‘Yes,’ Mum said. ‘We are.’
‘Oh, Mum,’ I said, once we’d calmed down. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘What for?’
‘For all the crap I put you and Dad through. You know, ending up in hospital and everything.’
‘Jesus, Winter. Never be sorry for that. I’m just so happy you have been able to push through it. I’m proud of you, you know. I’m the one who should be sorry.’
I shrugged.
‘No. I should be. I guess, deep down, I’ve always felt the need to prove myself and the way I do that has always been through how I look. And that’s wrong. It’s sad, actually.’
‘Well …’ I wasn’t sure what to say. I was shocked by Mum’s honesty.
‘And Winter, I love you, I’m so sorry that I’ve passed my shit onto you. Even today, maybe this wasn’t a good idea. I just want you to know, I’m not trying to help you lose weight or anything. I just thought, you know, maybe boxing would help you like it helped me. You’re perfect how you are.’
‘Huh?’ I couldn’t believe my ears.
‘Gosh. If only I were half the woman you are already, and you’re only sixteen!’
‘Okay, Mum. This is getting a bit daytime TV.’
‘Sorry.’ Mum laughed. ‘So tell me. What did you think of boxing? Have I converted you?’
‘It was great.’ I was actually telling the truth. ‘Mum, you were the best. Seriously, you should be a trainer.’
‘Well, actually.’ Mum smiled shyly. ‘There is something I wanted to talk to you about.’
It was the first time since I could really remember that Mum and I had a conversation that was effortless. She told me all about how she’d started a Science degree when she finished high school, but that she’d never completed it. So now Mum was about to enrol in a Bachelor of Food and Nutrition Sciences, and she was also planning to become a certified personal trainer and group fitness instructor.
‘I’ve been a housewife for a long time,’ she told me. ‘And don’t get me wrong, Winter, there is no more important job than raising a family. But I need to branch out.’
‘Go, Mum,’ I said. ‘I think that’s amazing.’
‘You do?’ she asked.
‘Are you kidding? It’s awesome.’
And I meant it, I really did.
Chapter 38: Out There
‘Seriously, Winter. Are you not a twenty-first century teenager? Why don’t you have a blog and Instagram already?’
Mabel and I were tidying up the shop at the end of a busy Saturday. I was stressed out because three of Lisa’s friends had ordered jumpsuits and I was scared I’d stuff everything up. Being busy, however, was a relief. It had been a whole week and Oliver hadn’t called. I almost texted him one night, but Melody stopped me.
‘He’s the one who walked away,’ Melody insisted. ‘So leave it up to him. I’m deleting his number from your phone right now.’
‘No!’
But before I could stop her, she’d grabbed my phone and the damage was done.
‘Look, you know you can sew,’ Mabel said, interrupting my thoughts. ‘You know you can design. You need to put yourself out there. The summer break’s coming up. You’ve got time. Three orders is nothing. You’ll be done in a week.’
‘I guess I could get Melody to model for me.’
‘Get your friends and use yourself. You’re cute. People love to see the designer behind the label.’
The thought of plastering photos of myself online was terrifying beyond comprehension. I wasn’t so concerned about showing people my work, but showing people my body? I hadn’t binged since the night of my fight with Oliver, but I was pretty sure I’d gained a bit of weight. Getting dressed up and posing in front of a camera? That was about as appealing as slow dancing with Mirko Palovich to Celine Dion. Besides, I was supposed to be getting all body positive and the very real possibility of having Internet trolls telling me that I look like a pork chop on legs wasn’t exactly empowering. Plus-size girls who exude confidence and self-acceptance were all well and good, but I doubted I’d be jumping on that bandwagon. I just didn’t have it in me.
Rosie, on the other hand, thought it was a great idea.
‘If you want to work in fashion you need to put yourself out there,’ Rosie insisted. ‘Besides, I think you might be surprised by the response you receive.’
‘But what if people tell me I look fat and hideous?’
‘So what if they do?’ Rosie said. ‘Do you really care what some jealous, snotty-nosed teenager on the Internet thinks of you?’
