Fourteen
AFTER A FEW hiccups at MacMichael and Sons I’ve managed to settle in and things are beginning to run smoothly. I take the bus from school to the chambers three times a week. It is such a relief not to have to put on the McDonald’s uniform and put up with all those psychos. The barristers at MacMichael’s are really nice, although not at all on my level. The things they find funny are so unfunny.
I’ve seen Jacob Coote a couple of times. Once was when he was on the school bus and another time he was at Harley’s, a café at Darling Harbour.
This girl with a uniform as short as a T-shirt was sitting on his lap.
But at the moment, John Barton is my biggest worry. I was on my way to the Sydney University library on Monday afternoon and bumped into him.
He seemed vague and subdued and I wondered if he had decided we couldn’t be friends. We took a detour to a coffee shop, where he embarked on depressing me out of my head. It was one hundred times worse than debating night. He looked as if he had lost lots of weight, which he really couldn’t afford to do in the first place. His eyes couldn’t settle in one place, and if I didn’t know him better I could have sworn he was on drugs. I don’t know whether it was because of Jacob, but I wasn’t as attracted to him as I used to be.
“I hate this shit life,” he said to me out of the blue as we sat there.
I looked up, not knowing exactly what to say. I mean life isn’t a buzz, but I wouldn’t exactly call it shit.
“What happened?”
He shook his head, clamping his mouth together into a thin line.
“My father was home when I got there this afternoon. Went through my mail. He owns my life, so of course he’s entitled to open my mail,” he spat
out bitterly. “I didn’t win the math competition. I didn’t even get in the top five percent. Bloody Sydney Grammar dominated again.”
“Big deal, John. It’s not the end of the world.”
He covered his eyes with his hand and then rubbed his forehead.
“It’s not the words that come out of his mouth. It’s the looks, Josie. The disappointment.”
“I’m sure your father loves you, John.”
“Oh, he does,” he said, nodding. “When I shit all over everyone in academic competitions. When I win a debate. When I win a football game.
When I get elected school captain. When I win, win, win,” he gritted. “And when I lose he hates me. So I have to keep on winning. I have to keep on being the best in the world. Josie, I don’t want to do law. It’s going to be two billion times worse than this year and it’ll go on for five years.”
“Don’t get yourself so worked up,” I said, watching him closely.
His face looked blotchy and pale.
“My father will kill me,” he muttered. “He’ll kill me.”
“John, calm down. You’re extra intelligent. You can be anything you want to be.”
“But I don’t know what I want to be,” he said, grabbing my hands. “How can I tell my father I don’t want to study law if I don’t know what else I want to be?”
“You have no idea?”
He looked at me hesitantly, his eyes almost glazed.
“I don’t think I want to live this life anymore, Josie.”
At first I misunderstood. I wondered what other life there was to live, and it wasn’t until I was biting into my apple strudel and watching those vacant eyes of his that I realized he meant no other life.
“This life is shit. All we care about is making money and being big. Look at all the injustice and terrorism and prejudice, Josie.”
And for a minute—no, just a second, really—I wondered if he was right.
I wondered if it was all one big useless existence. In that tiny second I wondered if I wanted to live this life anymore. If I wanted to have a major heart attack every time I heard an American voice crackling over our news.
Americans take their accents so much for granted. Every time I hear it on the radio I think they’ve managed to involve us all in another horrible conflict. I wondered if I wanted to raise my children with that fear in their hearts. I figured that heaven must be a great place to go to get away from the madness, but I’m not ready for heaven yet and I don’t think heaven is ready for me. The terrible thing about it is I find the horrible conflicts and injustices comforting compared to this place where we’re supposed to go to one day where everything is perfect. So my second was up and I went back to liking this useless existence.
“Father Stephen said that peace is a state of mind. We will never have world peace, John, so we have to be peaceful within ourselves and that will make us happy.”
“Father Stephen? What the hell does he know? There is no God, Josie.”
“You don’t believe in God?”
He looked at me incredulously. “God, you’re naive.”
“You just said ‘God.’”
“It’s become a figure of speech.”
I’d never spoken to an atheist before, so I didn’t know what to say.
