Girl Next Door (2 page)

Here are the three most embarrassing things that have ever happened to me in reverse order. Actually, no. First I'll say an embarrassing thing that happened to someone else in my presence.

Back when my mother first applied for me to go to The Finsbury School she agreed to host a fundraiser, which involved putting on lunch for the ladies, holding a silent auction and getting a speaker – someone who'd done a solo round-the-world yacht trip, or hopped up Mt Everest on one leg, or door-knocked for the Red Shield Appeal in the western suburbs.

It was unusual because Mum didn't get involved with the parent groups or alumni much at our other schools. She did when we were in primary school, but then I think she got burnt because neither Will nor I was the Dux, or in the top ten. We didn't get any sporting colours either, or even one of those courtesy awards they give to suck-ups. At Finsbury though, that stuff didn't seem to matter. Getting in was the important bit.

At the time, Tanner, Jasmina and I had a friend called Sapphire. She said she couldn't come to the fundraiser because she was working that weekend, and we all looked at each other because none of us
worked.
We might go into our parents' work and play around with the photocopier and flirt with office boys, but that's not really the same as . . . well, most jobs anyway.

So when the caterers came to set up their kitchen in our cabana, I was so horrified, because there was Sapph in an apron and a black-and-white chequered hat. She obviously didn't know that it was my house either. We tried to make a joke of it. It was embarrassing, because I wasn't going to offer to help unless I was going to get paid for it, and she couldn't stop working and just hang out, so basically I had to sit there and watch her working until the others arrived. When Sapph came around with the trays, we'd talk about everything except how Sapph was serving us as if she was our slave, but after a while I noticed Tanner holding out her glass for Sapph to fill. Tanner and Jasmina never
said
anything, but from then on at school they would do stuff like hand Sapph their rubbish and say, 'Be a doll and clear this away, would you, Sapph?'

Nice.

Anyway, back to my list.

Number three. In year five I was asked to represent my school at a creative arts day. It was exciting because I didn't have to wear my school uniform so I wore my jeans and my favourite t-shirt at the time, which said, 'thumb-wrestling champion'. Is thumb-wrestling macho? I thought it was a unisex sport, like equestrian, except much cheaper.

I didn't know anyone else there so I kept quiet and sat by myself. At little lunch a girl came over and sat next to me. She was weird, teasing me and smiling all the time, and then she said her friend had sent her over to tell me that I was cute.

So I asked who the friend was, and she pointed to a girl. She was grinning and giggling with her friends, which was weird, but then I realised that they thought I was a boy.

I was so embarrassed. I could have pretended to be a boy for the rest of the day (although I still wouldn't have gone out with her), but the teacher kept saying my name.

Jenna-Belle is not a boy's name. There was no mistaking it – even in this day and age when most parents give their kids a surname for a first name, and then hyphenate their two last names, so every kid in the class sounds like a firm of chartered accountants.

Number two. I made a joke about hairy nipples. I don't know why. I thought it would be funny. Declan would have laughed. Anyway, Jasmina said, 'Women can't have hairy nipples.'

Jasmina is always spoiling good jokes because she can't suspend her disbelief. That could be because her life is like bad reality TV.

I said, 'Yes, they can.'

Then she said, 'How do you know?'

I opened my mouth and shut it again.

Penelope Sullivan was only at our place for about three weeks and yet I know that she has hairy nipples, because one time I was waiting outside the bathroom, as per usual, and she was wrapping her towel around herself as she opened the door, and I got a glimpse of fuzz. Another time she was getting changed in her room with the door open. She swung the mirrored door of her wardrobe as I was coming down the hallway, and for a second she was reflected – all naked, pallid and podgy with unfortunate hairy parts.

Accidentally seeing people naked is part of sharing a house with them, but I couldn't say the word 'accidentally' because I had discovered that 'accidentally' at this school was short for 'accidentally on purpose'. As in,
I
'accidentally' bought these chips while I was at the canteen
(because, of course, nobody at Finsbury eats carbs).

I couldn't say, 'I accidentally saw Penelope Sullivan's hairy nipples,' so in the space where I was searching for a word that actually meant accidentally in this company, Jasmina Fitzgibbon raised her eyebrow.

I was all ready to say, 'Oh no, it's not me!
I
don't have hairy nipples,' but that reeks of the old 'the lady protests too much, methinks', so I let it go. We all sat there staring out into the quad until eventually the conversation moved on to other things.

I thought I'd got away with it, but then two days later I walked into French class and someone had written on the board:

Jenna-Belle a les mamelons velus.

