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‘Composition,’ I reply automatically. I’d never given it much thought before, but I suppose composition makes sense. I’ve always liked the craft of writing music and admire the way it translates from a page to the piano.
‘Did you complete senior music?’ she asks. Turns out, I did one better.
‘A Certificate III in Music Industry at TAFE. But I never finished my VCE exams.’
Sandra’s brow furrows for a moment. ‘You didn’t complete your VCE exams?’
‘Things got . . . hard.’ It seems the simplest way to say,Iescaped my abusive dad with just the clothes on my back. ‘I was only a few months off doing them.’
I expect that to put her off, but it doesn’t. Straight away she says, ‘There areheapsof options for people to attend university without having an ATAR. You could go back to TAFE and finish your exams, or you could do a bridging course. The music degree has an audition requirement, so as long as you performed well and had the scores from the bridging course, I don’t see why you wouldn’t be accepted.’
‘What, really?’
Sandra shrugs like she hasn’t just up-ended my entire life. ‘Sure. Happens all the time. Usually for our mature-age students, but I can email you some information about the options.’
‘That’d be great. Thank you.’
I provide my email and she types it into her phone. ‘Nice to meet you, Noah,’ she says when she’s finished. ‘Give me a call if you want to talk through the application process.’
I leave the open day—stopping by the Queer Union stall to grab a few free condoms—and walk home. Margie’s bike is in the front yard, and I can hear her making lunch in the kitchen. The house smells like curry and onion, and something else I can’t quite place.
‘Heya,’ she says as I step into the lounge room. ‘How did the open day go?’
I drop my keys and the leaflet on the kitchen counter. ‘Good. I spoke to a student advisor. She’s going to email me more information about their music course.’
‘Well, that’s good to hear. I knew you’d find the day worthwhile.’
I take a seat at the dining table. There’s a bit of grime in the groove of the wood, so I flick it out with my fingers. ‘I don’t really know what to do with my life, Margie. Is it wrong to be happy where I am for a bit?’ I admit. ‘To just want to stay in this moment until I figure something out?’
She places two curried egg and lettuce sandwiches on the table. ‘As long as youarehappy. University is a big decision. Looking back, I wish I’d taken my studies a bit more seriously. Not completely seriously, but a bit more than I did.’
‘You weren’t a star student?’ I say with mock surprise as I bite down into her sandwich. ‘I don’t believe that for a second.’
Margie laughs. ‘Hardly.’
Later that afternoon, after Margie and I have been to the shop for snacks to eat while we watch Gabriel’s big match, I sit on the plush lounge and pull up my mum’s number again.
The police officer suggested I get a new number. Doing so means throwing away the SIM card I have and replacing it with a new one. It means losing my contacts, including the last message from my mother.
This is my last chance to contact her before I change the SIMs over.
Hey, Ijust want to let you know Iput out an AVO on Dad. Ihope you’re okay and—
I delete the message.
I’m not sure if this is still the right number, but I’m in Melbourne and—
I delete that one too. Why is this so hard?
Mum—is this still your number? Idon’t need to know where you are if you don’t want to tell me. Ijust want to make sure you’re okay. Iam. I’ve changed my number. If you want to get in contact, my new number is . . .
I type in the new number, then I pressSend. I change my SIM card. I don’t hear back.
20
Gabriel
We’re deep in the second set. I’m down a set, but up three games to love in this one. The American, Bailey Reid, is on the other side of the net. He’s focused and fit and hungry for it. He just knocked off Indiana Rakefield, his thirty-one-year-old friend and countryman, in a five-set thriller.
