blokes. My first idea was to cover myself in blue make-up and go as someone with
hypothermia, but then Ami suggested going as a shark-attack victim. Nothing to do with winter, but too good an idea to pass up.
This involved a number of visits to the local charity shop, which of course I was happy about. When I first started going there it was because none of my old clothes fitted – neither my
body nor my personality – so I’d bundled pretty much everything I owned into a bag and chucked it away. But I had limited money for replacements, hence the charity shopping. I never
expected to find things I actually liked – but that’s exactly what happened.
The hunt part became addictive. In normal shops you just walk in and see something that looks OK, then check for your size. It didn’t work like that in op shops though. I had to be
patient. Sometimes – often – I came home empty-handed. But there were times when I found something so lush that it made all the failed visits worthwhile. The best bit was that my
purchases only ever cost a couple of dollars.
Sourcing my formal outfit was one of those sweet experiences. I found a dress right at the back of the shop, folded up with the fifty-cent bed sheets, and even before I smoothed it out I knew it
would be perfect. A bit mouldy with age and tight in the waist, but beautiful anyway – pale minty-green with little beads sewn on to the bodice. Something that a girl from the 1950s probably
wore to her school formal. Except that she wouldn’t have worn it the way I was planning to.
Later, as I held the scissors above my new purchase, I found myself hesitating. Poor dress. It had really come down in the world. But then I thought about how amazing it would look when
I’d finished and I stopped feeling like I was destroying the dress and told myself that this was more like re-creation . I had to do it anyway. This would be my way of letting everyone
at the formal know that I wasn’t taking the event seriously.
On the night of the dance, I put the dress on and smeared the skin that was exposed by the ‘shark bite’ with fake blood. I didn’t even mind that my pudgy
stomach was showing. Blood smears can be very flattering when they’re applied vertically.
Ami directed me while I did my hair. Prissy on one side. Chaos on the other. When I’d finished, she nodded. ‘Perfect.’
I had to go into Mum’s room to see my reflection. My mirror was another thing I’d removed, post-clinic. The shark-attack side was only visible if I turned to the left. From the other
angle I looked completely normal. It was this side that freaked me out the most.
‘I look so …’
‘Pretty,’ smirked Ami, drawing out the word so it rang in my ears. ‘Preeeeetty.’
I clasped my hands together. Fluttered my eyelids. Channelling the 1950s girl who’d once owned the dress.
‘Maybe some dreamy guy will dance with me tonight,’ I said in a sugary voice. ‘That would be so peachy .’
I put on my shoes. Mint-green kitten heels – another op shop purchase and one I never thought I’d actually wear. They were perfect, especially with just a tiny splattering of
blood.
‘Well, Cinderella, I wonder what Lachlan will think of your outfit?’ said Ami.
‘That’s something we’ll never know,’ I said, ignoring the sudden lightness I felt. ‘Seeing as I’m going to avoid him. And we’ll only be there for half
an hour. Max .’
All the same, it was an interesting question.
The formal was being held at the town hall, a lush old building down on the esplanade with all these crazy turrets. It was painted a pale creamy colour and because it was the
tallest building on the street it loomed up against the evening sky like an oversized sandcastle. As Mum turned onto the esplanade, I started catching glimpses of people from school. Sadly
I’d been right about the bikinis and little fur-trimmed skirts. Seriously. Some people are insane.
My feeling of dread had started
hypothermia, but then Ami suggested going as a shark-attack victim. Nothing to do with winter, but too good an idea to pass up.
This involved a number of visits to the local charity shop, which of course I was happy about. When I first started going there it was because none of my old clothes fitted – neither my
body nor my personality – so I’d bundled pretty much everything I owned into a bag and chucked it away. But I had limited money for replacements, hence the charity shopping. I never
expected to find things I actually liked – but that’s exactly what happened.
The hunt part became addictive. In normal shops you just walk in and see something that looks OK, then check for your size. It didn’t work like that in op shops though. I had to be
patient. Sometimes – often – I came home empty-handed. But there were times when I found something so lush that it made all the failed visits worthwhile. The best bit was that my
purchases only ever cost a couple of dollars.
Sourcing my formal outfit was one of those sweet experiences. I found a dress right at the back of the shop, folded up with the fifty-cent bed sheets, and even before I smoothed it out I knew it
would be perfect. A bit mouldy with age and tight in the waist, but beautiful anyway – pale minty-green with little beads sewn on to the bodice. Something that a girl from the 1950s probably
wore to her school formal. Except that she wouldn’t have worn it the way I was planning to.
Later, as I held the scissors above my new purchase, I found myself hesitating. Poor dress. It had really come down in the world. But then I thought about how amazing it would look when
I’d finished and I stopped feeling like I was destroying the dress and told myself that this was more like re-creation . I had to do it anyway. This would be my way of letting everyone
at the formal know that I wasn’t taking the event seriously.
On the night of the dance, I put the dress on and smeared the skin that was exposed by the ‘shark bite’ with fake blood. I didn’t even mind that my pudgy
stomach was showing. Blood smears can be very flattering when they’re applied vertically.
Ami directed me while I did my hair. Prissy on one side. Chaos on the other. When I’d finished, she nodded. ‘Perfect.’
I had to go into Mum’s room to see my reflection. My mirror was another thing I’d removed, post-clinic. The shark-attack side was only visible if I turned to the left. From the other
angle I looked completely normal. It was this side that freaked me out the most.
‘I look so …’
‘Pretty,’ smirked Ami, drawing out the word so it rang in my ears. ‘Preeeeetty.’
I clasped my hands together. Fluttered my eyelids. Channelling the 1950s girl who’d once owned the dress.
‘Maybe some dreamy guy will dance with me tonight,’ I said in a sugary voice. ‘That would be so peachy .’
I put on my shoes. Mint-green kitten heels – another op shop purchase and one I never thought I’d actually wear. They were perfect, especially with just a tiny splattering of
blood.
‘Well, Cinderella, I wonder what Lachlan will think of your outfit?’ said Ami.
‘That’s something we’ll never know,’ I said, ignoring the sudden lightness I felt. ‘Seeing as I’m going to avoid him. And we’ll only be there for half
an hour. Max .’
All the same, it was an interesting question.
The formal was being held at the town hall, a lush old building down on the esplanade with all these crazy turrets. It was painted a pale creamy colour and because it was the
tallest building on the street it loomed up against the evening sky like an oversized sandcastle. As Mum turned onto the esplanade, I started catching glimpses of people from school. Sadly
I’d been right about the bikinis and little fur-trimmed skirts. Seriously. Some people are insane.
My feeling of dread had started
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