by R. M. Corbet
‘I suppose this has put you off marriage,’ she laughs.
‘It’s true,’ I say. ‘All men are evil.’
‘To chastity!’ Mum replies, holding up her cup.
‘Hang on! I thought we were talking about marriage, not sex.’
Mum’s jaw drops. ‘You haven’t, have you?’
‘No, and I’m not giving up before I even start.’
‘To true love, then.’
We clink our coffee cups. ‘To true love.’
Mum looks at me sheepishly. ‘Is there anyone you . . . ?’
‘Not really.’
‘That boy who telephoned? Is he still . . . ?’
‘Not really.’
‘Are you at all . . . ?’
‘Not really.’
‘Does not really really mean not really?’
‘Not really.’
We laugh and talk. We hold hands and eat too much cake. We stay until the café closes and neither of us mentions my father once.
When we get home, the house is in darkness. Everything is just as we left it, but Mum is suddenly on red alert.
‘He’s been here,’ she says. ‘I can smell that disgusting perfume.’
She looks in the bedrooms. She checks the cupboards and bookshelves, but nothing is missing. Then she opens the door to the cellar . . .
While we were out, my father has snuck into the house and taken all the wine bottles. Not just a few favourite reds; we’re talking about hundreds of bottles, some of them older than I am, all gone. Vanished into thin air. The wine cellar looks like a dungeon.
Mum goes totally bipolar. I’ve seen her cry before. I’ve seen her get angry. But I’ve never seen her rip up wedding photos and cut up my father’s suits. I’ve never seen her throw his shoes onto the roof and bend his golf clubs. I’ve never heard her use language like that, either.
‘The gutless b******!’
Mum calls the police and reports it as a break-in. She rings up a twenty-four-hour security company and gets them to come around and change the locks. When that’s done, she pours herself a whisky and slumps down on the couch.
‘We need a bigger TV!’ she announces. ‘And we need Foxtel!’
Then she remembers the wine bottles and falls apart again.
WILL
When a girl like Vanessa says, ‘Let’s go shopping for clothes,’ you have very few options.
‘I don’t like shopping’, ‘I don’t need new clothes’ – these are not options. The school year is almost over. The break-up party is on Saturday and Vanessa is putting her foot down.
‘I’m not taking you anywhere in that tracksuit,’ she says.
Vanessa is Versace and I am her supermodel. She is Picasso and I am her blank canvas. She is Coca-Cola and I am her billboard.
The clothing department at Target is understaffed. With our arms full of clothes, we find an empty change room. I begin trying things on while Vanessa sits outside, passing me different garments under the door. I come out to do a catwalk, so Vanessa can tell me what she thinks.
‘Nice in the bum!’
‘Bit tight at the front, though.’
‘That’s because they’re girls’ jeans.’
‘What!’
I’m inside the change booth, getting into my next pair of pants, when the door suddenly opens and there is Vanessa, looking me up and down in my jocks. In my hurry to pull up my pants, I lose my balance and fall over.
‘Sorry,’ she laughs. ‘I couldn’t help myself.’
In the end we agree on a pair of fake Doc Martens, some baggy canvas pants and a blue short-sleeved shirt. It’s more than I can afford, but Vanessa has an idea.
‘Do a swap,’ she says. ‘Leave your old clothes here and just walk out.’
‘I can’t do that.’
‘Sure you can. That’s a pretty fancy tracksuit, isn’t it?’
‘What about the security guard?’
Vanessa steps into the changing booth. There isn’t much room left after she closes the door. I feel her hand slip down the back of my pants as she pulls off the label. She does the same with the shirt and boots. There are no more labels, but the clothes still look new.
‘No way!’ I say. ‘They’ll know.’
‘One more thing,’ she says.
Vanessa kneels down in front of me. She sticks out her tongue and licks both her open hands. I watch in helpless amazement as she rubs her wet palms down the front of my pants, making them look wrinkled and worn.
‘How’s that?’ she says.
I am speechless.
