Текст книги "Saving Francesca"

Автор книги: Melina Marchetta

Соавторы: Melina Marchetta
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Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Acknowledgments

chapter 1

chapter 2

chapter 3

chapter 4

chapter 5

chapter 6

chapter 7

chapter 8

chapter 9

chapter 10

chapter 11

chapter 12

chapter 13

chapter 14

chapter 15

chapter 16

chapter 17

chapter 18

chapter 19

chapter 20

chapter 21

chapter 22

chapter 23

chapter 24

chapter 25

chapter 26

chapter 27

chapter 28

chapter 29

chapter 30

chapter 31

chapter 32

chapter 33

chapter 34

chapter 35

About the Author

Copyright Page

For Luca

and

the St. Mary’s Cathedral College boys

… and for the girls there, too …

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Mum, Dad, Marisa, Daniela—thanks for the whole Grand Central Station experience.

To my mum, Christine Alesich, Barbara Barclay, Marcus Burnett, Anthony Douglas, Philippa Gibson, Laura Harris, Damian Hatton, Janet Hill, Sophia Hill, Genevieve and Olivia Hill (for typing out your mum’s notes), Brenda Hokin, Annette Hughes, Brother Eric Hyde, David McGuigan, Michelle Patane, Mark Roppolo, Aaron Taranto (and Wade, although you weren’t supposed to read it), Francus Vierboom, Julie Watts, Kate Woods, Maxim Younger, and Toby Younger. Thanks for your advice about the manuscript or for writing ten pages of notes for me or feeding my ego or inspiring me with your own writing or pointing out the difference between a pipeline and a grind pole.

Thanks also to Beth Yahp, Teresa Crea, and Agnes Nieuwenhuizen for giving me the opportunity to create fragments of Francesca over the past ten years in your anthologies and performance piece.

chapter 1

THIS MORNING, MY mother didn’t get out of bed.

It meant I didn’t have to go through one of her daily pep talks, which usually begin with a song that she puts on at 6:45 every morning. It’s mostly seventies and eighties retro crap, anything from “I Will Survive” to some woman called Kate Bush singing, “Don’t give up.” When I question her choices, she says they’re random, but I know that they are subliminal techniques designed to motivate me into being just like her.

But this morning there is no song. There is no advice on how to make friends with the bold and the interesting. No twelve-point plan on the best way to make a name for myself in a hostile environment. No motivational messages stuck on my mirror urging me to do something that scares me every day.

There’s just silence.

And for the first time all year, I go to school and my only agenda is to get to 3:15.

School is St. Sebastian’s in the city. It’s a predominantly all-boys school that has opened its doors to girls in Year Eleven for the first time ever. My old school, St. Stella’s, only goes to Year Ten and most of my friends now go to Pius Senior College, but my mother wouldn’t allow it because she says the girls there leave with limited options and she didn’t bring me up to have limitations placed upon me. If you know my mother, you’ll sense there’s an irony there, based on the fact that she is the Queen of the Limitation Placers in my life. My brother, Luca, is in Year Five at Sebastian’s, so my mother figured it would be convenient for all of us in the long run, and my dad goes along with it because no one in my family has ever pretended that my mother doesn’t make all the decisions.

There are thirty of us girls at Sebastian’s and I want so much not to do the teenage angst thing, but I have to tell you that I hate the life that, according to my mother, I’m not actually having.

It’s like this. Girls just don’t belong at St. Sebastian’s. We belong in schools that were built especially for us, or in co-ed schools. St. Sebastian’s pretends it’s co-ed by giving us our own toilet. The rest of the place is all male and I know what you’re thinking if you’re a girl. What a dream come true, right? Seven hundred and fifty boys and thirty girls? But the reality is that it’s either like living in a fish-bowl or like you don’t exist. Then, on top of that, you have to make a whole new group of friends after being in a comfortable little niche for four years. At Stella’s, you turned up at school, knew exactly what your group’s role and profile was, and the day was a blend of all you found comfortable. My mother calls that complacency but whatever it’s called, I miss it like hell.

