‘Midge,’ she says, and I’m surprised that her words aren’t echoed by a chorus of nightingales.
How does she even know my name?
‘Hi, Nina,’ I say.
‘My parents are going away this weekend,’ she says, flicking back her shampoo-commercial hair with a pale and perfect finger. ‘I’m having a party. You should come.’
I nearly fall over. She’s inviting me to a party?
‘Really?’ I say. I think of all the times Tahni and I had laughed and giggled and gossiped about Miss Nina Perfect Kennan. I think of how we swore we would never ever be her friend, just because she was so irritatingly perfect. But I don’t think either of us imagined it would actually happen.
‘Bring whoever you like,’ she says, as she turns to go. ‘Bring that new boy.’
‘So,’ says Ben, running his thumb over my wrist as we sit behind the basketball court. ‘What’s new?’
‘Not much,’ I say. I think about telling him how weird Tahni’s been today, but decide not to. It’s sort of because of Ben, and I don’t want him to feel bad.
‘Who are you doing your English project with?’ I ask instead.
‘No one,’ Ben replies. ‘Everyone in my class already has a partner, so I have to do it on my own.’
I ponder the unjust cruelty of the world for a moment. If I were in Ben’s class, and he had come to school a day earlier, we could be doing our project together! Instead he has to do it all by himself, and I’m stuck with stupid socks-pulled-up George. I mean sure, George has had some good ideas, and that story about the Care Bear was pretty funny, but he’s still a weirdo.
‘Have you thought about what you’ll do it on?’ I ask.
‘Do what on?’
‘Your project. Do you have any ideas?’
Ben smiles at me, this beautiful, radiant, warm smile. His eyes make me go all gooey inside. Those eyes are just for me.
‘I thought I’d get you to do it.’
I’m still drowning in the eyes. ‘Hmm?’
‘My project. You know how I said I’d think of a way for you to make it up to me? For not telling everyone your secret? I figured you could do my Communication Project and then we’d be square.’
‘Oh,’ I say. This feels wrong. This isn’t the kind of thing that a boyfriend asks his girlfriend to do. Not that I necessarily am his girlfriend. We haven’t really discussed it yet. How do you tell? Is it something you have a conversation about?
‘I was thinking something to do with the media,’ he says. ‘Photography maybe. Something cutting-edge.’
I think about that moment in the hallway, when I wanted to die. I wonder what would have happened if Ben hadn’t rescued me. He could have laughed, or said he’d never seen me before, and then everyone would know what a sad loser I am.
Except I’m not a sad loser anymore. Overnight, I went from being pathetic Midge Arkles, who’s never had a boyfriend and is so desperate she MADE ONE UP, to Fabulous Midge Arkles. A Midge Arkles with a hot boy kissing her in the corridors. A Midge Arkles who wags school to go to a cafe with aforementioned hot boy. A Midge Arkles who people are jealous of. A Midge Arkles who gets invited to Nina Kennan’s party. A Midge Arkles who just might be … popular.
And it’s thanks to Ben. This change is because of him. And it’s not just because he didn’t tell everyone I made up an imaginary boyfriend. I feel different. The way he looks at me, and talks to me, and nuzzles my neck. It makes me feel like a real girl. It makes me proud to be me. It makes me feel beautiful and special and unique. Because he wants me.
So I tell him yes. I’ll do his project for him.
We spend the rest of lunchtime kissing. I’m in such a good mood, that, when I see Tahni on my way to Politics, I invite her to Nina’s party.
9 hul·la·ba·loo
–noun; a clamorous or exciting noise or disturbance; uproar.
– A Wordsmith’s Dictionary of Hard-to-spell Words
Five things I’d never done before this week:
1 Kissed a boy for hours until my lips went numb
2 Spoken to Nina Kennan
3 Been to Nina Kennan’s house
4 Been to a proper, no grown-ups, lots of beer party like in American teen movies
5 Drank beer
I’m doing all of them right now. I’m not so crazy about the beer, which tastes like the bottom of a laundry basket, but everything else is fantastic.
I’m sitting on Ben’s lap in Nina’s living room, and the party is flowing around us. There’s music and dancing and lots of people pashing and groping in corners.
