Laura Borrowdale

 Smoke and Marbles

Marcie says she started smoking because of a boy she wanted to impress, and somehow the smoking stuck and the boy didn’t. Marcie says boys are a bit shit, but usually it takes a while for girls to figure that out.

You can’t even make eye contact with Marcie when she says she’s going out for a smoke. It’s such a gross thing to do. No-one smokes anymore. Your friend Ruby has a vape, but it’s bubblegum flavoured, so you don’t mind if she smokes it in the car. You arrive at school all sweet and sticky.

Boys are really shit sometimes; you already figured that out and you didn’t need Marcie to tell you. Your mother is a feminist and she says this all the time. You think she thinks it’s empowering.

For real though, Jonty is shit. What was with those texts this morning? “miss ur face”, and then ten minutes later a dick pic with a semi. Ruby says he does not get to break up with you and then act like he’s the sad one. You don’t think he’s very sad. For one thing, what was he doing in those ten minutes?

Your mum took you to the mall when he ditched you by text message, but then she just sat in the coffee shop, doing whatever sad social media mums do, and gave you her credit card. You felt bad leaving her there with that sad smile on her face, but not so bad that you wanted her to come with you. And she didn’t like what you bought, anyway.

You felt bad enough that you asked her for help to find a work experience gig for Senior Career week at school, because she likes it when you need her for something, so now you’re here, deep in the bowels of the museum with Marcie, one of your mum’s sad single mother friends. You’re not sure you made the right choice.

Marcie says, “I’m going out for a smoke,” and you think, gross, but you don’t say anything, you just smile, and pick up your clipboard.

“I just need you to start matching the box numbers to the manifest,” Marcie says. “And check that the item is actually listed on the side of the crate. Don’t touch anything.”

You edge closer to the boxes. They smell a bit weird. You nudge the lid with the edge of the clipboard. It doesn’t move. It’s labelled FRAGILE Crate 1 of 15, Marbles Exhibition, Italian female nude. You tick the box on your clipboard. And another. And another.

You message Ruby. -OMG boring-

Ruby sends a selfie with her tongue out and her eyes wide. Then another message -wonder what dickhead Jonty is doing today-

You post a selfie with just the right amount of cleavage to your Insta story. #workexperience #boxes4eva

When Marcie comes back in, you’re sitting on the floor scrolling Youtube.

“You’re a good kid,” she says. “Did you find all the boxes?”

This is the first time you’ve been called a good kid for slacking off, but clearly you’re better than the kids Marcie knows.

Marcie points to the first box, and shows you how to pick up one side of it so you can “lift with your legs, Carla, that way you won’t have a back like mine when you hit forty.” You stagger together with the crate to a long table.

Marcie takes a hammer and levers up the lid, the nails popping out with a small thunk each one. Inside, all you can see are packing peanuts. You stretch your neck over Marcie’s shoulder to see what’s inside, but you just get a big whiff of cigarette smoke stink.

“What’s in it?” you say.

Marcie pulls on some white cotton gloves. “A statue.”

You roll your eyes, but Marcie is totally focussed on rummaging in the packing peanuts.

“We’ve got to be pretty careful with these. No touching, clean hands always.” She begins to unwind the statue’s wrapping. “Wish my Ben had the same kind of interest as you.”

“Who’s Ben?” you say, looking at your phone. No new messages from Ruby.

“My kid. Year 13 this year.” Same age as you, but the way Marcie talks about her makes you think that Marcie thinks he’s a shitbag. Not that she says that, but you can tell.

Marcie slowly rotates the headless marble statue, looking at it closely.

“Special, eh?” Marcie says. “Makes it worthwhile when you get to see them first, before anyone else. Great, she’s travelled well. See that box called ‘condition’? You can write ‘no damage’ in there for the insurance company.”

Marcie turns around to find the next box. You post a picture of the statue’s boob to your Insta story #boobs #illshowyoumine #showmeyours, its frozen marble nipple a barely-there detail, and slide your phone into your pocket.

You bet your mother would love this. She’d have all kinds of things to say about the male gaze and how no-one’s breasts actually look like that. And then she’d probably look at it really hard, and then back at you, and then she’d tell you you didn’t have enough clothes on, as if it’s your fault, all those old Italian dudes with hard-ons for women who had lost their clothes in Ancient Greece.

“You coming?” Marcie is holding a box by one side waiting for you to take the other. “I’ll count to three.” You lug the box up and move slowly, hobbling sideways to hoist the box up onto the worktable.  Your phone is buzzing.

You and Marcie pick up more boxes, unpacking and marking against the manifest, until Marcie gets huffy. Breathing like a gross out of shape smoker. Which she is.

“Ok, ok, Carla. Good work. I need a tea break.”

