by J. C. Burke
‘No, it’s okay. But thanks.’
‘I won’t say anything,’ Louise Lovejoy said. It was as though she could read my mind.
4
APRIL
29 weeks to formal
MONDAY WAS THE DAY AFTER APRIL FOOLS’ Day, but that didn’t stop anyone. When you have a friend like Andrea, even the second of April is a day of high alert.
Lunch was predictable. A student had got on the loudspeaker announcing that the principal said we could all go home, someone planted a trail of fake dog poo in the locker room, and the joke that sucked everyone in and even had a few girls crying was that Princess Diana was dead.
As far as I was concerned, April Fools’ Day was over for another year. But Andrea executed her prank in the afternoon, when my complacency had set in.
The last period was in the drama room and was a total bludge. We were seated on the grey felt carpet that always gave me an itchy bum, watching a theatre group perform an act from Hamlet. I was sitting next to Louise Lovejoy and Andrea was behind us.
Andrea started to touch my back. Sometimes when we couldn’t talk, she spelled messages to me that way. I thought that’s what she was doing, because a second before the play started she’d launched into some complicated story about Martin Searles. How she’d found out what party he was going to on Saturday night and she was pretty sure we could gatecrash with no dramas.
So I was concentrating on the supposed message she was writing on my back, trying to work out what words she was spelling. Not realising that in between strokes, she was gathering up the back of my uniform (which I stupidly wasn’t sitting on, even though I usually did because of the itch factor!) and pinning the hem up. Way, way up. So that at the end of Hamlet when I stood up, my hungry bum, swallowing my red-striped undies, was on full show for everyone to see. Including Ralph.
Louise Lovejoy was in the same predicament. She seemed to catch on quicker and pasted herself against the wall squealing that she’d been ‘got real good’!
We had been got real good. The only reason I didn’t kill Andrea was because Louise Lovejoy laughed about it. Really hard and really loud. So I had to as well or I would’ve looked like a total spoilsport in front of everyone.
But when I walked in the front door from school, the prank still sat sour on my lips.
Mum was busy fitting some girl’s ugly pink bridesmaid dress to the plastic mannequin we called ‘Neuta’, because there was nothing downstairs. Apart from the boobs, you couldn’t tell if it was a male or female.
‘Neuta and I have been so excited for you to get home,’ Mum said. She picked up a tiny yellow package and began to wave it in my face. ‘Guess what’s inside, Gemma?’
‘What?’ I grumped back.
‘The swatches for your formal dress!’
‘I’m not going to the formal anymore.’ I hadn’t actually thought of that possibility before I said it. But at that moment it seemed like a good idea even though I one hundred per cent didn’t mean it. It’s just that Ralph witnessing my bum had been beyond mortifying, even though he hadn’t laughed and pointed like the prissy girls had. ‘I’m not going back to school tomorrow, Mum. Or ever again for that matter. I’m going to become a hairdresser.’
But Mum was ignoring me. She’d already opened the package and was stroking a small square of jade green velvet like it was a kitten. ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ she purred.
‘Yuck,’ I said, even though it wasn’t too bad.
‘Yuck.’ Mum imitated me, screwing up her nose like I had. She kept it that way while she said in a nasal voice, ‘You know if the wind changes you’ll be stuck with a nose like this forever.’
I groaned because I wasn’t in the mood for any more jokes.
Mum’s fingers pulled another swatch from the envelope. Black velvet.
‘Do you like this one?’
‘It’s a bit better.’
‘Now keep an open mind with this one.’ Out of the package she pulled a piece of salmon pink satin. ‘Stunning, isn’t it?’
‘That’s pink!’ The tiny piece of material detonated my explode button. ‘I hate pink! Pale pink, candy pink, hot pink, every pink ever invented, and if Billy had picked the fabric himself instead of some guy who doesn’t know the foggiest about me, then, then …’ I didn’t know what I was trying to say. We’d barely mentioned the swatches since our last fight. I stormed into my room and slammed the door behind me, tears choking me as I threw myself on the bed, face-first into the pillow.
