by Penni Russon
‘Next time,’ I said, and my voice came out low and gravelly, though I meant it to be gentle. ‘I’ll come get you, okay?’ When I said it, I meant it. I wanted to share it, to let someone else inside my skin, to feel what I felt. But I regretted it straight away, because deep down I knew it couldn’t be shared. It was all about being alone out there, truly, absolutely alone. Maybe by telling Tilly she could come, I’d just lost it, whatever it was.
As we walked back towards the campground, my body was still buzzing from the surf. Talking about it would change it, but since Tilly was silent, I didn’t mind the company. Maybe it would be all right after all, if she understood.
Tilly left me at the toilet block when I went in for my shower. Each of us was alone in the darkness. I wondered how long it took Tilly to fall asleep.
The next morning while I was eating breakfast, Ivan dropped my phone on the table in front of me.
‘Have you been going through my bag?’ I asked. The big freak.
‘I found it on the ground. It must have fallen out.’
I pushed it away a bit. ‘Whatever.’
Ivan looked at me carefully. ‘Aren’t you going to check it?’
‘Why’s everyone so freaking concerned about my text messages all of a sudden?’ I snapped.
‘I don’t know. Is there a reason we should be?’
Had he been reading my messages? No way. But why was he looking at me like that?
‘Fine,’ I said. I checked the messages, looking at him pointedly as I jabbed the buttons to get into the menu. There were heaps. One from Kayla, three from Sooz, and a couple from the other girls at school. And one from my creepy new best friend, Number Withheld.
But it was the last one, from Marcus, that caught my eye. Hey Z, we need 2 talk. Pls call me. I miss you. I stared at it. I hadn’t heard from Marcus since Kayla’s party.
The party. I was supposed to be staying at Kayla’s that night, but then Tang Yi offered me a lift home with her boyfriend, and I thought about being away from the noise and throng of the party, in the quiet of my own room, slipping between cool, comfortable sheets. I went up to Kayla’s bedroom to get my bag.
I walked right in on them, totally unsuspecting. Marcus and Kayla. She was kneeling by the bed, her face at his crotch. He had her head in his hands and he had this look on his face, this spaced out, switched off, nothing look. He opened his eyes, looked at me, and smiled. There was a flatness, a blankness to that smile, to his slitted eyes, to the flat planes of his face. I backed out of the room before Kayla could turn around. She didn’t see me. As far as I know she still doesn’t know that I was there. I haven’t seen or talked to Marcus since. He tried to call a few times but I never answered his calls, and after a while he gave up.
Ivan was staring at me. ‘What are you looking at?’ I leapt up. ‘There’s no bloody privacy around here.’ I stalked off to the toilets.
I locked the door and sat on the toilet. I opened the message from Number Withheld. It said, I am watching you.
I deleted the messages, I deleted all of them, even the ones I hadn’t read. Then I wrapped up the phone in toilet paper and threw it into the bin. I didn’t go back to the caravan, back to Ivan. I went to find Tilly instead.
I thought Tilly would want to ask me about the night surfing, but she was buzzing about Tank. I’d forgotten all about it. She was so excited, I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I didn’t feel like going.
‘We have to dress up,’ Tilly said. ‘It’ll be fun. Secret identities. You’d be a great catwoman.’
‘Except I totally left my black PVC catsuit at home,’ I said, deadpan.
Tilly looked at me with this strange expression. Then she said, ‘Do you really own a PVC catsuit?’
I gave her a push. ‘No! I can make jokes too, you know.’
‘Hardy har har,’ Tilly said. ‘Ooh, I know! Let’s go into Indigo and check out the op-shop.’
I shrugged. ‘Okay. But I doubt the Indigo St Vinnie’s has a PVC catsuit either.’
We walked up the road into town. Indigo has a pub, with heaps of pokies and a bistro, a few cafes (one great, the rest ordinary), two surf shops, a golf store, a fishing store, fish and chips, a huge newsagency – the shops you expect to see in a small town that’s probably dead in winter and packed in summer. The op-shop is huge though, and really well laid out. Tilly’s in love with it. Mieke too. She has an amazing eye for vintage clothes so she nearly always scores stuff that I would have thought were curtains or something. She can make anything work and she’s really great with scissors and hand sewing. She’ll buy some huge kaftan thing and the next day she’s cut it and spent half the night sewing it and it’s a really gorgeous dress that looks like it comes straight from a designer store.
