Peeling the Onion by Wendy Orr Page B

go home. Mrs Ryan is nice; she doesn't act as if I'm drunk; gives me a red jumper which wouldn't be bad at all if you didn't know that it belonged to your host's mother. I still feel like an idiot. I wish I could stay in this bedroom all night.
    'Coming, Anna?' Hayden calls. 'The band's starting. You'll love them.'
    'Can you get them to turn it down a bit?' Mark's mum asks. 'It'll be a bit embarrassing if the neighbours ring the police about the noise.'
    Hayden tries, but apparently the amplifier doesn't go any lower. The noise rocks the shed; everyone's dancing. Hayden and I shuffle around, not so much dancing as holding. My face is against his chest; he runs his hands down my back till I could melt against him . . . I feel dizzy with love.
    The song stops. We stay together. The next number starts; fast; it turns into a drum solo. The drum vibrates through me, through my body, through my ears and my brain. It fills my head with blackness and knocks me to the ground.
    not fair not fair not fair not fair not fair not fair not fair not fair not fair not fair not fair not fair not fair not fair not fair not fair not fair

C HAPTER 9
    M other's Day. I give Mum Cakes For Every Day of the Year. 'Three hundred and sixty-five of them,' I explain. 'You'll be able to celebrate whatever you want.'
    'What's the worst?' asks Jenny.
    The pain in my neck. No; the foot's sharper. The ringing in my ears; the dizziness. The shaking, the spilling drinks, slobbering food. The not being able to do anything . . . Hayden not kissing me . . . The way it all doesn't stop. Why doesn't it stop?
    'Everything. I'm pissed off, Jen. I've had it.'
    For English this week Martin's set me two chapters to study and a poem to write. 'Try writing a poem that expresses how you feel about yourself,' he says. 'Show us the real you.'
    The real me? Fifteen weeks ago I might have known who she was—now I'm a mask and don't know whether I'm more scared of looking under it or letting other people know I'm afraid.
    But he wants a poem and he wants it deep and meaningful.
    Peeling like an onion,
    I am shedding filmy layers
    the firm white flesh revealing
    what's hidden deep inside.
    Opening like a babushka
    I am sorting wooden dolls
    the last hollow doll is holding
    the baby deep inside.
    Unwrapping like a present
    I am crumpling pretty papers
    under the crepe and ribbons
    there's a perfect gift inside.
    Which is a lie from one end to the other but might keep Martin happy.
    'You know the stuff we're doing on motivation in psych,' Jenny begins—but I'm still on stress, and it's bull.
    She ignores that. 'It's really got me in . . . you can apply it to people you know and things start to make sense.'
    'Like your friend going crazy because she broke her neck?'
    'Idiot! You're not crazy. I was thinking about Caroline—I had to try and get my head around how she could dump you like that . . . and why I hate her so badly now. I know she was mean to you and broke up our friendship—but I really hate her. Worse than you do.'
    God, I'm a selfish bitch. It's never struck me before that Jenny lost a friend too. 'And?'
    'I figure I feel a bit guilty.'
    'How could you feel guilty? I couldn't have made it through all this if you hadn't stuck around!'
    'You would have—but thanks. Anyway, I was reading this thing about survivor guilt and it was so cool! It just exactly described the way I feel.'
    'If you were a real friend you'd have broken your neck too?'
    'Something like that.'
    'Bad idea. So you figure Caroline's so competitive she'd have to go one step better and actually kill herself to still be my friend?'
    Jenny laughs. 'I hadn't thought of that one. But I still think it's something to do with being competitive—you know how good she was to you in hospital?'
    'Now you're trying to make me feel guilty—all those little presents.'
    'As if she had to be the best at being a best friend!'
    And if I'm really honest, did it work? Did part of me think that she