The next day I couldn’t even give Andrea the cold shoulder. People were still congratulating her on what an unreal April Fools’ Day prank she’d pulled and Louise Lovejoy and I on what good sports we’d been. Even Sonia Darue, one of the prissy girls, came up to me and said, ‘If that was me I would’ve totally burst into tears. But you were so cool about it, Genna.’
‘It’s Gemma,’ I muttered back, thinking, I almost liked you then.
Andrea lapped up every compliment until she was peaking so much she found herself at Martin Searles’ locker, asking him to be her date at the formal.
‘That’s months away,’ Martin mumbled.
‘I like to be in control of things,’ Andrea told him, her fingers running up and down the locker handle.
I snuck off to the bubbler because this was clearly not a conversation for three. When I looked up Andrea was beaming and Martin Searles was walking away.
‘So?’ I nudged Andrea.
‘So, looks like I have a date for the formal.’
‘He said yes?’
Andrea was nodding.
‘Oh my God! He said yes?’
‘Well, as good as,’ she replied. ‘Anyway, I told Marty we’re planning on crashing Simon Finkler’s party on Saturday night.’
‘Marty?’ I choked.
Andrea was glowing. ‘I can’t wait.’
‘We are going to crash the Fink’s party?’ I gulped. Simon Finkler was in the year above. He was big, tough, mean and not one to appreciate girls like Andrea and me crashing his party. ‘The Fink? Tell me you’re kidding. Please?’
‘I’m deadly serious.’ Andrea pulled a face. It was the annoying one where she sucked in her cheeks and pouted her lips until they resembled a bumhole. The problem was that Andrea thought it looked sexy, so I’d probably be seeing a lot more of it now that ‘Marty’ was suddenly on the scene. ‘Marty will get us an invitation,’ she was saying. ‘If that’s what you’re worried about.’
‘That’s not my main concern,’ I answered. ‘I’m more worried about Bronnie Perry. You know, the girl who rearranged Louise Lovejoy’s face? Derr.’
‘It’s different. I’m not after the Fink. Louise Lovejoy was an idiot. She asked for it.’
‘Andrea! That’s a horrible thing to say.’
‘Are you best friends with Louise Lovejoy now?’
‘What?’
‘It’s a joke, Gemma,’ she told me. ‘But I’ve been thinking. I’m not sure Louise Lovejoy should be the other person who Billy makes up. I think we should keep that spot open for a while.’
‘Too late.’ I had just made my decision and I’d never been so sure of anything. ‘I’ve already asked her,’ I lied. I walked off, leaving Andrea glued to the ground.
The rest of the week was about one thing and one thing only. Simon Finkler’s party. Actually that’s not true. Simon Finkler’s party was merely the venue. Everything was about Andrea and Martin ‘Marty’ Searles.
What was Andrea going to wear? Should she trim her fringe so that she could tease it better? Were the black kitten heels too dressed up? Where could she buy the new Revlon Bronze Lame lipstick?
Her questions and obsessions went on and on, while all I wanted to ask was, Does Martin Searles actually know that you’re going to the party?
If I subscribed to lessons of tough love like Andrea did, then I’d substitute ‘know’ with ‘care’ because that was more like the truth. Three times this week I’d had the agony of watching Andrea sidle up to his l
ocker only for him to turn on his heel and walk away as though he hadn’t seen her. The problem was that he had. But Andrea was thick-skinned, and more than that she could convince herself of anything.
‘Marty’s just playing hard to get,’ she told me. ‘He’s actually flirting with me, Gemma. We’re like animals. It’s a mating game we’re playing.’
It didn’t matter how much I rolled my eyeballs. We were going to the party and that was that.
‘I’m a bloody good friend,’ I reminded her at every opportunity.
‘I’d do the same for you, Gemma,’ Andrea replied each time.
But some days I wondered if she would.
On Saturday night Andrea knocked on the door. She’d cut her fringe and teased the life out of it. She was wearing the black kitten heels and after travelling six train stops had finally found the Revlon Bronze Lame lipstick that was painted thick on her lips, so when she pulled the annoying pout her mouth resembled a bumhole that sparkled.
‘You look very’ – Mum paused – ‘dressed up tonight, Andrea.’
‘Too dressed up?’