Yes! I wanted to respond. But I wasn’t in the mood for getting into a conversation about why I care so much about what others think of me, so I just said, ‘I guess you’re right,’ in a lame attempt to convince Rosie I agreed with her.
But still, I did it. And I made George and Melody join me.
I spent an hour getting ready for my first photo shoot. I’d piled on the make-up and grabbed a pair of ridiculously high, pointy black stilettos from Mum’s wardrobe. My flamingo print jumpsuit contrasted with the pleather leggings and an oversized shirt dress Melody wore, while George modelled a reconstructed tuxedo from Savers. George and Melody really got into it, posing and mucking around and laughing so hard they could barely breathe. I, on the other hand, felt like a complete douchebag.
‘I feel like an idiot,’ I declared.
‘Lighten up,’ George said, striking a pose. ‘You look hot.’
You’ve got to put yourself out there, I kept telling myself. Block out the voices that tell you you’re not good enough. Accept that you may no longer have a boyfriend.
I plastered on a fake smile and stood to the side, my chin pointed upwards, my hands resting on my hips in order to ensure skinnier looking arms. Online research taught me that standing front on with your arms by your sides equals tuckshop arms.
The next day I showed the photos to Mabel.
‘Wow,’ she declared. ‘You all look fab. Who’s that girl?’
‘Oh, that’s my friend Melody. She was scouted by a modelling agency but they said she needed to lose five kilos, so she turned them down. Isn’t she beautiful?’
‘God, we still have such a long way to go. She’s hot,’ Mabel said. ‘Do you think the two of you would be interested in doing some photo shoots for me? And I have a runway show coming up for fashion week.’
I almost fell over.
‘Are you serious?’
‘It’s a paid gig, of course,’ Mabel continued. ‘I can show you both how to walk the runway.’
‘You want me on the runway?’
‘Absolutely,’ Mabel said. ‘Fashion needs diverse beauty.’
Me. Modelling. With Melody.
‘I don’t mind if you just pick Melody. I won’t be offended. It’s not like I haven’t figured out that she’s way better looking.’
‘No, I think I want both of you. I was going to ask you anyway, and now that I’ve seen Melody, I love the Eurasian vibe she has going on.’
Inside I was squealing, but I did my best to act cool and calm while Mabel sat down and put the photos up on my Instagram account and new blog.
‘You just need to set up an online shop and post regularly. Twice a week is good.’
And it all happened. Just like that. I was putting myself out there, no matter what.
Chapter 39: It’s Been a Whole Month Since My Last Binge …
I never thought I’d say this, but boxing with Mum was getting me through every day I didn’t hear from Oliver. I still counted calories, but I hadn’t binged for a whole month and I was even beginning to accept that I had been dumped, although I continued to check my phone every half hour just in case I’d missed a call or a text. My plan was to try and use boxing as a way of appreciating what my body could do, which turned out to be more than I had expected. Boxing also tired me out, which helped me sleep instead of lying in bed every night crying and listening to that mix tape that was now more sad than funny and romantic. It burnt extr
a calories, too, of course, but I tried not to focus on that part.
The holidays were going fast and it wouldn’t be long before Melody, George and I were in our final year of high school. Everything was beginning to feel a little more serious. We were growing up and it was actually starting to matter which subjects we chose and whether our grades were any good. I’d really let things slip last year. With the dieting and laxatives I had been so tired and focused on my weight loss that I hadn’t really made much effort with schoolwork. This year I knew I had to do better. We all did. But George, in particular, was freaking out.
‘My parents are threatening to send me to a private school or one of those private boys’ schools,’ he dramatically declared. ‘If I don’t get straight A’s first term I’m gone.’
‘We’ll study together,’ Melody reassured him. ‘If I don’t do well I’m not getting into medicine.’
‘You should apply for special consideration,’ I said. ‘You’ve had a tumultuous home life, with your mum in jail and all.’
‘I’m not some charity case,’ Melody replied defensively. ‘Winter, what’s going on with Oliver? Have you heard from him at all?’
‘Not a word. I’m dumped,’ I said.
George’s eyes narrowed. ‘He’s an idiot!’
‘I did lie to him about everything. I probably shouldn’t have told him that I kissed you.’
