Sky

by Ondine Sherman

  ‘Happy Birthday, Marissa,’ I say, handing over a gift and then petting Princess who’s lying by her side. Paula and I had bought a boxed series of YA fiction, vampires and stuff, on sale at the bookstore. Will Marissa like them?

  Marissa flicks her thick hair, seemingly spun out of pure gold as it catches the light.

  ‘Hey,’ she swings lean legs gracefully to the side and gets up. A pink and lime striped bikini highlights her tiny waist. She has narrow shoulders. Hollywood-style sunglasses which means I can’t read her expression. I hope it’s welcoming.

  My body type isn’t like hers. I’m an ‘inverted triangle’. I read all about it in a dentist’s waiting room, with broad ‘swimmers shoulders’, flat chest, and no waistline. Bikinis? Not recommended.

  Marissa’s posture is also so perfect I wonder if she practises. A memory flashback hits me suddenly. Mum and I on the couch, matching fluffy slippers and almond milk hot chocolate, an old black-and-white movie with Audrey Hepburn walking around with a book on her head. Just as quickly as it surfaced, I brush the memory away.

  She puts the present down with the others and looks at my outfit, with the same expression as her mum. ‘I’ll get you a mocktail,’ Marissa says as she walks towards the kitchen, Princess at her heels.

  I see Kristy lying on her stomach in the sun, bikini top undone to avoid tan marks, looking at her phone. Jules is sitting in a pool chair, all big sunglasses. She looks quite the 1950s movie star in an off-the-shoulder red one-piece. She sees me and waves. I vaguely recognise the other three girls from class. They are flicking through a trashy magazine, but they ignore me. I don’t know where to sit so I stare at my feet like they’re interesting and bite my lip.

  ‘Want a taste of mine?’ Jules asks, making room on her seat. I nearly faint with gratitude. ‘It’s pineapple, apple … um,’ she looks down at the glass, ‘maybe orange juice and raspberry cordial … delish! We’ll add the vodka later,’ she laughs.

  I take a sip and Jules isn’t wrong – it is spectacular. Marissa returns with a pink one for me. The juice is icy cold and I fish out a strawberry and pop it into my mouth.

  We lounge for a while on reclining sunbeds, until Marissa says, ‘Time for selfies.’ Jules re-applies gloss and Kristy twirls her ringlets. They arrange themselves as a threesome, arms over each other’s shoulders, Princess squashed between them, and then huddle together to consult as Marissa crops, filters and uploads. I try not to look upset at being left out.

  I keep myself busy by texting Melody. ‘How was your retreat? I miss you. When are you visiting?’

  Two beauticians arrive and we take turns at getting our nails done.

  I listen in to gossip about teachers, new clothes, dress designs for the gala and boys they like or loathe, names I don’t know.

  I learn that at last year’s gala, Kristy and a couple of other girls had hooked up with their dancing partners.

  ‘Couldn’t kiss to save his life. He was all tongue and then he got all sweaty and started heavy breathing. Gross,’ Kristy shudders. ‘School boys are children. I want a man!’

  ‘You going with Andrew?’ one of the girls asks Marissa.

  ‘That’s all in the past,’ she replies, picking up Princess for a cuddle.

  ‘What about Oliver,’ another girl says. ‘Wonder who he’ll ask.’

  I hold my breath. Please, please, God, I cross my fingers and toes, don’t let him have a girlfriend.

  But then my brain freaks out. I can’t use my prayers for such inane things. I prayed a billion silent prayers for Mum to beat her cancer. What more proof is possible that prayers don’t work? No one is listening, nobody cares.

  But what if by some tiny speck of a chance God does exist? If anyone’s listening, here’s my prayer: I’ll trade Oliver having a girlfriend, having ten girlfriends, Oliver being gay or single but totally disinterested in me … Oliver anything. I’ll trade him and everything else that has any meaning in my world for one thing.

  Bring back my mum.

  Bring her fucking back! Bad language. ‘Don’t swear’, I imagine Mum saying.

  Would I trade it all? I look around again. Yes, I would. Everything would be on the table, like a game of poker at a Las Vegas casino. I’d give anything for my life to be back to normal.

  ‘For sure, Oliver likes Marissa,’ Jules giggles, breaking me out of my daydream. Perfect. That hope is gone too. Marissa turns away smiling.

  ‘Ooh, Oliver,’ Kristy giggles.

