Changing gears, p.11
Changing Gears, page 11
Abi regarded her for a moment, her expression neutral. “You’re very flirty when you’re drunk.”
Jen felt the blood drain out of her face and sipped at her coffee, hoping her horror wasn’t too obvious. “Sorry.” She didn’t know where to put herself.
“I don’t mind being flirted with.” Abi leaned forward and set a hand on her knee. “But you didn’t seem too happy with yourself afterwards.”
“Well. That was out of character, obviously.”
“Was it?”
Jen stared at her, her coffee cup frozen midway to her mouth. “Of course. I mean…” She pushed her hair behind her ear, struggling to find the right thing to say to end the conversation. “We’ve only just met…”
“People hook up after knowing each other for five minutes…”
“I don’t do that.”
“I’m not saying you do, I’m only pointing out…”
“I’m not gay, Abi.”
“OK,” and she sat back. “Look, I don’t want to suggest anything here. I certainly don’t want to tell you who you are…”
“I had too much to drink…”
“Yup.” Abi rolled her eyes. “But you wouldn’t be the first straight woman I’ve met who’s used a few bottles of wine to muster some dutch courage. Get what I mean?”
Jen stiffened. “Well, that’s not me.”
“Ok. Say no more. I just want you to know, if you want to talk about anything, you’re really safe with me. I’ve no one to tell, and you can’t say anything… well, I won’t think any the less of you, let’s put it that way.”
Jen looked away, tears burning suddenly, her throat closing over. She took a deep breath and did her best to pull herself together. “I really am sorry if I’ve given you the wrong impression. But I’m… straight. To be honest, you’re my first gay friend.”
Abi laughed. “I very much doubt that,” and she gave her a wry smile. “Statistically, you know at least a handful of my people. You probably sit next to them in church, and you definitely work with at least one or two.”
“Not at St Millies. We’re not that kind of school.”
“That kind of school? Hmmm," and she cocked a challenging eyebrow, her expression dour. “Do you know how many people pass as straight in the teaching profession?”
“Pass? As in pretend?” Jen was genuinely confused. “Why would they do that?”
“Principally because they don’t want to be called paedophiles. It’s a pretty insidious association, when it comes to anything to do with kids.”
Jen knew exactly what she meant. She vividly remembered Bible class when she was nine, a local mother warning them against the evils of homosexuality, that they should be wary of anyone approaching them who might try to touch them in private places. She had forgotten the intensity of shame those lessons had wrought, and as she listened to Abi, she realised how deeply that emotion was rooted in her. Alex, a colleague at SMLC, immediately sprang to mind. He never attended social functions or spoke about his personal life, just worked his day and went home. And no one asked questions. He looked straight—but then, what did gay look like? She never would have known Abi was gay unless she’d told her.
“And to be blunt about this,” Abi added. “If no one has come out to you, it’s probably because they think you’re a bit homophobic.”
Jen coloured violently. “I am not homophobic! I just don’t mix in those circles.”
“Those circles?“ Abi let out a long sigh and shook her head. “I like you Jen, I really do, but a few times over the last couple of days, you’ve definitely pinged my homophobe detector. And you’ve got a terrible game face.” With a shrug, she turned her attention back to her coffee, pausing the conversation.
Jen pursed her lips, looking for a way to salvage the situation. “I hear what you’re saying. I do. I… this is foreign territory for me. No one I grew up with ever identified as gay. And my family never talks about homosexuality other than to put it on the list of sins to keep away from. Maybe you’re right, I do know gay people, but they haven’t come out to me because I’m awkward about it. I don’t mean to be. I speak gay as well as I speak French,” and she winced at herself.
Abi snorted and rolled her eyes. “God help us.”
“So I’m a homophobic flirt?” Jen was aware she sounded confrontational, but her emotions were taking on a life of their own.
“That’s not too uncommon when people are questioning.”
Jen’s mouth fell open.
Abi took a deep breath and offered a half-hearted smile. “Sorry. It’s just that last night you were pretty forward. But,” and she gave her a look that suggested she was open to being contradicted. “If you want me to leave things alone and put last night down to wine and foreign lands, that’s what I’ll do.”
They sat in silence, Abi waiting for a sign either way, Jen too stunned to respond. What had she done last night that she had no memory of, that had left Abi with the impression tackling the subject was the right thing to do? Jen swallowed hard and threw back the last of her coffee, trying to drown her panic.
After a few more minutes of silence, Abi got up. “Should I leave you alone for a bit?”
“Maybe,” she nodded, holding up her phone. “I can find my way back.”
Abi’s expression softened as she looked down at her, and she squeezed her shoulder before walking away. “See you in a bit.”
When she finally disappeared, Jen let go a long, exhausted sigh. The only upside of their conversation was the sudden absence of her hangover. Apparently, being challenged about her sexuality sobered her up. She checked her watch and decided she needed to move. With no reason to rush back, and a river view beckoning, she started wandering.
Abi’s comments kept returning and the longer she walked, the more desperate she felt the need to work out how to fix what she had so clearly broken the night before. But how to do that when she didn’t know what she had done. Her stomach turned over as Abi’s voice rang in her head—you’re flirty when you’re drunk.
