By Laura Buzo
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Trouble is, my scorching unease would give me away to the door guy, and even if by some miracle it didn’t, I am terrified of interacting socially with my workmates. Except Chris. Donna is my age, but she has no trouble keeping up with them. She wears eye make-up and pulls it off. She wears calf-high black boots with purple laces. She smokes and has been kicked out of home by her father several times. She has serious street cred. Unlike me. Ed is nice enough but he’s eighteen and kind of vagued-out all the time.
Check it out, the youngster lets her hair down,’ he says, giving my hair a playful yank. I try to think of a response, but I can’t. Kathy drives like the grown-up she is. Her slim, bare arms turn the steering wheel gracefully. I’m not even old enough to get my learner’s permit. I’m bloody Pip. Chris looks like the cat that knows he’s about to get a big dish of cream. I stare up and out at the upside down trees whizzing past. Bianca’s family digs are indeed spectacular. The water is ablaze and there is not a breath of wind.
I clean my teeth thoroughly and gargle with a generous quantity of Listerine. The foulness in my mouth remains. I fumble in the cabinet for Panadol and then run a hot shower. Leaning against the steamed-up glass shower recess, I wonder how Chris is pulling up. I’m going to have to see him tonight. And Jeremy. And Ed. But I can’t think about that now. I just have to concentrate on staying upright, not throwing up and getting off to school without anyone noticing I’m hung-over. Hung-over! Me! I perk up a bit at the thought of telling Penny that I pashed a boy and got a hangover.