My new clothes feel strange and slightly uncomfortable, but Vanessa reassures me I look much better. For a moment I really do consider leaving my tracksuit and runners behind in the change room, but of course I don’t.
When we finally walk out of the store, I can’t help but notice that the security guard is too busy staring at Vanessa to even notice me.
MIA
‘Really, Mia. You don’t have to.’
‘But Mum, I want to!’
Cooking is fun. Shopping is fun. When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping. After the success of my fettuccine Napoli, I am ready to do a Thai stir-fry!
The supermarket is chock-a-block with busy shoppers. The aisles are gridlocked with trolleys and the cash register queues are banked up for miles. ‘Price check on register three. Price check on register three . . . ’ It amazes me, how much food people buy. It amazes me how much time they spend standing in queues. If it wasn’t for the magazines with their Hollywood parties and celebrity traumas, I’m sure we’d all end up completely mad.
I am standing there reading about how Jennifer Aniston is being brave – again – when something catches my eye. I look up in horror as Will and Vanessa walk past together. They’re not exactly hand in hand, but it’s only a matter of time, I swear. Vanessa’s smile is like a machete as they cut their way through the crowd. And Will is wearing new clothes!
Oh, Jen! What are we going to do?
I come out of the supermarket with my trolley stacked with tins of baby corn and bamboo shoots, a packet of rice and all the magazines and chocolate bars I have suddenly bought on impulse. I will go home to my little girl’s bedroom and make myself into a pimply, fat reject.
Pushing my trolley through the car park, I see Dad’s four-wheel drive parked by the main entrance at the bottom of the sloping hill. A young woman is in the front seat, doing her lipstick in the rear-view mirror, puckering up and practising her smooches. I stand there, completely mesmerised. It’s her!
T*** looks like she’s in her early thirties. Her face is made up but not pretty. Her hair is blonde, but not natural. Her eyeliner is too heavy. Her earrings too glitzy. Why is she doing this, trying to make herself look beautiful for a middle-aged man? Why is she stealing someone’s husband, someone’s father, my father! I hate her! I hate her ugly face and her red puckering lips. That is my dad’s mirror. That is my dad’s car. T*** is sitting in my mum’s seat. It is because of her that my mum and dad don’t love each other. It is because of her that my viola is broken. It is because of her that Will is with Vanessa.
I hate her and I want to slap her stupid red mouth!
As hard as I can, I give my shopping trolley a push. With my fists clenched in furious revenge, I watch it hurtle towards Dad’s car. It is too late to run and stop it. It is out of control and picking up speed. The castor wheels are wobbling furiously, but the trolley stays right on course – a deadly missile, guided by hate.
T*** looks up just in time to see it coming. Her lips unpucker into comical disbelief. She sees me, standing there with this terrible look on my face, and when I see how it shocks her, I suddenly feel ashamed. Together, with a kind of helpless dread, we watch the trolley as it veers away just in time. It hits the gutter and falls with a loud crash, spilling shopping everywhere. Cars bank up and toot their horns as Tina gets out of the car and together, silently, we pick it all up. There is rice everywhere, as if someone just got marrie
d.
WILL
The whiskers on my chin are getting darker and more prickly. Growing sideburns might be several years away, but a goatee is now a definite possibility. Taking extra-special care, I shave my cheeks, my neck and under my jaw, trying to decide where the fluffy part ends and the goatee might start. A goatee would be good – I could stroke it to look like I was thinking. With a goatee, I could look like I’d finished school.
After a few failed experiments, I shave my chin and splash on some of Ken’s Old Spice. The aftershave burns but it helps stop shaving rash. I smell like a golfer, but the party is still three hours away – two hours and forty-five minutes, to be exact. I feel nervous, the way I usually feel before a big game of tennis, but it’s not just the party I feel nervous about. It’s what Ken might call performance anxiety.
Vanessa said she was so much looking forward to it. She said she would wear something raunchy, just for me. Raunchy – I looked it up. It means either vulgar and smutty, openly sexual or untidy. I am pretty sure Vanessa won’t be wearing anything untidy. I am pretty sure she is so much looking forward to more than just the party.
