Read Online Puberty Blues by Gabrielle Carey - Free Book Online Page B

weren’t seeing their girlfriends till that night. They were restless. All that energy they usually expelled ripping into right-handers and carving into tubes was bottled and bubbling at the brim. Like the day they got Frieda. It was raining. The surf was flat. Nothing much was happening …
    â€˜Hey. Check out that chick.’
    â€˜Oh …’ moaned Johnno, ‘Dog-eat-dog.’ *
    â€˜Hit the brakes, Gull. It’s Cummins.’
    Slouching down the footpath, in a big grey raincoat, was Frieda Cummins. Johnno wound down the window.
    â€˜Eh! Feel like comin’, Frieda?’
    â€˜Ha, ha, ha, ha …’ Wayne jabbed him.
    â€˜Shut up,’ he whispered. ‘Where ya goin’, Frieda?’
    â€˜Home.’
    â€˜Wanna lift?’
    She jumped in the car without hesitation. A chance to be with the boys! ‘Gee, they must really like me.’
    â€˜You gunna drive me home? Yews can come in if ya like.’
    â€˜Sure Fried … Just gotta drop in at my place for a minute.’
    Back at Seagull’s place, Wayne led her off to the bedroom. She couldn’t believe it. This was beyond her wildest dreams. Wayne Wright. He was the top surfer. It had taken two months for Cheryl Nolan to get him. Now she was with him, alone …
    Outside the boys were fighting over who was going next. Wayne came out. Johnno went in. Followed by Seagull. And then Dave Deakin. And then Jacko. And Danny. Then Boardie. Steve Strachan arrived late.
    â€˜I’m not goin’ fuckin’ slops.’
    It didn’t matter to Frieda. She couldn’t feel it any more. She’d done everything. Maybe now they’d let her in the gang.
    Frieda finally staggered out of the bedroom.
    â€˜You gunna drive me home now, Gull?’
    He sniggered. ‘Rack off moll. No fuckin’ way.’
    She walked through the kitchen, her raincoat still dripping.
    â€˜See ya slut .’ Jacko thumped her hard on the back.
    Strack fetched one up his throat, aimed, and a big yellow slag hit the back of her grey raincoat.
    The thing is, she always came back for more.
    Sometimes the boys had to use more subtle tactics. Like one night down at the pub. There were a few strangers there including one giggly little Bankie chick. The boys thought she looked like an easy lay, so they buttered her up by teaching her how to play pool. She wasn’t that easy though. Steve Strachan offered to drive her home to Bankieland. He thought there must be a vacant lot or a deserted alley between Sylvania and Burwood.
    â€˜You won’t do nuffin’, will ya?’ she asked. ‘Like ya won’t take advantage of me?’
    They drove off. All the boys were in the back of the panel van.
    â€˜I used to be a naughty girl,’ she said, ‘but I’m not anymore.’
    Halfway down the highway, they turned down a dark street.
    â€˜Where yas goin’?’ she asked, anxiously.
    â€˜Stop the car Strack!’ demanded Gull, leaning over the front seat. ‘Now, get out!’
    â€˜What’s goin’ on?’ the girl squeaked.
    â€˜Shut ya face or you’ll get it too.’
    And here’s where the play-acting began. Strack got Gull and the rest of the boys to bash him up against the car and act as though they were really punching the shit out of him.
    â€˜No!’ he shouted, as his head supposedly hit the metal. ‘I won’t let yas root her!’
    They thumped, kicked and bashed the car while Steve made convincing noises. ‘Ow!’ ‘Fuck off!’ choke … gasp … groan …
    Then she, from inside the van, moved by his heroism, cried, ‘Don’t hurt him. I’ll root yas all. Leave him alone.’
    And that was that.
    I was down the Alley one day, checking out the guys who were checking out the surf. Skinny Lorraine Peck staggered around the corner. She was pale, and tottering along the footpath. She collapsed outside the milk bar.
    I