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Preface
Within recent recorded history of the modern rock concert I guess I
can’t be the first girl to drown in a mosh-pit. But this seething ocean of untamed
emotion has burst my last bubble, and I am sinking fast, totally out of my
depth.
Please, dear God, let me see Levi one last time. I can hear his
gravel voice graze my ears, his rough haunting lyrics sliding from the stage to
where my broken body is holding out against the dark side of destiny. I have
done everything asked of me, and failed. Spectacularly. It is time to face the
facts: when you dabble in emotional warfare, love doesn't always conquer all, no
matter what rock star you fall for…
“Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of
powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in
tranquility.”
William
Wordsworth
I lay in the long grass and gently blew.
The delicate soapy skin began to stretch, arcing toward the sky, and as it
trapped my warm, soft breath it sparkled. With a light sigh I released it into
the breeze, watching it rise en route to the sun and away from me, beautiful
and free.
I have grasped all the scientific
complexities of bubble-blowing. I know they have tension a bit like bubble-gum, and are just
as explosive, which is why a bit of added soap coaxes them to hold their
fragile form; then there’s the spherical shape, surface area, and volume
calculation that launches physicists into math heaven. But the simple theory is
that blowing bubbles makes me happy. Surely there must be a way to inject my
joy into the bubbles and spread the feeling around? I can’t help but think I’m
on the brink of a formidably momentous discovery and I can sense the physics
nerd within me tearing her hair out trying to solve the puzzle, but just like
the bubble the answer keeps floating away out of reach and out of sight.
Closing my eyes, I soaked up the early
spring sunshine. This was one of the few places I could be alone; whoever else
would choose to lie in the weeds behind the compost heap where old junk and
garden waste pile up? Certainly not my parents, and definitely not my brothers
– they are all far too busy. This is my domain and my solace: my faithful plum
tree by the fence and my wild jasmine that throws itself over post and rail
with wild abandon.
The vine is my namesake. Although
everyone I know calls me Jazz, my full name is Jasmine – Jasmine Blade. My mom
always told me that they named me after the heavy-scented spring vine that grew
through the cracks in the floorboards in their first home back in New Zealand –
luscious pink buds that explode into pure white stars as the heat of summer
rises. “After four sons, we deserve a daughter who is tenacious and tough
enough to withstand her brothers, but beautiful like her mother,” Dad teased
Mom after I was born, and he had planted the vine in my honor when we settled in
Carolina. I think he forgot that the nature of jasmine is wild and very
difficult to tame.
It’s not like I didn't try to fit in; in
fact, as far as teenage daughters go I think I’m pretty close to being a
paragon of virtue. At seventeen I’m graduating near top of the class in physics
and chemistry, which pleases my parents immensely, each claiming my scientific
abilities as theirs. I’m average at most other things, and as for sport, I just
like to run. Running seems to jog my brain, which every good scientist needs on
a regular basis – it helps to “un-stick” me when I’m stuck and thrust me into
the unknown recesses of my frontal lobe. I have all my best ideas when I’m out
pounding the pavement – ideas on how to pay back my brothers for their
never-ending pranks, ideas for experiments I’d like to try, or dreams about my
future. Sometimes I feel like running in the same direction for as long as it
takes for something to change. I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but I’m a
great believer in personal destiny, and I am itching for mine to begin.
As I lay in the stillness, hazy in the
back of my mind was a memory that occasionally obtained clarity, but usually it
just sits like a fuzzy photograph of people and places that don’t look familiar
but somehow feel important. As the sun reached the zenith of its spring warmth,
a vague scent of jasmine opening to the heat wafted across my face, and I
breathed in deeply. Tantalizingly, the perfume tickled my scent glands; the
photo began to come into focus. I dared not move, for this was the closest the
memory had come in years.
There
were lots of jasmine flowers. The fragrant perfume grew stronger in my nose,
and I realized that I was in the picture – not visible, but I felt for certain
that I was under the wooden floorboards of the front porch. No one was looking
for me, so I guessed I’d absconded from nap time and crawled into the cool
space to escape the intense heat of the day. Now I remember! I was lying on
sand because the house was near the beach! But where was the beach? And whose
house was I lying under? In my mind I drifted to the shapes in the photo that I
presumed were people. I heard a voice saying, “She must never know this! You
must never tell her!”
And
then another, shaking with anger speaks out: “How can you deny her destiny?
There are those coming today to testify and seal their quests! You may not
agree with her inheritance, but you cannot, must not, turn her into a sleeping
beauty. We need her, we all need her!”
“She
is not yours to need,” someone else declared, “and if you try to stop us, I
swear you will never see her again – never!”
“If
that is your final word, then so be it,” rejoined the angry voice, “and you
will never see us again either! We will not abide your disloyalty, or your
selfish actions!”
A soft
cry sounded, and I looked down – I had scratched my hand on a nail, and it was
bleeding.
Someone was calling my name. “Jazz-zzy!”
It broke through my daydream and the picture fell from my mind, pulling me back
into real time. My mother, Ashley, was the only one who called me Jazzy and I
let her get away with it, although I outgrew any fondness for it years ago.