I don’t really do op-shops. I like shops where you get bags with the store’s name printed on them. I like trying things on in spacious changerooms with lots of mirrors and people around to tell you if things work the way they’re supposed to. I like – I know this is shallow – shops that make me feel rich, that only have one outfit in each size lined up neatly in a row, where things cost lots of money and not any old person can shop there. I’m not that into bargains. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been saving money since I started working at the Loveshack, but I’d rather buy one amazing piece of clothing every couple of months than buy stacks of cheap stuff. Mum buys me clothes anyway. She loves to take me shopping; she calls it being ‘one of the girls’. She’ll buy me anything I like. As long as it’s pink. Nah, not really, but she often tries to steer me in that direction, towards the mixy-matchy pink, girly stuff that she used to dress me in when I was six years old.
Anyway, we were at the op-shop when suddenly I had an idea. I don’t know where it came from, or what made me say it, or why it excited me so much. It wasn’t a normal idea. It wasn’t the kind of idea I’d usually have.
‘Listen, Tilly. It’s secret identities, right? So why don’t I go as you, and you go as me?’ It all came out in a rush, I wasn’t even sure that it made sense, but Tilly tilted her head.
‘How would it work?’ she asked. Typical Tilly. She always wanted to work out the rules of the game before we played.
‘I’ll pick an outfit for you. You pick an outfit for me. We’ll dress each other the way we would dress. See what I mean?’
‘Okay,’ Tilly said, hesitantly.
‘So . . .’ I took Tilly over to the size 8s and 10s. ‘If I were you, what would you wear?’
She flicked through the rack. She pulled out a shapeless, one-size-fits-all Indian cotton, long-sleeve black top.
‘With jeans or baggy denim shorts,’ she said, handing it over to me. ‘And probably your Birkenstocks.’ When I tried it on it hung loosely around me. It was all right, not showy and not at all flattering, but it was comfortable. I looked at myself in the mirror. If my friends could see me now! The thought gave me a little thrill, as if being ordinary could also be kind of daring.
‘Perfect,’ I said.
‘Are you sure?’ Tilly asked. ‘You usually look, you know . . . prettier.’
‘It’s perfect,’ I said again, firmly. ‘Now. It’s your turn.’
I went over to the 12s.
‘I’m a size 14,’ said Tilly.
‘No you’re not,’ I said. I held up a stretchy top and looked at the label. It was Club Zone, a ravewear brand. It had a zip down the front, with a V neckline and it was really well made. It was only three dollars too – I suddenly understood the appeal of the Indigo op-shop. This was definitely something I would wear.
‘Try it on,’ I said.
Tilly stared at the top and then at me, like she was scared to touch it.
‘Come on.’ I thrust it at her.
She took it into the changeroom.
‘Have you got it on?’ I called out ages later. She’d gone all quiet and still.
‘Yes,’ she said, in this meek voice.
‘Well? Show me.’
Tilly stepped out.
She stood there with the fluorescent lights of the op-shop flickering on her, so her skin looked a bit purple and goosebumpy. She looked awkward, but actually the top looked great, it clung to her curves like a bathing suit, and the cut of the sleeves emphasised her strong arms.
‘I can’t wear this,’ Tilly said.
‘Why not?’
‘Because –’ she gestured wildly at her chest area. ‘Boobs ahoy.’
The top was pretty low cut, and I suppose there was a bit of cleavage showing, but on Tilly it was really flattering. She must be, like a D. Maybe even a double D. And you know how girls with big boobs look a bit fat or weird-shaped if they wear a high-necked top? The V-neck was good for her. Trust me.
That’s what I said to her. ‘Trust me. If you were me, I’d wear that. Come on, it’s the rules.’
Tilly was a sucker for the rules. She turned around and looked in the mirror again. ‘Okay,’ she said, faintly. ‘What should I wear it with?’
‘Here, try these on.’ I gave her some black hipsters. She sighed and took them in to try on. ‘Yep,’ I said when she came out. ‘They’ll do. Now. What about shoes?’
