Paper Alice (11 page)

Now Milly was craning her neck to see the back view in her mirror. The top looked good even with the jeans she was wearing.

‘What skirt would go with it?'

‘Well,' I laughed, spreading my arms to indicate the skirts of every length and variety lying about. ‘Take your pick!'

‘I've put on weight round the bum,' she said, bending down and hunting through the piles. ‘That stretchy pencil one's probably got too tight . . .'

‘No, you haven't–'

How many girls, I wondered suddenly, were having
the exact same conversation at this moment, right around the country?

‘Yes, you
have
, fatso!'

This was Toby, her twelve-year-old brother, who'd appeared around the half-open door and was standing there in his school uniform, one hand clutching an open packet of chips, the other burrowing noisily for more.

You can talk
, I thought, staring at him. Whereas Milly's curves could be described as voluptuous, he's just plain lumpen-looking, with a smattering of freckles over his pale complexion.

‘Piss off, you little creep!' cried Milly, picking up a magazine and hurling it at him from across the room. He ducked, smiling smugly; stuffed another handful of chips in his mouth.

‘Just
go
,' she added, stamping her foot. ‘You shouldn't listen at doors!'

‘Well,' he said, retreating, crunching loudly, ‘you shouldn't leave them open!'

But Milly had changed tack.

‘Before you go,' she cried, suddenly leaping across the room, her hand outstretched, ‘give me 'n' Al a few!'

For someone solid he could move pretty fast. ‘Get your own!' he said, whipping back around the door. ‘Fat arse!'

‘You–' she shrieked, and gave chase. There was a thundering of feet up the hall, then a thud and sounds of a scuffle. I followed them out just in time to see a shower of chips raining down over the hat stand.

‘Now look what you've done!' Toby shouted.

Just then the front door opened, and there stood their mum, Gillian, home from work. Looking quite
defeated as usual, worn out. I don't want to sound mean, but I think she still wears the same clothes she did ten years ago.

Milly and Toby froze mid-tussle, panting. Gillian dumped the three or four supermarket bags she was carrying.

‘Stop that, you two,' she cried. ‘Just
stop
it!' She pointed at the spray of chips. ‘And you can clean those up – every last crumb!'

Toby relinquished his hold on Milly enough to jab a finger. ‘She started it!'

Milly stuck her hands on her hips, glaring at him. ‘
Bullshit
–'

‘Liar!'

Then their mum really lost it.

‘
What did I say?
' she shouted. ‘Eh? Both of you – just
shut up!
'

‘Mu-um,' Milly nodded in my direction, embarrassed; Gillian turned and saw me.

‘Oh, hi Al . . .' She pushed her wispy hair out of her eyes. ‘I'm sorry–'

‘Oh–' I raised both hands, laughing nervously. ‘Don't worry, I'm used to . . .'

I trailed off. I wasn't, really, except at their place. Mum and Dad never shouted. Perhaps it'd be better if they did, I thought – occasionally.

Milly was stepping forward and picking up the bags. ‘D'you want us,' she asked soothingly, nodding in my direction, ‘to get dinner?'

‘Such as it is,' said Gillian. She turned to me again. ‘You've picked a bad night menu-wise, Al. Bangers and mash, I'm afraid.'

I smiled. ‘I actually love bangers and mash.' It was
true, with lashings of tomato sauce. Probably because it was a novelty – Marisa would never have dreamed of serving it.

‘Why don't you and Dunc come on Saturday night too, Al?' suggested Milly, in the middle of dinner. ‘I think there're some tickets left.'

‘Dunc's got some cricket dinner on that night,' I said, rolling my eyes. ‘Boys only.'

Actually, I was pleased not to have to go; drunken presentation nights are not really my thing.

‘Well, come to the ball on your own then,' she said, popping a piece of broccoli in her mouth. ‘It'll be fun.'

I shrugged slightly. She was going to it with Michael, a gay guy from her course who seemed nice, and some other people. But . . .

‘Oh, c'mon! You don't have to go
everywhere
with Dunky boy, y'know!'

I looked at her quickly. She was teasing of course, but you know what they say. Behind every joke . . .

