I pull on my striped top and skinny jeans. Silver sandals with pointy heels. I try not to walk like a man. Dancing, no problem. Mum’s letting me catch the train with Marco to the city. She thinks we’re seeing a late-night flick at Broadway. I tell her we’re seeing a movie that I’ve already seen. In case she asks questions later. But I’ve got Marco’s sister’s ID. Marco’s sister’s a brunette like me. Mum drops me off at Springwood station and Marco’s waiting. He’s caught the train down from Leura. He leans in the window to say hello. His hair smells like coconut. Fresh and creamy. Mum likes him I can tell. She knows his mother from church. She thinks he’s solid. He has a wide smile for her and looks her in the eye. He doesn’t wear a hoodie. Well, not tonight anyway. That’s all she asks, really.
As we wait for the train two girls turn up at the station. Wannabe Olsen twins. Maggots. Bleached lank white blonde hair. Skinny white tops and tats above arse. Ciggies in hand and gold-rimmed sunnies. From a distance they look identical. They sparkle and reflect each other in the fading light. One girl has a cask wine bladder stuffed into a plastic bag. Pure class. And gosford skirts. Where you can see all the way up to the entrance.
Marco and I look at each other and laugh. I’m glad I’m wearing jeans.
We grab a seat in the front carriage where it’s quieter. We sit next to each other but slightly apart. He’s so relaxed and he’s got these wide shoulders that you could use as CD racks. He does a lot of swimming but he also reads. No guys at my school read actual books. We talk about Romeo and Juliet. The book versus the movie. Our favourite applications on Facebook. Whether Paris Hilton deserves to die. I tell him about The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle. He says he’d like to read it after exams.
By 9pm we’re in the gutter queue outside the Abercrombie. Luckily we have two drunk losers behind who look much younger than us. One keeps kneeling at my feet. Begging me to help him get past the bouncer. A Tongan guy with a face that never cracks. I step out of the bouncer’s eyeline so he can see the other guy swaying. Being just that bit too loud. Tongan dude gets distracted and quickly checks our IDs. Before shooing us past to size up Dumb and Dumber.
It’s the first time I’ve got in underage. The dancefloor is full of light. We watch for a while from the couches. It’s a place where no-one cares what you look like. Except for maybe Marco. Who points out all the guys with jeans and belts hanging lower than their bums. That look doesn’t really grab me either. It just makes the guys look like they have short legs and no arse. And I like an arse in jeans not out of them. Guys’ bums look like a baby’s when they strip off. White and dimply. Except for those guys on steroids where they look all hard like cardboard. Davo always said his butt cheeks were so tight he had toast not buns.
Purple Sneakers is celebrating its 100th birthday with a safari theme. Drunk Janes in camouflage khaki stagger about clutching free Strongbows. Hoping to find a Tarzan for the night. A guy plays pool with a branch coming out the back of his collar. He showers eucalyptus leaves over his shoulders when he pockets a ball. Two sprigs come out of his wrists. He looks like he’s trying too hard. That’s the problem with dress ups. It’s all or nothing. If you go too far people either despise or feel sorry for you. Especially if no-one else has made an effort. I always give it a miss.
Arctic Monkeys give me the excuse I need to shove Marco onto the dancefloor. He’s been slouched on a soft corner of the couch. Taking time over his vodka, lime and soda. I tell him I always thought it was a girl’s drink. Guys get that little bit hotter when they dance. The more they can move and show off the better they’ll be in bed. Sarah said to me that you can tell how a girl comes by how she sneezes. And it made me laugh because I thought of mum. How she holds her nose except for a tiny little squeak that always manages to escape. She sneezes on the inside. And then next time I sneezed I noticed that I’m really loud and loose. I just let it all hang out there. I tried not to sneeze in front of Sarah after that.
So, Marco’s up and, damn, he has a few standard moves. But they don’t come naturally. He looks into the air above my head. To hide his concentration on not concentrating. He has a very sweet mouth. A smile he can’t seem to control. Meanwhile I do a few booty moves. Bump and grind and stick my butt out. Until a guy sneaks in behind me as if he was invited and I slap him away. I try to get Marco to do some robot dancing. But the night is still too young.
Marco saunters away to watch some pool. His face is serious. His fingers twitch. As he imagines the moves he would make. A door behind him opens and a few girls come out. What’s up here? I grab Marco and we stagger up the dark staircase. Clinging on to each other. At the top it’s laid out before us. The savage streets of Chippendale. A rooftop garden of empty beer bottles. But at least we can breathe up here. We go down a level and peer into skanky rooms where old men snuffle. Under piles of bedclothes and TV flickers. We open all the doors off the corridors. Like a nightmare version of Alice in Wonderland. We enter a kitchen that hasn’t been cleaned since before I was born. Piles of unwashed plates and saucepans fill the sinks. The stove is caked in brown fat that looks like shit.
Marco backs out in horror. But I block his way with a goalie crouch. I push him over so he’s leaning hard against the kitchen bench. I ask whether he wants me to go down on him. Fuckadoodle, is there a single guy in the universe. Who has ever said no to that question. But the pressure’s on because I know. I’m not just giving him head. I’m giving all the guys at his school head. Because they all talk and joke about it and rate the girls. It’s good head or bad head or incredible head. And I just have to be incredible. I hear them on the train, the grammar guys. And the way they compete. They love each other, not their girls. And I know I have to tread carefully. Because I don’t want people to think I’m a slut. But I want Marco to like me enough to see me again. So I figure just oral this time.
But then Marco surprises me. Actually Layla, I’d rather eat you right now. He grabs my belt buckle and scarf. And it throws me off balance. This casual turning of tables. And this kitchen is so filthy. All I can think of is Danny. And the cool metal hanging from the ceiling. Marco has the kind of face that I could trust. But I’m really not ready to go there right now. So I give him the most sexy kiss I can perform in this shithole. And drag him downstairs to the dancefloor.
After another vodka he starts to loosen up. He trickles his fingers up and down my arms. I sit on his knee on the couch. The pokies ping their beeps of seduction. He says he doesn’t usually drink much. But he loves a glass of wine. Ecstasy is his drug of choice. The silky and velveteen rush. The way you’re more in control of what you feel. Our bodies are the right sizes. My small frame fits into his large one. Snapping together like Lego. He whispers into my hair, I think it’s going to be incredible with you. His mobile strikes midnight and we start to run.