After River by Donna Milner Page B

As she flipped through thepages of a glossy magazine I wondered if she still had problems reading.
    I noticed eyebrows rise as I walked in. Who invited you? What’s she doing here ? Elizabeth-Ann called from her bed. ‘Hi, Nat, come on in.’
    A few of the other girls smiled and said, ‘Hey, Natalie,’ then went back to their magazines.
    â€˜Come and put your stuff over here.’ Elizabeth-Ann indicated a sleeping bag next to the bed she sat on.
    I stepped around the air mattresses on the floor, feeling self-conscious and clumsy.
    â€˜Listen to this,’ Sherry Campbell shrieked. Sitting cross-legged on the other twin bed, she was wearing pink baby-doll pyjamas and had matching giant pink rollers in her hair. She held a copy of True Confessions magazine. An illustration of a movie-star-handsome man, and an equally perfect young woman, her long hair flowing behind her as he held her in his arms, adorned the cover. ‘I was a teenage love slave,’ Sherry read, her voice an exaggerated stage whisper. The other girls leaned closer and listened, sometimes giggling behind their hands. I sat on the sleeping bag, feeling awkward, fat and separate. But as Sherry read on I was surprised by the effect the unfolding story had on me.
    â€˜I felt his hands on my tender breasts, harsh and demanding, as he forced his tongue in my mouth,’ she read. There was something deliciously wicked about hearing the forbidden words, something sinful about the warmth spreading through my abdomen, the unexpected tingling. When she finished, Sherry held the magazine to her chest and breathed, ‘Oh, that poor girl!’
    â€˜Oh, that lucky girl!’ Someone else laughed.
    â€˜Those stories aren’t real,’ another scoffed.
    â€˜They are so,’ Sherry retorted. She held the magazine up. ‘See, it says true confessions.’
    â€˜I want to be someone’s love slave,’ Bonnie sighed and threw herself back on the bed.
    â€˜I want to be Morgan Ward’s love slave,’ someone cried. I whirled around to see who it was, when another voice said, ‘No, Carl’s!’
    â€˜Yes, yes, Carl’s.’
    â€˜Is Carl going with anyone?’ someone asked.
    â€˜What about Morgan? Does he have a girlfriend?’
    Everyone’s eyes were on me. I was the centre of attention. I turned from one to the other. So it was true. My brothers were the reason I had been invited. I was not surprised. I was surprised, though, at how I felt about all the eager faces waiting for my words. I found I liked the feeling.
    I straightened up. ‘Morgan and Carl have lots of friends,’ I said. It was true. Lately it seemed our sunroom was always full of kids from town who came over to listen to records and dance.
    The questions kept coming.
    â€˜Do you ride horses?’
    â€˜Do Carl and Morgan have their own horses?’
    â€˜Of course they do,’ I said. Stupid girls, how did they think we went after the cows when they wandered off?
    Some of the girls began changing into their pyjamas as the chatter continued. I pulled out my flannelette nightgown, trying not to look at the half-naked bodies, unable to stop myself. The room became a blur of baby-doll pyjamas, bikini panties, and bras. Bras! The only one in the room who needed a bra was me. I had not even considered one until that moment. As the other girls flung their clothes around, I turned my back and stripped down to my cotton briefs and vest, then quickly yanked my nightgown over my head.
    â€˜Oh, a granny gown,’ Elizabeth-Ann said. ‘You look cosy.’ She sounded sincere, but at thirteen, who can tell?
    The giggling and chatter continued into the night. Once Mrs Ryan called out, ‘That’s it girls. Lights out.’
    Later Mr Ryan’s slurred, singsong voice called up from the bottom of the stairs, ‘If I hear any more giggling up there, I’ll have to come and paddle some pretty little