me. I’m hoping they’ll just shut up and focus on the movies, but their conversation drags on and on:
Mr Perlman sucks; I’m going to get implants; I hate my split ends; Joel’s too good for Beth; I want a tatt here, but I don’t know what; does Chloe’s brother like me?; my nails keep chipping; can you see my cellulite?; I’ve got to lose three kilos before Brandon’s formal
.
Their dialogue is broken with laughs and farts and snorts. I feel like I’ve lived this night before. Even the horror film, when finally played, is predictable. Horror? Not even close.
They
are the fish, I realise. I see them in theirspotless bowl, swimming around in shallow circles. I used to cherish our group above all else, protecting our precious in-jokes from others who looked on in envy. These girls—and the other half-dozen guys and girls who ruled the bench outside D Block—were my world. We were real and loud and fearless. Our histories are etched into the wooden slats of that bench.
But now it’s me who’s looking in, though not with envy. How to lose three kilos in a week? I could tell them how to lose three kilos in a day. Split ends—are they kidding? And who the fuck cares about pimples? When your scalp itches like mine, your leg throbs like hell, and food still makes you want to spew, you stop looking for pimples that aren’t there. You stop laughing at jokes that aren’t funny. You stop thinking of ‘skinny’ as praise.
When I pretend to sleep, I hear the whispers not meant for me:
Did you invite her? Why has she been such a bitch? You were just trying to help. Rhys deserves better. Like Brooke
.
After the last movie ends and whispers turn to breaths, I check my phone. There’s a new SMS from Mum.
I know uve been here. $130 missing from jar. Come sort it out or leave for good. No more sneaking. Grow up!
I delete it and put the phone down. The time pulses: 2.59 a.m. Three a.m. It makes me wonder if he’s awake too. Zac. It’s been over three months. Long enough for him to forget me.
I hope he’s sleeping. I hope he’s not lying awake like me, too pathetic for tears. I hope he’s sleeping so deep that not even dreams can find him.
Fuck, I need to
think
. Plan A relied on my mum being a normal person. Plan B expected my boyfriend to be a man. Plan C was Shay and other girlfriends who always promised to do anything for me.
What I need now is a Plan D. D for desperate. D for do or die.
Before dawn I pick my way through them. The ends of my crutches find spaces between smooth limbs and curled palms. I step over long hair splashed across plump pillows. They sleep like babies. I’m not mad at them. It’s not their fault they don’t know better.
I swing above them and into the kitchen. Near the microwave is a handbag and, in it, a red purse. There’s a cropped photo of a happy young Shay, and two hundred bucks.
‘Sorry,’ I whisper. Another quick escape. Another mark against my name. This time, I’ll have to go further. I’ll go east, for real. As Mum said,
Sort it out or leave for good
.
I catch a bus to Central Station, then buy a ticket for as far as I can afford. It’ll have to do, for now.
A woman vacates the front seat for me. Reserved For Disabled Passengers
, the sign says. I take it.
I hold tight to my backpack. Inside is my mobileand charger, iPod and headphones, lip gloss, mascara, foundation, two T-shirts, trackpants, five pairs of undies, deodorant, driver’s licence, $416.80, a tube of pawpaw gel, a tub of Vitamin E moisturiser, and half a pack of OxyContin.
The bus shakes as it warms itself up and lurches us into the cold, blue city. In every street, I see the ghost of myself staring back.
I wish I’d packed a pillow to lean against the window. I wish I had more painkillers. I wish I had more money.
More than anything, I wish I had a better fucking plan.
15
ZAC
‘Morning, sunshine.’
Bec hands me a bucket and a long pair of gloves. I know I’m supposed to wear them while
Mr Perlman sucks; I’m going to get implants; I hate my split ends; Joel’s too good for Beth; I want a tatt here, but I don’t know what; does Chloe’s brother like me?; my nails keep chipping; can you see my cellulite?; I’ve got to lose three kilos before Brandon’s formal
.
Their dialogue is broken with laughs and farts and snorts. I feel like I’ve lived this night before. Even the horror film, when finally played, is predictable. Horror? Not even close.
They
are the fish, I realise. I see them in theirspotless bowl, swimming around in shallow circles. I used to cherish our group above all else, protecting our precious in-jokes from others who looked on in envy. These girls—and the other half-dozen guys and girls who ruled the bench outside D Block—were my world. We were real and loud and fearless. Our histories are etched into the wooden slats of that bench.
But now it’s me who’s looking in, though not with envy. How to lose three kilos in a week? I could tell them how to lose three kilos in a day. Split ends—are they kidding? And who the fuck cares about pimples? When your scalp itches like mine, your leg throbs like hell, and food still makes you want to spew, you stop looking for pimples that aren’t there. You stop laughing at jokes that aren’t funny. You stop thinking of ‘skinny’ as praise.
When I pretend to sleep, I hear the whispers not meant for me:
Did you invite her? Why has she been such a bitch? You were just trying to help. Rhys deserves better. Like Brooke
.
After the last movie ends and whispers turn to breaths, I check my phone. There’s a new SMS from Mum.
I know uve been here. $130 missing from jar. Come sort it out or leave for good. No more sneaking. Grow up!
I delete it and put the phone down. The time pulses: 2.59 a.m. Three a.m. It makes me wonder if he’s awake too. Zac. It’s been over three months. Long enough for him to forget me.
I hope he’s sleeping. I hope he’s not lying awake like me, too pathetic for tears. I hope he’s sleeping so deep that not even dreams can find him.
Fuck, I need to
think
. Plan A relied on my mum being a normal person. Plan B expected my boyfriend to be a man. Plan C was Shay and other girlfriends who always promised to do anything for me.
What I need now is a Plan D. D for desperate. D for do or die.
Before dawn I pick my way through them. The ends of my crutches find spaces between smooth limbs and curled palms. I step over long hair splashed across plump pillows. They sleep like babies. I’m not mad at them. It’s not their fault they don’t know better.
I swing above them and into the kitchen. Near the microwave is a handbag and, in it, a red purse. There’s a cropped photo of a happy young Shay, and two hundred bucks.
‘Sorry,’ I whisper. Another quick escape. Another mark against my name. This time, I’ll have to go further. I’ll go east, for real. As Mum said,
Sort it out or leave for good
.
I catch a bus to Central Station, then buy a ticket for as far as I can afford. It’ll have to do, for now.
A woman vacates the front seat for me. Reserved For Disabled Passengers
, the sign says. I take it.
I hold tight to my backpack. Inside is my mobileand charger, iPod and headphones, lip gloss, mascara, foundation, two T-shirts, trackpants, five pairs of undies, deodorant, driver’s licence, $416.80, a tube of pawpaw gel, a tub of Vitamin E moisturiser, and half a pack of OxyContin.
The bus shakes as it warms itself up and lurches us into the cold, blue city. In every street, I see the ghost of myself staring back.
I wish I’d packed a pillow to lean against the window. I wish I had more painkillers. I wish I had more money.
More than anything, I wish I had a better fucking plan.
15
ZAC
‘Morning, sunshine.’
Bec hands me a bucket and a long pair of gloves. I know I’m supposed to wear them while
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