Maisy May

by Naomi Kramer

  “Hey, Mais, you taking History too?” comes a voice from behind me.

  I turn around to see Rachel - who's kind of a friend and kind of not. Confused? Can't say I blame you, it confused me at first too. See, we were friends in primary school... not quite best friends, but we went over to each others' houses and invited each other to sleepovers and stuff. Then we both hit high school, and... it was like she got a whole new set of priorities. Suddenly she was one of the cool gang, always talking about music and clothes and boys. Me? I was the weird poor kid with the secondhand clothes and uncool hobbies. So we drifted apart, but we talk now and then. I think she's trying to be charitable, and doesn't get that I don't care about not being popular. Whatevz.

  “Yeah, History and Art - you?”

  “Music's my other one. Piano and all that.”

  Rachel's been taking piano lessons since she was like, 3. She's really good. Not that she makes a big deal of it at school, it's too geeky for her image or something.

  “Cool.”

  She shrugs.

  When we get to the next classroom, I get the first pleasant surprise of the day. Mr Mowbray is teaching. Yes! He's old, but he always turns boring into an interesting story. I settle into my seat and think, maybe this year won't be so bad after all.

  ****

  “WHO,” asks Georgie in a loud whisper, “did you go off with last Sunday?”

  “That was Mark,” I say, grinning, “we met a couple weeks ago and kinda hit it off, you know?”

  She raises an eyebrow.

  “Not like that! Geez! What do you think I am?”

  She shrugs and looks a bit ashamed of herself.

  “Mum saw you go off with him,” she says, “Said you were setting a bad example, behaving like that.”

  “Huh? Making a friend is a bad example?”

  “No, going off in public with a boy is a bad example, Maisy.”

  Oh, great. Now I'm not just satanism girl, I'm slut woman too.

  “We just talked. What the heck's wrong with that?”

  “It looks bad!”

  I'm about to follow this bizarre train of thought a bit further, but music starts playing in the church to herald the beginning of the service, and we hurry in. Georgie runs off to join her mother, who glares at me, and I see Mum waving at me over the other side of the church. She's sitting next to Mrs Catrick and Mark. They both turn and smile at me as I edge into the pew and sit down, and after Georgie's mum I'm ready to just bathe in the love.

  ****

  The next week of school seems a lot easier now I know what to expect. Maths first thing on a Monday morning is a killer, but at least I know the day'll always improve from then on. And I have Art on Friday afternoons, which ends the week on a beautifully mellow note. Especially since we have a special project - to pick a classic painting of any style and do a copy. I'm thinking Monet. I have other favourites, but I've always wanted to try a real Impressionist painting, a big one. They take ages, which is why I never have... but now I have the perfect opportunity.

  Mark's at the same school - Year 10, though, one above me, so we don't see each other as much as I expected. So school goes on much the same way as it always has for me - classes, occasional chats with friendly acquaintances, lunchtimes spent with a good book and a can of coke. Yeah, friends have never been a big deal for me at school. I get along with almost everyone, but I don't have much in common with most people. They know that, and they kinda just avoid me. Except Lisa, the class 'ZOMG I'm so bitching' girl. She's dumb, she talks a lot, she flirts with anything remotely male, and she can't stand people who don't bow down and worship her. I don't, so I'm Evil Bitch Queen From Hell every now and then. Guess you can tell it doesn't really bother me much. She's like a mozzie without a stinger - annoying but harmless if you ignore her. Besides, there's always someone around to socialise with if I'm feeling lonely, even when Lisa's on a rampage. I think most people secretly hate her.

  I kinda wish Georgie were around, but she goes to Kelso. Probably a good thing though, because there's an excellent chance we'd kill each other if we spent too much time together. Once we spent a week in the same dorm on a church youth camp, and I nearly did throttle her. She spent most of the time crying because she missed her mum. Umm, lame? And darn, did the crying get on my nerves.

  At least now I've got something else to do at lunchtimes - if I can convince Mr Graham to let me use the Art room during lunch. Bet I can.

  Chapter 4: Revheads

  “Hey, Gav - 'sup?” I say to a headless body sticking out from under a Nissan hatchback.