In the breakroom, Marcie holds out a cup of tea and a packet of supermarket Timtams rip offs. You take out your phone.

“Ben’s always on his phone too.”

“Um, ok.” You glance at the screen, then slide your phone away.

“Have a biscuit,” Marcie says, rattling the packet at you.

“No, thanks,” you say.

“You sure? I’ll eat them all. It’s that or cigarettes. You should have one.” Marcie goes quiet and breathes in and out like a phone breather. You take a biscuit and eat it. You can tell she’s thinking about cigarettes.

“How’s your mum?” she says while you chew. “It’s been so great connecting with other women in my situation. The whole separation, you know, it’s been so tough on me and Ben. Ben used to be such a good boy…” and she just keeps talking. “... and then, you know, his dad just doesn’t even ring him. I can’t even get a whole sentence out of him, and his school is just garbage, and…”

You sneak a peek at your phone. There’s even more notifications, and a message from Ruby. -Whaaat?! theres boobs?!-

“Carla? Did you hear me? You kids and your phones.” Marcie has come up close to you. She’s frowning. “I have to pop across the hall to see how the space is coming along. I’ll be back in a moment. Just finish your tea.”

Marcie leaves so you pull your phone right out, flicking through the list of likes. Jonty’s seen it but not liked it, like the shithead he is. You look over your shoulder, and then go back to the work space and snap a tiny Greek dick and write #femalegaze #mymothersafeminist and a smiley face laughing with its tongue out. You snap another boob.

You tug the first statue towards the edge of the table so you can stand behind it, your head positioned above its shoulders. Holding the phone at arm’s length in front of you, you can get most of your face plus a decent amount of marble boob in the picture. You pout, you look good, there’s something about this light. #photoface #tits A message from Ruby says -lookin good bee arch-

There’s voices in the hallway, Marcie, and you’re not supposed to be touching these. A door slams and you jump, your arms knocking the little statue lady and she falls forward away from the edge. You move to grab her but you don't quite get there in time, and she falls against the one behind her. The two marbles make a clink, and it's fine for a moment, and then the lady falls to the side, and there’s a spark of bright white on the groin of the male torso. The tiny dick is lying beside the naked lady, which is clearly not a good thing.

Your phone is buzzing like crazy.

You pick up the tiny dick and look at it. Disembodied, it could be anything. It could be a packing peanut.

You turn to look over your shoulder, but the voices are still out in the hallway. You take a photo of the dickless statue. #boysareshit. You take a photo of the dick on the table #jonty #dickpic, eggplant emoji, heart eyes emoji.

But now you’ve got to somehow fix this. You hold the broken piece up to the torso, like it’ll magically just snap back on, but it doesn’t and when you take your hand away, there it is, still in your fingers. The white of the gap is luminous, like a beacon.

You run back to the break room, and sweep your eyes across the space. You aren’t sure what  you’re looking for, but your heart is ricocheting around your throat and you think you might vomit up the chocolate biscuit you’d reluctantly swallowed. The rest of the packet is still there on the break room table.

You pick up your tea and a chocolate biscuit, and run back to the statue. You dip your finger in the tea and smear it across the statue’s lap.

A trickle of tea runs down the statue’s leg. The place where its dick was is still bright white. You suck the the chocolate biscuit and smear the melted chocolate on, then rub it in. It’s better, it’s gone into the cracks and the texture of the surface and it kind of blends in.

Marcie’s voice is getting louder in the hallway, and there’s no more you can do. You rotate the statue so your damage isn’t the first thing she will see. You wipe the tea off the table with your sleeve, cram the rest of the biscuit into your mouth and swallow.

“So dedicated, you are,” Marcie says as she walks in, all nicotined up, the smoke caught in the folds of her drapey black clothes. “Shall we get back to it?” She looks at you more closely. “Uh oh,” she says. “You haven’t washed your hands. I spy chocolate. I mean you won’t be touching the statues but it’s good practice.”

You wash your hands in the break room. There’s a bunch of notifications and a dm from Jonty -bitch-. You drop your phone back in your pocket, where it clinks beside the tiny marble penis.

You slink back into the workroom and look at Marcie. Her face has crumpled and the wrinkles around her eyes have squashed up. She looks like she needs a hug, but you don’t think you can get that close to her cold-cigarette skin. You look at the work table and back at Marcie, but she isn’t looking at the statue, she’s holding her phone, and now she’s beginning to cry.

“You ok?” you say, hoping she’ll say yes, and that she’ll stop making the kind of faces your mum makes when she’s talking about your dad. She doesn’t. She wipes her nose on her black sleeve.

“That was the school. He’s done it again. ” she says, the tears splodging down her front. “It’s a suspension this time. I just can’t believe it. How could he?”

“It’s ok,” you say, putting your hand out and touching her shoulder. “Boys are shit sometimes.”