Monday 15 August

I see all the photos of Clem on PSST. Images don’t die; they don’t even fade anymore. The best you can hope is that different shocking images supersede the images that are making you want to die or fade away.

Malik starts the class in classic Malik style: ‘Doesn’t the notion of perfection depend, for its very existence, upon the idea of imperfection?’

Someone, I’m pretty sure it was Lainie, does an audible fart.

Malik politely ignores it, but it takes a couple of minutes for everyone to settle down. Lainie’s other trick is to burp the word ‘pardon’. It’s a dilemma for teachers.

‘Dr Malik, all our Wellness sheets have quotes from men,’ I say.

He looks shocked, even though he must have put them together. ‘We’ll have to rectify that.’

And then he is straight into showing us some slides to demonstrate how much photoshopping goes into images that are published in fashion magazines, so I’m glad Clem isn’t here. It would be a bit close to the bone.

‘It’s up to you to reject these dated ideas, girls.’

‘Not so dated,’ says Jinx.

‘They are if we make them so,’ Malik counters.

‘How long did it take you to put your outfit together and put on your make-up and do your hair compared to the women teachers?’

Malik does his serious smile. ‘Point well made.’

‘Anyway, Dr Malik, it’s not just magazines that criticise us,’ says Lola. ‘It’s online commentary.’ She’s giving a troublemaking smile to Tash, whose look dares Lola to continue.

Malik registers the exchange. ‘Is there any particular online content that you’re thinking of?’ he asks.

I imagine Lola showing the Clem pics to Malik for a laugh, and know that Clem would be horrified.

‘All of it,’ I say. ‘Pornography, for example – it gives everyone a false idea of what genitals are supposed to look like.’ A few titters and snorts burble out. There – I’ve successfully derailed Lola, who mouths spoilsport to me.

Malik is now treading carefully through the minefield of our genitals, making general comments about the lack of respect shown to women across a range of media platforms, and getting the hell out of porn land and back to the safe shores of us contemplating what a perfect imperfect day might look like.

Reframing imperfection as individuality, being less self-critical, being our best selves, practicing self-love. It’s not that simple. If only we just worried that we’re not pretty enough, or thin enough, or that we’ve got pimples. For us, the message that you fail to attain someone’s idea of perfection is a wash that colours EVERYTHING. It is the air we breathe. Sure, we’re getting better at calling it, but that doesn’t make it go away.

It’s not just stupid fashion magazines – it’s every dude checking you out and ranking you with a look on the street, every PSST post, every arse-grab. It’s everyday sexism. It’s the fricken patriarchy.

It’s also something internalised and regurgitated by women. Again, insights courtesy of Clare, but when she told me I totally got it.

‘Did you see your new Malik bud on PSST last night?’ Tash asks in our mid-class stretch-and-breathe break.

‘Maybe her perfect day could include a fucking bikini wax,’ Lola says, apparently disgusted that such a thing as pubic hair still exists. ‘Nobody should have to look at hairy tufts sprouting from bathers.’

‘Nobody said you have to look.’ Even as I say it, I know it’s ridiculous. We all look at PSST.

‘She is carrying a lot of extra weight,’ says Bec.

‘It’s not like it’s a crime,’ I say.

The three of them look at me in disbelief: of course it’s a crime.

The difference between their reaction and Kate’s. And mine. That’s some huge distance.

There’s no doubt that Clem looks out of condition for such a sporty star, and whoever posted has done some really mean close-ups, but it’s her face that gets me. She looks so lost – no, worse: scared. The panic in her eyes, I recognise that.

I’d just never let it show.

And the comments. Fat slut times one hundred variations. I feel a surge of pure hatred for the evil idiots – from Basildon, I assume – who keep this site fuelled.

I front up to the boarding house after last period. The door is answered by a junior boarder who takes me up to Clem’s room.

‘Go away,’ Clem says, muffled, as I knock and walk in.

She emerges from her doona, cried-out eyes, propping herself up on one elbow. ‘What do you want?’

‘I came to see how you’re doing.’

