Pretty Girls Don't Eat

by Winnie Salamon

  ‘You’ve just got to down it. Like this,’ Melody explained, devouring the liquid within seconds.

  George and I looked at her in awe.

  ‘It’s in the genes,’ she said, deadpan.

  By the time we left my house we were all pretty drunk. We staggered to Liam’s place singing old Nirvana songs.

  ‘Kurt Cobain was so awesome,’ George said. ‘I wish I lived back then.’

  ‘He was a drug addict who shot himself in the head!’ Melody said.

  ‘Mum says it’s a travesty that they play Nirvana on Gold 104. She said they even play it at her gym.’ I did my best Mum impersonation, which involved waving my hands about in an exaggerated fashion while rolling my eyes up towards the sky. ‘Poor Kurt would be rolling in his grave.’

  We all laughed.

  ‘Whoa,’ George stared up at Liam’s house, unsteady on his feet. ‘Check this place out!’

  Facing Princes Park, it was one of the tastefully renovated double storey terraces that I admired when I walked home from school. It was really beautiful, with a cottage garden and paved path leading to a shiny red front door. Music blared from the backyard and a couple of kids who were sitting on the balcony looked down and waved.

  Melody turned to me, her shiny dark hair falling over the shoulders of her new rose print tee. She was wearing the leather leggings I made and she looked like a total rock star.

  ‘I can’t believe we’re here.’ I admit I was kind of awestruck.

  ‘Me neither,’ George said, tugging the Rob Zombie tee he’d paired with his leopard print slacks. He hadn’t been allowed out all week because of the homemade Mohawk he’d spontaneously decided to give himself. He said that when his dad saw him he looked like he was going to burst with shame and humiliation. ‘You’d think I’d murdered the next door neighbour’s new puppy,’ George said when he told us the story.

  ‘Down the back,’ a girl in a white hippy dress yelled from the balcony. ‘Everyone’s down the back.’

  I was feeling buzzy as we walked down the side of the house. A green wall of cascading plants covered the fence, like a scene from The Secret Garden. Coloured fairy lights glistened in the courtyard. There were kids everywhere, smoking, drinking, chatting. A couple of girls were dancing to what I think was Tom Waits and a girl with a perfect pixie cut was pashing some guy in black skinny jeans over in the corner.

  ‘I can’t believe people are smoking,’ Melody scoffed. ‘Seriously. Who does that anymore? I mean, besides my mum.’

  ‘The fashion pack has arrived,’ Liam announced as he approached us. ‘You all look fab. Glad you could make it. There are some plastic cups on the table over there and I think Stella is bringing out some food. Enjoy.’

  Unlike the three of us, Liam is popular and charismatic, the kind of boy who seems older than he actually is, like the twenty-something actors who play teenagers on an array of unrealistic teen soaps I won’t name here. He is tall and athletic with curly blond hair and a goofy smile, and twinkly eyes that make everyone fall just a little bit in love with him. Totally out of my league, of course, but still worthy of a fantasy or two.

  ‘Oh. My. God,’ George exclaimed.

  ‘What is it?’ I was a little worried, George was almost jumping out of his skin.

  ‘James just made eye contact and waved. What should I do?’

  ‘Go and say hi,’ Melody commanded. ‘Winter and I will be fine.’

  George eyed the drinks table. ‘I’ll just grab another drink.’

  Melody tugged his arm. ‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘Slurring is not sexy. Trust me.’

  Because George almost always takes Melody’s advice he courageously approached James. Melody and I sat in the courtyard and drank the champagne we’d noticed in the ice-filled kiddie pool designed to fuel a night of liver smashing, brain cell-crushing underage drinking.

  ‘Cheers,’ Melody declared. ‘We are not here to impress anyone so let’s have fun.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Stuff it!’

  And that’s when I spilled my drink all over the crotch of some random stranger who was just trying to find a place to sit down. I don’t even know how it happened. But what I do know is that the wet patch on his pale blue jeans made him look like he’d pissed himself.

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. It was an accident. I’m sure I’ve got some tissues somewhere in here.’ I started rummaging through my bag. No luck.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ the wet patch boy’s friend said. ‘Mind if we join you?’