Here, at Sebastian’s, after a term of being together, the girls haven’t really moved on in the sorority department. I don’t exactly have friends as much as ex–Stella girls I hang around with who I had barely exchanged a word with over the last four years. Justine Kalinsky, for example, came to Stella’s in Year Eight and never actually seemed to make any friends there. She plays the piano accordion. There’s also Siobhan Sullivan, who uses us as a disembarkation point for when one of the guys calls her over. In Year Seven, for a term, Siobhan and I were the most hysterical of friends because we were the only ones who wanted to gallop around the playground like horses while the rest of the Stella girls sat around in semicircles being young ladies. Most of our free time was spent making up dance moves to Kylie songs in our bedrooms and performing them in the playground until someone pointed out that we were showing off. My group found me just after that, thank God, and I never really spoke to Siobhan Sullivan again. My friends always told me they wanted to rescue me from Siobhan, and I relished being saved because it meant that people stopped tapping me on the shoulder to point out what I was doing wrong.

Tara Finke hangs out with us as well. She was the resident Stella psycho, full of feminist, communist, anythingist rhetoric, and if there is one thing I’ve noticed around here, it’s that Sebastian boys don’t like speeches. Especially not from us girls. They’d actually be very happy if we never opened our mouths at all. Tara’s already been called a lesbian because that’s how the Sebastian boys deal with any girl who has an opinion, and because there are only four ex–Stella girls, I assume the rest of us get called the same thing. I could get all politically correct here and say that there’s nothing wrong with being called a lesbian, but it all comes down to being labeled something that you’re not. Tara Finke thinks she’s going to be able to set up a women’s movement at the school, but girls run for miles when they see her coming.

The girls from St. Perpetua’s, another Year Seven to Ten school, make up the bulk of the female students. They don’t want to get involved with Tara and her movement because their mothers have taught them to go with the flow, which I personally think is the best advice anyone can get. My mother is a different story. She’s a communications lecturer at the University of Technology–Sydney, and her students think she’s the coolest thing around. But they don’t have to put up with her outbursts or her inability to let anything go. If it’s not an argument with the guy at the bank who pushed in front of us, it’ll be questioning the rude tone of some service-industry person over the phone. She’s complained to personnel at our local supermarket so many times about the service that I’m sure they have photos of my family at the door with instructions to never let us in.

Every day I come home from St. Sebastian’s and my mother asks me if I’ve addressed the issue of the toilets, or the situation with subject selection or girls’ sports. Or if I’ve made new friends, or if there’s a guy there that I’m interested in. And every afternoon I mumble a “no” and she looks at me with great disappointment and says, “Frankie, what happened to the little girl who sang ‘Dancing Queen’ at the Year Six graduation night?” I’m not quite sure what wearing a white pants suit and boots, belting out an Abba hit, has to do with liberating the girls of St. Sebastian’s, but somehow my mother makes the connection.

So I come home ready to mumble my “no” again. Ready for the look, the lecture, the unexpected analogies and the disappointment.

But she’s still in bed.

Luca and I wait for my dad at the front door because my mother never stays in bed, even if she has a temperature over 104 degrees. But today the Mia we all know disappears and she becomes someone with nothing to say.

Someone a bit like me.

chapter 2

I WAKE UP to silence. No songs about surviving. No songs about boots meant for walking. And then, after a moment, I hear her being sick in the bathroom. For a moment I’m relieved because there is a symptom. I wonder if she could be pregnant, but it’s too strange a thought. She’s only been at the university for over a year, and she worked hard for so long to get the position. Mia would have been careful about jeopardizing that.

Later, when I get out of bed, my dad is in the kitchen and he looks at me and tries to force a smile. My dad’s a builder and I love that about him. His name is Robert and my mum calls him Bob the Builder. They’ve known each other since they were my age, so they’re kind of like best friends. He’s a bit immature, and I know that some of my mum’s friends think she should have outgrown him years ago. Some of his friends joke around that he should never have let her go and get her masters, as if the control was all his. It’s what I love about Bob the Builder. He doesn’t give a damn what his friends or family say. He doesn’t give a damn that his wife has a dozen more degrees than he ever will. He works for himself, refusing to expand because he reckons it will change everything. I think my dad just likes what he does and who he is. Sometimes my mum and her friends ask each other what they’d do if they had another life. My dad’s answer is always the same. He’d marry a girl called Mia and they’d have two kids.

Whatever this thing is with my mum, I don’t think it’s cancer or anything, and it certainly isn’t pregnancy, because my dad would probably be ecstatic about that. Today he just looks tired and confused.

