I’ve been waiting for my bruises to calm down. Hiding behind my fringe and foundation. I’ve got exams next week. I haven’t made it to school much. But I know how to sign my mum’s signature. Can write a sick note on my computer. The key is not too much or too little information to give you away.
I’ve been going to Leura and sitting. Outside the house to see if he returns. But there’s never anyone there. Only a small cat who rubs against my legs. Skinny and begging for food. I wait for the cat to talk to me. But there’s no conversation happening. The suitcase has gone from the verandah. I wonder if she’s with him. Or being carried by a stranger. I hope they found each other.
The video is all over YouTube. That’s another reason I’m avoiding school. Even Mr C has seen it. He wants to meet me for a chat.
And I need to talk to someone.
So I sneak off to church to see him praise the lord. In front of thousands up on stage. Action man for Jesus. Mum doesn’t know I’m there. He’s a preacher to the new nation. I want to reveal who he really is. To show her there
is
more than one true path. But I can’t reveal his face. God doesn’t really interest me and Mr C knows that. Sometimes I think he even agrees because he never pushes it. I thought he would always be evangelical offstage. But he only is when we’re mucking around under the covers. When he comes he speaks in strange tongues. In my ear he cries out for Jesus. It makes him soft somehow. Mr C might say,
Cherish and adore your beautiful and precious wife.
But where is she when he tucks me in.
Mum always sits in the same seat. Tunnel vision to the stage. A place where he can see her. Where everyone can fucking see her. As if god’s got her number stored as the first on his speed dial. That’s the beauty of a superchurch. She won’t see me in the stadium. It’s all the same pussyrock. Boys with floppy fringes. Guitars slung low, slackers for Jesus. Girls in the front row crane their necks like baby birds in a nest. Arching in the direction of their mother as she flies in. And the boys will shag their groupies after the gig. Just like any other band. Just because you’re spirit-filled doesn’t mean you’re not a sinner. A battle for that kerching of cash registers. Download the latest Riverlay hit.
It’s like being at a gig with 15,000 of your best friends. It’s not about religion it’s about loving god. There’s nothing complicated about it. My mum doesn’t want to know there are as many truths as people. Her only reason for living comes from god. And she thinks he saved her
life after dad left. At the altar she was called. She wanted a commitment and he was the best thing going. At least he wouldn’t cheat on her. Not with another man. He had a path laid out and she was too tired to walk on her own. She says having depression just proved she was under attack from satan. She dropped all her friends who weren’t christians. I can’t think of anyone who’s less full of spirit now than her. She’s sinking back down. I can feel it. But I don’t know how to hold her up.
Mum’s never accepted that I’m a backslider. She’s waiting for the day. My feet will fall again on his path. I can’t miss the pity in her face when she sees me sad.
You’re leading a quarter of the life you could. The world is full of sin. All you have to do is choose to walk in God’s light.
Free of the pressures of the world to be cool. Free of the need to be popular. That’s what she thinks. And the funny thing is I’m here. Just like her basking in his house. But we’re both here for the wrong reasons. And she’s the one who’s sliding back.
The chorus lifts to
I’m a new creation.
Hands touch out to god. To pick them up. Their bodies suck up his love like vacuum cleaners. And as I watch them I remember. I’ve never been able to do this. To raise my arms into the air. When my mum was next to me watching I would try hard to lift them. But they would get stuck halfway up. Arms stiff at right angles. I just couldn’t raise them higher. Like it was my last chance to hold onto myself before caving in. I couldn’t open up. My arms just stayed there crooked as if to stop me falling. I wanted to shoot bullets out of my fingers. Watch the crowds scatter and fall. I didn’t need god’s touch.
But now I have what she wants but can’t reach. The fingers and lips of Mr C always teaching me a lesson. I see my mum below. Pretending she’s so sure of her place in the light. But I watch her. And I know. She’s fumbling her way around in the dark.
