Puberty Blues by Gabrielle Carey Page B

breakfast of pancakes smothered in sugar and margarine, we raced down to Hen’s in the rain. Sue was supposed to be sleeping at my place and I was supposed to be sleeping at Sue’s.
    This day it was really teeming. As we were running past the fortieth two-storied, red-bricked, imitation Spanish monstrosity, a big, white double garage door growled open.
    â€˜ Ey .’ It was Deak’s house. ‘Debbie and Sue.’ We turned around. ‘What are yews doin’?’
    â€˜Goin’ to Hen’s,’ we bellowed. ‘His olds are away.’
    Through the pouring rain we could see three blurred, blonde heads hanging out of the garage door. They called us in for a fag. We dripped our way up the driveway. There was Dave, Strack and Johnno.
    Because it was raining they were in Dave’s dad’s garage playing ping-pong and scrounging cigarettes.
    After a Marlboro each we hit the road.
    â€˜See yas there later,’ they called out after us. ‘We’ll spread the word!’
    For the rest of the way we planned how to get the boys’ attention once we got there. We’d tried making cakes. We’d tried dancing, singing and the silent treatment. We’d tried everything … the boys kept playing pontoon. There was only one thing left to do …
    â€˜Deal us in Danny.’
    â€˜K’niver cig Jacko?’ I asked, under the strain of the game.
    â€˜Rack off.’
    â€˜Scab.’
    The card table was littered with encrusted plates and cold, half-eaten meat pies.
    Sue and I pulled out our pocket money and started laying heavy bets. ‘Twenty cents.’ We didn’t have a clue how to play.
    â€˜Hey! Where’s me dollar note gorn?’ I jumped up in defence.
    A dollar was a hundred dollars in those days. The boys smirked; they’d passed it round to Jacko.
    â€˜Come on. Who’s got it?’
    â€˜That’s weak. That’s really weak,’ said Sue, sticking up for me.
    â€˜Come on. Give it back. Who’s got it?’
    Jacko started laughing.
    â€˜Jacko!’ I whinged, snatching at his wrist. ‘Come on Jacko. Stop being weak.’ It was no use. Jacko was a scab. I sneaked off to the kitchen.
    Returning with a milk bottle, I crept up behind him and dripped three drops of water on his scabby old head. I’d gone too far. In a flash Jacko was up, brandishing a full family-size tomato sauce bottle. It splattered bright red on pale blue. All over my brandnew, hot-from-Miranda Fair angora jumper. My jaw dropped. The boys gaped at me in silence I went upstairs to have a shower. It was in my hair and everything.
    â€˜Now, mind the door,’ I stressed to Sue. ‘Don’t let anyone in.’
    Sue kept a foot under the door as I washed the angora jumper. As the tomato sauce went down the drain, we bitched about Jacko. Boy, was he a scab.
    â€˜Good head he’d have for sure.’
    â€˜Yeah, mint of the brains.’
    Downstairs we could hear the boys laying on the heavy.
    â€˜Watcha do that for?’ said Hen, my boyfriend.
    â€˜Pretty weak Jackson.’
    â€˜Oh, small scab Jacko.’
    â€˜She asked for it but!’
    â€˜Oh, and she did for sure,’ said the Hen.
    I hauled on one of Garry’s jumpers.
    â€˜Oh, it’s so big. The arms keep falling down.’ Hee, hee.
    â€˜Hey, Debbie,’ ventured Jacko, outside the bathroom door.
    â€˜Yeah?’
    â€˜Wanna fag?’
    â€˜Yeah.’
    He was forgiven.
    Â 
    We spent the afternoon in the bathroom gettingready. We plucked away all our eyebrows and shaved the bottom half of our legs.
    The boys were out buying the grog and cigarettes for the night.
    By nine o’clock the party was raging. The word had got around. Everyone was there. The telephone kept ringing, the record player was booming and the front door kept opening as more and more people poured in and the tide in the liquor cupboard went out. When it got late enough we