Maisy May Page 9

  “... you actually ate everything on your plate!” she says, grinning. “Well, except for those poor tormented peas...”

  I laugh. Well, gotta give her points for surprise factor.

  ****

  “Mais, Gav's here!”

  Oh joyz, dumping time. I lever myself off the bed - disgusted to realise that I don't sit straight up anymore, I roll over and push myself up like a seal. A fat one. Anyhow, I make it off my bed and down the hall to the lounge, to an even more uncomfortable-looking Gav. Mum is making herself not-quite-gone in the kitchen, noisily washing dishes.

  “Gav, if you want to dump me, just do it, OK? I'm not in the mood to tiptoe round it all night.”

  Oh look, another Maisy Special Blurt It All Out.

  Gav blinks and looks, to my confusion, horribly confused.

  “What?” he says.

  Now I'm lost for words. If he's not here to dump me, what on earth is going on? Why the stress?

  Gav pulls a small box out of his pants pocket and hands it to me. Huh? Present?

  I open it and all the pieces fall into unbelievable place. I open and shut my mouth, probably looking like a goldfish.

  “Umm...”

  Gav gets down on one knee, grabs my hand, and looks up at me earnestly.

  “Maisy, dude, will you marry me?”

  I haven't been this stunned since I found out I was preggers to a gay man.

  “Gav, what?” I get out.

  He frowns at me. I think I'm supposed to be bouncing up and down and planning meringues about now.

  “Mais, this baby needs a Daddy, and you're going to need someone to look after you - and I love you. So... why don't we get married, hey? My dad's got a flat he'll let us rent cheap, and I get paid for working at the garage...”

  A daddy?

  “Gav, this baby already has a daddy - Mark's going to be around for it.”

  He snorts.

  “Like he'd take time off from the gay bars to play Happy Families!”

  Right. That does it.

  “No,” I say, handing him back the box, “I won't, Gav. I can't, OK? And badmouthing Mark makes me wanna hit you, too. So go away before I say something nasty.”

  Gav just looks at me like a dog who's been kicked hard, and gets up.

  I sigh. I can't stand the hangdog look, and Gav's only pissed at Mark because he's protective of me.

  “Sorry, dude,” I say, and give him a quick hug. “But I don't think it'd work, k? I appreciate the offer, and you wanting to look after me, though. Can we just keep things like they are for a while, though?”

  His face lightens - not happy, but not looking heartbroken and betrayed anymore either. He kisses my forehead, yells goodbye to Mum (still clanging away in the kitchen) and leaves.

  Mum comes out, still wiping her hands on a teatowel.

  “Short visit?” she asks, raising her eyebrows.

  “Came to ask me to marry him,” I say, sitting down on a lounge chair and sighing.

  “Oh my god, Maisy, that's wonderful!” Mum yells, clapping her hands.

  “I said no.”

  “WHAT??”

  “I said no.”

  “Are you nuts?” she yells. “What the hell's wrong with Gav?”

  I shrug.

  “He's not Mark,” I say quietly.

  “He's not gay either!”

  I sigh. How do I explain that if I can't love someone at least as much as I loved - probably still love - Mark, then it doesn't seem right to do something like marriage.

  As it turns out, though, I don't get a chance to even start explaining. Mum stomps out the front door and slams it.

  Ooookay. What brought THAT on?

  ****

  Mum walks back in a couple hours later. I'm still up, sitting at the kitchen table, worrying about my mother being out wandering the streets. Worthy of an American sitcom, huh?

  “Hi,” I say, unsure how she'll react after the kablooie earlier.

  “Hi, darling, you still up? Waiting up for me? Oh, I'm sorry I yelled, darling, I - oh, Mum stuff, that's all.”

  She kisses my cheek, then walks out to her bedroom before I can get a word in edgewise - and I reckon that's exactly what she had in mind. Huh. Guess I'm not finding out anytime soon what sore spot I poked.

  ****

  A couple of days later I'm explaining all this to Mrs Jansen, and I can tell she doesn't really get me not jumping with joy over the idea of marrying Gav, either. Geez, what is it with people thinking I need a man to look after me? Did I blink and miss a century's rewind or something? I'll give her credit, though, she doesn't give me any grief about it. Maybe she married her safety guy and Mum didn't.