Chelsea has been giving me the cold shoulder at Church and it’s so unusual, she’s always so fluffy and light as if nothing bad could ever land on her, and I’m wondering whether Bevan has let something slip about the kiss, but he seems very much business as usual as if nothing has happened between us, and I understand why it has to be that way and so when I saw him today the focus was all on Layla, and he said that he felt she was growing up very quickly, she was very mature for her age and had a good head on her shoulders, and that she had spoken to him about doing psychology at uni, which was a bit of a shock to me because she doesn’t reveal much, but I guess there is a lot going on in her head, and she probably knows more than she ever lets on, and when I went to leave he told me he had some more interesting news that he thought I might like to know, that Layla had started asking him about religion and what he thought about God and that he even saw her at Church today, did I know that she was coming along?, so not to be too worried, that she was still finding her feet and that with his guidance he was sure she would
get back on track, because she was so desperate to find the truth and he suspected she was lonely too, because she’d mentioned falling out with a friend.
And I was truly amazed that she’d put in an appearance and felt such a wave of relief, that we had both found someone to talk to and how lucky that it was the same person, and he seemed to know exactly the right thing to say at that given moment, and that is a true gift that the Lord has given him, and so I told him about the boy who hit Layla and how I saw it on the internet but that I didn’t know how to approach her and he said not to worry, he’d try to make contact, and as I was walking out I let myself imagine a future day, where the three of us are standing side by side and singing in Church, and Layla raises her arms above her head and welcomes the Lord back into her heart.
Mr C picks me up after church. I sneak out through the fire exit and into his car. Mum’s gone on to a small business networking dinner. She says she hates them. It’s like speed dating but with money involved. But she has to do it to find new clients.
Mr C is playing with his phone as he drives. He has downloaded all these new apps. He keeps asking me to show him how they work. They all seem pretty useless to me. I grab the phone and text
I am drivin Layla home for hanky panky.
Threaten to upload.
He’s not a happy camper.
He grabs the phone off me and scrolls down and deletes it. He puts the phone in his pocket. He looks at me carefully.
—Is everything okay with your mum, Layla? She’s been a bit different lately. Sometimes she doesn’t even come to church. You haven’t told her...
—Nah, I don’t know, she seems to be tired all the time. On the weekends she naps all afternoon. I always have to wake her up to drop me off for school. It’s like she’s a zombie half the time.
—Maybe she needs me to come by for a chat...
—Yeah, I think she just needs to get out of the house more. At least she made an effort tonight.
—She told me about that boy on the train. Are you okay? Do you know who he is? I could try and find out.
I don’t answer. My hand goes up to my face. The dark blue ache. He starts up the engine and we head up the road to the golden arches.
As we go through the drive-thru I start to tell him about my cat, Pudnud.
About how her tail got caught in the fold-up lounge. From then on it had a permanent kink. And she would lie on my stomach when I slept. And then bite me when I tried to roll over.
About how when the vet gave her a lethal injection her little pink tongue popped out the moment she died. And it looked so peaceful that I wasn’t afraid any more.
About how when I went to bury her in our garden her furry body slipped out of the blanket onto the dirt. A little squirmy worm like when I tried to give her a tablet. So I couldn’t stop crying when mum put her in the hole.
About how I didn’t even cry like that when my granddad died.
And Mr C just sits with me in the carpark. He holds my hand while I speak even though I can’t look at him. Between sips of my thickshake the words just start. Surging out of my throat. Pouring thick down my tongue.
I get a rush as they beat me with fluttery wings. And I wonder where they’ve been hiding. This torrent of sounds pounding faster. As they gather pace and start to fly. Out of the exhaust carried off to the sky.
After my year 10 formal Marco and I stagger out of the limo. Into pea-soup Leura fog. The night bites my arms even though it’s November. Marco pulls my pashmina around both of us. As he struggles for his keys. Marco’s parents are away for the weekend. His sister is at her boyfriend’s. Small details my mum doesn’t need to worry about.
We haven’t talked about the Train Incident. Sarah was at the formal with Davo. So I’ve been busy all night. Looking while pretending not to look.