Ashley Blade didn't look half bad for
someone who was now fifty and had survived raising five kids. Walking towards
me she gave the impression that she descended from royalty – the straight back
and square shoulders, long elegant neck and quiet eyes commanding attention.
Her ash-blonde hair was confidently tucked into a tidy arrangement and her
countenance exuded a calm demeanor within. Only those who knew her best
understood that this was a survival mechanism, exercised to not scare people
off. My mother lived life at a million miles an hour, and each quest for
success required swift focus as she torpedoed from task to task, person to
person, until complete domination was secured. Usually she juggled multiple
quests with only the very occasional crash and burn.
“Dinner time! And don’t forget that
tonight we are sitting as a family – even Marcus will be here ... you are on
dishes with Fale and we want the kitchen clean before 8pm because your father’s
new documentary is airing ... would you mind bringing the cat back in with you?
She hasn't eaten yet today ... oh ... and one last thing: there’s some birthday
mail for you –it’s on your bed, but you’re not to open it until Saturday ... I
think one of your brothers has brought you something crazy on the internet
again – it’s that sort of package ... walk and talk, walk and talk!”
And so it continued throughout the next
hour. Mom wasn't really a non-stop talker; it was just that she never knew when
she would find the time to communicate all the messages she had for us, so they
all spilled out in one big monologue. Later, after dinner, she would settle
into the evening having the satisfaction that her role as personal assistant,
mailman, and answer phone service was complete.
Our dinner table was large. Dad had it
made when he lived in New Zealand and then shipped it back to the States after
he and my mom married. It had been crafted from native New Zealand heart Rimu,
and no matter what the light was like it had a rich glow all of its own. I
loved that table, we all did. With complete comfort it could accommodate
fourteen people – even more when we were younger. Long benches had resided down
each side, but once we got older Dad had ordered matching chairs – some with
our names engraved on them. Some of our best family moments happened around
that table and every now and again Dad would remind us: “a family table keeps us stable.” He had a saying for everything
that man!
Dad was a Kiwi through and through. I
loved the fact that he had kept his accent, even though he had lived in the
United States for sixteen years. For a while he worked in Kaikoura on the east
coast of the South Island of New Zealand as a young marine biologist graduate
studying the giant sperm whales that are year-round Kaikoura residents. He was
also collating data on fur seals, pods of dusky dolphins, humpback whales,
pilot whales, blue whales, and southern right whales depending upon the season.
His dream was to gather extensive data on the world’s largest dolphin – the
killer whale – as well as the world’s rarest and smallest dolphin – the hector
– with a view to creating television documentaries. That was when he met
Ashley.
Ashley, too, was a young graduate, and
having finished her college degree she set out to discover tastes from around
the world, hoping to feed her latent passion for culinary delights. Kaikoura is
a Maori place name that roughly translates “to eat crayfish,” and that was the
first meal they had together. To fund his studies, Nick (my dad) was working on
a whale-watching boat for tourists, spotting the big mammals and answering
questions from excited passengers. Ashley had taken the trip that day not
because she loved whales, but because she couldn’t bear to stay still for more
than a few minutes, and Kaikoura was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a
happening town. The rest is history and Mom still claims that crayfish is the
best tasting seafood ever.
Nick jumped at the chance when fledgling
New Zealand film makers approached him to direct a documentary on killer
whales, and being on a tight budget, Ashley became the presenter by default.
She discovered a talent she never knew she had and went from strength to
strength fronting the myriad documentaries Dad had researched about the natural
world, and in the last five years presented her own culinary show on the food
channel – Mrs. Blade’s Food Rave – a resounding success.
It’s a pity Mom couldn't bring the
leftovers home. Tonight was Chad’s turn to cook (we all took turns in our house
– at everything), and as much as he was my favorite brother, I wasn't that keen
on tucking into the huge pile of macaroni cheese on the plate in front of me.
“Carbo load, Jazz! I’m planning a big run
for us tomorrow; you won’t be able to keep up!”
“Yeah right bro – in your dreams.” I
picked up my plate and scraped half of it onto his. “I may have to live with
four boys, but I certainly don’t have to eat like one!” And with that I took a
spoonful of the stir fry vegetables Mom had surreptitiously added to the table.
“Thanks for the rescue, Mom.” We girls had to stick together.
Dad was distracted and my oldest brother,
Marcus, who being twenty-four going on forty, was trying to engage him in
conversation over some potential business venture he was looking at. The twins,
Harley and Fale, were busy having a fork fight, stabbing at each other’s plates
to steal the crispy cheese bits. They were nineteen going on nine, and Chad was
eating as if his life depended on it. It was noisy and chaotic, but we were all
used to it; in fact dinner would be considered boring if it were any other way.
Once dessert had been demolished (Mom had managed to scrounge some left-overs
from her test kitchen after all!) we all sat and watched Dad’s new doco on
commercial Paua farming in New Zealand. The family loved to critique dad’s
work, and the lounge became even noisier than the dining room, until the
carbohydrate overload finally took its toll and one by one we drifted off to
bed. Another day of chaotic family life, I thought sleepily; some things never
change.
