White Lady by Jessica Bell

androgynous, goddess. My left knee bounces up and down, the fat of my calf acting as an air bag. I press play on “Bird Song” by Lene Lovich in the “goddess” category and look at my window. It’s raining. The drops splatter on the glass like giant spitballs. All I want to do is jump. On a trampoline. I regret letting my dad throw it away.
    Trampoline in the rain, trampoline in the rain, Hi-Ho the Derry-O, trampoline in the rain …
    The phone rings, shrill in my left ear as I adjust my earphones, a mix between tweeting birds and nails down a blackboard. But I dance to my feet anyway, trying on the dub step moves, unsuccessfully, but who cares. Man, at the moment I feel like I could do anything.
    I yank the earphones from my ears and drop my iPod on the bed, dance to the living room, answer the phone; the smile on my face fades when I hear her voice.
    “Mia? Darling?”
    “Oh. Mum.”
    “How are you?”
    I look at my reflection in the picture frame on the wall, my face an essence within a nostalgic footy game, Dad in the motions of kicking the ball towards the goalposts, his mouth contorted with passion—young, handsome, pre-single father lost in the labyrinth of responsibility.
    “Same,” I say quietly.
    Lahhhst in a laaabrynth …
    “How’s your— How’s Nash?”
    I shrug. “Same.”
    Lahhhst in a laaabrynth …
    Silence. Saliva. Scent of suppressed hunger.
    Kids screaming, running in the street in the rain—it filters through the open window. I want to join them. Play hopscotch, clapping rhymes, grow up … nicer.
    “Ah… how’s—”
    “Why are you calling?” A dog barks and growls. Next-door neighbour tells it to move, it whimpers, a door slams shut.
    Mum laughs. Squeaky. Phoney. Small.
    “Sweetie, I’m just calling to see how you are.”
    Singsongy.
    Lahhhst in a laaabrynth …
    “You never call just to see how I am.”
    Mum inhales. Drama queen. I picture her nostrils flaring and bite dry skin off my top lip. Something pings through the phone. A microwave maybe. Or maybe Karter gave her a time limit on the phone, and this is her cue to get off. Wouldn’t be fucking surprised. Arse.
    “So. I did have a reason for calling actually. I just wanted to let you know that I’m coming to visit! Good news, isn’t it?”
    I hold my breath and look at my swollen ankles, my wrists, the ring I can’t remove from my middle finger. My cheeks flush——an urgent need to run, to run anywhere—pinches just below the surface of my skin like an itch, an itch, the creepy crawlies in my bones, eyes hot, they sting, like I need some water, I’ve been forgetting the water, forgetting to eat, when did I eat, when did I stop thinking about the chocolate under my bed, oh shit, oh shit, oh fuck, visit? What? When when when?
    “When?” I ask.
    “Oh. I was thinking … around a month?”
    I shriek, “A month?”
    “A month isn’t good? What’s happening? You going away or something? I don’t want to intrude, just let me know when it’s a good time, the last thing I want to do is—”
    “No! No, it’s fine, I mean, I was just … just surprised. Happy surprised, you know. I … er … I miss you.” I roll my eyes. What am I going to do? How am I going to lose all this weight in only one month? I can’t let her see me like this.
    “Oh, that’s a relief. For a moment there I thought you didn’t want me to see you.”
    I choose not to answer that. “Is, uh, Karter coming too?”
    “No.” Mum scoffs under her breath.
    I nod. The receiver sweats in my hand, I grip it tighter; I want to strangle it. The voices outside, the kids’ voices, they seem louder—are they coming over? Do they want to play? Has it stopped raining? There’s no noise, it’s just a hum, a thick hum around my head, creeping up my nose, sleeping on my eyelashes, hammocks to the sound waves.
    Sleeeeepang on mah ahhhlashes …
    “I’ll bring you some really nice designer outfits. How’s that sound? You’re still the same size,