The Exchange: A Different Memoir

By Char D. Vayle

Char grew up in a haunted house.
Did it mess her up? You be the judge.
 
THE EXCHANGE: An Australian teen’s guide to dealing with boys, authority, and a poltergeist.

Goody-goody Char buries her creepy past, but secrets can’t be hidden forever.

Bestowed a chance to travel to Canada on student exchang

• Language: English
• Publisher: WagTale Ventures
• Release date: Oct 31, 2018
• ISBN: 9780648433217

Book preview

PRELUDE

Great slabs of black, patronising fear pave the unwieldy path to love, yet they say those who brave the unknown redeem due glory, and black is a flattering absence of colour to those who embrace its confused beauty. Let me share how I dared traverse this path of interwoven wretchedness and bliss, and my confrontations with a darkness more impenetrable than mere black.

Rumours spread, hasty lovers married, and some unfortunates died while the story of my youth crouched in wait, teeth clacking, aching to be unmuzzled. Enough moons have passed, and I swear the expanse of ocean dividing those involved is shrinking, so my odd tale, mangy but loveable, seeped with soul, is unleashed at last from the chambers of memory.

Some may have forgotten the role they played; others try to forget, but I remember. When sleep engulfs you, tucked, cushy, warm in bed, I’m lying awake and restless, reliving it again.

You may have heard otherwise, but between you and me, this is what happened.

PART ONE

Char.

High school didn’t start with my head being dunked in a loo like the fabled kids before me, but I was labelled, and for any student that’s a free ticket to ridicule. It was the 90’s in suburban Adelaide, and kids I knew were sticking to their assigned genders, but we, too, were encumbered by classifications. Kids, like memos, were slotted into pigeonholes by teachers and peers alike. It was a painful place where if given two choices, one would deliberate between accepting the social pressure or being confined in a dank box, sat on by an elephant, for five years.

At Sacred Sister’s Collegiate (the not-so-prestigious Catholic school I attended), the social hierarchy formed an unspoken trinity, deeming you either a goody-goody, baddy-baddy, or an in-betweenie. I, the former, wangled into the teachers’ good books by studying until my brain felt bigger than its encasing skull and by bleeding outstanding grades. Baddy-baddies passed subjects by wearing no knickers to class and satisfying certain teachers’ fantasies by sitting in the front row, legs uncrossed, revealing more than kneecaps.

Flirting with perverted teachers repulsed, fascinated, and scared the stuffing out of me at the same time, in equal proportions. In-betweenies were nobodies - neither teachers nor students paid them any attention, myself included. I'd started high school with a scholarly attitude, and at that age, it was hard to get guys to notice you when you were thirsty for knowledge instead of cum.

I was younger than my peers because Dad taught me to read and write before I’d set foot in school, so I’d skipped year one. Maybe he suspected, having descended from a master storyteller such as himself, I’d best be equipped to share a yarn if I ever took to spinning. Whatever the reason, here I was, and it was daunting being the youngest at high school, the place I called the anxiety cauldron, partaking in super-interesting learning (like algebra and the double- helix) where I didn’t belong. I should still be carefree in year seven, solving word-finds and swinging from rickety jungle-gyms.

Boys were a hot topic among my chatty friends; French kissing was found fascinating and discussed in detail during every break when we weren’t busy deliberating on the momentous decision concerning whom to give one’s virginity to. Don’t get me wrong – I was interested, being a virgin and all, and found boys intriguing and cute to watch when they played footy or soccer.

Sometimes I’d lounge in the music room and marvel at the contortions of their lightly fuzzed faces as they strummed at strings and beat on various instruments, but when I donned my brown checkered uniform that dared not reveal a kneecap, and my ugly brown sandal slapped down for the first time, echoing in the high school corridor like a slap to the face, I knew my concerns lay with maintaining excellent grades and preparing myself for a career in the arts, not preoccupying myself with boys. The creative realm moved me most, well it would, once I’d worked out how to ditch being shy as a whale’s nipple and riddled with anxiety. I’d never kissed a boy, even though I was thirteen (the last to do so among my friends).