That was not how she wanted Abi to remember her. Jen was a well-controlled individual in her daily life, keeping herself away from circumstances where she might cross her own very well-defined boundaries. Her commitment to the France trip had been an attempt to loosen up, to get out of her own way. But she never thought the first part of her to rear its head would be the one that scared her the most—that she might like women in a way she wasn’t supposed to. She shoved her errant thoughts away, unwilling to follow where they wanted to take her.
When she arrived back at the hotel, Abi was missing, so she changed quickly and got her pack together. She chewed her thumb anxiously as she stood outside, waiting for Peter to drop off their bikes, wondering if Abi had opted to pass on the day altogether. Again, their tour companions mounted up and rode off, although the Hudsons did so in silence. Peter stood with her for a while.
“Have you heard from her? Perhaps you can call?”
She checked her phone. No missed calls or texts. Jen sent her a message. “Delivered” appeared underneath, but the corresponding reply dots were absent. “Do you want to go, Peter? I can wait.”
“If she doesn’t come, you will have to stay here with the bikes. I am heading back to Avignon, and the hotel cannot store them. Perhaps I should take her bike with me, and you can do your riding?” Jen considered his suggestion for a moment, but decided to trust Abi to turn up.
More than half an hour passed by, and she started to regret her decision. Two more text messages went unanswered. A hotel staff member came out to check on her, politely wondering how much longer she would block the front of the building. Jen was too anxious to care, the idea she had offended Abi so badly she had shelved the day sending her head buzzing.
“Hey! Bloody hell, I’m so sorry!” Abi’s auburn head popped up out of the crowded foot traffic. When she got to her, she squeezed her arm apologetically. “I got a call from my Ma and I lost track of time. God,” and she flicked a glance at her watch. “How long have you been waiting? Give me five minutes to go change. I won’t be long. Sorry!” And she disappeared into the hotel. Jen didn’t care. She was just relieved Abi had shown up, and was talking to her as though the morning’s conversation had never happened.
“You ok?” She returned ten minutes later, her pack slung over her shoulder and helmet already fastened under her chin.
“Yeah, yeah,” Jen nodded. “You?”
“Yeah,” Abi’s voice was low and calm, and Jen’s nerves settled suddenly. That single word seemed to reset their day, erasing the friction of the morning and resetting them to an earlier state, and the rest of the morning continued on as though nothing had happened.
They rode the countryside together, pointing out sights that caught their eye, or pedalling along in calm silence. The route Jen had plotted the day before took them wide around small towns and villages to weave their way along deserted country roads hemmed by hedgerows, fields and vines. They rode two abreast for much of the morning, the gentle ascent hardly noticeable.
The climb to Vesnasque required more work, and as they found their rhythm they unexpectedly passed the Hudsons, stopped on the roadside. Jen slowed down and called out to them, but the husband flicked them a disdainful stare before turning back to his wife.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Michelle, now the lesbians will be talking about us. Get on your damned bike!”
Abi’s laughter cut him off as they rode past. “I don’t think he’s a holiday fling candidate,” she grinned. “God, this is steep. How much further?”
“We’re not far from the last hairpin.” Jen pulled ahead so they could ride single file as a car overtook them. “There are views apparently,” she called over her shoulder. “Do lesbians like views?” Abi’s surprised guffaw was a welcome sound, and Jen was pleased with herself as they pushed on.
Parked cars appeared, and a lookout presented itself before the village proper and they pulled over to catch their breath and hydrate. Jen took a selfie with the view of the Carpentras spread out below. “I’m almost tempted to wait to see how long it takes the Hudsons to get here.”
“We can sit and look all judgemental,” Abi agreed. “What an arse,” and she pulled a face. “Sometimes it’s good to be gay.”
“Or single,” Jen added, pouting with disdain. “I imagine a trip like this could make or break a relationship.”
“Definitely. I chatted with Peter earlier in the week and asked him how many couples crashed and burned on the tour. Apparently this one isn’t too bad, as it’s only eight days, but the two weeks plus ones can be murder.”
“That’s a shame.”
“Yes and no. I always reckon if you can travel with someone—properly travel, none of these two weeks in the Maldives business—you know you’re good. It’s a bit of a water test, really.”
As they walked their bikes into the centre of the village, Jen wondered what Abi thought of their week together. Did they stack up, or had last night’s faux pas put a serious dent in their friendship? Tomorrow would tell, she guessed, and shelved her worry in favour of enjoying the moment.
They found a charming cafe for brunch before touring the village, thankfully not coming across the Hudsons again until they were ready to leave. Michelle gave them an apologetic shrug as they unlocked their bikes, and Jen felt for her. It was one thing to disagree with someone, but another for them to be so disrespectful. She almost hoped the woman would have the good sense to make their current sleeping arrangements permanent.
The ride to Grottoes de Thouzon was all downhill again, and they made fast time, enjoying the cool breeze and thrill of a little speed. They coasted into the carpark just past noon. With their ten euro paid, they joined the guide as he walked them through the water-eroded corridors and down into the cave system, talking animatedly as he gestured left and right. Abi translated as they went, pointing out vaulted ceilings, beautiful reflection pools, and stalactites and stalagmites that looked like frozen rain. The cool temperature was a welcome relief after the morning heat and they malingered before they were moved on.
