On Friday morning the locker room talk is all about who’s wearing what to tomorrow’s rehearsal. I can’t pretend it hasn’t been on my mind. At this stage I’m thinking jeans, a T-shirt and my low-top sneakers is an outfit that won’t invite attention or comment, but after listening to the Bs for a few minutes I reckon I’ll stand out like someone in tracky dacks at a formal.
“… it’s sequined, but just a few subtle ones, and it’ll look hot with my red boots,” says Belinda. The others murmur their agreement.
“I’m still deciding which jeans will go best with my new blue top,” says Bethanee, who is very proud of the fact that she owns more pairs of jeans than there are days in the week.
“Mum said if I pass my Maths test, she’ll take me shopping this afternoon for a denim mini,” says Brianna.
Thankfully, the bell goes before the conversation gets round to me.
Mr McLaren is abnormally cheerful as he hands back our tests. “Could be worse, lassie,” he says, giving me mine. I see a score of fourteen out of twenty and nod in agreement. It’ll still only pull in a C for the trig assessment, but I’m just pleased to have passed. Bethanee is consoling Brianna, who, I assume from her floods of tears, has failed again.
As soon as McSporran moves on to the next row, Kate passes me a note.
What are you wearing tomorrow?
What do I ever wear besides jeans and a T-shirt?
Don’t you think we should make more of an effort?
For what? It’s not as if anyone’s going to see me up there.
Besides Daniel, I think. But I can’t see him caring about, or even noticing, what I wear.
What about my blue skirt? Do you think it’s too dressed up?
The one you wore to Emily’s prize-giving dinner?
I know, too dressy. How about my black pants and green jacket?
That always looks nice.
NICE! I don’t want to look nice, I want to look hot.
Sorry – in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not the best person to give advice on hot …
I expect to receive a note back reassuring me of my ability, or at least potential, to advise on hot, but Kate screws up the note and immediately passes another one to Bethanee. I pretend to be engrossed in Mr McLaren’s explanation of the laws of probability for the rest of the lesson.
The issue of what constitutes a suitable weekend rehearsal outfit continues unabated through both recess and lunch, with Kate changing her mind every five minutes. By the time I finish my sandwich I think I’m going to scream. When I can’t stand it any longer I say I have to leave early for EE and make my escape.
“Is my watch wrong?” asks Siouxsie, with mock surprise, when she arrives ten minutes before class and finds me already there.
“Sanity break,” I tell her. “There are only so many hours I can spend listening to the minutiae of people’s wardrobes.”
Siouxsie nods. “I’m with you on that one.”
Alison Alexander arrives and sets up a laptop and projector.
“Oh no,” I whisper to Siouxsie.
“PowerPoint presentation!” she whispers back.
Alison Alexander is renowned for giving PowerPoint presentations at every opportunity. It’s like being in class with a sales rep. Of course, Ms Reid loves her.
Alison’s presentation is on the decline in marriage rates since Jane Austen’s era, complete with graphs and footnoted statistics. I can’t see what it has to do with our appreciation of the book, but I don’t say anything in case I’ve missed the point and make a fool of myself.
“That was topnotch,” says Ms Reid when Alison finally reaches her last graph. “Now, I thought we’d begin our study of Pride and Prejudice by talking about our first impressions.”
I slump deeper in my seat and pray she won’t ask me any questions. Weirdly, everyone else gets into the discussion, even Siouxsie.
At the end of class Ms Reid hands out the schedule for our Pride and Prejudice presentations. Mine is in four weeks. At the rate I’m going I’ll be lucky to have finished reading it by then.
“What are you doing your presentation on?” Siouxsie asks me.
“I haven’t decided yet,” I lie, not wanting to admit I haven’t even thought about it.
“Me neither – it’s hard to narrow it down when there are so many good options, isn’t it?”
I nod as if this is exactly why I have no idea what I’m doing.
There’s a rush to get out the gates on Fridays. None of the usual last-minute trips back to lockers or staying back to talk over a tricky assignment question with a teacher, just a swift snake of green and brown uniforms making a break for the freedom of the weekend. On Friday afternoons the sun shines brighter, the air smells sweeter and the walk home takes no time at all. Even the sight of Ziggy and his mates raiding the fridge when I get home can’t spoil my good mood.
“Make sure you leave some milk for the rest of us,” I say when I see him pouring three large glasses.
“Growing boys need their calcium,” he says.
“You’ll need more than just calcium if there’s no milk for Nicky’s coffee.”
“Ooh, I’m so scared.”
I lean in close to him and try to sound menacing. “You know, Ziggy, puberty is a very delicate time in a boy’s life. You wouldn’t want me to do anything that might permanently land you in the alto section of the choir, would you?”
Ziggy gives me the finger and heads out the back with his basketball. His friends bolt after him. At least they seem intimidated by me.