I made jokes about things and ordered him another cappuccino and hoped that the next time he saw me he would say, “April Fool, Josie,” although it was the middle of June. Sitting opposite him made me desperately want to be with someone as uncomplicated as Jacob who enjoyed his simple life.
I wished I could walk out of the coffee shop and just see Jacob. I could see now that it was my fault as much as his that our movie night hadn’t turned out. I’d had too many expectations. I’d wanted him to be what I wanted and not what he was. My thoughts turned back to John and I reached over to touch his shoulder.
“We’ve been asked to write down the way we feel at the moment,” I explained to him. “It’s because everyone is really stressed out about the HSC. We can do it in any style we want. Like a poem or a letter. We have to hand it to someone we trust, and after the HSC we ask that person to read it.
They’re to ask us if we still feel the same way.”
“How do you feel at the moment?” he asked me.
I shrugged. “There have been a few changes in my life this year, including a change in the way I feel about people and things. But I need to write them down. It’ll be like some kind of therapy. Can I give it to you? I know you’ll understand the way I feel.”
He took a breath and nodded.
“Can I do the same? Like, give you my feelings on paper?”
I smiled at him and nodded.
We spent the rest of the afternoon writing down our thoughts. We folded the papers and sealed them with sticky tape.
When he passed over his sealed paper, his hand was trembling. When I handed mine over, I instantly wanted to take it back. I had just handed over the deepest of my feelings. Feelings that I couldn’t even explain to my best friends or to my mother. It was as if I had let him into my soul and thinking about it now, I don’t believe anyone should be allowed into your soul.
When I got home I placed his sheet in my jewelry box. Maybe because my jewelry box contained my most worthy items and the soul of John Barton seemed priceless.
I felt guilty in a way. Because I go on so much about my problems, but compared to John and all the other lonely people out there, I’m the luckiest person in the world.
We had confession on Friday. We have it once a term. It’s the same thing every time. I sit there mumbling to myself because I usually forget the “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned” bit. Once I get over that, I go through my sins. The same ones every time.
I was disrespectful to my mother and grandmother.
I’ve been lazy.
I’ve been selfish.
Once, last year, I started going through my sins and Father Stephen said, “Oh, it’s you, Josie.”
Can you believe it? He recognized me by my sins. I’m so boring that I can’t even change my sins from term to term.
I’m a bit in love with Father Stephen. He’s not young or anything. He’s about forty. But there is just something about him. So much heart and soul.
Once he made me say a whole decade of the rosary for penance because I told him that I didn’t believe in God and that the crucifixion was a big publicity stunt by Jimmy Swaggart’s ancestors to raise money. (For a few months in Year Nine, I professed that I didn’t believe in God because sometimes not having a God in your life means you don’t have to feel guilty or scared about so many things.)
Father Stephen is the most learned and advanced of all men in the world.
The man surfs at our school picnics and arranged for the Cockroaches to come and perform at our school, free of charge.
He was the first person in our area to arrange for AIDS talks. He said he didn’t want young people dying of ignorance. So confession when he is around is always packed.
Sera is always in there the longest. I don’t know what she says to him exactly, but I can’t imagine her telling a priest that she’s extremely sexually active. At times she drives me crazy because she loves to bait. Like on Friday outside confession.
I mean, she knows I’m a virgin. Lee, Anna and I are, but still she continually loves to make digs. Like she asked me on Friday what type of contraception I use.
“Underwear,” I said. “Keeping it on prevents pregnancy.”
She laughed. Trilled, more like it, but then in her usual Sera way, she stopped.
“Sorry, Josie,” she said in a hushed whisper. “You must be so worried that what happened to your mother will happen to you. Wouldn’t that be terrible? People would have a field day.”
I just ignored her. I’m getting good that way. Things that worried me a few months ago no longer worry me as much. I can’t say that I’m completely oblivious. The gossiping of the Italian community might not matter to some, but I belong to that community.
Sometimes I feel that no matter how smart or how beautiful I could be they would still remember me for the wrong things.
That’s why I want be rich and influential. I want to flaunt my status in front of those people and say, “See, look who I can become.”
Mama says that satisfaction isn’t what I should search for. Respect is.
Respect?
I detest that word. Probably because in this world you have to respect the wrong people for the wrong reasons.