The next morning as the early sun flew
through my window and danced on my bed, the first thought I had was that today
was a Day of Lasts. I couldn't help but smile. This would be my Last Time
waking as a seventeen-year-old, my Last Entry through the gates of Carteret
West High School – my Last Day of my Last Year at school. My smile grew.
Breakfast was a hurried affair in our
house. Independence ruled the roost: Mom and Dad had usually left for the day
already, so we each took care of our own. I, being influenced by a house of
boys, drank milk from the carton then ate two slices of toast with Marmite –
another New Zealand delicacy – rinsed the dishes, put out the cat, grunted at
my brothers and left. When we moved to Beaufort, North Carolina, over fifteen
years ago, my parents struggled to find a house big enough to accommodate us
all. Mom jokingly suggested that Dad had better look for a hotel not a house,
and that’s when he stumbled across what was listed as “The Pecan Tree Inn.” It
was very old, circa 1866, but boasted beautiful private porches, gardens and
courtyard, formal living and dining rooms, plus eight bedrooms, each with a
private bath! The deal also included an adjacent vacant lot, which Mom and Dad
were keeping for a rainy day. The estate agent touted it as “A rare opportunity to satisfy a big need for
a very large stately home in the Beaufort historic district.” We had a big
need for lots of space, so the fit was perfect. Well, nearly perfect. I would
have preferred if we had been able to settle nearer Rock Hill or Chapel Downs
where the schools were bigger and had more options, but I had grown to
appreciate the old world charm of Beaufort. I liked the fact that Beaufort
became big news when the Queen Anne’s Revenge (Blackbeard’s pirate ship), was
discovered under twenty feet of water in the Beaufort Inlet in 1996. It’s still
underwater, and retrieval and restoration processes are halfway there – and Dad
gets to write and produce all the footage for the National Geographic Channel,
so he’s in documentary heaven.
I gently twisted a trail of Jasminum Polyanthum, commonly known as
pink jasmine, from the vine that wound its way over most of the nearby fence,
and tucked it into my pony tail. It had become my trade mark over the years. It
was not as common a species as the yellow Carolina jasmine, but my dad always
said it reminded him of New Zealand, so we grew it everywhere. By the time I
made it to Cedar Street, the jasmine had become my background fragrance, and
Elle commented as I hopped into her car. “They should make jasmine into an
ice-cream flavor just so we could eat it. Imagine capturing that smell in a
taste … yummy!”
I laughed! Trust Ellie to come up with
some crazy idea. She sat behind the wheel of her car all blonde and perky, her
tiny figure immaculately dressed in clothes I knew every girl at school would
soon copy. She wanted to be a fashion designer one day, and her quirky take on
mainstream fashion had already proved its popularity. But things would change
after today – we both knew it – and the ride to school was a silent one as we
contemplated this Last Ride together.
Pulling up in the school car park we sat
in her old VW Beetle, and I whispered, “It’s crazy, Elle – four long years end
today!”
Elle sighed. “You got it Jazz; one last
day to go. Think I can make it through without getting detention?”
“Stay away from Matt and Sam and you’ll
be fine.”
She laughed, and at the sound of the bell
we made our way to class as I grumbled that I would not be sorry to leave the
insistent ringing behind. I had never gotten used to the way it ruled my world,
prodding me to conform. “Bells and timetables should only be used in mental
institutions and prisons,” I grumbled, but Elle wasn’t listening, she was too
intent on reading a flyer some senior had thrust into our hands as we walked
through the packed hallway.
“Hey! A last day surrrr-prise! The
student body have organized a band to play in the gym over an extended lunch
break – cool! Let’s go Jazz, let our hair down and all that.”
“Our hair is already down,” I quipped
lamely, as Elle walked backwards in front of me, waving her phone in my face,
blonde curls flowing over her shoulders, her little heart face fierce and
determined.
“You will come, Jasmine Blade, and if you
cause problems I’m going to text Eugene Tiller right now and tell him to come
get you to dance down the front. I know he’d love that!”
I sighed. Being Elle’s friend was never
dull. I sort of let her carry me along on her waves of enthusiasm, cooperating
enough to keep her happy and withholding enough to satisfy me. I was still
keeping myself on a short leash, knowing that going my own way would come soon
enough. Elle thought I already had plenty of freedom, but she just didn't understand. It wasn't about staying out past 10pm on a school night or no
longer having to tell my parents where I was going every five minutes. The
liberty I yearned for was holistic – mind, body, soul, and spirit. The chance
to be unfettered for days – no months – on end, to dream endlessly, impossibly,
to unearth mysteries and have time to draw conclusions before being rushed
through life like it was an Olympic event rather than a meandering discovery.
It wasn't that life was bad; it was just that it didn’t seem to have really
begun yet.
Elle had her cell phone out and was
texting madly with an impish grin on her face.
“Oh no you don’t!” I yelled, and grabbing
the phone took off at a mad dash. I knew she’d chase me, but I also knew she didn't stand a chance, so I gleefully sped up, sprinting through the empty
cafeteria, bulldozing over a junior or two as I reached the nearest exit.