People unabashedly stared at me in weird ways, so I avoided eye contact. I’d overheard their whispers, suspicions about something being not-quite-right-with-that-skinny-girl. I’d notice them sneak curious glances at my neck; their brows furrowing in wonder about the birthmark there; a splotch of red freckles congregating to form what looked like a hickey. This didn't make for a laid-back childhood. Some unmannered people let their curiosity run rampant and flat-out asked - who’s been sucking on your body, Char? The answer was no one, yet.

In the field of attraction, I was thin as a stalk of wheat with eyes the colour of morning grass struck by the earliest sunbeams. My glossy hair changed from golden-brown to dirty-blonde depending on the spotlight showering me, but boys at school paid me zero attention due to my goody-goody reputation, making securing a steady boyfriend impossible.

Every day I wore my hair in a different style – ponytails, buns, pigtails – sometimes I’d rock a plait and pin it up, sporting what resembled a small stegosaurus atop my head. No boys noticed. Although bestowed with a mere handful of tits, giraffes whispered to their friends about my blessed legs. Back then I suspected much was about looks and didn’t realise how intimidating, let alone attractive, an intellectual is, because back then I was just a girl.

I wanted to nurture my smarts so I could seize the world and wring out its best opportunities, but I had niggling thoughts about how satisfying it might be to press my lips upon a boys, savour his hot breath on my mouth, and inhale the sweet, biscuity smell all hot guys emit whilst I gazed into his eyes thinking of swirling hearts and kisses windsurfing toward me. I longed for true love (although knew it wouldn’t happen here at Sacred Sister’s; I’d fudged it from the onset). Everyone knew I was the youngest, which translated to being inexperienced. One boy had dared call me frigid to my face, and I didn’t know him, his circle of friends, or what his cold and clipped word even meant. I’d looked it up later that night before throwing my dictionary at my bedroom wall.

Sometimes I’d fantasise about being a baddy-baddy, just for a day. Having all the boys know me, talk about me, and watch me as I walked by; wearing my skirt too short on purpose; getting asked out to parties. Passing all my grades without trying, just by sharing some of my sweet, young flesh, and letting my dignity slip. I knew how it worked, and part of me wanted to play the game, but if I did would I ever forgive myself? Can I see myself being that person? I thought not, considering making my parents proud was my primary focus. As alluring as being bad was, I didn’t want the reputation or shame attached to it.

Adolescence for me was like a violent mental tug-of-war, with one player struggling for sexuality and perversion to prevail, and the other championing virginity and class. I fought my sexuality with an unwavering commitment, but when one bottles up one’s true feelings for a prolonged period, cataclysmic explosions are inevitable.

✽✽✽

PART TWO

Year Ten.

It was the shittiest day of the week, and I was at school assembly feeling sick. Whenever we had one, at least once a week, my stomach cramped up, I’d turn pasty white and fidget so much I’d disturb others who’d made the mistake of sitting close by. I wasn’t clammy: my palms oozed sweat as nerves riddled me. It made no sense to be afraid of something so mundane. After everything I'd been through, every fear I'd survived up until now, you'd think I'd be able to handle a task so trivial to some, but dread loomed over me, colossal as a mansion’s shadow. My fingernails paid the price.

It wasn’t the teachers who scared me. I worked hard and gained most teachers’ respect, but this increased the likelihood that I’d be summoned to do some trivial chore for them. My goody-goody status invoked their trust, which had its problems.

Pretence gets you far at high school, but I couldn’t fake everything. Bestowed with glossophobia by year ten, even before a small audience, I sampled public speaking’s paralysing abilities. I couldn’t pinpoint why I was scared stiff. I never used to be a coward - not back in primary school.

