My Best Friend Is a Goddess

by Tara Eglington

  But I can’t seem to settle down. Theo and everything we talked about plays over and over in my mind.

  The next morning when I wake, I have dark circles under my eyes. I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, wondering if I have the time to properly conceal them. Then the thought floats in: You have art theory today — you’ll be seeing Theo.

  My hand is drifting to the concealer and then I look over at Ade, who has zero circles and is applying mascara to her Bambi-like eyelashes.

  What does it matter if you have dark circles? It’s not like you’re the one he finds attractive.

  Still, I don’t want him to think I’m ugly.

  I pick up the concealer, uncap it and pause. I’m worrying about looking ugly in front of a boy. That hardly indicates I’m over my Theo-crush.

  I drop the concealer. I’m Emily. It’s not like makeup can shrink my nose, or transform me into an Adriana, even though all the ads try to make you believe that might be possible. I’m not Adriana, and boys like Theo will never go for me.

  And I don’t want Theo to go for me anyway, because Ade needs this.

  I give myself a ‘get real’ look, and turn away from the mirror before I give in to temptation.

  ‘Let’s go,’ I say to Adriana.

  All morning leading up to art, I try and coach myself into a good headspace. There’s no need to be weird around Theo. Even though he’s Ade’s crush, there’s nothing wrong with making jokes together or having in-depth conversations about art, because the whole thing is platonic. I’m the one who built it up into some fated meeting.

  When I get to class, Theo’s already in the seat next to mine, his head on his folded arms like he’s trying to take a catnap. The difference between how good-looking I’d remembered him as and how good-looking he actually is is like a jolt to the system.

  ‘Hey,’ he says, lifting his head off the desk as I put down my pencil case, ‘someone tried to take your spot before.’

  That doesn’t surprise me. As I look around the room I see quite a few girls looking over, envious at my proximity to Theo.

  ‘I guarded your territory admirably.’ He looks pleased with himself.

  I can’t help smiling. Whether his seat-guarding is because he likes the idea of sitting next to me after yesterday’s conversation, or because I’m the only person he knows so far, it still feels good.

  ‘Thank you, kind sir. You may continue to nap — I see we have another few precious minutes left.’

  I put my head down on my own desk, facing him.

  ‘You’re a walking zombie today too?’ he asks.

  Looking at him, it’s so easy to imagine I’m lying next to him in bed in the morning … Je-sus, Emily! I push my mind into platonic mode now. I sit up.

  ‘You can’t tell from the dark circles?’ I point them out, though inside I’m cringing. If some part of me wants to look attractive to Theo, I have to override it times one million.

  He sits up too and looks more closely at me. ‘No.’

  ‘I appreciate the white lie. How come you’re so tired?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Long story. Family stuff. You?’

  I was thinking of you, my mind says. I pray I’m not blushing. ‘Just general insomnia.’

  ‘I thought you were going to tell me it was bad dreams — not that I want you to have bad dreams, but sometimes I like the explanations people go into about them. You know, trees transforming into tigers, or the sky splintering into pieces of blue glass.’

  I laugh. ‘That sounds surreal. Do you have friends who dabble in cheese-eating at midnight?’

  ‘Huh? Do I look like the type of person who has friends like that?’ His expression is priceless.

  ‘You don’t know what I’m referring to? Okay, so you know surrealism?’

  ‘Melting clocks and weird elephants? Dali?’

  ‘Exactly. Coming up with all those weird things to put in the paintings wasn’t always easy. Apparently the surrealists used to sometimes eat the softest, mouldiest cheeses they could find — and in Europe, where the movement started, the cheese is unpasteurised so it’s more pungent —’

  ‘It stinks,’ Theo says. ‘I can tell you firsthand from visits to the cheese stores in Paris. The cheese is amazing, but the smell in those places can make you dizzy.’

  I smile. ‘So they’d consume this crazy pungent cheese and then go straight to bed, and apparently it made them dream the weirdest things, which meant inspiration for the next day’s work.’

  ‘Do you think that’s true?’ Theo looks intrigued.