Flying across the grass, down the bank to the football field and under the
stands I turned to look over my shoulder. “Ha! Not an Elle in sight!” I yelled
gleefully. Gloating over my success I whirled around the next corner and
screeched to a halt just in time. I found myself body to body with a boy, a
hair’s breadth away from being another crash test dummy. I could feel him
through my jeans and could see a broad chest of gray shirt just centimeters
from my eyeballs. Embarrassing! I raised my head and before I could help myself
said “Knock Knock!”
“Who’s there?” (He almost smiled at me
through the grayest of eyes).
“Accident.”
“Accident who?”
“Accident waiting to happen! That’s me,
huge apologies.” It rushed out in a single breath. I was still mesmerized by
his soft lead pencil eyes and unable to move, now even more embarrassed that I
had repeated the old family joke out loud. What was I thinking?! I held my
hands up in surrender, and he gripped my wrists firmly, definitely smiling now.
“What are you running away from?” He
sounded mildly curious, and his voice involuntarily made me think of the sea.
“Or more to the point, who? I might be able to help, you know. I used to be
excellent at giving teacher’s the slip.”
I shook my head, trying to regain my
composure. “And I might tell you, if you let me go. Who are you anyway? You’re
not a student here, that’s for sure.” I said belligerently. He held on for a
few more moments, his thumbs firm on the pulse pounding in my wrists, then let
go.
“I’m with the band,” he replied dryly,
thrusting his hands deep into his front pockets
I raised my hand to sweep the escaping
hair off my face, and heard him draw a sharp intake of breath, as if something
had startled him. I looked behind me to see if I had been discovered. No one.
“What is it?” I demanded. “Do I have food on my face?”
He was looking down at my hands then back
to my eyes and over my face with a sense of urgency, as if scouring for
something hidden. His eyes raked in my disheveled hair slipping from its
ponytail and suddenly spoke again. “Oh … ummm ... Jasmine.”
“How do you know my name?” I should be
getting impatient, but I wasn't; this was all too surreal.
“In your hair,’ he gestured. “Jasmine,’
his gaze intensified.
“Oh.” Reaching up I found the trailing
spray of flowers I had tucked into my hair on the way to school. I shrugged my
shoulders, bemused. “What of it?’ I asked.
“It’s…ahhh…very…Indie...” he began, then
reached out and slowly grazed his fingers through my hair; the crumpled jasmine
fell to the ground. Bending over, he picked it up and slipped it into the
pocket of his jeans.
“Swap you,” he said, and with that passed
me a creased piece of paper from the same pocket. He half smiled, but it seemed
as if he had already moved on. “Jasmine. Wild by name and wild by nature.” And
with that, he brushed past me and was gone.
I leaned against the graffiti wall with
my eyes closed and in the silence felt it all over again: volts of energy
behind my eyelids slipping away before I could capture them. How weird, I
thought, a brief encounter with one stranger, and I want to dissect it, pull it
to pieces and examine each second in minute detail. I must have Post Exam
Stress Disorder. I needed to pull myself together, but I stayed there,
motionless, until the final bell sounded and I had no choice but to head to
class.
I managed to avoid Elle until lunch time
by volunteering to scrub the benches in the science lab, then scoffed my sandwiches
in the school office reception as I handed in text books and chatted to Mrs.
Skelte for as long as I could, silently congratulating myself that the concert
was well underway in the gymnasium and I was home free. But Elle, the
consummate tracker, finally caught me unawares at my preferred water fountain
next to the cafeteria.
“Surrender! I have re-enforcements! You
are surrounded! Give yourself up and no one gets hurt!” Where Elle had got the
megaphone from was a mystery, but before I could straighten up I was pinned to
the wall by the hands of two faces I knew very well: Sam Aston and Matt Saben.
“Jazzzzzz,” Matt whispered in my ear, “you know you can’t win.”
“Yeah,” joined in Sam, “last time you
beat one of us you were five!”
“You wish!” I rejoined. “That’s only
’cause you’re too scared to take me on one-on-one; don’t wanna be beaten by a
girl!”
“Tough talk from the naughty kid who
stole a cell phone and abandoned a friend! I think punishment is in order. What
say you dear Elle?” Matt turned to look at Elle for instruction, who was
standing there with arms folded trying rather unsuccessfully to look stern.
“Agreed.” stated Elle. “As we discussed
then; follow me.”
I knew my fate was sealed and it would be
futile to struggle. Ever since we had attended kindergarten Matt and Sam had
made it their mission to turn me into one of the boys – as if it wasn’t enough
having four brothers. Matt was an only child who had adopted our family as his
own, and Sam was, well, just Sam. He drove me nuts at times, but had always
been there so I’d kinda got used to him. The two of them had been my personal
body guards throughout school, unless, of course, they were the ones harassing
me. I supposed that if this was the last time they could torture me, who was I
to deny them that pleasure? But I would suffer in silence; no cries for mercy
from me.
Before I knew it I was being hoisted into
the air and onto my back. Matt had my shoulders and Sam had my legs and we were
moving at top speed towards the gymnasium, with Elle leading the charge. Using
my Converse sneakers as a battering ram, they barreled through the swinging
fire safety doors straight into the ensuing mayhem. The noise was magnificent –
garage band grunge intensified by the gym’s dirty acoustic qualities – and despite
my compromising position I felt an unfamiliar pull in the pit of my stomach, a
sensation that for years I had subdued and shoved into the smallest recess of
my mind, never giving it room to move. Oh! I wanted to dance. The music was
heady and rough, like the waves at a wild surf beach, taunting me to test their
strength.
