Page 24 of Summer, in Between
She calls my brothers as she grabs her handbag from the kitchen bench.‘Cat, ask Paul to move his car, please,’ she says.
‘Not gonna happen.’I cross my arms and turn my nose up.Even I know I’m the posterchild of pure brat behaviour, but I can’t make myself care.
‘Going to, not gonna.All right, I can’t be bothered arguing.Matty, run downstairs and ask Paul if he’d mind moving his car, please.’She gathers up Tommy from the game.He barely protests, knowing he’ll be seeing the woman who maintains a temple in his honour of chocolate and lollies.
I go to the bathroom to survey the damage.Not too bad.Not great, but not terrible.I mean, yes, these yoga pants need to go to God, but apart for some dust in my hair from under the house I haven’t come off too badly.The monstrosity of a pimple has receded, and my eyebrows are holding their shape from their last interaction with the brow bar.I give my face a quick scrub and pull a hairbrush though my hair.Despite my best efforts at gentleness, my eyes fill as the brush tears through the mini-dreadlocks I’ve accidentally cultivated at the base of my neck.I give up on the hairbrush; this is a job for conditioner, and that’s a job for tonight.Shame I didn’t think of it this morning when I spent ten minutes polishing each individual tooth in my mouth with the new electric toothbrush my orthodontist gave me for ‘graduating’.Pretty crappy graduation gift, really, considering the gazillions of dollars my parents spent there, and the hours upon hours I spent flat on my back being tortured.
Bathroom ablutions, check.I yank off the hideous grey yoga pants and pull on some jeans.Comfort, be damned.My singlet is unadorned with those insipid logos that everyone seems to love having plastered all over themselves.We’re done here.My transformation is complete.The self-loathing for giving a you-know-what about how I look in front of a Neanderthal is next level, even if said Neanderthal is the hottest of the hot.
Back in the living room the paper lies waiting for me.Ugh, issues.Ugh, dying planet.Ugh, asylum seekers.Ugh, the patriarchy.Ugh, beautiful walking surfer god under my feet, literally.
As if on cue, the banging starts up downstairs again.How am I supposed to concentrate with all this noise?Mum’s car appears at the corner, and there’s Nonna perched in the front seat.As they pull into the drive she looks up and I wave.Matty races up the stairs to reclaim his seat in front of the video game.I hear Mum and Nonna moving up the terraces under the stairs, the entrance specifically built for Nonna so she could avoid the steep staircase.Dad did offer to build a pulley system for her to get from the street to the house.Imagine Nonna, perched on a little metal bar, being hoisted over the balcony railings.We laughed; she didn’t.
I kiss her on both cheeks as she comes through the door.She walks straight to the dining table and gathers up all my newspaper articles that I’ve separated into sections.I take them off her, somehow without snatching, fold them neatly and slip them into my issues folder.
‘Nonna, want to see my Italian?’
‘Why do you need to learn Italian?’she says.‘You’re Australian.It’s a waste of your time.I didn’t come here and learn every word of English just for you to spend all your time learning Italian.’
It’s an argument we’ve been having since Year Nine when I chose to study Italian of my own free will, as opposed to the school insisting on it.It’s one of her many paradoxes.In her eyes, we, her grandchildren, are Australian to the point of ‘Aussie, Aussie, Aussie, oi, oi, oi,’ but when Tommy tells her that Italy is in the running for the World Cup, she’s all ‘Viva L’Italia,’ never mind the fact that she’s never watched a footy game of any denomination in her life.That’s not accurate.She goes to Matty’s every game, sitting in Dad’s crusty old ute.She used to insist that Dad change ends each quarter, so she’d be right in front of him in the goal square until Matty threatened to stop playing.
‘Mama, please don’t start this again.’Mum’s already endured this argument through her own education.‘You know why.She gets extra points for university by doing Italian, and anyway, we want her to have a connection to her cultural heritage.’
‘Cultural heritage?Pftt.’Nonna crosses her arms.‘All your ancestors did was struggle for a better life, which we got, by coming here.’