Ben and I are the King and Queen of the party. We’re sitting on our floral upholstered throne, watching our court whirl by. It’s awesome.
Flashback. Two hours ago, I am a pathetic quivering mess.
What do I wear to a party? I pull every single thing out of my wardrobe. I try on jeans and skirts and dresses. They all make me look like I’m going to a birthday party where there’ll be a clown, lolly-bags and a cake shaped like a fairy.
I end up raiding Mum’s old collection of hippie clothes. After much deliberation, I choose a middle-eastern-looking cream and pink lace top, which I wear over a black singlet and jeans. It’s … different. I almost take it off and start again, but I figure with the clothes available to me, my choices are ‘boring’ or ‘different’, and ‘different’ wins. ‘Cool’ or ‘hot’ are not options.
I would have been nervous about dressing for a party anyway, but this is the first time Ben will see me out of school uniform. I don’t want him to realise he is going out with boring old Midge who would quite happily wear school uniform on the weekends.
I want him to see interesting, funny, beautiful Midge, with an eclectic dress sense.
So I add a few strings of beads and some dangly earrings from Mum’s jewellery box, and a badge from a school excur sion that says ‘I ♥ Happy Endings’. I try putting on some of Mum’s make-up, but the result is absolutely ridiculous. Surely the point of make-up is that you end up looking better than you do in your natural state. I end up looking like a hooker. And anyway, I don’t want make-up to rub off onto Ben’s face while we’re kissing. That would be embarrassing to the point of death.
Mum can’t decide whether to be proud or concerned that I am going to a Proper Teenage Party.
‘Will Nina’s parents be there?’ she asks.
‘Of course,’ I lie, hoping Mum won’t call and check.
‘And boys? Will there be boys?’
‘Yes, Mum. There will be boys.’
‘And alcohol?’
‘I don’t think so,’ I tell her. ‘But if there is, I promise not to drink any. Or get too close to any of the boys. Or get pregnant. Or take drugs, or take lollies from strange men. Or cross the road without looking both ways.’
‘Don’t be smart, Midge,’ Mum says.
‘Oh!’ I add. ‘And I will absolutely eat my greens and my crusts so I grow up big and strong.’
She pushes me out the door and follows me to the car.
‘Just promise me you’ll be careful,’ she says, as we reverse down the driveway.
‘I promise, Mum.’
I wonder what she’d do if I told her I intend to kiss my boyfriend all night. Frankly, she’d probably throw a party.
I have a brief and painful memory of the surprise family gathering she organised when I first got my period. She served pink, fizzy drinks in champagne glasses, and made whole-wheat strawberry tarts and a very red tofu casserole. She found a red tablecloth and decorated the house with red balloons and streamers. She also made a mixed tape of songs like Girl, You’ll Be a Woman Soon and You Make Me Feel Like A Natural Woman and that awful Man, I Feel Like A Woman song. She drank too much of the pink fizzy stuff and sang and danced and cried and made long, heartfelt speeches while my dad and uncles stared at their shoes and looked like they’d rather stick forks in their eyes. It was the most humili ating and painful way I could possibly have entered adulthood.
‘I’m going into the office,’ she says. ‘But I’ll have my mobile if you need me.’
‘The office?’ I say. ‘It’s Saturday night!’
Mum looks away. ‘We have a big case coming up next week,’ she says. ‘Anyway. If you want me to pick you up, just call.’
‘I’m going back to Tahni’s house afterwards,’ I tell her. ‘Remember?’
‘I know, sweetheart, but if you change your mind, you can call me or Dad at any time of the night. No matter how late or early it is.’
Walking up Nina’s driveway is like walking barefoot over coals. Her house is enormous and ancient – all gables and boards and wrought-iron lacework. I feel sick and nervous and shivery. I contemplate throwing up in the bushes, but feel it would probably be rude.
Is Ben already here? Is anyone here yet? Nina said eight o’clock, but does that mean eight o’clock or does it mean eight o’clock is for losers and the party won’t really start til after midnight? I wish there was a book for teen-party etiquette. Or a website. Actually, there probably is a website, I just wish I’d thought of looking it up.