“Incoming crowd surfer!” Sam yelled, and
with that I was thrown to the mercy of the human waves.
Being the last day of school, everyone
was dancing. The ground swell was growing as the crowd moved to the beat in
unison. I didn't stand a chance. Like flotsam on the surf I was tossed from
side to side and I could feel waves of warm hands beneath my back and my thighs
throwing me higher through the wash of people. It was as if a force greater
than gravity had me in its grip – I almost thought I really was in the water,
staying afloat like driftwood. Now I actually felt wetness – was I imagining
it? I could feel salty spray on my face and was moving so quickly to the
crescendo of the song that everything was a blur. How far would this surge take
me? I had surrendered to the pull of the tide and I no longer cared. Throwing
my hands up towards the sky in a euphoric gesture, I felt the blood rush to my
head and closed my eyes; death by drowning seemed timely and exultant. As I
gave in to the sensation of the surf I dimly became aware that I was vertical
again, and standing, of all places, on the stage. Someone was yelling “Thank
you Carteret West High! Now for the last word here’s Levi!” As the crowd went
wild I opened my eyes to the same gray t-shirt, the same gray eyes, and an
ocean of people stretched out before me. Without removing his gaze from mine,
he began to sing:
The
power of the wind and of the air
The
feeling of my hand upon your hair
Last
time I saw you, I thought I knew you.
The
surging waves of ocean and of sea
Have
bought you back alone right here to me
Last
time I saw you, I swear I knew you.
My heart beat like the drums behind me
and I trembled, locked eye to eye with a boy I did not know, but who seemed to
know me. Every nerve in my body was hammering – was this a dream? His soulful
stare deepened in intensity and I had to look away. With that he gave several
resounding strums on his acoustic guitar and turned back towards the audience,
belting out what I presumed was the chorus:
Last
last time
It
was a fast fast wine
And
you had me had me had me
From
the very first line
Be
Mine
His voice was gravel under fast moving
cars – intoxicating and dangerous. I was so busy trying to catch all the words
that I ignored the pinch above my elbow and shook my arm. Seconds later both my
arms were in a tight grip and I was being marched off the side of stage by two
large men. I didn’t even need to walk, as my feet were no longer touching the
ground – literally – but not from the state of euphoria I was slowly emerging
from. I was unceremoniously dumped in front of a girl who stood with her arms
folded looking at me sardonically.
“I am so over you groupies!” she hissed.
“You have no right to be on that stage, no right at all.”
I recoiled at the venom in her voice and
found mine, weakly saying, and “Chill! It’s just a prank some mates played on
me. I’m no groupie!”
“Oh,” she vented, “you are all the same –
full of pitiful excuses, doing whatever it takes to get near him – and it’s my
job to tell you to stay away! Got it?” She stalked off, and the men thrust me
out a rear exit, locking the door behind me.
Sitting outside I could hear cheering as
the concert wound up. I closed my eyes and before I could stop myself, he was
there in my mind. Above that gun metal gray t-shirt was a face etched with an
emotion I couldn't identify. His hair was tousled and unaffected, shocks of
brown and gold that fell where they liked. I had thought his eyes were gray, but
now I wasn't sure; were they just reflecting the color of his shirt? They
certainly had an ocean’s depth and were filled with that foreign emotion. Over
his t-shirt he wore a men’s shirt, un-tucked, and op-shop looking dress pants,
rolled up to reveal suede ankle boots with no socks apparent. I had never seen
anything like him – a contradiction of styles and textures that seemed as
comfortable on him as he was in them. What would Elle make of his get-up? And
why had it magnetized me with such an overwhelming intensity? Boyish and
scruffy, and yet... What was it about him that I couldn't place? Why was he
affecting me like this? For some random reason a verse came to mind from the
Bible my Grandmother had given me: “a
man’s eyes are the window to his soul.” That was it! I shivered; I had seen
a man’s soul.
The sky had darkened into heavy gray as I
sat there, but suddenly streams of sunshine appeared through the cumulus clouds
and a torrent of students spilled out from the gym. A group of girls drifted by
and I overheard one telling her friend, “Levi was amazing – he is so my new hottie! You know I was right
up the front looking straight at him, and he was so eye flirting with me the whole concert, I was just screaming and
jumping and going crazy! I reckon he winked at me towards the end. Oh I could
just die! Me and Levi couldn't keep our eyes off each other.”
“He so looks like a rock star,” chipped
in one of the other girls.
“Yeah,” said another, “sort of like an
older and cooler version of One Direction. What are they called again?”
“Alien Potion,” replied the first girl
knowledgeably. “My older brother knows the drummer’s brother’s friend, and he
says that they are totally out there and it’s only a matter of time before
they’re on the world stage.”