“Is she okay?” I ask.

“She’s just a bit down. Go get Luca out of bed.”

I’m not quite sure what “just a bit down” means. I’m “just a lot down” and I’m getting out of bed.

“Did you have a fight or something?”

They are eternal arguers. She is the Queen of Hypotheticals and he’s the master of not thinking beyond the next moment. She believes that if she doesn’t challenge what they stand for, they’ll end up like other couples they know.

“Take away your job and take away your kids and who are you, Robert?” she asked once, over dinner.

“Your husband,” he said, in what she calls his droll voice.

“Then take away me and who are you?”

“Take away you, the kids, and my job? Is this a trick question? I’m dead, right?” He asked, “What are you if we take away all those things, Mia? Can you be you without all of us?”

Luca was looking from one to the other.

“Must you talk about this in front of the children?” I asked.

“You think too much and you analyze too much,” he’d tell her. “Everything’s fine. The kids are happy. We’re happy. Everything’s fine.”

Mia would do that a lot last year. Analyze stuff to bits, contemplate the meaning of life. My nonno had died suddenly the year before. One minute he was watering his garden, next minute he was dead from an aneurysm. “A piece of me is gone,” she told me once while we were bra shopping. “I think we’re made up of all these different pieces and every time someone goes, you’re left with less of yourself.”

A woman with a big bust had my breasts cupped in her hands at the time, so I wasn’t much in the mood for a philosophical discussion and I didn’t respond. I do that a lot. Even if she asks me a great question. It shits me that she can keep me interested. Most of the time she’s right about me and what I’m all about, but once, just once, I’d like to come up with a Francesca theory before her.

“Eggs?”

My father holds two eggs in his hands and I’m back to reality. I don’t eat eggs. Nor does Luca. But I don’t have the heart to tell him that.

Later, Luca and I go into their bedroom to say goodbye. She looks tiny, huddled under the blankets. Sometimes I forget how small she is because she is so vocal. She’s kind of like a dynamo who does one thousand things at once, successfully. This new Mia, I don’t know. She looks sick and helpless and, worse still, vulnerable. As we walk out, she stirs but she doesn’t even look at us.

I go to school with a sick feeling in my stomach, and I dare not look at my brother’s face because I know that I’ll see on his what he can see on mine.

Tara Finke corners me as soon as I step into homeroom.

“Today’s the day,” she says, waving over one of the ex–Perpetua girls, who chooses to ignore her.

She tries to grab Siobhan Sullivan as she’s walking in. “Are you with us or not?”

Siobhan Sullivan doesn’t even bother stopping. There’s some loser on the other side of the room that she has to impress.

“I wouldn’t rely on Francesca either,” Siobhan says over her shoulder, with a trace of spite in her voice.

I’ve noticed since the beginning of the year that if she ever has to make reference to me, the comments are snide, and I feel like retaliating. But that would mean I actually care what she thinks. Siobhan’s nickname used to be the Slut of St. Stella’s, thought up by someone inspired by an alliteration lesson in Year Nine. A mean part of me would like to pass that on, except I think everyone here is already working it out for themselves.

I sit at my desk and watch Tara organizing the ex–Perpetua girls.

“We’re having House meetings this afternoon. It’s time to tell them what we think of this place.”

“What’s wrong with it?” Eva Rodriguez asks. The ex–Perpetua girls tend to follow Eva around like she’s their security blanket. She’s so effortlessly cool and protective of her lot, and most of the time I wish I were one of them.

“The invasion of our personal space,” Tara Finke answers, invading Eva Rodriguez’s personal space. “No girls’ sports offered, and when we do PE we have to share three toilets to get changed or do it out in the open. Or the fact that you can’t use the words ‘oral task’ or ‘penalized’ or the number 69 without a guy in your class snickering loudly and grunting. Ring a bell, girls?”

The bell rings, thank God.

“Or that some of the girls get wolf-whistled,” she says, following them to their seats, “and others get called dogs. Or that we actually came to this place because of its drama department and this year they decide to put on Stalag 17, which has not one female role, or that some teachers insist on addressing the class as—”

“Gentlemen, get to your seats, please,” Mr. Brolin orders.

Eva Rodriguez looks at Tara Finke and then at me. “Let’s just learn to live with it.”

I nod. Things could be worse.

Thomas Mackee enters the class and burps into my ear.