I’m not the first person to arrive, but the party is hardly pumping. I sit on a green and pink floral sofa in Nina’s lounge room (the fanciest room I’ve ever been into in my life), and try not to breathe on any of the expensive-looking ornaments, or stare at the ye-olde wallpaper. I feel like I’m in a Jane Austen movie.
I chat a bit with some of Nina’s friends [Them: ‘Oh God, I love your top!’ Me: ‘Thanks.’ Them: ‘It’s really (giggle) interesting.’ Me: ‘That’s what I was going for.’ Them: (vapid stare)], and eat chips. Nina brings me a plastic cup full of not-very-cold beer, which I gingerly sip. Yech. What’s all the fuss about with beer?
Ben arrives at nine-thirty, which must be the Officially Cool Time to arrive, because everyone else arrives then too.
I don’t think he sees me on the couch, because he goes straight into the kitchen. I wait for him, but when he doesn’t emerge after five minutes, I go to find him. He’s leaning against the kitchen bench with a cup of beer in his hand, talking to some kids from our school. He looks easy and comfortable talking to kids he doesn’t know – I’d be a shivering awkward mess. I am insanely proud of him.
I put my hand on his arm. ‘Hey,’ I say.
‘Hey princess,’ he replies, and wraps an arm around me. I nearly explode with happiness.
‘Been working hard on my project?’ he asks.
The happiness-explosion dims somewhat. ‘Um, yeah,’ I say. ‘It’s going to be about how the media manipulates everything so much that photography is no longer an indicator that something is true.’
I’m about to go on (it’s actually really interesting), but Ben is starting to glaze over. He drains his beer and refills it, and we wander over to the couch. I end up on Ben’s lap, and we start kissing.
This is what parties are all about. This is what I’ve been missing. I could do this all night.
It’s nearly midnight. Tahni’s here, but she’s dancing or pashing some boy (I think it’s Chris Stitz). She’s still funny around me, but we said ‘Hi’ and talked about the fancy wallpaper.
Ben’s talking to some guy sitting next to us about the difference between soccer and AFL. It’s really, really boring, but I’m just enjoying being here. I know that when the guy goes for another drink, Ben and I will make out some more until someone else sits down to chat. It’s a routine I’ve totally settled into.
The music is very loud, so Ben puts his lips right up against my ear to speak. It’s lovely feeling his breath whisper against my ear, but we’re not talking much. The music’s too loud. Ben’s lips are actually spending more time attached to my lips. Can your lips go numb from too much kissing? Can you get blisters?
Ben’s breath is sweet with the alcohol. Somehow beer tastes better when it’s on his lips. I’ve never drunk alcohol before, except for a glass of Baileys at Christmas, and a sip or two of the pink fizzy stuff at my period party. It’s all right, I suppose. I don’t think I’ve had enough to feel anything, except for a warm and fuzzy sensation. That might be the kissing, though.
Tahni’s certainly had more than enough. She weaves past with a plastic cup in her hand, laughing hysterically.
‘Chris!’ she yells. ‘Give me another hickey!’
I roll my eyes. How immature.
I think she sees me do it, because she backtracks.
‘Isn’t it a great party?’ she says. I’m not sure if she’s talking to me or not, because she’s looking at Ben. Her voice is too loud, even with the music pumping.
I nod. ‘Yeah,’ I say.
Ben nods too. ‘Rocking,’ he says.
He is adorable when he uses English slang. Tahni obviously thinks so too, because she reaches out and tugs his sleeve.
‘Why aren’t you dancing?’ she asks. ‘You should be dancing. Dancing is awesome.’
I don’t like her touching him. Even if it’s only his sleeve. Why is she touching him? What does she want? What if he says yes? What if he dances with Tahni and I’m left alone here on the couch? But Ben laughs, and wraps his arms tighter round my waist.
‘Maybe later,’ he says.
I want to burst open with joy and pride. Hah! He wants to be here with me, Tahni! Not dancing with you. Put that in your plastic cup and chew on it!
Tahni looks at me for the first time since she stumbled over here, and I’m a little scared by her expression. It’s not the kind of face that you point towards your best friend. I squirm. But then she smiles, and it’s like clouds racing away and the sun coming out.