‘I don't go everywhere with him,' I cried, stung.

Milly raised her eyebrows a fraction and kept eating, her eyes on her plate.

I felt a rush of anger, not least because deep down I knew it was partly true. After so long I'd got so used to going to things with Dunc. It was much easier.

Gillian was leaning forward.

‘You don't want to turn into an appendage, lovie,' she said. ‘Not at your age!'

‘Mu-um!' said Milly, looking horrified.

‘What's an “appendage”?' asked Toby.

‘Oh,
Alice
knows what I mean!' cried Gillian, patting my hand. ‘Don't you, Al? It's just that there's so much
ahead
of you, darls. You don't want to get tied down too soon!'

She sounded like Marisa. I could feel my scalp tightening with anger. If you're using Milly's behaviour as an example of not being tied down, I thought, then give me tied down, any day.

Also, sometimes I think people who aren't hooked up with someone tend to be quicker to find fault with the relationships of those who are.

I forced a little laugh.

‘I'm not
tied down
,' I murmured. ‘It's not as though I'm about to get
engaged
or anything–'

‘Hope not!' said Milly quickly.

I glanced sharply at her again, but she was smiling cheerfully.

‘Why is Alice an appendix?' asked Toby, staring at me with interest. He'd started to swing one leg, his foot was rhythmically kicking my chair. Kick, kick, kick . . .

‘Don't be stupid, Toby,' snapped Milly, whipping round to him.

‘And stop kicking, please!' I added, trying not to glare at him.

‘Poor Al,' said Milly suddenly, rolling her eyes. ‘She must be wishing she'd never stayed for dinner!'

I laughed. ‘Oh, no . . .'

Actually, she was almost right. Despite the current gloomy silences
chez
McBean.

‘Anyway,' said Mill, ‘think about it Al – the ball. I'm sure it'll be good.'

I did think about it – among other things. So much so that when Trudy from Bunters rang to ask if I'd work on the Saturday night, something I'd been planning to
do, I said no. I agreed to work on Friday evening instead, even though I knew it would give Dunc the shits. I had said I'd go to some party with him, but the balance in my flexi account drastically needed topping up, especially since I now had the added cost of a ticket to the ball.

There was another philosophy lecture on Friday, but my discreet glances around revealed no Andy, and there were no notes or end-of-lecture appearances. I didn't know whether to feel relieved or disappointed. A bit of both, to be honest.

So, the ball. And if things had been weird lately, they were about to get a whole lot weirder.

It started off ordinarily enough. The group I was going with met beforehand for drinks and a snack at Balino's, a bar near the uni. They were friends of Milly's friend Michael, and seemed nice, apart from a girl sitting on one side of me called Annabelle who proceeded to collar me and tell me in loud and exhaustive detail all about all the famous people she'd met through her mother being a PR person. As if I could give a shit about calling a limo for Nicole, or wiping Cate's baby's bum! Actually, it could have been quite interesting in bits, but she was such a name-dropper it made you want to puke.

Then we set off to walk to the ball, but halfway there it started to pelt with rain, so we had to run the remaining distance, shrieking and puffing, the girls tottering along on high heels. I took a major slide at one point, and was just saved from ending up on my backside in the gutter by Michael grabbing my elbow. Then I had the bright idea, definitely not my best, to take off my shoes and go barefoot. There hadn't been
enough rain to wash the pavement clean, and in the dark I ended up with squashed Moreton Bay fig and god knows what else between my toes. When I tried washing my feet under a downpipe outside the Great Hall where the ball was being held, the raging torrent soaked most of Milly's borrowed green satin skirt. So by the time we'd dashed into the foyer in a panting, dripping cluster, I looked a sight.

‘God, Mill,' I cried, flapping the bottom of the skirt about, ‘this'll be ruined. I'll buy you another one . . .'

‘Don't
worry
!' she cried, barely giving it a glance, ‘I never even wear it any more!'

People were milling about in all kinds of wet finery, brushing themselves down and shaking the water out of their hair, shouting above the din and fishing around for their tickets. The noise bounced off the marble floor and rose into the vaulted ceiling in a dull roar. On the other side of the security stations through the doors into the hall itself came the disjointed twangings of a band tuning.

