‘When you snap it, I want you to think, I’m Adriana, this is one moment and I’m strong enough to ride it out.’
I looked at him, and for a second I was close to crying again.
‘Addy, I mean that.’ He was holding my wrist now instead of the bracelet. ‘You’re strong enough to get through any attack, no matter how bad, but the hard part is believing it in here.’ He tapped his free hand against his chest. ‘Like at the end of The Wizard of Oz, when Glinda tells Dorothy that she’s always had the power to go back to Kansas, and Scarecrow asks Glinda why she didn’t tell Dorothy that waaay back at the beginning and, you know, save them all the trek to Oz and facing the evil monkeys?’ Dylan rolled his eyes and I giggled. ‘Anyway, Glinda tells him that even if she had, Dorothy wouldn’t have been convinced — she had to learn it for herself.’ He let go of my wrist. ‘I reckon we need to watch the movie to drill it in.’
So we watched the film and finished the popcorn, and when the ‘click your heels’ scene came on, Dylan put his hand on mine again.
Later that night in bed, I lay looking at my wrist and realised he was the first boy to give me jewellery. And how funny it was that this thin band of elastic threaded with pink beads felt more precious to me than diamonds.
22
ADRIANA
‘Do you think you could start paying me a salary?’ Emily asks me one afternoon when we’re hanging out at hers.
She’s sketching me for her art prac book as evidence of her prep work for the oil painting. She won’t let me into her studio room to see the real thing, which makes me nervous, as does the fact that she won’t let on whether she’s happy or not with what she’s done so far. She says that’s because she’s scared of jinxing herself: I’m learning that things can change in a second with oil painting. I’m tempted to sneak in there, but that would be like reading her diary or something.
‘What for?’ I say.
‘For being your formal-invite vetoer.’ Em doesn’t take her eyes off her sketchbook. ‘I could put the money towards a formal dress. You know I’ve had thirty-nine guys ask me about you, right? So if the average amount of time I spend listening to each guy’s sales pitch is five minutes, and you pay me a dollar a minute, then five dollars times thirty-nine guys is … Help me out here, you know I’m bad at maths.’
I know she’s exaggerating the number of guys who’ve asked her, because I’ve only had three guys come up to me since Monday afternoon, but I play along. ‘A hundred and ninety-five dollars.’
‘Only a hundred and ninety-five?’ She makes a face. ‘Okay, I think I need to raise my rate to like two dollars a minute.’
I laugh. ‘If I’m paying you two dollars a minute, you’re going to have to present me with an accurate invoice. Thirty-nine? Come on, Em.’
She looks up from her sketchbook, her face serious. ‘You think I’m lying to you?’
‘Twisting the truth a little maybe?’
‘Ade, I’m not twisting anything.’ She looks hurt. ‘Why would I? You know half of them think I’m lying when I say we’re going together?’ She shakes her head and starts scribbling super-fast on the paper. ‘Some of them give me a look of outrage, like you’re doing a disservice to the male kind. Then there are the guys who try bribing me.’
I roll my eyes. ‘Em, this is getting elaborate.’
‘I’m for real,’ she cries. ‘I’ve had guys give me chocolates. Ben Williams offered to give me gold-class movie tickets.’
She sees how I’m struggling not to laugh, and she starts laughing too.
‘You want me to prove it?’ She leans over to her bedside drawer and starts chucking boxes out of it onto the bed. ‘Ferrero Rochers … Lindt. This guy called Ed took it to the next level and handed over Godiva truffles — they’re amazing.’
She unwraps a chocolate and pops it in her mouth, then hands me the box and goes back to scribbling. I’m still staring at all the other chocolates all over the bed.
‘You’re for real?’ I say slowly.
‘I think they’re hoping I’ll go into a chocolate coma and set you free.’ Her laugh turns into a frown. ‘I prefer the chocolate-offering guys to the ones who act like I’m the wicked stepmother from Cinderella, who won’t let you go to the ball.’ She sees my expression. ‘You still don’t believe me, do you?’
‘Not that many guys have come up to me,’ I say. ‘I mean, I get that things have changed and, weirdly, guys seem to want to talk to me now, but there’s a big difference between the three invites I’ve had and the deluge you’re talking about.’
