just_a_girl Read online

  First published in 2013 by

  UWA Publishing

  Crawley, Western Australia 6009

  www.uwap.uwa.edu.au

  UWAP is an imprint of UWA Publishing,

  a division of The University of Western Australia.

  This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission. Enquiries should be made to the publisher.

  Copyright © Kirsten Krauth 2013

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  National Library of Australia

  Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:

  Krauth, Kirsten

  just_a_girl/Kirsten Krauth

  ISBN: 9781742584959

  A823.4

  Cover photo by Mark Wilkinson

  Typeset in Bembo by Lasertype

  Printed by McPherson’s Printing Group

  This project has been assisted by the Australian Government through the Australia Council for the Arts, its arts funding and advisory body

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  LAYLA

  LAYLA

  MARGOT

  LAYLA

  MARGOT

  LAYLA

  TADASHI

  LAYLA

  TADASHI

  LAYLA

  MARGOT

  TADASHI

  LAYLA

  MARGOT

  LAYLA

  LAYLA

  MARGOT

  LAYLA

  TADASHI

  LAYLA

  MARGOT

  LAYLA

  TADASHI

  LAYLA

  MARGOT

  LAYLA

  MARGOT

  LAYLA

  MARGOT

  LAYLA

  MARGOT

  LAYLA

  MARGOT

  LAYLA

  TADASHI

  LAYLA

  MARGOT

  LAYLA

  MARGOT

  TADASHI

  MARGOT

  LAYLA

  TADASHI

  LAYLA

  MARGOT

  LAYLA

  MARGOT

  LAYLA

  LAYLA

  LAYLA

  MARGOT

  LAYLA

  LAYLA

  MARGOT

  LAYLA

  MARGOT

  LAYLA

  LAYLA

  TADASHI

  MARGOT

  LAYLA

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  SOURCES AND PERMISSIONS

  Kirsten Krauth is a writer and editor whose articles on film and literature have been published in the Sydney Morning Herald, The Age, Island, RealTime, Newswrite, IF Magazine and Metro Screen. She lives in Castlemaine with her husband and kids, and blogs at Wild Colonial Girl,

  For Shan and Marg,

  Always ready to listen and go deep

  LAYLA

  The guy formerly known as youami33 told me he’d be wearing a red Strokes t-shirt. I see him from the train as it pulls in at Newcastle. He’s not bad enough to make me run away. But he’s older than I thought. Old enough to be my ... maybe. He looks average but also kinda sweet when he spots me. He’s got a pretty hot bod. His smile lights me up. I can feel him framing me. Sizing me up as I swing towards him. I’m in my poxy school uniform. As I always am when mum drops me off at the station heading to granny’s. Mum doesn’t handle change. She gets suspicious. I went to put on my jeans and boots in the train toilet. But I opened the door to the puddles and stench and just thought, fuck it. At least he already knows.

  He takes my hand. Kisses me on the cheek. Laughs and we’re away. He’s just as funny in real life. I relax and sit on the wharf and he buys hot chips. We check into a hotel down on the water at Honeysuckle. The concierge asks if he requires an extra trundle bed for me. He says, Yes thanks, that’s what I asked for when I booked originally. I do my best to look young and innocent. No probs there. Cross my t-barred feet and perch my elbows on the counter. In the lift I notice his boots are pointed. Sharp like his one-liners.

  When he puts the keycard in the slot and the lights come on I think I’m in love. The hotel room has a kitchenette, a mini-bar and a spa. I open all the cupboards. Find the in-house movie guide and the free bath condiments and the sanitary bags and sewing kit and the complimentary herbal tea and the room service menu. He watches me move. Lies on the doona, hands behind his head, crosschecking. He gets out his wallet and shows me a picture of his two cats. He and the Burmese have red and green reindeer horns on. My mum always puts them on my dog Rusty too at christmas. Happy snaps. Even though he hates it and spends the day trying to shake them off.

  —Are you still hungry? Want to order something to eat?

