by Wendy Harmer
'That could be true. That could well be true. And it's something you have to think about. But you'll never know what sort of boy you want unless you know what sort of boy you had. Am I right?'
Carmelita's always right. And that's why I love her so.
'OK, that's sorted. Now let's get on to the allimportant topic of what you're going to wear to the dance tomorrow night. What do you think of this?'
Carmelita drags a red ruffled crepe three-quarter-length dress from her bag, holds it up against herself and twirls for me. I give her a standing ovation. It's perfect. Just perfect. With her black curls and olive skin she looks like a gypsy princess. A pair of red patent leather stilettos complete the picture.
'And what about you, Els? What are you wearing? Lemme see.'
I explain that my outfit is, at this moment, probably scrunched into a little ball at the bottom of the Tilly Tip. It's about time we made a strategic raid on her room.
After about an hour of sifting through the pile of clothes like a couple of fevered prospectors, I strike gold – a shimmering mini-dress with fab long, flowing sleeves and a low scooped back. I try it on.
'Oh Els, you look as yummy as a Ferrero Rocher in all that gold,' swoons Carmelita. 'Sweet.'
My heart lurches when I remember that's what Will always says. 'Sweet.' I wonder if he'll be at the dance tomorrow night? What will I say if I bump into him?
There's one thing I do know – and that's that I am going to look as stunning as I possibly can to show Will what he's missing! Carmelita and I continue our mining expedition looking for Tilly's exquisite new silver strappy high-heeled sandals. I find them and Carmelita squeals her approval.
'They are To. Die. For! You're so lucky having a big sister,' she sighs.
Sometimes I'm not sure about that, but I know that I'm lucky Tilly's studying, which means I should be able to get this stuff back under the pile before she notices I've borrowed it.
A little silver sequinned shoulder bag is added to my booty and we sneak back to The Dungeon with my stolen treasures.
Carmelita flops on the bed and starts unlacing her boots.
'OK, babe! It's time for pedicures! La cu-ca-ra-cha!'
And with two mighty thuds, Carmelita's boots hit the wall.
Saturday. 4 pm.
PM. AW. PPC.
I'm standing inside the doors of St John's church, West Oldcastle, helping my mum hand out wedding programs and asking the same question over and over: Are you with the bride or with the groom?
Who cares? After all, I'm assuming that everyone will be one big happy family after this joyous occasion.
As much as I hate to say it, I wish Bianca Ponsford was here. It's a sad waste to be in Fashion Crime Central on my own. I've racked up at least five positively identified style transgressions in this congregation without even trying.
1. White lace stockings with slingbacks – No! No! No!
2. Purple silk puffball skirt – You look like a poisonous toadstool, madam.
3. Embroidered suit lapels with shoe-string tie – more Riverboat Gambler than Father of the Bride.
4. Sequins, silk flowers, bugle beads and ribbons – Enough decoration for a bridal party of ten, all herded onto one individual.
5. Red feather fascinator. Here, chook, chook, chook!
Bianca would be in a frenzy by now. Her head would have swivelled so many times that it probably would've unscrewed right off the top of her neck and fallen in the font.
Still, I've earned $20 since I got here. By the end of the day – putting together all the $$$ I have collected through folding paper napkins into the shape of swans and tying paper scrolls with red ribbons – I think I will almost have enough for a new mobile! YAAAY!
When the bride arrives right on cue (AKA twenty minutes late) I am about to expire of boredom. So there's no-one more surprised than me when I get a lump in my throat as the bridal party finally assembles at the top of the aisle.
Of course, I'd rather kill myself than wear a burgundy taffeta bridesmaid's dress. I'd rather stick pins in my eyes than carry a cane basket full of white daisies. And the wedding dress looks like a pavlova topped with fruit salad. But when I see that the bride is so nervous and weepy on her big day, I can't help feeling a bit like crying myself. (Although that could be because her face is framed with ghastly tendrils of hair that make her look as if she's being attacked by a couple of brown snakes.)
But no, by the time the bride is halfway down the aisle to the strains of Mrs Winchester (my old kindy teacher from Oldcastle Primary), belting out 'Ave Maria' from the organ loft, I'm a wreck. I guess it's only to be expected. Everything makes me cry lately.
As the bride and groom make their vows, I'm searching for a packet of tissues in my awful old leather bag (where art thou, my lost and beautiful butter-yellow handbag!). I step outside into the vestry where I figure I can have a good old honk and not interrupt the congregation.
And then the tears flow. I'm thinking about Will and how much I miss seeing him and talking to him. It's like I'm being pelted with stinging grains of rice.
