Drop (7 page)

“Hey, Carla,” Georgia says.

“Hey,” I answer.

“Nice dress,” Violet says. “I love that style on you.” Wow. Did I hear that right?

“Thanks.” I try to hold her attention, looking for a way to be interesting and return the compliment, which, let’s face it, shouldn’t be hard when Aphro-fucking-dite is before you. “You’ve got great boobs – I mean, boots, I like your boots.” OK, maybe it
is
difficult for a socially inept creature like me.

When I said I was looking for a way to be “interesting”, I didn’t mean imbecilic… God almighty. I’m sabotaging my own freaking, miserable life.

How can talking to one set of people be so easy and another so tough? They’re just people. But tell that to my mind-of-its-own-voicebox.

“I think this one is girl-crushing on me, George,” Violet laughs, but with less contempt than last time I embarrassed myself. Maybe Georgia has said something. Could I have actually
passed
the Friendiview? Can I wedge my foot in the door and peer into the Violet Brody and Georgia Presco friendzone? Got to talk, got to laugh at myself, got to
speak up and be heard.

“No, I, Jesus, I have, like, a dyslexic tongue or something. I hate myself. I’m like the Fount of All Awkwardness, Cringedom.”

“You’re funny, you know that?” Violet says.

I didn’t know that. Funny ha ha or funny weird? At this point, I’ll take either.

“I got the boots from some pop-up sale in Shoreditch. They’re vintage.”

“Well, your
boots
are nice
,
” I tell her and I smile my best lipstick-laden smile. “Oh, here,” I say, pulling the papers from my bag and passing them to Georgia. “For the planner.”

She takes them with a heavily braceletted arm and flicks through.

“Thanks.” Georgia turns to Violet, who’s checking her hair in the mirror. “Vi, you’ve got to see these, for the party. Ohmygod, it’s going to be immense. Carla’s, like, an artistic genius.”

Georgia spreads the pages over the surface around the basin. I try to fend off a wince as the corner of my Cairns Birdwing drawing gets wet.

“Shit, sorry,” Georgia says, peeling the soggy paper from the patch of wet.

“It’ll dry,” I say. “No worries.”

Violet surveys the drawings. She nods. “Impressive. But…” She turns to me. “I’m not trying to piss on your parade, but butterflies, aren’t they a bit … I don’t know, cutesy?”

Ouch.

“Not the way we’ve planned. It’ll be amazing.” Georgia reacts immediately. At least she’s on board. And it’s
her
party after all.

It’s going to be harder work with Violet.

One step forwards, twenty-three steps back.

The bell rings and I stiffen.
Going to be late
. But the girls don’t bat an eyelid. Georgia bags the sketches. Violet applies some mascara, checks her profile.

They head out.

I don’t move. I’m still processing the last five minutes: the compliment, the criticism, Violet’s bipolar responses. It’s a start.

I press my red lips together, pouting in the mirror.

Georgia turns. “You coming?” She props the door open with her foot.

“Yeah, coming,” I say, gathering my make-up into my bag. I follow them out, into possibly, maybe, what could be the friendzone.

First thing I do when I get home is make some toast. I coat it with an obscene quantity of butter, aching for that first after-school mouthful of soggy, glistening, golden awesomeness. Sat-is-faction.

As I savour the moment, Mum decides to call and rant about me not taking out the bins and
have you done your homework?
and
I hope you haven’t just left your washing in a pile on the
floor because we have a laundry basket for that, Carla.
I make appropriate noises and affirmative grunts until she seems tenderized. (It’s kind of like bashing a steak with a mallet until it softens.)

I retreat upstairs, get my laptop from under a pile of cartridge paper and pencil shavings, and log in to Facebook. Hurrah, a new message!

Sal’s my cousin, twenty-three, sharp as hell but daft as a brush. Her boyfriend, Tino, is this super-cool surfer dude who rarely speaks, but that’s good, because Sal likes to talk. Likes to talk
a lot
. She’s the only constant friend I’ve had. The lucky bugger is on a year out in Australia, leaving me all alone here.

While I’m musing on what to reply, I get a notification. A new friend request. Not just any run-of-the-mill I-met-you-once-when-we-were-nine friend request, oh no, no, no; this is from Finn Masterson himself. Yikes. I’d better do a quick de-tag session of all the bad-angle photographs of me before I accept…

I do a bit of FB stalking on Finn’s page. Hit photos. Swoon at perfect lips and smooth jaw, gasp at red raw knees and elbows. WTF? Then it clicks. His status update reads:

Finn Masterson
had a mother of a fall today. Wiped out three riders behind me! Ha!

