Crashing Down

To Niamh and Finn

Lucy eyes with amusement the clothes strewn over the bed. They have to be the single ugliest collection of garments she has ever seen. The Thrift Shop Ball. The final social event before the beginning of the exam period. You had to buy your clothes from the Salvos — a far cry from the sheer extravagance of the School Ball earlier in the year, which saw thousands of dollars spent on dresses and H2 Hummers and ornate hairstyles. The Thrift Shop Ball was meant to be a statement. Lucy snorts — she knows everyone else regards it as just an opportunity to blow off steam and celebrate before the exams.

This is the last week of school, the mocks are two later, and then, after that, the big ones. The final
exams. University entrance or — what? She can't even consider the possibility of not making it.

‘Well?'

Lucy looks up as Georgia stands in the doorway. She is a sight. Green velvet mini over red paisley tights and knee-high brown boots.

‘Beautiful,' Lucy says, laughing. ‘Lydia?'

Lydia emerges from the bathroom in a floor-length blue chiffon gown with a huge diamanté brooch gathering the fabric under her breasts. The dress, which was probably the height of fashion in 1950, completely swamps Lydia's tiny frame. She looks like she is drowning in an ocean of fabric.

‘Oh. My. God!' Lucy collapses on the bed in hysterics.

‘What?' Lydia asks. ‘Does it make my bum look big?'

‘No,' Lucy says, ‘but it makes your boobs look huge.' Lucy can't take her eyes off Lydia's sudden page-three-girl proportions.

Georgia reaches over and pokes one. ‘Yeah, they're massive, Lyd.'

Lydia smirks. Georgia and Lucy exchange a look — they know that smirk. It's the one Lydia uses when
she is feeling incredibly pleased with herself.

‘Weeelll …' Lydia drags the word out and turns to face the mirror, adjusting her enormous bosom as she speaks to their reflections. ‘The dress was obviously too big.'

‘Obviously,' Lucy and Georgia agree.

‘And so I needed a little …' — Lydia dips her hand into her cleavage and pushes her boobs up even higher — ‘help.'

‘Chicken fillets?' Lucy suggests.

‘Ewww.' Lydia wrinkles up her nose. ‘No, these.' She extracts a plastic insert from inside her bra.

‘Chicken fillets,' Georgia confirms.

‘What?' Lydia looks alarmed, she sniffs the plastic. ‘Gross! Are these made from chicken?'

‘No, Lydia.' Georgia sighs. ‘That's what they're called. Could you have got them any bigger?'

‘Nope.' Lydia puts the fake boob back in. ‘Biggest they had. A double D. Why? Are they not big enough?'

‘Seriously?' Lucy laughs. ‘You look like a walking mammary gland.'

‘Ewww,' Lydia says, ‘what kind of animal is that?'

‘Oh, Lydia!' Georgia sighs again, and then points
to the black pants-suit in Lucy's hands. ‘You wearing that?'

‘Yep.' Lucy holds it out in front. ‘Finest PVC, circa 1981.'

‘Catwoman, eat your heart out,' Georgia says. ‘You're going to look hot.'

‘I doubt it.' Lucy slides the tight vinyl up her legs.

‘Wait till Carl sees you in that,' Lydia says. ‘He may not make it to the dance.'

‘Sure.' Lucy pulls the zip up her back. Does everyone think he's a sex addict? ‘Man, it's tight.'

‘Don't think you're going to hear any complaints from him.' Georgia raises her eyebrows. ‘How come you can make some daggy old pants-suit look hot?'

Lucy hears his car, the rumbling throaty V8, from several blocks away, as he drives too fast, as usual, to her house. She opens the front door. It is raining heavily. Across the horizon are small flashes of light. The promised storm is heading their way. It could be a fierce night.

Carl is slouching against the portico, dressed in a blue velvet jacket and pink lace shirt. His tight polyester pants flare at the bottom. He offers her a
corsage and gives his slow, lopsided smile. ‘Cara mia,' he says, as he always does, ‘you look beautiful. You could wear a garbage bag and still look as good.'

Lucy smiles at him as he pulls her close. ‘And you look like a hot '70s porn star.'

He kisses her, far too deeply, and then holds her at arm's length to assess her closely again. ‘Speaking of porn stars?' He raises his eyebrows.

‘Stop it.' Lucy laughs lightly and pushes him gently in the chest. Sometimes he is too intense. ‘Come on, I'll get the girls — we've got to go.'

The music is thumping as they walk up the steps to the school gym. Inside, lights are flashing and a machine sporadically spurts smoke into the air. Carl squeezes her hand as he sees his friends.

‘I'm going over there. See you in a bit,' he says.

Everyone is colourfully and hideously dressed. Lucy, Georgia and Lydia spend the first half hour admiring their friends' outfits.

‘Far cry from the real ball, hey?' Georgia says in Lucy's ear.

She nods. The ball had cost her over seven hundred dollars, and that was cheap by her friends' standards. ‘White, middle-class extravagance,' her dad had said, coughing up half the money for her
dress. ‘It really is a crime.'

She'd tried not to feel guilty about it, but it was hard when your father was a perpetual human rights campaigner, with an overdeveloped sense of social justice. The Thrift Shop Ball had been Lucy's idea — to redeem herself. She'd been surprised by how enthusiastically everyone had embraced the idea.

The music is loud and everyone is moving on the dance floor.

At the first notes of a Miley Cyrus song, Lydia starts twerking. Quite a crowd gathers around her as she shakes and shimmies to the music. Lucy sees the first one fly and land on Isabelle Gordon's yellow platform boot. She starts laughing and grabs Georgia.