“I love France for its caves. Do you know?” Abi blinked as they stepped back out into the sun. “… some of the oldest cave paintings and sculptures in the world have been found in French caves?” and she turned around as though trying to get her bearings. “Are you still good to walk up to the monastery? The view from the ruins is worth it.”
“Can we lunch up there?”
“Great idea!”
They rode through to Le Thor village to find a boulangerie, an easy loop and worthwhile once they got to the top of the hill. Only a hundred meters above the plain, the ruins provided a long line of sight over the countryside peppered with treetops and the odd roof.
Abi wandered off through the ruins, leaving Jen to sit in the shade of a tree with her thoughts and a stuffed baguette. She had no idea what had changed, but Abi was more relaxed with her than she had been during their week together. Trying not to overthink it, she relaxed in the afternoon sun, stealing a quick nap.
The journey back to L’Isle-sur-Sorgue took them less than half an hour. With Peter not due to collect their bikes, they were free to ride around town for a few hours. They meandered their way around galleries, antique shops and grandiose architecture, imbibing the historical charm and lively atmosphere. The streets hummed with tourists and locals alike, and the air bubbled with conversation. When they handed their bikes back to Peter and retreated to their room, they were both surprised how exhausted they were.
“I’ve had no sensation in my backside for the last three days. I’ll get that back, yeah?” Abi flopped onto the bed and kicked her shoes off.
“Keep your expectations low,” Jen warned, slumping into the small chair crammed in the one unused corner of the room. “I’m waiting for the circulation to return to the balls of my feet. That was a great day, though.”
“Finish on a high.”
“What time are you booked to leave tomorrow?” She closed her eyes, avoiding the need for any eye contact.
“I’d planned on spending some time at the markets tomorrow, so I’m scheduled for the 3p.m.”
“Oh.” Jen was on the early morning return. She’d booked with the idea of spending a day in Avignon, a plan she now regretted. The bed squeaked, and when she opened her eyes, she found Abi staring at her.
“Call Peter. He won’t care. And you’ll avoid the bloody Hudsons. I bet they’re on the first van out of here tomorrow, too.”
Biting her lip, she texted Peter.
Sydney
Tuesday, 10 April, 2018
Jen went to work with a knot in her stomach the size of her fist, one that wouldn’t budge despite a good day with her students. Guilt about her response to Yvonne wouldn’t leave her, and she dreaded facing Emily again, knowing there was nothing she could do for her. Capitulating to the Yvonne’s expectations left her despondent, and she felt like a coward, diminished by a fifteen-year-old girl.
She sprinted across campus in a vain attempt to make sure she was in class before things kicked off again, arriving as the bell went. As she walked through the door, she drew up short. The furniture had been rearranged, leaving a single desk in the back corner, a veritable sea of space between it and the rest of the class. Half her students sat quietly, as though nothing was amiss. The rest stared at her as she surveyed the room, finally spotting Emily, marooned in the corner. “Whose idea was this?”
A long, drawn out hush followed, but no one offered a name. Jen scowled at the sight of Ashleigh’s smug expression as she sat with her arms folded. It was a no brainer who the ringleader was, and why the class was silent. Ashleigh was a pretty girl, a mean popular kid who traded on her father’s money and a narcissistic bent for self-promotion that drowned out most of the other girls in her company. The pack she ran with was stereotypically brattish, making them seem tragically one dimensional. Term one’s school camp had cemented her ascendancy. A selfie-fest in the bush had driven staff to ban phones for much of their time away. The school’s actions caused a tense backlash from parents and a battle of wills over what student autonomy actually amounted to. The stand-off had been incredibly insightful for understanding the amount of power girls like Ashleigh wielded.
Jen had been on the end of enough school bullying from popular kids like Ashleigh, and Emily’s ostracism poked a raw nerve. She knew she was reacting poorly, but in that instant she didn’t care. An opportunity to do something that mattered, to send a message that mean-girl behaviour was unacceptable, was starting her in the face. The Principal’s office was no longer an option, nor was it enough.
“You’ve got one minute to get this room in order.” Her tone was icy, and the girls looked at each other nervously as they quietly righted the room. Once they settled themselves, Jen closed the door and threw her bag on her desk. She leaned on the edge and crossed her arms, too angry to speak for a minute. “Still no name?” She asked, eventually. More silence, more downcast. “Right. We’re going to sit here until someone owns up.” Several girls started opening their texts to read. “Close your books.” At the back of the room, Emily shifted uneasily in her seat.
As they realised they were stuck with her, that she was taking matters into her own hands, the girls settled in for the long haul. The mix of reactions—gloating, frustration, and worry—only galvanised Jen’s determination not to buckle.
The clock on the back wall ticked, crawling through the period. Now and then a face would turn to check the time, sullen and bored, but no one took responsibility, dobbed a classmate, or even met her glare. When the bell finally rang, a wave of movement erupted as they all grabbed for their bags.