‘Like I told you, they’re terrified to approach you in person.’ She shrugs and rips a sheet of paper from her sketchpad. ‘Here, this is my mock invoice with all the names.’
I take the paper from her and count. Thirty-nine exactly.
Em’s phone beeps. She laughs and hands it to me. It’s an instant message from a guy I’ve seen in Mr Blacklock’s class but never spoken to.
Hey Em, I know it’s odd to write to you on Facebook, but every time I tried to come up yesterday there was already a guy talking to you. I know it’s a one in a million chance, but is Adriana still available to be asked to the formal?
I hold my breath as another message pops up.
I know I should ask her instead of coming to you, but I figured if she’s already with someone I’ll look stupid, so if you can tell me, I’ll do the rest — unless you think she wouldn’t be keen …
Em is looking over my shoulder. ‘What do you want me to say back?’
‘Oh god, I don’t know.’ I put the phone down and let out a sigh. ‘I appreciate you dealing with all of this. I would make a huge mess of it …’
Em adds Simon to the invoice sheet. ‘I figure I’d better get used to it. This is how it’s going to be from now on, right? I’m the BFF they need to impress.’
Though she’s smiling, she looks ever-so-slightly depressed. I don’t blame her. Who wants to go around acting as gatekeeper for someone else?
‘Maybe the bribes will get better as we get older.’ She’s giggling again now. ‘I’m starting to realise there are some definite perks to being your friend.’
‘Thanks, Em!’
I throw a chocolate at her, and that’s the beginning of an all-out war.
When Isobel pops her head around the door to find out why we’re screaming, she laughs at the multi-coloured sweets raining down on Emily and me — like we’re six again and we’ve cracked open a piñata.
‘Are you seriously not taking a date to the formal?’ Lana asks me the next morning on the bus. ‘Because a bunch of Luke’s friends keep asking him to ask me if you’d be interested in going with them, and Luke keeps bugging me about it.’ She lets out an irritated sigh. ‘Normally I don’t do the whole matchmaker thing, but if there is one of them you’d like to go with, at least he and Luke can hang. Luke’s got Connor for company, of course,’ Lana waggles her eyebrows at Chanel, ‘but he’s not wild about who Maddy and Ally are taking. We didn’t want anyone who isn’t from the group on our table.’
They want me on their table? I almost laugh out loud because it’s so crazy, but instead I shake my head. ‘No, Em and I are definitely going together.’
Lana gives me a knowing look. ‘This is because you’re holding out for Theo, right? Of course! I thought the whole you-and-Emily thing seemed odd, but that’s obviously the story to keep the guys at bay until Theo makes his move. Listen, Theo’s welcome on our table.’
Chanel giggles. ‘Totally welcome.’
‘No, it’s not like that.’ I can feel myself blushing now, because the idea of Theo being my date is super-appealing. It’s not like I haven’t thought about it or had daydreams that there’s a tiny chance he might ask me. Not that I’d say yes, of course. Theo asking me wouldn’t change my promise to Emily, but it’s a nice thing to think about. ‘Theo’s great, but Emily and I are going together.’
‘You’re going to sacrifice Theo?’ Chanel makes a ‘you’re crazy’ gesture.
‘Have you thought about the fact that it looks odd … you know, you and Emily?’ Lana lowers her voice. ‘No other girls are going together, unless they’re like …’
‘Into each other,’ Chanel whispers. ‘You and Emily aren’t, right? I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with that …’
‘No.’ Is it that weird that Em and I aren’t taking dates? ‘She’s my best friend, that’s it.’
‘We’re best friends and we still have dates,’ Lana says, nodding towards Chanel. ‘It’s okay to break a primary school promise, you know. You’ll still get to hang out on the night. Emily will be at her table and you’ll be at ours with Theo, but you can get up and dance —’
‘Maybe Emily could sit with us?’ Chanel says, giving Lana a look.
Lana pauses. ‘Maddy and Ally have already put two randoms at our table.’
She’s not a random, she’s my best friend.
‘Come on, Lana,’ Chanel says.
