just_a_girl (3 page)

At school boys think they’re better at maths. But what they don’t realise. Is that geometry is the way to a girl’s heart. Guys work their fingers in circles up your thighs. Small triangles down your back. Every girl has her own angle. It takes a while to work this out. Me? Diagonals. From big toe tip to back of knee. Right ear to left hip. Belly button to shoulderblade. Unfortunately Davo always works in straight lines.

In grade 5 us girls were introduced to the frigid test. You had to stand statue still. While the boy you liked ran his finger slowly. From the top of your forehead down your body. To the
cuntie
as Sarah calls it. If you flinched or stopped his finger you failed. A few naughty boys moved their fingers in spirals or waves. Radiating left or right off the path. But arguing about this deviation was judged with suspicion. Failing meant you were frigid. F-R-I-G-I-D. And what hope did you have then.

I was keen on passing this test. No-one was going to call me frigid. It was only when I placed
my
finger on a boy’s forehead that I was told. The test was for girls only. No such thing as a frigid boy. Yeah right.

But by year 9 all us girls have one thing in common. We lust over Mr Martinelli who takes senior english. Who looks a tiny bit like Johnny Depp from a certain angle.
From behind,
says Davo. We check out our male teachers’ speedos at the swimming carnival. Hello, that’s what they get for wearing budgie smugglers.

You’d think from what you hear. That the boys’ main aim is to talk girls into it. But most of my friends give headjobs because they want to. They go down on friends. They compare and it gets competitive. Sarah told me her first boyfriend Cam actually kneeled by the bed the first time they pashed in her room. As if she was some kind of sacred object. That he was afraid to dirty with his hands. She had to drag this fumbling creature onto her doona and teach him inch by inch.

Cam was her best boyfriend. He always had crazy stories. My favourite is about this party he went to. Where they decided to order some pizza. To combat the munchies.

Now here’s a list of things I’ve seen people eat at parties after too many bongs. That they later wish they hadn’t:

But back to the pizza story. Cam and his mates send this guy Scott down the street to pick them up. With written instructions cos he’s so stoned. Four super supremes, ham and pineapple, a vegie, garlic bread and coke. When he gets to pizza heaven Scott’s past talking but still laughing. He shows the pizza dude the scribbled note. The next thing you know sirens are everywhere. A car slides into the gutter and cops jump out with guns pointed. Guys behind the counter hit the floor and our Scott is thrown to the ground, handcuffed.

The cop grabs the note and shoves it into Scott’s face. He blinks, afraid.

I AM ARMED AND DANGROUS

Scott, the loser, is 14 and can’t even read.

Mum’s not happy that I’ve been going out with Davo. She’s never had that little talk to me about sex. But I know that’s what it’s about. Mum just can’t seem to talk to me directly. She’ll hand me a book. Or leave bits of paper lying around for me to read. My mum’s just not touchy feely. She doesn’t even really like being cuddled. When I used to try as a kid she went stiff. Her face smiled but her
body said no. But I know a lot more than she thinks. I’ve seen it all on the internet.

Sarah’s mum actually took her to the doctor. To learn about the pill. After Jess got pregnant. How cool is that. Her mum said she’d rather know that her daughter’s at home being safe. Than out in a gutter with a guy somewhere. Sarah came home from the doctor’s with a handful of condoms. All coloured like a pack of jellybeans.

I guess Sarah’s mum doesn’t want another daughter like Jess. Another crying baby in the house. Sarah gave the condoms to me. But I haven’t used one yet. I told Davo,
If it’s not on, it’s not on.
But Davo laughed and said he never wears them. Because it’s like having a shower with a raincoat on. We practised putting one on a zucchini at school. But I don’t know if I can remember how to do it. In the same class I had to do mouth to mouth resuscitation on a dummy. Sarah was yelling,
Just pretend it’s Mr Martinelli!
I was laughing so much I couldn’t get any air into the chest. So I only got a C+for CPR.

Mum says I have to be careful now that I’m in year 9. Because men will start looking at me in a new way. Fuckadoodle, they’ve been looking at me like that for years. Especially when I eat Chupa Chups on the train.

Mum has these weird ideas about what turns a guy on. She told me never to wear black and red together. Because that makes you look like
a slut.
Hello! Guess what colours are in this year. She doesn’t like my low riders. But she’s given up on that one. She hates when I wear eyeliner. On the inside rim of my eyes. And pointy white boots are completely out.