  ‘Well, everyone thought Dali’s melting watches were about the theory of relativity, but when he was asked about it, he said the melting watch idea came from seeing a camembert cheese melting in the sun.’

  ‘You’re messing with me now, aren’t you, Emily? You’re laying the groundwork so that one day, when I’m sitting in a lecture at uni about surrealism, I put my hand up and refer to this story and the whole class dies laughing.’

  ‘No!’ I’m trying not to laugh. ‘I swear, an oozing piece of camembert inspired the melting watch. You can google it if you want.’

  ‘Maybe I’m a sucker, but I believe you. It’s wild enough to be true.’ He laughs. ‘I picked the right person to sit next to for these classes. Remind me to make my next birthday a midnight cheese party and we’ll test the theory.’

  I play along. ‘When’s your birthday?’

  ‘June fifth.’

  ‘June! That’s more than half a year wasted not knowing if the surrealists were on to something. If we’re dedicated to our craft, we won’t wait that long. My birthday is sooner. January twenty-fourth.’

  ‘January twenty-fourth …’ Theo pulls out his phone and opens up the calendar. ‘Let me add a note — the evening is now reserved for a midnight cheese party with Emily.’

  My whole face is hot at the idea that he’d want to spend my birthday with me. Thankfully, Mr Morrison walks in and begins the lesson.

  ‘So, yesterday was a chance to get to know each other and discuss what we’re passionate about,’ he says. ‘Even though we’re now moving on to theory and intense prac classes, I’m hoping it’ll still be a lot of fun. We’re going to be delving into Renaissance art for our theory lessons on Tuesdays and Fridays. You’re probably not aware yet of this year’s formal theme —’

  The room becomes a buzz of speculation.

  Mr Morrison plays a drumroll on the edge of his desk, grinning broadly. ‘Which is Venetian Carnival. This fits in nicely with our Renaissance studies, but I hope you’ll note for exam time that Florence was the centre of the Renaissance, not Venice. However, Ms Collins and I like the idea of a Venetian theme because the potential for backdrops is so fantastic. Yes, I know you wish the Year Ten formal was held outside of school grounds — don’t worry, Year Twelve isn’t that far away — but I believe we can completely transform the gym into something straight out of the Renaissance. I’m talking replicas of Venetian gondolas, a decadent Italian feast, elaborate masks like this one …’ He reaches behind his desk and pulls out an ornate silver and blue mask. ‘We’ll be spending a lesson or two making decorative masks that will be displayed on the walls at the formal.’

  Theo looks impressed. ‘You guys sound like you do pretty cool formals,’ he whispers to me.

  ‘This is particularly cool,’ I whisper back. From all the formals I’ve seen at Jefferson for the years above, they’ve never done anything this elaborate.

  ‘We’re well aware that the formal absorbs a huge amount of students’ time and energy,’ Mr Morrison goes on, ‘so this year, by combining it with a unit of study, we hope it’ll enhance your understanding of the material we’re covering.’

  I love it. It takes the focus away from the will-he-or-won’t-he-ask madness that begins the second the tickets go on sale. I’ve seen it with other years — it’s like no-one can talk about anything except who’s taking who. Much as I’ve been daydreaming about the formal ever since we started hi
gh school, I’ve been dreading that part.

  Ade always says that someone is sure to ask me, but she wasn’t there on the camping trip back in Year Eight when the teacher who took over from cool Ms Doyle (who’d gone on maternity leave) came up with the idea of making the last night of camp a ‘formal dinner’ where we had to bring a partner. Nobody talked about anything else the whole camp, and every night I wrapped a pillow around my ears so I wouldn’t have to listen to hours of speculation about which boy was or wasn’t going to ask which girl.

  On the final night, even though no boy had asked me, I still had to put on a dress and go to the dining area under the tarpaulins. All those who did have a date were allowed to sit down, and the rest of us were put into pairs by the teachers. I felt like I was standing under a neon sign that flashed the word ‘undesirable’ to the whole campsite. I wound up with James Hay, who made a face when he was paired with me, and then didn’t speak to me at all during the dinner. Instead he spent the agonisingly slow ninety minutes blowing Coke out of his straw at other people at our table.

