When the wedding day at long last came, everyone was so excited. It had become a media frenzy. “Little guy gets Perfect Girl” the headlines screamed. It was a message of hope to all the little people of the world. It was fantastic. Until – the “little man”, the winner was found dead in his room, tuxedo on, groomed immaculately. It appeared that he’d had a stress induced heart attack just as he was leaving for the wedding. For weeks after that the question on everyone’s lips was “Why?” Why would someone whom had everything he could possibly want die of stress? Everyone asked, but nobody answered. Though, in the dark recesses of their minds all the other “little people” knew. It was a side effect of the way of the way they were. Nothing good ever came without a price for them. For the winner, he had found the greatest thing in the entire world; true love – thus he had to pay the greatest price anyone could pay; death. It was simply the way the world worked and the little people knew this. The normal people of the world however never had a clue and after a while they just stopped asking.

Before going to sleep I threw the last story out.

The next morning I felt no better. The sun was too bright, the birds too loud and Uni class too soon. Monday morning Professional Writing and Editing classes were always used for readings and airings of any ideas we had that we thought may improve the class. Our teacher, Mr. Salinger was very hands on and unique with his teaching methods, which was good, but I definitely was not in the mood to hear the lame stories came from a majority of my peers. I didn’t give two shits about Cassie’s ongoing series on the life of a poppy seed. I’d rather eat sulfuric acid than hear another of Matt’s pathetic poems about his ex-girlfriend. And don’t get me started on Lucy Barnes and her novella.

Regardless of how I felt about going, I’d already missed too many classes and lectures, so I had to. As I didn’t see my mother anymore, her way of caring for me from interstate was to pay my schooling fees. Quite nice, I thought. But she definitely would not continue to pay my fees if I flunked out and needed to take the course again. So, out of a sense of duty and responsibility toward my mother I went to class. It was a fairly long trip by public transport, but I hated driving so I accepted it.

On the way there, despite trying diligently to immerse myself in the music of Norah Jones – which I was listening to via my Discman – I couldn’t stop thinking of Katya, probably because all of Norah Jones’ songs are about love and happiness. As a result I arrived late to class, depressed, seething and wishing Norah Jones would die.

As I took a seat in the large group circle, I was pleased to find Lucy Barnes at the tail end of her reading. After a minute she was finished. I opened my eyes and ceased fantasizing about hanging her up by the feet and taking to her with a bat like she was a human pińata. I hated that novella.

Salinger thanked Lucy for reading and told her that we’d get to the feedback in a second, and then he turned to me.

“Owen, I know you live quite a distance from Deakin, but you’ve really got to start making it to class on time, especially for these classes. It’s very important that we all participate and give valuable criticism, okay?”

As much as I knew I had no right to be angry at him, the mood he’d caught me in left me with no other choice. I glared at him irately. His eyes calm and empathetic – mine, burning a hole into his skull.

“Yes Holden.” I plainly spoke. Mr. Salinger sighed – one of the few things that ever made him mad was my continuing references to Catcher In The Rye when speaking to him. Understandable I guess, but I wanted to irritate him and it had worked, so my comment had served its purpose. Rather than reprimand me, he just asked for another reading volunteer. Lucy sat down, huffing, probably upset that she got no feedback time.

“Your novella is total shit!” I felt like calling to her, but I knew that would probably get me kicked out of class (that’s another thing that Salinger hates – abusing other’s work) so I elected not to.

Offering to read a new poem she’d written was Sammi; a girl I’d known for a while and gotten on okay with, also a good friend of Katya. Standing up with her notebook in hand, she glared at me all the way. Sitting beside her was Jamie; another acquaintance of mine, another friend of Katya’s. I think she was looking at me too, but when I eyed her she quickly turned to face Sammi who stood there in her tight jeans and tight black T-shirt. Her brown hair tied back and big lips opening to speak, I wondered what the hell was going on.

“I wrote this yesterday. It’s about a guy I thought I knew.”