‘No,’ I butted in, because I could sense a fashion crisis ahead. ‘Mum just means you look dressed up next to me.’
I was in my uniform: Levi’s 501s, my faithful Doc Martens, a tight black long-sleeve midriff and the chunky gold hoops that Saul had given me for my fifteenth birthday.
When I’d opened Saul’s present I couldn’t hide my disappointment, because I’d hoped they were going to be the amazing Christian Lacroix earrings that I’d shown Saul in a magazine. I wasn’t trying to drop a hint. It was just that I gasped so loudly, Saul had come over to see what the fuss was about.
‘Look! Look!’ I’d said, pointing to the picture. They were big, chunky gold crosses. ‘I would die to have these.’
I really liked the gold hoops. I wore them all the time. Sometimes I worried whether Saul could tell I was disappointed that day.
Andrea pointed to the picture of my dream formal dress on the fridge. ‘Is this strapless number still the one?’ she asked me.
‘Something like that. Maybe in black velvet instead.’
‘I still think it’s a bit boring. No offence.’
‘And I still think Gemma’s dress should be long,’ Mum piped up. ‘It is a formal. Not a party.’
‘I agree, Maryanne.’
‘Louise Lovejoy’s wearing short,’ I bravely announced.
‘How do you know?’
I stalled on purpose, because I could almost hear Andrea panting.
‘How?’ Andrea snapped and Mum did her little cough that meant Andrea’s pushing you around again.
‘She told me,’ I answered casually, dragging out her agony a bit longer. ‘Louise’s in love with the dress that the lead singer of Roxette wore on the cover of the single “Dressed for Success”.’ I paused. ‘It’s tight, red and short.’
‘Hmm,’ Andrea said, and I knew that meant she didn’t like what she was hearing. She was pretending to study the picture, and I wondered what drama had just started in that head of hers.
‘We should hit the road, Gemma,’ she suddenly said.
‘Do you girls want a lift to the party?’
‘No.’ Andrea beat my answer of ‘yes’. Then she gave me the big saucer-eyes that said shut up, we don’t want a lift. ‘No, thank you, Maryanne,’ she finished in a sucking-up, sweet voice. ‘We don’t want to put you out. It’s only a ten-minute walk.’
‘Have a good time then.’ Mum tucked my hair behind my ears. ‘Shows off your earrings better,’ she whispered.
‘Yes, Mother.’
‘Midnight, Gemma, and not a minute later. Or I will hunt you down and publicly humiliate you at the party.’
‘Bye, Maryanne.’
We weren’t even out of the apartment block before I was blasting Andrea. ‘Ten-minute walk!’ I spat. ‘More like twenty-five. Correction, forty with you in those heels.’
‘I have to get supplies. A just-in-case item,’ Andrea answered as she linked her arm through mine.
‘Sorry, you’ve lost me.’
‘Condoms.’
‘Condoms?’
‘Exactly. We are headed to that late-night chemist up the junction.’
‘But that’s the opposite way,’ I moaned.
‘I don’t know why you’re complaining, Gemma. I’m the one in the heels!’
‘So when did you decide you were going to have sex?’ I asked.
‘It’s not like I’ve decided, but if Marty asks, I want to be prepared.’
‘Always thinking of others, Andrea.’
‘Gemma, do you think your mother really would hunt you down and publicly humiliate you?’
‘No, Andrea. It was a joke.’
We clip-clopped along the street, or rather Andrea clip-clopped with the occasional stumble because she really hadn’t nailed the art of walking in kitten heels. I’m not saying I had, but Billy had shown me how the models are taught to walk on the catwalk. Hips forward, feet forward in the shoes, look forward and pretend you’re walking on a tightrope.
Twenty-five minutes later we arrived at the late-night chemist.
Open 364 days the neon sign flashed. All that sign ever did was present me with a huge conundrum: what one day of the year were they closed? Was it Christmas? Boxing Day? Good Friday? The owner’s birthday? Because for some reason they didn’t bother to specify.
Andrea scanned the shelves while I stood there trying not to look awkward. The chemist, a man who was about a hundred years old, was watching us like we were either shoplifters or sex maniacs.
