Don't Speak

Chapter two

Chapter 2

I manage to calm myself down before I get to Amanda’s house. She drags me into her room and I sit on the bed as she rummages through her wardrobe.

“Which one, black or denim?” she asks, weight sifted to her left hip, holding a skirt in each hand.

The denim one. But what if she doesn’t want to wear the denim one? Maybe I should say the black one.

“Umm, I dunno…they’re both nice.”

She rolls her eyes and throws a skirt on the bed. “Denim it is…what are you wearing?”

It’s then I realise, with all the drama before I left home, I forgot to bring a change of clothes. She tells me I’ll have to borrow something of hers and begins to throw an array of clothing onto the bed. Panic sets in as I look through the clothes, but it’s soon relieved when I spot a black, long sleeved top, and I pick a white pleated skirt to match. My legs are the only part of my body I like to show, but I second guess my choice when I look closer at the skirt.

God knows how I’m going to get my fat hips into it.

I wander to the bathroom, getting undressed and slipping into the skirt. I’m surprised it fits me, it’s a bit tight but it’s pushing my hips in, which I like. I glace at my arm and notice blood has soaked through the Band-Aid.

Shit. That’s never happened before.

Cringing, I rip it off and take some toilet paper to wrap it up and throw it into the bin beside the toilet. Once I slip the top on I head back into the bedroom, asking Amanda what she thinks whilst giving a twirl.

“Beautiful,” she says.

We spend the next thirty minutes faffing about in front of the mirror, applying makeup and dancing to the radio. Amanda looks great, but she always does. The skirt perfectly hugs her hips and the pink top, which is backless, accentuates her large breasts. Her blue eyes are emphasized by eyeliner and mascara, which make her already long eyelashes look dangerous.

“I wish my boobs were bigger,” I say, staring at my lack of cleavage.

“No, you don’t, trust me…I feel like an outcast at school with these bad boys,” she replies, grabbing her boobs and winking.

I snort. “Yeah, right, I’m the outcast here, not you.”

She tells me to shut up and that everyone at school loves me. But she’s so wrong. I dread to think of where I’d be now if she didn’t befriend me in primary school.

Nine years ago, my parents made the move from England to Perth, Western Australia. Which meant I was the new kid with the funny accent kids liked to poke fun at, but it didn’t take long for me to pick up the Aussie way of speaking.

I would always stare at Amanda, wondering what it was like to be so popular. Then one day we got put together to work on a project, and once we started talking we couldn’t stop. The next day at school she asked me to sit next to her, and before I knew it, my daydream became reality.

But since we’ve started high school, I can’t stand it – the fakery of it all, people being nice to my face and bitching when my back is turned. No one really loves me. All they want is the attention, and they’re welcome to it. Being popular isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. The only thing it’s good for is a mask to hide behind.

Amanda disappears into the bathroom and I chew on my already bitten fingernails, wondering what she’s doing. She re-enters a moment later with a handful of tissue paper. “Here, shove this down your bra,” she says, handing it to me. “It’ll make your boobs look bigger.”