Lana waves a hand. ‘We’ll sort something out. You know what’s going to be only slightly less awesome than Theo being your date? Dylan’s reaction. He’s going to go cray-cray.’
As I imagine walking into the formal on Theo’s arm and see Dylan’s face dropping, the temptation floats in my mind. Maybe I should suggest to Em we take dates. After all, we could still hang out all night.
And then Emily’s disappointed face pops into my head, replacing Dylan’s, and I know I’m not going to say anything. She’s my best friend and we’ve had this plan for years. Getting even with Dylan isn’t as important as that.
Ironically, Dylan chooses that afternoon to approach me. He catches me as I’m heading to the bus stop to meet Em. I’m going to her place for our usual Friday night together.
‘Hey,’ he says quietly.
I don’t look at him. All I want to do is run away, but there’s no way I want him to realise he affects me that much.
He tries again. ‘Ade?’
The way he says my name makes it sound like nothing’s changed since we used to hang out at his place. It makes me angry because it’s proof that he’s unaffected by everything, while I’m still this mess of resentment and hurt. After a year and a half of running this moment through my mind, here it is and it hurts. It’s like each day that’s gone by since I stood on his verandah weighed something, and feeling them roll out of the past all over again is like being hit by a wrecking ball. I hate the way he makes me feel — like tiny tremors have started under my surface, like everything I’ve built in the last eighteen months could crumble in minutes.
‘So you’ve decided you’re never going to talk to me again? That’s mature.’
I turn and face him, putting on my best ‘I don’t give a crap about you’ look. ‘What do you want?’
‘I want to talk to you.’
His voice is nothing like I want it to sound. It’s gritty instead of smooth, and hearing it makes me feel like its edges are sticking into me.
‘Well, I don’t.’ The words tumble out, and I hope they sound as sharp as glass and hurt more than his do. ‘Why can’t you understand that? You show up at Em’s, you crash my party — have I ever looked like I wanted to talk to you at any of those moments, present one included?’
‘I understand why you’re mad, but if I could explain …’
Explain? Part of me wants him to explain everything so well that all the hurt slides away and I’m convinced that it was all a huge misunderstanding, that he never failed me, that what we had back then meant something.
An explanation that good doesn’t exist.
‘There’s nothing to explain.’ I force myself to keep looking at his face instead of at the ground like I want to. ‘We were friends, now we’re not. It happens. People move on.’
I’ve moved on, I want to say, but that would be showing him he’s someone I need to prove a point to, when truly moving on is about not needing to prove anything to anyone.
‘Like slow-dancing with Mr Heart-throb?’
He thinks he has the right to discuss this stuff with me.
‘Butt out of my personal life,’ I say, and walk away, because although I might be able to fake toughness in my voice, I don’t trust myself to be able to fake it on my face.
He keeps pace with me, even though I’m walking fast. ‘I don’t understand you lately — this thing with him, hanging out with girls you used to hate, the photos you’ve been posting on Instagram —’
‘So instead of you apologising, really this whole conversation is about making me feel like crap?’
I’m not worried about my expression now, because all I’m feeling is complete outrage that he thinks his opinion still matters to me.
‘I’m not judging you,’ he says. ‘I’m worried.’
He puts his hand on my arm and for one terrifying second my body all-out accepts it as an explanation in action. I hate myself for that shred of desperation that still exists inside me, that attitude of Stomp on me, it’s okay, I’m not worth anything.
I twist myself away from him. After all, he’s only worried now? Eighteen months after it mattered?
‘Don’t act all “I’m your friend and I care about you”.’
The bus sounds its horn, and I can see Emily standing on the top step and holding a ‘wait’ hand up to the driver while she looks at me with a worried expression.
‘I do care.’ Dylan’s voice is loud now. ‘What’s driving me crazy is that you keep acting like your story is the story! You won’t let me explain anything —’
I cut him off. ‘My bus is about to go.’
‘Give me a chance, Ade?’
‘Dylan, I gave up on you so long ago it’s laughable.’
I run towards Emily, who grabs my hand from the top step like she’s pulling me into a lifeboat.