Classy. I had to admire it.

By chance. Unexpectedly. Unintentionally. These are all words that would have prevented this extremely embarrassing incident.

Number one . . . Actually I'm not ready to talk about that yet. It's still a bit raw.

At school I was called into the bursar's office. He said that he'd sent letters home and had been trying to phone my mother. He'd asked her to come in today, but she hadn't returned any of his calls. He really wanted her to attend this meeting because – unfortunately, regretfully – he was sad to have to tell me that they hadn't received any payment for my tuition, even after they had been generous enough to negotiate a payment plan.

'You're going to have to talk to my mum about that,' I mumbled. What exactly was he expecting me to do about it? I didn't even get pocket money any more.

The bursar folded his hands on his desk and nodded. Outside in the office I could hear fingers tapping on keyboards, cheery receptionists taking telephone calls and a photocopy machine going
ker-chunk, ker-chunk, ker-chunk.
I hoped he was going to say something soon because he was freaking me out.

I was going red, and then I was embarrassed because I was red. It wasn't up there with being mistaken for a boy, or the hairy nipples business, but at the same time I was mad that he was making me suffer. This was something I didn't have any control over, and frankly, if I had a choice between meals and tuition at The Finsbury School, I'd pick meals.

Eventually he spoke and I watched my folded hands in my lap. The bursar really hoped that my parents could come up with some way to resolve this soon, because I was a valuable member of the school community, and he was worried that too much time away would mean that I would lose touch with the social circles in which I was moving – such a nice group of girls. Nice group of girls? He should ask Sapph how nice they are. She's developed a rather nasty stress-related case of eczema, which can't be good for her career in hospitality. Social cohesion, the bursar reckoned, contributed positively to academic success – an area in which I could use some help.

Okay, so now I'm povvo
and
dumb.

See, this was why my mum needed to be there. She would have buffered the bursar's comment by telling me I had great posture, or outstanding hand-eye coordination.

'You're kicking me out?' I asked.

'Jenna-Belle, please understand that you are welcome to return just as soon as your parents resume the payment plan.'

The idea of not going to school appealed, but at the same time it sent a fluttery bird feeling around my neck. School is all I've ever known. Not going to school could be like the Christmas holidays, but even then, I get a bit bored at the end of them and look forward to going back to school. Besides, I think it's the law. The police might force me to go to a public school. I'll probably get stabbed three times and be on crack by lunchtime. They might as well take me straight to jail.

'Maybe you have an uncle, or grandparents, who would be willing to cover your tuition for the interim?'

It's a bit late for that. My mum is an only child and I'm pretty sure all the uncles on my dad's side have been hit up already. I tried ringing each of them when Dad first disappeared and they were not just blasé, but plainly unsympathetic to my plight, which was a lesson to me in not dissing your relatives.

One day, when I'm an A-lister and they want to invite me to their parties, or introduce me to their friends, I'll be all,
I'm sorry, do we know each other?

Back in my classroom, Tanner asked what I was called into the office about and I didn't know what to say. Jasmina said, 'Is it because your family is . . .' She and Tanner exchanged a glance. '. . . vintage, since your dad left?'

My guts sank into my stupid, ugly, scuffed, old shoes, because I'd been thinking I was getting away with it.

Recently they've been doing this thing where they stop talking when I come into the room. But I remember them doing it to Sapph and they never really were talking about her, they just wanted to make her paranoid, so whenever they did it to me I'd just pretend that they were organising a surprise party for me. It's not working now though.

Well,
I thought to myself,
at least I don't ever have to come back here again.

When I arrived home I gave Mum the letter and she read it, frowning. She raked her hair a few times and then she handed it back to me. I didn't want her to hand it back to me. I wanted her to take it and deal with it. When she handed the letter back she made it my problem.

Her suggestion: 'Go anyway. It's not like they're going to march you out the gates.'

'Mum!'

'You listen to me,' she said, finger waggling. 'When you have The Finsbury School written on your résumé certain doors will open to you that otherwise would not. You will rub shoulders in the playground with people who will be useful to you later on in life.'

Yes, they'll remember me as the girl with the scuffed shoes and hairy nipples.

'You'll thank me, Jenna-Belle. Besides, looking so lovely in that uniform out there in the community is good for your self-esteem.'

'What would be good for my self-esteem,' I said calmly, holding the letter out, 'would be having an adult deal with the adult things.'

She huffed twice and then she spluttered, 'Well, I can't deal with it now, okay? I just can't. I'm doing the best I can!' Then she ran to her room and slammed the door.

