Being Kalli(55)

Mum says he’s the best boyfriend ever and will make us all a nice dinner after she goes for a shop. She might be half an hour.

I slap him and punch him in the balls like I know it hurts other boys. His fingers release my shoulder and I run.

What actually happens, however, is I take two steps before he grabs my ankles and my chin hits the floor.

I’m so numb I see stars and I can’t see the hallway anymore.

It doesn’t take long to realise that’s because I’m on Mum’s bed again and that disgusting thing from his pants is coming out again and he knows I didn’t get my period.





22




I spend the rest of that day looking at without seeing my perfectly laid-out dress I’d prepared. I avoid her direct look. I spend that night hearing without listening to the sea of bodies in the crowd at the concert. It’s only once they stand and form an ovation that I recognise I’ve drilled my pieces so deep into my mind, I’m playing how I’ve practised. I know to add my specialty to the vibrato notes, and use my fresh look to engage younger people as well as the older crowd who love this stuff.

It was a hit, even if I’m trying to calm myself about the fact my life will never be the same after I leaked that shame earlier today.

I walk back from my first performance to a dark, behind-the-scenes run of organised chaos. I recall my performance on stage, and remember bits. Like when I walked the length to one corner, angled my head down and played to the audience with a passionate expression focused on my strings. And another time before the end when I stood in the centre and looked up to the beams above, hidden by the stage curtain, letting the buzz feed me power.

But those memories are me as a camera, zooming in on Kalli, and I can’t get far enough in to remember anything personal. I’m detached.

As I try to make it to my violin case behind the curtained section, one of the concert producers finds me and pats my shoulder. He keeps saying “wow”, and pats me on the shoulder three more times. Two of the other performers I remember from last year say hi and I wish them luck for their pieces.

I don’t feel nineteen here. Behind the stage with the MC introducing and leading out performers, and the sweeping Hollywood-like lights, and the clapping audience, it feels like I’ve always done this, always will. In my elation, it feels like the floor isn’t really here because, as cliché as it sounds, my head is in a flurry amongst the excitement pulsing within and I’m floating somewhere else.

The performer on the stage is subdued back here and this moment feels like the first real thing, here in the relative quiet of my section for the evening.

I hope to God Mum and the twins showed. Surely. I knew if I tried to find them or any of my friends in the audience I’d be off for the count in and miss my start, and then nerves would take care of the rest, which is why I purposely didn’t look. I can’t be put off tonight.

Violin is the one thing I can see myself doing forever. I was enthusiastic about having a degree, but that wore off. I used to love having the boys’ attention at my command whenever I wanted it. I don’t know how I didn’t see the years of recurring feelings in the aftermath: hollow, empty, and unsatisfied.

Throughout, I’ve hated on Mum for longer than I can remember being happy with her, yet I’m holding her words like gold these days. Part of having fun is letting go, you know. Forcing fun only gives you so much satisfaction, like getting drunk to smother whatever you need to. Part of enjoyment is trust. Trust that you can open yourself up to someone and that person will take care of your mind and heart.

How the hell do I argue with that? It’s like she said it to describe my issues with Nate in a nutshell.

Since I have downtime to break, I check my phone. I’ve got five texts, three calls. None are from Mum. I wipe away hairs sticking to my glistening skin. I feel a breeze and sidestep until I’m under the vents of the air-con.

Much better.

There’s a text from Scout, two from Nate. A random one from Donovan saying good luck for tonight since he heard I was playing, and that he’d really love to catch up after I’m done to celebrate.

I text Scout and tell her and Nate to come to the backstage door, and I’ll let them in. There’s fifteen minutes until the break and then I get back on for the performance of my last piece an hour after that.

I open the door and usher them in, immediately envious. Scout is in skinny jeans, ballet flats and a bat-wing top. Nate’s ever cool in khakis and a fitted print T-shirt, looking like one of those celebrities you see snapped in magazines on a Sunday afternoon.

No one looks that good naturally, sheesh!