just_a_girl by Kirsten Krauth Page A

very good salsa dancer.
    just_a_girl: o cum on ur kidding me i guess that means u dont like to dance:-) i luv 2 dance
    youami33: Yeah? What kind of dancing?
    just_a_girl: ive tried heaps hip-hop and funk salsa bellydancing but salsa is my fave
    youami33: Maybe you could teach me some moves one day and I can get my ex back with my incredible new talent!
    just_a_girl: ha! poor boy that’ll work not have you seen dirty dancing what was ur ex like
    youami33: She was cute, funny and smart. I miss her. She was a bit like you actually.
    just_a_girl: how u mean
    youami33: She asked a lot of questions! Challenged everything, didn’t take things too seriously. Pretty headstrong. And she was amazing in bed:-)
    just_a_girl: so ur not a virgin then i am shocked
    youami33: Somehow I doubt that. No seriously, being a virgin when you are heading towards 30 is not a good look.
    just_a_girl: mmm well obviously i wouldn’t know would i LOL
    just_a_girl: btw coming up to newc in couple of weeks perhaps we could hook up r u in town

    Most of my life I’m on trains. Five days a week. To Penrith and back. Every month up at granny’s. To Newcastle and back. But the thing is, I’m a freak magnet. If there’s a crazy on the train they’ll find me. It’s not even that I have a kind face. I try to ignore them. But it’s like they feed off the life in me. Can see something under my skin that attracts them. Sniff me out. And it’s always when I’m on my own. No Sarah or Davo to scream out for.
    The train pulls in at Glenbrook. I see him out the corner of my eye. As he runs to get my carriage. I think, Fuckadoodle, here’s trouble. Because he’s got the look. It’s always about energy. Crazies move around a lot. They can’t seem to control their limbs. They’re easier to spot if they’re talking to themselves. But it’s hard to tell sometimes. Because with mobile phones sometimes you think it’s a crazy. But then you see they have an earpiece in. So it’s actually a two-way conversation. So you start to feel safe again.
    But with this guy he’s roaming around. He’s looking at the floor at people’s shoes. I start to pant on the inside. Oh god please don’t see me. Please leave me alone. I act cool and calm. Head down. Rummage through my bag for a book. Homework or textbook or anything. Murakami, help me now!
    Open. Book. Eyes. On. Page. Follow. Words. On. Page. Read. Again. And again. Here. He. Comes.
    The train pulls away and there he is. Of course there’s a spare seat next to me. There’s never a spare seat next to me. He swings into it. At first he looks away. But it’s only a matter of time. Breathe in.
    Breathe out. His long curly hair reaches down his back. Jesus on speed. Crucified eyes find me. As we work through the flat landscape. He won’t look at anyone else now. We’re magnetised. And then he starts getting down on his knees. Oh my god here we go. I’m frozen solid. The whole train has become covered in ice. I have bare legs and have taken my school shoes off. I like to tuck them under when I read. He starts to stroke my feet. They are thin and boney and white. He mumbles in another language. He rests my little toe in his palm. I want to kick him but I can’t believe this is happening.
    My fellow cabin-dwellers refuse to see him. They continue to breathe and sigh. Read and sway and move carriages. A few adjust their socks and sandals. Desperately trying to hide their feet. He tries to stand up but is drawn back. Won’t let go of my big toes. My face is as red as his socks. His hands are cool on my arches. I can no longer look into his eyes.
    The train turns a corner and starts to slow. Sorry. The word rushes out of me. I grab my shoes and socks. Stomp over him in the commuter rush. I get off at Emu Plains. Not my stop. I get detention because I’m late for school.

    My granny likes to tell stories. About when she was just a girl. These stories are on permanent loop. I hear them repeated. Over and over. Like