  I’m starvin marvin but I don’t answer. Just sit on the edge of the bed and start reading the Special Tourist Guide to Newcastle. All two pages of it. He heads to the fridge.

  —I’d just like a beer.

  He chinks the lids off and we loll on the bed. Bouncing the bubbles in our mouths. I put my head on his shoulder and let him touch my hair. He turns the TV onto the cricket. The commentator’s nasally voice drifts in. He waits for the score before switching it off.

  —You smell like vanilla.

  He reaches down and flattens my tartan. He smells sweet, too, old sweat. Rough but good. Juicy. He rolls me away from him as he strokes my neck. Starts to play with my ears. He begins to unpeel me. He traces a finger around the elastic of my undies. I shed my skin like a pod of peas. I am naked except for my socks and shoes. But he is still fully clothed and it feels uneven. Ironing-board flat and pressed onto my back. He leans over to kiss the side of my forehead, considering me. His hands reach around to weigh me. He traces my hips and the spiky hair between my legs. His finger curls up. He stops.

  —You’re quite mature for your age, Layla. Not exactly what I was expecting.

  —Mmm?

  I’m beyond talk. I roll over onto him and I tease him. Darting, biting his lips. Going in for the kill. I reach down. But he holds my wrists.

  —Hey, whoah there, girl. There’s no rush, we’ve got all night. I love the name Layla. I bet your parents named you after that Eric Clapton song.

  He smiles at me. Hums the tune as he jockeys down and puts his head between my bent knees. He pulls my legs straight, wide apart. Pins my ankles and peers. He’s strong but I’m not scared of him. I grab a pillow and hold on for the ride. I can’t believe someone is finally going to do this to me. I free my legs and squirm them around his neck. I wait for the angling tip of his tongue.

  But it doesn’t come. He’s still, he looks like he’s searching for something.

  I really want you inside me, I say. Because it’s sexy and I’ve heard that’s what you say.

  My body is tight and electric.

  He moves at last but it’s up and towards the bathroom. I hear the stream of piddle right near my ear. When he comes out he grabs his wallet. Heads straight for the door. My legs groan before the rest of my body catches up. I roll over.

  —Hey Layla, why don’t you start filling up the spa for us? I’m sorry, I forgot to buy condoms and I didn’t want you to think I was being presumptuous. I wasn’t sure if you’d be ready for it. I’ll be back in a tick.

  He smiles before the door clicks and he heads off, singing.

  —Layla...

  LAYLA

  But I’m getting ahead of myself. Mum says I need to focus more on the here and now.

  So, I’m dancing at the school social and I’m getting off. Bloc Party melodies grab me and won’t let go. My best mate Sarah has just
tripped over her slippery slope ecstasy edge. She’s chatting up a sullen surfy type. Stripy shirt bedraggled. I haven’t seen him around school much. As I join the party she raises her eyebrows at me and swirls away leaving us. Yeah, right. Subtle. I know you, he says. He looks at me. I’m pinned. Like the game show host says, do you want to lock in your answer? And it’s so clear. So, yes.

  I’m sitting at a table surrounded by friends. Watching the dancers. Watching him work. He hovers dark like a roadie. Never quite bridging the distance. Davo’s making a doco, Sarah yells. He adjusts the audio levels with the intense concentration of a concert pianist. Only stopping to fix his gaze on me. Checking in every few minutes. He’s careful with the tripod tilting the camera. Catching the DJ in neon. He pulls focus. Lets it sit tight.

  I am rooted. I know it. His brown lenses mangle my gut. I could bend double with these thick knots. And so I wait for a conversation. For an action. In my direction. But after two hours he’s still fiddling. One eye checking the frame. The other checking up on me.

  He grabs me and next we are biting each other. On the dancefloor his hands on my neck. Do you ... Chin and fingers rough in a good way. Do you wanna ... And then the pash begins to crescendo. And the fingers are prying and my mouth is sore ... Walk on the wild side ... uh what? And then it’s over. The ugly lights come on. And it’s that gotta leave time and it’s his place or mine. And he can’t do his. And fuckadoodle, I can’t do mine.