While my head is bent – so no-one can see me howling like a stupid idiot – I suddenly hear a rapid crunch, crunch, crunch on crushed white quartz. I look up and see . . . Carmelita? She's supposed to be at her Auntie Isabella's birthday party. She's waving her arms in the air and doing that mental Spanish poultry thing again. Skipping up the drive like a crazy hen.
'ELLY! I went to see Will! I found out what happened!' she shouts.
I tell her to shoosh – Mum is lurking somewhere within hearing distance.
Carmelita rushes up and takes me in her arms and lifts me off the ground and spins me around. She sweeps my long hair from one shoulder with red fingernails and her breath is hot in my ear.
'It was the ring, the ring, the ring!'
What ring? The ring of my mobile, church bells . . . Frodo's ring?
'Will was calling and texting Lily and eventually went to see her because he wanted to replace the ring you lost!' Carmelita babbles.
Is she talking about my silver ring with the tiny blue stones? It was so precious. Now forever lost down a crevice in the Mount Doom mall.
'He wanted to show you how much he loved you by getting her to hand make another ring. 'Specially for you. She makes jewellery, right? He wanted you to know that there would never, ever be another like yours on the face of the earth.'
I suddenly realise that what I saw under the jacaranda tree made sense. That envelope Lily held out to Will? Was my ring inside it?
'And the photos of him and Lily,' Carmelita's still gabbling in my face. 'He says she pushed him into getting in the spa and it was all just innocent stuff. So he thought. Then when he realised Lily was coming onto him, he insisted they get out and he left. He never dreamed someone was taking photos and they would end up on FacePlace.'
But I saw the photos . . . everyone saw.
'But they didn't mean anything. It was all just a mistake. He loves you so much Elly! He loves you with all his heart. I swear. On the heart of Viscount the Pig, I swear.' Carmelita stands back, looks to the heavens and solemnly makes the sign of the cross.
'Would you two just SHOOSH!' says my mum as she charges out the door flapping a wedding program at us. 'They're about to exchange rings and all we can hear in there is a couple of bird brains gossiping –' Mum looks up to the church spire – 'like a pair of silly pigeons.'
Mum's made a mistake. There are no pigeons on the spire of St John's church this afternoon.
Instead I see two white doves taking to the dusky sky.
They take my heart with them.
Saturday. 6 pm.
PM. AW. PPC.
I get back to the Palace to frock up for the dance. Carmelita's getting changed at her Auntie Isabella's place and I'm going to meet her at the Lord's boathouse on the south bank of the Mersey River.
As I walk up the hall there's a light coming from under the door in the South Wing and I know Tilly will be h
itting the books. When I open the door I can see she's sitting hunched over her desk, which is piled high with dirty coffee cups and plates. She's almost up to her knees in clothes and and looks like one of those poor kids you see in destitute countries who have to live on rubbish dumps.
'Oh hey, Elly,' she whispers. 'Come on in – if you can find a place to sit.'
She waves at where the bed is supposed to be, although under the leaning towers of junk it's hard to tell. When I land with a bounce and grin at her, she squints at me through the gloom.
'Hmmm, you're looking happier than I've seen you for a while.'
I tell her everything that Carmelita told me. That it was all just a big mistake, that the reason Will was calling Lily was to get her to make me a new friendship ring!
'That's what I heard too. Georgie told me this afternoon. Lily used Will to make Jayden jealous. And it worked on that dribbling idiot. Honestly, can you believe a sweet girl who makes such pretty jewellery could be such a . . .'
Words fail Tilly here as she holds her arm up to the light and jangles the delicate bracelet Lily made. I don't care. I don't want to spoil my mood with complaining about Lily Cameron. Everyone makes massive mistakes when they're heartbroken.
'If I'd stayed and spoken to Will that night, none of this would have happened,' Tilly says. 'So I'm sorry for that, Els, and I'm sorry I talked you into paying out on him on FacePlace too.'
I tell her it's OK. I should I have taken notice of the warning that emotions and the internet don't mix. And if I hadn't been guilty of the five dangerous sins a general can make, I wouldn't even have been in a war in the first place.
I lean across Tilly and google The Art of War on Eddie's laptop. There it is – the best leaders conquer the enemy before they enter battle. They win by using strategy.
And the best strategy would have been to go to see Jai, explain that he'd hurt my feelings and ask him to please take down those embarrassing photographs from FacePlace.
'Who's Sun Tzu?' Tilly looks nonplussed. 'What are you on about? What with this babble, and your calligraphy, little sister, you're becoming more inscrutable by the day.'
I smile at this. Inscrutable. It's good. I like it. It's way more interesting than telling everyone everything about you every minute of the day.