A girl whose outfit consisted more of red-and-black body paint than fabric pushed past me on her way to the loo. Her actual garments consisted of a black pencil skirt attached to thin braces, and a pair of red ankle boots. The rain had played havoc with her paintwork; one nipple was already protruding pinkly around a strap. With the sections of colour dribbling into one another, she looked a bit like a melting liquorice allsort.

‘Can you
believe
some people?' cried Annabelle, staring after her, eyebrows practically rising into her hair.

The group to my right had taken the dress code
literally and were decked out to the max in old-style, full-on evening wear – white ties and tails, fur stoles and tiaras. Except that the boys were wearing the gowns and the girls, their hair slicked shinily down, sported the penguin suits.

‘Fabulous!' said Michael admiringly, and Milly, her arm through his, cried, ‘We should've thought of that!'

This lot all looked as though they were having a lot of fun, not least, I could tell, because of the avid attention they knew they were attracting. They were even behaving in period, like characters from a 1930s play, tossing their heads and laughing archly at one another's witticisms. They really did look cool – if not Rulers of the Universe, then at least Rulers of the University. You know how people like that can suddenly make you wonder if your own life is ever going to be remotely interesting?

Anyway, by the time we'd got inside the next band (there were several, playing one after the other) had started up, so we started dancing. The place was packed – it seemed like there literally were thousands of people there. I hardly saw any familiar faces, but with the strobe lighting and the crush of bods I wasn't likely to. We dried off quickly in all that body heat, but were soon damp again with sweat.

When the band finally took a break, we headed for the bar – like everyone else. There were several bars, but you never would've known with the queues. Michael stood in line for us, while Milly and I, and the annoying Annabelle, went and stood over against a wall. All the tables and chairs had been taken, and my feet in my bargain-basement pointy-toed shoes were killing me, so I took them off. I knew I never should've
bought them, no matter how cheap. Then Milly announced she had to sit, so we just plonked ourselves down on the floor up against the wall, in a line of other people with sore feet.

Which proved quite claustrophobic, not to mention hazardous. I felt a bit like Alice in Wonderland after she'd shrunk, peering into the moving forest of legs. The crowd seemed to press down on us, as though the floor was starting to tilt, and the noise from all those feet shuffling about on the floor was thunderous. I found myself thinking about how terrifying it would be to be a spider or a mouse living underneath. And all I'd had in the way of stimulants, in case you're wondering, were a couple of cocktails at Balino's!

The final straw was when a girl suddenly came crashing through the crowd and fell all over us. I don't know whether someone was chasing her, or she just thought someone was chasing her, but we heard her coming several seconds before we saw her. There was a loud shrieking and drumming of feet and then suddenly this body was hurtling down on us like a sack of dressed-up, made-up wheat. I was the one who copped the brunt of her, in a great thump that almost winded me. Then as she thrashed about trying to extricate herself, I nearly got smacked in the mouth.

‘Sorry!' she kept crying. ‘Oh . . .
sor-ree
!' It was hard to tell if she was hysterical with laughter, or tears, or both. Her face kept looming into mine in great gusts of beer. When she did finally make it up, she teetered there for a moment, mouth hanging open like a dying sheep, before toppling again, over Annabelle this time.

It was quite funny-scary, but that's not how Annabelle saw it. ‘Do you
mind
?' she cried furiously,
giving the hapless chick an almighty shove. ‘Get
off
me!'

The drunken log rolled off and lay there, hair fanned out around her face, one arm across her stomach, gasping and laughing. Annabelle shrank back as though she was a pool of toxic sludge. Then two of the girl's friends materialised through the crowd and Milly and I helped them get her on her feet again. Staggering slightly, they hauled her off, her arms around their shoulders.

‘She must've started early!' I said.

‘For god's sake, Al,' said Milly, staring after the departing cavalcade, ‘don't
ever
let me get like that!'

I looked at her and grinned.

‘What about after the Year 10 Form–' But I was interrupted by the arrival of Michael, bearing beers. He looked back through the crowd.