  He’s got E coming out his eyeballs now. I’m a chick that’s gotta head up to the mountain. My boots sprint me to the bus stop. But I still run in Sarah’s wake.

  It’s the next morning. I love christmas holidays. I’ve lost the plot but I’m still dancing. Just a girl. I never get sick of Gwen singing that song. I love how the girl moves. Her piercings. Retro hair. I put my iPod on and lash out. No Doubt. It makes me want to take on the world. Mosh alone. When mum gives me the shits I drown her in that song. Gwen Stefani. I’d kill to be her. With her Japanese sidekicks. Her cool black-and-white striped life. I have this incredible energy. My mind pops like a grasshopper’s spring.

  My mum always tells me to walk softly. To not stomp so much. She hates the cords I wear. Down to the floor draggin’ baggy brown. The thing about mum is, she works from home. So she’s got a lot of time. And she likes to snoop in my room. She does her work. Does the dishes. Brings in the washing. Folds it and irons. Makes the pasta. She go crazy!

  She always complains that I treat her like a slave.

  But mum has her funny vague days. Like the time she lost a tampon. She didn’t realise until after church. She was in the loo and she screamed. I rushed in to see what was wrong. A new tampon was just sitting there. Tucked inside her stocking leg. All morning it had been there. At the back for everyone to see. Our faces scrunched and laughed in the same way. Lips back like a horse’s whinny out of control.

  Mum says that when I began to talk I drove her mad. Endlessly asking questions. She’d take me to the museum.

  Would a tyrannosaurus eat a stegosaurus?

  Why are trees different colours of green?

  How do you know god really lives in the sky?

  Can you find gold if you crush up rocks?

  If there was a drought forever would we all die?

  At first she tried to explain the best she could. But the years of questions wore her down. And she realised it didn’t matter what she replied. Because I never listened to the answers. It was only the questions that were important to me.

  But now I’ve even stopped asking. Fuckadoodle, there’s a point where you’ve heard it all before.

  On christmas day it’s always just me, mum and Rusty. On the verandah in Springwood. Sometimes I wish she had some friends. Or family who’d want to drop by. But since Auntie Jeannie died there’s been nobody. I can only just remember Auntie Jeannie. She always arrived on the doorstep with a bucket-load of prawns. She was the only person who really knew how to make mum laugh.

  Mum doesn’t have the energy she used to. She hasn’t even plugged in the christmas tree this year. And there’s no special chocolate peanut-butter fudge in the fridge. This morning I woke up crazy early at 5.30am.

  Haven’t been able to shake that santa claus excitement since preschool. Even though that was when I learnt he’s not real. My dad believes in telling kids the truth. The whole truth. Nothing but. We had just been to the mall for christmas pressies. I was perched high on his motorbike. My arms around a new Tickle Me Elmo. Dad’s around my body resting on handlebars. Mum told dad I wasn’t allowed to ride like that. But he used to take me anyway.

  He told me there was no such person as santa. I went, okay dad. Just like that. I wonder now why he said it. There was no magic for me. A dude with a red beer gut. I could always tell it was a fake beard. And I didn’t want to sit on his knee. But I wasn’t angry with my dad.

  I never once woke up to see them. Mum and dad coming in to fill my stocking. I still kind of like to believe. So I sneak out early to find my pressie on the coffee table. Cop a feel and squeeze the wrapping paper hard.

  To find out I already know what I’m getting.

  Every year christmas gets that bit more boring. Mum’s given up on the roast lamb and gravy. Sweating vegies in the Springwood heat. So we have a seafood platter out on the verandah. And I feed stray oysters to Rusty. Who chews them and spits them out under the table. I’m allowed to have one glass of champagne. And mum finishes the bottle as the arvo drifts into evening. It’s the only time she has a drink all year.

  So I know to avoid her after that. Before she starts to cry and tell stories about her mum, Violet:

  How she used to make her do a paper round to help pay the bills.

