But I was wrong.
Wanna hang out this afternoon? The message from an unknown number said.
My phone beeped again.
This is Oliver, btw. From the party.
My heart started to beat so fast I had to sit down. Oliver! I knew we’d hit it off because of the whole 80s music connection. Sure, he’d asked me to program my number into his phone, but as my emotional hangover took hold I worried that I had in fact been a slurry drunken bore. And there was the whole vomit-in-a-pot-plant situation. Well. Let’s just say that while I was in the shower scrubbing myself with Mum’s geranium shower gel I’d accepted the fact that Oliver was just another boy who didn’t find me attractive.
I texted back.
OK.
‘Oooh, you look nice,’ Dad commented when I walked into the kitchen. ‘Where are you off to?’
‘Nowhere,’ I fibbed. ‘Just hanging out with some friends.’
‘Cute dress,’ Mum said. ‘Did you make it?’
‘Yeah.’ It was just a simple floral tea dress I’d designed myself.
‘Isn’t she talented?’ Mum said to Dad, then turned back to me. ‘We were just Skyping Spencer. He got a call back for Hoochilicious Party Bandits! God, I love that show.’
‘Wow,’ I said, spooning yoghurt into a bowl. But I was too nervous to eat. I didn’t want to stuff this up.
Chapter 8: Does the Dog Park Even Count as a Date?
There are first dates and there are first dates. As in, I had never been on a date before in my whole entire life, but I’ve watched enough romantic comedies to question whether meeting a boy in a urine-rich dog park even counts.
‘I was going to suggest roller skating but I figured it was too nice a day to be indoors,’ Oliver said as I approached.
‘So I guess I didn’t tell you I’m scared of dogs,’ I quipped, looking at the giant black mutt of a thing standing beside Oliver. His face dropped. ‘I’m just kidding.’
‘Well then, meet Bruce.’
I gave Bruce a pat and he slobbered all over my hand. I laughed and pretended that I wasn’t totally grossed out and paranoid about contracting tapeworm.
‘He likes you,’ Oliver said. ‘And he’s been known to bite.’
I must have looked concerned because Oliver laughed again. ‘Just kidding.’
We sat on a grassy hill and watched Bruce sniff other dogs’ bums.
‘I’ve just noticed that dogs are really gross. I hope you don’t mind being here.’ Oliver sounded a little nervous as Bruce licked the privates of some curly-haired designer creation.
‘Nah,’ I replied. ‘We used to have a dog, Penny. But she died last year.’
‘That sucks.’
‘She was more Mum’s dog. One of those small hairless things. She always had to wear a jacket.’
‘Oh, a Chinese crested hairless dog?’
‘Gee, you know your mutts.’
‘I secretly want to be a vet,’ Oliver told me. ‘But Mum dreams that I’ll become the next Steve Jobs, only with a much healthier respect for conventional medicine.’
I laughed so hard I had tears coming out of my eyes.
‘Well, I think vets are great,’ I said, finally.
Oliver told me that growing up with a single mother has pressures, that he feels he should be grateful for all the sacrifices she’d made. I didn’t really know what to say. I couldn’t imagine my mum ever being on her own.
‘Let’s go for a walk,’ Oliver said. ‘Want to?’
We ended up at the Melbourne cemetery. The sun shone and Oliver and I talked and talked and talked while Bruce ran about sniffing tombstones. I was having such a good time I forgot I was on a semi-date and instead of being nervous, I never wanted the time to end. Oliver was so funny, and he always seemed to get what I was talking about when other people probably would have considered me a weirdo.
‘My mum loves Elvis,’ I remarked as we stood in front of the Elvis Presley memorial. ‘When I was a kid we used to come here on bike rides and once we even left a little teddy bear for him.’
‘My mum loves Neil Young. She thinks he’s a total dreamboat.’
‘Dreamboat! Who says that anymore?’
‘My mother.’ Oliver smirked.
‘And about that crusty old dude?’
‘I’m warning you now,’ Oliver said. ‘That when you meet my mum never, ever refer to Neil Young as a “crusty old dude”.’
When.
