into shape on a pottery wheel than kick a winning goal for the local AFL team.
It didnât bother me all that much as I didnât like attention as a rule. Not like my best friend, Becky â poor thing, braces did hamper her â who tried out for every play, musical and theatrical recital the school had on offer. I admired her determination, though. And she was good. Really good.
Earlier in the year she persuaded me to go with her â just to keep her company â to the auditions for the school production of Grease and I scored a part in the chorus solely on the basis that I turned up. I was mortified. Little did I know they were short on numbers and as long as you didnât upstage the main actors and dancers, you were pretty much perfect chorus material. I hated every minute of it. I felt fake and pompous in my bobby socks and loafers, my hair pigtailed, rouged cheeks and bright red v-necked sweater. Typically I said nothing and went along with it. Dad enjoyed it, or so he said.
Eric Barrada was my dancing partner and letting him kiss me behind the hall seemed only fair. Besides, he wasnât ugly and I was curious. The experience was less than satisfying.
Iâve always thought of myself as more of a one-man kind of girl. I donât know where or when this idea materialised, but Iâd never been much into boys like my friends. Becky could get so excited about boys she almost asphyxiated. She liked us to go through the motions of talking in turn about each of the boys we were interested in. We would sit in a circle at lunch and begin talking about general things, nothing much at all, and then sheâd say âRight. Out with it, girls.â That was our cue. Usually I talked about Eric Barrada because he wasnât not good-looking and until I had a better option, heâd do. Becky usually rolled her eyes, though. I think she smelled a fake.
In my sketchbook I once drew a line that started with Sally, then Becky and me on the end. Between us, I thought, we covered the full spectrum of teenage girl romantic behaviour. There was something in Sally making it almost impossible for her to be satisfied with any one boy at all. Ever. And Becky could be but she had to sift through a whole lot, which was fun in its own way, to find the one. Whereas me, I wasnât much interested in the process. Thatâs why I thought there would be only one boy for me. And romance wouldnât make much sense until I found him. I think that might be the one thing Mum and I have in common â apart from sewing. I think Dad was the one man for her.
Becky initiated a spectrum for boys, too. And each boy we discussed we had to categorise as either a âRomeoâ or a âCasanovaâ. Eric Barrada was a Casanova. Likable but Casanova all the same. In fact, we found it hard to think of any boys weâd call Romeos.
âItâs a dying art,â Becky said. âRomance. Proper romance.â
âAll boys want is a quickie behind the bike shed,â said Rachel.
âWell, you would know, sweetheart,â Becky responded, laughing out loud so her braces caught the sun.
âNo, really. Can you think of one boy that could love a girl so completely heâd die without her?â
All of us shrugged, looked at each other. Considered all of the potential candidates we had available, shared the last of the raspberry snakes and came up with nothing.
âWell, Mr âHandsomeâ,â Rachel said.
But Mr Hanson â a teacher who looked a lot like Brad Pitt and was only six years older than us â was always our default response. That day Becky decided Mr Handsome was out of bounds for those particular conversations. Because, as we all knew, some men were just off limits altogether. And what good did it do a girl to think too far beyond herself. I think Becky liked Mr Handsome. Really liked him. She took home extension maths activities just to please him.
I finished
It didnât bother me all that much as I didnât like attention as a rule. Not like my best friend, Becky â poor thing, braces did hamper her â who tried out for every play, musical and theatrical recital the school had on offer. I admired her determination, though. And she was good. Really good.
Earlier in the year she persuaded me to go with her â just to keep her company â to the auditions for the school production of Grease and I scored a part in the chorus solely on the basis that I turned up. I was mortified. Little did I know they were short on numbers and as long as you didnât upstage the main actors and dancers, you were pretty much perfect chorus material. I hated every minute of it. I felt fake and pompous in my bobby socks and loafers, my hair pigtailed, rouged cheeks and bright red v-necked sweater. Typically I said nothing and went along with it. Dad enjoyed it, or so he said.
Eric Barrada was my dancing partner and letting him kiss me behind the hall seemed only fair. Besides, he wasnât ugly and I was curious. The experience was less than satisfying.
Iâve always thought of myself as more of a one-man kind of girl. I donât know where or when this idea materialised, but Iâd never been much into boys like my friends. Becky could get so excited about boys she almost asphyxiated. She liked us to go through the motions of talking in turn about each of the boys we were interested in. We would sit in a circle at lunch and begin talking about general things, nothing much at all, and then sheâd say âRight. Out with it, girls.â That was our cue. Usually I talked about Eric Barrada because he wasnât not good-looking and until I had a better option, heâd do. Becky usually rolled her eyes, though. I think she smelled a fake.
In my sketchbook I once drew a line that started with Sally, then Becky and me on the end. Between us, I thought, we covered the full spectrum of teenage girl romantic behaviour. There was something in Sally making it almost impossible for her to be satisfied with any one boy at all. Ever. And Becky could be but she had to sift through a whole lot, which was fun in its own way, to find the one. Whereas me, I wasnât much interested in the process. Thatâs why I thought there would be only one boy for me. And romance wouldnât make much sense until I found him. I think that might be the one thing Mum and I have in common â apart from sewing. I think Dad was the one man for her.
Becky initiated a spectrum for boys, too. And each boy we discussed we had to categorise as either a âRomeoâ or a âCasanovaâ. Eric Barrada was a Casanova. Likable but Casanova all the same. In fact, we found it hard to think of any boys weâd call Romeos.
âItâs a dying art,â Becky said. âRomance. Proper romance.â
âAll boys want is a quickie behind the bike shed,â said Rachel.
âWell, you would know, sweetheart,â Becky responded, laughing out loud so her braces caught the sun.
âNo, really. Can you think of one boy that could love a girl so completely heâd die without her?â
All of us shrugged, looked at each other. Considered all of the potential candidates we had available, shared the last of the raspberry snakes and came up with nothing.
âWell, Mr âHandsomeâ,â Rachel said.
But Mr Hanson â a teacher who looked a lot like Brad Pitt and was only six years older than us â was always our default response. That day Becky decided Mr Handsome was out of bounds for those particular conversations. Because, as we all knew, some men were just off limits altogether. And what good did it do a girl to think too far beyond herself. I think Becky liked Mr Handsome. Really liked him. She took home extension maths activities just to please him.
I finished
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