Saving Francesca (16 page)

chapter 21

WE START TERM
three with a House meeting, and I get to look at Will Trombal for a whole twenty minutes while he speaks. He is a man of minimal words, Will is. His stares are long, his pauses never-ending, and he always thinks before he speaks. He has a quiet confidence devoid of the ego, and earnestness and sincerity I find confronting to witness. When the meeting is over, as I’m jostling out of the foyer, I feel someone grab my arm from behind and he’s there, facing me, an irritated look on his face.

“What?” he says.

We’re pushed and shoved, but I don’t mind the contact.

“What what?”

“Why did you roll your eyes?”

“I didn’t,” I lie.

“Every time I spoke, you rolled your eyes,” he accuses.

“Then don’t look at me when you speak.”

“If I want to look at you, I’ll look at you.”

“Will, this conversation is ridiculous. Now, I’m an expert on ridiculous conversations, but you’re way out of your element, which means that I’ll win. And going by the Tolstoy/Trotsky thing, I don’t think you’ll cope very well with your loss.”

He looks at me for a moment, and then he seems to relax and that half smile kind of appears.

“So, how was your break?” he asks.

“Long. Yours?”

“Confusing.” He’s looking at me intensely. “I’m a month away from recording my university preferences.”

I can tell he’s all over the place.

“And I know
exactly
what I’m going to write down,” he continues, as if I’ve responded, “and that frightens the hell out of me.”

“Do you know what my theory is?” I tell him, although it’s really Mia’s theory. “Fear’s good. It keeps things interesting.”

His face softens. “In a good year, you kind of look as if you’d be fearless.”

I shake my head. “I haven’t had a good year for a while.”

Somehow he ends up walking me to class. It’s like something out of an American teen flick, and I find myself swinging as I walk alongside him, to music that I can hear in my head. I can’t look at him, so I have to rely on every other sense. The smell of his aftershave, the feel of his elbow when we accidentally brush up against each other, the resonance of his gravelly voice.

A great feeling comes over me. Because for a moment, I kind of like who I am.

In drama, we start a Shakespeare unit and Ortley suggests a production for fourth term.
“Henry IV, Part 1,”
he says. “You’ll relate to the rebellious son wanting to hang out with his idiot friends at the pub.”

I like looking at his face when he speaks. Sometimes he spits, actually he spits all the time, but I think that’s passionate. He loves words and he rolls them around in his mouth like a luscious plum, slobbering on the sides, and then he’ll use his hands, touching his mouth as if he’s taking the words out and throwing them to us.

And boy do we flinch. He uses swear words in class, not at us, but about the texts, and it kind of excites us because here’s a man who’s not scared of talking about sex and passion. It’s weird, because he’s about fifty and has the craggiest face and the most demented stares, but in his classes I feel tapped into something, a kind of attraction.

“Wouldn’t it be hard to be rebellious and cool with a name like Henry?” Thomas asks.

“Hal, to his friends.”

The bell rings and we stream out. I’m unimpressed by the choice of play, but I don’t say anything.

“Francesca?”

“Yes.” I walk to Ortley’s desk.

“You rolled your eyes.”

Oh God, another one. “It’s a condition I have,” I lie, because it’s quicker than explaining.

“I’m interested in what you think.”

“About the production?”

“Of course.”

I’ve taken a truth serum. It got a smile out of Will, so I give it a go, sitting down in front of him.

“
Henry IV
has only one good female role. Kate. The Welsh girl can’t speak English. So it’s pretty limited. I think we should do a Shakespeare with more chicks in it.”

He’s taken aback, and then he laughs. “You look better than last term. Are you okay?” It’s a gruff query.

I don’t know how to deal with this question. When it’s not asked, I hate everyone, but when Justine asks me and when Mr. Ortley demands to know, it’s hard. I haven’t practiced the right polite answer. It’s only the first day back and he’s put me on the spot.

“Some days are good and other days are shockers,” I say, because the truth serum hasn’t worn off yet.

He looks at me and nods. “Same here.”

I can’t help grinning.

“Can you act?” he asks.

“I was in
Oliver
in Year Six.”

“Nancy?”

“Fagin.”

He’s impressed.

“How about
Macbeth
? Do you know your Shakespeare?”

“
Macbeth,
yes. I’m not of woman born, you know,” I say, referring to the fact that the witches predict that Macbeth will be killed by someone not of woman born, who ends up being someone born by Cesarean section birth. “When I went to see a production in Year Nine, I thought I was a freak because of it.”

“Why? The freak ends up killing the monster, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

He stands up and picks up his stuff. “Let me think about the change of play,” he says. “But remember, I’ve got a reputation for excellent productions. If you don’t wow me in the
Macbeth
auditions, we’ll do
Henry IV
and you’ll play the Welsh girl who can’t speak English.”

“Deal.”

On the bus I tell Tara about the possible change.

“Macbeth?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And you think that’s a victory?”

“Why, isn’t it?”

“Think of the women. Three witches, one bitch, and one submissive housewife.”

“I wouldn’t call Lady Macduff a submissive housewife,” I argue.

“She’s a nag. She nags Macduff to death,” Thomas tells us, pulling an earphone out of his head.

“I think she’s feisty,” Justine says.

“And she still dies,” Tara informs me. “Lady Macbeth kills herself, the witches disappear. Notice we become redundant in all the victory.”

“It’s just a play,” I say, irritated.

“No it’s not. It’s an exposé of how strong-minded women end up either going insane or being clobbered.”

“Or described as chicks with beards,” Thomas says.

“Huh?” Siobhan asks.

“He’s talking about the witches,” I explain. “And let’s not forget that the ‘strong-minded’ Lady Macbeth was a psycho bitch from hell.”