I haven’t had so much fun shopping for clothes for like . . . ever. It was so much better picking stuff out for Tilly than for myself or my friends. I don’t know why. Maybe it was because Tilly needed me, even if she didn’t know it.
Our luck ran out when it came to shoes, and there was something about second-hand shoes that grossed me out anyway. In the end I said she could wear her black sandals but only if she painted her toenails. We went across the road to the chemist to get nail polish when I spied . . .
‘One more thing,’ I said, and I dragged Tilly over to the hairdresser.
‘You want me to cut my hair?’ said Tilly, stopping outside the door. We looked in. There was no one else in there, just a bored hairdresser flipping through a magazine.
‘Short,’ I said. She just had to. She couldn’t stop now. I don’t know why it mattered so much but it did. If she was going to be Zara for a night, I wanted her to cut her hair.
‘But I
–’ ‘You’re me and it’s my hair,’ I said, bossily. I was already behaving more like Tilly. ‘Short. Trust me, it will suit you.’
‘How short?’ Tilly said.
‘Short short.’
She squeaked. ‘I’ve never had short hair.’
‘You always wear your hair up anyway. You may as well cut it off.’ I was on a mission. ‘Think how much cooler it will be for summer. It’ll be fantastic. I promise.’
Tilly stood looking at me and suddenly I saw something in her face that reminded me of the night before, you know, like she wanted something. Really wanted it.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Let’s do it.’
I hovered over the hairdresser, giving instructions. ‘Short short. Like Judi Dench.’
‘Judi Dench is old,’ wailed Tilly.
Quickly, before Tilly could have second thoughts, I said, ‘Judi Dench is classical, like you.’ To the hairdresser I said. ‘Classical short. Isabella Rossellini. Um, Alyssa Milano in Charmed. Natalie Portman.’
‘Natalie Portman! Didn’t she shave her head?’
‘After that, silly. Feminine. Razored.’
‘Razored?’ Tilly gulped.
‘Textured,’ I said quickly, before Tilly took off.
I expected the hairdresser to be a country hick, you know, all perms and mullets, but she wasn’t at all. Her name was Saskia, and she had this accent, Dutch or something, and she totally knew what I meant. She cut Tilly’s hair really short all over. Cut it away from her face, framing her, then finished off with this thing that was part blade and part comb to give it that razored look. It was tufty and kind of blunt, but soft. Strong, but not harsh. I felt this rush, like I was creating her. Was this how Mieke felt when she was making a painting appear on a blank page?
When Saskia was finished, Tilly paid in a daze.
‘Do you have any product?’ Saskia asked.
‘Any what?’ Tilly said.
‘She doesn’t,’ I answered. I bought some for her (after all, I’d made her get her hair cut, it was the least I could do).
‘Do you love it?’ I asked Tilly when we left. I couldn’t stop looking at her. ‘Because I love it.’
‘I guess,’ said Tilly, touching her hair as if she couldn’t quite believe it was gone.
‘She did a brilliant job. Maybe I should get Saskia to cut mine too,’ I said.
Tilly laughed. ‘You can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you’re me,’ Tilly pointed out. ‘And I would never cut my hair.’
When we got back to the campground, I went to the toilets, fished through the bin (gross!) and found my phone. I unwrapped it. It was my phone, after all, I couldn’t just chuck it away. There was only one new message. It was from Sooz. Is everything ok? Why arent u answering ur messages? I thumbed back: everything’s fine, reception is crap here and sent it off. Just as I did, the phone started ringing. The call display lit up. I’ve got it programmed so it’s green for friends, blue for family and red for everyone else. It was red. I looked at the incoming number, but all it said was ‘number withheld’. I jabbed the answer button.
‘Hello?’
But there was silence. I hung up. A few seconds later it rang again.
‘Hello? Who is this?’ They didn’t reply. ‘Just tell me who you are, you gutless creep . . .’ But they’d already hung up.
The third time they called, I didn’t answer the phone.
