New Midge is confident. New Midge is popular. New Midge is beautiful.
I get Ben another beer, and return to our couch.
Except he isn’t there.
My stomach lurches, and I can smell the vomit from the bathroom again. But I tell myself not to be silly. He probably needed to pee, too.
I scout the room to see if he’s in the kitchen or coming down the stairs.
I do see him.
But he’s not in the kitchen. Or coming down the stairs.
He’s dancing.
Dancing with Tahni.
Except I’m not sure if you call what they’re doing dancing.
She’s has her arms wrapped around him, and is pressing her whole body against him. Her head is on his shoulder, her face towards his neck. Is she kissing his neck? She can’t be.
I immediately try to assess Ben’s body language. Is he enjoying this? Did he choose to dance with her? Did she force him into it? I can’t tell. His hands are on her waist, but he could be gently trying to prise her away. He is nothing if not polite, after all. Surely if he was enjoying it, if he wanted to be there, then he’d have his arms around her. He doesn’t. His hands rest uncomfortably on her waist.
I stand there, openmouthed.
How could she do this to me? She’s my best friend, and here she is, sleazing onto my boyfriend! We’ve been friends since kindergarten!
This has to stop. I have to do something. People are looking at me, looking at Tahni and Ben, whispering, nudging. I am being judged. I see a girl with sympathy on her face. Oh no. Not yet. This isn’t over yet. Surely Ben’s just being polite. Surely.
I march into the crowd, elbowing people aside. Ben doesn’t look particularly shocked or guilty when he sees me – I figure this is a good thing.
‘You Australian girls are very friendly,’ he says with a lazy smile.
I ignore him, grab Tahni by the shoulders and yank her off Ben. It’s like trying to get a limpet off a rock. She clings to him and makes a pathetic drunken moaning noise.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ I say, shaking her.
When I let go, she immediately tries to attach herself to Ben again. I notice his neck has lipstick on it. Tahni’s make-up is smeared all over her face. I pull her away again. Her face twists slowly into a weird combination of hurt and angry and apologetic.
‘What?’ she slurs. ‘What’s your problem? We’re just having a dance.’
I can’t bear to look at her. She is so pathetic.
What happened to the crazy, happy girl who used to make up extra calisthenics competition categories, like Hair-Bleaching and Eye-Squinting and Cat-Fighting?
People are still staring at us. If this was a movie, I’d slap Tahni, and she’d vomit on my shoes.
Tahni shoves her face towards mine. She stinks of alcohol.
‘You think you’re so perfect,’ she says loudly. ‘You think that you’re all perfect with your perfect family and perfect grades and your spelling and your perfect perfect boyfriend.’
I don’t say anything. I want to say Yes! Yes I do! I do think everything’s pretty perfect right now. Until you came along and ruined it all.
‘Well guess what,’ Tahni says. I think she’s crying. ‘Not everything is perfect. Life isn’t perfect. I’m not perfect. And I’m sick of being the dumb one. I’m sick of being the funny, stupid sidekick to little miss perfecty-perfect.’
I feel like she’s slapped me across the face. ‘What are you talking about?’ I say. ‘You do nothing but tease me about how square I am, and how I’ll end up lonely with cats.’
As I say this, I’m suddenly aware that I’m surrounded by people. I don’t want Ben to hear this. I turn to him to see if he’s laughing at me, but he’s not there. I can’t see him anywhere.
‘That was the only thing that was mine!’ says Tahni. She’s really sobbing now, thick full tears that smear down through her eyeliner and mascara, making wet, black trails down her cheeks. ‘The one thing you weren’t perfect at. The one thing I can do that you can’t. And you stole that, too, with your perfect, too-good-to-be-true boyfriend.’
Where is my perfect, too-good-to-be-true boyfriend? I’m looking around. I want to find him and get back to the happy, glowing, king-and-queen-of-the-party feeling. This is not my idea of fun.
Tahni glares at me. For a moment I think she’s going to say something else, or throw up on my shoes, but she doesn’t.
‘I need another drink,’ she says.
Chris Stitz appears beside her. ‘I think you’ve had enough,’ he says.
