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Where Did The Good Girl Go?

A coming of age story.

By Jessie WaddellPublished 2 years ago 11 min read
5
Photo by Mickael Gresset on Unsplash

"I believe that youth is spent well on the young

'Cause wisdom in your teens, would be a lot less fun"—Luke Bryan

Responsible, reliable, an old soul… Those are just a few of the terms I frequently heard associated with my name growing up. 

A good girl. 

They weren't wrong. My moral compass pointed true north, and it was unwavering. Looking back with the exceptional 20/20 hindsight that graces us in our adult years, I see that those labels I worked so hard to uphold and those morals that led me in my steadfast beliefs of right and wrong did nothing for me except suppress a youth that would have been better spent experimenting, exploring and growing. 

That, I believe, is why my coming of age story is a short one. In fact, it can be condensed to a single year—2008.

---

There was something different about turning 17. You officially become an 'almost adult', and there is an unspoken checklist that you need to work through before you can graduate to 'full adult'.

I turned 17 just before the start of my final school year. I'd had a rugged summer, having come down with glandular fever on Christmas eve and not being well enough to attend all of the incredible parties and concerts my friends were going to-as teens should when on the cusp of adulthood. 

Instead, I spent my last summer holidays stuck at home, playing endless rounds of euchre with my family and a few good friends who were willing to miss out on the fun stuff occasionally to keep me company. 

That was the summer my friends started drinking, a few of them started using drugs, and most of them started having sex. 

Perhaps unsurprisingly, I started the school year feeling like I'd been left behind by no fault of my own. 

My friends were smart, like me, so when school started back, so did their studiousness, and the adventures of the summer became inside jokes and stories that everyone got except me. There were no more parties, concerts or adventures. They would be saved for the end of the year after everyone had got their good grades and received their university offers, just in time for everyone to start turning 18. 

Everyone was invigorated from a summer well-spent. They were motivated and determined to jump the last high school hurdle before they could exit school life and venture out into the world of adulthood that they had tasted in the months prior.

I was melancholy, lost and uninspired. 

Reliable gradually stopped being a word people associated with my name. I first saw that hint of disappointment in someone's eyes when I told my hockey coach I'd be skipping the rep trials.

"I'm not fit enough. I've been sick all summer, and I won't be able to keep up." And I can't fail if I don't try.

"You'll get in. You don't need to do well. You just need to show up."

His reassurance wasn't enough. I still played for the school team, but without the accolades that come with being one of the few who gets to wear the jacket that says, "I'm one of the good players, in case you didn't know." It was a weird knock to my ego that I wasn't prepared for and one of the first dominoes to tip on my fall from grace. 

I procrastinated with every subject, even the ones I used to enjoy. I went from easily sitting at the top of my advanced classes to floating somewhere at the bottom. Most of my teachers pointed out that if I dropped any lower, I wouldn't be able to stay in the advanced stream, so I did just enough. But never more than that. 

---

Things started to improve by term 2. Hockey was back on outside of school, and my fitness was starting to get back to where it was pre-illness. My confidence was slowly creeping back because I'd caught the eye of a few of the older guys from the men's premier league side. One, in particular, started paying me a lot of attention. He was 22, and I was 17, nothing too risqué but enough of a gap to make him feel a little forbidden. 

But, the responsible, reliable, good girl was making a comeback. And I never let it grow beyond a harmless flirtation. My grades were improving, and I'd managed to score well on my midyear exams, something that would prove highly fortunate later on that year. 

The amazing summer wasn't the topic of conversation in my peer group anymore, and I stopped feeling like an outsider as everyone's attention shifted to the future and how we would spend the next summer together before we all went our separate ways into adulthood. 

Then, on a frosty Monday night in August, I was playing a game of hockey when I looked over toward the car park and noticed my Dad walking toward us at the far-field. Something about the urgency in his step gave me a sense of unease. 

He stepped into the dugout and said something hushedly to my mum, who grabbed the keys and headed toward the car park in all but a sprint.

I gestured to my coach that I wanted to come off. All my senses were tingling at this point. Something was horribly, horribly wrong. 

We had no subs, so he told me to keep playing. My Dad gave a short nod in agreeance from behind him in the dugout, where more adults were starting to gather. My sister, who was also on the field, noticed what was happening and gave me that 'wtf?' look. I shrugged and gestured for her to pay attention to the game, all while remaining completely distracted.

After what felt like the longest second half in history, the game finally ended. My Dad had already started to head toward the car park to go home, and I had driven myself, so he didn't have to wait for us-I think he hoped he might be able to get there before we noticed. We caught up to him, and he wouldn't meet our eyes. He just stared ahead and told us to head home, to be careful and that we'd talk when we got there. 

I'll never forget the moment we walked in through the door at home. My mum was standing at the kitchen counter with a blank expression on her face. 

"What's going on?" I demanded, panic beginning to set in.

"Your uncle was in a car accident this morning."

"Is he ok? Is he in the hospital? Are we going to visit him?"

"He's dead."

Dead. A word I had the fortune of never hearing in conjunction with a person that I knew and loved up until that point. I'd never cried like that before, with such instant intensity. There was no build-up, no processing. It immediately registered that I would never see one of my favourite people in the world again. 