The voices faded and I thought about what
they had discussed. I was no stranger to bands. My twin brothers Fale and
Harley had formed a band just over a year ago when they turned eighteen. They
started off by playing hot cover tracks for friends’ parties – hence the name
“Cajun Braves” – brave to imitate the hottest cover songs from a range of bands
and styles. They had yet to develop their own brand of music, although I would
call their niche market loud and proud head bangers; whenever they practiced at
home I wanted to bang my head against a wall! But I was secretly quite proud of
them. They had gigs most Friday and Saturday nights and had even played at the
opening of the new underage night club in town.
I also knew all about the egos of
musicians. Fale and Harley constantly filled the house with their perceived
glory and boasted about all the girls that loved them. Perhaps this Levi was
just the same, I mused, caught up in a big ego bubble, blowing hot air out from
the stage and eye flirting with girls. I am such a sucker, I thought. That song
was not for me; I didn't look into his soul, and I was wasting my time thinking
about him for another second. That thought ended just in time, as Matt, Sam,
and Elle had appeared beside me rescuing me from my introspection; I felt life
flood back into my heart. Laughing, the boys flanked me and laid their heads on
my shoulders.
“Here’s our little surfer girl. Thought
you were gonna need a lifeguard for a moment back there!” Matt crooned.
“Saved by the stage,” mocked Sam. “You so
looked like a stunned mullet!”
“Oh come on guys,” interjected Elle,
“haven’t you tortured Jazz enough? I only wanted her to dance with me and
instead I was stuck between you two head bangers. My shoes will never be the
same again!”
As the friendly banter continued, I
noticed the girl who ordered me evicted emerge from the gym. It was almost
comical the way she was scouring the landscape, as if some latent groupie was
going to spring out from behind the bleachers and catch her unawares. My smile faded
as I saw Levi come out behind her and sling his arm over her shoulder. She
turned and hugged him fiercely, and I could see he was laughing. It was all too
obvious now – no wonder I had felt such animosity from her. I watched as the
girl, so slender and tall with the blondest of hair, walked purposefully off to
the car park. Sigh ... maybe blondes do have more fun. I was so engrossed in my
train of thought I neglected to notice that my friends had begun to walk back
for the start of afternoon school.
“You coming?” yelled Elle.
“I’ll catch you up,” I jested. “Just
picking up the last pieces of my pride.”
Poking out her tongue at me, Elle hurried
off after Matt and Sam. I knew she had a soft spot for Matt – she just couldn't help herself. I slowly stood to my feet, trying to shake off the last vestige
of discontent that seemed to have wrapped itself around my mind. Without
conscious thought my eyes drifted over to the gym entrance one last time. And
there he was – leaning against the door– looking straight at me. I couldn't tear my eyes away; it was as if there was an invisible laser that had fused our
sight-lines. Even from this distance I surely couldn't be mistaken ... could I?
At what point does staring become socially unacceptable? When are you supposed
to avert your eyes and break the connection? It was almost like holding your
breath until you think you are going to pass out from lack of oxygen. This was
not natural. Just at the point I could take it no longer, someone walked
between us, and the spell snapped. The blonde girl reappeared and I ducked down
as if to tie my shoelace, mortified. What was wrong with me? Did I have no self-respect
at all? Now I was angry and all churned up inside again. How dare he? Tears
welled up, blurring my vision, making me even angrier. What on earth was wrong
with me? Why is this day so strange? Why am I even reacting like this? I
savagely yanked at my laces and my hair fell like a dark shadow shielding me
from the outside world. Rather than brush it back I let it comfort me, the
familiar jasmine scent still clinging to the long heavy locks and I breathed it
in, searching for the inner calm I needed.
The fragrance was still so strong! It
never failed to impart comfort: memories of my mom playing Seals & Croft’s
“Summer Breeze’ at top volume and dancing round the lounge with me; of hot
still summer nights laying under the stars with a blanket of jasmine scent; of
fresh jasmine-infused air buoying me on the way to school each morning. I could
feel the intoxication that always came, and I opened my eyes, prepared again to
face the world. There, at my feet, was a fresh trail of jasmine, cluttered with
pure white flowers and a few remaining pink buds, flirting with me. I flung
back my hair and jumped up, looking around wildly. He stood a couple of yards
away, hands clasped behind his head, waiting for me to see him. “It’s a peace
offering … for being kicked out. You know if you wanted to meet me again, you
sure made it more difficult than it needed to be. The husky humor in his voice
sent my pulse racing again, but I kept my eyes firmly planted on the jasmine. I
could not, would not, look into those eyes. The arrogance of him, thinking I
was that into him! I could feel the heat rising up my neck and flushing into my
cheeks. “Yeah, whatever, dude.” My voice sounded like a snap dragon as I
finally looked up. “I know the drill. No invading the personal space of a wanna
be rock god and all that! And,” I continued angrily, warming quickly to my
theme, “your band is average – not a patch on the Cajun Braves – not that you’d
even know who they are your music taste is probably so limited!” My face stayed
fierce, attempting to deflect the fast beating of my heart and I think it
worked. The Grey Phantom (as I mentally named him) scowled, and his next words
were clipped. “Ouch. I know them. And I even like them – pity I can’t say the
same for you.”