Tahni slumps against him and presses her face up against his neck. ‘Chris,’ she says. ‘Let’s go upstairs. I want another hickey.’
She tries to put her hand down his pants, but he takes it gently and places it on his shoulder. Then he wraps an arm around her, and gives me a sort of wry smile. ‘I’ll take her home,’ he says. ‘I’ve got money for a taxi, and she lives near me.’
I nod.
It’s only when he’s dragged her from the room that I remember I am supposed to be sleeping over at her house.
I go into the kitchen to find Ben. He’s resting against the counter, another beer in his hand, talking to another blonde girl I don’t know. He’s leaning towards her with his little half-smile.
That’s my smile! He only looks at me, with those warm eyes. She’s totally into him – staring up at him through her slutty eyelash implants, playing with her platinum hair extensions. Her skirt is very short. She laughs, and reaches out and touches his arm in an ‘Oh, you!’ sort of way.
Ben glances up and sees me. He winks at me and mouths five minutes and waves me back into the living room.
I am suddenly very out of my depth. I go cold, and start to feel queasy.
The party isn’t fun anymore. The music is too loud. There are too many people. They’re all drunk and pawing each other like animals. Three girls are doing vodka shots off the coffee table. Another girl is dancing wearing only her bra and undies. Five boys are having a skolling competition in the kitchen. The floral couch is now occupied by a couple who seem to be practically having sex.
My stomach is churning and I can smell the calisthenics vomit from the bathroom. Every time I close my eyes I can see it, splattered all over the floor and the toilet seat. Little chunks of carrot and pasta.
I need fresh air.
I stumble out the front and throw up into the perfectly manicured lavender bushes. I feel like I’ve come full circle. I should have done it on the way in and saved myself all the bother.
I want to go home.
I find my mobile and check the time. It’s 3 am.
Mum did say I could call at any time of the night.
I’m shivering. It’s not cold, but I can’t stop shaking. I just want to go home.
I dial Mum’s mobile number. She answers after three rings, her voice all sleepy and confused.
‘Midge?’ she says. ‘Is everything all right? Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine, Mum,’ I say. ‘Can you come and get me? I want to come home.’
‘Of course, sweetheart,’ she says. ‘I’ll be there in ten minutes.’
‘I’m sorry it’s so late,’ I say. I am trying hard not to cry.
‘I’ll see you soon,’ she says, and hangs up.
It’s the longest ten minutes of my life. I huddle on Nina’s front steps, trying not to cry, and trying not to think about Tahni and Ben and the blonde girls and the party. I’m also trying not to think about the bitter taste of vomit in the back of my throat. I could go inside for water, but the thought of seeing Ben with the eyelash-batting, hair-extension-twirling, arm-touching blonde almost makes me throw up again.
I try to distract myself with spelling difficult words. I try to think of one for every letter of the alphabet. Accommodate. Barbiturate. Camaraderie.
I can’t get Tahni’s tear-and-make-up-smeared face out of my mind. I can’t stop seeing her pressed up against Ben.
Diphtheria. E
xacerbate. Furlough.
Ben leaning towards the blonde girl. Vomit all over the bathroom.
Gnarl. Harangue. Intravenous.
I’m nearly at the end of the alphabet (ukulele, vicissitudes, witticise) by the time Mum arrives.
‘You’re sure you’re okay?’ she asks.
I nod. ‘Sorry to get you out of bed,’ I say. Then I notice what she’s wearing. ‘Why are you wearing work clothes?’ I ask. ‘Have you been home?’
Mum laughs. ‘I fell asleep at the office,’ she says. ‘With my head on the desk. It’s lucky you rang. I might have been there all night.’
I reach forward and turn the heating on full blast.
‘Why didn’t you go home with Tahni?’ Mum asks. ‘Did you have a fight?’
I swallow. ‘No,’ I say. ‘She wanted to stay at the party, and I was tired and wanted to go home.’
Mum says nothing. I don’t think she believes me.
10 re·sid·u·um
–noun; the residue, remainder, or aftermath of something.