  Gav's a mechanic. He's two years older than me, in year 11. Tall, blonde and gangly. And kinda ugly, to be honest. Everything's too big, nose, ears, eyebrows. Give him a bigger face and... heck, he'd just have a big head then. His dad owns the Holden dealership in town, and Gav loves cars. Like, 'lucky he never has a girlfriend cos she'd get horribly jealous', kinda loves. A perfectly restored classic car has him sighing, moaning and full of dopey smiles. His dad, on the other hand, likes a brand-new expensive car with air-con, and doesn't get the fascination with 'those heaps of old junk'. Bloody Philistine.

  Gav and I got talking once at a car show, and we've been mates ever since. He took me along to the unofficial revhead meetup on a vacant block in town, introduced me around, and I've been even more addicted to cars ever since. Bathurst really is THE place to be a revhead, you know? It's like country music and Tamworth.

  “Maisy, dude!” he pulls himself out from underneath the hatchback and grins at me.

  “Don't you have a pit for that sort of thing?” I ask, copying his father.

  He laughs.

  “Just checking out the oil situation - looks like a boring old leak. Wish this woman would stop scraping the front of the car on her driveway,” he shakes his head, almost admiringly. “Gal's got talent!”

  “Ah, some people just got it!”

  “That include you? Hey! Dude! Wanna come check out Baby?”

  Baby's his latest... well, baby. Just bought, and I was figuring if I visited now, he might even let me under the hood - before he turns her into pristine go-there-and-die material. He leads me indoors, and suspended over the pit is a huge old Falcon sedan, looking pretty damn crappy. There are even a couple of bullet holes in a back door, rusted up something shocking.

  “Wow - a Ford? What does Daddy think?” I say, laughing. If you're not from around here, you might not know that country Aussies are firmly split into two passionate camps - Holden lovers and Ford lovers. Bringing a Ford into a Holden dealership's kinda like taking a dog to a cat show, except worse. Gav is an odd one in the car world - he doesn't really care about make, he cares about the machine. I tend to agree with him, but I can't help loving the old Fords. Mum's influence, I guess. Whenever we had a car when I was a kid, it was a Ford.

  “Daddy thinks my latest pile of junk is the worst yet,” he says, grinning. “Coming into the pit? If you're a good girl, I'll let you change her oil...”

  I jump down fast, before he can change his mind. The next hour is spent handing him spanners and rags and solvent, but then he hands me the stuff and lets me drain the oil and refill it up top. Heaven.

  Out on the street, later, I look down at my clothes. Streaks of oil and dirt all down the front of my uniform. Ooh, Mum is not gonna be impressed. Oh well. Go home, head straight to the laundry, dump the clothes in the washing machine on a lonnnnng cycle. If I play it right, I might even get points for doing my own laundry.

  ****

  “Maisy...?”

  “Yeah Mum? I'm home!”

  “Where you been?”

  “Smoking joints, shooting up, getting laid...”

  “MAISY! Not funny!” she yells, walking out of the kitchen. She's got a smile on her face that she's doing her damnedest to hide.

  I grin at her, not feeling a bit repentant.

  “What the heck happened to you?”

  Oh. Damn. Forgot the plan to run to the laundry and clean
up.

  “Umm, stopped in at Gav's, he let me change the oil his new car!”

  She sighs and looks at the ceiling.

  “Maisy, do you have chores to do?”

  I nod meekly.

  “Well, now you've got one more - laundry! I want to see those clothes as good as new, girl.”

  Oh noz! Punished with exactly what I'd planned to do anyway. Life is so unfair.

  ****

  “Pretty!”

  I jump and - thank God - only just avoid adding a brush stroke across the canvas.

  “Mark! Moron, you scared the life outta me!”

  He pouts.

  “Sorry!”

  I sigh. He didn't mean to be an idiot, did he?

  “Surprising me while I'm painting is a dangerous business, boy - I was in concentration mode.”

  “Yeah, I get that now,” he says, losing the pout a bit.

  “Did you want something?”

  He looks like I just stabbed him in the heart.

  “Dude, you're not supposed to be in here.”

  “You're in here,” he says.

  “I have permission, ya goit - and if you're caught in here, I'll lose that!”