  The word ‘formal’ always makes the memory of that dinner flash into my mind. Now, with the painted backdrops and the masks, at least there was something that could make me feel good about myself.

  ‘So, the Renaissance …’ Mr Morrison breaks up the chatter about the formal. ‘You might know that Italy had something to do with it, thanks to my references to Venice and Florence. Or you might know some of the artists, like Leonardo, Michelangelo, Raphael — nobody reference the turtle movie, I’ve heard that joke about two thousand times in fifteen years of teaching and it’s definitely no longer funny. Can anyone tell me what the word “renaissance” means?’

  I think back to Mum’s snippets of art history and put up my hand. ‘Rebirth.’

  ‘Well done, Emily. Yes, “renaissance” is French for “rebirth”. When we talk about the Renaissance, we mean a period of immense change that spanned the fields of art, architecture, literature, science and philosophy — a cultural rebirth. It was also a rebirth, or revival of interest, in the classical age — the worlds of ancient Rome and Greece. The Renaissance is an exciting time to study because so much came out of it — incredible buildings, amazing sculptures and paintings, great works of literature …’

  As Mr Morrison looks around the room, I realise I’m nodding my head like a complete nerd. I look over and see that Theo’s a hundred per cent alert as well. I’m not annoyed at Ms Collins any more. From Mr Morrison’s lively voice, and the way that everyone is leaning forward wanting him to go on, I know this is going to be a term to remember.

  ‘So where and how did the Renaissance begin?’ Mr Morrison sits down on the edge of his desk. ‘As I said earlier, it began in Florence, which is a city in southern Italy.’ He clicks the remote he’s holding and a map of Italy appears on the board. ‘Why Florence? Some historians say it’s because the Medicis — a wealthy banking family who later became the ducal ruling house — encouraged others to commission works of art for their personal enjoyment. Before this, most people — besides the exceptionally wealthy — didn’t have paintings or sculptures in their homes. However, as Italians grew more prosperous from trade exports, the Medicis made spending money on art the thing to do. Three of the Renaissance’s most exemplary artists were also born in the Tuscany region — Leonardo da Vinci, Sandro Botticelli and Michelangelo, the superstars of their time.’

  ‘I’m mad about da Vinci,’ Theo whispers. ‘You know he drew designs for helicopters? That’s seven hundred years before planes existed. Out-of-this-world genius.’

  ‘So what was the cultural turning point?’ Mr Morrison asks. ‘Some people say it lies in literature. Writers like Petrarch and Dante referenced the classical world in their writing. Dante Alighieri may be an unfamiliar name to you, unless he’s made an appearance in your English studies …’

  ‘Okay, this is weird,’ Theo whispers. ‘We mention Dante last lesson and suddenly he’s appearing in this one. Do you think Mr Morrison’s got the place bugged?’

  I smother a giggle. ‘Maybe we’ve got some crazy foresight?’

  Mr Morrison doesn’t hear us. ‘Dante is considered the forefather of Italian literature because he produced a brilliant work called The Divine Comedy, written in what has become the modern Italian language. The Comedy is a three-part story about Dante’s trek through the underworld of hell, the middle ground of purgatory, and the upper realms of heaven. The first part, called The Inferno, is the most famous. In it Dante explores nine levels of hell, and crosses paths with all sorts of weird and horrifying things. If you haven’t read it, you should, because it’s brilliant. Dante’s work also inspired a lot of art, as you’ll see from the pictures I’m passing around now. Artists love the fact that Dante’s cantos are so visual — it’s like one big crazy dream about heaven and hell.’

  ‘Okay, along with the cheese party, add reading The Divine Comedy to our list,’ Theo says emphatically.

  ‘We have a list?’

  ‘The Emily-and-Theo-do-awesome-things list.’ He shrugs as he takes an art book from the guy in front of him. ‘It’s a thing now.’