Thomas Mackee is a perfect example of most of the boys in my homeroom. They have nicknames like Booger and Jabber and they wear those names with pride. Sometimes they attempt a bit of irony—for example, calling a guy who’s absolutely clueless “Einstein.” But other times it’s obvious—the guy with the lowest intelligence level I’ve ever come across is called “Duh-Brain.” Most of the nicer guys have girlfriends, and we know this because they make it clear the moment we’re introduced, as if to say, “Don’t think about it.” Those particular guys have absolutely no idea what to do with girls who aren’t girlfriends, so at the moment they’re at a bit of a dead loss in the friendship department. The smarter ones feel slightly threatened, thanks to all the media coverage about girls dominating in the classroom, and they make sure that we don’t take their seats at the front.

Tara Finke’s theory about Thomas Mackee is that he was dropped a few times on his head as a baby. He’s the poster boy for Slobs Inc.: shirt out, pants around the thighs, and brightly colored boxer shorts that are completely obvious every time he bends down, which is quite often. I’m sure he spends copious amounts of time in front of the mirror trying to get that slept-on, feral look, popular with the surfers and skateboarders at Sebastian’s. He’s watched a few too many Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure films and likes saying things like “Hey, dude, what’s happening?” in a dead-pan voice. He’s cruel as well. Once Justine Kalinsky tripped over him, causing his beloved Discman to crash to the ground, and he called her a dumb bitch. It would have been so easy to put him in his place, but I didn’t say anything. Justine Kalinsky would have seen it as a declaration of friendship, and I’m not interested in putting in that much energy around here.

Thomas Mackee constantly burps loudly in class, and sometimes he tries to make a tune out of his burps. The song with the most requests is “Teenage Dirtbag,” and it’s actually fascinating to watch the level of appreciation for such a talent.

These guys fart a lot as well. I’m not saying that girls don’t. We just aren’t as passionate about them. The smell is sometimes overwhelming and I want to gag. They don’t just limit these attacks to the classroom—they can come at you from anywhere around the school. The corridor, the stairwell, the canteen line. There’s one area we call Fart Corridor because it belongs to the Year Eights and Nines, who are the biggest perpetrators. They make no apologies and feel no embarrassment. If a girl did one at St. Stella’s she’d be an outcast for the rest of her natural life. Here, it’s a badge of honor.

By term two, day two, period two, Tara Finke has had enough. She hands out slips to all thirty girls in the school and asks them to turn up for a lunchtime meeting where, quote, “The female proletariat are going to embark on the Revolution.”

Oh, Tara.

No one turns up, of course. Tara Finke sees it as a success because Justine Kalinsky and I are there, and I want to point out to Tara that we haven’t exactly “turned up.” It’s called having nowhere else to go. But Tara is in denial and she gets Justine Kalinsky to take the minutes. Justine makes a list of our names and then a list of all those absent, as if they’ve sent their apologies, and that takes up half our lunchtime.

“Suggestions?” Tara Finke asks.

“The most logical and persuasive one of us should go and see one of the House coordinators,” Justine says, scribbling down a list of names under the heading “L and P,” obviously for “logical and persuasive.” “Someone who can argue our case with passion and sensitivity.”

A Year Ten boy walks by and clutches his crotch.

“Don’t these people realize that their bourgeois mentality is a manifestation of two thousand years of patriarchal crap?” Tara Finke snaps, giving him the finger.

I watch Justine discreetly cross Tara Finke’s name off the “L and P” list.

We have a House meeting during period four. I’m in Kelly, which is named after a dead Brother who took in thirty boys off the streets of Sydney in the 1800s and then died of diphtheria.

The school doesn’t have a school captain. It has six House leaders in Year Twelve, and ours is William Trombal. He’s the shirt-rolled-up -to-his-elbow, no-nonsense type. He always has a frown on his face and looks slightly harassed and I think the girls-being-at-his-school thing doesn’t impress him in the slightest. He’s in charge of sports reports each week, and having to stand through such detail, spoken with such reverence, makes me want to yell, “It’s just a ball game, for crying out loud.”

My grandmother knows William Trombal’s grandmother, which I think makes him half Italian. She claims that William Trombal’s grandmother stole her S biscuit recipe and she dislikes her with a passion, although they pray together in the same Rosary group each week. Not that William Trombal and I have ever acknowledged this connection.

