Free Saving Francesca by Melina Marchetta

I think he hates the perception that he’s the good old boy, and once in a while he rebels against the image. But deep down he has a decency that I think will stay with him.
    He becomes my English extension companion. Like Shaheen from biology and Eva from economics, our relationship is confined to sitting next to each other in class and whispering. In the halls and on the quadrangle we acknowledge each other, but there is no need for in-depth chatting. The bonding takes place in class.
    In English extension, we’re doing an Austen unit, and Ryan and I analyze who we are in Pride and Prejudice .
    “I’d like to think I’m Darcy,” he says, “but I think I’m a bit of a Bingley. I can be talked out of things sometimes. You?”
    “I’d like to think I’m Elizabeth, but deep down I think I’m the one whose name no one can remember. Not Lydia the slut or Mary the nerd or Jane the beauty or Elizabeth the opinionated. I’m the second-youngest. The forgotten one.”
    “Yeah, I know which one you’re talking about. What’s-her-name.”
    “Yeah.”
    Later, I walk down the senior corridor and William Trombal is coming from the opposite direction, speaking to his friends. They’re having one of those Trekkie-versus-Trekker discussions. There’s just something about William Trombal that screams out Star Trek fan. I personally can’t do the Vulcan salute with my fingers and have felt inferior because of it, so disliking William Trombal more than ever suits me just fine. He’s laughing at something one of them says, and it transforms him completely. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him smile, and it’s kind of devastating. They walk by me, completely oblivious. Until the very last moment, when he looks over at me and our eyes hold for a moment or two.
    And I get this twitch in my stomach.
    I walk through Grace Bros. to get through to George Street to catch my bus, and I find myself going straight to the counter that sells my mother’s favorite perfume. I spray it in the air and it’s as if the scent’s a genie and it triggers everything off inside me and I can’t get over what comes up with that one spray. Memories and photos and sayings and advice and music and lectures and shouting and security and love and nagging and hope and despair . . . despair . . . why has despair come up? I don’t remember despair in her life, but it is evoked with this magical spray. But more than anything, I remember passion.
    I look around for the counter that sells my scent, but I’m so petrified that if I spray it in the air, nothing will come out. And then Mia’s scent seems to fade away and everything else fades away with it and I know that all I have to do to recapture it is press the spray button again.
    But I don’t.
    Later, my dad picks us up from Nonna’s and Zia Teresa’s and takes us home for the afternoon. We lie on their bed, and my mum is holding on to us so tight that I can’t breathe. She holds us and she’s crying and she says, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” over and over again until I can’t bear the sound of those words.
    And I want to tell her everything. About Thomas Mackee the slob and Tara Finke the fanatic and Justine Kalinsky the loser and Siobhan Sullivan the slut. And I want to tell her about William Trombal and how my heart beat fast when he looked at me, but more than anything, I want to say to her that I’ve forgotten my name and the sound of my voice and that she can’t spend our whole lives being so vocal and then shut down this way. If I had to work out the person I speak to the most in a day, it’s Mia, and that’s what I’m missing.
    My nonna comes in, and I feel her gently pull the skirt of my school uniform down over my thighs because my underpants are showing. I bury my face in my mum’s neck and I inhale her scent as they pull me gently away from her. I inhale it with all my might so I can implant it in my mind.
    Because I need it to be my badge.

chapter 10
    IN