  ‘The perfect rebound, right Marissa? From that rugby douche …’

  ‘Shut up, Kristy! How many times do I have to tell you not to go there,’ Marissa snarls.

  Something must have happened, but I’m not in a position to ask. I wonder why Marissa left boarding school, anyway? It’s not like West Creek has some awesome reputation for academic learning or anything. But that’s too much to ask, too.

  Chapter 8

  Eventually, I relax into the group, occasionally adding to the conversation but mostly listening, making notes of who likes who and what’s cool or not. I add an observation about the supermodel, Bella Hadid. Who knew she was an ambassador for Dior makeup? Yes, I googled some fun facts about her to impress you-know-who. And she is my dog’s name inspiration after all.

  My phone beeps a couple of times with messages from Paula asking how I am. I’m really grateful she let me keep Bella, and my anger has disappeared, for now at least. I send smiley faces, even one blowing a kiss.

  The chatter turns to Christmas. Marissa is confident her dad will buy her the latest iPad, just released in the States, and a super expensive studded collar for Princess that she’s seen Kylie Jenner’s dog wearing.

  ‘I write a list but my parents never get what I want,’ Kristy says, ‘WTF. Is a super-hot guy too expensive?’ she giggles and the rest of the girls all pitch into agree that it’s so unfair.

  I slip back into my funk. How can they complain about stupid stuff when they have mothers and … My eyes sting. I take another sip of my drink but it doesn’t help stop the rush of emotions. Fathers. Whole and complete families. Mine is non-existent.

  ‘Can I go for a swim?’ I say, and Marissa rolls her eyes and gives me a look that says ‘whatever’.

  I realise that I shouldn’t have asked and want to kick myself for being so stupid. It’s too late. It would look bad to change my mind, and my instinct tells me that you can’t show any sign of weakness around girls like these. I walk to the deep end and hear Marissa whispering. I raise my arms, perfect symmetry, palms squeezed into an arc and dive. No splash, not bad.

  The water cocoons me like a warm hug from Mum. I forget Marissa and all my worries and sadness for a minute. Eyes open, my world is turquoise and the water whooshes past like a mermaid’s lullaby. Trying to make it to the end without coming up for breath, I attack the pool with long breaststrokes. It’s far. Are they watching? Now I’m stressed again. If I can get to the wall I’ll be okay, the day will be a success. Just let me reach the wall. But panic pounces and I feel desperate for air. Three more strokes, but I can’t do it. I come up, gasping. Fail.

  I look up. The girls are deep in conversation. No one has noticed.

  Dipping my head back in the water to streamline my hair, I imagine myself emerging from the pool as a glamorous movie star, beautiful and full of confidence. Instead, cool air smacks my breast and I look down. My strap is broken.

  ‘Sorry. Do you have a spare swimsuit?’ I tiptoe across to ask Marissa, holding my chest, blushing.

  ‘Sure,’ she looks at Kristy and smiles. ‘We’ll get you one’.

  I wait awkwardly with my hand over my boob until they reappear holding a bundle of canary yellow fabric.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ I say.

  ‘Change in the laundry,’ Marissa says as Kristy stifles a giggle. I guess I do look pretty silly.

  I run through the French doors to the safety of the laundry. The swimmers are small and barely fit; they must be for a ten-year-old. Did Marissa do it on
purpose? As I tie the straps around my neck, I catch a glimpse in the high mirror above the laundry sink.

  Oh no. Standing on tippy-toes I can see Sesame Street characters smiling widely. The left side of the costume features Ernie, and the right, Bert. Ernie’s red nose is perched on my nipple, and Bert’s black bushy monobrow stretched across my chest bone. I swivel to find a big yellow rubber ducky on my bum.

  Ha ha, Marissa, very funny. I’ll have to change. I sneak back outside looking for my clothes bag I’d left by the side of the pool. It’s not there.

  Marissa’s laughing, her arm locked with Kristy’s.

  ‘Hilarious,’ I say, as nonchalant as I can. ‘Where’s my stuff?’

  ‘We’re sorry, Jules spilt her mocktail all over it, so we put them in the wash. It’s going to take a while.’

  I look at Jules but she’s looking at her feet and doesn’t meet my eye.

  This won’t ruin me. I won’t let it. ‘No problem, I always loved Cookie Monster,’ I try to smirk. Be cool, be cool.