  “Do you think you're in love with Mark because he's unavailable?” she asks.

  Huh?

  Obviously my expression says it all, because she doesn't wait for a verbal answer.

  “Some people who grow up without a father figure - or mother figure - find it too scary to love someone who's around and might break their heart, so they fall in love with someone who they know will never quite be there - and never leave, you see? It's like having an absent father figure, absent lover. Familiar.”

  I frown. It sounds stupid, but there's a thread of something in there that sounds right, too.

  “I want him to leave - and I know he will - so he's safe to love?”

  She nods.

  “But, no, that's wrong,” I say, “I love Mark because of who he is, we clicked, we're just... soulmates!”

  “Well, that's why you're friends,” she says, “but is that why you're in love with him and he isn't in love with you?”

  Ouch. That one stabs right in and hooks out my guts. I don't have an answer, couldn't speak if I did, because I'm hurting like hell again and she's right, he's not in love with me and he never will be.

  “Sorry,” she says, “that was a bit too harsh, wasn't it?”

  I shrug. Since when is lying nicely better than truth, even if it's vicious.

  “Needed to be said,” I say unsteadily.

  Mrs Jansen gets up to make tea, leaving me to recover.

  ****

  The minister preaches an interesting sermon that week - no really, interesting and sermon in the same sentence! It's all about looking out for your neighbours when they're lying bleeding in a ditch after an attack from Satan, and how being afraid to approach them for fear of getting 'unclean' is incredibly selfish and unloving and not at all spiritually helpful. And I'm sliding down in the pew, hiding my face in my bible, because I'm pretty sure this is all about me getting pregnant and being turned into social outcast no 1. And that's really embarrassing. But the aftermath - with practically every person in church coming up to me and Mum and saying hello, asking how we're doing, if they can do anything - is kinda funny, in amongst the embarrassing. Georgie's mum, though, stays away and practically hisses when Georgie waves at me. Nice to see some things never change, huh?

  Chapter 22: Judgment

  At almost exactly six months, my belly pops out and suddenly I'm looking pregnant instead of fat-arse. In fact, my arse looks smaller because of the big lump opposite it. I haven't felt much till now, but all of a sudden the baby's kicking lots, in the middle of the night, mostly. What? Here I am dragging my arse around all day at school, even running a couple times a week (yup, PE teacher still thinks I should be running lots). And then bubsy wants to play all night.

  “I need a coffee,” I tell Mum.

  “Umm...”

  “I know, bad for the baby, yada yada. I'll take an iron tablet or something. I just need to be awake, Mum, this thing's keeping me awake half the night breakdancing!”

  Mum frowns, grabs my chin and peers at my face.

  “You are looking a bit crap, luv.”

  “Oh thanks, Mum!”

  Just what every pregnant chick needs to hear, huh?

  “Shadows under your eyes, I mean,” she says, as if that makes it better. “Go on, have a coffee... might keep the baby awa
ke during the day, I guess.”

  I grin and make myself a cup before she changes her mind. Yeah, I could've just grabbed one on the way to school, I know. But keeping Mum on side is probably a really good idea right now.

  ****

  At school, I run into a new weirdness. People have been getting more used to the whole OMG teen mum thing, and now all the girls want to touch my belly. Every day. Umm, freaky much? It's not horrible, it's just weird to be getting all this tactile affection from chicks who barely spoke to me before all this happened. And avoided me like the plague for the first couple of months of the OMG teen mum thing too. Oh well. Take people as they come, Mum says, although she never says my personal rider, which is 'even if they're crazy as a bat at a disco'. The boys stare at me a lot, and I think they're torn between fascination - 'ZOMG baby in there!' - and revulsion - 'ZOMG BABY in there!'. But boys are freaks at the best of times.

  It's nice that school is turning a bit more pleasant, because going out in public is kinda sucking. Little old ladies and snooty bitches everywhere are giving me dirty looks and muttering about single mothers and irresponsibility and children having children until I feel like screaming abuse at the stupid judgmental cows.

  “Makes me wonder what assumptions I make about people,” Mrs Jansen says when I complain to her, and that stops me dead in my tracks. Cos now I'm wondering if I do the same thing. Hey, how'd this get from me whining to me checking my spiritual condition? That woman is clever.

