I wake up the next morning to the sound of the shower pounding away. It’s Carolyn, using up all the hot water again. Mum is clanging about in the kitchen. I know what that clanging means. Because we still haven’t unpacked everything yet, Mum often has trouble finding stuff. And when Mum can’t find stuff, she starts blaming Dad.

I sit up and check my phone, in case Ethan has texted me during the night to say, Sorry, I made a big mistake and I hope you’ll take me back. He hasn’t, though. But suddenly I feel like I’m ready to tell my friends about it.

Ethan dumped me, I text Leni and Soph. By text msg!!! Can u believe it???

My friends are quick to reply – even Soph, who is usually hopelessly slow.

Soph writes: What a loser. You’re better off without him.

Leni writes: Oh no! :( Wish I could hug u.

The messages make me feel a little better. My friends are so great.

The bathroom door finally clicks open. I hop out of bed and wrap myself in my bathrobe. It’s a big white fluffy one that I got for my thirteenth birthday. Whenever I wear it I feel like I’m a guest in some cool hotel.

‘Hi, Mum,’ I call as I pad past the kitchen on the way to the shower.

‘I still can’t find the iron!’ Mum replies, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘Your father must have taken it. Ridiculous! He’s never ironed anything in his life!’

‘Maybe he thought it was a sandwich toaster?’ I suggest. It makes Mum laugh, but I instantly feel a bit guilty. It’s like I’ve taken sides against Dad or something by saying it.

After my (lukewarm) shower I go back to my room and check for the vein on leftie. It’s still there and I get this funny feeling in my stomach, looking at it. Like I can’t deal with thinking about it right now. I quickly grab a new bra – the white one – and put it on. If I can’t see the vein, maybe I won’t worry about it. Whenever I try on one of Carolyn’s bras I have to swivel it around so that the doinguppy bits are in the front. But today I’m determined to do my new bra up at the back, no swivelling. Carolyn’s bras usually have two hooks, but mine only has one. I do it up without looking, no problem at all.

That’s the only good thing about this dumb bra, though. In every other way it’s a complete dud. I pull on my school uniform and then look in my mirror, standing sideways. My profile hasn’t been boosted at all. If anything, my chest looks even flatter than before. If Mum had bought me the Charm Bra, I just know Ethan would have fallen over himself to get back with me. This bra might make Ethan fall over too – but from laughing. That’s if he notices at all.

My jumper is underneath my blazer on my chair, and as I grab it something falls from the blazer pocket and lands near my foot. I stare down and for a few moments it’s like my brain can’t actually register what it’s seeing. Because the thing that’s fallen from my pocket makes no sense. It’s the 5000+ mascara from Cosmetica.

My first thought is that maybe Mum bought it for me to say she was sorry I had such a bad day yesterday. But this is very unlikely. Mum hates me wearing make-up and she’d never spend thirty dollars on mascara, even for herself. And then I realise what’s happened. I must have accidentally put the mascara into my pocket when I was in Cosmetica yesterday.

I pick up the mascara, feeling weird. I didn’t take it on purpose, but I still left the shop without paying for it. Does this make me a thief? My heart loops. What if someone saw me? What if they’re waiting for me to come back to the shop so they can arrest me? But this is dumb. If anyone had seen me take it they would’ve said something straight away. And once I’ve calmed down a bit, I realise there’s an easy way to fix this situation. I zip the tube into the pocket of my uniform. The next time I’m at the mall I’ll take it back to Cosmetica and just explain what happened.

When I get to the kitchen Carolyn is in there, eating toast and fiddling with her phone. I hear banging noises from Mum’s room and I know she’s hurrying to get to work. Some days she gives us a lift to school, but on days like today when she starts early we walk or catch the bus.

‘Hi,’ I say to Carolyn, reaching for the cereal.

She ignores me, as usual. Mum told me once that Carolyn gets a bit moody just before her period, but that means she must be getting it pretty much constantly. Anyway, I don’t get like that when I get mine. Carolyn has changed. Sometimes I can’t believe she’s the same person I used to look up to so much that I would to cry when she went away on school camp.

‘Hi,’ I say again. Loudly.

Carolyn puts down her phone and flashes me a phony smile. ‘Hiya, mathlete!’ she says. My sister knows exactly what to say to make me mad. And nothing makes me madder than being called mathlete. That word makes me feel like I’m a frizzy-haired freak again, back in a daggy, cacky-brown uniform.

‘I’m not a mathlete anymore!’ I yell at her. ‘That was three years ago!’

‘Once a mathlete, always a mathlete,’ says Carolyn in this sing-song voice that I hate.

‘That’s not true, spazmo!’

Mum comes clumping in then, a hairbrush in one hand and bobby pins in the other. ‘Anya!’ she says. ‘Don’t use that awful word. And don’t shout.’ Because this is always how it works in our house at the moment. Carolyn winds me up and then I get told off when I snap.

‘It’s Carolyn’s fault,’ I say.

Carolyn shrugs, like she’s completely baffled. ‘I was just asking Anya about that maths competition she helped organise back in primary school,’ she says. ‘Remember how proud everyone was of her for coming up with such a clever idea?’

