Am I Right or Am I Right? (17 page)
“We need to talk,” she said.
“What did he mean?”
“He’s dying, Calma. That’s what he came to tell you.”
From:
Miss Moss
To:
Calma Harrison
Subject:
Improvisation
Calma,
Do you remember the saxophone? I sometimes bring it to class to make a point about writing. Too many people think they
know
words, simply because they use them in everyday situations. They never
learn
what language can and cannot do. My analogy is that it is impossible to create unique, meaningful music from a saxophone,
unless you know the rules of music
first and have practiced extensively. Only then can you improvise, find your own voice, maybe by breaking those rules.
You have put time into your scales, Calma. Now compose your own music, in your own way.
Play for me.
Miss Moss
The blank page
The blank page lies before me, still:
White space that I can fill
With worlds and lives within them.
I aim to share this God-like stratagem,
To unfold all from nothingness to being
And, in black ink, reflect what I am seeing.
Yet words are fires against my dark self-doubt,
I write to flush the shifting shadows out.
And if I stop to think, it seems
Tomorrows are a set of different pages
On which to write. The future teems
With what might be. Though story’s torrent rages,
Sweeps characters from was to will be,
I know I have the mind and heart
To plot my course and follow where it leads me.
I start where all the worthwhile journeys start:
White space that I can fill—
The blank page lies before me still.
Chapter 26
Fallout
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
We sat in the kitchen. A box with a birthday cake in it was on the table between us. The restaurant had kept it in the kitchen, waiting for the signal from the Fridge to bring it in, ablaze with seventeen candles. The signal never came.
“I couldn’t, Calma.”
“Why not?”
“Your father wanted to tell you himself. He said he had messed up the last time and it was his responsibility to repair some of the damage. I couldn’t take that away from him.”
I was drinking water to wash away the alcohol and the confusion. It wasn’t working. There were so many questions and I didn’t know where to start. So I just let them pop out by themselves.
“What about Vanessa? Those cuts and scratches. Her dad did them. Her mum more or less told me.”
Mum topped up her wine glass. She’d opened a bottle as soon as we got in. There wasn’t much left.
“I talked to Vanessa’s mother,” she said, running a finger around the rim of the glass. “She came to see me at the end of my shift. That’s partly why I was late for the restaurant. She was almost hysterical. Poured out all this stuff about you coming round, making outrageous accusations.”
“But she didn’t argue much. And her body language told me all I needed to know.” I was working up some indignation. I wasn’t completely wrong. I couldn’t be.
The Fridge looked so tired. She tipped her glass and contemplated the liquid swishing around.
“I’m sure her silence spoke volumes. Trouble is, you weren’t listening. She was stunned, Calma. Look at it from her point of view. She opens the door and there’s her daughter’s best friend, who casually informs her that she—the wife—has been physically and emotionally abused by her ex-husband. Worse, that he is now abusing her daughter. She knows it’s nonsense, but she doesn’t know how to react. She just wants you out of the house. Of course she kept quiet. It was the quickest way to get rid of you.”
“No,” I said. “That can’t be right. What about the cuts and scratches? I
saw
them, Mum. They didn’t happen by themselves and they didn’t happen by accident. Someone did that to her.”
The Fridge finished what was in her glass and went to pour another. She examined the contents of the bottle and thought better of it.
“Yes,” she said. “You’re right. Someone did. That was another reason I was late. I talked to Mike. He wasn’t keen to discuss it, but I pushed him. There’s a long history, Calma. It’s been happening for years. Vanessa does it herself. She’s a self-harmer.”
We talked for hours. I brought up the episode in the police station, when Nessa’s dad had undressed me with his eyes. Slimeball.
“No,” said the Fridge.
He
was
staring at me. He recognized my name. There aren’t many Calma Harrisons, after all. He was curious. In fact, he volunteered to interview me, even though robbery wasn’t his area. He was in the fraud section. I was distraught. I was mistaken. Could I have been mistaken? I thought back. I hadn’t looked directly at him, just felt his eyes on me. It was possible.
