Amnesia (32 page)

She was informed that BFF meant Best Friend Forever and was normally reserved by teenage girls for members of their own sex.
Hullo BFF, I will die without you, please let me in, please let me be with you. I am all alone in Aisen’s class at Bullshit High. I cannot stand myself. I cannot bear life without you. We can get married. Ask me again I will get high just breathing the air coming out your nose. XXXXXXXXXX

Celine paid no attention to the blood business. Her first thought was, he isn’t gay at all. She told the social workers it was romantic. Had they never done the same themselves?

Oh no, this was not romantic. This was self-damage. Her daughter was under severe mental stress.

Meaning what exactly?

She has been cutting herself.

Celine said, I thought they were ridiculous, but they left their business cards and a pamphlet about girls who cut themselves. I was such an idiot I let them take away her love letter.

Then Miss Aisen called again, basically ordering her to present herself at the school.

So, once more, she said, I was reminded Bell Street High was a dump. Also: I would never have sent my daughter here if I had known how huge the boys were, how they occupied all space, how smug and certain in their expensive sneakers and M. C. Hammer pants. No wonder her grades were so depressing.

I arrived in a sort of lumber room to discover Miss Aisen and a single
Apple computer which turned out to be her own. She was less than middle-aged, wiry, a swimmer surely, with short grey hair, intense brown eyes, no makeup and a cotton frock she may have made herself. She had an unnerving gaze, a sort of uninhibited curiosity.

She said, I know you must get this all the time.

I thought, how have I fucked up now?

But she and her father used to see me at the collective. She could list the productions. She had been really upset to read I had been kicked out. Oh God, she was a fan. She asked me did I know who Solosolo was.

Yes.

Did I know they had had a fight, then she corrected me before I answered. It had been a physical fight. In the park, she said.

I see.

No, she meant the car park, the public park, the lane leading to the old man pub, where the big tree was, with the basalt boulders underneath. This was where the boys fought, and she said how much it disturbed her. What they fought about you could not tell, perhaps a wrong look yesterday, or a massacre centuries before. You would know there was to be a fight when you heard the audience gathering. Then, if you looked, you would most likely see the weaker boy, the one who knew he would be beaten.

Celine thought, too much information.

A boy would turn up first and stand beneath the tree. His pride did not allow him to be saved. Then his assailant would arrive and he would cuff and punch the first boy until he was on the ground where he was punched and kicked in the head and the girls would call out, You guys are animals, you guys are sick. Then the boy would go away. Then the girls would go inside.

And the point was?

The point was that Celine’s daughter was the first girl to stand and wait in the shade beneath that tree, beside those jagged rocks. It was no secret: Gaby wished to fight with Solosolo, and each afternoon the staff had been pleased to see Solosolo walk straight past Gaby.

When Solosolo put aside her crutches Gaby spat at her, she whose family were now obliged to bury her brother Fa’a Samoa, and pay for airfares for their grand family, and feed them when they could barely afford to feed themselves. Solosolo slapped Gaby so violently you could
hear it in the staffroom like a sound effect. Gaby was smaller, but always dense and solid. She ducked inside the tall girl’s reach. She hit her at the balance point and brought her down, bare limbs on the gravel, and the boys were ugly as hyenas, dancing, loose-mouthed, and it took the shop teacher Mr. Junor and Miss Aisen between them to pull the scratching girls apart.

I was gutted, Celine said. I pretended I had seen the wounds. I explained Gaby would not see a shrink, not anyone.

No, listen, Miss Aisen told me. She was kind to me. Listen, she told me. She laid her hand on my wrist and said my daughter was way brighter than her grades. She was attracted to the most difficult and interesting computer issues. She had a burning sense of right and wrong, of course I must know all that.

Of course, I thought, you are a socialist. Shut up, I thought. Don’t tell me who my daughter is.