  ****

  And now my baggy nun's uniform is too tight. And riding up in the front thanks to the extra bulk it has to cover - so not a good look. Mum comes into school to consult on what to do. She's waiting by the gate to meet me after school, and she is not looking impressed. Huh? What'd they tell her I'd done?

  “You've gotta wear a uniform,” she says, rolling her eyes.

  That's all?

  “Huh - where do we get one that'll fit? Any obese students gone through lately?”

  She pulls a uniform dress out of her bag and unfolds it.

  “Cripes, it's huge!”

  She nods, frowning as she looks at the monstrosity.

  “I hate being crap at sewing,” she says.

  Ohhhhh. This isn't about me or the school. This is about performance anxiety.

  ****

  Days wear on, and finally, when I'm 7 months pregnant and big as a house, school holidays arrive. Christmas break, 6 weeks, and it feels like heaven after the crappiness of school when preggers. Mum buys me a mobile because she's started stressing that I could go into labour at any moment, and by myself at home or out I might not have the sense to call an ambulance... or something. I'm not complaining. For a couple of years now I've been the only kid I know without a mobile, and I've tried not to let it bug me, but this thing is cool. I can see how people fall in love with the things and end up attached to them like junkies.

  Mark and I text back and forth, and it makes things easier. We can say the big stuff in less words, less embarrassment. Like that he's sorry he's treated me like some sort of surrogate guy in between boyfriends. Although I wish he hadn't said it like that, because now I keep looking in the mirror and seeing a guy staring back at me. Ew. Anyhow, we're sorting things out slowly, and it makes seeing him face-to-face easier. Less weight of unsaid stuff standing between us.

  No-one's replaced Andrew, which I find a bit dodgy - I wonder was it being attracted to men that convinced Mark he was gay, or being attracted to Andrew? Funnily enough, I miss having Andrew around some of the time. He was always happy and bouncy, unlike us two sadsacks. Whenever we get together it still feels like a mopefest.

  ****

  "Mais, dude?" says Gav one day, while we're sitting on the floor watching Charlie's Angels.

  "Ya?"

  "You're hanging out with that Mark guy again, aren't ya?"

  Hmm. He's not 'Mark' any more, he's 'that Mark guy'?

  "Yup, we're still friends."

  "What, after he got you pregnant and turned gay?"

  I sigh.

  "Yes. After he got me pregnant and turned gay, we're still friends."

  "But he treated you like crap!"

  I shrug.

  "It's gotta be confusing," I say, "working that sort of stuff out?"

  "Bullshit! He just found a easy out - 'oh, I'm gay, I'm not responsible for ditching you!'"

  "He didn't ditch me!"

  "Why are you defending the pansy?"

  Oh, that does it.

  "Get out, Gav, and stay out - I don't want to see you or hear your crap any more!"

  "Huh? Mais, I'm just trying to-"

  "Fuck off." I say, and point at the door, scowling.

  Gav gets up, looking rebellious but obviously figuring he doesn't have much choice but to obey, and walks out the door, slamming it behind him.

  Well, that was a surprise. I always figured I was the one who'd get dumped.

  Arsehat.

  I make myself a hot chocolate, and think about what just happened. Is Gav right? Am I always sticking up for Mark, no matter what? I frown, dredge up a marshmallow and put it in my mouth. No, Gav was being an idiot. Sure, Mark acted like a dumbarse, but he realised it and did his best to fix it, right? And he's been trying to sort things out through all sorts of personal crap. When you get right down to it, it's Gav who's been badmouthing him and acting like 'gay' is just something you catch, like tinea, and it's unforgivable to not do something about it before you stink up the whole place. And do I want this baby growing up around someone who talks like that about its daddy?

  I sigh, because I figure I've done the right thing, but I don't feel any better. I feel all shaky, near tears. But Mum picks that moment to walk in the door, so I smile and ask her if she'd like a hot chocolate.

  "Oh! Hon, that's exactly what I need - thank you!" she says, kicking off her shoes and plopping into a dining chair. "You're an angel!"

  I make her a hot chocolate, like mine with less sugar, and grab a container of cashews from the pantry.

