Sat 16 Oct
Dear Miss Take-Control-of-Your-Life,
My life’s totally out of control … how do u keep it together?
MetalGirl
Dear MetalGirl,
Tips to Take Back Control
Take a deep breath when you’re feeling like you’re not in control.
Write a list of all the things you need to do.
Stay on top of your homework and try to keep your workspace tidy—it helps keep your mind tidy.
Meditation, Pilates or yoga can help reduce your blood pressure and calm you down, and you’ll find some great classes online which you can watch.
Talk to your friends and family about your feelings.
Remember, you are in control, always.
From one teen to another …
Miss Take-Control-of-Your-Life
I smiled as I reread my answer to MetalGirl, and then sorted through some of the other emails in my inbox before adding to the new Top Tips section.
I’d finished all my homework the night before, so Saturday called out to me like an invitation. I closed up the site and pulled out my new, fantastic Canon Rebel XTi. When my grandmother died, she left me some money and left my mum the house we now lived in. I used some of the inheritance to buy myself the camera—Mum said the money was for me to invest in something I loved. I wandered downstairs and snapped some shots of my dad absorbed with typing furiously on his laptop, his cup of coffee congealing next to him. He didn’t even notice me crouched on the carpet trying to get a good angle. Dad is a gigantic man and I wanted to represent how big he was, how he filled any space, not just physically but with his ideas and excitement. Mum passed by in the corridor carrying laundry, which I offered to help her with, but she didn’t reply. Shortly after, the laundry gone, she reappeared with a pen and a pad of paper in her hands.
She said, “I have the schedule for the week written out here and I’m just wondering if there’s anything we need to add before I post it on the fridge. Any meetings or anything that I should know about?”
Dad told her about a Tuesday evening meeting he’d forgotten to mention earlier, and Mum scribbled down the details.
She glanced at my dad. “Okay, tonight we have you making your Saturday spaghetti with tomato sauce”—she turned to me—”and you, Bird, are doing the salad. Everything’s laid out in the fridge where it should be. All set?”
We both nodded. “Sounds good, Mum.”
My phone rang. It was Griffin. I headed out the room as I answered.
“Want to hang out?” Griffin asked.
“Come over. I’m taking photos. I could take some of you.”
“You know how I feel about photos.”
“I’ll make you coffee.”
I met him on my front step and passed him a steaming cup of coffee. He kissed me lightly on both cheeks, then softly on the mouth.
“Morning,” I said. “I know it’s cold, but could I take a couple pictures of you out here?”
He growled with displeasure but leaned obediently against the house and I snapped a series of shots.
“Are you okay, G? You seem tired.”
“Just a bit worried about Mom.”
“How’s she doing?”
“You know—the same. Worse.”
I lowered the camera and smiled sympathetically at him. “Anything I can do?”
He shook his head.
I said, as flirtatiously as I could, “Would it make you feel better if we talked instead about—you know—the night of my birthday?”
“What’s wrong now? You know, Bird, for someone who lives by her plans, you sure keep trying to change this one.”
Shocked, I said, “I didn’t mean I was backing out, Griffin. I’m not backing out. I just wanted to—”
“What is there to say? Look, I can’t stay long. Mom needs me around today.”
“I’m sorry.” I went over and gave him a hug.
He leaned his chin on my shoulder, flopping his weight on me, tangling his hands up in my hair. “Thanks for the coffee,” he murmured, then slid away and picked up the empty cup he’d placed on the step. “I didn’t mean to get so— Things at home are kind of …”
“No, you’re right. I’ve been acting like I don’t want us to go through with this. It’s my fault. I guess it feels like a big deal. Maybe I’m a little scared. I don’t know. Everything just feels a bit weird. Don’t you feel it too? Like, we’re friends but now there’s all this other stuff to deal with.”
He frowned down at me. “Why would you be scared with me?”
I didn’t answer. He wasn’t really getting what I was trying to say. I wasn’t even sure what I was trying to say. I changed the subject. “Why don’t I come over and help you out?”
He wrinkled his nose. “Today’s not a good day. You know how she is.”
I did know. And I knew he wanted to deal with it all by himself. Secretly I was worried that the situation with his mum was much worse than he let on, but no matter how much I tried to ask, he kept stubbornly silent.
“We’ll talk later.” He kissed me on the top of my head and headed out the gate, turned onto the path leading to his house and, with a final wave, disappeared. I let out all the air I’d been holding.
Wandering away from the house, I began to photograph my street. I loved getting shots of empty streets—completely the opposite of my love of taking photos of people. The absence of people made the photographs intriguing. I tried to catch the sunlight filtering through the tree branches, and then I stood on a wall and pointed my camera down at the line of the deserted road.
All of a sudden, the image of the new guy floated like a lifeboat into my mind. Pete Loewen. That strong, toned body. That mussed-up hair. That penetrating stare. He was so grown up and so … so … so … sexy …
I realized I was biting my bottom lip.
I WAS UP IN MY ROOM THAT EVENING WORKING THROUGH SOME EXTRA reading for Spanish when Dad knocked on the door.
“Can I come in, little Bird?”
He burst in before I even had time to answer. He patted his big gut, saying, “Should be eating less. Those stairs wear me out.” He sat heavily on the bed and took a few ragged breaths.
I asked, “Didn’t you study Spanish once? Do you know anything about the subjunctive voice? I just can’t figure out why the writer’s using it in this sentence.”
He frowned and scratched his chin. “That was your mother—she’s still pretty fluent. Uh, subjunctive: something to do with the future.”
“Yeah, I know that much.”