“This is not good,” Tara says, shaking her head.

“I disagree,” Justine argues. “I think they’re finally listening to us.”

“I would have preferred the one about the guy hanging out with his friends in the pub,” Thomas says.

“I’m going to go for Lady Macbeth,” I tell them, “and worse still, I’ve decided my audition piece will be the one where she says, ‘Unsex me now,’ which is going to be hard in front of a bunch of morons.”

Thomas is finally interested.

“Sex?”

“No sex,” Tara explains. “She’s saying, get the woman out of me and let the guy part take over because only guys can do disgusting, revolting, shitty things.”

“Woman, you’re a worry,” he mutters under his breath.

My dad and I walk home from grocery shopping in Johnston Street. We pass the kids at the top of the street who have built their own grind pole and are flying in the air and landing in the middle of the road.

“Get off the road,” my father says as we pass them.

He’s in his flip-flops and work clothes and the kids snicker, but I give them the evil eye.

Sometimes I look at Dad and think he seems so sad that he might burst. Mia has been the love of his life since they were fifteen, and I think his whole identity has been wrapped up in her.

“What do you talk about at night?” I ask him.

He thinks for a moment.

“I do the talking, which is funny, isn’t it?”

Mia’s argument had always been that my father doesn’t talk enough about what’s going on inside his head. She comes from the school of getting it out of your system, whereas he comes from the school of stewing over it.

“It’s not like there’s an answer or just one reason,” he tells me.

“Are you saying there’s more than one reason?”

“I’m just saying that I wish I could say it was this or that.”

“I wish you’d tell us at least what one of the thises and thats is!”

I don’t recognize who I am with my father these days. Lately, when I speak to him there’s this bite in my tone and I can’t stop it and I don’t know why. Do I blame him for all this, because Mia seems too fragile to blame?

“She was just tired from a lot of things,” he explains. “Maybe she needed a break and she just didn’t let us know.”

“Once, at the beginning of last year, she told me that she wanted to stay home and not work, and she was so happy about it,” I say. And I don’t know where that comes from. Where have I hidden that memory?

He stops for a moment, and I can see something change on his face.

“Did she ever say that to you?” I ask him, trying to recall the conversation I once had with her.

“I don’t remember.”

“She was ecstatic about it. That I can remember. Do you remember?”

He shakes his head and begins walking again.

“After Nonno died,” I press on, because somehow memories come floating back in bits and pieces, “for so long she was sad, and then one day I remember that she was happy. But then it changed again. Maybe it was something I did. Or with Mummy and me, it was probably something I didn’t do.”

“You and Mia are just like Mia and her mother were.”

In the distance, I see Jimmy Hailler talking to the people across the road. They know more about him than me.

“Doesn’t he have a home to go to?”

“I have no idea.”

“I don’t want him in your bedroom.”

“Papa! Don’t be so old-fashioned. We’re just friends.”

“And look at his pants. Why doesn’t he just wear them around his ankles?”

“Look at yourself. You look like something out of a yobbo retrospective.”

“Who teaches you these words?” he asks in mock anguish. It’s the first time I’ve heard him joke around for a while, and it makes my heart sing.

We approach the house and I wave at Jimmy.

“And if he thinks he’s eating with us, he’s got another thing coming,” my dad says.

Jimmy approaches us and takes the shopping bags from me, looking inside them.

“Lamb roast. Am I invited?”

chapter 22

IN LEGAL STUDIES
we’re in the library, researching stuff on the Internet. Thomas is sitting next to me, with his earphones discreetly plugged into the computer, tapping away and nodding his head. Once in a while he breaks into song, off-key, and it’s hard to concentrate. I find myself typing in the word “depression.” There are thousands of entries, and I’m stunned by the amount of information.

“What are you doing?” I hear Justine ask.

I quickly switch off the monitor, but she reaches over and switches it back on.

I don’t know why I ever thought Justine was shy. Sometimes I try hard to remember her at Stella’s, but the Justine of St. Stella’s is a blur, some kind of wallpaper print that no one actually took any notice of. Here, since it’s a musical school, they love the whole accordion thing. Her nerdiness kind of makes her cool. “She kills me,” Eva Rodriguez says. I don’t know when Justine’s giggles stopped getting on my nerves, but we’ve fallen into this habit of talking online every night, mostly about Tuba Guy and Will and music. Weirdly enough, her taste is similar to Thomas Mackee’s: new-age punk, alternative stuff, and show tunes. They are passionate about the local music scene and burn CDs for each other, having deep-and-meaningfuls about the actual music and lyrics, and somehow I’ve got used to their tastes. Mine was a combination of everything Mia and my Stella friends listened to, but I kind of like the lack of structure in Justine and Thomas’s, even though no one else has ever heard of them.

Today, Justine stands over me, pressing the scroll bar on the computer down.

“You have to narrow it down,” she explains. “There’s just different types, that’s all.”

“You’re an expert, are you?”

“
Hello
. I’m Polish. My family invented depression.”

I feel bad for being so flippant, and she squeezes in next to me as we scroll down.

“Is she delusional? Suffers hallucinations?” she asks, reading off the screen.

“Not that I know of.”

“Low mood, lack of enjoyment, and loss of interest in usual pastimes and becoming generally withdrawn?” she continues.

“Yep.”

“Downturned mouth, frown lines on her forehead?”

“Uh-huh.”

“That could be anyone,” Thomas butts in. “I mean, look at Brolin.”

“Are we talking to you?” I ask, turning my back on him.

Justine reads down the page. “Okay, if it’s acute depression it can last between three and nine months, although it can drag on for years. It says you ‘need to address the root cause of the symptoms for it to stop.’ ”

“I have no idea what the ‘root cause of the symptoms’ is. What does it suggest that could be?”