If I was lucky enough to have a daughter like this, Miss Aisen said, I would want to know she spent most of her day hiding in a drain beneath Pentridge Prison. A teacher at the primary had seen her come and go. Stop. Swap. Play.

After Peli died, said Gaby.

Rewind play.

After Peli died I was spied on. Everything I did was significant. If a boy fights a boy no-one cares, but if a girl fights a girl she must be psychologically disturbed. My teachers were so clever. They knew without a doubt that I was imprisoning myself as punishment for Peli’s death. I was torturing myself by burying my body below Frederic’s father’s cell. I imagined Frederic was in prison so I had to be locked up too. If no-one would punish me, I would do it to myself.

I’m skinny, so I must be anorexic.

I’m a girl who eats lunch, so I must be fat.

I wear black, so I must be a goth or death punk.

I’m a death punk, so I must cut myself for thrills.

If they had taken the trouble to ask me I might have even told them I started sneaking down into the drain because of little Troy, my sole surviving friend. When the Samoans turned on us, Troy lost his protection. Now he was exposed e.g. to Jasim, a vast Lebanese kid who said he would execute him as a drug dealer.

No-one had ever stood beside Troy in his life. Obviously. Now we stood beside each other, at the midpoint of the drain or tunnel at a place where we could see the light at both ends. Troy said his father was a doctor. He said he was going to get a gang and bash Jasim. I told Jasim that Troy had renounced drugs. From that point Troy only sold after school from the lane beside my house. He stopped coming to the drain completely.

As for me, I was a person of interest to the authorities, so I went where no-one could counsel me or “get you through your grieving” (please drop dead). None of them could imagine what I lost, but if I had known it was Miss Aisen who had her sights on me, I would have asked her please come in. She had the only thing I wanted: a 1988 Mac IIx she lugged up and down the stairs once a week. She had cruel-looking magpie eyes and a squishy secret sparrow heart. I did not know she was full of love and yearning and plans to change the world, so I did not let her guess how much I wanted what I wanted.

That Mac IIx was my only plan for life. Plus how to get a phone line and a modem. Then find Frederic. He would be on Altos in Hamburg. Even if he changed his handle I would know my BFF.

Hi, that u?

Yup.

That would be enough.

It was raining on that day Miss Aisen sooled my mum on me. I was in the drain alone, talking to Frederic in my mind, on my screen. Five centimetres of slimy water pushed in around my wrinkly toes.

I thought something like the following, more or less:

A dark staircase can be seen leading upward out of the drain. To the west is a small window which is open.

>
go west

Inside is a white clean chamber. Frederic no longer wears his gown. His skin is like ivory. He is in a trance
.

Celine came towards me and the light burned the edges of her silhouette and I didn’t know if it was a man or woman, big or small, young or old. I thought she was a man i.e. INTRUDER. The flashlight made a second halo of her harm.

I pressed myself against the wall, in the shadow of a pier, listening to splashing feet.

You are in the cavern of cockroaches
.

When the light rushed at my face I screamed and tore it free. I was mad, not nice, screaming keep out, stay away from me. Then I woke up, sort of, and there was my mother, bleeding where I hurt her arm. She was shivering, quivering. I put my arm around her and we limped towards the light like sewer rats. Outside on Elm Grove, beside the primary school, we were both embarrassed by ourselves. At home I ran a bath for her and made her bread and butter and sugar and drenched it in warm milk. What did I want? I watched her eat her baby food and I told her I was not cutting and then she told me Frederic’s mother had taken him up to northern New South Wales. At least I knew he had not dumped me.

Celine asked would I be happier back at school in Carlton. I said I had to learn programming. This was maybe not a total lie, but what I really wanted was to hook up online. I imagined Frederic’s fingers flying like moth wings all night long. Even now, when I cried myself to sleep, I knew he must be messing with root, account passwords, building back doors. My parents had to get me a computer and a modem. Then I would find Frederic on Altos. We would build a s3kr4t back room i.e. with just two members where we could invent, imagine, talk soft and dirty to each other.

