Letters from the Inside (13 page)

Nov 8

Dear Mandy,

It’s taken me a long time to answer your letter. I hope this time it’ll work. All the previous attempts have ended in the bin.

When I started reading your letter I got so mad I could hardly finish it. I felt like you let me down. It was like you were lecturing me. I thought, ‘Who the fuck is she, my rehab counsellor?’ And it was like you were saying that I’m wrecking your life.

I got so mad I chucked your letter away. I wasn’t going to write to you ever again.

Then, next morning, I was cleaning out my slot for inspection, the rubbish bag came round, and at the last minute I pulled your letter out. I thought maybe I might want to check up on something before I threw it out finally.

I kept it two days, then at the weekend I was so bored and mad with nothing to do that I read it again. It still got me fired-up, but at least when you’re fired-up you know you’re alive. And it was better than watching Anita Kelly swing her tits around the place.

But now, even now, this far into the letter, I’m stuck to know what to say. I don’t want to lose you Mandy — you’re my mate. People don’t like me too much here. They’re scared of me but they don’t like me. It’s hard to write this but it’s true. And the thing is, I could say, ‘Yeah, I’m sorry about what happened, about what I did, but it was basically Raz’s fault and I didn’t know it’d go as far as it did, I thought it was a joke at first, and yeah I was on the nod somewhat, as a matter of fact,’ but the thing is Mandy, I don’t want to suck you in any more, I want to keep it straight between us. And somehow I don’t know what the truth is. You’re confused? I’m confused. I don’t know why I did it. You think I haven’t thought about it? I’ve thought about it. And I still don’t know.

And another thing is I don’t know if I’m sorry or not. I’m too bloody mad to be sorry. I’m so burned-up at being in here I can’t think sorry. I don’t want to be in here. I want to be on a street. I want to be in a bus. I want to sit down the back of the bus and crack jokes and swap ciggies and stir the grannies and the gays and the drunks and the little kids. I want to eye off some hunk with an ass like a couple of rock melons. I want to turn on TV and watch any junk I want. I want to go out to this riding centre with a boyfriend I used to have and ride this beautiful big bay horse called Dillon, who always knew me and recognized me and remembered me. I want to know what happened to Marvin, my cat, the only pet I ever owned, and who’s got him now, or whether they had him killed, or what happened.

I want to know where it all went wrong. How come I’m in here for four more years, when I should be having four years of freedom, being outrageous and jigging school and getting felt-up by guys and trying to decide if I should get a tat or not and having THE BEST YEARS OF MY LIFE. Mandy, I came in here as a fucking fifteen-year-old and I’m gonna go out as a middle-aged fucking woman, just about ready to get married and have kids.

I know I should be sorry and I am, but then I start thinking about all this stuff and I get too confused and mad to be as absolutely truly sorry as I should be.

Well, I hope we can keep writing. But I’ll understand if you don’t want to. I’ll hate it if you don’t, I suppose I’ll sort of hate you a bit, even though that’s not fair to you. Not many people would have stuck on this long. So it’s up to you. And if you want to write about Steve, write about him. I know I was stupid the way I ignored what you said before. But I’ve learnt a bit since then. I’ve met a few Steves in my time. I think Raz was a bit of a Steve — maybe that’s another reason I didn’t want to hear too much about your brother.

So, see you, be hearing from you, I hope.

Tracey

November 14

Dear Trace,

Got your letter Monday; like you, I’ve spent a couple of days trying to write an answer.

Seems like each letter takes us a little further, you know what I mean? Not just in facts — like your mentioning this guy Raz — but in the other ways too.

I do want to keep writing to you. The only thing I’m a bit scared of is that one day you’ll break out of there and turn up on my doorstep in a stolen car wanting food and a bed and some plastic surgery. Or that you’ll get out early because of some big reduction in your sentence and you’ll want to move in and live with us and be my best friend. You see, I’m being honest again now, even though it hurts. I know the first one’s not too likely but I guess the second one’s possible. And what would happen if it turned out that you were 200 kilos and covered in tats, with a ring through your nose and all your teeth missing? OK, so I’m a snob, but I wouldn’t like that. And my parents would freak out. They lead a quiet life.

Does this give you the shits? Am I just a snob? Got any answers?

Love,

Mandy

Nov 18

Dear Mandy,

No, I don’t think you’re a snob. I was so scared when I came in here. Hope the hacks aren’t reading this letter, ’cos I’d hate them to know that. But it’s true. I thought they’d all be the biggest meanest mothers in the valley — that’s why I thought the only way to survive would be to be the biggest meanest mother of them all. And it wasn’t that hard. A lot of them are real pussies in a clinch. But, yeah, sure, some of them are like you describe. Anita Kelly, whoo, 200 kilos did you say? Yeah, but her left boob’s even bigger.

Seriously though, I don’t know what to say. I don’t blame you for being scared of me. I don’t like it but I don’t blame you. I’m scared of myself sometimes. Do we have to do a deal that I won’t hassle you in four years? I will if you want, but it doesn’t seem like much of a deal. Who knows where we’re going to be, what we’re going to be like, in four years? I’ve got a fair idea where I’ll be, but you?

Don’t think there’s much we can do about it Manna, except to ‘keep on goin’ till it all stops flowin’’.