  These boys were a far cry from the skinny-jeaned hipsters that were populating this party. In fact, they were refreshingly geeky and out of place.

  ‘I’m Nick and this is my friend Oliver,’ said the dark-haired one with dry jeans and a Star Wars tee. ‘How do you know Liam?’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said to the wet patch boy, aka Oliver, again. He had ginger hair and freckles, but there was something about him that made him cute. His sparkly green eyes, maybe. Or the way he laughed and said, ‘You don’t have to keep apologising. This happens to me all the time.’

  Melody nudged me. ‘He’s funny.’

  It turned out the boys knew Liam from taekwondo, which surprised me as Liam didn’t seem the martial arts type. Nick and Oliver, on the other hand, were black belt geeks through and through. They told us they went to one of those high achieving all-boys schools, which they both hated but considered academically helpful as Nick aimed to get into medicine, which got Melody all animated and the two of them started talking non-stop, ignoring both Oliver and me.

  ‘So,’ I slurred slightly, having no idea what to talk about. ‘Taekwondo, huh? I don’t really do sports, as you can probably tell – whoa, I love this song, even though I bet they’re playing it ironically.’

  ‘People say Flock of Seagulls were one hit wonders, but their whole album is actually pretty good.’

  I almost fell off my chair. ‘You like Flock of Seagulls? No one likes them … well, no one our age, anyway!’

  ‘Don’t tell anyone,’ Oliver murmured, looking concerned, ‘but I have a thing for 80s music.’

  ‘Please tell me you are obsessed with Talking Heads.’ I was getting excited. ‘I even love their outfits.’

  ‘Totally,’ Oliver agreed. ‘Though do they trump Devo? That’s the question.’

  I was just about to get into the pros and cons of each band when I started to feel a little queasy. Okay, very queasy.

  ‘I don’t feel so good,’ I said. ‘I think I drank too much.’

  ‘It’s okay. I’ll get you some water.’ Oliver stumbled away to the kitchen.

  If I weren’t so humiliated by the fact that I was now vomiting into a pot plant I would have been secretly thrilled that a boy was doing something nice for me. Then I heard the screams. And a crash. And someone yelling, ‘Call triple zero!’

  Oliver came rushing back with the water. ‘Something’s happened in the front yard.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ I grabbed the water and drank it thankfully.

  Everyone was rushing through the house, trampling the polished floorboards and Moroccan rugs, to find out what was going on.

  ‘Oh my God!’ a girl yelled.

  ‘Hannah! Hannah!’ screamed another.

  ‘The paramedics are on their way,’ someone said. ‘Don’t move her. They said not to move her.’

  A white blob lay in the front yard. It was the white hippy dress girl from the balcony. She was so still she looked dead. Melody came and stood beside me with Nick. Oliver held my hand. The yard was spinning and I felt hot. ‘Sober up, sober up,’ I said to myself, a horrible vomity taste filling my mouth.

  ‘What happened?’ I asked.

  George came rushing over, ashen-faced. ‘James and I were up there with her. There was a bunch of us. She was just mucking around, dancing and stuff, and then she fell off.’

  My stomach churned. ‘Will she be okay?’

  ‘It depends on how she fell,’ Melody said. ‘I think she landed on th
e garden, which is better than a concrete path.’

  The paramedics told us all to get out of their way as they rushed across the lawn toward the girl. ‘Where are your parents?’ asked a young woman, who didn’t look that much older than us. ‘Are there any adults here?’

  ‘They’re in the UK,’ Liam replied. ‘For another week.’

  ‘Is she going to be all right?’ someone cried out. ‘Please tell us.’

  ‘She’s unconscious. The best thing you can do for your friend right now is get out of the way and let us do our job.’

  It felt wrong to stick around.

  ‘Let’s go home,’ Melody said.

  ‘We’ll walk with you.’ Oliver and Nick looked at us. ‘Make sure you get back safely.’

  So George left with James and Melody and I walked with the two boys. Nobody knew what to say or how to behave. I felt sick and so tired all I could think about was my bed. When we got to my place I could barely muster up the energy to wave goodbye. I just went up to my room and passed out in my new lace dress, letting my make-up smudge the pillow while Tim Gunn stared down at me all dapper, dignified and disapproving.

