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Maybe I need to talk to someone. Professionally.
I grab fresh clothes and dress before running the coffee machine—double shot—and texting Gabriel.
NoAgenda:Ijust want to let you know Isubmitted an AVO against my dad last night. Like a protection order.
The coffee stops running and I take my mug and a banana out to the back porch. Sitting on the back steps, warm sun streams down on me and I close my eyes, relishing the feeling of it on my skin.
Hungrygabriel73:That’s amazing. What does it mean if you get it?
NoAgenda:He won’t be able to come within a certain distance of me or my mum. He won’t be allowed to contact me. If he does anything, anywhere, the police will be onto it.
It doesn’t leave me with immediate protection; it’s not feasible to have someone watch my back twenty-four-seven on the off-chance, but it makes me feel a bit better.
NoAgenda:I’m not going to live in fear of him anymore.
Hungrygabriel73:I’m proud of you.
Finishing my coffee, I take Sadie for a walk around the neighbourhood until nine-thirty, then I drop her back at the house and take the tram down to the University of Melbourne.
There’s a good crowd on the university lawns when I arrive. Stallholders have set up booths along a line of shady beech trees. Sunlight scatters through their leaves. I pass the stall for the Queer Union, noting their bowl of free condoms, and the various stalls for sports—netball, squash, competitive rock climbing, dragon boat racing—until I find the lecture hall.
Large urns full of coffee and hot water line the far wall. Slices of cake and sandwiches lie on silver platters beside them. I grab a cup of coffee and a piece of carrot cake because: free. A young woman hands me a leaflet as I enter the theatre, and I find a seat near the back.
Taking a sip of coffee, I flick through the leaflet. Each spread focuses on a different discipline, with all the courses on offer listed on the first page. I skim past medicine and law because who am I kidding? Business and marketing look interesting, but do I really want to chain myself to a desk for the rest of my life? Finally, I flick to a page that saysMusic, Visual and Performing Arts,just as a flamboyantly dressed older woman approaches the lectern.
‘Good morning, everyone.’ Her warm voice booms across the theatre. Frowning, she turns down her microphone. ‘That’s better. Well, thank you for coming today.’
The PowerPoint behind her transitions to the Acknowledgement of Country and then she talks about what life’s like living on campus. I don’t plan to live on campus, so I turn back to my leaflet. The Bachelor of Music Performance catches my eye.
‘Most of you have your ATAR scores by now,’ continues the woman. ‘And likely you’ve already applied for the course of your choice.’
I was still a few months off my final exams when I left Bendigo. It didn’t matter. I was failing anyway; didn’t need to sit a week-long test to tell me what I already knew.
I check the entrance score for the Bachelor of Music Performance. Eighty-five.
I’d never have scored high enough to even qualify to study. This place isn’t meant for someone like me.
The presentation finishes and as I file out, I see a few of the professors lingering by the morning tea spread, chatting to the students. I throw my paper cup into the recycling and head for the door. I’ve almost reached it when the same woman who handed out the leaflets approaches me.
‘How did you find the presentation?’ she asks.
‘Good,’ I reply, not wanting to be rude.
‘What courses are you considering?’ She looks down and sees the leaflet open to the music page and, to my horror, turns to shout back into the room. ‘Sandra? Can you come over here? This young man is interested in music degrees.’
Mortified, I’m about to tell her not to worry and make a mad dash for it when someone, Sandra, I assume, excuses herself from the conversation she’s currently engaged in and comes over to us.
‘Let me guess—piano?’ she asks with a grin.
I look down, unsure how she could tell. ‘Yeah, I—’
‘You’ve got pianist fingers. I can spot them a mile away.’
‘Sandra is the head of student services for the music department,’ explains the leaflet woman. ‘She’ll be able to give you all the information you need.’ Then, she extracts herself to go and bail up some other unsuspecting attendee.
Clearing my throat, I thrust out my hand. ‘I’m Noah.’
Sandra shakes it, smiling. ‘Nice to meet you, Noah. So what degree specialisation are you thinking about—composition, music performance, musicology, musical theatre?’
