just_a_girl (5 page)

I’m so tired tonight it’s like the weight of the world is upon me, and sometimes it seems there’s not enough space left to feel love when everything else constantly needs doing, and if Geoff was here it would be easier but instead I wake up to the same routine, to the dishes and the washing and the cooking and a teenager who never tries to help, and on top of that I’m juggling the business, the never-ending emails and client demands and quotes that end up leading nowhere, so it was a relief to hear Pastor Bevan’s service this morning, he was talking about Intelligent Design, and I really connected with the topic because I’ve always been so influenced by the way things are styled, the way they are constructed on the screen or even out my window, I mean, I really do love my work, coming up with something concrete and shaping it from a concept and the clients love it too, when their ideas are matched with mine and it works, the colours, the typography, and I think the Lord and I are alike in that way in the work we’ve chosen to do and we must both be workaholics, you know, it feels like I can never really afford to stop, I don’t want to miss a tender
or a client’s phone call in that split second where they’re looking for a freelancer, you know, you always have to be on the ball and open all hours which doesn’t leave much time for rest.

I grew up thinking I’d have a brilliant career and that many possibilities were open to me, equal opportunity and all that, and it was my way of wriggling out of Violet’s clutches but instead I find myself in an endless cycle of the mundane and at least work offers me some escape and, believe me, I’m rarely idle, even when I’m tired it’s all go go go, and when Pastor Bevan was talking it got me thinking, I wish the Lord would Design an Intelligent man for me, I was hoping to meet someone at Church and I’ve been on a couple of dates in recent years and, you know, I’ll try not to be too shallow but they don’t really earn enough money to support me or they are quite old and recovering from a divorce, or they already have kids and I don’t want to go there again, or I think the man in question will never get along with Layla, but the Lord could Design me someone like Pastor Bevan, he has all the attributes I’m looking for, someone who takes the time to listen and who’s smart but not smug about what he knows, who can pull off both formal and casual attire, who appreciates the domestic but is not scared of travelling, and if I meet someone like that, hint hint, are you listening Lord?, perhaps then I can take a bit of a break because it feels like I never switch off, I wake up working and I fall asleep working, and if I’m restless in the night and can’t sleep there’s my laptop on the pillow beside me blinking as it rests, keeping me company as I dream.

A nightmare had sent him to the computer. He scrolled through the website trying to find the right face. It was not the bodies so much that interested him. He’d remembered her face as he woke up, the girl from the train. Her name had dangled, strangled, in the air, a name he struggled to pronounce as he breathed out; too many L’s.

She had the perfect features, the ones that he was searching for now. She’d been sitting in the carriage, her legs crossed. A small apple-shaped mouth and twinkly eyes. He’d liked her simple tartan school uniform and t-bar shoes. He was trying to find a close match. He’d registered at the online forum and sampled the discussions about favourite eye colour, hair length—too shy to join in yet.

What he really wanted was someone he could talk to, who’d be happy to live in his apartment in Strathfield, a girl with intelligence in her eyes, a knowing and inquisitive look. He liked girls who sat with one leg twisted around
the other on the edge of their chairs, elegant and elongated, leaning forward for conversation. He pictured a pert mouth slightly open and ready for a kiss. Shoulder-length silky hair that framed her face. He wanted everything about her to be soft. He looked at pictures of movie stars like Angelina Jolie but she wasn’t even close, too brittle, harsh in the light, with her wet lipstick and sculpted dresses. He was after someone more natural, more girl-next-door. And it was the Asian faces that attracted him most, were closest to hers, the gentle eyes and small mouths. This was where he would start searching.

He’d carefully budgeted for the costs involved—US$6,000 as a starting point. But there was no point cutting corners and going cheap. He hadn’t expected to be faced with so many decisions beyond the ideal height and weight.

Did he want a vinyl or silicon head?

A body in the same material as the face (ensuring a colour-match)?

A body that was fixed or flexible?

Could he pick her up with one hand?