I looked at Oliver. He was tall, maybe 180 centimetres, and lanky. He was wearing an ancient-looking Iron Maiden T-shirt and tattered jeans. He wasn’t super hot or anything but for some reason that made me like him more. I liked how his hair was all messy, like he’d just woken up, and he wore black Doc Marten boots like the ones my parents wore in old photos from before I was even born. I imagined myself kissing him but then Oliver’s phone beeped and he checked it straightaway.
‘I should head back,’ he said eventually. ‘My aunty is coming over for dinner.’
‘Yeah, me too,’ I lied. ‘I promised my parents I’d be back for tea.’
I would have stayed out all night if he’d asked me, no matter how much trouble I would have been in with my parents.
‘I’ll walk you home, though,’ Oliver said.
‘It’s okay. You don’t have to.’
‘I know, but I want to.’
On the way home I told Oliver all about Spencer and his potential role on Hoochilicious Party Bandits. Oliver had never heard of the show so he googled it on his phone and said that Louisa Bandit reminded him of Jackie Collins.
‘You know Jackie Collins but you don’t know Louisa Bandit?’ I teased.
‘There’s a reason my friends call me Grandma.’
‘They don’t!’
‘Okay, no. But they should!’
I laughed and when we got back to my place we stood awkwardly at the gate while I patted Bruce.
‘So I guess I’ll see you around,’ I said.
‘Yeah,’ Oliver replied. ‘Definitely.’
The light was really beautiful, kind of golden, and the street was quiet as a ghost town.
‘Okay, bye.’ I stalled.
But after some more awkward shuffling I turned and headed inside. I looked around before opening the door but Oliver was already walking down the street with Bruce.
Chapter 9: Pretty Girls Don’t Eat
Pro ‘ana’ and ‘mia’ websites
by Winter Mae Jones
• Calories will never fulfil you.
• You can spend every day wishing you had a better body. Or do something about it!
• Before you take a bite remember your priorities. Which would you prefer? A fat and bloated stomach or a lovely thigh gap?
• Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.
• Skip dinner, wake up thinner.
• Repeat after me: revenge body.
• Fasting tip: spin around until you are dizzy and nauseous. Your cravings will disappear.
• Think like a thin girl. Breathe like a thin girl. Move like a thin girl. Eat like a thin girl. One day you’ll be a thin girl.
• Stand naked in front of the mirror as often as possible. Still want that burger and fries?
• Keep calm and stop eating.
• Never reward yourself with food. You’re not a dog.
• Pretty girls don’t eat.
• Pretty girls don’t eat.
• Pretty girls don’t eat.
‘This is so disturbing,’ Melody said, handing the beginnings of my English assignment back to me. ‘I mean, seriously. “Revenge body”? Hand me a barf bag right this minute.’
‘I know, right? There’s stuff like this all over the Internet.’
‘What are you talking about?’ George asked, joining us at our usual lunchtime spot.
‘Sporty.’ Melody smirked as she checked out his latest look.
George was wearing a pair of jogging shorts that looked like they were from 1982 with a striped T-shirt
and sweatband.
‘Vintage activewear.’ George twirled around. ‘Tada!’
‘Nowadays referred to as athleisure,’ I said.
‘You two are freaks.’ Melody rolled her eyes.
‘I was just telling Melody about my English research project,’ I continued. ‘I’m looking at pro “ana” and “mia” websites.’
George looked confused.
‘They’re basically websites set up by people with eating disorders to inspire other people with eating disorders to become as skinny as possible,’ I explained. ‘There’s all this controversy surrounding them because some people argue that they offer an invaluable support system to those suffering from anorexia and bulimia.’
‘What a load of crap,’ Melody interjected. ‘How is telling people to eat naked in front of the mirror supportive in any way?’
‘I guess it’s a way to find other people who are going through the same thing as you,’ I pointed out.
‘Yeah, great,’ Melody said. ‘How to Vomit Up Your Dinner 101.’
‘Yuck,’ George said. ‘What’s so good about being skinny anyway?’