– The Wordsmith’s Dictionary of Hard-to-spell Words
I wake up at nine, and shuffle downstairs in my pyjamas. I take Gregory, my bear, with me in case I need him. I fix myself a Milo (equal parts milk and Milo), and two slices of peanut butter toast.
Mum and Dad are nowhere to be seen – I guess they’re sleeping in.
I turn on the TV and watch cartoons. They’re not as good as I remember them. I wonder what’s changed – the cartoon quality or me. Only one way to find out, I suppose. I dig through the DVD cabinet until I find Toy Story. I used to love this film when I was little.
I put it in the DVD player. While it loads, I climb the stairs and grab my doona and a pillow.
When Mum comes downstairs at ten-thirty, I’m nearly asleep, with a half-empty packet of chocolate biscuits balanced on my stomach.
‘Do you have a hangover?’ Mum asks suspiciously.
‘No,’ I say, and then wonder if I do. I’m pretty sure I’m just tired – I only had half a plastic cup of beer.
‘Your period?’
‘No, Mum. I’m just tired.’
Mum gives me this funny look, and then climbs under the doona with me.
‘I feel like you’re growing up fast, and I’m missing out on it because I’m at work all the time,’ she says.
‘I’m not growing up,’ I say.
On the TV, Woody is trapped inside a milk crate in Sid’s room.
Woody bleats at Buzz Lightyear despondently. ‘Why would Andy want to play with me when he’s got you?’
I think about the blonde girl talking to Ben in Nina’s kitchen.
‘Actually,’ I say, ‘I’m thinking about giving it a miss.’
‘Giving what a miss?’ Mum helps herself to a biscuit.
‘Growing up,’ I say. ‘I think it’s overrated.’
Mum raises her eyebrows.
‘It is,’ I say. ‘You have to get a job, and earn money, and pay bills. And you’re not even allowed to watch cartoons anymore, you can only watch Serious French Cinema.’
Mum laughs, and pokes Gregory. ‘And you’re not allowed to have a teddy bear.’
I give Gregory a squeeze. ‘Exactly. Why would I want to do any of that?’
Mum smiles a sad smile. ‘You make a good case,’ she says.
Buzz is getting all sentimental on the screen, looking at Andy’s name written on his foot.
‘Dad’s sleeping late,’ I say.
‘He’s gone out,’ says Mum. ‘To visit your grandma.’
Good. That means I don’t have to go with him. I hate visiting Grandma. I know that makes me sound like a bad person, but she doesn’t remember who I am anyway, and the old people’s home smells funny.
‘We should go out too,’ says Mum.
‘To visit Grandma?’ I say, my heart sinking. I have plans for Toy Story 2.
‘No,’ says Mum. ‘We should have a girls day. Go out for lunch. Go shopping. See a movie.’
I think about this. I’m not entirely sure I’m ready to deal with the outside world. But I’m going to have to leave the house sooner or later, and I’d certainly feel safer if I had my mum with me. And anyway, everyone from the party will be at home today nursing their hangovers.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Let’s do it.’
‘Yeah!’ says Woody, just before I click off the TV.
We go to our favourite shopping strip, and have lunch at a real restaurant. I have pancakes with maple syrup and bananas and bacon, and Mum doesn’t even raise her eyebrows. She has curly fancy pasta with prawns, and a glass of white wine. We talk about school and spelling and her new case at work. She doesn’t ask me about the party. I think she knows I don’t want to talk about it.
‘So tell me more about this project you’re doing,’ Mum says.
‘It’s about secrets,’ I say. ‘We’re setting up a website where students can anonymously post their secrets.’
‘What kind of secrets?’
I shrug. ‘Who they have a crush on. What test they cheated in. How they lied to their parents about something. Usual teenage stuff.’
Mum raises her eyebrows.
‘For most teenagers,’ I say. ‘Normal for most teenagers. Not me. I’m abnormal. No secrets here.’
Mum sips her wine and says nothing.
‘We’re going to use the site to analyse what issues are important to teenagers today,’ I say. ‘We figure the things kids keep secret are the things they care most about.’
I wonder if Mum has any secrets. Maybe what I’m getting for my birthday. I guess once you’re married and have kids, there’s less things to be secretive about, apart from all the Santa, Easter Bunny stuff.