  Make it work.

  Chapter 7: Wake Up

  I woke up to a text from Melody.

  Have u checked Facebook????

  It was filled with pictures of Hannah, the girl with the white hippy dress. There she was in hiking boots on top of a mountain, in a bikini with her good-looking friends on a white sandy beach. Wearing sunglasses and drinking from a coconut. Smiling in her private girls’ school uniform.

  Wake up soon beautiful girl.

  We love you xxxxxxx

  Keep fighting. We know you can get through this.

  There was a message from one of Hannah’s friends telling everyone that Hannah was in a coma and that the doctors weren’t able to say when or even if she would wake up.

  As you can imagine, her family is distraught. We will keep you updated on Facebook.

  I texted Melody back.

  It looks bad. What should we do?

  What can we do? We don’t even know her. It sucks, Melody replied.

  My head was pounding and I had a taste in my mouth that was even worse than last night’s vomit. I was wet with sweat and hungry and nauseous at the same time. I needed a shower but it was a risk. I couldn’t let Mum see me like this.

  I opened my bedroom door as quietly as I could. Mum and Dad were in the kitchen sitting in front of their laptop. They were Skyping Spencer. I had my moment. They didn’t even look up as I tiptoed to the bathroom and took a couple of headache tablets. Mum always keeps a packet handy. I’ve heard Dad tell her off for taking them too often but she totally ignores him.

  Spencer, as you know, is my big brother. Three months ago, he and his girlfriend Amanda moved to LA to become actors/models. To tell you the truth, I don’t miss him. I mean, Spencer and I have never been close. Not just because he’s four years older than me, but he may as well be from another planet. Growing up, all he wanted to do was play sport and be popular. He called me Fatty Boomba when I ran. When Dad was around he told Spencer to shut it when he called me names, but Mum always said it was normal for brothers to torment their sisters. Mum adores him, so as you can imagine, it was a dark day for her when Spencer left.

  I wanted to say goodbye to Spencer at home, but Mum insisted we go to the airport in the middle of the night to see my brother off. She wouldn’t stop fussing, telling him over and over to check his passport and hotel reservation.

  ‘You don’t want to get to LA and have nowhere to go! Can you imagine? My boy lost in that big city?’

  ‘I’m fine, Mum,’ Spencer kept repeating. ‘Amanda will be with me, remember? We know what we’re doing.’

  ‘I know. I’m proud of you, honey.’ Mum gave my brother another hug before we hopped into Dad’s practical Subaru. Mum tried, trust me, but the Mustang could not hold Spencer’s luggage. When I joked that Spencer’s suitcase was stuffed silly with his collection of metrosexual beauty products Dad laughed, but Mum scowled and demanded, ‘Be supportive, Winter.’

  The plan was to meet Amanda and her parents at the airport. I don’t know what I was thinking, rocking up in my donut-print pyjamas and Ugg boots. I’d always been intimidated by Amanda, who was confident and arrogant in the way only the willowy and conventionally beautiful know how to pull off. Not that I knew Amanda well. She had only been on the scene for a few months, so their international sojourn was a little controversial to say the least. Mum approved of Amanda’s hotness, but if there’s one person in this world she loves more than anything, it’s Spencer. After he announced his plans to try and forge an international fame-fuelled career I overheard Mum crying to Dad about how it felt like a piece of her heart was being ripped away.

  While I’d still rather have been home in bed I was more than a little curious to check out Amanda’s family. We’d never seen them before, but I’d heard they were rich and semi-famous in the Melbourne social scene. Spencer said Amanda’s mother, aka Marianne St John, was asked to audition for a role in The Social Landmines of Melbourne but turned it down. Apparently she is too classy for reality TV. Of course I’d googled her and seen photos, but nobody could be prepared for what appeared before us at Tullamarine airport.

  We found them at Gloria Jeans. Surrounded by the discarded takeaway cups and spilt sugar of previous diners, along with a couple of extremely tired-looking families in outfits that rivalled my own, the St Johns were so spectacular they virtually shimmered.