  Jules smiles back. ‘My favourite is Mr Snuffleupagus! My little brother makes me watch it with him. Anyway,’ she whispers, ‘you’d look good in anything.’ Jules has my back, even if Marissa doesn’t like me, yet. I relax. There’s time to convince them I have something to offer. I just have to work out what.

  Marissa opens her presents. Jules has given her a pink sarong, and Kristy, a mouse pad and keychain printed with a selfie of the three of them, faces squashed together, smiling. Books, what was I thinking? It’s obvious her smile’s fake when she says thank you.

  The sun’s setting when Jules waves me over. I follow her to the laundry, hoping there’s not another prank.

  ‘She’s just testing you,’ Jules says. ‘Our parents are friends since forever. But Marissa can be a bitch. Even when she was, like, three. She stole my doll and threw it down the stormwater drain.’ Jules opens the washing machine to reveal my clothes hidden inside, dry and stain-free. ‘But lately, well, she’s had a hard time. I guess she’s feeling insecure. She is nice deep down. Like, really deep!’ She smiles.

  ‘What happened?’ I venture.

  ‘Oh, you know, boarding school and stuff,’ she says enigmatically.

  I guess Jules doesn’t trust me with secrets yet. Marissa, insecure? Not sure I’m buying that one. Do I still want to be in the popular group if they’re really mean girls? I know Mum wouldn’t approve. I wonder what Melody would say? She still hasn’t texted me back.

  At dinner, happily back in my clothes, we all sit at the long glass dining table, beautifully set with scented candles, brushed linen napkins and the real-deal silverware.

  ‘Daddy’s at a conference tonight,’ Marissa announces as Lorraine bustles in the kitchen, ‘but he’s taking me for a special champagne lunch tomorrow at the golf club.’

  We all sit politely as Lorraine brings platters to the table and serves dinner.

  It’s roast chicken. Feetless legs bound with a string, it looks positively tortured.

  ‘Yum,’ everyone says. But the smell is already making me sick.

  ‘Marissa’s favourite,’ Lorraine moves around the table and dishes me up a thigh, carrots and mashed potatoes and continues serving the other girls. Strangely, Marissa is given a small skinless piece of chicken from a separate dish, and no mash.

  Everyone eats hungrily, except Marissa, who cuts small pieces, placing them delicately in her mouth, and chews slowly. I notice Princess on her lap enjoying a few tidbits too. I push the carrots with my fork, trying to buy time to formulate a plan. I’d sneakily avoided Paula’s meat dishes since I arrived, loading up on veggies, bread and pasta. I know enough about nutrition to realise it’s not healthy as I’m missing protein. I need to get my hands on some hummus for a start. It’s been two years since I ate meat and being veggie has been everything to me. But now my whole world’s turned inside out and upside down. It’s flattened, misshapen, squashed. What was important to me then – maybe it’s no longer relevant now. I’ve no idea what to do. I stare at my plate hoping an answer will appear.

  ‘You like chicken, don’t you?’ Marissa asks, exchanging a look with Kristy. ‘You’re not one of those hairy armpit veggos or anything?’

  ‘Go on. Show us your underarms!’ Kristy giggles.

  My face feels hot.

  ‘Everything okay, Sky?’ Lorraine asks. ‘No peanut allergies I hope, I don’t want a court case on my hands.’ She gives me one of her fake smiles.

  All the girls stop eating and look at me.

  ‘Ummm,’ I say, looking down at my plate. If I admit to being a veggie, I’ll stuff this up again like when I lost my friend Lizzy last year to Alison from LA My biggest regret ever. I didn’t fight for her. And was left alone. Today is my chance with these girls. Mean pranks and snippy comments or not. I like Jules and maybe Marissa will come around and trust me, I mean she seems to adore Princess so she must have a soft heart. Maybe she’s just got PMS or something. I’ll get to know Kristy eventually; she’s boy-crazy and seems as shallow as a puddle but probably really nice once you dig deeper. And I’m feeling like an orphan. Yes, there’s Paula and Dave, but it’s not the same. I need a gang to have my back. For real.

  I think of Lucy and her old glasses, bad haircut, getting hit by Andrew’s rubber bands and not saying a word. Of course, I’d like to be her friend. I like her a lot. But I imagine lunchtime at the schoolyard and eating beside her. Being her friend means sitting on the sidelines, no chance at getting to know Oliver, never invited to the good parties, being called a dork, a nerd. I don’t like that I want to be liked. It’s not Jane Goodall’s style at all. She didn’t care about popularity when she sat watching chimps in the forest for years. But there’s nothing in the world as pathetic as eating alone at school. Apart from your mum dying, your father abandoning you and moving to a nowhere town, there’s nothing sadder. I don’t want to be an outsider anymore. And this is my chance.