  By the time you reach Year Ten, you’ve been in classes with the same people for what feels like forever, and you’re either friends or you’re not. I’d kind of given up on having a conversation with someone and hoping I’ll discover they’re on my wavelength. After all, whatever my wavelength is, it’s pretty weird. It’s not often that I meet someone and bam! I feel this frisson like maybe this person gets me. A buzzing right through my body — like I’m having now — where all I want to do is keep talking to this person, discover where our similarities cross over like wires and we both flash on in a light-bulb moment of ‘me too’.

  I look over at Theo and all I know is: he might not be able to be my crush, but I desperately want him to be my friend.

  Secret Thoughts of Adriana Andersson

  I remember a conversation between Mum and Dad about six months before Mum died. We’d had a fight because I didn’t want to have a thirteenth birthday party. Mum was determined to organise something — she said thirteen was an important celebration. I got super-upset that she didn’t seem to care that I hate parties, even if they’re my own. The day after the fight, I came back from Emily’s early and Mum and Dad obviously didn’t hear me open the front door.

  ‘I know you think I push her into things,’ Mum was saying. ‘But I’m worried that the world is going to hurt her too much. She bruises from next to nothing — I don’t understand it.’

  ‘You need to understand that she’s not like you,’ Dad said. ‘She’s an introvert, you’re an extrovert. Lots of people and big parties energise you, but they exhaust her.’

  ‘We all need to conform a little, Daniel. Her awkwardness isn’t going to help her out in life.’

  Awkward. I always felt awkward at school, but I hadn’t known Mum and Dad saw me that way.

  I crept back out the door and went down the road to the park, where I sat on the swing, staring at my skinny, knobbly, awkward knees and wishing I could be anybody else but Adriana Andersson.

  I felt miserable then, but I felt even worse later, looking back and thinking, Why couldn’t you let her throw that party? It would have made her so happy.

  Mum never got another chance to organise a birthday for me.

  12

  ADRIANA

  I’m still getting used to art without Emily. It makes me realise how much I used to depend on her, even down to the seats we chose. Emily always wants to sit up the back as she tends to slip off into her own imagination when she’s doing anything artistic, and hates being snapped out of it by a loud comment from someone behind her.

  As I enter the room, I head for the back row — but this time it’s for my own reasons. At the back, there’s no-one behind you to toss pencil shavings into your hair and snicker while you feel around to get rid of them. In Year Seven, the boys went through a spit-ball phase and spent ninety per cent of class covertly sh
ooting them at us every time a teacher’s back was turned. After two weeks of soggy paper hitting our necks and sticking in our hair, Emily finally lost it. She grabbed a stack of papers from her notebook, walked over to the sink, drenched them, then lobbed the whole mess at Chris Byrnes who was the spit-ball ringleader. The boys hated her, but the girls cheered.

  I don’t have Emily’s guts, so I’m taking the spot that allows me to see any threat coming — back row, far right. Part of me wonders if I’ve done the wrong thing when Lana, Maddy and Ally and a girl I don’t know (but who is a total Ten from her shiny waist-long hair to her perfectly fitting white skirt) walk in and up to the back row. For a moment I think they’re on a mission to embarrass me, Tatiana-style, and I hold my breath. Lights flash up in my vision, mirroring the throbbing of my heart, and I feel dizzy. Yesterday was so uneventful, I’ve been hoping against hope that the rest of the week will be too.

  It doesn’t work like that for you.

  I pretend to be rifling through my bag, but I’m running survival options through my mind. I’m obviously in their territory. But if I switch seats, the only ones remaining are directly in front of them, and that’s worse.

  Lana throws her bag on the seat furthest from mine. ‘Okay, do you prefer the leopard pattern on these shoes from Tony Bianco?’ She holds out her phone. ‘Or these from Wittner?’

  ‘Tony Bianco,’ Ally and Maddy answer in unison.

  The other Tens haven’t taken their seats yet, so there are still three empty ones next to me.

  Lana raises an eyebrow. ‘You guys have got to get your own personalities.’

  They all laugh like crazy.

  ‘Chanel?’ Lana says.

  I think she’s talking about the brand, but as the dark-haired girl looks up from her own phone, I realise it must be her name.

  ‘The best leopard-print shoe this season is Christian Louboutin,’ she says.