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agonising is short-lived though, as the only casual clothes I own are jeans, T-shirts and boots. In cold weather I put a jumper over the top. I can’t buy anything to wear for the party as I have a raging phobia of shop fitting-rooms, and in any case I’m absolute rubbish at picking out clothes. Liza has been known to lend me an outfit, but she’s taken them all to Bathurst. My mum is generally too exhausted after work to consult on such matters. Penny is about a foot taller than me and none of her clothes fit me. Besides, she is also a big fan of jeans, T-shirts and hiding behind her hair.
    So I resign myself to the fact that my big decision to make is grey, white, black or navy T-shirt. In the end I decide on the navy one. It doesn’t really matter, I tell myself. It’s not like he’ll have eyes for anyone other than Kathy. Pfuh.
    On the day before the party Chris confides in me that he’s decided to ‘throw his hammer at destiny’ and make a grand gesture to Kathy, thus bolstering his chances for success the next night. The plan, as explained to me in the staffroom, is as follows. He’s been working on a poem for her for a week and reckons that tonight he’s going to have it couriered to her house along with a bouquet of red roses. Anonymously. Then she’ll have twenty-four hours to glow and to ponder over who they’re from. By nightfall he’ll have her down on Bianca’s father’s private jetty, with the harbour bridge and the city lights blinking across the water, whereupon he’ll confess all and go in for the kill.
    ‘Lonely days will be gone, youngster.’
    ‘Tops,’ I say, a little sourly.
    He actually passes the draft of the poem across the staffroom table and asks me to read it and give him my opinion. The universe is agin me , I think, as I read down the page. Incredible. Here I am, able to treat myself to the words of longing, desire and downright worship in Chris’ funny handwriting, knowing that they are not for me and never will be. Thanks universe. Thanks heaps. You bastard.
    ‘Yeah, great,’ I say weakly, and hand it back.
    On the day of the party there is lots of whispering throughout the store about the mystery flowers and poem that Kathy received the night before. After we close up at the end of the day, everyone gets changed out of their work clothes and we pile into various cars to drive to Bianca’s.
    I end up in Kathy’s car with Chris, Street-cred Donna, Celene and a checkout boy called Jeremy. There’s not enough room for me to have a proper seat so I have to lie across people’s laps in the back seat. My head is in Chris’s lap.
    ‘Check it out, the youngster lets her hair down,’ he says, giving my hair a playful yank.
    I try to think of a response, but I can’t.
    Kathy drives like the grown-up she is. Her slim, bare arms turn the steering wheel gracefully. I’m not even old enough to get my learner’s permit. I’m bloody Pip.
    Chris looks like the cat that knows he’s about to get a big dish of cream. I stare up and out at the upside down trees whizzing past.
    Bianca’s family digs are indeed spectacular. The sunlight is low and golden by the time we are all set up on the deck with music and beers.The water is ablaze and there is not a breath of wind. I can’t help comparing it to the ramshackle little terrace that my lot squish into.
    Andy, Stuart Green, Ed and Lincoln are playing pool on the pool table just inside from the deck. Bianca, Donna, Celene and Kathy sit together, uniformly smoking in their sunglasses and red lipstick.
    I sit a little way from them with some of the other youngsters (dammit, he has me saying it now), including Sveta, of the killer thighs, and Jeremy. I gulp white wine and wonder when Chris is going to make his move. He is flitting from cluster to cluster, as he does at work, making everyone laugh, making everyone feel good. Bless him.
    I try not to stare too hard at Kathy. Jealousy swirls around my irises, probably flecking the blue