Chapter Ten
Tilly
Mum, Dad and Teddy had gone to Duncan River panning for gold, so I had time to get used to my new hair before I showed them. I kept sneaking into the shower block and peering at myself in the mirror. The mirror reflected back the drab concrete-brick interior of the shower block and there in the middle, shockingly, was me. I looked bright and extra real, television real – larger than life. Part of me felt exposed. Even though I wore my hair in a ponytail to combat scary frizz, there were always bits dangling in my face, over my ears. Now my ears were right there, my eyes too and my whole shiny forehead.
But I didn’t hate it. I felt brave. My whole face was opened out. My eyes looked bigger and I don’t know if I was imagining it but my face looked fuller, less pointy. It seemed to flatten my cheekbones somehow. And it wasn’t frizzy anymore, just kind of fuzzy and thatchlike, like a trimmed lawn. It’s not as if I was an instant beauty but I was interesting to look at in a way I hadn’t been before.
Zara helped me get ready for Tank. She put the product glop in my hair, and make-up on my face. I couldn’t see what she was doing but it seemed there was an awful lot of gunk going on there. Though when I checked in the mirror the make-up was kind of subtle, much better than I would do. She’d used browny, bronzey colours, and though I still had freckles, the powder she’d put on last subdued them a bit.
I put on the outfit. Crikey. I felt like the Mistress of Doom in that top. Or the Borg Queen. But it also felt exciting. I was still a bit scared of my boobs. I kept tugging at the top until Zara slapped my hand away.
‘The girls are on the loose,’ I said in mock horror. Only I was genuinely horrified, so it was really mock-mock horror.
Zara snickered. ‘Don’t fiddle,’ she instructed.
I think Dad, bless him, was a bit scared of my boobs too. My family had come home while we were getting changed, so there was a lot for them to take in all at once. I mean, when they left I had a ponytail, frizz, freckles and a uniform: baggy T-shirt, baggy shorts. When they came back I was a practically bald bondage mistress.
Teddy looked shy. Mum looked amazed. Dad looked . . . elsewhere.
‘What are you going as?’ Teddy asked.
The answer made me shy. ‘Zara. And Zara’s going as me.’
‘You don’t look anything like Zara! You still just look like Tilly but in someone else’s clothes. Besides, why would Zara want to go as you?’ Teddy asked. I swiped he
r. But I could see what she meant. I knew why I wanted to be Zara Why wouldn’t I? But why would Zara want to be me?
‘Your beautiful hair,’ Mum said a bit sadly.
‘It wasn’t beautiful,’ I said. ‘It was frizzy.’
‘Mothers never want their daughters to cut their hair,’ Mum said. ‘It’s a fact of life.’ She tilted her head. ‘You look so different. But it suits you. It’s just a bit of a shock. Maybe I should . . .’ Mum reached up to fiddle with her own hair. Suddenly everyone wants to cut their hair short? It was sort of flattering and annoying all at once.
I went into the tent to rummage around for my wallet and trade my thongs for sandals. Dad muttered something to Mum I couldn’t quite hear, but it sounded like, ‘Are you going to let her go out like that?’ Apparently when it came to my boobs, Dad didn’t want to be the boss.
Mum’s voice rang out clearly. ‘Clothes are a perfectly safe way for Tilly to experiment with her sexual identity, Jules. I trust her completely.’ I am sure that was all for my benefit. It was Mum’s way of saying that she wanted me to be careful. ‘And besides,’ she lowered her voice, ‘remember what I was wearing on our first date?’
‘Don’t say that,’ Dad groaned. ‘Don’t you remember where we –?’
‘I can hear you!’ I shouted through the tent wall. That shut them up.
The club was already pumping out the music when we arrived. Where had all these young people come from? I guess some were Indigo locals, some were tourists, and others probably came from neighbouring towns. I suppose not much happens if you’re a teenager out this way and you’re looking for a bit of doof or a chance to shake your booty.
Zara left me at the door. Only she wasn’t Zara anymore, I was. The only trouble is, I had no idea how to be Zara. I’d only ever been Tilly. And maybe I wasn’t even very good at that.
When it came to dancing, Zara had instructed, less is more. Move, but not too much. How much was too much? I stood in the middle of the room and swayed slightly, waiting for people to come to me because I’m Zara. I’m the kind of person people just want to be near, because I let off this golden glow of popularity. Yup.