I imagine Vanessa in a skin-tight shiny-black Catwoman suit laced up the sides, wearing black knee-high boots and a black cat-mask. At the party she takes my hand and leads me off into a private room, with a tiger-skin rug and matching bedspread. Vanessa locks the door and tells me to lie down. She kneels beside me and strokes my shaved cheek with her dangerously long fingernails. She shows me which string to pull, the one that will undo all the laces of her cat-suit from top to bottom. I take the string lightly between my fingers and slowly pull, as Vanessa removes her cat-mask to reveal her true self. Except, suddenly she isn’t Vanessa anymore.
Mia?
What sort of a dumb fantasy is this? says Mia.
MIA
Normally, for something as important as the end-of-year break-up, I would go shopping for a new outfit. But because of everything that’s been happening lately, I haven’t been much in the mood.
To get ready for the party, I have a shower and blow-dry my hair. (I’m not asking Mum to help iron it.) I get all my best clothes and lay them out on the bed – all my pants, tops, skirts and dresses. One after the other I try them on, starting with the pants.
The 501s are too long – they need taking up. The red cotton pants are too short – somehow they’ve shrunk in the wash. The green denims are too loose round the waist. The stretch denims are too tight. The yellow pants are . . . yellow, what was I thinking? The black cords have lint on them, but so far they are my best bet.
The bluey-green top is fine, but I’ve worn it too much lately. The greeny-blue top makes me look schlumpy. The pink singlet – best with a red bra – has a stain on the front. The Billabong top looks pretty cool, but the pants are Billabong and I don’t want to look like a walking ad campaign. The black tops aren’t good with black pants – it’s not a funeral. The white tops are too bright – I don’t want to look like a waitress. The denim shirt is too ‘cowgirl’, and you can’t wear a cord shirt with cord pants, of course.
All my dresses are too light and summery, except for the ones that are too heavy and wintry. There are skirts, but skirts need tops, meaning the nightmare starts all over again. All my shoes are either too formal or too casual – there is nothing in between. The high heels are too high, impossible to dance in. The slip-ons are too loose and flappy.
I am in trouble. Even my jewellery is starting to look satanic.
When all else fails, I decide, make up your face.
I’ve never been a big make-up girl, so there isn’t much that can go wrong. A bit of lip gloss, some mascara, a touch of pink eye shadow and I’m done. In the mirror I see two rebel eyebrow hairs, hanging down in the most undesirable way. It takes three pairs of tweezers to get at them, and when I finally do, there is an ugly red blotch spreading halfway up my forehead. It’s an emergency! I wash my face in cold water then apply an icepack. The red blotch turns to pink, then fades to a cold, numb white, so I pinch the skin and apply a hot face washer to bring back the circulation.
I think about all those Hollywood stars in the glossy magazines – all the trouble they go to and how they complain about never being left alone. I think of Vanessa and what she might wear to the party. No matter what make-up or clothes I wear, compared to Vanessa, I will always look second-best. I am mad to be putting myself through so much hell.
With a big blob of cleansing cream, I rub off all my remaining make-up. Then, in a burst of fury, I throw all my clothes onto the floor and fall on my bed, crying.
I may as well wear a hessian sack, or a cardboard box that says fragile.
From the bottom drawer, I take out my shabby white tracksuit. It’s pilled and smells of mothballs, but at least it still fits me. I dig out my old runners and two odd socks. I tie my hair back in a ponytail and put on my glasses, even though I don’t really need them. I am going to the most important social event of my whole life and I look like a total idiot.
It feels fantastic!
WILL
‘Dave! Have you cleaned your teeth?’
‘Yes, Will.’
‘Are you sure, Dave?’
‘Sure, I’m sure, Will. You can check my toothbrush if you don’t believe me.’
‘Did you wet your toothbrush, Dave, just to trick me?’
‘You’re not my boss, Will! You can’t make me do something I don’t want to do!’
‘Do whatever you want, Dave. I don’t care if your teeth fall out.’
‘If I clean my teeth, Will, can I come to the party?’