A little black spider just ran across my desk. Geez he was moving. His feet hardly touched the ground. I used to hate spiders and cockroaches and stuff. I still don’t much love ’em, but I don’t mind them now, I don’t kill them any more.

Shouldn’t call this a desk. It’s a metal table and chair all in one, cream-coloured, bolted to the floor near the front of the slot. Sitting here I can see most of A Block and a bit of sky. Three stars. A Block’s a quadrangle. I’m in the bottom row, on the left as you come in, half-way along. The middle of the quadrangle’s the exercise yard. Opposite me, on the bottom is the TV room, classrooms, showers and dunnies, and a storeroom. Above that are more slots. Above that’s a kind of catwalk for the hacks. They just walk round and round trying to look like Dickless Tracy. They’re all dykes anyway — for them the shower block’s the sports and entertainment centre. You don’t want to be too good-looking. There’s one girl, Sophie, she’s the one I get on best with I guess, when she takes a shower they swarm like flies at a funeral. I have to admit, she’s got what it takes.

Well, I’m writing on about nothing. Ten minutes before lights out — I was going to do some homework and give Mrs McKinnon a shock. But one good thing about being in here, they don’t expect anything. They pretend they do, and they go through their routines when we turn up empty-handed, but what can they do? Give us a detention? And they’re sweating so hard to be positive, like they’ve been taught, they don’t like to crack at us. The tutors that is; the hacks don’t give a.

See you.

     Love,

  
Trace

November 22

Dear Trace,

I’m not going to pretend I want to swap places with you but your life is kind of. . . interesting? Sure is different to mine. Maybe you could write a book about it one day, make a million dollars.

Like I said before, I want to keep this going. It’s gone too far to stop. It still scares me, but every day I come home I look to see if there’s a letter from you. Jacinta, my ‘pen pal’ (hate that word), still writes occasionally, but it’s not like this.

Your last letter was good. I could start to picture Garrett a bit. And I could picture you a bit too. You’ve never told me what you truly look like but it doesn’t seem to matter so much these days. I’m still curious, but that’s all it is now — curiosity.

Am I allowed to send you a Christmas present? I’d like to, but I don’t know if you’re allowed to get them. Please tell me.

Also, I’d like to tell Mum and Dad about you. I know they’re not going to be thrilled, but I think I can make them understand. And if I don’t tell someone, I’ll burst. I feel like I’m carrying this dark secret around with me. I told Cheryl that we were writing again, and that you were a bit screwed-up (sorry!) and you were in a girls’ home. She got quite into it — I think she thought it’d be like
Anne of Green Gables.
I wish!

You know, Sophie’s the first person you’ve mentioned as a friend in there. Is she nice?

It seems so long since I wrote anything about me and my life — I’ll have to start from scratch. Hope you can remember all the absorbing details. Right now we’re burning up with tests and stuff. Kids like Rebecca are actually doing a bit of work. Mai Huynh’s been round us too long — she’s getting slacker. The worst ones are the teachers though. All the slack ones are going mad, giving us worksheets and revision hand-outs and tests. I think they’re scared they’ll get shown up when we fail. Or maybe they’re worried they won’t get the books finished.

I’ve noticed before though, everyone goes a bit mental at this time of year. Cheryl got busted a good one yesterday. She got Mrs Grogan’s special chair, tied a bit of rope to it, and chucked it out the window — with a little help from her friends. (We were on the top floor.) Then she sat there holding the rope. Mrs Grogan came in, couldn’t find the chair, made a big scene, wasted a quarter of an hour searching the building. She couldn’t figure it out, she’d only been out of the room for three minutes, and it’s a big chair. Not heavy, but big. Then the principal arrived. Bad luck for Cheryl, she’d been walking up the driveway, seen the chair hanging out the window. But she didn’t say that at first. Just walked into the room and asked Cheryl to stand up. So Cheryl was well and truly gone. Mrs Grogan couldn’t believe it — Cheryl’s her star pupil. But like I said, everyone goes a bit mental at this time of the year.

Cheryl and Justin Smith (think I told you about him) are still a big double. She’s lucky — he’s sweet. They look good together — Cheryl’s got beautiful brown skin and dark eyes and hair down to her waist. She dresses the best of anyone I know — I mean her family don’t have heaps of money, but we go op-shopping, plus she makes quite a few things. Justin’s tall, in fact he stoops a bit because I think he’s self-conscious about his height. He’s got brown hair and brown eyes and the whitest teeth — it’s great when he cracks a smile. He dresses about the worst of anyone I know, but by the time Cheryl’s finished with him he’ll be doing ads for American Express, guaranteed.

Katrina’s been home a lot lately. She’s getting paranoid about her exams and says this is the only place she can study. All I can say is, it must be bad where she lives. She has big fights with Steve, usually about his music, which he wants to play full on. Heavy Metal, need I tell you? Steve’s got a mate called Tim now, who’s another fun guy: hasn’t washed his hair since puberty; has a vocabulary of ten words, all obscene; thinks Rambo is a real person who’s gonna call him up one day and invite him on a mission. Still, he keeps Steve off my back, ’cos Steve goes over to Tim’s a lot. Thanks Tim, good buddy.