The Boring Bits
Copyright to this ebook and the content therein is held by Naomi Kramer. All rights reserved.
If you'd like to make use of part of this book, please email me and ask. I'm reasonable.
My email address is
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Disclaimer
This book contains profanity, violence toward bagsnatchers, religious discussions which don't necessarily conclude with 'and of course the bible's always right, as is the church', moral judgments, teen sex, gay relationships, and - possibly worst of all - Australian spelling and slang. You've been warned, OK? I don't want to receive lots of complaints about the horribleness of it all in a so-called christian fiction book, or about how I clearly hate christians/gay guys/men in general (I don't), or about the horrible spelling. However, feel free to complain about other stuff. ;-)
Table of Contents
Chapter 1: Introduction
Chapter 2: Stalker Boy
Chapter 3: Back to School
Chapter 4: Revheads
Chapter 5: Emo Boy
Chapter 6: Clichés
Chapter 7: Theology
Chapter 8: Sexpert
Chapter 9: Dad
Chapter 10: A Bit of Alright
Chapter 11: Maestro
Chapter 12: Fuck Buddies
Chapter 13: Showtime
Chapter 14: Barbie
Chapter 15: Good Mood
Chapter 16: Outed
Chapter 17: The Other Kind of Outed
Chapter 18: Connection
Chapter 19: Fat
Chapter 20: Better
Chapter 21: Love
Chapter 22: Judgment
Notes about Bathurst
Weird Aussieism Translator
Chapter 1: Introduction
When Mark first saw me, I made the kind of impression that good little Christian gals dream of.
“No you can't have my bloody bag, you bastard!” I yelled as I kicked a surprised bagsnatcher-wannabe in the shin, then followed it up with an elbow in his face.
“FUCK!” I screamed, as his cheekbone made direct contact with my funny bone and sent a wave of agony up my arm.
The man ran away down the street, nearly colliding with a teenage boy walking towards me. The teen made a grab for him, but he was shoved away as the snatcher kept running. The teen approached me warily.
“Uh...” he said, “it's a bit late to ask if you need any help - but are you OK?”
I nodded weakly and sat down on the side of the footpath, rubbing my elbow. Damn, that thing felt BRUISED.
He sat down nearby and just watched me, looking worried.
“I'm OK,” I said, smiling at his protectiveness, “thanks for keeping an eye on me though.”
“Can I walk you home?” he said, frowning.
“Ummm... you don't need to - I don't really want to swap a bagsnatcher for a stalker, you know. Umm, no offense.”
“Geez, what's offensive there?”
“Thanks for being willing to save me, and all.”
“Look,” he said, “You've got a bit of a wonder woman complex, you know. Why not let me pretend that I'm protecting you? Let me feel all manly and useful?”
I looked him up and down and giggled. Five foot two of skinny-arse male. Stephen Hawkins would be a better protector.
“OK,” I said, and nodded. “But if you stalk me later, I get to beat you up.”
He laughed, stuck out his hand, and shook on it.
“I'm Mark,” he said as we walked towards home.
****
Oh yeah, introductions. My name's Maisy May Dickens, and yes, my mother was certifiable when she picked that name. Still is, in my opinion. But she's long off the drugs and the pills and the booze, and that makes for a far happier - if less quirky - home. So no complaints. Even if I did kind of like her better when she was high. She was a real blast sometimes, we had some awesome fun, between the blackouts. These days she's got the 'joy' thing going on, which seems to mean that if you're not feeling happy, just fake it so no one finds out. Huh. But this is supposed to be an introduction to me, not my mother. Lemme try that again.
My name's Maisy May Dickens. I'm about five foot nine inches tall, I weigh far too little through no fault of my own, and I'm a really bad Christian. I don't mean a bad-arse Christian who goes around smiting the evildoers, despite what the last scene might've implied. It's just that I've never been good at being a good little Christian girl, and some days I doubt I ever will. I swear. I yawn in church. I laugh at fart jokes. I'm loud and I dress goth and I try hard to be kind to people but too often I yell at them instead. Not exactly a poster girl for Christian Girl Monthly, huh? Oh, I forgot about my habit of just opening my mouth and letting whatever I'm thinking come out. It gets a bit painful sometimes. Like with Mark. “No thanks, I don't need a stalker.” Yup, that's me, diarrhoea-mouth girl.
