Maybe I'll just lie down for a minute. Mother will be missing me soon. I'll just lie here until she comes, that will show her. Worried about me, mumsie? I'm just reclining by the river, I hope you weren't worried?

Oh. Excuse me. I didn't see you there. Sheesh, an ephebe can't get a minute to himself these days. It's just ridiculous!

What was that? I thought you said something. Never mind.

What are you doing here anyway? This is my father's land, so this is practically my river.

Bit quiet, aren't you? Probably for the best. I bet you're a shepherd, slacking off as usual.

As long as we're here, would you like some of this? No? Suit yourself. Nicked it from Mother's cupboard. It's a bit sweet, ambrosia for a scorned lover and all that. Ever been dumped? ... Boring life you've got.

He was beautiful, really. Almost as beautiful as me. Not too bright, though. They say you don't need brains if you've got a nice face, but if you're too dumb to use your looks to your advantage then you're not much good to anyone, are you? Right?

Did you hear something? ... no, me either. Are you sure I can't get you a drink?

You're a bit of alright, really. Shame you can't tame that cowlick - what did you do to piss off Hera? Here, let me try...

Well, it was worth a shot. Have you been swimming or something? Your hair's all wet. See if I ruffle it, it'll spray everywh- oh, don't go, no, wait! Come back! What's wrong with you? I was only trying to help!

Nobody's got any manners these days, running off at the drop of a hat. Bet he's gone to sleep with some butch Spartan too, little ingrate. And after I was so nice to him. Little rat. Doesn't deserve my affections. Maybe I'll go for a swim. Maybe the maenads will eat me. Who knows? They'll miss me then. They don't have any idea how special I am.

I know. I'll lie back down - gently does it; steady, boy - and I'll pretend to cry until Mother gets here. That's it. I'll just stay here, pretending to cry, and when she gets here she'll gather me up in her arms and feel awfully sorry for me and beg me to come home for dinner and take me out to meet all the men in town. A plan if ever I heard one!

And now, to wait.





This is my entry for LJ Idol: Week Four. Go on, check out the other entries: it isn't all about me, after all! ;) Echo and Narcissus is my favourite myth, but I usually sit on Echo's side. It was interesting to take a trip with Narcissus himself! For those of you unfamiliar with the story, here's a link to my favourite version: http://hompi.sogang.ac.kr/anthony/Classics/OvidEchoNarcissus.htm

Rosie asked on a scrap of paper in our Year Seven science lab. It's the closest she ever came to admitting she couldn't push on alone, and it's the closest she ever came to asking for anything aloud. We almost never spoke, save to hum Avril Lavigne melodies under our breath in a kind of cryptic code. One song for despair, one song for longing; one for cheerfulness, one for drowning (not waving). I held her hand over the rough rocks on the shore, spotting until the soles of her feet hardened beneath her, between us.

Hannah asked me in our first summer together, on a page with Peter Rabbit illustrations and her trademarked, flowery script. She, like me, was afraid of the change in the wind - afraid of what might happen while we weren't looking, caught in holiday habits. And change we did, painfully, slowly, suddenly. It seemed my efforts to stay would bring me nothing but bruises as we kicked about, confused by the disconnect between memory and projection. Wasn't she just yesterday begging me to stay? How could she be refusing me now, pushing me back?

She called again after a year of briar rose brambles, our Aurora, Sleeping Beauty. Such a lonely life, stuck in that tower, and her soft hands were no match for the thorns. Her prince would come later. I just had to climb the stairs to her lavender haze home, sing her lullabies until she woke. A few sweet months of feeling needed, and then just like that, she disappeared, swept off by a sea breeze.

Amelia asked me in her own off-hand way, and I barely heard it over the memory of her retching in the cabin bathroom. She wanted to talk about anything but me - we walked the streets of New Zealand at midnight to keep her from our roommates' eyes. Her den was the most difficult: rocky and isolated, surrounded by stick-thin vines with no leaves. I brought her pillows and she tore them to shreds; I brought her music and she screamed; I brought her food and she vomited at the sight. I waited at her door until she came out, occasionally blowing the scent of violets in to counter her night terrors. One day I fell asleep and just like that, she was gone. Not a trace - not in the bathroom, not in the kitchen, not a single fallen hair left on her brush. She just gathered it up and ran.