But those men are only looking. I don’t see how it’s a big deal. If a guy grabbed me it’d be different. We did a self-defence course at school. We learnt to go straight for jabs in the eyes. Bash the nose and up under the chin. A fast kick into the balls. And then run and scream as loud as possible. Aim to do it without thinking. The most important thing is to catch them off guard.

It all seemed so easy when we did it into thin air. But if a guy comes up behind you in the dark. And he’s got a loaded gun. Or a taxi driver tries to grope you. In the front seat when you’re still a bit drunk. It’s hard to know what I’d do. In porn films the women always say no. Then moan and writhe and say yes. And end up loving it. Or I’ve heard it’s best to go along with it. So you don’t get killed at the end.

When we watch porn on Davo’s computer it’s like he’s stoned. I don’t feel like I’m even in the room. He likes girl on girl action. Actually I like it better too. Or boys on boys. But Davo won’t watch that. When it’s a guy and a girl it’s so mechanical. Like they’re putting together Ikea furniture.

There’s a guy I’ve seen on the train. I love to look at him. He’s a bit different to all the others. Because he never looks back at me. I think he’s Japanese or something.

Mum told me never to trust a man. Who doesn’t look you in the eye. So you can’t win with her. They either look too much or not enough. But a lot of sleazes give you heaps of eye contact.

I think the guy on the train is the shy type. He’s always reading the same book. It looks like thousands of pages. With a cool black and white photo on the cover. Of a man leaping into space. As if he’s falling off the edge of the world.

His head surfaced through the angelic flaps of arms and legs in the water. He swam to the edge of the pool, resting. Around him, the bodies shifted, distorted, Baconesque slivers through soft-hued light. He framed thigh, nipple, gentle curls, the groove of a lower back. A tattoo coiled like a tail into soft folds. Dark round lamps shone like pregnant bellies. It was like he was invisible, merged into the tiles of the bathhouse. The light seemed to flow from inside the women themselves as they danced shy, delicate steps across the slippery floor into the water. Having discarded their white gowns at the entrance, onto coat hangers, they clutched small towels as a last refuge. But a sign above said NO TOWELS; they had no choice. The first timers glimpsed around and tiptoed, hoping to blend in to the mural of nymphs on the wall, covering their breasts with their hands, then got into the water quickly, no eye contact. The regulars couldn’t wait: chests out, swanning, appraising the new clientele with a half-smile.

By the mirror, a woman sat astride a blue chair washing herself. She slowly rinsed her hair, using a plastic jug, before entering the bubbles, feet-first, shooting a jet of ginseng and spirits into the room. Women sat in the pool at right angles, glancing at each other gently, not quite touching. They watched their toes then closed their eyes.

Surrounded by bare women, he felt completely insulated. The rare beauty of bellies and breasts, the scars and scratches, marked a woman’s language of childhood and childbirth, accidents, self-harm. Couples shared tattoos on their lower backs, holding hands as they entered. A daughter’s body echoed her mother’s as they brushed each other’s hair.

In the dry sauna, he poured a bucket of water onto the coals and sat, legs out on the top step, rugged up in panelled pine. His throat filled with fire as he peeked into the steam of the wet sauna next door. At first he couldn’t make her out through the fog. But she gradually became clear to him. A girl lounged on the edge of the wooden bench, one leg bent and tucked, another foot pressed arching against the hot wall, her face turned away from him.

She brushed her hair with soft hands. He pressed his body against the hot wall that separated them and found it cooled to his touch, as if she were inviting him in. He left an imprint of sweat, the long lean shape of him, as he moved from his room into hers. She didn’t look up as he lay down on the wooden slats. Her skin held the sheen of new pottery, fired in a kiln glaze. He reached out and twisted her around so she was facing him, her eyes so dark you couldn’t distinguish the pupils. There was no surprise in her face to see him here. He leant slowly in to kiss her.

Her tongue began thin and slippery, twitching, bringing with it a flavour of roasting popcorn, of hazelnuts. But as he opened his mouth wider, her tongue changed, became delicate and furry, suffocating, and his closed eyes flickered in surprise, wanting to end the kiss.