I went to a strict Catholic primary where the principal was a nun. I’d learnt the hard way, it wasn’t advisable to stand up in class and explain to my eight year old peers I wouldn’t be going through communion with them because, as far as I could surmise, the bible was the best fairy tale I’d ever read, but I didn’t want anything more to do with religion from then on, and I’d be sitting in the corner writing a story instead if that was OK with the teacher. It wasn’t. A bold announcement for a small child to make in front of a bunch of Catholics, I know, but little Char didn’t think twice about speaking up for what she believed in. Not back then. As soon as I got into high school, though, it became a problem.

I’d received two ‘F’s’ for English assignments that year because when summoned to do an oral presentation I got as far as the front of the classroom before collapsing, unable to stand before the class let alone muster words. My best friend, Bonnie Bianchi, proclaimed the F wasn’t because I failed; it was because I fainted, and not to stress as the teachers shared leniency when it came to faint F’s. I thanked Bonnie for her continuing support and confided I was aware the bullshit she feeds me had approached critical overflow.

So there I sat, on a miserable Monday morning in assembly, dreading I’d be called upon to read some prayer, or some notice, out in front of my four-hundred-odd peers. I’d wound myself up to the point where my hands left squelchy marks on my checkered uniform, and was breathing so rapidly my asthma, which I’d had from my first laboured wheeze in this life, kicked in.

Watching the Principal prattle her good mornings as she peered over the crowd of students with her tiny eyes, Bonnie sensed my distress and elbowed me in the ribs.

They’re gonna call on you, she hissed under her minty breath. I could smell the remnants of cigarette smoke she failed to disguise, and I muffled a cough.

Shut up, you nasty bitch, don’t you dare jinx me, I replied through clenched teeth and measured breath.

I observed her shark-like grin from the corner of my eye.

The old bitty is looking our way now, she said, pinching my leg. It would bruise later. She loved hurting me - maybe because she was the eldest of four in her ethnic family where inflicting pain on younger flesh, be it pinching or slapping, was acceptable and often encouraged, but she’d never admitted why goading and making me flinch sparked her delight.

I kicked my leg out to the side, sconing her skinny ankle with my worn out Clarke’s sandal, but looked down at my soggy hands feigning innocence, knowing I had a better chance of remaining inconspicuous to the Principal’s roaming gaze if I avoided eye contact. The old nun in charge jabbed her finger towards a child sitting close to her (an idiot maintaining eye contact, no doubt), and as we watched the dimply fat under her arm slow its jiggle, everyone but that kid relaxed. The small unfortunate begrudgingly made her way forward.

Damn, we’re sitting too far back, she knows you’d take too long to haul your fat arse up front - better luck next time, said Bonnie, flicking her brunette hair away from her pretty face.

I was size eight on a fat day, but my arse had blossomed due to my new found friend puberty – as if all the fat intended for my chest had migrated south for adolescence. I faced Bonnie and flashed my straight teeth at her, feeling better for it. Green eyes locked on blues, and we tried to stifle our giggles. From the back of the assembly hall, a frowning teacher told us to shush, which we all know is the Catholic school equivalent of shut-the-fuck-up.

I’d calmed down somewhat by the time the girl from the front row was poised at the podium to read the opening prayer. Some boy I didn’t know read the notices and my heart slowed more, my shoulders now looking more like plains than mountains, knowing I wouldn’t have to stand in front of the other kids where they could all point and laugh at me. I relaxed and imagined ways to retaliate against Bonnie later, zoning out concocting paybacks until a pretty blonde lady (the all-important guest speaker) graced the podium to recollect her high school years and divulge how she had been fortunate enough to be accepted as an exchange student, and wow wee, guess what? It was something good old Sacred Sister’s Collegiate was getting involved in this year, and an opportunity mayhap we should consider, providing we were exemplary students.