My head’s an explosion of Red Bull and vodka. My silver stilettos dazzle my feet into submission. My hands are shaking. His are not and I push past him into a beautiful room. Expensive wood, bright striped cushions, lush carpet. He takes me down to a cellar. I pretend to like wine as he pours two glasses of red. He talks about how he wants to study wine-making. Would love to have a vineyard. How he went surfing at Margaret River on his school holidays.
I went shopping at Westfield Parramatta,
I say. He laughs and hands me an enormous glass. Big enough to wear as a hat. He shapes the word
riedel
in his mouth. We head back upstairs and sit on a burnt-orange ottoman. The colour of the moment. We swirl and sip. A large canvas of the family looks down from the wall. His dad is almost life sized, fat arms around thin wife. I want to slash him out of the picture. Marco is in the centre with his sister. Radiating. The Italian god of everything that feels good. And I want what he’s having.
He lights the fire and grabs a rug to wrap me some more. He puts my glass down and gives me shiraz bites on the ear. As he works his way in it’s like he’s slowly licking me from the inside out. I don’t want to wait this time and I don’t have to.
He’s straight down onto his knees between mine. His fingers are shimmying up under the side elastic of my undies. It’s exciting at first. But then I start getting distracted. The soft and slippery becomes dry and rubbery. He keeps looking at my face. As if to find me in there somewhere. But all I can see is my own reflection. Looking out a train window. Into dark nothingness. And I start to wonder how I’m going to kiss him. When he’s finished down there.
But I don’t have to because I grab him and say,
Let’s get horizontal.
I’ve never seen a guy move so quick. I say,
In your parents’ bed.
And we slide along to the end of the corridor. I perch him on the gold satin pillows before stalking the room. I find his parents’ terry-towelling robes hanging and pull the belts free.
—Have you ever been tied up?
I twirl them around him, hitting him lightly.
—Fuck, Layla, what are you doing to me?
He grins. That’s what I like about boys. They’re always so easy to please. I start to take off his tux. He watches my face. I like his dimpled hands. The shape of his forearms when they aren’t moving. I tie each arm to the cast-iron bedhead so he looks like Jesus. His dick bursts out the top of his pants and peeks over his belt. We both look at it as if it’s an alien crashing the party. I unzip him and take off his boxers. I’m careful not to touch him. He has a loosened shirt now, nothing below the waist. His dick is like a heat-seeking missile, hovering.
I take my dress off but I like to keep my heels on. As we kiss he puts my own taste back onto me. I jump up and grab my pashmina and cover his eyes, tying it at the back of his head.
No! I want to be able to see you,
he protests. He sucks my boob like a bird regurgitating. Makes small suffocating noises. I perch myself on the very edge of him. I imagine the moment of entry. The first time. It would be so easy just to snap it off. Like a spear of white asparagus.
I get off him and start going through his mum’s perfumes. I put dabs of Chanel No 5 behind my ears.
—What are you doing? Talk to me.
He starts to struggle at the wrists.
—Can’t you smell me?
I waft the bottle under his nose. But maybe his mother’s fragrance might not turn him on. I pull the doona around me and bite his nipple. I trace the smooth end of the perfume bottle up his legs.
—Hey, why don’t we play Truth or Dare?
He smiles but I can tell he’s looking for a way out. Boys get nervous when you start talking about the truth bit. Dares aren’t so much of an issue.
—Okay, I’ll go first. Dare.
I’ve already got mine worked out. I put my face really close to his. He smells of sour grapes. He has the worn red ring of wine around his lips. I get my chapstick out and moisten his mouth.
—I dare you to run to the end of the street in the nude.
We both laugh because it’s really cold out there. I take off his blindfold. I wave my little pinkie finger. Reminding him of the shrinkage factor. He breathes in.
—God, okay, but you have to untie me first. Obviously.
—Nah, I’ll untie your arms but I’m gonna tie up your legs so you can’t run away.