Running the confrontation with Dylan over in my mind all weekend makes my throat ache. By Sunday, the ache has become a reality and swallowing makes me want to scream.
The chills start, and I stumble down to Dad, my teeth chattering, and he drives me to the doctor’s office.
‘Bad case of tonsillitis,’ she says to me and hands me a script. ‘Take these, and don’t go to school this week. It’s going to hurt for a while before the antibiotics kick in.’
It never stops hurting, I want to say. But I know there’s nothing she can give me to heal what’s really wrong with me.
Emily’s Diary
I want to believe that ‘pretty’ isn’t everything. Logically I know it isn’t. I know that not having a cute nose or big boobs won’t stop me from doing well at school, kicking butt at uni, or throwing myself into an art career. Not being pretty doesn’t stop me from painting, or going to art galleries, or doing all the other things that make my heart happy.
‘Pretty’ doesn’t rule my world, but sometimes I feel like it rules the rest of the world.
It’s not just the things you read about, like attractive people earning on average five per cent more than their unattractive colleagues. It’s not just the fact that nearly all the women you see on TV or on magazine covers are stratospherically beautiful. I’m not stupid — I know that’s Hollywood and being beautiful is pretty much the law there. It’s the workings of your own world — at school, the people you hang out with or share classes with — that make you think ‘pretty’ matters.
Half of it’s the boys of course. In guy world, ‘pretty’ doesn’t just matter, it MATTERS.
It’s the way the guys talk that’s the ugliest. Sometimes they whisper it to each other, but often they say it loud enough that there’s no way you can miss it. ‘Prawn — keep the body, chuck away the head’, they’ll say while watching a girl in PE class. ‘Chubby chaser’, if their friend shows interest in someone who’s a little overweight. ‘Grenade’ — the not-so-cute girl one guy has to take on so his friend can reach the legitimately cute one. ‘Dog’. ‘Heifer’. ‘Ugs’.
Then there are the numbers. You’re always a number to some endless judging panel, whether it’
s the guys at school, or the ones your friends introduce you to, or at the pool or the beach, where they all sit and rate every girl who goes by, like we’re all auditionees for Next Top Model, even though we never signed up for that.
The ratings are how they determine their own ranking within their group. Hooking up with a hot girl is the closest a regular guy can get to being called king for the day.
It’s not just the nasty or superficial guys that behave like this. Sometimes it’s the guys who are otherwise pretty decent human beings that make you feel like looks are everything. They’ll hang out with you, they’ll chat to you in class, but if a Ten goes by their eyes drift, their attention follows, and suddenly they’ve mentally checked out of the conversation you thought was going well.
It’s how intelligent guys suddenly don’t care if the girl they like can’t hold a decent conversation. They’re too mesmerised by her lips or her eyes to notice what’s coming out of her mouth. Or if they do, they make excuses for it.
It’s how some boys don’t seem to care if a beautiful girl is nasty, or petty, or an all-round awful person. They’ll laugh about it, or in most cases it won’t even cross their wavelength. Tatiana was always a goddess to the guys at our school, no matter what.
I know this is high school, and boys are less mature than girls, and I don’t want a guy who behaves like that anyway, but it doesn’t mean those moments don’t hurt.
Sometimes it’s the girls who remind you of how ‘pretty’ rules. We all know ‘fat’ is the worst thing you can call someone — not ‘selfish’ or ‘cruel’ or ‘stupid’. ‘Fat’ is the ultimate weapon — it cuts right to the bone. We all know how brutal it is and we still use it.
It’s how if your boyfriend dumps you and goes out with someone else, the first thing you’ll ask is, ‘Is she prettier than me?’
It’s the sliding scale we put ourselves on, thinking She has better legs than me, or My hair is way better than hers.
It goes beyond school too. Being beautiful is like having a magical passport that can take you to all the places you thought were off limits, just by flashing a smile, or sometimes by doing absolutely nothing at all. I see what happens when I’m out with Ade. People literally move out of her way. When we’re shopping, guys rush in to help her carry heavy items. She gets discounts at stores that never gave us discounts in the past. She’s given free coffees from the stand at the mall.
My Best Friend Is a Goddess Page 25