She’s a Doll

1

There are a lot of really profound, poetic people who have said a lot of really profound, poetic things about death. But you know, it occurs to me that none of them had actually died when they said those things.

Shakespeare, laying down verses about heroism and heavenly choirs. Edgar Allan Poe, ruminating on the sweet rest that must await. J. M. Barrie, the guy who put the words “to die will be an awfully big adventure” into Peter Pan’s mouth.

Noobs.

No better than the guy who complains about the footy from his plush armchair.

I wish I could talk to Shakespeare, Poe, and Barrie. I’d ask if getting their tickets punched by the ferryman changed their tunes. Probably it didn’t. Profound, poetic people tend to stay profound and poetic, even when you wish they’d maybe calm down a little. And people like me . . . well . . .

I don’t have anything profound or poetic to say about dying. I don’t have anything pretty to say about it either. It sucked. It really fucking sucked. I wish it hadn’t happened, but it did. I wish he hadn’t happened, but he did.

He murdered me, and I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about it, even when it was the last thing in the world I wanted to think about.

It happened in the evening. The early evening, to be specific, which feels like getting handed fifteen cents when you’re owed a fifty.

That motherfucker didn’t kill me in the morning, like a bird on a worm.

He didn’t kill me at the stroke of midnight either, the way a good, honest murderer would’ve done it.

He killed me after sundown, but before the good TV shows came on.

He killed me during peak-hour traffic. He killed me at his convenience.

But do you know what the kicker is? The thing that shortchanges those fifteen cents down to five? The real twist of the knife?

He killed me on my graduation day.

It wasn’t the sort of graduation I’d seen in movies. No frills. No tassels. No square-topped caps. Just me, a shirt for a Harry Styles concert that I didn’t even go to, and an auto-generated email, PDF attached.

This document, awarded by Fishburn University Occupational and Vocational Branch, in accordance with the Australian Department of Education, certifies that Lucy May McQuinn has achieved adequate competency in the field of Business [Administration].

This was it. This was what I’d been working toward for the last twelve months. This was what all those late nights, early mornings, and patchy pixelated Zoom calls with my course supervisor were for.

Adequate competency.

I could now, theoretically, and with adequate competency, use a photocopier, answer a phone, and organize a calendar.

“You could be a personal assistant to a CEO,” my course supervisor had said when I’d first signed up, her voice somehow both robotically perfect and perfectly robotic. “The backbone of any organization.”

One year later, all units completed, and I didn’t feel strong enough to be the backbone of anything. I felt sweaty. I felt tired. I felt . . . like I’d made a huge mistake.

I stared at the certificate, breaking it down into all its parts. The university’s logo, off-center. The dean’s signature, slightly pixelated. My name, in a different font from everything else. Lucy May McQuinn. Adequate competency. Business open bracket administration close bracket.

I didn’t want to print it out. I didn’t want to frame it, even though I knew that was what my grandma would insist on doing if she ever saw it.

I wanted to drop the email straight into the trash and forget I’d ever been stupid enough to get a HECS debt for this.

And sure, it wasn’t a big HECS debt, not compared to the amounts of money people spent getting diplomas, degrees, and doctorates.

But it was a lot for an email. It was a lot for a PDF.

It was a lot for . . . adequate competency.

“We’re closing in a couple of minutes,” the librarian at the front desk said, her voice soft but somehow carrying through the whole building.

I hit print.

A minute later, and ten cents poorer, I walked out of the library, my laptop in a reusable shopping bag over my shoulder, my freshly printed Certificate of Business [Administration] in a plastic sleeve the librarian had pretended not to notice me steal.

And it was fine.

Really, it was fine.

So what if the certificate was ugly? If I’d wanted pretty, I would’ve bought wallpaper.

It didn’t have to be pretty to do what it had to do.

And what it had to do was get me a real, bona fide, adult job.

Something that’d pay well enough for me to buy eggs without checking the price.

Something better than standing on a roadside in a hi-vis vest with a stop/slow lollipop sign.

Something that’d allow me to finally, finally move out from my grandma’s house and start renting, start living.

That was what I had to focus on.

Not a student loan, not a badly formatted piece of paper, not the lack of pomp and circumstance.

The future.

“It’s fine,” I whispered to myself as I fished around in my pocket for my car keys. “Really fine. So totally fi—” As I pulled out my keys, my phone slid free too, dropping and bouncing on the pavement at my feet. “—ne. Be fine. Please be fine.”

I crouched down and picked it up. It looked OK.

Well, apart from the spiderweb crack forking from one side of the screen to the other.

But that had happened six months ago when I’d been playing fetch with Cookie, phone in one hand, stick in the other, my brain incapable of making a good decision under pressure.

I cupped my hand around the screen, shielding it from the sun’s glare. The number pad was there, and when I thumbed in my pin, the familiar forest of app icons popped up, mostly normal, apart from the shock of magenta and cyan pixels down the side.

That was new.

But, just like the certificate, it was fine. A little glitchy and gross, but fine. It still worked. And even if it didn’t, I could get a new phone once I found a CEO to hire me, which would surely be soon, what with me being adequately competent and all.

There were two new messages.

Krissy: Where are you? I’ve got a 15% off coupon at that new thai place. Swing by.

Ginger: Hey Lucy!!! You’re still coming this arvo right? I’ve just finished getting everything ready. It took all morning, please don’t judge. Don’t forget to dress to impress!!

Guilt crept up my throat.

I hadn’t told Krissy I was going to Ginger’s. I didn’t want to admit to Krissy that one of the girls we’d been dedicated to hating in high school had been sliding into my DMs. Which was stupid. We were all grown up, right? Year-eleven drama shouldn’t matter now.

Except maybe it did, because my thumbs were already typing out the words I’m sorry, I can’t right now. Catch up tomorrow? I got a read receipt from Krissy, but no reply.

Be there soon! I sent to Ginger. Then, as an afterthought, I followed it up with a heart emoji, the same sort she’d sent me.

I didn’t tell either of them that it was my graduation day.