Shit, I thought. I hope she’s talking about one of her many sex partners and not me, I hoped spitefully, wishing I could share the joke with someone.

Still glaring at me, Sammi read her poem.

“Let me preface this by saying that you are a talented writer.” He started. “But quite frankly, your attendance and your punctuation are far below the standards that I like to set for my classes…” and he continued as I stopped listening and my mind wandered to other places – namely Katya. The bits of his talk I did catch were pretty much all the same things he’d told me many times before. Be on time, come to class, talent isn’t enough if you don’t have work ethic, blah blah blah. All of this I’d heard a million times and again it was having the same effect on me; none. After a while it was palpable that I wasn’t listening, so he let me go with some parting words of advice.

“Owen, I’m telling you this because I like your writing and because you’re a nice kid – the way you are going is the way I’ve seen too many students go in the past. You’ve got some great ideas and I have no doubt that if you tried hard enough you could publish, but at the moment your head is clearly not a hundred percent into it and until it is, trust me when I say this, you won’t only fail this course, you’ll fail completely. You’ll never reach your maximum potential and all your aspirations will remain just that. That may sound callous, but it’s the truth and it’s a truth that you’ll have to face soon. Otherwise, there’s really no point in you showing up to class at all.”

And then he looked me in the eye. I looked straight back at him. I’d heard every word he said and he knew it. I was taken. No one had ever spoken so plainly to me about my writing – usually all I got was responses like “Oh, that’s so good!” or “I really like that story!” or “That poem was so sad!” etcetera etcetera. With his words still ringing in my ears he acknowledged me and then left. Soon I did the same. As I left the room, still processing all that had just been thrown at me, I felt a push in the back and when I turned around I was met by another barrage.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

It was Sammi – and she looked mad.

“I…I, I…” fumbled for a word of explanation but found none. For a writer I’m really not terribly verbose. Sammi continued.

“Do you know what you did to Katya?” she asked rhetorically. “Do you even care?” she shoved me again and I had absolutely no idea what to do. Already taken by Salinger’s words, I wasn’t ready for another confrontation.

“She was miserable all yesterday. She spent most of the day crying because of you.” And Sammi’s eyes were burning a hole through me as her scowling face glared accusingly. I didn’t know what to say – do I defend myself? Do I tell her to mind her own business?

In the end it all came down to one thing. I still like Katya and wanted to sort everything out. Attacking one of her friends would put me way behind the 8-Ball, so instead I accepted it. Every word she said. A second of intensive thought led me to simply unloading the truth on her.

“Look, you’re right. I was dumb and it was all my fault. I feel like shit for what I did and I feel even worse because I’ve probably blown every chance I had of being with the coolest girl I’ve ever met. I tried calling her yesterday but she just hung up on me.” Tears were welling in my eyes as I finished. “Next time you speak to her… just tell her I’m sorry.”

In the ensuing silence I looked Sammi in the eye. I was sincerely sorry and hoping that she would recognize it. I’d known her for a while and had never spoken to her this honestly before – she knew that looking people in the eye didn’t come naturally to me – and my mind’s incessant working was just hoping that all of this would not go unnoticed. After a long period with us both saying nothing, I figured nothing would be said, so I turned around and started walking away – hoping that she would say something.

Hoping.

Hoping.

Hoping.

And then I was almost fifty metres away and the confrontation was over. And nothing was resolved. And then I heard a call. Loudly she called out to me and desperately I turned around. She was pacing toward me as I walked toward her. When we were face to face again, she spoke.

“Are you serious about Katya?” she asked bluntly.

“We’ve only known each other for a few days.” I replied pointlessly.

“Are you serious about Katya?” she repeated her question with emphasis. And then I let the truth speak again.

“Yes.”

Retinas on each other’s retinas we were intense.

“Do you know her address?” she inquired.

“No.”

Sammi pulled her bag off from over her shoulder and pried her notebook and pent out. Promptly she wrote something down and then drew on the back. She then handed it to me.

