just_a_girl (6 page)

Our desire is to love God, be kind to His children and make Him famous throughout the entire earth.

At Riverlay, Pastor Bevan stepped out of the limelight to give Chelsea a go, she’s his wife so often takes the lead nowadays, and she started off with that quote because she recently got back from a tour of Africa and was a bit jetlagged from 20 flights in three weeks, and there were some big rallies over there and she was talking about the dangers of being a Christian in some parts of the world, like the London Riverlay woman who had been gunned down in Afghanistan, and she told us to unite in prayer to protect each other and be a Woman of the Spirit in every way we can and mentioned tickets for the upcoming Like a Rainbow Conference, and last year the focus was on saving orphans with a particular emphasis on child soldiers and that’s why she has been in Africa to share God’s gifts with them, and sometimes I wish I could throw everything down and join her on those trips, many Riverlayers go and it would be a chance to expose myself to these cultures, the hardships, and this year she’s asking people to act as
mentors because she’s particularly interested in new migrants and asylum seekers who have come here from those poor countries in the Middle East, Asia or Africa, often from places of terrible war and conflict and famine, and we have special workshops to help them integrate into Australian society and teach them English if necessary, along with Bible study, and it’s a place where people new to the country can go and feel like they belong.

And this year there’s a special seminar at the conference,
Always a Princess,
it’s even advertised on billboards on the freeway into the city, which encourages you to celebrate being a woman and nurture yourself and release your inner beauty and there’s a real feeling of sisterhood and it’s all about being empowered, and last year I went along for the first session but I felt a bit out of my element because the women were all married and settled and even though they didn’t say it I could see the questions lingering at their lips, the whys and hows and whats, and where could I even begin, but I thought this year I might buy a pass to the conference for the two of us, Layla and me, so I’d have someone to go along with and we could do some mother and daughter bonding but I can’t imagine how I’d get her to go, she’d laugh in that soft derisive way of hers at everything Chelsea was saying, because she has told me she thinks she’s really shallow and copies all her ideas off
Oprah,
so I’ll never be able to tell her that Chelsea hands out tiaras for everyone to wear to feel special, as Layla’s not a tiara kind of girl.

And of course Chelsea is totally into outer beauty as well, she has recommended getting plastic surgery to combat those wrinkles and get your body into special shape when no amount of exercise will fix it, and I’ve certainly hit that stage, but I don’t know how a single mum like me can find the time or money for an operation like that and she is always posting information on her
blog about new beauty products she can recommend because she says it’s important to look your best, especially for your husband, and at the conference you get a little showbag, samples of special products, and she even has a book out called
How to Keep Your Husband Happy in Bed
and when she’s talking about it I like to watch Pastor Bevan’s face to see if he really is satisfied, because you never know what goes on behind closed doors, they aren’t really an affectionate couple in public, but they have been together since they were teenagers and, you know, it’s hard to keep the romance alive.

When Layla used to go to Church she didn’t have much time for Chelsea but she always listened hard to Pastor Bevan and even used to write things down in her little book, often using them for arguments with me later, I might add, and she hid the journal from me as if I’d steal it, and he always made a special effort to shake her hand and thank her for coming and after all that business with Mr King, you know, I really didn’t have anyone else to talk to but getting that phone call from the school and trying to work out with Layla and her teachers exactly what had happened, but she acted as if it was no big deal despite the fact Mr King lost his job, so I had a chat to Pastor Bevan at the time and he was really kind and thought it was more about missing her dad, and that perhaps she needed a father figure to talk to and so they had some sessions together, and it really seemed to help her at the time so maybe I should lean on him again, ask him to speak to her, but she won’t go to Church any more, and I really hope the Lord is thinking up ways to change her mind.

But I guess one thing Layla and I agree on is that Chelsea does come off as too perfect with her life sparkling like diamonds and a tiara always perched on her head, and even though she’s up on
stage it’s like she’s standing in front of a mirror and only talking to herself, and sometimes when she’s preaching I notice Bevan’s eyes aren’t on her, they are wandering through the audience as if they are searching for someone in particular, and I sit there and watch and wait, because I’m really keen to see who it is.

He visits me on Facebook and asks to be my Friend. He has a question mark where his face should be. We start to chat online. I know who he is but he doesn’t know I know. I can tell by his rhythms. I’ve heard them enough. Projecting his voice. I always thought there was something kinky about him underneath it all. I’ve known him since I was in primary school. He was always front and centre. And kind when he came down to meet the people. But this past year he looks at me differently. He’s one of the guys mum warned me about.

We talk about music and TV and shopping. I type so fast it’s hard for him to get a word in. Boys my age can keep up. But he cares about spelling. About getting the emphasis right. And I kind of like that. So I change tactics. I sit and wait for him on the other end. While he sorts out his words for me. But I don’t think so much about what I type. I want to impress him but not that much.

I decide to make him a special treat. Fuckadoodle, just the thought of him watching it.

Dad bought me a new laptop that comes with a little camera. It sits perched like a budgie blinking as I watch myself on screen. It’s weird looking at my own face. It’s not like a mirror. My eyes need to look up high into the lens. To look directly at him. I’m not sure if I can watch myself do this.