‘What did you do that for?’ Melody looked incredulous. ‘It’s not like George is a threat.’
‘Hey!’ George said.
‘Well, you are gay.’ I laughed. ‘I stuffed everything up. Oliver no doubt thinks I’m a psycho. I’m trying to practise self-acceptance. I will remain single forever.’
‘I wouldn’t say psycho,’ Melody said drolly.
‘Anyway, guess who messaged me on Facebook last night?’ I said, quickly changing the subject.
‘Katy Perry?’ George mocked.
‘Very funny. No. Mirko Palovich!’
‘Who’s that again?’ Melody asked.
‘Remember that boy who called me a short, fat dog on school camp?’
‘Oh yeah, that jerk.’
‘Well, he sent me a PM saying UR hot. Wanna hook up.’
I showed them the message on my phone.
‘What a loser!’ Melody and George were laughing so hard they could barely breathe.
At first I thought the message was from some random weirdo/stranger. You know, the types who don’t know how to use Tinder or who like looking for gullible teenage girls they might be able to rape or murder. But then I recognised the photo. A puffy-faced teenage boy wearing a Jim Beam hat, his squinty little eyes peering back at me. He was no stranger.
Mirko Palovich.
I sure wasn’t sorry to see Mirko go when he and his family moved to the outer suburbs after Year 6. Mirko was so proud of what he considered to be a massive upgrade, bragging to everybody that he was moving to a mansion with its own private cinema and butler’s pantry. For some reason Mirko thought the butler’s pantry was a standout feature, talking down to us once he realised that nobody even knew what a butler’s pantry was.
‘It’s like a second kitchen,’ he explained condescendingly, ‘where you can prepare meals for your guests but they don’t see all the mess.’
‘Ha! Who’s going to want to be entertained by you?’ scoffed his mate, James.
‘Shut up!’ Mirko punched James on the arm.
Looking at the photo I could see that puberty hadn’t changed Mirko in any dramatic way. He was still kind of dumb-looking, though his acne appeared to have turned cystic. A fact that made me happier than it probably should have.
‘I haven’t replied yet,’ I told them. ‘I need a really good comeback.’
‘How about, “I wouldn’t hook up with you if you were the last boy on earth, you pimply little maggot”!’ Melody said.
‘Subtle.’ George smirked.
‘But effective,’ Melody said.
‘I was thinking of just saying something like, “No thanks”.’
‘That’s a bit boring,’ said George.
‘But I don’t want it to sound like I’m all bitter.’
‘But you are!’ George said.
It wasn’t until I went boxing with Mum the following morning that I figured out the perfect response. Boxing does that to you. It clears your mind while releasing stress and repressed aggression. A perfect combination when Mirko Palovich is involved.
‘Hello Mirko’, I wrote. ‘I hope you are enjoying your butler’s pantry. I have been recently dumped, but even that doesn’t make me desperate enough to hook up with a loser like you, not even on the rebound. In fact, I would rather spend the rest of my life perving at Justin Bieber mugshots than be within a five-kilometre radius of your maggoty face. Insert poo emoji’.
Chapter 40: Perfect Is Boring
I may be short. I may have legs like a corgi and cellulite on my thighs and wonky boobs. But there I was, standing backstage with six other models, preparing to walk out in front of at least sixty people I didn’t know to showcase Mabel’s latest collection: Under the Stars.
I’m not going to lie. When you’re modelling in a fashion show it’s hard not to be self-conscious about how you look.
Melody and I were hanging out in my room the night before our modelling debut. I’d pinched some of Mum’s ridiculously expensive sheet masks so we could give ourselves facials.
‘I’ve gained so much weight,’ I lamented, looking at Melody, who resembled a serial killer with the white mask on her face. ‘My BMI is off the charts.’
‘Shut up.’ Melody slapped me on the shoulder. ‘You look amazing and everyone knows the BMI is a load of hogwash. Did you know that the BMI deems most AFL players obese?’
‘Seriously?’ I said. ‘That actually makes me feel better.’
‘It’s true. You’ve got to start listening to that therapist of yours. You don’t want to end up in hospital again, do you?’