When we leave the restaurant, I think I see Ben on the other side of the road, and nearly bring up my pancakes all over the footpath. But it’s not him, it’s someone else.
I’m not sure why I’m so nervous about seeing him. It’s not like he did anything really wrong. It’s not like he was the one who yelled at me and tried to hurt me. But I don’t want to see him. I don’t even want to think about him. Thinking about him makes me remember the way Tahni was touching him, and the expression on her face when she looked at me.
Mum and I go to all the shops. I don’t know what’s gotten into her, but I make out like a bandit. She buys me a navy blue dress, and these cute red shoes to go with them. It’s pretty much the coolest thing I’ve ever owned, all retro and vintage-looking. Then she buys me a red necklace to match the shoes, and I start to get worried.
‘Mum, are you dying?’ I ask as we walk out of the jewellery shop.
‘What?’ says Mum.
I heft my shopping bags. ‘All this largesse,’ I say. ‘Are you buttering me up for some bad news?’
Mum rolls her eyes. ‘I’m not dying.’
‘What about Dad?’
‘Aren’t I allowed to spend some time and money on my daughter?’
I’m not convinced.
In the DVD shop, Mum hovers over a special edition of Breakfast at Tiffany’s while I eye off the latest season of Grey’s Anatomy.
‘So are you contributing one?’ asks Mum.
‘One what?’
‘A secret. Are you submitting a secret to the website?’
I hadn’t really thought about it.
‘Probably not,’ I say.
But I wonder what my secret would be, if I did.
I made up an imaginary boyfriend.
A boy is going out with me in exchange for me doing his homework for him.
I don’t want to grow up.
As we walk in the front door, the phone is ringing, and my stomach immediately lurches. I taste the pancakes again. What if it’s Ben? What if it’s Tahni?
Mum answers it, and then passes the phone to me. ‘It’s for you,’ she says.
I think I’m going to faint.
‘Someone called George,’ she says.
Oh, George. Thank God for George. I take the phone.
He wants to know when we can work on our project. I’m so incredibly relieved it’s him and not Tahni or Ben (or even Nina, complaining about the state of her lavender bushes), that I invite him over right away. He sounds sort of surprised, but says he’ll come.
‘A boy?’ teases Mum. ‘You invited a boy to our house?’
I roll my eyes at her. ‘It’s for a school project,’ I say.
‘Uh huh.’
‘Really, Mum,’ I say. ‘I’m not interested. You’ll understand why when you see him.’
When George arrives I take him up to my bedroom. He looks a bit less dorky in casual clothes, but his jeans are too high-waisted, and make him look lumpier than ever. He’s wearing this windcheater that would have been more suitable for a fifty-year-old golfer. His hair still needs product. And while I’m reasonably certain he’s wearing his Dunlop Volleys with absolutely no sense of retro irony, I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt.
Thinking like a cool person reminds me of the party and Tahni, so I stop. George doesn’t look bad. That’s enough. At least I don’t have to pretend to be cooler than I am around him. I’m always going to be higher up on the ladder than George, no matter what happens.
George has a small cut above his left eye, and his right wrist is bandaged.
‘What happened to you?’ I ask.
He looks uncomfortable. ‘Nothing,’ he says. ‘I fell down.’
‘You sound like a battered wife,’ I say. ‘Is there anything you want to talk about?’
He hunches his shoulders. ‘It’s really nothing,’ he says.
‘Come on,’ I tease. ‘You got into a rumble, didn’t you?’
He laughs, sort of weakly. ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘You got me.’
I sit on my bed, rather self-consciously, and he sits on a chair, taking in the posters on my walls, and the books on my bookshelf.
‘I love that series,’ he says, pointing to a group of battered paperbacks.
‘Me too,’ I say. ‘Obviously.’
I’ve never had a boy in my bedroom before. I wish I’d hidden all my soft toys in the cupboard. George’s biscuity smell is extra strong today, vanilla and sugary.
George reaches into his bag and pulls out a folder. It has a big sparkly sticker of a dragon on the front. I feel myself blushing. I’m embarrassed for him.
Not Quite Perfect Boyfriend Page 7
