Dear Rudy,
People are weirdly attracted to grief. Not their own, but other people’s. They want to be near enough to feel and see it, without any of the repercussions of experiencing it for themselves. Like, Jessica Rabbit and Pointy Kathy are SO into talking about you and your anniversary and how tragic your death was, it’s like they have the hots for your ghost, but they never seemed interested in you when you were alive. I remember Pointy Kathy once saying you looked like you needed a good wash. No offence. I guess I don’t really have to say that, it still feels weird not to, though.
I want to have a bit of a break from swimming around in it, my grief, but there’s always a reason for someone to bring it up. Jessica Rabbit was talking about how she would totally die if someone leaked her nudes online, and then acted out this whole dramatic apology for being insensitive and using the word die. It was strange. All of it feels strange, like your anniversary woke me up and now as I’m looking around, nothing really fits right with me. The girls at school definitely don’t fit right.
It’s frustrating that the one person I want to talk to about all of this is the one who is at the heart of all of this by not being here. You. It would be great if you could send me some kind of sign. I wish ghosts were real. I wouldn’t be scared—I’d be thankful to be able to relay some of the strangeness that’s going on to you and I’d ask for your help. I’d also ask you to haunt a few people for me, just for fun. I don’t want to be one of those people who say: ‘I had a brother; he died when we were young.’ I’ve heard a few older people say that, and it makes it sound like they lived in another time or place, like their sibling died from cholera or something. I don’t want to be in charge of making sure Oliver turns out all right either. That’s too much responsibility, and I’m barely able to work on making sure I turn out okay right now. I don’t even know if I will. I do know there’s one place, and one person, who is kind of making all of this feel like it’s going to be okay. It’s Robins, and Aggie.
I had to buy some new clothes at Robins today, because that one outfit I’d been wearing for every shift is now on sale and we’re not allowed to wear sale products. That’s a big ask for casual staff, especially those that are saving for Schoolies. I guess that’s only me, though. Aggie pulled all these pieces off the racks and hung them up in the change room, like she was preparing for a runway show. She looks through racks of clothing like she knows exactly what she is looking for. Not like me. I just kind of browse. By the time we’d gone through all the new stock there was a change room full of clothes for me and one for her. The clothes were hung in outfit order, with accessories draped over the hangers. I’d never organised things at Surf Zone like that, but I liked it.
She pulled me by my arm and said, ‘We’re doing a costume montage—get your butt in here,’ which is a thing from movies I guess, but it didn’t feel like she was ordering me around, it felt like we were sharing a joke, and it felt nice.
I would never have picked any of the things Aggie had hung up for me, but I trusted her enough to give them a try. The opening riff of ‘Cherry Bomb’ blasted from the store speakers. It’s one of those old-school rock songs Aggie loves, and she was whooping and cheering. I was wearing denim capris and a striped T-shirt with no shoes, and the Runaways made me feel like I was untouchable. I did a quick strut around the shop, after checking there were no customers. Aggie had her first outfit on and she joined in. She was wearing a floral poncho that I’d never seen before, except when she got close enough I realised it was actually a midi skirt we’d got in last week. Wow. If something comes in and it’s a skirt, it stays a skirt to me. To Aggie, though, it’s a top or a poncho or some fabric to be used to make a scarf or whatever she feels like it might be, and it’s that easy. She played some air guitar that would have impressed Joan Jett herself. It’s funny how the same hairstyles come around every thirty years or so, because mum had a similar mullet to Joan Jett in her high school photos. Maybe I’ll be due for one in another decade.
When we got back to the change-room mirror Aggie tucked in my T-shirt and rolled up my jeans. With a quick flick she handed me some lipstick so red it looked like paint. Then she pulled her curls up into a high ponytail, readjusted her poncho that was actually a skirt and took a selfie of us in the mirror. She said she was going to buy the poncho skirt. I’m glad. It looked amazing. She said, ‘Wear your op-shop boots and that look is a 10.’ She’s right, it would be. I agreed it wasn’t bad. Then she said something I think was so important I’d like it emblazoned on a T-shirt.
‘We look amazing. We are amazing. If something makes you feel good you should wear it, really. People want to make us think liking clothes is frivolous and unimportant, but it’s an art form as much as painting or writing or singing. Clothes are our armour.’
With each outfit I tried on that felt more and more true. As the playlist flicked over to Fleetwood Mac, all of a sudden I was feeling amazing in a fringed maxi dress and a cardigan covered in parrots. Aggie made everything she tried on look like it belonged on a stage, like the outfits were costumes for a singer or an actor. She taught me some dance moves I can’t even describe, and she bought the skirt. I bought it all. I didn’t even think of my budget, and the huge hole I’d ripped out of it buying clothes designed for women at least three times my age. It felt easy, being light and free for a little while, in a small way that probably sounds like nothing to anybody else. I hope you don’t mind I wasn’t thinking about you then. I still miss you most minutes of every day.
Love, Erin