Dad gives me a lift to rehearsal on his way to the supermarket.
“Are you excited about tonight?” he asks.
“I don’t know if excited’s the right word.”
“Nervous?”
“Maybe a bit. This is the first party I’ve been to where I haven’t just been tagging along because you couldn’t get a babysitter.”
Dad laughs. “Don’t think the significance of the occasion has been lost on me. It’s taking all my self-control not to give you the Daddy’s-little-girl-is-growing-up speech.”
“Try it and I’ll attempt a death roll out of a moving Volvo.”
“Just relax and be yourself,” Dad says as I open my door. It’s parental cliché #256, but I know he means well. I nod and attempt a smile. “I’ll pick you up at eleven. Shall I ring the bell?”
“NO! I mean, I’ll wait outside for you so you don’t have to get out of the car.”
I can tell he sees straight through my considerate-daughter act, but all he says is, “Okay, have fun.”
“Running away from home?” asks Daniel. He nods in the direction of the bulging bag I’ve just dumped by the desk, which is full of clothes, since Kate has forbidden me to wear my jeans and sneakers tonight. I really didn’t think anyone but the Bs would notice, but she went on and on about “trying harder” and “making an effort” until I gave in and agreed to let her dress me.
“Just stuff for the party tonight,” I say, hoping he won’t ask what kind of “stuff” it is.
“You must be expecting it to be a big night to need all that.”
To change the subject, I reach for the schema he’s working on. It’s the set-up for the Ascot races scene. “I like the way you’ve used the diffuser on the strip there. That should make it look more like natural daylight.”
“Glad you approve,” he says, looking at it over my shoulder. “I’m not quite sure how to make it work with the coloured gels we’ve got in place though. We might have to rethink some of the interior set-ups.”
We spend the morning taking turns to operate the lighting desk and whispering ideas about how things might be improved. If anyone asked me, I may have been forced to admit that I was enjoying myself.
At lunchtime I grab my sandwich and head for the stairs. “Taking a break?” I ask Daniel.
“Nah, I think I’ll try changing some of those gels while the leading lady’s otherwise occupied. It’s impossible to get near the stage when she’s around.”
Downstairs, Kate and Bethanee are standing with three boys from the chorus.
“Freia, come and meet the guys,” Kate says. “This is Steve, Jamie and Alex.” They all nod simultaneously so I’m not sure which is which. Not that it matters since they’re pretty interchangeable.
“Nice to meet you,” I say because that’s what Mum taught me to do, regardless of whether it actually is.
“Yeah,” says the one I think may be Steve. “We’re going to catch up with the guys at Benny’s. See you later.” And they leave.
“At least tonight they won’t have anywhere else to go,” says Bethanee, as if it’s a good thing that they’ll be forced to hang out with us whether they want to or not.
Everyone heads to the 7-Eleven except Belinda, who appears to have given up food all together, and me. I take small bites from my homemade sandwich, chewing each one thoroughly so that my mouth is always full and I am exempt from making conversation. As it turns out, I needn’t bother since I’m just an audience for Belinda.
“I hope the Parkville geeks aren’t going to come tonight,” she says, taking a swig from her two-litre bottle of French mineral water. “I mean, they know I only invited them to be polite, right? They must realise that no one actually wants them there. Right? Yeah, right. Anyway, Luke said all the cool guys are coming, so the nerds’ll soon realise they’re in the wrong place and head off to their online gaming tournament, or whatever it is they do on a Saturday night.
“I think I’ll let Luke kiss me tonight. He tried to last Saturday when we were waiting in the wings during a scene change, but I said he had to wait for a more romantic moment. I’ve told him about the spot at the back of Mum’s fernery. Hopefully he got the message. The only problem with the fernery is that the lawn’s a bit wet back there, so high heels sink into the grass. If I wear my new gold wedges, I think I can get away with it. Either that or Luke’ll just have to carry me … not a bad idea, actually.”
I’m relieved to have a break from Belinda’s monologue when Kate and the others get back. Even hearing about everyone’s clothing plans for the eleventieth time would be preferable at this point.
“Tonight’s going to be so cool,” says Brianna.
“Yeah,” says Belinda. “But I hope the Parkville geeks aren’t going to come. They must know I only invited them to be polite, right?”
I can’t listen to the no-geeks-allowed speech all over again. “I have to move some lights,” I say, bolting for the hall.
“Don’t forget Mum’s picking us up at five sharp,” calls Kate after me.
Daniel is still on the balcony when I get back to the hall. He’s eating lasagna out of a takeaway container and reading a music magazine. “I thought you might need someone to hold the ladder,” I say when he asks what I’m doing back so early.
Kate appears at the top of the stairs at 4.55.
“C’mon, Fray,” she hisses. “Time to go.”
“See ya,” I say to Daniel. I grab my bag and follow her.
“Yeah, see you later, Freia,” he says.