‘Oh, Nonna,’ I say.‘Where’s your patriotism?I’m going to need your help this year more than ever in my life, so I need you to get over yourself.’
She tells me to watch my mouth.I hand her the Italian novel we’ve been set.She hasn’t read it and sneers at the title.Why do I put myself through this?Well, as Mum says, if I can win an argument with Nonna about the novel then I’ll completely smash any assessments.Still, I’m not looking forward to spending the next eight months arguing with Nonna over whatever I write about that book.If I see it as an ode to war, she’ll see it as a crisis of faith.If I see it as a metaphor for the universality of religion, she’ll see it as a love story.If I see it as a love story, she’ll see it as pornographic trash that I should not be reading.
I’m not just doing Italian because I’ll get extra credits for my entrance score, although that’s a definite advantage, or because it’s an easy A for me.I could argue that I’m doing Italian because it’s the language of my direct ancestors.But the unsexy truth is I really,reallylove sending Nonna into blind fury by intentionally mispronouncing words with strong Aussie yobbo strine in my accent, and by Italianising words by adding a vowel to their ending, like calling my brothersle dicki.
Italian is one of those subjects that, for the past eleven years, I could coast through without an ounce of effort, and I need something this year that won’t feel like it’s trying to kill me slowly.Em is like that with maths and science.She just turns up to an assessment and can wing her way through it, busting out anything above a ninety with time to doodle with boredom while she waits for everyone else to finish.I’m putting myself through science and maths not because I love them but because I know I need them to have more options, but ugh.Mum and Dad just can’t understand why I have to work so hard to get half decent marks in maths.It was a hideous feeling, being the only one in my group of friends who fought for As when everyone else was piling them one on top of the other without a care in the world.It used to get me really down, which I was brainless enough to tell one of my teachers who then mobilised the wellbeing program around me.Hello, endless cups of tea with the school counsellor and her furrowed brow.At least she was generous with her chocolate stash.
School is all about self-esteem.Well, performance and then self-esteem.At the Year Ten subject selection meeting the coordinator told me, ‘A brain like yours, Caterina Kelty?Work hard and you could do medicine.’I remember Mum and Dad exchanging glances, probably thinking about how weak my stomach is, how I vomit in sympathy with my brothers.‘The important thing is you don’t waste your potential.’Potential, potential, potential.From the time we walk through the doors we’re told relentlessly that not only are we expected to succeed, but we’re entitled to success, and that every possible resource is there to support us to fulfil our potential.The teachers are there to nurture and massage every high grade.
This year?I need the highest possible marks.I don’t have a choice in the matter.My school has such an amazing name, and something like an almost perfect university acceptance rate.Imagine being the only one in my year level that misses out on a place somewhere amazing?I have no plan b; I don’t even want to consider a plan b.It’s university for me or nothing.So, hello Italian and the boost to my entrance score.
‘Coffee, Nonna?’
She murmurs in assent.She’s settled herself in the living room, fidgeting in her oversized handbag for her glasses, my Italian novel beside her.I watch her from above.I know this routine so well it’s immortalised into my brain.First, she puts her hand in and uses her sense of feeling.Then she mutters in Italian and peers in, nose crinkled into a frown, while her hand continues to rummage.Then she’ll curse God above and upend her bag onto the carpet.She’ll extract her glasses, put them on, and return everything to her bag with a
self-satisfied hum.
I make three coffees: one for Nonna, one for Mum, and another for me.Mum eyes me off.
‘How many coffees have you had today?’
‘Dunno, maybe three?’
‘I don’t know, not “dunno” and I’m pretty sure that’s your fourth.Put a sugar in it and take it down to your dad.You’ve had enough.Make one for Paul too.’
‘I don’t know how he likes it.’
‘I know how he likes it,’ says Matty.‘On the beach with a blonde, fake or real, doesn’t matter.’
‘Matty...’Mum purses her lips.
‘Who has coffee on the beach?’says Nonna.‘Why would you?’
