Read Online The Best Thing by Margo Lanagan - Free Book Online Page A

that
Dad
would get maximum enjoyment from it all—when the whole idea is to get
me
a night out!
    Mum gives the thumbs up as she comes into the kitchen in her nightshirt.
    ‘It’s on?’ I say.
    ‘Cat’s Head Point, here we come. I’ll ring up Maggie this morning and get her to give the house a once-over.’
    ‘Oh, fab-oh!’ I nearly tell her right then and there that I’m going out Thursday night (I’m so happy I’d like to tell her where, too, and who with!), but I keep control of myself.
    ‘It was like pulling teeth, though.’ Mum’s back’s to me as she starts making coffee.
    ‘Yeah?’ I pretend to care. Then I really do begin to wonder.‘What’s wrong with that guy these days? He’s off with the fairies half the time.’
    ‘He is a bit … dreamy.’ She stares at the coffee-maker, the scoop in her hand. At the back her hair is a little bit scrunched up from sleep, where she hasn’t yet combed it. If you couldn’t see those bony elbows you’d think it was a little kid standing there.
    ‘He needs a holiday. Get him into the surf and he’ll wake up a bit.’
    ‘Yes.’ The scoop dips into the coffee tin. ‘It’s always worked before. Coffee?’
    Boy, will I be glad to get away from school early, next week. Brenner, every chance he can,
bumps
past me and hisses, ‘Slut!’ Sometimes he’ll even call it out if he’s with a bunch of friends. Ambra Lewis never meets my eyes, or if she does quickly glances away again. Josh sends me glances that say,
You? You are dirt. You are scum
. Lisa and Donna—well, there haven’t been any condoms lately, but there are notes, regular notes, stuck on the back of my jumper for Mum to point out when I get home, turning up in my bag, scribbled on the first page in my folder, thrown from nowhere behind the teacher’s back. I don’t bother reading them any more.
    I don’t understand how they can think I’m any worse than them. I
know
I’m not. I used to be one of them. They’re all having it off with each other, they’re all getting as much sex as they can. I’ve been with them to those parties, bodies in every corner, everyone off their faces, the music like a screen over it all, so loud you can’t talk, just
do
.
    And I never did with anyone but Brenner—I never swapped and changed like some of them. If we’re looking for sluts, the guys are the worst sluts, if half the stories they tell are true, of their endurance, repeat performances, girls and women they’ve ‘had’ (as if it were a con as well as a conquest). I was never quite sure what to do when those stories were doing the rounds—smile,laugh? I’m sitting here with my boyfriend’s arm around me while he says, of someone else, ‘Yep. Had her. Up against a wall behind the fish shop,’ and I’m supposed to
laugh
? I’m supposed to say, ‘
Fish
shop, that’s a good one,’ to show what a good sport I am? I’m supposed to ignore
hating
him, ignore wondering,
When was this? Did he catch anything from her that I should watch out for?
, ignore being incensed on this girl’s behalf, for her being made into a piece of flesh that a guy
has
so that he can tell
these
guys he’s had it? These people he’s dying to impress, these fantastic role models? Beside these guys, and some of the girls, I’m a saint—faithful, loyal, tame.
    I give up. This is just the lightning-strike of someone’s boredom, someone’s whim. (Donna’s, probably; Lisa hasn’t got enough imagination, and she wouldn’t keep up the pressure for so long. She’ll enjoy it while it lasts, but she hasn’t got Donna’s ill will towards everything, Donna’s hatred and complete lack of a sense of humour.) I only have to wait, and react as little as possible, and eventually the boredom will seek another target. That, or the group will come up with some kind of grand finale to break me down, some way of signing off. I see myself lying in the schoolyard, hunks of hair ripped from my head, the marks of rocks and