Fourteen
All I have is my pen
It can create or break open
Worlds of my choice
With wicker words that
Set alight when spoken
‘Creation’ from Dreamers
That afternoon after school, I’m sitting at my laptop, overlooking the garden. No sign of Ty out there.
I’m trying to avoid Ty. I haven’t talked to him since our interaction last week.
Partly to keep a sense of mystery going.
But mostly because I’m worried he’ll retaliate.
Giving him some time to cool down may be a good thing for us both.
But I can’t stop myself from watching him when he’s out there.
And what’s most annoying is that I can tell he knows I’m doing it.
I didn’t bother putting up the privacy pane. My point was made. And it’s good because it means I still have an unobstructed view into his garden. We’re hitting the last of the September warmth, and I know our garden meetings will soon be over.
I turn back to my laptop. Kira gave me access to the anonymous email account she used to submit my Selena Says.
There’s one email in it, Tori acknowledging receipt and asking a string of questions: what year of school I’m in, what classes I’m taking, if I want to write a further expansion of my piece .
. . She’s attempting to respect my anonymity, but I can tell she really wants to know who I am.
There are some things that bug me about the Secret Sender piece. One is Kira sending it in the first place, although I know she had my best interests in mind. The second is everyone misconstruing what I said.
I tap my desk with my fingers. Can I really send in a follow-up? Won’t it make it all worse? But part of me enjoyed that people were talking about what I wrote, dissecting the meaning. It was like I was the subject in an English class. Being a writer feels powerful.
I open an email up and start writing:
Dear Tori
No that doesn’t sound right—
Hey Tori, It’s time to get down to business . . .
I delete it. Too aggressive.
Honourable Tori, I have a bunch of stuff I would like to clarify . . .
I close my laptop and look out of the window, hoping for inspiration.
Instead, I see Ty.
But today, he’s not with his camera. Instead he is dragging a sun lounger across the garden, towards the pond.
Weird.
I sit up, leaning closer to the glass. What is he doing? Firstly, it’s September and four p.m., it’s not exactly sunbathing time. Secondly, the sun on that side is pretty bad, which is why the sun lounger was on the other side of the garden.
Ty’s dressed in a long-sleeved top and gilet. He doesn’t look like he’s come out to catch some rays.
He lies down on the sun lounger, directly facing me. Then he picks up the other thing he was carrying.
It’s a newspaper.
What seventeen-year-old boy reads a newspaper? I don’t even know where you can buy a newspaper around here.
I look closer. At this point, my nose is pressed up against the glass pane.
SAN FRANCISCO RANKED BEST CITY.
CROYDON RANKED WORST.
Ha. He clearly made this newspaper himself, the writing large enough for me to read. It’s a way of winding me up.
I can’t help it: I smile to myself.
And the next thing I know, I’m downstairs and marching towards the fence.
‘You made a prop?’ I yell over the fence.
‘Do you like it?’ he says, looking up at me.
‘Bit immature,’ I say. ‘And factually incorrect. Croydon isn’t even a city.’
‘What, unlike buying a privacy shield to stop me taking photos?’
‘I didn’t make that. I ordered it off . Plus, I could have been wanting privacy.’
He shakes his head, still lying on the sun lounger. In all his layers, he looks so ridiculous.
‘Well if you don’t mind, I have a paper to read,’ he says.
‘No teenager has read a paper since 2003 – well, maybe except a school newspaper,’ I say, climbing over the fence. ‘I bet there’s nothing even in there.’
‘What a wild statement,’ he says, looking up, surprise on his face as he registers me coming closer to him. ‘What are you doing?’ he says.
‘You came into my garden,’ I say, making some strides. I grab the newspaper from him. ‘Aha! This is completely empty.’ I shake it at him.
‘Well done, Sherlock Holmes.’
‘You’re not exactly some criminal mastermind.’
