one. But I’m also the smarter one. That’s okay by Holly, because “smart” is not high on her list of desirable attributes, so I can have it. This has made a difference, too. It is as though being played is okay, so long as you are aware that it’s happening.

She is the pretty one. It’s understood between the two of us that she is still the pretty one, even after the billboard. And she still tells me what looks good on me, or doesn’t, or how I should wear my hair—all that stuff, and expects me to recognize her authority.

Only, in this odd time of celebrity, I have some glamourglow that I can see people enjoy being around. It’s not that they like me any better, just that it is such a desirable coin for no good reason—I’m friends with the model on that billboard, see that girl up there? She’s my friend, she goes out with my mate, she’s at my school, we hang out. And Holly is okay and not okay with this. She likes being in the benefit rub-off zone. But she doesn’t like threats to her automatic superiority.

She is used to having the last word on our relative merits. But now other people have an opinion, and it’s not necessarily hers. I’m going to have to look after her. She
will need some extra bolstering. Worth doing, because it’s when she feels insecure that she lashes out.

So, sure, we have the seesaw
ker-thunk, ker-thunk
, but the moments of equilibrium are fun. She makes me laugh like no one else I know. And she’s hauled me over a gazillion social hurdles. Anyway, who says friendship is always logical?

friday 26 october

Can’t quite tell what’s going on.

Things are a leetle tense in Bennett House.

If you can believe it, Holly seems to be pressuring Sibylla to have sex. With Ben. Sibylla started out by being her usual (in my humble opinion, but I’m right) too passive, too good-humored self. But Holly is really persevering with this. Once again, is it any of her business? Once again, no. When is Sibylla going to grow a backbone? It’s getting harder and harder for me to remain silent. And why can’t Holly get one of these lovely lads on board, and have sex with her very own boyfriend?

Or is she starting to think Ben is her very own, by proxy?

Little hitch, Ben actually likes Sibylla. In his own special, emotionally deficient, unavailable way, he likes her.

He is pretty much a sociopath, I’ve decided. Or a something-path. Psychopath, maybe. You could definitely see him as a CEO or a prime minister, any job that requires a truly bloodless heart.

I talked it over with Michael, who knows about Ben’s home life, and it fits the picture. Ben’s father is some major global advertising guru; it’s all about the outer appearance. His mum has had health problems, in and out of hospital for depression on a semi-regular basis since Ben was little. He has two younger sibs who think he’s a god, basically, so there is pressure from another quarter to be godlike.

And he’s living the god life. It’s all under control.

The Sibylla attraction: my guess is that she appears to be the very opposite of someone who might slip into the depression zone. She has a profound sense of self-containment.

She is far from confident; far, even, from particularly knowing just who she is, but there is a real aura about her of safety, or comfort, or security, or home. I can’t quite name it, but I see it, too.

Michael knows it like a drug.

I’m not convinced that Ben will be true to that safe place; there are so many other places he is being pulled, and he doesn’t mind the look of any of them.

If Holly is feeling possessive about Ben by proxy, is she planning to convert the proxy to actual? Surely not up here, with all eyes upon her. And what would make her think she’d be the next name on Ben’s list, or even that there is a list?

*     *     *

Groan. Merill time. Again. Unexpected, but I realize I am actually being taken from a state of near contentment. Here, the bed, the ceiling with its faint outline of stick-on stars that were peeled off at the end of last term. Here, the window, the eucalypts, the sky a clear blue, immeasurably deep. Check my locked box (locked), not risking Holly’s prying little fingers on my letters.

(later)

Hello, Lou.

Hello, Merill.

Eyes to the side.

So how have you been feeling since our last encounter—
encounter
said with a subdued but warm twinkle.

Pretty well.

Anything you’d like to talk about—feelings/thoughts/incidents… A thoughtful pause. Just in case I have a second-thoughts blurt.

No, nothing in particular.

Accepting nod. She’s not pushy.

How is your management of the negative thoughts going?

Say: they seem to be pretty much under control, I mean of course, from time to time…

Merill nods, accepting, encouraging.

Don’t say: I still think of the moment frequently: impact, shock, pain. I think of the beautiful brain being smashed too hard against the beautiful skull. I think of the mouth
and no more smart words, loving words, living words, funny words, no more kisses, soft or hard. No more. Nevermore. Ever. How can that be so?

And what about activities? Are you feeling more engaged?

Say: yes, a little bit at a time, I do feel that this, the present, the new school experience is becoming my focus.

Don’t say: my self, that which defines me, the heart of me, is looking at my watch, standing in a street, sitting in a hospital, holding my friends, choking on the salt of tears that stream from me (my friends, who aren’t even in this country, waiting on their every letter, thought) and here, this is nothing to me. Nothing. But before, on the bed, looking at the gum tree. There was a moment, a brief moment, when I allowed this world to exist.

And friends, are you getting to know some of the girls in Bennett?

Say: we’re all getting to know each other a bit better each week.

Don’t say: Sibylla fine, Holly bitch, Eliza useful, Annie stupid, Pippa innocuous.

Now your academic work is going extremely well, I can see there are no problems there, conspiratorial smile.

Say: I am enjoying it, still getting used to my new teachers, but advanced maths is fine.

Don’t say: it’s my Novocain; I’m going through the motions like a zombie. Actually I do like one of my fellow nutcases in advanced maths. I like Michael.

Anything you want to share?

Do: close eyes, look thoughtful, in manner of one investigating soul, in all its minor crevices, where the little bits of self-hate and grief get stuck if you don’t floss often enough.

Don’t: stand up, slap her face, walk out.

Say: I still miss him. (Jeez, you’ve got to throw her a bone sometimes.)

Don’t say: The chasm is endless, or I’m still on that slow spin in the void, or I don’t want to come out, and certainly not: I don’t deserve to come out.

That’s understandable, and you’ll probably always miss him, but (with a small brave smile, why is she playing brave?) it will diminish over time. Not Fred’s importance to you as a friend, but the prominence in your daily thoughts that his memory might take up.

Say: nothing. A quiet nod should suffice.

Don’t say: let me out of here before I strangle you for the crime of irrelevance to my life, and the second crime of daring to say his name, and the third crime of referring to him as my friend.

A pause. Keep looking down. Don’t let her see your eyes glowing red.

Lou, tell me how you feel about this, and I will quite understand if you prefer us to keep meeting twice a week, but I believe you’re making very good progress, you have great insight into where you’re “at,” and we could reduce our sessions to just once a week. But only if you’re comfortable with it…

Say: I think I could manage with one session a week. Very small smile. Keep it small. Small.

Don’t say: halle-fucken-lujah or tap-dance to the door.