  Chapter 5: Emo Boy

  Mark and I are standing in my bedroom in front of the mirror, door open to avoid offending my mum’s delicate sensibilities. It's the day before the main disco of the year, and - OK, lame time again? A disco's kinda a big deal in Bathurst. Our social life doesn't get many boosts. The theme, oddly, is Halloween - odd because it's almost March. Maybe someone's trying to compensate for our reversed seasons.

  I frown at Mark. He looks the epitome of your good Christian boy - jeans and inoffensive bland department-store t-shirt. Neat, short hair. No makeup. What he needs for a Halloween theme is a walk on the dark side of life, I reckon. Isn't that what it's all about? Or have all those American movies led me astray? Then inspiration hits.

  “Emo!” I say, grinning, “You would be beautiful as an emo boy!”

  He grimaces.

  “No offense, Mais... but I don't think it's really my thing, ya know?”

  “That's the whole point, dude - it's Halloween, not the prom.”

  He sighs, and I take that for acceptance of the plan.

  “You’re a bit shorter than me,” I say, looking at him critically, “But ya know, I think this might fit, it's stretchy,” I throw a top at him.

  “Girl's clothes?” he says, looking dubious.

  “Uh huh... it's what all the cool guys are wearing!”

  “It’s black MESH!” he protests.

  “Hey, are you a good boy, or are you an Emo boy?” I tease.

  He rolls his eyes and peels off his daggy t-shirt. Suddenly he doesn't look so scrawny. Where the heck did those muscles come from?

  “PHWOAR!” I say, since I'm already checking out the sculpted chest. “You are RIPPED! Why didn’t you tell me you were so hot?”

  “I’m a humble guy,” he says, grinning but turning bright red.

  “That,” I say, “is going to look ten times as hot as I thought! Except you’ll be struggling to keep the other chicks off!”

  “Eurgh! God,” he says, shuddering, “no offense, Mais, but most of the chicks at your school are feral.”

  I laugh. Some of the girls at our school do get a bit bogany at times, and subtle's not really their forte. To be fair, though, the footballers wouldn't really notice that a chick liked them unless she was sitting on their lap and gyrating slowly. Flicking your hair and sending smouldering glances just doesn't do it round here. But Mark's a city boy, and the whole subtle-as-a-brick-across-the-back-of-the-head thing seems to freak him out a bit.

  Black mesh shirt, tight black jeans and a bandana, and Mark is looking HOT.

  “These things are ridiculous,” he whines, pulling at the crotch of the jeans.

  “Oh, man up!” I say, laughing.

  He blushes, but straightens up and at least attempts to look dignified.

  “Better - come over tomorrow after school, we'll do the makeup then, k?”

  “Makeup?”

  Geeeeez! Is emo out of fashion in Sydney, or something?

  ****

  Next afternoon, he turns up and submits bravely to the makeup, only screaming when I accidentally poke the eyeliner in his eye.

  “Cripes, boy, stop moving!”

  “Stop poking me in the eye!”

  I sigh, irritated and amused in spite of myself.

  “You running a torture chamber up here, hon?” Mum asks, poking her head round the door.

  “Yep. Thought it was less dangerous than sleeping with them, Mum.”

  She laughs and retreats while Mark blushes. Again. Geez, big sophisticated city boy, huh?

  I finally get Mark ready, and have a chance to slip into my outfit. There's not much of it, and the makeup's not meant to be at all subtle or classy, so it doesn't take long.

  “You're going in that?” he asks, eyebrows raised.

  “Uh huh - cute, isn't it?”

  He sticks a finger down his throat and makes puking noises.

  “Huh - you don't approve?”

  “You look like Teen Fashion Whore!”

  “Damn, I should've thought to get that on a bling necklace, that'd be perfect!”

  I look at my reflection. Tight, sequiny pink crop top and a white skirt, the short flouncy type that's in fashion at the moment. Hair up and curled and hairsprayed to within a millimetre of its life. Bright pink lipstick, two circles of bright pink blush on my cheeks. Bright blue eyeshadow. Heels to die for - literally, I suspect. Stupid things will break my ankle if I try to dance in them.

  He snorts.

  “Lighten up, dude - it's a costume, remember?”