‘I knew it would wind you up, based on our first conversation.’ He shrugs. ‘Why are you so protective of this place anyway?’ He looks genuinely interested, and against my better judgement, I find myself perching on the end of the sun lounger.
I look at my house.
‘We don’t really get a choice where we’re from, do we? And the places we’re from, we’re the only people who really know what it’s like. The media can paint whatever statistics, bring up whatever images, but only we really know it.’
‘I didn’t realise you felt strongly about it,’ says Ty, looking at me abashed.
‘This is my home,’ I say as genuinely as I can. ‘It’s the only one I’ve ever known. So I’ll defend it. And it’s definitely not the worst city in the world.’ I brandish the newspaper.
He takes it from me. ‘That was very poetic, you know. I can tell you’re a Rose Conrad fan.’
I feel myself turning red. ‘My words are nowhere near as good as hers.’
‘Give yourself some credit, Writer,’ he says with a smile. ‘They’re much better than most people’s.’
‘My friend submitted something I wrote anonymously to the school newspaper,’ I say.
He raises his eyebrows. ‘And is that good or bad?’
‘I don’t know. Initially I thought it was bad, but there was something cool about everyone talking about it. Like I left a mark, you know?’
‘I get it. It’s how I feel about photography. When I look at the images, I know I did something.’
‘It just feels . . . a bit public, you know? Like I’m exposing myself.’
He grabs the newspaper back from me, taps it on my head.
‘But isn’t that how anything great is done?
Look at Rose Conrad, how her lyrics expose her.
It’s why people love her, they see themselves in her songs.
When I hear ‘Right From The Start’ it really pumps me up – I can see myself taking on anything .
. . or anyone. Or when I heard ‘Mama’ the first time, I just saw my mum.
I’m sure Rose Conrad wrote those with her life projected onto it, but when I hear the songs, I can only see mine. That’s the power of words.’
‘I never thought about it like that before,’ I admit. ‘That different people can hear the same thing and take wildly different things from it. The way I view it isn’t the only way of viewing it.’ I pause. ‘I guess you’re trying for tickets tomorrow then.’
‘Oh absolutely,’ he says.
‘Are you going to go by yourself?’ I say, curiously.
‘I’m not swimming in friends right now,’ he says. He sighs. ‘I’ll try for multiple tickets, and if I get more than one I’ll hold it above your head for the next few months so you become a nicer neighbour to me.’
I may not know Ty well, but I know he means that he’ll give it to me if he has a spare.
‘Thank you. I’ll do the same. If I have a spare ticket lying around.’
He laughs. ‘I’ll take the if. What are you going to do then, about the writing thing?’
‘Submit a follow-up. You’ve just given me an idea,’ I say. I look at the newspaper. ‘Got to correct all the poor and lazy journalism out there.’
He laughs at that.
‘I’ll be taking this with me,’ I say. ‘Might burn it before anyone else can see it.’
‘Until next time, Writer,’ he says lazily from the sun lounger.
‘You don’t need to pretend to lie down here any more,’ I call back without looking around. ‘It’s bloody cold out here.’
I hear his laughter as I head back inside. It makes me feel lighter.
***
A week later, the next issue of The Common Room comes out:
Today’s Take: Hometown Glory
But first, a response to the response. I never thought I’d need to print this, but I don’t support blackmail.
If anything, my last article is a lesson in being careful with your words.
And how once they’re written down, they’re out of your hands.
Another thing my last post was not about is the feminist nature of IOUs.
You can take some things at surface level, you know?
And now that’s out of the way, today’s take is:
Hometown glory is more than watching the local football team win.
It’s quirks and foils and everything between.
Take this place, Croydon. For me, it’s knowing what it’s like to see a sunset from the viewpoint of Lloyds Park, or the church ladies volunteering to raise money for their friends’ care.
How on the bus you can see every race and ethnicity sat next to each other in perfect harmony.
The history of the Brutalist architecture and the weddings by the library.
The beauty of haggling at Surrey Street market.
Maybe it’s a romantic way to view it, but it’s my home.