  How she used to bang doors and cupboards in fits of rage so that mum had to hide.

  How she can’t remember ever being cuddled or being told I love you.

  Mum saves up all her darkness for this special day. Dad always sends me something cool. But I can never wait until the day to open it. And it’s been a bummer since mum discovered the lord. Because pressies are so much more predictable. Fuckadoodle, can’t she just forget spreading the word for once. And think about what I actually want. In the past two years she has given me:

  An interactive board game about the life of Jesus (which we played once and she annihilated me, of course).

  Novels cunningly disguised as being about teenage girls on the eve of destruction through drugs and sex (cool) who then are redeemed by following the true path of god almighty (gag).

  A CD of top ten Riverlay hits even though I don’t go to church any more.

  And this christmas I can tell she’s excelled. It’s the size and weight of a brick. It can only be one thing. We sit in our PJs and start unwrapping. She smiles excitedly as if it’s a surprise. I open it and try out an expression. But I can’t bring myself to feel anything.

  Her handwritten note in the front says, when all else fails ... refer to the manufacturer’s manual. I give her the obligatory peck on the cheek.

  She opens my pressie and frowns slightly. They radiate in her hands. Turquoise and white gold earrings. I stole them from that Baku store near the cinemas at Parramatta.

  I’m tempted to knock her out with the Good News Bible. Before reclaiming the earrings as my own.

  Born-agains are just so stingy.

  MARGOT

  I pray the Lord is proud of me because it’s my first time in nine years without antidepressants, and I know I can do it, I’m doing a self-help workshop with Pastor Bevan at Riverlay, and it’s the right time to attempt it because I don’t have any stress right now, you know, it’s school holidays and my clients are a bit on the quiet side, and it’s a new year and all, can’t believe we’ve arrived here already, 2008, and I’m trying to stay focused and keep up with how my mind works and use the Power of Now, so I’m asking the Lord for the strength to get through this and find my way back, because while the drugs have evened me out, a lot of the past feels a bit foggy and I’m w
orried that my memories are slipping away from me, like wet little fish through my fingers, but I have faith that this is a new beginning for me and for my daughter, a chance to wash away those fears, and I need to get up to check on Layla because she creeps around and comes and goes, and I’m noticing that with no meds I get more anxious about her whereabouts and what she’s doing, but I’m watching, always watching, and I’m starting to feel angry and upset at being out of the loop.

  So to cheer me up this arvo I treated myself at Bathing Beauties, I prayed it would help me start to relax and, you know, I’ve never really liked massages, the hands of a stranger on me, but there’s a lovely courtyard with many varieties of tea, and I started with a soak in the Roman Room in their enormous spa pool with jets, but it was full of very fat American tourists and I could barely squeeze into a corner, and they are so loud in a group and say the most obvious things, and to tell the truth I don’t really like getting my hair wet, and so I got in and out really quickly, and the massage was for feet only so I thought I could manage that, and I was in a robe and hot towels were placed over me and my feet were propped up in one of those electric foot spas, and at first I was a little disappointed, because I have one of those at home, you know, and I thought, Is this what I’m paying a hundred bucks for?, but it was to get them nice and soft, and then Amber asked if I wanted a ‘sensory journey’ and offered various smells to choose from, and I love citrus so I chose lemon myrtle, the smell of our backyard after rain, and after all the exfoliating I got a bit of a shock, I had an eyepatch on so I couldn’t see, and suddenly she pushed my foot hard into a bowl of what felt like boiling oil and it was like being eaten alive, but I later found out it was paraffin wax, making a candle out of my foot shape, and then it became warm and womb-like, wet doesn’t even define it, and I found myself in a rare place of true immersion, a place I didn’t want to be sucked out of and I began to think that’s what it might have been like, all curled up before I was born, immersed in a well-oiled environment where every need I had was met, and I felt so peaceful and hoped maybe that’s what it’s like to die too, in that space of light before you go to Heaven, when you’re drawn back into a lovely succulent ooze.