As she burrowed deeper, she held his head with her hands so tight that when he tried to struggle he couldn’t move. He began to fill with the taste and sound of tiny beating wings, moths fighting against his cheeks, clattering against his tongue, until he could no longer open his mouth. They started to flutter down his throat, their furry bodies writhing over each other, multiplying as they went, until the mass was so thick he could no longer breathe. He held her pale body tight and tried to choke out for help. But he was drowning, drowning, could no longer scream or swallow, could no longer remember her smile.

Our history teacher is Mrs Cockburn. I kid you not. That’s her name. But she pronounces it
Coburn.
As if that makes any difference. As if we won’t notice the missing ‘ck’. She’s asked us to do a report for class. On a person who’s had a big influence on popular culture.
Using a variety of sources and media, examine his or her life story.

I’ve always been interested in killers. High school massacres. Guys who go postal. Serial stalkers. Terrorists flying planes into buildings. The scariest DVD I’ve ever seen is
Silence of the Lambs.
But I still love that movie. Something about it. Makes me want to watch again and again. I wonder why it’s always a guy. Who gets a thrill out of killing and torture.

I google
girls+guns.
And I click through to YouTube and come across this video. It’s a woman who’s been in prison. Since she was 18. Now she’s on some talk show. She says she was raped by the guards. She has recently been let back out into society. And the audience boos her
when she comes on stage. But I feel really sorry for her. Because she has this beautiful long and shiny brown hair. Doesn’t look like someone who’s been in prison at all.

So it turns out she’s known as Long Island Lolita. I’ve heard about this book called
Lolita.
Lolita must be the name you call a girl in trouble. So I thought I’d tell her story to my class.

On another website I find out that she comes from a white, middle-class background. Grows up in a quiet neighbourhood. She’s a popular girl at school. There’s a video of her getting an award for basketball. Her mum works part time as an admin assistant. Her dad is a mortgage broker. The community is shocked when they hear the news.
Because things like that don’t happen around here.
They probably have one of those double-storey white houses. And a tyre swinging from a shady tree in the front yard. That every family has in American movies.

Lolita aka Amy is 15 when she meets businessman Joey Buttafuoco. And he falls in love with her. On the
New York Times
website I read all about the crime. She buys a gun off this mechanic guy. Heads over to Joey’s wife’s house. This is just before high school graduation. She rings the doorbell and the wife comes out. Lolita says she’s having an affair with Joey. They have an argument and wrestle. Lolita shoots her in the face with the gun. When she goes to trial Joey pretends he never had an affair with her. A totally random act of violence.

Anyway. The internet is so great for researching projects. I find another video but this time it’s Lolita out of prison. And she’s going on a dinner date with Joey. It’s years later and they’re still in love. They have their arms
around each other. She forgives him even though he lied and cheated. Drew Barrymore plays Long Island Lolita in the movie. And she’s perfect for the role. All Lolita wants is a bit of attention.

Then I find more links. Because Lolita marries another guy who isn’t Joey. And he makes a video of them having sex. And sells it to a company who make porn films. It’s for sale on the internet. But I find a site that has it for free. Lolita looks like she’s trying hard to please her husband. All smiles and she has a really hot body. I can see why guys would want to watch her. She’s not really happy though. I can tell. But the whole world and the media. They love it.

At the trial Lolita says she wasn’t really trying to kill Joey’s wife. And that she’s sorry for what she’s done. There’s also an interview with her victim’s plastic surgeon. Explaining the way he put her face back together. On eBay I find a copy of Lolita’s story. It says on the cover,
in her own words.
So I buy it with mum’s credit card. It’s only three dollars plus postage and handling. Hopefully it will get here before my assignment’s due.

I look in the mirror at my dark hair. It’s the same shade and length as hers. But I can’t get that TV-ad shine to it. Where it looks like liquid silk. I can’t stop thinking about Lolita. Just a girl with a gun. She says the shooting was an accident. But I wonder what it would have felt like to pull that trigger. To wipe off another woman’s face. To have that memory of blood and damage. That only you caused it and can never take it back.

I wonder what was she thinking when she rang the doorbell.

That she’d had enough of the way people were looking at her?

That she was tired of being pushed?

That she could get Joey back?

That it’s better to be loved or hated than ignored?

Lolita tries to act all innocent when she’s on camera. But she seems to know exactly what she wants. All the time.