Andrea kept picking up box after box of condoms, reading the information, then putting them back down again. I couldn’t bear it any longer so when she’d got to about the fourth packet I whispered in her ear, ‘Why are you taking so long to choose?’
‘The first two are ultra thin and this box’ – she was now holding another one – ‘says thin.’
‘So?’
‘So I don’t want thin or ultra thin.’ Andrea was talking normally. Actually almost a bit louder than normal. We may as well have been discussing the difference between Rice Bubbles and Coco Pops. The chemist was now peering over at us from the opposite shelf. ‘Although ultra thin would be worse. Much worse.’
‘Why?’
‘Derr, Gemma,’ she said. ‘Less protection! And I can’t risk that. Not anymore. Look at Fat Dwayne. We all have to be extra careful now.’
‘You mean …?’
‘AIDS, Gemma.’ Finally she was whispering. ‘Look, you know I don’t like talking about it in front of you. And I know Saul and Billy are different to – to all the others.’ She suddenly stopped mid-sentence, marched up to the counter, bought the condoms and we left the shop.
It was only then, when we were outside, that she started talking again. On and on and on she went. ‘… the Grim Reaper ad was right, Gemma! Mothers and fathers and children all dropping dead because of them …’
I watched her. Her arms waving around, her eyes wide and her gold lips stretched over every word. And I knew that night for sure, the night of the Fink’s party, when I wore my Levi’s 501s, a tight black long-sleeve midriff, chunky gold hoops and Doc Martens, that I would never, ever be able to share my fears with Andrea.
At the party, Andrea handed me a big plastic cup of wine and uttered from the side of her mouth, ‘You’re looking like Nigel no friends.’
Believe me, that was not a good thing. I took a big gulp. I didn’t like wine and it made me burp, but I was going to be stuck at the Fink’s party for a while and I was sick of standing against the wall with my arms crossed. From my position, I had two views: couples rolling around on the carpet or couples groping each other on the dance floor.
I had another gulp of wine and then another, and a few cups later I was on the dance floor too.
I wasn’t a big one for dancing. I left that up to the prissy girls. But when Salt-N-Pepa came on, Andrea had dragged me up. ‘Come on, Gem,’ she yel
led over the music. ‘You have to dance with me!’
At the end of Year 8, I’d ditched Boy George and had a brief and intense love affair with Salt-N-Pepa. Andrea and I had spent the whole Christmas holidays making up dances to go with their songs. We then subjected Billy and Saul to countless dance performances. If they were out, Mum or Aunty Penny would be our victims.
‘You remember the moves?’ Andrea was squealing. I did and suddenly I wasn’t shy.
Bum to hip rotation. Spin. Bum out. Bum in. Spin. Tap hand on the ground. We still had it. Arms up. Arms down. Spin. Bum to hip rotation. All the steps were coming back. Quick down on the floor. Three push-ups.
A crowd had gathered, but that didn’t stop us. Bum to hip rotation. Arms up. Arms down. Spin. Bum out. Bum in. Andrea even remembered the bit where she had to slide between my legs. I was only just ready for her too, but we pulled it off.
The circle around us were clapping in time. Now it was Sonia Darue and a few of the other prissy girls from our year, standing against the wall with their arms crossed. I spotted Ralph in the crowd, clapping and laughing. I waved at him and he actually waved back.
Our moves were getting bigger and bolder. Andrea and I were singing at the top of our lungs. We were having a moment and it was fantastic.
Afterwards, we joked that it was our dress rehearsal for the formal. A little warm-up to warn the prissy girls we were coming.
But it would be a very different occasion when I next danced to that song.
5
ON SUNDAY MORNING I OPENED SATURDAY’S papers but I had a bit of a white wine headache so I was only pretending to read.
Mum was busy with Catrina, who’d just arrived for an emergency bridal fitting. Catrina had called that morning in tears because she’d just found out she was pregnant and the wedding wasn’t for another four months.
‘I’m already fourteen weeks,’ she was blubbering to my mother. ‘I missed a couple of periods but I do when I’m stressed. I didn’t think anything of it.’
‘It’ll be okay. You’re not the first pregnant bride I’ve had to dress.’
