who broke up with him, remember?’ That’s another lie. ‘But he’s enjoying playing a little hard to get, which is fine for now.’
‘Boys,’ Cara shrugs. Apparently her only contribution to the conversation.
‘Boys,’ Lily seconds.
Mollie is too busy fishing for the piece of arugula in her molar.
I glance around the lunchroom at Birchwood High School. It seems different this year. We all seem different this year. Maybe it’s not them. Maybe it’s only me that’s changed.
This is going to be a good year.
This is going to be a good year.
If I keep saying it, it will make it true. Isn’t that how it works? Positive thinking, blah, blah.
Then I see her.
Throwing her head back, laughing, mouth wide. She’s walking with another girl in our year, whose name I either always forget or never knew to begin with.
‘Did you see who just walked in?’ Mollie asks.
‘She’s walking our way, Luce,’ Cara adds.
She edges closer to our table.
‘Do something,’ Lily urges me.
‘Slut,’ I cough out, throwing my hand up to my mouth. The word feels funny on my tongue, tastes bitter. But the girls giggle and I smile with them.
Trina stops and turns around, her limp mousy blonde hair sliding greasily over a shoulder. ‘What did you say?’
‘Nothing. I just had a tickle in my throat,’ I say.
She steps closer to the table and looks down at me. Eyes too big for her small face, her slim frame squeezed uncomfortably into a too-short skirt and a too-low top. If it weren’t for her clothes and that ugly silver stud through her bottom lip, she could be pretty. But all I see in front of me is the girl who’s dating my boyfriend, the ‘distraction’ who’s stopping him from getting back together with me.
I was lying to everyone when I said I didn’t care. Of course I care. Rhys was the only good thing in my life and now that’s gone. He didn’t care about the small petty things that I used to torture myself about – how much I had to eat that day, how dull my skin looked, that stain on my favourite pink skirt. He didn’t even care if I had make-up on. He said he liked me better without ‘that gunk’ on my face. He liked me for me, and that wasn’t something that I was used to.
We got together purely out of convenience at first. We shared the same friends, went to the same parties, we were even in the same house at school. We participated in the same sports, of course Keith House always won at the school games. We were a team. And it was a team that I grew to love, and to need.
I don’t even know when it started to go wrong, when he started to get bored. Because that’s what happens, right? All boys get bored eventually. Or maybe they just get bored of me.
I called him so many times after but all he said was, ‘You’ve changed, Luce.’ Of course I’ve changed. I’m supposed to change. We all are. It’s more that I’ve changed into someone he’s no longer interested in.
It’s funny really, because that’s what my dad said to my mum before he left: ‘You’ve changed, Julia.’ I don’t know if I ever told Rhys that.
Maybe we haven’t changed. Maybe they have.
Now, I hardly ever see Dad.
He has a new family – young pretty blonde wife who used to work at the doctor’s surgery, with a one-year-old on her hip. One year old. He left us fifteen months ago. The maths doesn’t fit. He knows that. So when that woman walked around with a swollen belly, my dad sat at the dining table with us eating his Sunday roasts and reading his newspapers.
Not anymore. Now Mum rarely cooks or leaves the house. I don’t know when she last showered. She completely crumbled the moment Dad walked out. And I have to deal with it every day. But back then I had Rhys to help me deal. Now, I don’t. Now, I’m all alone in this.
He understood. He knew both my parents. He’d seen them when they were together, when Dad was faking the love and pretending he was in his forever family. Rhys used to come over for Sunday lunch sometimes when his mum and dad went out to the golf club to meet their friends. He sat with us, laughed with us.
Sometimes when I’m alone in my bedroom, I think about just how much I’ve lost in the past year, how much I’m still losing. All that time, all that precious time I could be spending with my dad, with Rhys.
Amber.
That’s her name. My soon-to-be stepmum. Who leaves their family for a woman called Amber? That’s who’s standing in front me now. Amber. Trina. They’re both the same. Both want what isn’t theirs.
She’s standing here at my table in the cafeteria. Mollie, Lily and Cara are watching me, anticipating what I’m going to do next. Honestly, I don’t know. I never know. I just keep pushing the boundaries until someone says something, until someone finally loves me enough to notice. I can feel the anger, the frustration, bubbling so close to the surface. I uncross my legs and lean into the table further and stare back at her, tempting her to push my buttons.
Go on, Trina. Start it.
She eventually rolls her eyes and walks away, wildly swinging her bag over her shoulder, her skirt slightly hitching up at the back.
See?
Amber.
They’re all Ambers.
Those girls.
With their short skirts and heels. Crisp white shirts with the first two buttons undone. Flickers of lace bras during Gym. Edges of pink thongs peeking out from freshly ironed black school trousers.
Those girls.
I feel bad for those girls. They don’t know any different. They see images on TV and in magazines and aspire to be just that, not casting any doubt on the images they’re being sold. They want their hair longer – not creepy long though – shinier, straighter, curlier, blonder but not too blonde. They want to be taller but, of course, not taller than any boy, thinner but…actually, there’s never too thin. They open a magazine and all they see are skinny girls becoming skinnier, and getting praise for it. I see those girls at lunch, conflicted with the daunting choices of calories. Some don’t even eat. Some have just a piece of fruit then say they had a big breakfast. They sip on water. Too much sugar in juice. Too many calories in a smoothie. Too much fat in a hot chocolate. Black coffee works too.
Then they go to the girls’ toilets straight after. Some throw up, others readjust their short skirts and unbuttoned shirts. Most reapply their make-up for the afternoon. Glossy pink pouts. Thick dark eyebrows. Rosy cheeks. Matte noses. Black spider leg eyelashes. Contoured facial bones shimmering in highlighter. They dot concealer under their eyes, hiding the wrinkles they don’t have but always see when they look in the mirror.
I