‘Did you see Nina’s bedroom?’ she says, giggling. ‘She has a canopy bed.’
‘Really?’ I ask. ‘What a princess.’
I put my hand on Ben’s, and we link our fingers. Tahni’s eyes flicker. The clouds return.
‘I need another drink,’ she says, and wanders away, calling for Chris and his ‘magic tongue’. Gross.
Ben and I kiss some more. A popular song comes on, and everyone squeals and rushes to the make-shift dancefloor at the far end of the room. Ben wraps his arms tighter around me.
‘You’re not going anywhere,’ he says.
I have absolutely no desire to go anywhere. I could quite happily stay here for the rest of my life. I could just sit on this fancy floral sofa and pash Ben until the day I die.
Unfortunately, there are some aspects of living that get in the way of pashing. One of them is my bladder. I give Ben a final, parting kiss, and stand up. He pouts.
‘I won’t be long,’ I say.
‘Can you get me a refill on your way back?’ he asks, holding up his empty plastic cup.
I smile. Ben winks at me.
‘Don’t get lost,’ he says.
As I negotiate my way through the crowd, I feel as though people are looking at me with respect. Even envy. I am a Real Girl with an Actual Boyfriend. I exist. I have scaled the social ladder. And frankly, I like the view from up here.
I climb the stairs to the bathroom. There’s a queue. I’m sure there’s another bathroom, but I’m afraid to open any doors in case I disturb carnal activity. There are things a girl doesn’t need to see. I wonder if Tahni’s managed to clobber Chris Stitz over the head and drag him into a private corner yet.
Two people stumble out of the bathroom. Eww. I hope they didn’t do anything on the toilet seat.
A small blonde girl ahead of me in the queue (I don’t know her, she must go to another school) is looking a little green.
‘Are you okay?’ I ask.
‘Yeah,’ she says, swaying a little. ‘I’m fine.’
The queue moves forward.
‘Do you go to school with Nina?’ she asks. She seems to be having trouble focussing on my face.
I tell her I do, and ask her how she knows Nina.
‘We do calisthenics together,’ she says.
I try not
to snort. Tahni and I always laugh at the calisthenics girls. Tahni says they’re all called Sharon or Kelly, with long blonde hair in a head-scrapingly tight ponytail, and are only doing calisthenics because they’re not bendy enough to do gymnastics.
Right now it looks like this Sharon-Kelly couldn’t even walk in a straight line, let alone twirl a baton.
The bathroom door opens, and Sharon-Kelly goes in.
I lean against the wall and wait. I replay the delicious scene when Ben blew Tahni off in my mind. I really don’t know why she’s being such a cow. I suppose she’s jealous.
But she has a new boyfriend every week. Isn’t it fair that I get my turn? I’ve NEVER had a boyfriend before. Maybe she’s jealous that mine is better than all of hers put together. But that’s what happens when you have standards.
The bathroom door opens, and the Sharon-Kelly comes out. She’s looking less green.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says as she walks past.
I walk into the bathroom.
Sharon-Kelly has thrown up, and she’s completely missed the toilet. Actually, it looks like she might have got some in the toilet, because there’s vomit on the toilet seat. It is seriously like a scene from that old horror movie where the girl’s head spins round and round. Perhaps Sharon-Kelly was practising some kind of Esther Williams-style calisthenics routine, but with vomit instead of water. I am astonished that such a small girl could have so much vomit in her. It stinks.
For a moment, I wonder where Nina’s mum keeps the cleaning product. I wonder if I can find a mop and some disinfectant. But only for a moment.
Because cleaning up the drunken vomit of some calisthenics girl I met five minutes ago is the kind of thing that Old Midge would do. Boring, responsible Old Midge.
New Midge turns around and walks out.
There’s no one queuing behind me, so I saunter down the hallway, and pick a door at random.
Paydirt. It’s the master bedroom. There’s a moving lump under the covers, but I ignore it and speed past to the ensuite.
Then I pee (relief!), wash my hands, fluff my hair and go back downstairs.
Not Quite Perfect Boyfriend Page 6