23 Aisle Rd, Carlton. Katya’s address. On the back were quick directions.

“She’ll be there all day.” Sammi said, “She’s finishing off a painting.”

Ecstatic, shone on, given a second chance I turned and went to run off in search of Katya. As I went to sprint, Sammi said one last thing to me.

“And Owen, it wasn’t Katya who hung up on you.” I stopped confused. “It was me.”

I stood still, a cocktail of emotion. Burning with rage, cooling with hope, there was no predicting what I would do. Don’t lose it Owen, don’t lose it, I told myself. As my mouth opened to fire a tirade of epic proportions at Sammi, I held myself in and bolted off. I was well out of earshot when I finally started screaming obscenities. Hurriedly I caught a tram into the city. Speedily I caught another to Carlton. Swiftly I ran to the address given to me by Sammi.

The house was strange. I don’t know what I expected – but it wasn’t this. The bricks that formed the house were old and corroding. The screen door was ripped and the colours all around were plain and dull. The grass in the small front yard was long and wild and the plants sparingly around were dead. And inside the house was Katya, I hoped. A diamond in the rough, I thought. My Perfect Girl, I knew.

Stepping up to the door I was as nervous as I’d ever been. She’d accept my apology, right? Sammi wouldn’t have set this up if I had no chance, surely? My mind predisposed with a broken record of thoughts, my body went to knock on the door. I opened the screen door and then balled my fist to knock. I pulled my arm back, readied myself and… heard screams?

“I told you I didn’t want your present!”

It was Katya. She sounded nearly hysterical.

Not knowing what to do, I stood there paralyzed as an argument raged inside.

“That car cost me 50, 000 dollars and you lost it?” it was a man’s voice, raised and furious.

“I didn’t lose it!” Katya screamed back at him.

“Then what the hell happened?” the man’s voice steadily rising and the workers inside me yelling that I should bravely burst into the house and save Katya from whoever was upsetting her, my cowardice was firmly standing in my way, halting any grand move I could’ve made.

“It’s none of your fucking business! Get out of my house!” she choked out painfully. It hurt me to hear her like this. It hurt me more as the fight persisted.

“I’m your father and I pay for this house and I demand to know what happened to that car!”

Her father. He was doing this to her. How could he stand to cause her this much pain? Why would he do this? This is called transference. All the pain I’d caused her was now on him. It was his fault. I was seething, but still did not enter. I pressed my ear against the door and listened as the agony ensued.

“You are not my father!” Katya screamed defiantly, and then I heard something smash. “Get out of my house!” now completely hysterical, she ordered.

I could hear them getting closer so I moved away from the door and positioned myself at the side of the house, hidden.

“GET OUT!” she screamed again, a tearful, choked, agonizing scream. And then the front door opened – her father, wearing a suit and tie and looking as polished as his shiny black shoes came stomping out, leaving the scene in a hurry. I watched as he went and then without regard for all my of the worries I’d had in my mind about how my visit would be received, I went inside through the front door which had been left open and turned left into a room. It was incredible. Paintings covered the entire walls. Clouds, colours and beautiful sceneries surrounded the most horrific sight I’d ever seen. Katya, on her knees, tears streaming down her face. It was devastating and a terrible cold tore through my body. Seeing her like that, I was pain.

“Katya.” I said softly, standing a few feet away from her, unsure of how she would react. At my feet was an angel figurine, broken – obviously the smash I’d heard. Slowly Katya’s rose and her eyes saw me. Choking on tears and pale as a ghost she looked up at me somberly and there was something between us. I felt tears welling up inside, but before I could even begin to try fighting them she was up and at me. Her arms wrapped tightly around me as she buried her head hard in my shoulder and let go, bawling uncontrollably. Instantly I put my arms around her and then the tears flowed. We were connected and I felt her pain, and in her room of pretty murals, swirling colours and broken angels, we were together and everything was all right.