The more we talked, the more things came into focus. The self-harming had started just after Vanessa’s parents split. She cut herself on the arms and wrists. She’d take time off from school and then return covered with bandages. Accident-prone. That’s how it was explained. She saw counselors. Her mum became increasingly nervous, worried about her daughter. She was on the verge of a breakdown. This must have made Vanessa feel guilty. She probably felt responsible for her mother’s state, and trips to her father’s house were increasingly a way out of a disturbing environment. But she must also have felt guilty about that, seeing it as a betrayal of her mother. No one knew the self-harming had started again. Not until I brought it up. Vanessa kept it hidden. It was classic behavior.
I arranged all the pieces in my head and saw they fitted. I cried. I cried for my father, for the pain I had caused Vanessa’s mum, for the damage I had done to the Fridge. Most of all I cried for Vanessa. She deserved so much help and support. I’d given her nothing. What had she said, that day at school? “It’s not all about you, Calma.” But that was the way I had thought and behaved, even if it wasn’t conscious. And yes, at the back of my mind there was a small reserve of tears for myself. Calma bloody big-shot Harrison.
Mum rocked me as I cried myself into exhaustion. She didn’t say much, just let me vent some of the self-loathing. Towards the end, before I slumped into bed, she said one thing.
“Calma, it’s okay to be wrong. It’s okay. But it’s what happens next that’s important. You have a friend in pain. In trouble. How are you going to help her? Not by thinking you’re worthless. By being strong. She needs you. Are you going to let her down?”
I slept a deep, dreamless sleep.
The morning brought a text message on my new phone. It was from Jason, dumping me. My first text message. I couldn’t blame him. I deserved nothing less. I sat at the kitchen table and considered my options. And the more I thought, the better I felt. It was so strange. The day ahead was a blank page and I could write on it whatever I wanted. I just needed to be a more reliable narrator. I planned out the immediate future, like notes for a novel.
I would make the Fridge breakfast in bed. Later, I’d go to the bank and withdraw the forty-eight dollars sitting in my savings account. It wasn’t much, but the Leukemia Foundation wouldn’t turn it down. Then I’d go to Crazi-Cheep, to see if Candy could roster me on for more shifts. A trip to Sydney wasn’t going to be cheap and I would have to budget for it. If I had time, I’d go over to Sanderson and pick up some enrollment forms.
I was also going to find Jason. It was time I enlightened him. First—you don’t dump someone by text message. Second—you don’t dump Calma Harrison. Even when she deserves it.
But between breakfast and the bank, I was going round to Nessa’s house. I wasn’t going to say anything about her injuries. I might be dumb in many ways, but I’m not
that
dumb. We would talk. I’d make her laugh. More than anything else, I’d listen. I’d build up her trust again slowly. I would be there for her and we’d get through this together. It was time for me to be a proper friend.
As I turned the Fridge’s toast into carbon, it struck me that I might have made a mess of everything, but I was going to come out of this better, stronger and wiser.
I don’t know. What do you think?
ReCRD™
Acknowledgments
Top of all my lists: Nita, wife, friend, reader, critic, and greatest supporter. My children Lauren and Brendan read and liked the manuscript. Thanks to them for keeping me on track, particularly when I strayed from the strange, disturbing, and exciting world of teenage life. My daughters Kris and Kari lent support from an enforced distance. Their belief was, and is, very important to me. All my family, friends, colleagues, and students: I have been overwhelmed by your generosity, interest, and encouragement. Thanks also to Jodie Webster and Erica Wagner, of Allen & Unwin, Australia, for their enthusiasm and expertise and to Nancy Siscoe, of Knopf, USA, for her unwavering support and sensitive editing.
THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2005 by Barry Jonsberg
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. Originally published in Australia by Allen & Unwin under the title
It’s Not All About You, Calma.
KNOPF, BORZOI BOOKS,
and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at
www.randomhouse.com/teachers
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Jonsberg, Barry.
Am I right or am I right? / Barry Jonsberg.
p. cm.
Originally published under the title, It’s not all about you, Calma. Australia: Allen & Unwin, 2005.
SUMMARY:
Sixteen-year-old Calma Harrison is certain she knows what is behind the strange behavior of everyone in her life, and convinced that she is the only one who can fix things, but soon learns just how wrong she is.
[1. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 2. Single parent families—Fiction. 3. Schools—Fiction. 4. Poetry—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.J7426Am 2007
[Fic]—dc22
2006016464
eISBN: 978-0-375-84945-9
v3.0