I have a shower and shave. Blow-dry my fringe down across my face. I put on lots of black mascara and eyeliner.

I can be quite beautiful when I have makeup on. Without makeup I can take or leave myself. Boys often say they don’t like girls with too much makeup. But what they don’t get is how much makeup goes on. To look like you’re not wearing any. I dress down. Just a black singlet. Tight black jeans. No shoes. It says: young, ready, get over it.

I adjust the framing so it’s just me and the bed. I go to press record and then think I need some music. I open iTunes and spend a while scrolling through tracks. I remember a song I like. It gets straight to the point. Makes me laugh. And so I’m ready to press play. Action.

You got me horny in the morning and you kno-o-ow.

I lean back on the bed and pull my top over my head. My bra’s not frilly but it’s tight. I rub my boobs on the outside and then pull the straps down. They’re not big but they’re big enough.

I try to call you but I can’t find the telephone.

I play with them. I do it for him and don’t look down at my body. I know what they look like. My eyes are at the camera. They’re almost bored but not quite. I’m aiming for cool, disconnected.

I sent a message through the internet but it rejected.

I walk up to the camera and play with the silver bobbles on my navel piercing. Mum would kill me if she found out. It didn’t hurt that much. About the same as getting your ears pierced. I had to wear loose clothes for a week so it didn’t get sore. I’ve had my ears done a few times now. Because they keep getting infected and closing over. Sarah’s sister Jess works at a chemist. Her mum babysits Britney. She does ear piercing and stuff. Sarah said it’s much worse getting your tongue done. It takes ages to heal but it makes going down on guys much more fun. For them anyway.

I wrote a letter and I sent it with the po-o-ost.

I walk back towards the bed undoing the buttons on my jeans. Now just down to black bonds hipsters. My fingers trace a line down my belly button to the top of my hipsters. Now nothing. My undies’ outline is etched in. The elastic pattern grooved into me. I feel bare and soft and fresh.

The post it takes so long, so I’ve got to sing this song.

It’s not like I’m doing porn or anything. Just me in my room doing what I’d normally do. I lean back and put my foot up on the edge of the bed and open my legs. Not too far. But wide enough for him to see in. I rest my right hand on my tummy and my left goes down.

To let you know how I feel, what’s the deal baby.

I start to feel it, slowly, for the camera. Lingering with my fingers. I close my eyes and smile. Pretend that it’s just bloody incredible. But then I just think,
fuck it.
This might look sexy in the monitor but it’s not doing anything for me.

And I can’t wait for you, and the things you make me do.

So I roll onto the bed away from the camera. Cross one thigh over the other and squeeze and clutch them together. It takes me a while. I usually do it much quicker. But I think I’ve got stage fright.

My heart is ringing so I’m singing this song for you.

I replay the video and it’s a bit fuzzy. And with my fringe over my face you can’t really tell it’s me. I post it onto YouTube. Send him the link to
just_a_girl on webcam.

I’m horny, I’m horny horny horny, I’m horny, I’m horny horny horny tonight.

Fuckadoodle, I’d love to see Mr C’s face. When he unzips his laptop and opens up his browser.

I’ve landed my first job. Checkout chick at D’Angelo Brothers supermarket. It’s in the main drag. Check out my outfit. A white button-down shirt and black pants. As soon as I got the job they said I had to buy my own uniform. Went with Kmart for 15 bucks. White trash. They haven’t let me go wild with the barcoder yet. At the moment I’m on shelf-stacking duties. I go out the back and load some boxes on a trolley. Wheel them out and start to stack. My feet on a stepladder. On my first day I am asked,
Excuse me do you work here in which aisle can I find:
tofu, Weight Watchers cookies, coriander, gluten-free bread and textas. I have no idea but I look dutifully and then ask someone else. Or hide from the customer until I see them leaving the store. Dad says in Barcelona checkout chicks wear rollerskates and scoot around the aisles on wheels.

Everyone fights over who gets to
not
stack the freezers. We’re not allowed to wear cardies. So we moan and go ice stiff as we bend into snow fumes. Our raw hands
fumble piles of peas and crinkle cut chips. I learn to hide products close to the use by date down below just to piss management off.

I love the fruit and veg section the best. I like the reds and yellows and greens and the smell of limes. I weigh pieces of fruit and smother them in gladwrap. Half a rockmelon in plastic. Ka chunk. A whole pineapple going slightly off. Ka chunk. More plastic. Mum would have a fit. Kiwi fruit. Who eats this stuff? Spray herbs to moisturise and leave healthy dewy glow. Stand near the scales and look busy. Avoid customers at all costs. Put hand in macadamia dispenser and sample for freshness and quality control.

Marco walks past wheeling in the milk. He’s nothing like his dad. Apart from being double my size. He always looks around as if the world is new to him. Like he might get lost just walking down the street. A toddler knocks over a tower of rice crackers. He helps me clean up without being asked.

