Saving Jazz (19 page)

Maureen looked unconvinced but warned me that if she thought he was overstepping the mark again she'd be complaining, with or without my permission.

The following week I walked up to Earl's office for our session. He was standing just outside his office, talking to a guy about my age.

‘Go in, Jasmine,' Earl said, nodding towards the door. ‘I'll be in with you in a minute.' As I walked in I
heard Earl say to the guy, ‘I should introduce you to Jasmine, but I'm not really sure how many sexually transmitted diseases she has.'

I turned sharply. Earl was closing the door with a smug look on his face.

‘What did you say that for?' I asked. I was shocked. Had he really said that? Had I misheard him? Surely no professor would make a comment of that nature about a student to another student?

He laughed. ‘It's just a joke, me and Jonah make jokes like that all the time.'

‘It's not funny.' I was close to tears. The mean things Earl had said to me over the last few months had always been about my intelligence (or lack of ), not about my sexuality.

‘Toughen up, Teen Queen,' Earl said. ‘Come on, we don't have time to waste if we want that pretty little head to absorb information into that piece of cement you call a brain.'

Lately he's taken to sending me messages via the university email system. At least twice a week there would be a reminder from him about something I needed to do before the next lecture, or tute, or
‘special' tute. Most of the messages were generic to the class, but he'd always add a personal touch to mine. Signing off with:
Don't be distracted by other interests, Teen Queen.
Or:
Think before you act and are late to class.
Nothing overtly nasty, but because I can hear his voice and tone, see his snide smile, his messages just make me feel stupid and reinforce the idea that I don't belong at the university.

It's all so confusing. Maureen's words are still in my ears — is this really sexual harassment? Or is he just a bored old professor looking for a landing spot for his meanness? Is he like Tommy — a nasty piece of work? Or is he really some sort of sexual predator? And who would I talk to anyway? And what could I say — Earl is being mean to me?

When I put it into this perspective, it seems trivial. And again I acknowledge those of you who have drawn parallels between Earl's behaviour (bullying has been mentioned many times) and the things said to Annie. And I agree with many of you — Annie endured far worse than just some random insults from a geriatric academic. That helps keep things in perspective for me.

The effects of Greenheadgate continue to ripple through our lives. Sometimes I wonder if we'll ever be free of that night. And I know I am making enormous progress, I know I've managed to carve out a shiny future — even with its bumps — but every now and again a reminder of that night pops up. Today was one of the worst ones ever.

I was sitting down for a break at Chicco this morning. Frank dropped the newspaper over my shoulder and bent down to kiss my ear as I looked straight into Jack's eyes. I gasped.

‘What?' Frank said, by my side in an instant. ‘What is it? You've gone white.'

‘Jack,' I said and pointed to the front page of the paper. It was a half-page picture of Jack handcuffed
and being led towards a van. The headline above it said: LOCAL MAN ARRESTED FOR DRUG TRAFFICKING IN BALI.

‘Oh my God,' I read the article to Frank. ‘Australian officials confirm that three Australian men were arrested at Denpasar airport attempting to smuggle nine-and-a-half kilograms of heroin out of Indonesia. The three are being detained at Kerobokan prison awaiting trial. If found guilty they will face execution by firing squad under Indonesia's tough penalties for drug trafficking.' I looked at Frank. ‘Oh God.'

‘Oh God,' Frank echoed. ‘What do you want to do?'

‘What can I do?' I asked, emotions hitting me forcefully. ‘I haven't spoken to him since last year and I don't even have his mother's contact details. Oh, Maria will be beside herself.'

‘Who would know how to get in touch with her? Is that what you want to do?' Frank asked.

‘I think I need to talk to her,' I nodded. ‘I guess the only person who'll know her number is my mum.'

The phone rang out and then went to voicemail. Listening to my dad's clipped words brought a whole
pile of memories, and not all of them bad, into my head. I left what I hoped was an airy and cheerful message.

‘Hi, it's Jasmine. I've just seen the paper and Jack is in trouble. I wanted to speak to Maria but I don't have her number. Mum, could you call me back please?' I tapped the hang-up icon and looked at Aunty Jane.