Michelle whimpered like a puppy, and I tied her shoes. Double-knotted for constancy, I stayed tethered to her for four years before the rope frayed, worn through by perpetual tugging and petulant pleas. She begged but I had nothing more: I had starved myself thin of care, of joy, of any sense of significance. Insulted by my inability to maintain the pretty illusion, to keep her roses innocent and thornless, she huffed and refused my company.



I spent those years as a housekeeper of sorts. This occurred to me frequently, but its connotations did not. I spent years tidying the chambers of their hearts, trimming hedges in their gardens. I had made myself a live-in caretaker, cook and nanny - staying like staff in their houses, desperate to belong, to give of myself. Love by service, love by servitude - a heavy burden for a clumsy teen, to pretend my own woes did not exist in order to soothe my friends.

And when it came time, when the cramped single beds, rainy days and sleepless nights of soothing grew too small for me, when my cocoon was full to bursting but bound by my self-inflicted duty, there was nobody to come to me. It's funny how you can spend years hearing it over and over, and yet never learn how to say it. That tiny request that I had jumped to fulfill time and time again. Just three little words. Stay with me?



---
Amelia sends me pictures of her life, sometimes. Labels them "you're the only one who would understand" and "I know you'll appreciate this". I can open them now: I have a letterbox of my own, and a cosy chair to read them in. They - like me - took a while to carve, to grow into themselves. But that's another story.

Hannah sings me snippets of songs from the golden days, and they make me smile. Michelle's still chasing butterflies, and Rosie stalks the moon around the world, and neither of them call me. I flew away, but it's nice to know they found wings too. And memories, y'know? They stay with you.

My choirgirl days trained me to ignore the aching in my knees. This is an awkward contrast to my earlier Music Performance lessons, which seem to want me jumping all over the place - equally painful and equally restrictive. I stand my ground.

We humm and ahhh, forty backing singers behind two scrawny teenage girls who aren't quite warmed up. Mind you, it isn't much of a song, dull and repetitive to boot; amateur pianist outshone by the bassist teacher. Another meaningless Jesus lyric mumbled by the congregated, coagulated mass of schoolgirls, all sticky and cranky in thick blazers and thin dresses. Humm, ahhh. Hummmm, ahhhh. Rest.

All rise and fall again for another dreary speech from a priest we've never met: hideously inappropriate comments about chastity and obedience, sniggers from seniors and the odd, bold teacher or librarian. This guy makes me twitch. Spout the phrases back at him, the whole crowd chews familiar phrases like old gum, disappointed. Blonde Bec in front of me taps her toe rudely, impatient as always, and I reluctantly appreciate it. The rhythm is steady and it's a refreshingly solid sound. Toc, toc. I finger the badges on my blazer, wanting to move but bound by manners.

We sigh with relief when the guitar starts again, but the long homily was exhausting and nobody is thrilled to stand up. It's a catchy tune though, and our soloists look perkier, raising microphones and breathing in. I've loved their voices for years and today is no exception, no matter how tired we are. Strong and sassy, they belt across the hall and we get ready.

Few things wake me like lively, soulful song, and if there's one thing teenage girls have in abundance, it's soul. We whisper the backing vocals dramatically, building to the crescendo at the second chorus. A few cheeky girls in the audience wave their hands in the air, and a teacher claps along endearingly, softly. Stuff that, I think, and stuff training and stuff propriety. In the middle of the back row, I clap my hands with the beat and grin like mad, shifting from foot to foot in classic 'choralography'. Bec turns around, looking snarky, but it's already spread. Twelve hundred girls who are desperate to move come together, slapping hands on hands, hands on knees, shuffling feet on the floor.

This is so much more important than the mumbling of some outdated, preachy git, I think. This is us, shaken of the rules and let off the humble hook. This is us, living our faith, living that unspoken love of each other and the things we can share but never explain.

Take the shackles off my feet so I can dance....

I will be participating in this year's LJ Idol!

I even created a new journal for traffic purposes.