‘Look,' she says, pointing to where the plastic blob sits like a jellyfish.

‘Oh my God,' Georgia says laughing. ‘Where's the other one?'

Lucy shrugs. Given Lydia's reduced bust, it is clear that the other one has migrated as well. Lydia keeps the twerk up. Everyone is clapping and cheering. Isabelle is still oblivious to the boob on her shoe. Lucy and Georgia are in hysterics and then the music ends.

A rather dishevelled Lydia approaches them, a smirk plastered across her face. ‘Well, that showed them,' she says, adjusting her dress.

‘Sure did,' Georgia agrees.

Lucy is laughing loudly now. ‘Maybe more than you anticipated.'

The second chicken fillet is stuck to Lydia's beehive. Georgia sees it too and they clutch at each other for support.

‘Whaaat?' Lydia's hand flies to her head. Her expression transforms into one of sheer horror as she touches the plastic. ‘Oh my God!' She pulls it from her hair, her other hand automatically reaching inside her bra.

Georgia and Lucy can't speak.

‘Where's the other one?' Lydia whispers.

Lucy points to where Isabelle is now chatting to JD, one of Carl's mates. For a fleeting second she wonders where Carl is.

Lydia sees her insert on the shoe. ‘Shit,' she says, ‘now what do I do? Oh man, why did she have to be talking to him?'

‘Him?' Georgia says. ‘JD? You got the hots for him, or something?'

‘No,' Lydia says, pushing the plastic insert back into her bra and creating a bizarre lopsided effect. ‘Don't be stupid. How do I get it back?'

‘I don't know,' Lucy says. ‘You don't want to make a boob of yourself.'

Georgia howls.

‘Just act normal,' Georgia says, attempting solemnity, ‘or they might think you're off your tits.'

‘No, wait, Lydia.' Lucy feigns a straight face. ‘You really do need to keep abreast of things.'

They laugh hysterically.

‘You're not helping,' Lydia huffs and marches over to Isabelle.

Lucy and Georgia follow — this promises to be a fine Lydia moment.

‘Excuse me,' Lydia says brightly, ‘sorry to intrude.'

‘Not at all.' JD is smiling.

‘But I do believe that's mine.' Lydia points to Isabelle's shoe.

‘What?' Isabelle looks down, horrified. ‘What the hell is that?'

Lydia gracefully reaches down to pluck the boob off Isabelle's shoe, but she has to tug at it where the
adhesive has stuck. ‘Hmmm, sticky,' she says to no one in particular.

Georgia and Lucy howl loudly. JD glances over at them with an amused look on his face. Isabelle looks like she has smelled something foul.

‘It's a chicken fillet,' Lydia says, straightening, ‘although it's not really made from chicken. Thanks for minding it for me.' She pushes it back into her bra. ‘Ta-ta.'

She walks towards Lucy and Georgia and grabs their arms. ‘Oh my God, oh my God,' she whispers, dragging them to the toilets. ‘I have never been so embarrassed in my whole life.'

After Lydia has composed herself, and Lucy and Georgia have used every boob joke they can think of, Lucy looks for Carl. Since arriving, she hasn't seen him once. She is surprised by the irritation that surges in her. He hadn't left her side at the real ball, attentive and interested, wanting to dance with her — every song. Now where is he?

And does she really care?

That last thought surprises her. She has to admit, she often finds him smothering, so why is
she bothered by this neglect? She has had such fun tonight with her friends and it's only now that she's become aware of his absence. What is it that is annoying her here?

‘Hey,' she says, finding him still in the corner with Big Al and Ben, ‘want to dance?'

He's laughing at something Ben is saying and turns to her, wiping his eyes.

‘What? Yeah, sorry. In a sec. You go ahead, we're just in the middle of something. I'll catch you in a bit.'

She frowns and shrugs. ‘Sure. Fine.' And she walks off. A sudden wave of anger washes over her. What is the matter with him?

As the night progresses, she feels herself becoming more and more uptight. She tries to get back into the mood, but even Lydia's silly antics elicit only a hollow laugh from her. She can't help glancing Carl's way, watching how he sits in the corner with his mates. So blokey and cave-man like. They look like a bunch of stoners, laughing at each other's inane comments. Anger makes her want to stalk over there and demand his attention, but pride stops her. Suddenly she realises she is on the
back foot, the power balance has shifted. He has it all.

Two hours to go and then their last school function is over. It can't end like this — so badly. And besides, she doesn't need the added drama of a complicated relationship now, when she's heading into her biggest challenge ever. She needs to talk to him.

‘Hey,' she says brightly, ‘want to go for a walk?'

He smiles at her and her heart lifts. As he grabs her hand, he does the most stupid thing. He turns to Big Al and pushes his own thumb into the middle of his forehead. She stiffens. They all laugh, their stupid stoner laugh. He grins at her, with bloodshot eyes. She tries not to scowl as she hears Big Al say, ‘Totally pussy-whipped dude.'

It's windy outside as they walk along the deserted verandah. He puts his arm around her, but she is wooden in his embrace. That puerile behaviour he exhibits with his mates is a total turnoff. She feels so confused: one minute, smothered by him; the next, angry with him for neglecting her, for acting ‘one of the boys'.

‘What?' she says, suddenly realising he's talking.

‘You haven't heard one word, have you?' He smiles at her and pushes her up against the wall. ‘If it's not my conversation you're after, it must be my body.'

As his mouth descends on hers, she feels like she can't breathe. She feels owned. She pushes him off, more roughly than intended.

‘What's the matter?' he asks.

She shrugs. She doesn't know what to say. Truthfully, she doesn't know what the matter is.