‘No, Dave.’
‘Why not, Will?’
‘Because it’s late, Dave, and you’re going to bed.’
‘Will Mia be there, Will?’
‘Probably, Dave.’
‘Can we take Harriet out for a walk, Will?’
‘I’ll ask her, Dave.’
‘Please can I come to the party, Will?’
‘The party is just for the kids in my year, Dave. You wouldn’t know anyone.’
‘I’d know Mia!’
‘You can’t come, Dave.’
‘You’re mean, Will! You just don’t want me to come because you’re embarrassed. You don’t want everyone to know your brother is in a wheelchair.’
‘I don’t want everyone to know my brother is a pain in the arse!’
‘I want you to stay home, Will! I want you to stay home and look after me!’
‘I’m going to the party, Dave. And you’re not coming.’
‘You don’t care, Will! You don’t care about our family!’
MIA
The party is in a garage, at the back of a kid called Yorick’s house. There’s a table of food and drinks, a few coloured lights and a sound system. Yorick’s parents make a brief appearance to remind us that there is no alcohol allowed, then they wisely return to the house and leave us alone.
More important than what you wear to a party is how you wear it. If you turn up at a party with nipple chains and green spiky hair, it can go either way. People are either going to be impressed or they’re going to laugh at you. It all depends on your attitude. The only way to make the tracksuit work, I know, is to go with it and not to shy away. No apologies. No regrets. I’m wearing a white tracksuit and I’m comfortable. What could be simpler than that?
‘Hey, Mia! Cool outfit!’
‘Bold fashion statement, girl!’
‘It’s like what New York rappers wear, only . . . white!’
‘Actually,’ I say, ‘I’m wearing a sequined bikini underneath.’
It is my fifteen minutes of fame. I am the centre of attention. Everyone loves the tracksuit. It’s like the best fancy-dress outfit, except this isn’t a fancy-dress party. But then, fifteen minutes later, the novelty has worn off and there I am, stuck in my tracksuit.
WILL
Vanessa buys the cans while I wait outside in the street. She won’t need ID. In her silky new dress she looks twenty-
one, at least. Through the window I see her talking to the guys at the bar. Why is Vanessa coming to this party when she could be sitting in a pub getting free rounds of drinks? Why is she coming to the party with me?
Vanessa exits the bottle shop with a wink and we walk to the nearest bus stop. She pops the top of a can and takes a big long swig. Her mouth and lips almost kiss the can as she drinks and her throat makes little gulping sounds as she swallows.
Vanessa passes the can to me and I taste her lips as I drink from it. This is how kissing Vanessa would taste. Vanessa would kiss me like she swigs from a can. She would kiss me as if she was thirsty.
I am drinking from the can when suddenly Vanessa lies across the seat with her head in my lap! She closes her eyes and starts humming. It’s a tune I don’t know, but the message is clear. All I need to do is lean down and kiss her . . .
‘Would you like another swig?’ I say instead.
MIA
Finally, they arrive. Vanessa does her big entrance in a dress that is elegant and bra-less, while Will tags along like a bodyguard. He is wearing his new clothes and carrying some cans of bourbon and cola. By the way they’re both walking, it looks as though they’ve already drunk some.
While Vanessa is basking in the spotlight, Will wanders over.
‘What’s the difference,’ he says, ‘between a viola and a lawnmower?’
He opens a can and offers it to me. I take a sip and feel it go straight to my head.
‘A viola is sharper?’ I say.
Will laughs. His breath smells of alcohol and he’s forgotten the punchline.
‘You want another swig?’ he says.
‘I think you’ve had enough for both of us.’
Will looks at me strangely. ‘Both of us,’ he slurs. ‘That’s you and me, right?’
‘What are you talking about?’
His face is so drunk and serious now, it is almost touching. ‘I’m talking about you and me,’ he says. ‘I’m talking about us.’
‘You’re talking nonsense,’ I say.
Vanessa comes over. ‘Mia!’ she says. ‘You make us all look so overdressed! What’s that perfume you’re wearing? It smells like mothballs.’