Later. Later as in later, later, or later as in some other time, later? Surely Daniel isn’t going to Belinda’s? I mean, it’s pretty obvious that he’s not friends with any of the guys, even the geeky ones, and he doesn’t know any of the girls, so why would he? What if he’s planning to crash the party? Now that would make more sense. Daniel on a drug-fuelled rampage, ripping up Belinda’s mum’s fernery and stealing their home theatre system to hock for drug money … or perhaps something less extreme, since he really doesn’t seem the violent type.
One thing’s for sure, if he does show up, I’m going to have to stay very far away from him. I feel like a shallow cow for thinking it, since he’s been pretty decent about taking on my suggestions for the lighting and everything, but Daniel Taylor-Fairchild is social suicide. Even for someone as low down the chain as me.
Mrs Smith is waiting for us at the school gate, looking glamorous in tight jeans and high heels.
“Come on, girls,” she says as she hustles us into her four-wheel drive. “You’ve only got a couple of hours to get ready!” This is the kind of lame joke my dad would make, but when I look at Mrs Smith’s face she’s not laughing.
“Actually, Mum, I promised Belinda we’d be there by 6.30, so we’ve got even less time.”
Mrs Smith looks panicked and accelerates abruptly, causing us to fly over the speed hump at the pedestrian crossing.
I take my clothes out of the backpack and lay them on Kate’s bed for her appraisal.
She shakes her head. “This is not good.”
“I told you,” I tell her again.
“Couldn’t you get your mum to take you shopping?”
Of course I could; there’s nothing Mum would like more in the world than to spend an afternoon of girly bonding over clothes (except perhaps my early acceptance into an English Literature degree at the university of her choice). But it’s out of the question. First of all, I wouldn’t want her to think that this heralded some new stage in our mother–daughter relationship where we start chatting about everything and sharing our feelings – vomit – at every opportunity. And second, one word: clogs. Without doubt, my mother’s taste in clothes and mine are poles apart. The items on Kate’s bed are testimony to the fact.
“Let’s just say it’s not worth it in the long run.”
I try on everything I’ve brought: two skirts, both chosen by my mother for uni events I’ve tagged along to as the dutiful daughter, and a pair of cargo-type pants I wore to death two summers ago. Kate sighs more deeply at each of them.
“There’s only one thing for it,” she says, as if she’s come to a very important decision. “I was planning to wear it myself, but I’m going to have to lend you my skirt.” She holds up a strip of denim fabric only slightly wider than my arm.
I try to keep the panic out of my voice. “Oh, Kate, that’s really nice of you, but I don’t think a miniskirt’s really me.”
“Trust me,” she says. “The guys are going to love you in this. Now hurry up. We’ve only got half an hour and there’s still hair and make-up to do!”
The skirt is a size smaller than I normally wear and ends alarmingly close to my undies.
“I don’t know about this, Kate,” I say. “It’s a bit …”
“Sexy? Yes, yes it is. And you look gorgeous in it. You’ve got great legs, Fray, but no one would ever know. All you need now is an equally sexy top.” She pulls a slinky red singlet out of her wardrobe. “This should do nicely.”
“But what about my parents? They’ll have heart failure if they see me wearing this.”
“So you put your jeans on just before your dad picks you up. What’s the big deal? I bet half the girls there will have to change before they go home.”
She makes me sit at her desk while she applies foundation and blusher and eye shadow and other stuff I don’t even know the names for. I feel like I’m wearing a mask. I draw the line when she comes towards me with her eyelash curlers – they look like some sort of medieval torture instrument.
When we stand side by side in front of the full-length mirror I almost don’t recognise myself. Sure, the limp hair’s mine (even Kate can’t work miracles), but the face and outfit look like they belong to someone else … a not-unattractive someone else. Kate looks like she’s just stepped off the pages of a fashion magazine in her halter-neck top and the tightest jeans I’ve ever seen.
She grins at me. “This is going to be the best night of our lives!”
Mr Smith opens the back door of his BMW. “Ladies,” he says, ushering us in with a wave of his arm like a chauffeur. Kate giggles and climbs in. Faced with the prospect of getting myself into the back seat without flashing my undies at my best friend’s father, I scoot in as fast as I can, madly tugging down the hem of the skirt.
“Stop biting your lips,” orders Kate. “You’ll be completely de-glossed by the time we arrive.”
I do as I’m told. For some reason my stomach feels all fluttery and my mouth is dry. It’s almost exactly the same feeling I get when I have to make a presentation in class and I start worrying about forgetting what I’ve planned to say or having big sweat stains under my armpits or one of the hundreds of other humiliating conditions that can strike without warning when you know you’re going to be looked at very closely. It doesn’t help that Mr Smith is grinning at me in the rear-view mirror in a slightly lecherous way. I tell myself I must be imagining it – Mr Smith has known me since I was eleven, for God’s sake – but I still hoick my backpack onto my lap and cover as much bare flesh with it as I can.