I live in Bathurst, New South Wales. If you've never heard of it, you're obviously not a racing fan. Biggest car race in Australia goes on here once a year, and brings a huge crowd of boozed-up revheads with it. The population of the place triples, and suddenly it's a happening place with lots of stuff to do. I love it. I love this whole town. I know it's hokey, and I should be moaning about how I want to get the hell out and live somewhere decent, but... Bathurst is OK, you know? We've got a cafe and a bookstore and artists and even a museum. Not to mention two high schools. Although it's actually one high school with two campuses which “co-operate to offer a state of the art education”. Mostly they just snipe at each other and whine about unfair budget allocations. So anyhow, I'm just starting Year 9 at the Bathurst campus, the old Bathurst High - and that's what everyone but the staff call it. It consists of some old two-storey brick buildings and the occasional demountable. Kelso, on the other hand, have a brand spanking new campus and air-con that actually works. Bastards.
My church is the Anglican one near my high school, which is near where I live, too. According to Mum, that's the main reason she originally chose it. Sheer convenience. But it's a nice church. The people are - well, nice. They don't scowl at my thick eyeliner and green eyeshadow, or the fact that I dye my hair. There's a sort of live-and-let-live attitude from most people, with the occasional dragons-are-a-symbol-of-satan-and-god-will-curse-you-for-wearing-them types. No idea what I'm talking about there? Thank God and all that's good, because - damn - those people are kinda nutso. Anyway, most of the church are just plain nice, vanilla, caring folk. They make me itchy.
Except Georgie, who's kinda cool. Still pretty vanilla, but we get along. She and I have been friends since... well, I dunno. I don't remember not being friends with her. We've hung out at church events most of our lives, I think. Her mother doesn't like me much - she's one of the emo-means-devil-worship types and is pretty sure I'll descend into full-blown satanism any day now. Georgie's mum and mine don't get along too well, probably because my mother resents the attitude. And because they probably - mutually - think the other's a bad mother. So Georgie and I don't hang out much except where her mum can't complain about her being led astray - church.
I know I couldn't handle having a mother like Georgie's. I think I'd have run away and become a prostitute or something, just to get the hell out of there. I don't do vanilla or being wrapped in cotton wool. Some say this is the whole point of being Christian kids, but - geez! Even Jesus was allowed out now and then. Surely if God made me unique, I'm not supposed to turn myself into a completely boring fucking clone, right?
Crap. I'm really bad with swearing, too.
I've really messed up this intro, haven't I? I bet I've bored you, confused you and offended you all in one. What can I say? It's a talent.
Chapter 2: Stalker Boy
The Sunday after my encounter with the
wannabe Clark Kent, I'm sitting in church and trying desperately not to yawn through the sermon. Blah blah blah adultery blah blah blah thoughts blah blah blah David. What's wrong, I wonder, with 'don't have sex with other people if you've promised not to, dude, it hurts people!'. Shorter, that's for sure, I could be at morning tea now. Then I catch sight of something that fixes the yawns right up. Over the other side of the church, in the very front pew, is Mark. Paying attention, and NOT yawning.
My stranger is stalking me? In church? Man, I thought even stalkers had more of a life than that.
After church, Mrs Catrick pulls him straight over to me and starts to introduce us. Mrs Catrick's one of the kindest old ladies I know. She bakes cakes every Sunday for morning tea, cooks dinner for us whenever Mum's sick, gives every kid a little present when they get confirmed. She's just all-round nice. Of course, she's also incredibly naïve, and I find it hard to believe that she ever did anything the slightest bit naughty. Her husband died years ago, she never had kids (I think) and she's kinda adopted the whole church as her new family.