Did she have FlexxWire fingers, made of alloy (longlasting and durable)?

Should he order a range of expressions (as many only came with one face)?

And then there were the accessories. Inserts came in a variety of shapes. They could be tacky, corrugated or create a suction effect for extra pleasure.

He came to an online matrix where he could choose a face and then a body to match. Guided by Japanese names, he first met Kamiko and Yohko but they weren’t quite
right. Face number 14 with body number 1 was beginning to get the correct mix, but her name, it didn’t fit. They’d called her ‘Louise’. He could always change it but he was already put off. He didn’t think he could fall in love with a Louise.

He continued to check the girls’ statistics until he found her. There she was, her face the same shape, the right expression. He was hooked as if she’d reached out of his laptop with her pinkie and pulled him into her pixels, the look of perfection. She had lovely dark eyebrows and eyes as if she’d asked him a question, skin the smooth colour of pine nuts.

He felt like he’d created her. A unique creature.

His Candy Girl Petite Jewel.

She seemed to glow right off the screen.

He emailed the manufacturer and then spent hours on eBay looking at wigs, trying to match her face. There were the bargains to scroll through before he found actual human hair. Of course she had to have real hair. He couldn’t imagine running his fingers through synthetic fibres.

He rolled the name of the girl from the train around on his tongue again, testing it out for the doll. When he was at primary school, the children would laugh at his R’s and his L’s. They would yell into his face in the playground:
Mrs Wong, Mrs Wong! Wing the Wong number!
He wasn’t Chinese but it didn’t seem to matter. It was a clear message that he took home each day.
You are not us.
He decided on another name, a Japanese one he knew well.

The only drawback to his new purchase was the waiting period. Her arrival day wouldn’t be until well into the
new year. But he had been waiting for love his whole life already. He was a patient waiter with plenty of time. He could now dream of the moment he would unwrap her, his sweet and precious Mika.

After my last geography assignment Mrs Farmer told me my handwriting was out of control. She makes us write all our essays by hand now. She reckons that’s the best way to stop plagiarism. Otherwise it’s too easy. Just to copy and paste off the internet. If we have to write it down, she says, we may as well use our own words. She says she knows if we copy something out. Because the writing looks different. So I’m in trouble. Because I just can’t decide on a style and stick with it. I went through a calligraphy phase. Dad bought me a fountain pen with violet ink from Venice. It actually smelt like the flowers. So I spent hours on the words. Then I became more interested in the way they looked than what I was saying. Mrs Farmer kept marking on it,
Just stick to the topic, Layla.

Dad has a new partner. Greg wrote a little note and posted it to me.
Look forward to meeting you next hols.
Yeah right. We’ll see how long that lasts. But Greg’s writing is just to die for. Like he’s ruled a line under it in pencil and
later rubbed it out. All the letters perfect and round. And really tiny and neat. With g’s and y’s hanging down long like an umbrella. Little circles above the i’s.

So for my last essay I aimed for this look. It saves a lot of paper. I can fit so many more words on a line. But Mrs Farmer was not impressed.
Is this your work, Layla?,
she wrote. But I’ll stick with it for a while. I really like the way it makes the words look so perfect. If I make a mistake I write the whole page out again. I try to leave the mistakes but I can’t look at them. It takes a long time to get the words fitting just right. But it makes me feel better.

And it’s not just problems with my writing. I never know the right answer in class. When my teacher asks a question I can’t grab hold of it. Get a handle. Mrs Farmer thinks I’m just being lazy. But I can’t ever find the right words. What I hate most is when she says,
Well, it looks like I’m just going to have to pick someone.
And I know my name is coming next. My brain goes mashed spud. I can’t breathe. What does she want me to say. I often say something stupid. She looks disappointed. I try to avoid being singled out. But I always end up being picked.