Melody’s tell-it-like-it-is approach is too much for some, but I find it comforting.
‘Well. The bed was pretty comfy in there …’
‘Don’t even joke about it,’ Melody said. ‘You’re not tempted to use again, are you?’
‘I wasn’t on drugs. Trust me. Enforced diarrhoea is not addictive.’
‘Then what was with all the laxative abuse?’
‘I guess it made me feel lighter. Like I was getting rid of all the excess calories. Even though I wasn’t.’
‘That makes sense.’ Melody paused. ‘Kind of. It’s pretty gross.’
‘You don’t have to tell me that,’ I replied. ‘That is one thing I’d never do again.’
‘Good.’ Melody seemed satisfied. ‘Now, let’s watch Gilmore Girls on Netflix.’
Which is what we did until we were so exhausted we fell asleep.
On the day of the show I was so nervous, the make-up artist, who was Mabel’s childhood friend, Renee, had to keep mattifying my shiny face with powder. Melody was even worse and kept saying that she felt like she was about to vomit. I don’t know what she was worried about. While I was all ‘Runway to Realway’, Melody looked like an actual model in her floaty silver gown, braided hair and blue lips. Mabel had decided to put me in some black, star-print body-con number that she said ‘showed off my curves’. The other models included Mabel’s mum, two professional models from a ‘plus size agency’ who looked like they were only a size 12 and Tor, Mabel’s gazelle-like sixteen-year-old cousin.
‘You’ll do great,’ said one of the tall professionals standing beside me. ‘Seriously, there’s not much to it. You watch Top Model and they try and make out that modelling is as complicated as rocket science. But all you have to do is walk, turn around and walk back. And act like you mean it.’
It was easy for her to say. She was probably used to sauntering down runways in six-inch heels while everybody stared at her.
‘Oh, and don’t trip over,’ she said, until she saw my face turn white. ‘Just kidding.�
��
The music started. It was an original soundtrack composed by Mabel’s fiancé. I was on third, after Mabel’s mum and before Melody. George, James and my parents were in the audience. Mum was so proud and excited she’d been bragging about my foray into modelling to everyone at the gym. She brought along the expensive and rarely used camera Dad gave her for Christmas two years ago so she could document every single moment.
A moment that was unlikely to happen ever again.
I stood behind the stage waiting for my turn. I was relieved Mabel’s mum was ahead of me. In her fifties and fatter than me, I figured she’d make me look good.
Wrong.
As she pranced out in her pink tulip skirt, all sass and attitude, the audience cheered. At the end of the runway she paused, all eyes on her, without a hint of self-consciousness. She was a goddess, so confident she may as well have been Gigi Hadid, but without that scowly pout. Shit. Now I was really under pressure.
If this was a straight-to-video Disney tween movie this would be the part where I take a deep breath, pull back my shoulders and own it. It’s the part where I begin a career in front of the camera, where I surprise myself with my innate talent for performance and my charismatic personality. Where I’m spotted by a talent scout and become an unlikely media sensation, the envy of all who know me.
Naturally, that’s not what happened.
I did my best. I walked to the end, smiled, turned and walked back. It was excruciating, having all those people checking me out.
It’s about the clothes, not you, I kept saying to myself. Perfect is boring, I repeated, remembering what Rosie had said during our last session. I thought about all the Project Runway episodes I’ve watched and how I don’t remember a single model, how they all just blur into one tall, skinny, top-knotted entity. Besides, I figured it was pretty obvious that I was just a regular person included in the show in a heavy-handed attempt to give the fashion industry the finger, rather than an industry professional.
In spite of her statuesque figure, Melody wasn’t a whole lot better. Sure, she looked amazing, but you could tell she wasn’t feeling it as she walked to the end of the runway and back without elegance, like she was in a hurry to get out of there. Her nervous expression made her look pissed off, and not in a cool way. Being so good-looking, with a natural resting bitch face, Melody’s genuine kindness and concern for others was often concealed, meaning that people who didn’t know her often thought she was stuck-up and arrogant. On the catwalk, nervous and unsure, this unintentional look of indifference was only heightened. Melody sure looked like she had better places to be.
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