Tara Finke nudges me. “Fascism at its best here. They train them young.”

I ignore her. My theory is to lay low, and my reluctance to get involved has nothing to do with fear or shyness, contrary to popular perception. I have this belief that people hate change and, more than anything, they hate those who try to change things. I might not be interested in being in the most popular group in the world, but I’m less interested in being an outcast. Anyway, my being political would make Mia happy and I wouldn’t want that. She thinks she knows who I am because she thinks who I am is who she tells me I am.

“God they love the sound of their own voices,” Tara Finke mutters.

And you don’t?

Suddenly, I feel everyone’s gaze on us. I look up and William Trombal is glaring, his dark eyes slicing straight through me.

“Do you have a question?” he asks, totally ignoring Tara and looking straight at me.

Tara Finke is scribbling something down on the lunchtime list of complaints. She passes it to me and I skim the list. At the bottom she’s written, Ask him where he got the pole up his ass from.

The whole House is looking our way. I spot Luca, who gives me a sympathetic smile.

“We were just wondering … ,” Tara Finke begins.

I can’t believe she’s going to make things worse. I look at the coat of arms behind William Trombal’s head, which is full of Latin pretension.

“… if the P stands for pace … peace… ,” I finish off for her. I feel her glaring at me, but it is not as bad as the smug, condescending look on William Trombal’s face.

“You’re saying it in Italian,” he says, like he’s speaking to a moron. “In Latin it’s pax.” Then he deliberately turns around to look at the coat of arms and then looks back at me. “And there’s no P there, anyway. It’s a V. For veritas. ‘Truth.’ ” He pauses for emphasis after each word. “But I can understand how the V/P thing could confuse you.”

“Ripped,” Thomas Mackee behind me snickers, suggesting that William Trombal has well and truly won the point in this exchange.

When the meeting is over, Ms. Quinn, our House dean, is standing there in front of me. She holds out her hand and I realize I still have Tara’s note.

“Can you come to my office?”

I sit in front of Ms. Quinn, watching as she reads the list. Most of the time she looks highly strung or half-bemused. She’s pretty tough and doesn’t give an inch, but I think that’s how she has to be. My mother began her teaching career in a boys’ school, and she said that every day was like going to war and every day she’d come home with battle fatigue. Ms. Quinn is youngish, but not teenage-boy lust material. I think they like her, but they still call her a bitch behind her back. She’s spoken to me once or twice about some screw-ups on my timetable, but that’s as far as it’s ever gone.

“I like this,” she says after a moment. I recognize the look in her eye. It’s that Tara Finke/Mia Spinelli look. “I think you should have issues. This must be hard on you girls. I’ll set you up with Will and he’ll work through these requests with you.”

I’m already picking up my bag. I’m not interested in dealing with William Trombal so soon after this morning’s alphabet lesson.

“Tara Finke would probably prefer to do that,” I say politely.

“According to this, Tara Finke thinks that Will has an object protruding from a part of his body,” she explains to me politely. “I don’t think she’s the right person to speak to him.”

“I don’t think I am either.”

She smiles and hands me back the list. “If he came across as gruff, it’s because he’s actually quite shy.”

I nod. It’s a blowing-her-off nod. It works, because she looks past me to the door as if to say, “You can go now.” I do the polite-smile thing and, relieved, I turn around.

And walk straight into William Trombal.

We’re almost exactly the same height, so eye contact is inevitable. I find a scar between his eyes to concentrate on. He has a strange face. It’s all sharpness and angles and incredibly fair skin. But then he’s got this thatch of black hair that’s such a contrast. It’s like two cultures had a massive fight over his face and neither won.

“The girls are just having a few issues that they thought maybe you could iron out,” Ms. Quinn explains.

“About?”

His voice is deep and gravelly. I once heard one of the girls say that he had the voice of a sex god, but because I’ve never really heard what a sex god sounds like, I can’t verify that.

The list in my hand suddenly feels like a hot wedge against my palm. I don’t want to hand it over. Apart from the comment about him, Tara Finke has this tampon machine obsession and she insisted on putting it at the top of the list. He holds out his hand, and I’m hating Tara Finke’s guts for putting me through this.

He runs his eyes over the list, and I know the exact moment that he’s reached the final line. His face flushes red and then he looks at me.

