Puberty Blues by Gabrielle Carey

weren’t grown-up. I didn’t have my periods so I wanted everyone at Vicki Russell’s party to think I did.
    At half past eight, Danny’s father drove us home.
    Mrs Knight opened the door in her pyjamas.
    â€˜I think they’re ill,’ said Mr Dixon.
    We were drunk at seven. We were home in bed by nine. Mrs Knight undressed us and filled us up with soda water. ‘Someone put something in our drinks,’ we explained. The buckets by our beds soon over-flowed. Later that night, in simultaneous moments of agony, we met each other in the bathroom. We took it in turns to spew and then sat on the cold bath tub.
    â€˜I feel terrible.’
    â€˜So do I.’
    â€˜So much for the milk.’
    Â 
    Danny was worried about Sue and me getting a bad name. It was okay for girls to get drunk, but onlyif they had a boyfriend. Surfies would never touch someone else’s chick, but a single drunk girl was an easy lay.
    Danny couldn’t have his girlfriend associating with a potential moll. So he brought down his best friend—Garry Hennessey. Hen had just broken it off with Vicki ’cause she two-timed. He asked me to go round with him that night. And from there on it was another cute little foursome. We did everything together.
    Usually we had nowhere to go. We either hung out at the bowling alley, sneaked into the pub—dressed up and drastically under-aged, or sat around Miranda Fair Shopping Centre—especially on Thursday nights. Everyone went up there. It was just a big, lit-up, out-of-the-rain place where we could all meet. You had to keep your eyes peeled for the security guards though. They’d ‘move you on’ and chuck you out if you couldn’t prove you’d bought something. We would have ‘moved-on’ gladly, if there’d been anywhere to ‘move on’ to. We slouched around Grace Brothers Camellia Court all night or hung out at the bus stops out the front. There were heaps of us. The girls checked out the guys and the guys checked out the chicks. Everyone was in their best Levis. Eyelashes freshly mascaraed, hair brushed …
    â€˜Goodday Cheryl … how’s Wayne?’
    â€˜Oh, Hi! Good. Real good. How’s Danny?’
    â€˜Good. What are you doing up here?’
    â€˜Oh … Ar … Oh, I had to get a pair of sandals … What are you doing up here?’
    â€˜Oh … Ar … Oh, I had to come up with Debbie to get her blue angora off lay-by.’
    â€˜Oh …’
    No one would ever admit that we went up there ‘cause there was nothing else to do.
    â€˜Guess what?’
    â€˜Wot?’
    â€˜Guess who I saw lookin’ in the window of Angus and Coote?’
    â€˜Who?’
    â€˜Danny. I reckon he’s gettin’ you a ring …’
    â€˜Ya never …’
    â€˜I deadest did …’
    â€˜When?’
    â€˜Just then.’
    â€˜Oh … he can’t be.’
    â€˜He is ! How long’s he bin goin’ out with ya? Three months?’
    â€˜Three months and two days.’
    â€˜Well, ’bout bloody time.’
    Getting a friendship ring was the biggest thing in a girl’s life. If you had a ring you were a top chick. Girls rushed up to you every day at school.
    â€˜Give us a look. Oh … Is it eighteen-carat?’
    â€˜Yeah, have a look.’
    â€˜Oh gee, he treats ya good. It’s bewdiful.’
    â€˜Yeah, he treats me roolly good and stuff.’
    â€˜How long have you been goin’ round with ’im now?’
    â€˜Three months, two weeks, four days and um … what’s the time? … two hours.’
    â€˜Whenja get it?’
    â€˜Saturday night.’
    On the way home from your boyfriend’s place, just after he’d given you a ring, you’d pause under the street light and examine it. Was it eighteen-carat? … Phew.
    By day, we were at school learning logarithms, but by night—in the back of cars,