If there was one thing I hated more than public speaking, it was public speakers. Their overconfidence and bubbly enthusiasm made me cringe, but something about this lady compelled me to give her my undivided attention. She spoke to me, as though only we two existed in the hall. I stared, fixated on her lips as if they were moving in slow motion, somehow amplifying her every word. The room around me disappeared, but her words, like beacons of light, drew my attention. Words that held unveiled meaning and felt weighty and purposeful like the sinker ending a fishing trace, necessary words like travel, freedom, explore, and most enticing to me – adventure.

The shining promises her words held were irresistible. Her snappy speech ignited my heart, and I knew she was talking to me - I was the ideal candidate. I decided I’d go home and ask my parent’s permission to be the lucky one, the chosen one, sent abroad to complete six months of schooling. Like fish to bait, I was captivated by the idea.

I’d come far since year eight, and two years down the track I scored my first steady boyfriend of sorts, but my sudden desire to experience the world proved more potent than idealistic teenage romance. Never before had I felt this excited. If blondie up there got to do it, saying nothing but good things about her experience, then why the hell couldn’t I do it, too? I made it a priority to ask my parents’ blessings to embark on this adventure as soon as I arrived home. I stayed present but retained nothing at school for the remaining day, beyond distracted.

The long bike-ride home was spent summoning courage to ask Dad’s permission to spend six months in another country, and unlike most dreary Mondays, I rolled up the driveway and sprang from my bike, buoyant with energy, preparing to shine and put Dad in a good mood by association. I hoped he’d knocked back a couple of frothies already: pliability juice, as I called them.

I burst through our front door with more gusto than Mondays usually allow and hollered to Dad, signalling my arrival. I followed his whistle and found him pottering around in the shed, so I snuck inside and did the dishes, prettied the table, and readied tonight’s tea. We’d lived together in our small brick veneer home for two years now, and my brother, Henry, lived with our mum in her grand dwelling by the sea. It’s not that I didn’t love Mum; I just couldn’t live with her because of her house, seemingly beautiful on the outside, told another story from within; it brimmed with ghouls who taunted me and made my distress their sport.

Dad and I were good mates. He had his rules, but he understood me and let me get away with even more. Our modus operandi was honesty and respect, and as long as you rocked up with those two qualities intact, life was smooth sailing. I confronted him later that night, in our cozy kitchen, to the twang of The Eagles crooning advice in the background. I envied their peaceful, easy feelings.

The night was cold. Our doors were locked, and double bolted in case the ferals who roamed the hood looking for trouble jumped our corrugated iron fence and tried to steal our stuff again, and the heater was set to the efficient setting, blowing cheap, warm air around the small kitchen. I waited until Dad settled in his spot at the dinner table before I spoke, as sitting abreast was the prime way to get him comfortable and open to communication. Our dinner plates were mounded high with chicken, vegetables, and a sea of brown gravy, but they looked like tiny saucers in Dad’s hands as he placed them down on the table with the meticulous care of a DJ handling prized records. Steam rose in small tangles, twisting and curling upwards to tease my nose. The meal, too hot to devour, presented my ideal moment to converse.

Hey, Daddyo? There’s um, something important I’d like to, ah, talk to you about, I ventured.

I notice the place looks like a million bucks – it’s a credit to you. Still facing forward, he asked, Yer not preggers, are you?

Dad! I said, as my face coloured like a spanked arse. No. It’s a huge favour I wanna ask. It’s about something; I guess you could say an opportunity of sorts, one that could be really awesome for me.

Dad said nothing.

There was this lady speaking at school today…

She wasn’t up the duff, was she? he interrupted.

No! Can you please drop this pregnancy thing?

Silence. The magnificence of my request loomed over me.

What I really want, well, what I’ve been thinking about lately - it’d be super cool if I got to go overseas and study as an exchange student.

He remained silent, and I reciprocated until he relented.

So where in the world do you wanna go? I could ride to China on this knife, he said as he stabbed at the crumbed meat, we could go there together if yer up for a bumpy journey.

Well, this was promising. It wasn’t the outright no I was dreading, humour was good. This was workable.

