That afternoon, when the school bell rings, I catch a bus into Paddington with Emmy and Aleisha.
The first few shops we go to are miles out of my price range — Sass & Bide, Camilla and Marc, Dion Lee. Everything inside sparkles with glamour, the fabric crisp and spotless, the floor white and shinning.
They were the kind of stores I'd never visited before because they never survived in country towns. I find myself imagining the dirt splattered farmers and tradies from back home trying to walk into one of these places, imagining the chaos it'd send the shop assistants into.
But despite the unnatural perfection of these stores, I enjoy walking around, running my hands across soft fabric and watching Emmy and Aleisha select outfits.
Emmy finds a gorgeous, floor-length gown and Aleisha picks out a silver cocktail dress that makes her legs look like two multi-coloured skyscrapers. But to my surprise, neither of them buys the dresses. Instead, they tell the store assistants they'll consider and come back.
After the third or fourth time they do this, I realise this must be how people shop here, which I find somewhat confusing, after growing up with a 'if it fits, you buy it' mentality.
After the fifth store we come across a boutique op shop, with sequinned dresses and meshed gowns on display in the windows. Aleisha and Emmy turn and grin at me.
"Do you want to have a look?"
I wrinkle my nose, eyeing the elaborate and itchy looking outfits.
"I don't know if it's really my style."
Emmy ignores this and grabs my arm, pulling me into the store.
"You won't until you try something on," she says. "Besides, there's nothing more fun than putting on weird outfits."
"See!" I whisper-yell. The store assistant looks over and smiles at us, and I manage a strained one back. "You just called them weird. Let's leave."
The store smells musty, the lights dimmed in a way that I sense is supposed to be alluring.
"No," Emmy says stubbornly. She's already pulling things off the shelves and handing them to me, piling dress after dress into my arms until I can't see past them. "You never know what you'll find in these places. Now, go try those on."
I'm about to protest again when I meet Aleisha's eyes. She raises an eyebrow and I sigh.
"Fine."
Aleisha bustles me into a change room and then sits outside on a bright purple puff stool. I close the door and eye the items Emmy has picked out, my heart sinking.
"Promise you won't take any photos?" I call out.
"Of course not," Aleisha says. "Everything looks wonderful on you, anyway. Now, just try them on."
I do as she says, but as I pull each dress over my head, I feel increasingly ridiculous. The first is mermaid-esque, the second like a disco-ball and the third so tight my boobs topple out the front.
When I come out for the third time, holding my chest in place, Aleisha grimaces.
"Maybe not that one," she says. "But I imagine some boys will be fond of it."
I snort. "This is pointless. We should go back to the fancy shops for you and Emmy."
I'm just turning back to the change room when Emmy comes running over, bright fabric flying out behind her.
"Claudia! Wait! Try these."
I sigh.
"Emmy, I don't know if—"
Emmy screeches to a halt in front of me and shoves two full-body items in my face; one a deep wine red and the other midnight black. They both look like dresses, but instead of the full-blown skirts, they have pants attached.
"Wait, we're allowed to wear pants to this thing?"
"Pants, no. Jumpsuits, yes. All you'd need is heels and jewellery and you'd be good to go."
"Oh, they're both gorgeous," Aleisha says, coming over and lifting the black one up and flaring it out. "Try them, Claude."
"Okay," I say, but even I can hear the uncertainty in my voice.
I grab the outfits and return to the change room, wriggling out of the tight dress and throwing on the black jumpsuit.
It has a high neckline, with slits cut out at the shoulders. A second layer of see-through mesh flares out around the pants so that when I move, it looked like a dark mist follows, flowing around my legs.
I open the door and Emmy and Aleisha beam at me.
"Oh Claude, it's gorgeous," Aleisha says.
Emmy nodded her agreement. "Beautiful. Try the other one."
I go back in and pull on the red jumpsuit. This one is stretchy, the neckline plunging until it hits my waist, and I stare at my exposed skin with mingled fascination and shock.
"I'm not sure about this one," I call, grabbing the fabric at my chest and trying to move it closer together.
"Show us," Emmy says.
I open the door and they both stare.
"Wow."
I shift self-consciously, my arms coming up to cover my chest.
"What does 'wow' mean?"
Emmy eyes me.
"It means you look older than 16 right now, that's for sure."
I frown at her and Aleisha rolls her eyes.
"I think Emmy is trying to say you look good."
"Good? She looks like she should be sitting on top of a race car smearing soap suds everywhere."
I flush bright red to match my outfit.
"Okay. I'm taking it off."
"No, don't!" Emmy grabs my arm, stopping me in place. "You look amazing. You should get it."
I glance back at the mirror, admiring the way my blonde hair contrasts with the red, the way the fabric hugs my waist, but then my eyes fall back to my chest and I just know that if I ever wore this out in public, I'd spend the whole time feeling decidedly un-me.
"I think I prefer the black one," I say. "It's more comfortable."
Emmy watches me for a moment longer, but then she sees the determination on my face and relents.
"Okay, fine. Get the black one."
I move back into the change room and pull the jumpsuit over my head, but as I do, I hear Emmy and Aleisha whispering.
"What are you talking about?" I call.
The whispering stops and there's a moment of silence.
"Nothing," Emmy says. "I just wish I got to see Lewis's face if you wore that red jumpsuit around him."
I throw one of my shoes over the top of the door and smirk when they both shriek.
I'm glad they can't see my face though, because if they could, they'd realise I'd been imaging the same thing — imagining what would happen if I was a different girl, with a different name, who had the confidence to walk up to Lewis Kozak in that outfit, and smile as his mouth dropped open.
...
When I get home that evening, the house is dark, and the car gone. I switch the lights on and move into the kitchen, my paper bag with the black jumpsuit in it rustling as I put it down.
I drop into one of the dining room chairs, my feet aching after spending hours walking along Oxford street, and glance at the hastily scrawled note left on the counter.
Out food shopping with Peter. There's soup in the fridge.
- Sylvia
I stand up, walking to the base of the stairs.
"Jake! Do you want soup?"
When I receive no reply, I grab a small container out of the fridge and chuck it in the microwave to heat. The communal laptop sits on the table and I open it up, wondering what to watch while I eat, but when the display flares to life and I see the screen, all thoughts of TV shows vanish.
I stare at the page, unable to believe my eyes, and then I pull up the search history, scrolling through the list.
Arson penalties and sentencing.
Legal defence to arson.
Manslaughter defences.
How to shorten a prison sentences.
Reopening criminal cases.
Testifying for the defence in criminal trials.
There're hundreds of them. My eyes burn as I click on link after link, my palms becoming sweaty.
Amending the record of a criminal procedure.
Criminal Procedure Act 2009.
Getting someone out of jail after sentencing.
The microwave timer goes off and I jump, slamming the laptop screen closed. I blink into the darkness for a moment and then run upstairs, pounding on Jake's door before bursting in.
The room is quiet, empty, but the window is open, letting in a gentle breeze.
I know I should go back downstairs, that I should eat my soup and admire my new outfit.
But that suddenly seems impossible.
Because I know what those searches mean.
And I don't know how I feel about the fact that Jake wants to get Mum out of jail.