I'd read in her
What to Expect When You're Expecting
book that rapid mood swings, along with flatulence, are commonplace, but now I'm left standing in the kitchen with the letter in my hand.

Willem wandered through the kitchen and snatched it out of my fingers.

'Oh man, you got kicked out? Seriously? We had this talk at my school but they said my marks were good enough that they'd give me a scholarship, and I haven't even being doing that well, so you must really suck!' Then he poked his tongue out.

My brother wears boots, fatigues, tight black t-shirts, and plays paintball with his friends. He says 'oh-seven-hundred' and thinks that makes him Jason Bourne. I've watched all those movies and Matt Damon never pokes his tongue out.

'Shut your face,' I said.

It turns out Mum was wrong. They can march you out the gates.

I crept back into school the next morning, and cruised the halls until the bell rang for rollcall. I debated whether or not to go. I went. The first class was maths. I sat in my usual seat. I was worried about what to say to Tanner and Jasmina, but as it turns out, I didn't have to worry about that.

The deputy principal came to the door of the classroom with the roll in his hand and asked to see me. He didn't even shut the door, so when he told me off in the corridor everyone could hear. He said, 'I understand the bursar made it quite clear to you that you must pay in order to attend this school.'

I didn't say anything.

'Now get your bag, I'm calling your mother to come and collect you.'

When I went in to collect my stuff from my desk I didn't look up, I just let my hair swing over my face, but I could feel them all watching. They may as well have been chanting,
Vintage! Vintage! Vintage!

My mother still wasn't taking any calls from the school, so they rang the house and someone agreed to collect me. I assumed it would be Annie from the granny flat, who's listed as an alternative responsible adult on my file, but it wasn't, it was Bryce Cole. You know, the guy who moved in ten minutes ago.

I would have rung my mum from the payphone at school, but I didn't have any money and I was scared to ask the bursar or the deputy for change. It would be a tad indelicate.

The choice was
possibly
being murdered and dismembered by Bryce Cole, or staying at school and
certainly
being frowned upon by the bursar, the deputy and all the ladies in the front office for the whole day until the bus came, because they weren't going to let me back into class. No learning for free at The Finsbury School. They probably wouldn't let me catch the bus either. Not that I wanted to anyway. Pretty much all the girls at Finsbury are bitchy brats like Tanner and Jasmina.

So I picked potential dismemberment. Besides, if Bryce Cole really wanted to murder me, he could do that at home. I hopped in the car with Bryce Cole, and instead of taking me home he took me to the racetrack.

The guy at the gate tells me that I have to stay in the immediate vicinity of my guardian, and then we enter a den of vice and iniquity.

You see ads for the races with all the women wearing chic designer dresses and big hats, waving around glasses of champagne and smiling through the most bleached teeth imaginable, but then in the movies the races are always really dodgy and run by gangsters and tax cheats, kind of like one of the balls at the Fitzgibbons'. So I was expecting it to be more evil and foreboding. I thought there would be swaggering blokes in suits spouting double entendres, or just single entendres – like on
The Sopranos.
And maybe pole dancers. There are always pole dancers in the cop shows.

It's not like that, though.

Running along one wall is a bar. Behind it is a barmaid, but she's very much dressed, in a white shirt, waistcoat and bow tie. She stacks beer glasses on a tray.

In the middle of the room there are high, round tables surrounded by stools. Four blokes, each sitting at his own table, rustle through newspapers, or consult slips of paper. Two of them nod to Bryce Cole as he saunters across the room, but nobody says anything.

Tanner Hamrick-Gough talks about her parents' yacht club all the time. She goes on as though it's really cool to be in a bar, and that all these guys hit on her all the time, but I wouldn't want any of these guys to hit on me.

It's not like I haven't been in a bar before. We go overseas and stay in a resort at least once a year, and they always have cocktail bars, but they do lame stuff like the macarena, or have talent quests, or play bingo. They pretty much do the same stuff in the bar as they do in the kids' club.

Along the opposite wall there's a bank of televisions each showing races – mostly horses, a few dogs, and highlights from a boxing match.

In the far corner there's a betting booth. Another older woman sits inside it, staring into space. There's a board above her with red pixelated text and numbers scrolling across it, like the session times at the movies, except I don't understand what any of it means.

On the other wall there's a set of fold-out doors that open onto a lawn area. A few men stand out there smoking. The lawn slopes away and beyond a fence is the track itself.

Nobody notices me at all.