He flipped up both palms. “You know more than I do, then.”
“Never mind. How was work today?” He didn’t have a conventional job; instead he worked in his office downstairs, often trying to secure funding for one of his business plans. I loved that he was an entrepreneur—it made him seem exciting and dynamic, although I wasn’t sure my mum saw it the same way.
He said, “Ah, well, you see, I wanted to talk to you about this new idea I have. What do you think: instead of solar-powered panels, solar-powered bricks? I’ve been doing the research and it seems to me this country’s crying out for a way to get energy through the walls.”
I loved Dad and his big ideas. “Huh, might be brilliant.”
“See, that’s what I think. But your mother doesn’t want to invest in it. Thinks it’s risky.”
I wheeled my desk chair closer to him. “I guess a little research couldn’t hurt.”
His eyes sparkled. “Exactly. And research is the expensive part. I knew you’d be on my side.”
“That’s not what I was saying—”
“That’s my girl.” He hauled himself up from the bed and kissed me on the top of my hair.
“No, Dad, that’s not what I meant.”
“Anyway, I shouldn’t interrupt you working. How are you going to get to Oxford University if I keep stopping you from studying?”
Oxford University. Just the words conjured up spires and bicycles and long afternoons of fascinating conversations in cluttered cafés. I imagined myself wearing a cool vintage outfit I’d just picked up from a little boutique shop, carrying my camera and photographing my fellow students. The plan was that Griffin and I would go together when we finished school in a year and a half.
Dad was admiring the corkboard next to my desk. I followed his gaze to a printout of the homepage of the Oxford website. Around that, I had pinned inspirational quotations and things I’d found online to help me with the Top Tips section on my website. One of my favourite quotations read:
It is possible to fail in many ways … while to succeed is
possible only in one way.
Aristotle
Out loud, Dad read the two quotations underneath it:
I wasted time, and now doth time waste me.
William Shakespeare
There is no greater guilt than discontentment.
Lao-tzu, The Way of Lao-tzu
“Very profound. And that’s a good photo.” Pinned to the far left was a photograph I’d taken three months ago. It was a self-portrait. In it I was sitting on the bench in the park opposite my school. I’d used the self-timer and framed myself entirely against the sky so neither the bench nor the park trees could be seen at all. My hair was straightened, blonde against the blue. My mouth was firmly set. Looking at the shot, I wondered why I looked so grimly determined.
Dad said, “It’s well composed. ‘Nicely framed,’ as your mother would say. Only it doesn’t look like you.”
I frowned at it, surprised. “What do you mean?”
He put a hand on my shoulder. “I suppose it does. But you look all grown-up. Not like my little Bird, ready to take a risk and fly out a tree.”
“I broke my leg when I did that.” I forced a laugh.
He peered down at me. “Are you okay, Bird?”
“I just have a lot of work to do. Big year.”
“I should let you get on.” He squeezed my shoulder.
“Okay, well, good luck with persuading Mum about the bricks.”
His phone rang and he answered it on his way out the room. I heard him chatting excitedly about solar power as he headed downstairs.
My phone buzzed and it was Griffin.
Mom fine. Gd 2 C U earlier.
I replied.
All okay? Want me 2 come over?
His reply popped into my phone.
All fine. Love U. Maybe 2moro. xxx
I replied.
Love U xxxx
He texted back.
2½ weeks and counting. xxxxx
OVER THE NEXT FEW DAYS, I STUDIED HARD AND CONCENTRATED ON staying ahead in my classes. Occasionally I’d look up and spot Pete Loewen. As soon as I caught myself staring, I’d stop, but as the week went on I found myself thinking about him more and more often. I tried to pay attention to my teachers, even to Mrs. Livermore when she ranted on.
“You might think you’re all very mature,” she droned one day, “but this is a huge year for you, one in which you become adults. Don’t throw your chances away.” She shot a glance at Pete, which made me look around at him too. God. Look away, look away. Her voice was like the buzzing of bees. “If you fail you’ll end up going nowhere …”
But I wasn’t listening anymore. I half twisted in my seat and bent down, pretending to be getting something out of my bag. Covertly, I studied Pete’s trainers … his jeans-clad legs … his tight black jacket … the side of his head. His sandy hair looked soft, touchable. His chin jutted out like he was mad about something; maybe he was clenching his teeth. Hmm, perfect cheekbones, full mouth. I’d have bet the rest of the room could just disappear and he’d still sit there, jaw clenched, staring off into the distance. I couldn’t help but be reminded of the rumour I’d heard from Becca. Expelled. Into drugs. He was so blatantly not my type.
I was gazing up at him, so when his grey eyes flicked to rest on mine, amusement danced over his lips. I must have looked so stupid all twisted up in my seat, my empty hand resting on top of my bag while I goggled at him. As the blush heated my cheeks, I stared back and I was pretty sure he’d seen right through me. This had to stop. I tried to think about the advice I’d given that twelve-year-old girl Mercedes on my website recently. I was acting just like her. But sitting there, chewing on my pen, I couldn’t even remember the things Cleo said were ways to forget a crush. A crush.
Mrs. Livermore beamed in my direction, oblivious to the fact my heart was beating three times faster than it should. Even though I found her so boring, she clearly favoured me—probably because I always got such good grades. “Yes, those exams are very important. As we all know, don’t we, Bird?”
I glanced at Cleo, who rolled her chocolate-brown eyes at me and stuck her tongue out. Thank God for Cleo. I grinned at her quickly and then I said, “Yes, Mrs. Livermore,” as I was expected to.