---

If I had to pinpoint the exact moment that changed the course of my life, it would be the death of my favourite uncle. 

He was brilliant. Intelligent, hilarious, talented… and haunted. He'd struggled with addiction since he was in his teens, and although he'd spent 13 years sober, it was his addiction that brought him undone in the end. All I remember is an insanely cool guy who was a bit hit and miss at family gatherings but was the one you always waited for, hoping he'd show. 

His demons were well-hidden from us as kids. I learned most of what I know about his torment after he passed. 

It took six weeks for my mum to get me back to school. I spiralled into a deep depression after his death. It was a tumultuous time in my young life as it was, and it had already been a rough start to an important year. I missed my trial HSC exams on compassionate grounds and fortunately scraped by with an estimated grade thanks to my decent midyear scores. Not that I cared. Doing well at school was at the bottom of my list of important things.

A week after he died, I got drunk for the first time. The irony that I chose alcohol as a coping mechanism to deal with the death of my alcoholic uncle isn't lost on me. It was the local Catholic ball. I chose a fitted black dress and a sky-high pair of heels. I made myself up to appear much older than seventeen, deliberately, of course. 

I picked the seat at the back of the table in a dimly lit corner and took shots with my friends. The room started to tilt after the third one. 

I danced with all the boys that asked. I remember swaying to a slow song in the arms of a nice boy who liked me very much and who I would never feel the same way toward. I can still hear the stern voice of my friend as she pulled me out of his embrace, and I swayed alone on the dancefloor. 

"She is very drunk, and very sad. Do not make me come back here and remind you to do the right thing."

Her voice echoed in the background as I moved. I knew exactly what I was doing in my black dress-moving my hips rhythmically to the music and running my hands through my long, golden locks. Every sway back and forth was a question. Beckoning, tempting… Wouldn't you just like a taste? Thank goodness for sober, true friends, or my list of regrets would be even longer.

---

The last quarter of the year is what I remember to be the best and worst time of my life. 

That boy, the older one, he knew what to do with a young, vulnerable girl. Soon I was skipping school in favour of hot and heavy make-out sessions at his apartment. I was sneaking out late at night to pick him up from a night out and doing more than kissing when I took him home. 

I'm not sure why, on an unimportant Sunday, I decided it was the right time to give my virginity to the wrong guy. My knight in shining armour sent me this romantic line-

"I'm tired of waiting. If you come here this morning, we are having sex."

Everyone else I know is doing it. What's the big deal anyway? It has to happen eventually….

"I'll be there in 10."

It was the most underwhelming experience of my life. I never expected fireworks. And I certainly wasn't in love with the guy. But I guess I'd always hoped for more than the stale taste of last night's alcohol still on his breath and for the whole thing to be over while I still had my shirt and bra on. 

Still, I went back. And I learnt the ropes. I experimented and explored as much as my ever-nagging conscience would allow me to. I always told myself that it was my choice. I was searching for something to feel through the unrelenting numbness. But the truth is I was just another vulnerable young girl who found herself with a boy who knew when and how to take advantage. 

---

Underneath my newfound rebelliousness lingered the good girl. I was in a constant war between the new me and the old me. 

Good girls don't sleep with boys they aren't in love with. Good girls don't drink underage. Good girls don't do any of this… But if good girls don't do any of this, why does it feel good?

I still remember the house parties. The intoxicated laughter, the music, the fun. The uninhibited feeling that only exists for that brief period when you're old enough to do adult things without adult responsibilities. If I hadn't been sick, and if my uncle didn't die, my moral compass, over-responsibility and 'good-girl' reputation would have undoubtedly prevented me from experiencing what I now hold dear as some of the best memories of my life. 

I wanted the good girl to go away. Part of me still wishes that she did completely vanish so that I could have explored and experimented more. I slept with that one guy and kissed a few more, but I secretly wish I was more promiscuous and adventurous. I partied and I drank but was tame compared to most. 

I wish I kissed that girl that begged me to try every time we were drunk together at a party. Good girls definitely don't kiss other girls.

But I am glad I never did drugs. I know that if I crossed that line my similarities to my favourite uncle would have been spawned into a vivid reincarnation.

I wish coming of age was more than a devastating loss, a regretful first time and too many drunken nights.

I wish I packed my bags and headed on that destination-less road trip with my best mate and our guitars instead of staying in my hometown and leaving that whirlwind year behind in favour of a sensible job and a serious boyfriend.

I wish the good girl stayed lost for a little longer. But good girl or not, I grew up in a rush. In a single year, I went from an innocent kid to a rebellious teen and out the other side to a fledgling responsible adult. And even though the responsible, good girl is the version of myself that endured into adulthood, It's comforting to know that the rebellious teen exists, somewhere deep within and that she might yet have a rebirth, somewhere down the line.

humanity
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About the Creator

Jessie Waddell

I have too many thoughts. I write to clear some headspace. | Instagram: @thelittlepoet_jw |

"To die, would be an awfully big adventure"—Peter Pan | Vale Tom Brad

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  • test2 years ago

    Good girls are here

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