  ****

  We walk into the school gym, and it's... well, not transformed, just dark and flashing with cheap lighting effects and the prerequisite mirror ball. They're playing a Britney Spears song.

  “Holy crap, Britney? I can't do this!” I say in Mark's ear.

  He grabs my arm and pulls me further in.

  “I get to look like the cover of BDSM Monthly, you can deal with Britney!” he yells.

  “FINE!”

  He wanders off to find drinks, and I sit down and look at the action. Everyone's dancing unenthusiastically, and it looks like Mark and I might be the only ones to've actually made an effort with costumes.

  “Maisy!”

  Rachel waves and walks over, then flops into a seat next to me.

  “You look gorgeous, girl, but I think the cheeks are a bit overdone... love the top, though, does wonders for your tits.”

  Holy crap. She didn't get the whole 'costume' thing, did she?

  “Thanks, Rach, you look great.”

  She's dressed almost identically to me, but with better makeup. Mustn't laugh.

  Rachel looks at something behind me, and her eyes widen.

  “Who the hell is THAT?” she asks.

  I turn around to see Mark returning with two cans of drink. He sits down, hands me one, and waves at Rachel. Rachel smooths her hair with one hand and waves back with the other, grinning.

  “Oh - Rach, this is Mark, he's new here... Mark, Rachel.”

  Apart from the crappy music, it turns out to be an OK disco. Plenty of drinks and food options on offer. And since hardly anyone's put an effort into outfits, Mark wins a second prize for weirdest outfit. I don't win a thing - I guess they didn't see the irony. But Mark's kinda stoked by the prize, and finds himself the centre of attention in a group of younger girls who clearly think he's hot. I leave him enjoying the attention, and find myself another drink.

  ****

  Next morning, I’m lying in bed trying to decide whether breakfast is worth getting up for. There's a knock on my bedroom door, which I assume is Mum. Maybe with breakfast? Or am I living in fantasy land?

  “Come in,” I yell lazily.

  Mark’s standing outside in the hall, grey-faced. His eyeliner is smeared and streaked down his
cheeks.

  “Aunt Rose didn’t like my outfit,” he says, and tries to smile.

  Holy crap. What the heck's happened?

  I bundle him in, sit on my bed, and get him to lie down with his head on my lap.

  “Tell me all about it,” I say, stroking his hair.

  “Umm… devil worship, satanic, evil, stupid, bad influence, stay away from that girl…”

  “Mrs Catrick said that?”

  “Uh huh - I dunno, it all freaked her out something chronic, Mais, she went ballistic.”

  “The makeup?”

  He shrugs, looking morose.

  “Dunno, kiddo - but she's still mad. You haven't seen me, if anyone asks.”

  Wow. I never would've expected nice little Mrs Catrick to go nuts over something this lame. What's up her butt?

  ****

  “WHAT?”

  “Mark's grounded for going to an evil anti-Christian disco dressed as a Satan-worshipper.”

  Mum's completely gobsmacked.

  “I don't understand - she's seen you wearing that stuff a hundred times! She's always lovely to you!”

  I don't get it either. But I do suddenly get a sneaking suspicion.

  “Maybe she's been trying to convert the poor little satanist girl with kindness and cookies?”

  Mum sighs as if the idea isn't as far out as I hope it is.

  “I'll go talk with her, love, see if I can settle her down, OK?”

  Chapter 6: Clichés

  Another Sunday, and another sermon that I try not to yawn through. Damn, I try to pay attention to the things, I really do, it's just that they never seem to make much sense, or the minister goes on and on with something that could be said in a few sentences. Can't we ever do something interesting?

  On the bright side, there's always morning tea. Christians might be kinda boring, but they bake kick-arse snacks. I browse the table with a paper plate, grabbing a few bits and pieces.

  “Lo, stranger!”

  It's Mark. Hallelujah! I start to say something, but he shushes me, grabs my arm and pulls me off around the corner of the church.

  “Aunt Rose has me on a pretty tight leash, but there's a crisis with the morning tea roster, so I scampered,” he says, grinning.

  “Darn, so she's that upset still? You really need to sneak around like this?”

  He sighs and nods.

  “She says she'll send me home if I play up, so I'm trying to be good,” he says, grimacing, “but Mais, I'm going nuts!”