Our eyes locked as we attempted to stare
each other out, and I felt a strange swirling wind all about us, almost as if a
storm neither of us had control over was about to break. A shrill vibration
ended the bout, and I broke first.
“Saved by the bell,” I muttered morosely,
then added with a hefty dose of sarcasm: “Nice to meet you…not!” but the Grey
Phantom had already stalked off, fists clenched around the now crumpled
jasmine.
I mechanically bent down to pick up my knapsack,
the knot in my stomach bigger than the broken strap digging into my shoulder.
For the rest of the day I could barely
concentrate; there was no need to anyhow, everyone else, even the teachers,
were the same. The year was all but over. There was only one thing I wanted to
do, and that was to run. As soon as the Last Bell of the Last Day rang, I raced
out the classroom door without looking back. I quickly texted Elle to let her
know I wouldn't be catching a ride home, but that I would phone her later to
make plans. The next text I sent to my brother Chad: “resQ me NOW plz xox.”
Once in the gym changing sheds I quickly changed, and as I laced up my runners
my phone vibrated “Buzz Lightyear to Star Command! Come in Star Command!” I
groaned. Matt must have been changing my ring tones again, but at least it
meant Chad had arrived. Racing along the pavement I saw the familiar old red
station wagon – or as Chad called her – The Wavy Lady, double parked. Speeding
up, I flung open the door, threw myself and my bag into the front seat and in a
single fluid movement Chad had rejoined the flow of traffic out of the school
grounds. It was a sequence we had down to perfection; for at least two years we
had been running together several times a week; it was something no one else in
our family understood and for that I was most grateful.
“Where to, sis?’ Chad grinned at me.
“Celebration run for the last day of school ... hmm ... I’m thinking the
wasteland. What say you?”
I was glad he had something in mind,
because my mind didn't seem to want to work. I cynically replied, “Sounds
perfect – swapping one wasteland for another.”
“Says the brain box that hasn't wasted a
moment of the last five years at high school; you’re such a nerd, Jazz.
Anyways, I want to show you something, something I've been saving for a day
like today. Chuck us that drink bottle would ya?” Chad was into hydrating
before running and the reminder was a good one. I hadn’t had anything to drink
since lunch. I gulped down some mouthfuls before throwing a vengeful squirt
towards his t-shirt.
“Oops! Accident – so sorry bro.”
“Ja-azz! Just remember, what goes around
comes around!”
“Idle threats,” I mumbled, and the
revival I had experienced from his company dissipated. I just didn’t have the
impetus for banter this afternoon. Fortunately, Chad felt the same.
“Shut-up, OK? No more talk!” he said
sternly, like he was my school teacher or something.
We drove the rest of the way without
speaking. The drone of the engine and the crackle of the old radio provided
enough noise to drown out any silence. Chad sped through Moorehead and after a
few miles turned right and parked at the trail head leading down to the
Neusiok. The Neusiok Trail is about twenty-two miles long and was named after
an early Coree Indian tribe that lived in the area. It was the local Carteret
Wildlife Club who became national leaders in the concept of utilizing public
lands for recreation when they constructed the trail for recreational purposes
only, cutting and pasting together a rugged pathway through the coastal forest
landscape. The traditional start point is at the Neuse, a major fresh water
river, which follows beach sand ridges, through stands of pine, various forms
of hardwood forest, oak and maple, cypress swamp and cane breaks. The club
constructed bridges to enable passage over the wetter areas, skirting swamp and
wetlands, including bridging small stream crossings. It crosses several roads,
making shorter runs possible, and showcases many forms of plant, bird, and
animal life. The trail is contained entirely within Croatian National Forest
lands, terminating on the salt water Newport River or Oyster Point to the
south, and is nationally unique – the only hiking trail of its kind located
almost entirely within a coastal forest.
Chad and I jokingly called it “the wasteland,”
only because if we ran the trail too far into the high heat of summer, we got
bitten silly by the abundant wildlife, namely mosquitoes, ticks and biting
flies, not to mention the tiny chiggers and “no-see-ems” (gnats). Today I
almost wanted to run to the end – and back – with the mood I found myself in,
restless and angry, with no apparent logic. We both leaned against the Wavy
Lady, that faithful faded red surf wagon, and automatically began the series of
stretches to warm up before we set out. It was a perfect sequence that never
varied – a bit like my life really, up until today. Yes, I thought, today has
unraveled the automated robotic life I have lived over the past five years of
high school and I no longer feel in control – at least as much in control as I
once was. I thought of the bubbles I had blown yesterday, so fragile and
dependent on the winds that blew, and I remembered that their shape was held by
tension and, just like my shape, my world had been held together by the tense
routines of my life.
But what would happen if the tumultuous
emotions I had felt today could be captured within a bubble, then burst through
that elastic sheet? If I could create the right collision between emotions and
tensions, thereby forcing a chemical reaction … there must be a way! My
heartbeat quickened and my emotive responses morphed into analytical thought
paths. If I could capture my emotions in a disordered or tense state, could I
encase them? The answer was there! I could just about see it; this whole bubble
phenomenon was going to make sense if only I could grasp this one last clue!
Ping! Gone! All I could hear was the Black Eyed Peas getting their boom on.