Bryce Cole buys me a hot dog and a soft drink, and a beer for himself, and then he perches on a stool in the middle of the room, flicking through his race guide. He jots some notes in a small pad he pulled from his breast pocket.

I eat my hot dog, sip my drink and wait. So far he hasn't spoken a single word, other than 'hey' when I got in the passenger side of his car, but it's not as though I'm in trouble. It's more as if he's thinking about something else. I would have thought that he'd at least ask if I was sick, or why I was being sent home, but I don't think he cares. It's almost as though he's forgotten I'm here.

I wonder what's happening at school – whether everyone is talking about me being kicked out. People must get kicked out for not paying all the time, except I can't remember seeing it.

Last year a girl in the year below us left the school abruptly. She was whisked off in the middle of the day and two nights later they said on the news that her father had embezzled millions and fled the country. A few years ago, before I started at Finsbury, a girl left because her dad was the minister for education and the media went nuts about him not supporting public schools. There were photographers at the gates taking pictures of her being picked up in a government car.

Another girl turned out to be some daggy 1980s popstar's love child, not that it had anything to do with leaving the school, but people did talk about it, and it was in the newspaper. There are plenty of daughters of famous people at Finsbury.

My family doesn't rate gossip at that level. We're not even having a spectacular meltdown – just a slow leak, which we're all pretending isn't happening – but that isn't going to shield me from Finsbury narkiness.

After an hour has passed Bryce Cole slaps the race guide on the table in front of me.

'Who do you like in race one?'

I pick up the guide, flick to the page entitled 'Race One', and then read the list of names. It seems to me that there are three types of horse names: if people want you to think their horse is going to win, they call it something like 'Ima Winner'; if they have more confidence that it'll win despite the name, they put together a random selection of words; and in the last category they're so confident, or have so many horses, that they just shove together a series of letters in any order.

Makybe Diva. Phar Lap.

I select one that looks like random words.

'Esca's Foxtrotter.'

'How much?' he asks.

We stare at each other.

'How much money do you want to put on her?' he qualifies.

'Ten dollars?'

'On the nose?'

Then I nod, because I have no idea what that means and he's staring at me as though it should be obvious.

Bryce Cole stands at the door for a moment, hands on hips, taking in the fresh air, and then heads over to the betting booth. When he comes back he hands me a slip of paper with my horse's name on it.

By some secret signal, all the blokes move across to a spot in the corner where they can see the racetrack and the telly simultaneously. There's a click through the speakers mounted on the wall as a microphone is switched on. In the distance I can see the horses loading into the starting gates. It's much clearer on the television. A few men bundle one of the stragglers in. Then the race caller starts through the speakers, just like they do on the television.

'Set. Racing. My Delight is slow out of the gates, but Pageantry makes a solid start. Esca's Foxtrotter moves out wide. Berry Blessing stretches into the lead early, followed by Hidylow. Talking Magic is back on the rail. They're peeling off – Pageantry about mid-field. Berry Blessing drops back, followed by My Delight, and Esca's Foxtrotter is two lengths behind.'

The room has been silent, and then the man with ears like jug handles who's standing next to me yells, 'Go, you bastard!'

'Round the bend Pageantry, the showy chestnut, takes the lead, followed by My Delight and Esca's Foxtrotter.'

'Run, you bastard!' from Jughandles.

'. . . Berry Blessing bursts out wide and she's too good for them. Berry Blessing followed by Pageantry. My Delight and then Esca's Foxtrotter comes in fourth.'

I don't think you get any money for fourth.

Bryce Cole heads back to the booth, and when he turns away he stuffs a roll of notes into his breast pocket. Everything returns to quiet. The blokes shuffle papers. The barmaid wipes down the beer taps. Other fellows step outside for another smoke.

Maybe Jasmina or Tanner will ring me tonight to tell me what happened. I don't think so though, since they've been freezing me out like they did with Sapph.

Unless I turn out to be someone's love child. That would be tops. It would also explain why my dad left. Who was really big in 1994? Maybe Tex Perkins. That would be cool. It would be great if he had a studio in the house, and then all these famous musicians would come to our place all the time. John Mayer would be over one day and fall completely in love with me, and keep pestering me to marry him, and I would be like,
John, just back off will you? You know Daniel Johns and I only just broke up.

Except Tex isn't really my mum's style. That guy who plays Niles Crane on
Frasier
would be more her cup of tea, but I think I read somewhere that he was gay. Actually, Declan's dad reminds me of Niles Crane a little bit.