It’s easy for George and Melody to be dismissive of people trying to lose weight because they have no idea what it’s like to be fat. But I didn’t say anything and we spent the rest of lunchtime listening to George recount his first kiss with James for the billionth time.
‘It was so romantic,’ he reminisced. ‘Like a movie.’
I knew I shouldn’t be jealous. George was so happy. But still, it was kind of torturous.
‘There’s no way I’m getting into a relationship until I’ve got my medical degree,’ Melody declared before taking a bite of the sausage roll she’d picked up from the canteen. ‘Too distracting.’
‘But you’ll be old by then!’ I said.
‘Twenty-five isn’t that old,’ Melody said.
‘Gosh.’ George shuddered. ‘I’d shrivel up like an old prune if I had to wait that long to get laid.’
‘I didn’t say I wouldn’t have casual sex,’ Melody clarified. ‘Jeez, you are so old-fashioned. Don’t you agree, Winter?’
I failed to reply because I was trying to figure out how many calories I’d consumed that day. Would a banana tip me over the edge? I really needed to start entering everything into my phone.
‘Earth to Winter.’ Melody waved her hand in front of my face.
‘Oh yeah, sorry. If I could get laid I totally would,’ I said. ‘So long as it wasn’t with some smelly old man.’
‘For sure,’ Melody agreed. ‘A girl’s got to have standards.’
Chapter 10: There’s Nothing Like a Good Style Icon to Cheer Up a Girl
It had been two days since my date with Oliver and I hadn’t heard a word. Melody says she can’t understand why I don’t just text him myself, but George is a little more savvy when it comes to the nuances of dating.
‘If Iris doesn’t get your mind off that boy, nothing will,’ George said, grabbing a handful of popcorn. ‘Want some?’
George offered me the bowl but I declined. I hadn’t told anyone but I decided to stop snacking between meals and since yesterday I’ve gone cold turkey on the chocolate. I even gave my stash of Lindt to the family next door, telling them that my friend just came back from Switzerland and brought back way too much and would they like some?
We’d just arrived home from school and even though I had the entire house to myself George and I were hanging out in my room watching a documentary about Iris Apfel, the ninety-five year-old New York style icon with whom we are both obsessed. My favourite part is when Iris tells the story about a lady from a fancy department store approaching her and saying, ‘I’ve been watching you and you’re not pretty, you’ll never be pretty, but that doesn’t matter. You’ve got something more important. Style.’
Style.
I get a real kick out of that because in that moment, when I see Iris draped in beads and bangles and turbans twice the size of her own head she looks so awesome that being pretty just seems so, well, boring and I think, at least for a little while, that maybe I’m okay. Maybe it doesn’t matter that I’m not much to look at, that I can make up for it with the way I dress, with the clothes I know how to make and with the fabrics for which I seem to have a good eye.
‘God, my legs are like toothpicks,’ George exclaimed, looking at his bare legs stretched across my bed.
‘They are so not,’ I said. ‘You’re gorgeous.’
We were sitting side by side. My legs were curled up and I was leaning on George’s left shoulder. It felt good being next to him, to be touching a boy, even if it was just George who has been my gay BFF since the cruel and painful beginnings of puberty. After the first time he came over to my house, Mum said to me, ‘I suspect that funny little George friend of yours bats for the other team, if you know what I mean. Still, gays make great friends.’ And, as it turned out, ever since we met he has, in fact, been a fantastic friend.
‘James is on this protein supplement that he swears by. He says it totally makes you grow muscle like you’re the Incredible Hulk or something.’
‘Eeeewww.’
‘You know what I mean,’ George said. ‘You can’t say James hasn’t got a hot body.’
‘He’s okay. But I think you look better. Promise me you will never, EVER, take roids.’
‘Oh, all right,’ George mumbled. ‘I guess I could ask for a refund.’
I wasn’t kidding when I told George he was gorgeous. He has shiny black hair that always looks cool no matter how he styles it, his eyes are kind and dark, and for some reason he has never had a problem with teenage acne. He’s got cheekbones to die for and I guess he’s kind of skinny, but as you can imagine, I don’t really get why that bothers him. When he smiles his mouth goes kind of crooked but his whole face lights up so you just know he really means it.