“Chad, you loser!” I yelled angrily,
pulling the earphones from my head.
“Get over it, sis.” Chad didn't even
blink. “Thought you needed waking up, that’s all. You didn't even notice when I
put your earphones on you. Off on one of your crazy genius moments again, eh?
You gotta give that up sis, it just won’t pull the guys y’know. By the way, I
put together a new play list for our run today – hope that’s OK. Wanted to try
some new stuff, yeah?”
Last summer Chad and I had saved all our
summer earnings and bought iPod Nanos and Nike+ running shoes. You put the
sensor in your Nike+ shoe (there’s a built-in pocket specifically designed for
it under the insole), then connect the receiver to your iPod Nano. The sensor
tracks your run and then sends the data to your iPod. As you run, it tells you
your time, distance, pace, and calories burned, then it gives you feedback at
the halfway point and at the end of your run. Chad spends a heap of time
putting together play-lists for our runs; easy listening to start, building up
to hardcore rock, and then mellowing out as we warm down. I love him for that –
even though he makes me so mad at times. I just couldn't be bothered making the
effort with creating playlists, but as we share pretty much the same taste in
music, he keeps an ear out for new tunes and we experiment together.
“It’s called ‘Last List for Jazz’, seeing
as this is the last time I’ll run with my kid sister as a seventeen-year-old.”
Chad was yelling over his shoulder, as he had already started out leaving me
for dead. I felt a little guilty for shouting at him. It was a bad habit of
mine: shout first, get to the facts later. I defended it as a survival
mechanism in a large family, but anger was also something I took a bit of
sadistic pleasure from, and it was always getting me into trouble.
I was content to follow Chad, knowing he
would keep a steady pace and check I was still within shouting range every now
and then. I scrolled through the options, found the play-list, plugged the ear
piece back in and put my best foot forward. Maybe I could redeem this strange
day after all.
We had soon settled into a steady pace,
and I could feel a light layer of sweat on my face. It felt good. The mix of
music was just right, a middle tempo of tunes that were well known but not
radio hits – just the way I liked it. Songs should be intelligent, I mused as I
ran, or if they’re not intelligent, they should at least conjure up some sort
of emotion within the listener – fizzy happiness, or intense sadness, or
overwhelming need. Yeah! I raved in my head, that’s it: emotional intelligence;
that’s what songs need to connect us to them. At that moment Coldplay’s “God
put a smile upon your face” was playing and I sucked the lyrics into my soul,
hoping to find the smile I needed. The
rhythm had me and carried me along, and before I knew it we were three miles
down the track and it was time to turn around. Chad was running back towards me
and I could hear him singing along (very badly) to the Red Hot Chilli Peppers’
“Snow” track. I ran to the next marker, did a U-turn, and began the journey
back to the same tune.
The sweat was dripping down my spine now,
and the reward of hard physical exercise started to elevate my soul. U2 came on
to confirm this just in time. I grinned, wiped the sweat from my face with my
sleeve, and picked up the pace slightly. The sky was darkening – not just because
of the time, but also the huge black clouds that were rolling in off the
Atlantic. I mulled over my preoccupation with bubbles and the formula I had
been working on, hoping that my runner’s high might jolt the equation into
place. I had been working secretly on it for months, and had even done a
science project into the properties of various types of bubbles and their
applications. I hardly dared hope that one day I might crack the code. Over and
over I put my brain through its paces, but as I reached the stand of long-leaf
pine with their ghostly trunks, I still had nothing. It was as if I was caught
in a dream with no end and no way out. A quick check of my iPod revealed around
another fifteen minutes running left. I gave up trying to think and focused on
the music. Jack Johnson was slowing me and I wasn't ready to mellow out and warm
down yet. I manually clicked to the next song and promptly tripped up. I would
recognize that voice anywhere, even though I had only heard it for the first
time today.
If
you have the time
I
will grab the time
We
will travel time
And
tell the story we all want to know
So
take my hand in your head
And
show me your ways
The
sand dune is rising
Your
heart is surprising and I want to know
Where
will love plant its face?
Where
does hate find a space?
We
are not so alone
We
are not so alone
Brave
in belonging are we
What was wrong with me? Why did I feel so
illogical, so emotional and full of angst? Why did the Grey Phantom affect me
this way? I had not let any boys get under my skin while at high school; I was
too busy preparing myself for when my life would truly start, dreaming of being
free, of finding a reason for my life on this earth. My brothers thought I had
my head in the clouds, away with the fairies, and they were probably right. I
had always felt different from other girls, but not this different. Any
composure I had regained from my run was now in tatters, shredding itself with
every pound of my feet, shriveling with every word, every beat, and then, of
course, the rain came. I let the tears from my eyes mingle with the sweat from
my pores and the wet drops from the gray clouds, and I saw those gray eyes, and
rode the waves of emotion flowing from that gravel voice. The sweet pain
grabbed me and I was undone. This was overwhelming emotion, and I did not have
control. Rivers ran silently down my face, but in the darkness of the car Chad
ignored me. He was good like that. We listened to Dashboard Confessional at
full volume, and I felt every “emo” bone in my body.