I tie the belt around his ankles so he can barely walk. I watch him from the front verandah. All wrapped up in the doona. He lurches down the steps. His white bum reflects the swirling mist. He’s got hair on his back that he probably can’t see. But it’s quite nice. Like a big old teddy bear. His legs are so strong they don’t wobble like mine. He shifts weight easily even in his shackles. By the time he’s at the end of the street he’s on a high. He’s yelling.
—Woo hoo! Layla! Come and get me!
I can’t see him because the fog is still thick. But I hide in the front garden in case anyone can hear. The street is dead. Little old ladies with their hearing aids out napping behind their thick hedges.
A dog barks halfheartedly as Marco lollops back to the gate. He has his hands over his balls. But I’ve seen it all before. Where I kiss him his skin is blue in the night like
a statue. We shiver back to the bedroom. There’s no way I’m going to choose Dare. He’s lucky he lives in Leura not Redfern.
—So, are you going to untie me now, Layla?
I shrug and lie under the doona with him. As he shudders faster trying to warm up I untie his feet. And re-belt his wrists to the bed. He doesn’t look so happy about it this time. But he lies still. I feel better when I can see his hands.
—Okay then, it’s your turn.
—Truth.
Marco’s toes are iceblocks as he uses them to stroke my feet. He looks into my eyes carefully. He’s the only boy I know who does that. It makes my heart jump each time.
—Okay. My go. I was just wondering, is there something wrong with your mum?
I roll over away from him. This is not the question I was expecting.
—It’s just ... my mum said at Riverlay they were praying for her and everything.
My body has gone rigid. My face is stuck in neutral. He can tell it was the wrong thing to say. I yank my dress over my head. I sit up on the edge of the bed and wrap his tux jacket around me.
—I just wanted to know how she was going, that’s all. And you hadn’t said anything about it, so. Look, it’s no big deal. Everyone has depression these days. Can you untie me so I can talk to you?
He struggles to get up but he’s stuck.
And at that moment I feel so tired I could sleepwalk. I just want to curl up with him. Put my head on his
chest like in soap operas. Tell him the real fucking Truth.
Tell him how she’s so blind.
Tell him how my dad left her.
Tell him that she’s always alone.
Tell him that she never wants to wake up.
Tell him about Mr C.
Tell him about the suitcase.
Tell him that I don’t know how to start. Because there’s just so much to tell him.
Instead I turn and sit perched on Marco’s stomach. He tries to keep talking but I put a hand over his mouth.
—Well, while we’re on the topic. It’s your turn to tell a Truth.
I move my hand and start fiddling with his hair. He loves my fingernails scraping the back of his neck.
—Okay, but you haven’t answered my question yet, and I think you’re making up the rules as you go along.
I hit him softly on the head with a pillow. His eyes peer up from under it.
—Yeah, well, you know when we came back from Purple Sneakers? I saw you. I saw you in the other carriage. Those guys. What they did to me. You just stood there. You just stood there and did nothing. And then you disappeared. Why didn’t you come to help me?
Marco bucks to get me off. But I’m on his chest. His stomach pinned by my legs.
—It was too late, Layla. By the time I realised what he was going to do, it was too late.
—But you could have come running in. You just stayed there. You’re twice his size. You could have scared him.
—Of course I wanted to help you. I hated seeing you get hurt like that. I would have done anything to stop him. But it was just too late and then I got off because I thought they had you with them. I couldn’t see you. I searched the station for ages. I had to get a taxi home because it was the last train.
I lie down next to Marco. He manoeuvres himself so his right thigh touches my left. My leg curves into his muscle. I know he wants to have his hands free so he can touch me. His face is so soft. It’s what I love about him. This mix of hard and soft.
But I have to get out of here now. I check the knots around his wrists. He won’t be able to untie them for a while. His mother’s car keys are on the dressing room table. She has a digital key ring with Marco as a little boy smiling up at me. I loop it around my finger.
—Layla, no. Don’t do this.