‘Oh, I love this bit,’ I said just as Iris was about to say something like, ‘Well, I suppose it’s better to be happy than well dressed.’
‘The only thing she’s ever said that I disagree with.’ George sounded totally serious, but you never know.
I lightly punched him on the arm. ‘You’re such an idiot.’ Some of the popcorn fell out of the bowl and onto my Day of the Dead quilt.
‘Now look what you’ve done,’ George grumbled and we locked eyes and something crazy-weird happened. Instead of looking away we kept staring at each other and I got this urge to kiss him. Like in a sexy way, not in a ‘you’re my gay BFF way’. And I guess George felt the same, because next thing I knew I could taste the salt on his lips and his mouth tasted like popcorn and Iris was in the background saying that when you get old you have to keep pushing yourself, because all you want to do is sleep. My phone beeped and I ignored it and so did George and we just sat there kissing on my bed.
I don’t know why it happened. I mean, I love George, but not in a boyfriend way. Maybe it was because I didn’t have Oliver. There was one thing, though, that I knew for sure.
We were going to regret this.
Chapter 11: Let’s Act Like Nothing Ever Happened
Mum and Dad have taught me the valuable art of repression: i.e. acting like nothing ever happened. I grew out of the whole ‘save my parents’ marriage phase’ which was followed by the fruitless ‘encourage my parents to get a divorce phase’. I am now well and truly immersed in the ‘turn a blind eye phase’. For example, nowadays when Mum and Dad have one of their massive shout out loud fights, the next day they organise a date night and walk around the house seemingly oblivious to the fact I obviously heard/witnessed the entire thing. Not once has my mother, a self-confessed over-sharer, ever said, ‘Hey, Winter. I’m sorry you had to hear me call your father the c-word. I’m sorry you had to hear him call me an evil, skinny bitch. It must be hard for you, living with two people so clearly embroiled in a dysfunctional relationship’.
No. I keep quiet and so do they.
We just act like nothing ever happened.
Mum’s
relationship with Grandma Joan is a prime example of the ‘act like nothing ever happened’ approach to complicated situations. We don’t see much of Grandma Joan. Mum says it was my birth that reinforced the fact that Grandma Joan is a toxic presence in her life. I was a difficult birth and even though Mum really wanted a natural delivery she ended up with an epidural and, finally, a caesarean. She still has the picture of me coming out of her slashed-open stomach, all bloody and screaming. I don’t look too happy in that photograph. I’m more like a terrifying devil-spawn from a horror film than a cute little baby. You can even see the bluish grey umbilical cord dangling from my stomach, still stuck to Mum like an alien worm or something. Gross.
‘I was quite traumatised after the C-section,’ Mum told me. ‘I was so, so tired and sore and really washed out. So Grandma Joan walks in and says, “It’s just a little cut. Get over it. You should have seen what it was like in my day. Much, much worse”.
‘Then she looked at you, Winter, and said, “She’s just another little human, no big deal”. I cried and cried. That’s when I realised that Mum is just no good for me. Nothing I do ever means anything to her. She thinks I have it so easy, just because we’re not dirt poor. She thinks I’m a lazy housewife with nothing to worry about.’
Mum doesn’t talk about Grandma Joan much, but whenever she does you can see her whole body tense up. Grandpa died when I was four. I remember him a little bit. He was a silver fox like Amanda’s dad. Handsome in a newsreader kind of way, with hazel eyes that sparkled and a cheeky smile. He gave me a Mars Bar once and told me not to tell anyone, like it was this amazing secret only he and I would share. I did tell Spencer, though, thinking it might make him jealous. He just laughed.
‘He said the same thing to me, only it was a Snickers.’
Grandpa was a handsome charmer and Mum says Grandma Joan used to be beautiful, too, ‘but once she had me, it was all downhill. She got fat. Really fat. Just like all her sisters back home in Austria’.
These days Grandma Joan is constantly on a diet but her weight always stays the same, even after she ended up with Type 2 diabetes.
Pretty Girls Don't Eat Page 5