‘How do you feel?' she asked.

‘Weird,' I said. ‘Just hearing Dad's voice made me feel strange, like that song, “Now you're just somebody that I used to know”. And I'm nervous about speaking to Mum too,' I shrugged. ‘Poor Jack.'

‘It's so awful,' Aunty Jane said, ‘he got totally fucked up.'

‘Yeah,' I bit my lip, ‘it makes me realise how lucky I got when you came and rescued me.' These days we don't really talk about Greenhead, or my life before I came to live with them. But this new incident, of course, brought it all back.

‘It seems like a lifetime ago,' Aunty Jane said.

‘It's been over three years,' I said.

‘I can't remember a time when you weren't part of this family,' Aunty Jane said wistfully.

‘Me neither,' I agreed. ‘It's like that other Jasmine, the one who lived in Greenhead and did those terrible things, well, it's like she was something I invented — a dream, and this is the real me.'

Aunty Jane smiled. ‘That's because this
is
the real you.' The phone rang and I looked at Aunty Jane almost fearfully.

‘Shall I answer it for you?' Aunty Jane asked.

‘No,' I shook my head, ‘I'll do it.' I picked up my phone.

‘Hi,' I said and heard my mother's voice, ‘Hi Mum.'

We talked for about forty minutes. She asked all sorts of questions that I knew she had the answers to. Aunty Jane had made no secret of the fact that over the years she had kept up a regular phone relationship with Mum. I sensed Mum just wanted to hear about it from me. When the call was almost ending and she'd given me Maria's number, she said, ‘Jasmine, I'm so proud of you.'

I was taken aback. My mother — proud of me? The desire to please her and Dad had long gone, replaced by a desire to please those in my family
who had been there for me. Still, it made my voice thicken.

‘Thank you,' I said eventually.

‘I'm so proud of how you've turned your life around. Sometimes I wish I'd done things differently.' I heard tears in her own voice — my mother the Iron Lady was crying? Time and distance can do surprising things to people.

‘It's okay,' I said, realising I meant it. If they hadn't turned their backs on me (no matter how much it still hurt) I'd never have got to this point in my life. I had the perspective, now I needed to use it. We hung up, after she'd asked if it would be okay to call me every other week. I said it would be. I wasn't sure if we would have much to talk about, but I figured it was worth a shot.

Again, apologies for my absence, but things got really busy in my part of the world. Particularly juggling uni exams, work and socialising, so sitting down pouring my heart out is not something I've prioritised. But given recent events, I thought you might like to know how things went with my mate Earl.

I kept to my weekly sessions with him, and there was nothing major to report (apart from his usual snide comments in person and by text and email) except three separate incidents.

The first started outside of his room (which in itself was unusual). I was in the library coffee shop, working on my latest assignment for him, when he pulled out a chair and sat down.

‘Make yourself comfortable,' I said dismissively,
not looking up. I knew it was him from his cheap aftershave and the tight denim in my peripheral vision. As you can gather, I now spoke to him as rudely as he spoke to me.

‘I want you to give me a lift to uni tomorrow. I'm putting my car in for a service,' he said. I nearly choked on my raspberry liquorice.

‘What?' I said, looking at him and frowning. ‘No way. No. Anyway I don't know where you live. It might be miles out of my way.'

‘It's not. I've looked you up on the university records,' he said smugly. ‘I live in Menora, right next door.'

I shook my head. ‘No way.' The idea of being alone with him in a car made me feel sick.

‘I don't think that's a nice response,' he said sternly. ‘After all the extra time I've put in for you, I'd think you'd want to help me out. Quid pro quo.'

I sighed. He did put in extra time, even if it was his perverted way of making me miserable. Suddenly it occurred to me that it might be a very bad idea to turn him down. ‘Okay,' I agreed, ‘what's the address?'

Frank thought it was weird. ‘Surely he has work
mates that could give him a lift. What professor asks a student?'

Frank didn't know about the shit Earl said to me, because I was being resilient (so I thought), so I brushed off his concerns. ‘He gives me lots of help, seems okay.'