  I’m so sorry, chickens, really I am, and I’m sorry Jane Goodall for not being more like you, but my world has changed, my globe has fallen off its axis. I’m not the person I was. I am certain and clear. I need, want and must have this group.

  ‘Looks delicious,’ I lie. ‘You have to give the recipe to Paula.’ I imagine holding my nose and then chew the chicken twenty times before washing it down with a glass of water. My eyes sting but I’ve made my decision and won’t be defeated. Now there is no way I can write a guest blog for Franimals.

  Dessert follows. It is a birthday cake printed with a studio shot of Marissa. ‘From my last shoot. I have a new catalogue coming out soon,’ Marissa says. ‘You know I’m a model, right?’

  ‘That’s amazing!’ I exclaim, my eyes still watering from eating that poor chicken. ‘You look so pretty.’ She smiles and I’m relieved I’ve made it through to round two.

  Chapter 9

  Marissa hands me her portfolio. ‘Wash your hands before you touch it.’

  I rinse my hands in the sink and start flicking through. She stops me. ‘That’s my old catalogue,’ she points out. ‘The next one’s much more high fashion.’

  ‘She has a five-page spread!’ Kristy says. ‘Wait till she’s in Paris working Versace on the catwalk, right Marissa?’

  ‘No, Istanbul. That’s the hottest city in the world. It has more billionaires than even America. Bella Hadid goes all the time, all the A-listers do. And the parties are meant to be—’

  ‘You’ll have to work on your runway,’ Lorraine interjects from the kitchen, ‘You’re still as clumsy as a hippopotamus, darling.’

  ‘I am working on it, Mum.’ Marissa whines.

  When Lorraine disappears into the pantry, Kristy whispers, ‘OMG, the model boys are going to be insane. I’m going with her too,’ she turns to me. ‘I’m going to be her make-up artist.’

  ‘London, Milan, Tokyo, as long as we …’ Marissa turns to check if her mum’s listening, ‘get out of this backwash. Mum’s been stuck here her whole life,’ she whispers, rollin
g her eyes. ‘You’re coming too,’ she lifts up Princess and kisses her.

  I ooh and ah at the pictures but don’t have to fake enthusiasm too hard. I’ve seen my share of magazines and even if it’s not my thing, if this is her passion, that’s cool. I can tell she poses well, her hair looks even more luscious than usual; she’s clearly a pro.

  Later that night the three other girls leave as they have netball practice early next morning. Marissa, Kristy, Jules and I watch a reality a show about cheerleaders on Marissa’s TV. Her bedroom is super luxe, her bed covered in decorative pillows and layers of sheets, including one of those under-sheets that cover the bottom of the mattress, topped with a fluffy doona. Princess has her own pillow, her name embroidered in pink. We all huddle under throw blankets, sipping our drinks and eating chips. There’s no need to talk and I’m finally relaxing.

  A man calls from the bottom of the stairs and Marissa runs down.

  ‘How’s my Cupcake?’ I hear him say. ‘Have you had a great birthday?’

  ‘Daddy, there’s nothing yum to eat for brekkie,’ Marissa’s voice goes all baby-like. ‘Mum’s making everyone scrambled eggs and I’ll have to have my disgusting bran flakes! Can you pick us up some chocolate croissants from the bakery in the morning?’

  ‘Cupcake, there’s plenty of food and I had a marathon day, I gave three presentations and the PowerPoint malfunctioned …’ he says, ‘I really want to sleep in.’

  ‘Please, Daddy.’ Marissa coos.

  Her father sighs. ‘Okay, you win.’ Marissa is clearly good at getting what she wants. ‘Here, I brought my little birthday girl something.’

  Little? Does he know she has just turned sixteen? Moments later Marissa squeals like a kitten and runs back to us with an envelope and a black box.

  She reads out the card to us. ‘Something beautiful for you, although you can’t get much prettier.’ Smiling, she unties the ribbon and opens the box to reveal a delicate pink diamond heart-shaped necklace nestling on a velvet pillow. The girls swoop in to admire it, and Marissa holds up her hair as Julia fastens the gold clasp behind her neck.