I watch a harness race on the television. On another screen two presenters are talking about a drug scandal in Hong Kong. They introduce a vet who talks forever about different hormones and how long they last in the bloodstream. Bryce Cole seems to care. He's made a note in his little book.

'Who do you like in race two?' he asks me.

I peruse the list. Thinking of Berry Blessing, I'm looking for one that sounds like a yoghurt. There are none, so I pick one that sounds as though it should win.

'Mr Perfect.' How can I lose?

'Ten dollars on the nose?' he asks.

I nod again.

Mr Perfect comes in sixth of nine horses. There's another long interval where there's much talking on the television about the Hong Kong horse and the hormones. One of the presenters describes it as a 'tragedy', although from what I can gather the horse is still alive. It's not even sick – it's just not allowed to run in the race today. I guess tragedies are relative.

Races three and four, I lose again.

'Who do you like in race five?' Bryce Cole asks me.

I study the race guide for a moment and then I hand it back to him. 'Who would you pick?'

He rubs his chin. 'I'd put my money on Luxury Kasten. Or maybe Travlin.'

'Why?'

He points to the page. 'This figure here shows you how many starts the horse has had, how many wins and places. You can see he's had six wins from eight starts, but that's not enough, because he might have beaten a goat in someone's backyard, so we look at this number, which shows how much money they've won. You can see he's won some dollars. Here are the track conditions in which he's won. Horses favour different conditions. There's the trainer's name. You get to know who's who after a while. Then you look at who's riding him. Luxury Kasten has won more races in the past, but this guy riding Travlin is a very experienced jockey.'

I nod, feeling stupid for having only looked at their names before.

'So we've picked number three and number five. Now we go and have a look at them.' Bryce Cole leads me across to the lawn, where we can see the horses parading at the front of the building. 'Have a good hard look at them and tell me which horse wants to run today.'

I stare at them. They're all brown, skinny and leggy.

'They all look the same.'

'Are you sure?' he asks me.

I narrow my eyes, staring at them. I'm waiting for one of them to call me telepathically – to say, 'Pick me! Pick me!' They don't, but then Travlin turns his head my way. He's not looking at me exactly, but it's a sign.

'Number five,' I say decisively.

'On the nose?' Bryce Cole asks.

'What does that mean?'

'That means you're betting that it will win.'

I chew on my lip. 'You mean you can bet that they'll lose?'

Bryce Cole laughs. 'No, you can bet that they'll either win or get a place, or you can bet that they'll get a place, but not win. Then there are quinellas, exactas, or trifectas, but . . . How about you bet win or place? That's anywhere in the top three.'

'Okay,' I say.

'Rightio.' Bryce Cole leaves me on the lawn. As the horses canter towards the starting gates I go back inside. Bryce Cole buys me another drink, and I hear him order a plate of chips for us to share.

Perhaps Sapph will ring me, now that I'm the new outcast. I'm sure she'll have heard it in the corridors. She won't ring me, though. I should have made more of an effort with her after the fundraiser incident. I don't even know why I didn't.
I
never had a problem with her working. Besides, I bet she would have had the chance to meet lots of cool people at all those A-list parties.

'Why do I even care about any of those girls?' I say out loud. 'Finsbury is so completely over.'

Bryce Cole glances across the table at me, but he doesn't ask. He stares at the television again.

All the blokes move over to the magic spot.

'How do they know to do that?' I ask.

Bryce Cole points to the red scrolling sign above the betting booth. It blinks:

Race 5 <1 minute

Soon they're racing and I lean forward, watching the television with new interest. Jughandles is bellowing again, but Bryce Cole stays in his seat calmly eating his chips.

'Waugh's Pride is well back there. Travlin hugs the rail, and Scouts Honour is beside him. Kara Spear is wider, Luxury Kasten a narrow leader. Great finish coming up, it's Luxury Kasten and Travlin – but Travlin leads them. It's number five, Travlin.'

'We won!' I say, jumping up and down. I'm tugging on Bryce Cole's sleeve. 'We won!'

Bryce Cole is grinning at me. He wanders over to the booth and when he comes back he peeks over his shoulder and then hands me two twenty-dollar notes.

'I won forty bucks?' I ask, slipping it into my uniform pocket.

'You won eighty, but you owed me forty for the first four races.'

'Really? That's fantastic!' I'm smiling so much my face is going to crack. 'How much did you win?'

'About seven hundred,' he says, popping in another chip.

My jaw drops. 'No kidding! How much have you won all up today?'

He shrugs. 'Maybe four thousand.'

Of course, what I didn't ask was how much he'd lost.