I told my mother I must learn to program I didn’t care how hard it was. I would be the biggest swot she ever met. I stared at her with such bright mad attention I knew I could draw her from the water like a yabby, put her in the pot and eat her up for dinner. I was a selfish little cow.

Celine made me take off all my clothes and checked I wasn’t cutting. If this was creepy, WTF. I stood on my bed and she shone a flashlight on my not quite virgin thighs. To compensate me for this humiliation she would pay for private computer lessons with Miss Aisen. I was guilty about the money, so I gave her something in return, not much—I showed her the bottle of brown ink the idiots had thought was blood. She swore she had not read the letters, which was a lie. She apologised for believing stupid social workers. I could have asked for my own computer then, but I had no clue of how easy it would be. Miss Aisen had already told my astonished parents that it would be a “crime” if I was hindered in my desire to learn.

GABY DELIVERED
the first ten dollars to Miss Aisen. Thirty minutes later she was back home, sweaty, out of breath, holding a tiger snake in a jar against her little breasts. It would have freaked you, Celine said, to see the poisonous creature with its head squashed like a garlic clove. My daughter was glowing like she had just been kissed.

What about the lesson?

I have to get something.

You have to get something? What do you have to get?

The girl grinned and placed the viper on the shelf between the kidney beans and lentils.

What do you need for your lesson?

Don’t worry about it, Gaby said. She’ll make up the time tomorrow.

Pause.

Start.

A worker’s cottage in Darlington Grove, Gaby told me, a block over from Patterson Street, with a super-loamy vegie garden. Aisen had been born there, in her mum’s bed. It had been her mum who had improved the soil with chicken manure and lake weed. Her father had also been born in Coburg. He was Mervyn. He had grown up when it was all “rock and rabbit farms,” paddocks wild with boxthorn bushes and Cape broom. Some moron would always “drop a match” and burn everything from McMahons Road right through to the lake, millions of sparrows and starlings rising in the air, blocking out the sun.

Miss Aisen had been taught at St. Bernard’s and Bell Street High
then studied to be a secretary, then to be a bookkeeper and worked with IBM accounting machines which were already dinosaurs. Then she taught bookkeeping at Bell Street. She never married. She was careful with her money. When the Mac IIx arrived she could afford to buy one and thus became “the oldest hacker in Melbourne.” Fast forward. Play. She was not a criminal. Stop. Fast forward. Play. She had seen Celine and Gaby emerge into the steamy drizzle from beneath the Pentridge Prison walls. That lovely actress, she had thought, all her talent, and there is her angry ugly daughter living in a drain. But that was what Miss Aisen was put on earth to fix. From each, to each etc. Fast forward. When Gaby arrived that first Saturday morning, she found her living in an island of white people. One neighbour was Mr. Howard who trained the apprentices at the Government Aircraft Factory. Alice and Bob McNaughton were on the other side. He was “with” a timber yard on Gaffney Street. He raced pigeons, you get used to them, according to Miss Aisen’s dad. Melbourne’s oldest hacker had once had a front garden but now it had a wheelbarrow, a rusty Subaru and a motor scooter with a fruit crate strapped onto the back.

Gaby arrived in shorts and bare feet. She edged sideways through a nest of bicycles and reached the front verandah where the boards were nice and cool. It was Miss Aisen’s dad who answered her knock. Mervyn was short and wiry, in a working man’s navy singlet, shorts and plastic thongs. He was what we might call “a bit of a character,” a pensioner yes, but also a frisky dog who wants to play. He carried a white tea towel across his brown shoulder and a dead tiger snake in his right hand.

Gaby had grown up with Labor Party “characters.” She was also on familiar terms with the snakes of Merri Creek: browns, tigers, red-bellied black snakes too. They swam with their heads held high around the car wreck where Gaby had smoked with Solosolo.