"Don't worry, Auntie, we've already met," he says, and holds out a hand. I take it uncertainly and shake, wondering what on earth he's going to say next. Just wait, did he say Auntie?
“Oh, lovely!” she says, smiling happily and not picking up a hint of awkwardness, “at school, dears? Oh, no, you haven't been to school yet, have you, Mark? Mark's up from Sydney for a while,” she tells me.
“No, I met her on the street!” Mark says, smiling at Mrs Catrick and winking at me, “a man tried to steal her bag and she -”
I cough and raise my eyebrows, hoping to God he'll take a hint.
“- asked him so nicely to leave her alone that he ran away!” he finishes, smirking.
I can't help it. I laugh, and Mrs Catrick looks bemused but happy to see us getting along.
I grab us a few bikkies and slices from the morning tea spread, and we sit down on the steps of the church, away from the adults.
“Girl,” he says, “what the hell are you doing at my new church? I almost had a heart attack!”
The cheek of the loser!
“Umm... going to church? You gonna pretend I'm the stalker, now?”
He raises an eyebrow.
“Dude, you're not in Sydney any more - you're gonna find yourself bumping into people, ya know?”
“Hmm.”
“Fine. I'm a stalker. I found your manly twigginess so sexy that I had to have you at any cost - even going to church. Happy?”
He grins a huge grin.
“Very. Except that twiggy bit.”
“Yay you.”
“So, you're a Christian gal?”
“Uh huh - surprised?”
“Only pleasantly.”
“Really?”
“It's nice to see a bit of a rebel around here.”
Meh. Like I haven't heard that before. In all sorts of tones of voice, too.
“So…” I ask, trying to make sense of him turning up here and now, “Mrs Catrick’s your aunt?”
He nods.
“Are you visiting her for the hols?”
“Sort of,” he says and shrugs a shoulder, “For the holidays, maybe a term or two, I guess.”
“Huh. And you’re living with her because…?”
“My mum and dad are divorcing, and ducking flying crockery made it difficult to study.”
Crap. And here I am treating his life like some personal amusement.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be - they’re both arseholes. I’m happy to get out of there.”
I put a hand on his arm. That sounds rough. Mum and I have had our differences, but I've never thought of her like that. She's a pain sometimes, but I miss her every time I go away. Lame, huh? Time to change the subject or what?
“So - Mrs Catrick thrown anything at you yet?”
He snorts.
“Give her time - I think we're both still on good behaviour.”
“Wow - so there's an evil Mark under there somewhere?”
He shrugs and looks distinctly uncomfortable. Time to change the subject again, I guess. Poor guy probably steals bikkies from the pantry or some other heinous crime.
“So,” I ask, “why didn't you out me to Mrs Catrick? Burst of altruism? Christian kindness?”
“Pure self-interest,” he says, grinning, “Aunt Rosie's a bit freaked by the responsibility, I think, she's trying to make sure I don't have any bad influences. I think self-defense might count as evil in her mind.”
I sigh, which is probably not the reaction he's after.
“I am a bad influence,” I say seriously, “I'm not sure I'm such a good person for you to be hanging with, you know.”
He laughs.
“Girl,” he says, “at my last church, I found out that half of my goody-goody mates were really on speed and pot and other stuff. And most of them were having sex with boyfriends and girlfriends their parents didn't even know about. If you can't top that, you're not even close to a bad influence.”
I goggle at him.
“Drugs? Christian kids? Fuck! I mean - oh crap, see what I mean?”
We look at each other and laugh. Sometimes life is too ridiculous.
“So,” he asks, raising an eyebrow, “where's the happening joint?”
“What, for drugs and sex, or just hanging out?”
He starts laughing almost hysterically, while I look on, waiting for him to get over what was really a pretty lame joke. Geez, you'd think he'd been stuck in a monastery.
“Well, there's the beach...” I say, when he's over the worst of it.
He bites his lip - hard, I'm guessing, from the look of pain momentarily on his face.
“I'm 400k inland, and there's a beach? Geez, and I thought the drug scene was intense in Sydney!”