‘If you think so,' Frank said finally, ‘but I don't think it's right. And looking up a student's personal details seems like a total abuse of power.'

When I picked Earl up that morning from his pokey little cottage he was buoyant and chirpy. He had a real spring in his step as he got into the front of my car. ‘Okay, Teen Queen, I hope your driving skills are better than your writing skills.'

Inwardly I groaned, but as it wasn't far to uni, I knew I wouldn't have to endure him for too long.

It was long enough. He criticised my driving, even feigning alarm that I wasn't allowing enough room for braking. ‘Good lord, girl,' he said, taking his feet down off the dash where he had put them in a mock brace position, ‘how did you get your licence? By smiling sweetly at the examiner, no doubt.'

I gritted my teeth. When I arrived at uni I felt emotionally wrecked. By the time I was in my
second lecture my nerves were less jangly, but then my phone vibrated. Earl's name, text message. Every time I saw his name appear on my phone I'd hold my breath, waiting to see what this message heralded. This time he didn't disappoint. He'd sent a photo. It was of me, with Annie and Jack, at Casey's birthday back in the summer holidays before Year 10. I reeled at the image. It was weeks before Greenheadgate. Two people I hadn't seen for so long. Two people who at that time had meant the world to me. Two people who were now both effectively dead. Everything came crashing back down on me. Everything I'd been through, and tried to recover from. And suddenly, in an instant, with one picture, I was right back there. In Greenhead. The lecturer was warbling on, but I had to get out.

I gathered up my laptop and stumbled up the stairs, wheezy and panicked. Outside in the fresh air the other realisation hit me. Where had Earl got this picture from? I studied it again — it was a screenshot, from somebody in Greenhead's Facebook page. I shook my head. How bored was the man? That when he looked up my records he also googled me? Stalker much? Thank God
my real name was never tagged to this blog. Yet when I really thought about his obvious physical disinterest in me, I started to feel melodramatic. This wasn't really stalking, or even sexual harassment, I thought. It was just Earl thinking he would get a rise out of me. I wasn't special, it was just really nothing. And when I put it into that perspective, that he'd never tried to hit on me, never tried anything of a sexual nature with me like asking me out or getting physical, then I had to accept that the man just had poor — really, totally, poor — social skills.

After the initial shock wore off I knew I wouldn't even give him the pleasure of confronting him. That was what he wanted from me, some reaction, and then he could patronise me and belittle me. I wouldn't give him the opportunity. And had he remained a harmless dick, then I might have been okay.

But that's not where this tale with Earl ends, dear reader. There's more.

A few weeks passed and then I had another of my weekly sessions with Earl. We were heading into
exams and Earl was really hitting me with pressure that I wasn't good enough and not even he, the wondrous Professor Stirling, could teach krill how to think.

‘When I look at your fluency,' he said rifling the papers in front of him, ‘I'm surprised you can even string two sentences together. It's disjointed and awkward. Incorrect use of preposition,' he struck through my paragraph with his stubby lead pencil. I considered that the pencil was a miniature replica of him. Short and ugly, used to shout obscenities at me, like his great booming voice. I had toughened myself against him. I viewed him detachedly. He was huffing and puffing over my massacre of English and he was really stupid to watch. He was getting all worked up over parts of speech and I couldn't have cared less. He was boring me, pontificating over my syntax and vocabulary, and I looked out the window at Winthrop Hall. It's such a magnificent tower, and I sat there thinking about the day I'll eventually graduate, walk up the stairs into the hall and receive my degree. It seemed magical and somewhat elusive.

‘Teen Queen, can you hear me?' I was brought back to reality.

‘Sorry, I drifted off,' I said automatically. Well, how to load Earl's gun and point it at me. I watched him inhale.

‘That's what makes it so challenging to teach someone like you. The amount of air inside that head would cause anything to drift off. It must be like a tornado in there, hurtling ideas around and around.' He was obviously pleased with this clever analogy as he elaborated on it for another minute. Frankly, I was fed up with his petty abuse, so I interrupted him by pointing to the tower. ‘That's where students graduate,' I stated.