Wrapped up in my excitement, I blurted, I was thinking either Italy, coz I’m studying Italian at the moment as you know, or maybe even Canada, coz that’s where you’ve always wanted to go…. you’ve always said that.

I failed to mention Canada intrigued me because the boys were purported to be the hottest on the globe. I didn’t think telling Dad would help my cause much, so I bottled up until I got to school the next day, where Bonnie would be eager for me to confess my ulterior motives. She would torture them out of me if given her way.

Dad lit his fag. I imprisoned a sneeze as grey torture twirled past my nose. Although I adored the smell of an unlit one, I hated cigarette smoke and swore to myself I’d never let one filthy little pole touch my lips.

Uh-ha, so I have, he said on the exhale. I suppose either spot’d be good for you in the long run. I think you’d learn a shit-load, and you’ve got a good head on yer shoulders, Char. Not a bad-lookin’ one, either, if I don’t say so me-self – must take after yer old man, you’ll need to watch that - but the Italian language is like music to yer ears, then again, Canadia’s got them Snowies, he deliberated.

It’s called Canada, Dad.

That’s the spot. They’ve got more scenery than you could shake a stick at. I’ve seen the docos, and those mountains over there, I reckon those Snowies are better-lookin’ than a curvy woman tangled in a clean bed-sheet, and I’ve seen me fair share of those, too. I rolled my eyes but let him continue. Get yer hand out yer mouth, stop chomping yer nails. What was I saying? I’ve always told you how much I’d love to see Canada. I could stay in a tepee make some friends, or catch me a moose, he said, trying to widen my smile. And what have I always said? Yer only as interesting as the depths of yer own interests.

This isn't about you though, Dad, it's about me. But I'd bring back plenty of photos and stories, and a stellar report card, I promise. Please, Dad, I swear this means everything to me. Can I go, pretty please with a cherry on top?

So if I was to say yes, which country would you pick?

Fast as lightning, my teenage brain factoring which boys I’d find more sexually attractive in nanoseconds, I confirmed: Canada.

Well, let me put it to you this way, they don’t call me big-hearted-Bob for nothin’, I suppose, he said, filling his mouth with a fork load.

And? What do you mean? I asked, impatient for him to finish his laborious chewing.

I was just lettin’ you know what people ‘round here call me, is all, he said, taking another monstrous bite.

Dad!

Some call me that too, yes. I’ve been called worse.

You’re impossible sometimes. Am I going? Can I go overseas?

Well, I don’t see why not, said Dad, and those six words elevated my heart beyond levels I’d witnessed in my most secret dreams. They opened up the gateway of possibility and injected a vista of potential adventures into my rampant imagination. Then he said, But you’ll have to get the OK from yer mother, too, and my heart plummeted like a coin in a well, wish detached and forgotten.

PART THREE

Hurdles.

I believed stars held off dying until someone worthy was looking at the night sky. I watched from the lounge room window as one glimmered a brilliant arcing crescendo for me, before vanishing.

Hurdles are best jumped quickly, I thought after making my wish and dialled Mum's number from memory.

No way! she said. There’s no way I’m letting you go to Canada. You’re fourteen Char, and there’s just no way.

I’m mature for fourteen! Everyone said so.

No. The finality of Lucinda’s word echoed down the line.

I’ll be fifteen when the time to go finally rolls around. It’s ages away.

You’re not going.

C’mon Mum, be reasonable. I held back saying for once.

What about your asthma? What if you get sick and you’re all the way over there? You could die.

It’s not like I’m going to woop-woop, like Antarctica or somewhere. It’s Canada – they have civilisation.

Close enough to nowhere, and it’s cold there. It’s bloody freezing. You’ll get sick. It’ll be the death of you, I know it.

I played the trump card: Dad said I can go.

I don’t give a Mickey what your father says. I’m your mother, you’re too young, and I say no, so you’re not going. Full stop, end of story.

On the verge of tears, I kept quiet.

Besides, she said, "where are you going