  "There you are," I say, plonking them down in front of her, "fast food, just the way you like it!"

  She laughs and takes a sip.

  "I just dumped Gav," I tell her.

  She frowns.

  "What happened?" she asks.

  Now I remember the scene last time Gav and I had issues. Oh well, she would've found out sooner or later. Maybe she's too tired to go ballistic.

  "He bitched about Mark one too many times," I say, "I couldn't deal, Mum, he was just so judgmental about everything. And - to hear him talk, it was like the whole thing was Mark's fault. Not mine."

  She looks at me and smiles a little.

  "You know I liked Gav, right? And I don't like Mark much right now. But - I can see where you're coming from. I won't yell like when you refused to marry him, so stop looking so worried!"

  I laugh, because I didn't notice till now that I've been chewing on a knuckle - Maisy-language for 'I'm really stressing'. I take the sore knuckle out of my mouth and lean over to give Mum a hug.

  "Speaking of which!" she says cheerfully, "or whom, I guess - I have a letter from the man himself, Rose Catrick dropped it off to me this afternoon."

  She holds out a sealed envelope with 'Maisy' written on the front in big, unsteady letters. Hang on - Mark's the neatest male writer I know. Huh? I take it, rip it open. Inside is a single sheet of lined paper, looking like it's been torn out of an exercise book.

  Dear Maisy,

  I'm so sorry to do this by letter. I'm worried I'm going to stuff up the explanation, and you won't understand like you might if I was there in person. I'm in Sydney, staying at Dad's, and I'm planning to stay. I can't cope with Bathurst any more. It feels like a prison, I was going nuts there. Everyone hates me there. You were always the best thing about the place. So I found a church full of gay people, and Dad's sort of dealing with the gay thing. I know I couldn't have that in Bathurst. But I promised to stick by you. I don't want to go back on that. Dad says you can
live here with us and go to school here. There's a granny flat downstairs you can have. What do you think? Will you come down and live with us? I promise not to crack onto you or get jealous of your boyfriends.

  Love,

  Mark

  By the time I finish reading, I'm laughing and crying and hitting the table. I look up, and Mum's staring at me looking worried. I pass the letter over.

  "Whew!" she says when she's finished reading.

  "Uh huh."

  "So, when do we go?"

  Huh?

  Obviously the confusion's written all over my face, because she grins at me.

  "Well, we're obviously not going to separate you from Mark, are we? And there's no way in hell I'm letting you move to Sydney by yourself and take my grand-daughter with you, so... when do we leave?"

  "You'd have to leave your job," I say, still catching up, "and I'd have to change schools, and leave here..."

  She nods.

  "I can get a job anywhere, darl, legal secretaries are hard to find," she says, shrugging.

  "But I love Bathurst!" I say, feeling torn.

  "More than Mark?"

  Oh crud, she's got a point there.

  "Ummm..."

  "I'll call Mark's dad and have a chat," she says, and heads for the phone.

  I sit at the table, staring into my empty cup. Sydney? Leave everything and just... move? Well, there isn't really anyone left to stay for, is there? And there are cafes and bookshops galore in Sydney.

  "I guess we're going to Sydney!" I tell the bump in my belly.

  Notes about Bathurst

  Anyone who knows Bathurst will probably realise that I've taken some liberties with the town.

  First - Denison College of Secondary Education is the correct name for the two state high school campuses, and I've never been to either of them. I don't know whether the air-conditioning works in one and not the other. I know that the old Kelso High burnt down, hence the amalgamation, so I theorised that they'd have buildings in better condition. Makes perfect sense, non?

  Second - the kids of Bathurst have been portrayed as thick, bogan, ill-educated twits. I'm fairly sure they're nothing of the sort, even if the number of Bathurst acquaintances I have is incredibly small. But I wanted to portray the opinions of a rather uppity, artsy, well-read teen, not my own. So if you live in Bathurst, and you attend(ed) one of the high schools, hopefully you're not readying the letterbomb! :-)

  Third - I made up the bookstore, Voracious. There's definitely at least one cafe (I've been there!), but I couldn't remember or find a bookstore, and besides, I'm wary of naming real businesses in fiction. It has potential to turn nasty.