“What’s your name?”

“Francis … Francesca … Spinelli.”

Your grandmother stole my grandmother’s S biscuit recipe, as you well know.

“I was going to be called Francesca,” Ms. Quinn tells us. She nods, looking at us both. “But my mother went for Anna Carina.”

I don’t know how to react to this piece of trivia, so I smile politely.

“Were your parents Trotsky fans?” William Trombal asks, not at all perturbed by her rambling.

I wait for her to correct him but she doesn’t. He might think he’s the king of Latin translation, but he knows nothing about Russian literary history.

“Do you want some advice, Francis Francesca?” he asks me.

It’s kind of one of those rhetorical things, because I can already tell he’s going to give it to me.

He sighs and sits on the corner of the desk in an attempt to be as accessible as possible.

“Try to keep low-key. If you make a fuss, the guys aren’t going to like it. There’s going to be a shitload of stuff around here—sorry, Ms. Quinn—that you’re not going to like, and being vocal about it will give you a rep you don’t want.”

I nod as if it’s the best advice I’ve ever received. “I’ll pass that on to the—”

Before I can finish, he turns away and sits down, his back to me, as if I was never there. I stare at the back of his head. There’s something about it that makes me want to commit a violent act with a blunt instrument.

“It’s Tolstoy, by the way,” I say as I open the door.

He turns around. “What?”

Shut up, I tell myself. Shut up.

“The writer of Anna Karenina. Not Trotsky. Trotsky was a revolutionary who was stabbed with a pickax in Mexico in 1940. But I can understand how the T thing could confuse you.”

He looks at me, his eyes narrowing. William Trombal doesn’t like to be put in his place. Bad move.

I look at Ms. Quinn. She’s smiling.

“Thank you, Ms. Quinn,” I say politely, and walk out.

My father makes us an omelette for dinner. The three of us sit eating in silence. There has never, ever been silence at our dinner table, and tonight it’s like torture.

“Should I take some in to Mummy?” Luca asks.

At home, at our most vulnerable, she’s Mummy. When we’re talking to other people she’s Mum, but in my head she’s just Mia because I’ve been angry at her so many times that I’ve wanted to distance myself from her. Everything Mia does has to be so out there and noticeable. She’s the loudest of the daughters-in-law, was the most opinionated mother at St. Stella’s, and more than once I saw my Stella friends roll their eyes at something she’d suggest we should do. We just wanted to have fun. Mia wanted us to change the world.

There’s always a story to be told to show how weak I am and how great she is. “Remember the time you almost drowned?” she’d ask me. I don’t want to remember. Because it’s probably a reminder of how I needed saving.

“Mummy’s eaten,” my dad says.

“When?” I ask.

“Before you got home.”

“That would have been lunch.”

“Frankie, eat your food and be quiet!”

Luca and I exchange glances and look at my dad. Somehow he’s becoming someone we don’t know, as well.

I try to swallow the omelette, but it gets stuck in my throat. I want to go and throw it up, like my mum has for the past two mornings. I want to puke my guts out and I want her to come up behind me and hold back my hair and I want to take in her scent and I want to cry like I always do when I’m sick and my mum is there.

But I manage to swallow it, and the knowledge that it’s sitting there in my stomach, like some kind of poison, makes me feel weak.

The place is beginning to look like a pigsty. My dad isn’t the tidiest cook, and there are plates and frying pans all over the place. We clean up, but it doesn’t look the same as when my mum gets us to do it.

Later, as I make my way to my room, I see Luca at her door. She calls him in and I can tell he feels uneasy about it. Their bedroom has always been our sanctuary. Sometimes at night we’ll end up on their bed just talking. My dad will be snoring and Mia will say, “Turn around, Bobby, you’re snoring,” and he’ll turn around and for a moment it’ll be silent. Then he’ll erupt into a massive snore and Luca and I will kill ourselves laughing and my dad will wake up and bark, “Get to bed!” and not even a second later he’ll be snoring and we’ll kill ourselves laughing again and Mia will say, “What is this? Grand Central Station?”

But their room isn’t Grand Central Station anymore. It’s a room my mum won’t leave and I don’t understand why and nobody will explain it to me, and later I find myself standing outside their door listening for anything.

And I hear nothing because it’s like the volume button has been turned down on our lives and nobody has anything to say anymore.