So he
doesn’t
have an evil, scratchy cat.

I investigate further down his wall of updates.

Finn Masterson
going for gold at the freestyle mountainboard battle in July. Better get training!

Finn Masterson
nailed the alley-oop.

Finn Masterson
On the track with Greggers.

I click
PLAY
on the video below and watch a dirt cloud plume into the air as Finn kicks a three-hundred-sixty–degree jump past a shaky lens. The board is long and tapered with heavy-duty wheels. I bet there’s some weird name for the trick, but what would I know?

Finn Masterson
Switch 180 to late McTwist.

Finn Masterson
I take my Burger Flip with fries. Mmm, chips … hard day boarding, time for some well-deserved grease.

I Google “McTwist”. It’s a real trick. Legs flip-flipping all over the place.

I tear my gaze from Finn’s page and pace the room, trying to construct a witty message to send him. My brain fires blanks.

Time to seek advice.

Thing is, I won’t hear back from Sal for hours yet…

I’m not exactly worried by Finn’s friend request, but I guess I’m thinking,
Am I cool enough, interesting enough? Does Finn think I’m something I’m not? What version of me do I want to be?

Later I decide to go to the park to clear my head. I like to de-stress by doing gymnastics. I can float into a world where nothing exists but me and the move. Like escaping to a parallel universe where everything makes sense.

I’m just getting existential, thinking,
Who am I, anyway?
when my phone buzzes. New message from Sal. I Google the current time in Melbourne. One a.m. Well, she’s always been a night owl.

Just be yourself. Good advice. But easier said than done. And do I really believe it? It’s never got me anywhere fast before.

The sun is burning through a thin lace of cloud, the air suspended in autumn warmth. Reddish dust clouds around my feet as I pace the path. There are three tired-looking swings, their paint chipped and faded. A lonely roundabout creaks gently as I push it into a spin.

The evening feels like clay, sticky and orange.

I’ve done gym since I was a toddler. I remember my first somersault when I was four, the world turning as I spun in the air, only it seemed like I was still and things revolved around me. Seeing everything in a different way to other people made me feel special.

I unbutton my shirt and tie it around my waist. Underneath I’m wearing a vest. I draw my hair back into a barely contained blob and fasten it with an elastic band. I try to empty my mind.

I’m brimming with energy.

I pound the grass with my hands, twisting with force and determination, spotting my landings accurately. I do a one-handed cartwheel. I point my toes to an imaginary judge. I bound a few steps and lunge into a round off. Point toe. Grass. Left hand. Grass. Right hand. Grass. World. Upside down. Legs. Twist. Hands. Push. Spring. Both feet. Grass. World. Right way up. I sense a presence. My vest has ridden up exposing my oh-so-white midriff. I smooth it down with green-stained fingers.

I take a breath.

Then I miss one.

“You’re er …” he pauses, “dextrous.” Finn is sitting on the middle swing, grinning, eating fish and chips, the harsh, vinegary aroma clawing at my nostrils.

I shuffle on my feet like a loon, and skirt my tongue around my bottom lip.
Just be yourself
. I feel him take me in, look at me from top to toe, taking stock: nervous girl, unruly hair, vest strap off her shoulder, trouser leg tucked into her shoe… I shrink with embarrassment, then think,
He’s here, isn’t he? Talking to me. Bloody well make the most of it!

“It takes some skill. Not much…” I trail off.

“No, really, that’s some bendy stuff. You double-jointed or some freaky shit like that? You got jelly bones? You made of rubber, tiger?”
He called me tiger! All is not lost!

“Er, I, um… I used to do gym. Not any more.”
COME ON! God Almighty, say something entertaining!

“You should, you’re good.” He pulls the chains to his chest, then lets them spring back.

“Nah, I had to pick, gym or puberty. I was pro-puberty.” Did I really just say that? Did I say the word
puberty
? Am I going to spontaneously burst into song and start serenading him with Britney’s “I’m Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman”? OH NO.

I feel blood rushing to my cheeks. I cartwheel behind the swings. I see the school buildings in the distance, dainty like an architect’s model.

I run and do another spring.
Must outrun the gaping hole of embarrassment opening up beneath me.
Dive forward roll. Spring. My leg pulls and I feel a sharp twinge in my thigh. It’ll ache tomorrow. That’ll teach me to do gym without stretching first.