'I closed my FacePlace site this afternoon,' says Tilly as she leans back and stretches. 'I'm over all the gossipy crap that goes on there. You always find that the people who post most are the ones that have got the least to say.'
I think of Bianca's incessant mirror scribblings and the hundreds of photos she posts and I know that it's true.
'So what happens now? Do you want to borrow my mobile and call Will?' asks Tilly.
I shake my head. I have to think this through. I'll see him tonight, I suppose. Don't know what I'll say. And maybe he won't say anything and I'll have to try to read his mind – as usual.
Is that the kind of boy I really want, I wonder aloud. Do I want a boy at all?
'Atta girl! Now you're starting to wise up. You're amazing, Eleanor. I love you, I really do,' Tilly declares. Then she springs from her chair in a flying leap and pins me on the bed with her bony knees. AAARGH! I wrestle back and flip her on her tummy and then mash her face into the pillows.
'OW, OW, OW!' she screeches. 'Get off! I've got a lip balm in my eye!'
There's a thump thump thump on the wall.
'OI! KEEP IT DOWN IN THERE, YOU TWO,' Dad bellows through the wall from the throne room.
And we two Royal Princesses from Buckingham Palace, Oldcastle, laugh our tiaras off.
Saturday. 7 pm.
PM. AW. PCC.
'Ma belle, you'll be the most gorgeous thing at the dance tonight,' says Dad as he reaches for his jacket.
'Look at you, just look at you!' exclaims Mum, clapping her hands, and for once she's not talking about the dog. 'Rick, get the camera.'
I pose this way and that, totally enjoying my star turn in front of the paparazzi in the Palace kitchen.
Tilly appears in the doorway in her dressing gown with her empty coffee cup and her mouth drops open. 'Hey! Isn't that my . . .?'
I'm stuttering some sort of lame apology when she just shakes her head.
'Go for it. You look amazing. I love your hair up like that, but I hate it when you look better in my clothes than I do. I so forgot I even had that dress.'
'No wonder, with the state of that pigsty you live in.' Mum has to take the opportunity to get a nag in.
'Hey, Mum,' sings Tilly as she reaches for the kettle. 'One day Elly and I won't be living here and you'll be standing in our empty rooms and missing our stinky, girly crap.'
Tilly and I both start to laugh and then I see Mum's face crumple.
'Don't,' she blubs into her hands. 'Don't. I can't stand the thought of it.'
Dad throws his arm around Mum and gives her a hug.
'Don't worry, darls! When the girls move out, we'll sell this place and I'll take you on a trip to see the real Buckingham Palace! So, Elly, let's get going. Your coach awaits!'
Mum brightens up a bit and the Royal Family of Oldcastle all have a soppy group hug.
Then I'm flying out the door on silver sandals. Princess Elly, on her way to the ball! Suddenly there's a strangled screech from behind me.
'NO, NO ELLY! NOT MY NEW SHOES. YOU CAN'T WEAR THEM!'
Too late! I sprint down the path and lock the car door behind me. Tilly owes me these shoes. She's standing on the front porch, still giving me the stare of death, as Dad backs the car down the drive.
Saturday. 8 pm.
PM. AW. PCC.
Actually, it's more like a little kid's birthday party than a fairytale ball here at the boatshed tonight. Paper streamers and balloons are sagging from the ceiling. Streamers? Balloons? Then again, maybe they do suit the place – some of the Year Eights tottering around on their high heels look about eight years old. I wouldn't be surprised to see them with lolly bags at the end of the night. It's all a bit pathetic. Why do we have to share our dance with the grommets? Why can't they have a bouncy castle on the school oval?
The Year Elevens and Twelves all get to dress in long gowns and tuxedos and dance to a live band at their formal in November. Meanwhile, over in a dingy corner I see that ridiculous dropkick Bad Mickey B standing under a CASTLEROCK 64.5 FM banner playing DJ and thinking he's the King of the World. Standing next to him is the hideous Jai, punching the air with his fists and imagining he's in some special VIP area. It's truly, truly sad.
I'm just wondering whether Will will even make it here tonight when Carmelita catches me by the elbow and spins me round. We both give each other total five stars. Carmelita has never, ever looked prettier. She's a totally hot red-carpet babe!
We walk arm-in-arm to the outside deck and I have to admit that with the lights of Britannia reflected in the still waters of the Mersey, there might be a touch of magic about the evening. And what of Prince Charming? Again the thought of seeing him makes my stomach flip.
'CARMELITA! What are YOU doing here?' shrieks Bianca from behind us. 'Did you bring your pig? Where are your gumboots?'
Oh, v.v. funny!
I turn to see Bianca's hair so puffed up and teased and sprayed that it might double for a shipping hazard buoy on the Mersey River. What has she done to herself?
