They probably do, but not in a way that means anything. I was never the kid they wanted. I was annoying and needy and constantly bombarding them with questions like, “How do we know we’re us and not someone else?”
I was also smart. Whenever teachers said so, my parents turned to me with smiles of reflected glory. I got the message loud and clear. I worked my fingers to the bone, trying to make sure they never ran out of reasons to congratulate me. It didn’t matter. At the end of the day, they were never going to be able to talk to me on the phone for more than two minutes before saying,‘Well… We’d better let you go, Ada.’
I’m not a real person to them. I’m an idea. The shape of a girl they didn’t want to understand. And when I finally realised the way things were, I lost my only reason for trying. For a while, I wandered around punch-drunk, then I met Name Forever Redacted and let him steal the last of what I liked about myself: my independence, my opinions, my gigs, my music friends…
Or maybe I wanted him to take that stuff. It never felt like it belonged to me anyway. I sank into the beautiful oblivion of clubs and parties, and it was such a relief not to care anymore. To be lazy and drunk and dress like the slut I’d been called my whole life, regardless of what I wore.
And now here Iam, jobless and boozing my life away.
I’ve been hurt. Badly. But that’s true of plenty of people. Under the open sky and in open water, I can admit I’m being selfish. I was given things people would kill for, and I’m trying my hardest to throw them away. It’s pointless and disrespectful, and it’s not even working.The brighter parts of me are still here, still fighting to protect me. I left Name Forever Redacted, and I still dream about music. I want a normal life. But what am I doing to make it happen?
Top answers on the board, ladies and gentlemen:‘Fuck Nothing’ for eighty points.
I told Betty that Rhys and I understood each other. I didn’t say we shared the same armour, a bitterness that simultaneously protected and poisoned us. The world turned its back on us, so we turned our backs harder. But you have to live in the world. There’s nowhere else to go. Unless you do what Rhys did.
His descent was faster than mine, but what am I doing to stop myself from getting there? Drinking all the time and dedicating my life to revenge? Solid fucking plan, Renaldo.
The whole bootstraps thing is a brutal lie, but even lies have splinters of truth. Were Rhys and I ever willing to face the things we were running from before they chased us into the abyss? We were holding a shit hand, poker-wise, but we still had cards. Rhys had his mum and his sister, and I have Cece and music. And now, maybe Jake.
I think of kissing him in his bed, our fingers threaded together. Is it so hard to believe I’ve finally met someone perfect for me? And even if I haven’t, how long am I going to spin my wheels? The pain hasn’t gone away. It’s still here, as vast as the ocean I’m swimming in, and I’ve abandoned the only place I could ever put it—my music.
“Play for me,” Jake asked one night as we lay in his bed.
“Don’t have my flute.”
He gave me a look I’ve grown all too familiar with. The ‘don’t bullshit me, Renaldo’ look. “I mean tomorrow. Whenever.”
“Can’t. Sold it before I came to Auckland. Got ten grand for it.”
“Liar.”
He was right. My flute is under Cece’s bed, along withA Room ofOne’s Ownand the Euterpe card. It’s still calling to me. I dream about it. Because I didn’t just play for my parents, I played because I loved it. Because the flute helped me say the things I couldn’t put into words. Feel things I couldn’t explain to anyone.
Tears slip down my face, and I’m shaking from the cold, but I don’t care. The clarity is pure as oxygen, bright as sunshine.
I don’t need revenge, I need a fucking therapist. A therapist and somewhere I can sleep and play music, and not slam tequila like it’s going out of fashion. A place of one’s own, just like Virginia Woolf wrote.
She killed herself. So did Sylvia Plath, and Anne Sexton, and Martha Gellhorn, and Iris Chang, and fuck knows how many other brilliant, sensitive women. The scorched trail of the female artist is well-worn. Do I want to keep pretending I’m not marching down it, or do I want to fight my way onto another path?
As I float beneath the open sky, two questions surface: do I think my life is worth saving? And am I willing to do what it takes to save it?
The answer to both is yes.
The word vibrates in my chest like a closing note.
I’m not going to the reunion. I’ll make it up to Cece. She’ll forgive me; she wants me to get better. I’ll go away with Jake instead. I’ll try to be better with drinking. No, Iwillbe better. I need to be.
It takes me a long time to make it back to the beach, but all my things are still there, and it feels like a validation of why I went into the water. A good omen. People gawk at the half-dressed, soaked woman pulling on sandy denim shorts. An old guy calls me a crazy tourist. I don’t care. I’ve been called worse. And I’m not crazy. Neither was Rhys. We were just different, and a better world would’ve seen that.
I sit, drying on the sand until the sun gets low, making plans in my head. When I’m only mildly soggy, I hire a car to take me back to Stabbies. But instead of going to the bar for a drink, I sneak upstairs and shower. Towelling myself in Cece’s spare room, I decide to look at apartmentsbefore I make dinner. Then maybe?—
“Ada?”
Cece appears in the doorway. Her voice is tight. Something’s wrong. “What? What’s up?”
“Have you spoken to Jake today?”
My pulse spikes. “Yeah. This morning? What happened? Is he okay?”