It was the same in primary school. I had a teacher in grade 5, Mr King. The one I’m not supposed to talk about. He used to get me to stand up in front of the class on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Every week to answer maths questions. He always chose me because I could beat the clock. He was really good-looking and used to play league. He would choose a number from the times tables like 12. I would have to go around the wheel on the wall. Answering the sums as fast as I could. Timed with a stopwatch. Layla, the performing seal with flippers flapping.

One day after recess he sent me outside with Sarah. Told us to clean the schoolyard. It seemed weird as there wasn’t much rubbish around. When we returned we sat down and got on with our work.

Then after lunch it happened.

Mr King slammed the ruler down on the desk in front of me. Started telling me off and screaming. He had never been angry with me before. He got me to stand in front of the class. Accused me of hurting a little kid from grade 1. Jimmy Lamb. I denied it. He brought Jimmy up from his class. The kid said I had hit him. I stood there looking at the class. Fuckadoodle, I didn’t know who and where I was. I didn’t know how to defend myself. I sat back down at my desk. Wondered if I had done it and had somehow forgotten.

Mr King said afterwards that it was a class experiment. To see if I gave in to peer group pressure. He’d told the kids and Jimmy Lamb to pretend. An experiment so they could focus on my reaction. He asked them to read their responses out loud. My best friend Sarah said,
Layla’s face went really red like she might explode.
And Tim, the only guy who ever puts his hand up to answer questions. He said,
Layla looked funny, like she might be going to cry.

I didn’t know how to write my own reaction. I just sat there looking at Mr King’s ruler. Even though I wanted to, I know I didn’t cry. I laughed it off. As if it was the lightest thing in the world.

Up until that day, Mr King had shone a torchlight into my black world. He was funny. Let me take off ahead of the class. Work on my own projects. He taught me to love my own inner space. That maybe it was not so scary to
be alone. I used to stay back after school hoping he might kiss me. I wanted to ask him to take me away. From my separated parents and my life. But after that experiment I lost it. I never wanted to come back to class again. I had nobody there to stand up for me.

And there were so many times like that I wanted my dad there. Just to talk to. About boys in my class. And my project on Ned Kelly. And how I could do a backbend with no help in gymnastics. But mum didn’t like it when we spoke on the phone. She said in the background,
Ask him when he’s gonna start paying child support.

Did he really need to get as far away as Queensland. To escape us. I decided then mum and I were inadequate, as a unit. A diseased pair who no-one wanted to touch any more.

At primary school I lied about the break-up. For years. I pretended he was still living at home. During show and tell with Mr King I brought things that I imagined dad had collected and saved for me. I told stories of dream holidays. Camping trips by rivers and rides at Luna Park. One day Mr King said,
Doesn’t your father live in Queensland, Layla?

I never mentioned him in show and tell after that.

Even though I go to Surfers to see dad in the school holidays two weeks isn’t enough. He still feels out of my reach. Like a ghost of a dad. Virtually there. Mum tries to drive a wedge between us. Even though he left 10 years ago. Sometimes I think it’s better not to know. But she wants me to see the worst in him.

She leaves last weekend’s paper open at the page.
At least she knows that much. That it’s best if I read it in private. But there’s a sense of triumph in her wake. A full-page spread with him smiling. Neat and just, well, gay.
One-day seafood course with Queensland chef to the stars.

Dad on catering to the stars at Warner Bros Movie World.

Dad on growing kaffir lime leaves.

Dad on how to tell if a fish at the market is fresh.

Dad on matching wines to entree, main and dessert.

But today’s Wednesday so he’s already been and gone. A chef with a jetset lifestyle. No time for those extra details. Like a daughter still living in Springwood. For example.

But that’s how I find out about him these days. Columns of ink on a page. Or the blogs that land each day. Piling up bold and unread in my inbox. Giving me all the information except what I want to know.

I don’t care about kaffir fucking lime leaves. I crunch up the newspaper into a messy ball.

My dad’s life. A wrapper for takeaway fish and chips.

But later I hook him out of the recycling. Carefully cut out the crumpled article. Add it to the special pile of dad moments. Collected and preserved in my memory box.