He’s the manager’s son so I pretend to stack the apples neatly. Individual stickers lined up identically towards the customers. Tiny stickers that go into little kids’ throats. Or down the drain when you are washing up. Squished out a pipe into the ocean and plugging a dolphin’s blowhole. Or forming a community of stickers that block the shit in the sewage plant. To be prised off by some lucky guy with a scraper who can never keep up. At least I don’t have that job.

Danny D’Angelo is the big boss but he’s also the butcher. He works at the back of the store. In the freezer swinging chunky carcasses of meat. His brother Antonio works
in the bottle shop next door. When checkout chicks graduate they first get to work in the deli then the bottlo. Where they handle serious cash. When his son Marco’s not there Danny wanders the aisles. He calls me
bella
or
belladonna
or
bella bella.
He sings to me with his thick accent. He’s round and well creased. I can’t understand him most of the time. But he helps me in my first week. Lifting the olive oil cans. Pointing me in the right direction when I look lost. He holds the stepladder and steadies me as I climb. Asks me where I go to school. I smile, am obedient, appreciative.

He invites me through the plastic doors into his slaughterhouse. Where the chill smoulders from the frozen meats. He bones them without looking. His shiny knife reflects my reluctance. To chat and dawdle in this icebox. But he is all outgoing. Says everything he feels. He smacks a wet kiss on my cheek. He talks of his son. His large frame rises like puff pastry. As he slashes through Marco’s achievements. Best and fairest at school soccer. A big boy (like his dad).
I know, I’ve seen him,
I say. Saxophone in the school jazz band. A good head for numbers.

I feel like I’m being sized up for marriage. Danny looks at me with dark eyes. Used to getting what he wants. The kind of guy who was hot once. Now buried under layers of fat. But he still sees the young guy in the mirror.
You would like Marco. He is a very good-looking boy. He will go to Sydney University to do business.

He touches my hand briefly before beginning to fillet. With his deadly delicate knife.

Charlie, my manager, cruises past whistling. Tight jeans, slicked-down fudged hair. A big fan of old man punk like
The Offspring. He thinks he’s cool because he knows all the words. Their song plays through the speakers.
Pretty fly for a white guy.
He sings as he peers in through the murky doors and gives me a look.
I need you out here, Layla.

Vanessa is one of those girls who just never shuts up. If there’s a gap she’ll fill it. And it’s funny because she has a big space between her front teeth. And it’s like it gives her mouth more room. For the words to leak out. I always seem to make friends with people like Vanessa. It makes life easier when I don’t have to talk much. People think I’m an excellent listener. But I’m just lazy and good at nodding.

We’re outside on our coffee break. We’re not meant to have one together. But Charlie has gone out for the arvo. She leans forward to whisper.

—Take this as a warning. Once Danny called me into the coolroom and stood behind me and reached around and grabbed my tits really hard. Just stood there and squeezed them. It
really
hurt. I was so gobsmacked. Just waited until he let go. Then the arsehole turned back to his meat and kept on cutting.

—Did you tell Charlie?

—He knows what goes on. They all know and do nothing.

—Charlie told me not to go in the coolroom again.

—Danny’s family. He’s one of the brothers. Owns the place. Don’t worry, he tries to touch all the new girls when they start here. He usually gets over it pretty quick.

Vanessa drinks her macchiato as if her life depends on it. She was the first person to talk to me when I started.
I sip a latte in the weak sunshine. We share a quick fag in the square.

I think about Marco and wonder if he knows. That his father touches girls up behind the polystyrene packaging. Uses his son as an opener. To oil the girls up. Perky and attentive to the adventures and exploits. Of Danny’s wonderful talented sporty handsome musical son Marco. To make the yeast work for him, the warm soft dough rise. I think about Charlie stalking the aisles. Watching Danny watching me. Watching others. Rescuing and resuscitating each new female body. Carried in on the waves of weekend work. Flopping in the bloodied polluted waters of the coolroom.

I think about Marco again. About how his clothes seem to fit just right. About how his hands seem to look after things. His smile that comes and goes without effort. So different from my own. I wonder how he ended up with such a dad. I wonder what his mum is like. And whether she has any idea.

In the afternoon daddyo is there again. In aisle three. And there’s no sign now of Marco. Or Charlie. Or anyone. And I can’t
not
smile when he calls out to me again,
Bella.
I can’t
not
thank him as he passes up the tins of tuna. In oil and brine and lemon and pepper and thai chilli and italian tomato and basil. I can’t
not
respond as if innocent when he tells me I have beautiful lips. I know I would have to go into the coolroom now if he asked me.

I don’t want him anywhere near.

So when I turn from him I become stiff. With the inability to express all of it. I’m being cut up by my own dull steel blades. Just put me in the mincer along with the
sausage meat and garlic. Press me into a patty crammed between two hamburger buns and feed me to a dog. Or better still stuff me raw down the throat of Mister Danny. That’s what he really wants.

But what do I want? I want to make him choke on his own produce. Make his guts throb with the pain of my expulsion. As he brings me back up undigested. Vomits me on his shiny shoes. Back onto his slick super-market floor.