“Come on, city boy.”
****
I take him down to the river beach. It's a sandy, man-made beach on a curve of the river, built by locals when the council closed the public swimming pool right at the start of summer one year. There's an aquatic centre now in town, but the beach is free and I like it better - greener, less chemical stink.
“I know it's lame,” I say, “But... it's my favourite spot. I come down here and watch the birds, and... chill, you know?”
“I like it!” he says, and lies down on the grass. “I need a straw hat, and I'll feel just like Huckleberry Finn!”
God help us. Huck Finn? Who does that make me, Tom bloody Sawyer?
Chapter 3: Back to School
So there are books and exercise books and pens and pencils and crap to buy for the new school year. Cos, like, what loser would be seen with last year's scungy pens and pencils? Me, some years. The joys of being in a single-income family, huh?
This year is a good year, at least. Mum can afford all the basics and a few extras - although I'm not too interested in the shiny new lunchbox or pencilcase she suggests. I guess parents get a little confused about just how old their kids are sometimes.
“Can we save it for acrylics?” I ask patiently.
“What, nails?” she asks, frowning.
“NO - paint, Mum! What would I do with fake nails? Paint my hotrod to match them?”
She snorts.
“No car, love!”
“I know! So, can we get me some acrylics, and a canvas or two?”
She sighs, and I know she's going to give in. Anything's better than tarty makeup and my own car, looks like. I'll have to remember that tactic.
We head to the art shop for my supplies, and then I'm happy as a pig in mud. I'd love to have bought everything else in the store - oils and beautiful brushes and crayons and CLAY - but I'll happily settle for what I've got right now. It almost makes up for going back to school.
****
“No, you can't have your hem any higher!”
“But it's stupid! It's below my knees!”
“Better than looking like a teen tramp, love, showing your arse like some
of your classmates.”
“Teen - Mum, I look like a teen HOBO!”
“Don't be silly”
“I'm not! People will laugh at me - again!”
“You're a good little Christian girl, and you look it. Deal, love.”
“Mum!”
She looks at me, and I remember that look from when I was little. It's the shut-up-or-I-wallop look. She wouldn't hit me now... I think. But I shut up anyway.
****
First day back at school, and I'm half-wishing I could be out on holidays again. Funny, huh? I love books. I love learning stuff. I don't love school. Sometimes it's OK - but some of the crap they go on with... argh! Treating everyone like cons who have to be locked up and controlled and never allowed to make sane decisions, except what to have for lunch. And we've all gotta look exactly the same, like little clones in our poxy uniforms. Mum's already lectured me about taking out my piercing and ditching the makeup on weekdays... like I can't remember what the deal's been the rest of my life.
I'm in Year 9 this year. Blah blah responsibility blah blah still treat you like crud.
Maths is first, and I walk in thinking that this should be simple enough. Me and mathematics get along just fine. But the teacher's Mrs Hunter, and she and I don't. I don't know why, except that she likes everyone to do what they're told and learn without thinking - and that's something I'm not good at. I'm always asking the wrong question or saying the wrong thing or, God help me, learning too fast. Which is my problem today - we get out our textbooks and get to work without a bit of the usual 'hi, welcome to whatever, blah blah blah' that usually happens for the first class of the year. Nope, we get right to work on a revision type test of all the stuff we did last year, and I finish pretty fast - well duh, it's simple enough stuff, and it's not like I've been gone for years.
“Maisy!”
I look up from my doodling.
“Get back to work!”
“I'm finished.”
“Then go back and do it properly!”
“Umm... I checked it, seems OK.”
“Don't answer back!”
“But -”
“What did I just say?”
Uh huh. See what I mean? This is gonna be a crap year, I can tell already. But I get through the class, and Mrs Hunter gives us a stack of homework, everyone groans, and she yells and tells us to get out. Righteo then.
History's next, and even though I picked this elective, I'm not really looking forward to it, you know? History can be interesting or boring as batshit, and if Maths is anything to go by this year, I should be betting on the batshit.