Holly
My name is Holly Holley and I have given up routines.
This means I no longer:
• curse my mother [unless she really deserves it]
• weigh myself every morning, either before or after a shower
• check the mirror for change along ugly duckling-to-swan lines
• agonise over either Demi Larson or Raph ‘my IQ equals the size of my basketball shoes’ McDonald
• avoid the culinary wasteland that was my kitchen.
There are reasons for this.
For one thing, Mum has kicked the lentil habit. She went cold turkey [actually, the cold turkey was mine. She is still vegetarian]. The withdrawal symptoms were bad for a week or so – cold sweats, short temper, broken sleep. I suspect that, in the early days, she sneaked behind the shed at the bottom of the garden to get the occasional lentil down her throat. I have no proof of this. It’s just a feeling.
Anyway, she cooks proper food now. Lasagne, noodles, stir-fry, even the occasional steak for me. I’m not saying she cooks brilliantly, but at least I recognise what’s on the plate. And my gag reflex has become a thing of the past.
I have gained weight, which is partly why I don’t bother with the scales anymore. It’s as if my body was in toxic-lentil shock and now it’s been introduced to real food it’s making up for lost time. The old Holly would, under these circumstances, have turned round and bloaty.
The new Holly hasn’t.
The reason? Growth spurt. Late, but trust me, better than never.
It’s true. I am no longer a dwarf. That’s not to say I’m in demand as a supermodel but, over the last few months, I’ve grown up and not out. Maybe lentils stunted my growth.
I get pains in my legs, which Mum says is normal. When it gets too bad, I hold Cassie’s hand for a couple of minutes and the pain melts away. I suspect this isn’t normal.
Of course, my extra height has made all of my clothes unwearable. So the PSE Fund has dwindled to nothing.
But my wardrobe is COOL.
I’ve also got a boyfriend. He’s not aware he’s my boyfriend yet. I plan to break the news to him next week. He’s a new kid at the school and he has a great sense of humour. Cass likes him and Amy doesn’t snort in his presence, so that’s good enough for me.
Aunty Fern got a job and she and Cass moved out. They didn’t go far. Three streets away to be precise. So I have my old bedroom back. I don’t miss the smell of cat pee. And when I told Cass I did miss the sound of tinkling bells in the morning she insisted on giving them to me as a present. She has a new set now. Her old bells hang by my bed and I sometimes run my hands through them.
Cass is still at my school. We hang out at recess and lunchtime. She works unbelievably hard. Makes Amy look like a bludger and that’s no easy task. We have dinner with her and Aunty Fern about three times a week. The rest of the time they come to us. It works well.
And Amy? Well, Amy is Amy. She still works out quadratic equations in her head while mapping the human genome. I think she’s turning into Mr Tillyard. We’re a tight trio, me, Cass and Amy. Neither of them say much, so it’s down to me to do most of the talking. Luckily, that’s something I’m good at.
I can’t ask for better friends.
So, all in all, life is good. Life is very good.
My name still sucks, though.