Nicky arrives ten minutes later. Today her hair is very blond, with a shock of black at her left temple. “Paul watched 101 Dalmations last week,” she says when I compliment her on it.
We sit at the kitchen table nibbling on chocolate muffins, a present from her friend at Switch.
“So, tell me you love Pride and Prejudice and can’t put it down.”
Luckily, I don’t have to pretend with Nicky. “I hate Pride and Prejudice and can barely bring myself to pick it up.”
“Freia! Why? It’s one of my favourite books.”
“It’s boring and all the characters annoy me. They’re always going on about marriage and balls, and Elizabeth thinks she’s so superior …” I pause because Nicky’s just about doubled over with laughter.
“Fray, most of them are meant to annoy you. Don’t let your first impressions colour your reading of the entire novel.” She cracks up again.
“And what is the deal with ‘first impressions’?” I demand.
“If you’d read the introduction to the novel” – as I promised her I would – “you’d know that ‘First Impressions’ was Austen’s original title for the book. It’s all about how what you first think of someone isn’t necessarily true; about the prejudices that colour the way we see things and how our pride stops us from revealing our true feelings.”
“Hang on, that doesn’t sound like the book I’m reading. The book I’m reading is about silly, giggling girls who fawn over any man in a uniform and think that catching a husband is the be-all and end-all in life.”
We agree to disagree on the merits of the book. Nicky says she doesn’t mind if I hate it, as long as I can make a convincing argument in my presentation and essay about why I feel that way. I promise to finish reading it by next Friday.
“How are rehearsals?” she asks as we walk to her car.
“They’re okay, I guess, but I don’t have anything to do. Apparently, the only assistance needed with the lighting is making sure the guy doing it doesn’t wreck the equipment.”
“He sounds like a catch – not.”
“Actually, it’s the boy from the cafe last week – the Mick Jagger/Joey Ramone look-alike.”
“Really? That reminds me–” She pulls a CD out of her bag and hands it to me. “Let me know what you think.”
The CD is called Ramones Mania. I go straight to my room and put it on, sitting on my bed and studying the photo on the back: four guys with bad hair and tight-tight jeans. The sound that emerges from the tinny little speakers attached to my CD player (a birthday present from Grandma Thelma) is fast, loud and, to be honest, a bit off-key, but it’s pretty catchy in a pop-punk way. After tapping my feet along for a few songs I get the urge to get up and dance. I usually reserve my solo boogie moments for Kylie, but there’s something about the speed and the roughness of the music that makes me want to stomp and kick the air. I pretend the Bs and Ms Reid and McSporran are all lined up in front of me and kick them down one by one.
“What are you doing?” Mum’s standing in the doorway of my room. I’m not sure how long she’s been there, but given that I was right in the middle of giving Bethanee some pretty hefty body blows, I imagine she thinks I’ve lost the plot.
“Knocking, Mum, knocking.”
“You wouldn’t have heard me over this racket anyway,” she says. “Can you turn it down a few decibels, please?”
I hit the pause button.
“That’s better. Honestly, I know my parents thought my taste in music was pretty terrible, but these days it’s just noise.”
“Some of this was recorded in the seventies, when you were young.”
“Really? Well, your dad and I certainly weren’t listening to it. Give me Neil Diamond any day. I just came to see if you have any requests for the video store? Zig and I are heading up there while the chickpeas cook.”
“Thanks, but I’ve got too much homework to do to be watching movies.” This is not strictly true, but it’s too tragic to spend Friday night hanging out with your parents and younger brother.
Mum looks disappointed. “Can’t you take a night off?”
“Do you want me to do well at school or not?” I snap.
“Okay, Fray, calm down. It’s just that the book says it’s very important to have a balance between schoolwork and free–”
“Well, The Book doesn’t have a French test on Monday, does it? Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to get some of this done before dinner.”
Mum closes the door behind her without saying another word.
When I was yelling at her I felt so angry. I mean, how can she and Dad go on and on about how important it is for me to do well at school so that I can get into uni, and then turn round and tell me not to do too much homework? But now, I just feel like a bitch. And I’ve condemned myself to yet another night in my bedroom, which, no doubt, I’ll spend stressing about rehearsal tomorrow. I plug my headphones into the CD player and turn the volume as high as it goes. I spin around the room till I can’t see straight and I can’t stand up any more. Afterwards, my brain feels calmer.
After dinner I head to the lounge with everyone else to watch Lord of the Rings. Ziggy’s choice, obviously. (The whole family’s seen it a million times, but it’s a pretty good movie and Orlando Bloom does look particularly tasty in his fairy costume.) Mum says nothing about my homework commitments when I sit down next to her on the sofa. She suggests that the movie would go better with ice-cream (the real stuff, not that tofu gelato she tried to fool us with last time), which I take as a sign that she’s not upset with me any more.