Puberty Blues by Gabrielle Carey Page A

under the bowling alley, on Cronulla Beach, down behind the Ace-of-Spades Hotel, in the changing rooms of the football field, or, if you were lucky, in a bed while someone’s parents were out—you paid off your friendship ring.
    Cheryl Nolan, one of the top chicks, got a ring every few weeks from a different boy. That’s why she was a top chick. She had a horse and was a good screw.
    â€˜I think he’s gettin’ me one,’ she said to me.
    â€˜How do ya know?’
    â€˜â€™Cause Vicki saw him goin’ to Miranda Fair, by himself on Thursday night. He must be.’
    The guys slouched around in big, blonde groups, up against railings and shop corners. If your boy-friend was there, you didn’t hang around him ’cause he was with his mates. You stayed with the girls and walked around on parade, going from the Fashion Wheel Boutique to the Igloo Deli to the Fashion Wheel Boutique to Surf Dive and Ski.
    If your boyfriend had just dropped you, it was easy to find someone else up at Miranda Fair. It was a cool game of checking out and chasings.
    â€˜Hey Sue … who’s that over there?’
    â€˜Where?’
    â€˜The one with the long blonde hair.’
    â€˜He’s in Spotty’s gang.’
    â€˜Hey, walk over with me.’
    â€˜Na.’
    â€˜Go on! We’ll pretend we’re lookin’ in the record shop.’
    â€˜Well, do I look all right?’
    â€˜Yeah, check him out will ya? What a doll.’
    We sauntered over, casual as hell, with all eyes on us. When there were no boys that we fancied, which was rare ’cause usually we fancied anything with blonde hair and Levis, we bitched about our girlfriends.
    â€˜Oh, check out what Vicki’s wearing. She saw me up here buyin’ me black Californians, so she went out and bought exactly the same thing.’
    â€˜Small weak act.’
    â€˜Yeah, she’s a two-faced bitch.’
    â€˜Yeah, ’cause she was going roun’ with Garry for two months and he was roolly wrapped in ’er, and she was two-timing him. She had a ring and everything. I dunno what he saw in ’er.’
    â€˜God, she needs a new head … oh, gidday Vick. What are you doin’ up here?’
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    The big time was when someone’s parents went away for the weekend. We’d then have a whole house to ourselves. Beds. Television. Telephone. Record player. Fridge. Vacuum cleaner. It was just like being in a big doll’s house, and that’s exactly what we did—play house.
    Occasionally Garry Hennessey’s parents went to Hawaii or somewhere. Then everyone in Sylvania lived at Garry’s place for the weekend. The old gang. Johnno and the boys. There was no one to hassle us and plenty of food money, which Garry spent on beer and cigarettes. The boys sat around drinking, smoking, playing pool and cards.
    When they felt especially energetic and the surf was bad, they donned their wetsuits for a quick skin-dive in the sewer canals of Sylvania Waters. After a few hours they retrieved such treasures as rusty refrigerators, mouldy dragsters and their pride and joy—prams. They dragged them back, showed them off and chucked them back in.
    Us girls pottered about in the kitchen. We spent three hours making a White Wings packet cake, to get the boys’ attention, and it took them three seconds to eat it and forget about us. We were left with crumbs, cracked egg shells and a huge mound of washing up. But we didn’t even mind that. We were playing mother.
    We bustled them into the bathroom and bathed their injuries. Invisible scratches and tiny bruises were drowned in Dettol and dabbed with Savlon. Cottonwool, Band-aids and layers of crepe bandages made us feel important.
    Rainy weather weekends were the best. If the surf was flat and it was freezing cold, the boys didn’t go to the beach. Then, for a whole two days we’d have them to ourselves.
    One Saturday, after a