Mum starts shoving bobby pins in her hair, using the window behind the kitchen sink as a mirror. ‘We were all very proud,’ she agrees. ‘Anya won lots of medals.’

‘You should organise another maths competition for this year too,’ Carolyn says to me. ‘I bet Mr Cartright would be totally into it. And then you’d get to show everyone in high school how brainy and good at maths you are, just like you did at primary school.’

I’m ready to destroy my sister now, but I know that it will only get me into more trouble with Mum. So I take a deep breath. ‘How many times do I have to tell you that I’m not good at maths anymore?’ I say, through gritted teeth. ‘High-school maths is much harder than primaryschool maths. I’m only just passing.’

Mum gives me a concerned look. ‘Are you struggling, honey?’ she says. ‘Maybe I should make an appointment to see your maths teacher.’

‘It’s okay, Mum,’ I say hastily, although I know there’s no real danger of this happening. Mum doesn’t have time to get a haircut, let alone set up meetings at school. ‘Just don’t expect me to get A’s in maths like I used to.’ I dump cereal into my bowl and splash some milk on top. ‘Especially at the moment – because of breaking up with Ethan.’

I am stupid enough to think that when Carolyn hears this, she might actually feel a little sorry for me. I should know better.

‘Aw, the Wonder Dork dumped you at last, then?’ says Carolyn, picking up her phone.

‘Ethan is not a dork!’ I say. It’s true that he used to be a little dorky before we started going out, but I upgraded him. I showed him a cooler way of doing his hair and told him not to keep pens clipped to his blazer pocket anymore.

‘You’ll get over it pretty quick,’ says Carolyn. ‘It’s not like it was a real relationship.’

This is so annoying. Just because I didn’t go out with Ethan for as long as Carolyn has been seeing Max doesn’t mean it wasn’t real. It felt real to me. And knowing that I now have to go to the school social alone feels real, too.

To make things worse, Mum just sighs and says, ‘Just for once it would be nice to have breakfast without some ridiculous teenage drama taking place.’ Then she gives us both a quick peck on the cheek and says, ‘Don’t forget you’re staying at your father’s place tonight. He’s going to pick you up after school.’

‘I’m working after school,’ Carolyn says. She has a job as a sales assistant at a shop called Tude. The clothes are pretty cool – and really expensive. ‘I’ll go to Dad’s place afterwards.’

Mum frowns at Carolyn. ‘You’re not supposed to work during the week. You’ll get behind at school.’

‘Mum, it’s important that I’m there tonight,’ Carolyn pleads. ‘The buyer is coming in with some of the spring samples and I really want to meet her.’

‘What is a buyer?’ says Mum. I’m glad she’s asked, because I have no idea either.

‘She’s the person who goes around the world sourcing things for us to sell in the shop,’ says Carolyn. It’s the most excited I’ve seen her in ages. ‘It’s the best job. I really want to meet her and ask her about how you get to be one.’

Mum pulls a face. ‘That’s not the sort of career I’d like you to have,’ she says.

Carolyn pulls a face too. ‘Well, it’s the sort of career I’d like to have!’ she says. ‘And it’s my life.’

Mum opens her mouth and I know that if she says one more word, there’s going to be a huge fight. I don’t think I can handle any more fighting right now.

‘Mum,’ I say, pointing to the kitchen clock, which is propped up against the spice rack because no-one’s got around to fixing it to the wall. ‘If you don’t go now you’re going to be late.’

Mum glances at the time and sees that I’m right. She picks up her coffee-to-go cup and heads for the door. ‘We’ll talk about this later, Carolyn,’ she calls out.

Once she’s gone I look at Carolyn, waiting for her to thank me for stopping the fight when I did. But my darling sister just screws up her face and says, ‘What are you looking at?’

Usually when she says this, I say, I haven’t worked it out yet. But right now I can’t be bothered saying anything to her. I feel heavy, like I’ve just eaten twenty bowls of cereal instead of just a couple of mouthfuls. Silently, I get up and go to my room where I plug in my hair straightener.

While it warms up, I start my make-up. A thick layer of foundation goes on first to cover up the red blotches on my cheeks. Then there’s concealer for the circles under my eyes. Rouge, so I don’t look so washed out. Eye shadow, with separate colours for the brow, the corner and the bit just above my eye. Putting on make-up always makes me feel good. It doesn’t even matter that by recess, some teacher will make me wash it off. It’s putting it on that counts. I know Leni and Soph think it’s a waste of time, but they don’t get it. Putting on make-up is like covering up the bad stuff. It’s the same with my hair. My dumb curls are the one thing I know I can smooth out.

I’ve still got a tube of old, cheap mascara in my makeup bag, but when it’s time to apply it I find myself pulling out the 5000x from my pocket. I hold it in my hand. Does it really matter if I keep it? Cosmetica has hundreds of branches. And each shop must have at least fifty tubes of this mascara. It’s not like they’ll miss one little tube. I twist it and crack the plastic seal.

The 5000x mascara is incredible. Way better than my old one. It’s thick and lush and, although it doesn’t make my eyelashes look 50 metres long (which I’m glad about, really), they definitely look very cool.

When I’m finished, I open up my cupboard and look at myself in the full-length mirror stuck to the door. Maybe my boobs don’t look any bigger, but I feel like my profile has been boosted a little.