We’re both half-nervous to be in Clem’s bedroom like this, based only on some Malik manoeuvring that involved thumb lengths and ended up with us accidentally getting into trouble together. I push some clothes off a chair and sit cross-legged in it. Clem sneezes, blows her nose and chucks the tissue in the general direction of a tissue-filled bin.

I open my folder and drop the worksheet from today’s Wellness class on her. ‘Malik’s latest. It’s a meditation on the idea of perfection. Spoiler: there’s no such thing. Tell him all about what a humanly imperfect “perfect” day would look like to you.’

‘It would involve no one posting horror pics of my fat bits.’ Clem flicks the A4 sheet onto the floor without looking at it. ‘Who is it doing the PSST stuff? Is it your friends?’ She sits up properly, shuffling and punching her pillows into place.

‘Doubt it. We’re some of the favourite targets. Could be anyone, from any year level, who took the photos. The quad was packed.’

‘What are people saying?’ She pulls her pyjama top up by the collar to hide the bottom half of her face. She wants to know, and doesn’t want to know.

‘A more polite version of what the comments said.’

‘I’m fat. I should kill myself, apparently.’

‘Ooh. Which reminds me . . .’ I’d almost forgotten why I’d bothered to schlep into boarding house land.

In my parents’ study there are boxes and boxes full of postcards bought in handfuls from every museum and gallery they ever go to anywhere in the world. I figured they wouldn’t miss a few.

I rummage in my backpack for the cards, get up and let the ones I’ve chosen rain down on her. Clem picks them up, looking at each one in turn. A series of beautiful women, all shapes and sizes, painted by Raphael, Renoir, Modigliani, Matisse, Bonnard, Manet . . .

‘Jaysus, she’s got an owl between her legs,’ says Clem, picking up a postcard of a marble figure by Michelangelo. She turns it over and reads: Allegorical figure of Night, tomb of Giuliano de’ Medici. Weird breasts.’ She looks at me. ‘What is this? Another Malik idea? Visit a fatty?’

‘I’m sick of all the little anonymous judges waiting around to do a stacks-on about nothing. I bet none of them has a trophy. Besides, what is fat? Maybe you’re not super-fit-you at the moment, but so what? And who gets to say what the right size is?’

‘Easy for you – you are the right size.’

‘Well, that’s a boring idea. And who cares? I like all sizes. I like the dance companies that let people be big or little or round or square or whatever, not the boring identical starved same-samies who look like robots with skin. And that’s who I want to wear my clothes. Everybody. Every. Body.’

‘Your clothes?’

Oops. ‘The stuff I make. If I ever get to do it as a job someday.’

Clem picks up the cards and puts them together in a pile. ‘Thanks for coming. This was a nice thing to do.’

She still looks a bit suspicious. But only a little bit. She opens the drawer of her bedside table and gets out two Fantales, chucking one to me.

‘Are you coming back to class tomorrow?’

‘I guess. I mean, if I don’t then it’s all like, oh it’s such a big deal, she’s so cut up about it. And I kind of am, but I don’t want anyone thinking that.’

‘Good call.’ I unwind myself and check my phone. Ten messages from Lola and five from Tash. Three from my mother. Zero from Rupert.

As I walk home, the rain holds off despite broody mauve clouds. I don’t want to call Tash back. She’s been asking lately when my parents are going to have their next party. Since Year 8 we’ve all floated around at those parties snitching drinks and good food and watching the grown-ups misbehaving. Maybe she smells blood.

I’ve also been refusing all shopping invitations to hunt for formal dresses, seeing as I’ve been told not to spend any money on clothes and to find something at home or make something for the formal. Even when Tash is peak-happy she just wants to bitch about every single person we hate and every single person we like, and gleefully unpack and pick over all the latest PSST crap. My bestie loves nothing more than finding someone’s weak spot and poking at it till something breaks.

When I get home there’s a car in our driveway. I freeze, watching unseen from the other side of the garden as my father gets in the back seat and the car reverses out. My mother puts a hand up in farewell. She turns and heads back towards the house. I’ve never seen her look so tired. Things are getting less perfect by the minute.