  Not that Amanda had to try all that hard. Her hair was up in a messy model-off-duty topknot, highlighting her face that was all big eyes, full lips, a little bit elfin-looking. Had her eyes been a little wider, her chin slightly pointier, she would have looked like a scary cult member. But luckily for her she was perfectly proportioned. Amanda even had the coveted gap between her top front teeth. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to look like that. To have been given that gift, for life to be made so much easier just because of a winning genetic combination. Her father, Max, was what Mum refers to as a ‘silver fox’, maybe not George Clooney exactly, but I could see Mum blush a little when she shook his hand. But Marianne, she was in another league altogether.

  First off, being Persian, she had an accent so exotic it didn’t seem real. Her olive skin was virtually unlined, with no obvious signs of Botox or plastic surgery. Her long dark hair flowed and shone like the highest quality crêpe de Chine. She was practically dripping with gold, her long manicured fingers covered in rings. As she stood and walked towards us, smiling a wonderful, not too fake-looking smile, I noticed her shoes. Black pumps. But these were no Nine West designer knock-offs. Mum and I had watched enough Social Landmines episodes to know exactly what a red sole means. $800 Christian Louboutin’s, that’s what.

  Dad and I were the odd ones out. There was no doubting that for a second.

  Marianne exuded elegant wealth, like Princess Kate or Princess Mary. Mum, on the other hand, preferred a more edgy Kate Moss style. Together they made quite a combination as they talked about how proud they were of their babies who had the courage to go forth and follow their dreams. While Dad talked to Max, I tried to talk to Amanda about her plans for LA. Neither of us was particularly interested, but we made the effort.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ I asked. ‘It sounds very exciting.’

  ‘Well, we have to get headshots and an agent. There’s a lot to organise. But we know some people and I have a really good feeling about this,’ Amanda told me.

  You hear stories all the time about people who try to make it in Hollywood and end up teaching Pilates. But there was no self-doubt in Amanda.

  ‘Well, if all else fails, you can always become a Scientologist,’ I said.

  Amanda sipped her skinny-whatever and turned away, joining in the conversation between the two glamazon mothers. I swear, she never so much as looked at me again.

  Me? I just wanted to get out of there.

  Unfortunate
ly, we had to stick around drinking coffees and making chitchat. Amanda and Spencer were on the edge of their seats and more than once said something like, ‘We really should get going.’

  But it was the parents who wouldn’t let them leave, until finally they had no choice.

  ‘Mum,’ Spencer insisted. ‘We’ll miss our flight if we don’t go through now.’

  ‘Of course,’ Mum agreed. ‘The time just goes by so fast.’

  To give her credit, Mum tried hard to contain herself and when she finally had to hug Spencer goodbye she even cracked a lame joke about him buying her a house next door to a Kardashian when he hit the big time. But on the way home she cried and cried and cried. Nothing Dad or I said made any difference. She was completely shattered in a way I’d never seen before.

  ‘Amanda’s family sure are good-looking,’ I said, trying to take a light and gossipy angle. ‘I mean, seriously. They are straight from a TV series about a really good-looking family who intimidate everyone with their good looks.’

  ‘Is there a show like that?’ Dad asked. ‘I can’t think of one.’

  ‘Maybe we should pitch it and they could be the stars!’ I suggested.

  ‘Nobody wants to watch that,’ Dad said. ‘Too depressing. People only want to hear about losers who make them feel better about themselves.’

  ‘What about the Kardashians?’

  ‘Bunch of weirdos,’ Dad said.

  But while Dad and I joked around, Mum simply sobbed.

  Of course a part of me wondered if she’d feel the same way if I decided to head off to LA to ‘make it’. I bet she’d just tell me to go on a diet. ‘Everyone in Hollywood is so thin’, she’d say.

  ‘Why do you like Spencer so much?’ I wanted to ask her. ‘Why have you always liked him better than me?’

  But I already knew the answer. Spencer was beautiful and I was not.

  I heard my phone beep when I got out of the shower. I picked it up casually, assuming it would be Melody wanting to gossip about the night before and ease her guilt about drinking too much when she had so much study to do AND a possible genetic predisposition to drug and alcohol addiction.