Ash raised one leg up on the side of the bathtub and ran the razor over her skin. ‘I reckon I’m going to quit my job,’ she said. Ash’s legs were smooth and hairless; there was nothing to shave.
‘You’ll cut yourself. There’s shaving cream in the cupboard.’
‘It’ll be fine.’
‘Whatever, they’re your legs,’ Jo said. ‘What’ll you do about a job?’
Ash went through a long list of possibilities, including the cafés in Yarraville and half the shops at Highpoint Shopping Centre.
Their friendship wasn’t equally balanced. Were any friendships equally balanced?
Laura and Mani’s friendship wasn’t equally balanced, either — though it was closer. Promiscuous Laura had no boundaries, no awareness of the dangers or the consequences, while Mani was the protective and maternal one. Did she get sick of looking out for Laura? Of being the one with all the common sense?
The first few days of high school, Jo had felt lonely and vulnerable. The older students, especially the boys, seemed too big to be at school; everywhere the Year 7 students went, they were in the way. Get out of the way. Move, you little moron. There was so much noise. The thump of balls against walls, the yelling and screaming from the football oval and the basketball court. Corridors, crowded and smelly, with half-eaten lunches spilling out of bins, sweaty bodies being pushed and shoved against lockers.
It was their second science lesson and they were put into lab groups — Laura and Mani and Ash and Jo.
‘I’ve just moved to Yarraville,’ Ash told them.
‘My friends all went to a different school,’ Jo said. It was mostly true: the only girls she’d been friendly with, twins Sarah and Allie, went to Mount St Joseph’s, and the other girls from her Grade 6 class, even though they had noticed her weight loss and made comments about how ‘amazing’ she looked, didn’t invite her to sit with them in class or at lunchtime.
‘Do you guys want to have lunch together?’ Ash asked them when the bell rang. Easily, effortlessly, they became friends. Laura and Mani were already a pair. ‘We’ve been joined at the hips since birth,’ Mani told them.
Ash and Jo became best friends. BFFs. Besties. They hung out at school and on the weekends. They read the same books and watched the same TV shows. Ash was crazy about horses — Jo didn’t get it, but she went and cheered for Ash at the pony-club competitions. When they fought they made up quickly and easily. They stayed over at each other’s houses, went to parties together, got their first periods in the same month. Jo loved being part of a pair. When Jo was alone, everyone asked after Ash. But Ash’s absence had expanded until there seemed to be a big gaping hole in Jo’s evenings and weekends.
She thought about the night at the Latin American bar: that was only three weeks ago. They had learned to tango. They had danced and laughed. It was an awesome night, they all agreed. Jo and Ash had skipped all the way back to Ash’s place, where they both slept in Ash’s bed and talked until dawn. Jo had felt oh so lucky. They were together tonight, that was the important thing, and when they were together they had a good time.
Once they were satisfied with their make-up, they modelled different outfits for each other, coming full circle: Jo wore the red dress and Ash the blue top over a pencil skirt. They’d purchased the top, lacy and sleeveless, from an expensive boutique in Yarraville. Squeezed into the fitting room, they both tried it on. They both liked it, but Ash was broke. Ash worked part-time at Happy Paws, walking people’s dogs around the neighbourhood. The pay was legal — just — but not great, and she spent the money faster than she earned it.
Jo and Ash had one rule about clothing: the person who contributed the most money wore the dress or top first. Jo had worn the blue top to Ash’s eighteenth birthday party.
‘It’s not fair,’ Ash said when Jo arrived, ‘you weren’t supposed to wear it to my party. Now everyone I know has seen it on you.’
‘It’ll look different on you,’ Jo said, not sure whether Ash was serious.
‘It’ll look better,’ Ash said, deliberately loud. Jo longed to tell Ash to stop acting like a cow, but instead she let the comment pass. It was Ash’s birthday. Ash’s grandmother was so ill the party had been postponed twice. Now she sat in an armchair in the corner of the crowded lounge room, pale and thin. She managed only a gentle smile as people bent down to give her a kiss on each cheek.
Jo didn’t make a fuss; everybody knew they were bestest best friends. ‘They’re like sisters,’ was the way Ash’s mother described their friendship to other people — at least when Jo was around.
Ash twirled a couple of times in front of the mirror and stood facing Jo.
‘Looks great,’ Jo said. Ash was pretty and confident and that made all the difference. She had striking auburn hair that (when she didn’t spend hours straightening it or having it braided) fell in long waves down her back. Boys stopped to stare at her as she walked past. The wolf-whistles were always for Ash. Adult women called Jo pretty, but boys didn’t seem to notice her; she was shyer, less confident, more easily missed.
Mandy said Ash’s confidence was a result of her parents and all their positive reinforcement. In Ash’s household everyone was special. All achievements, no matter how small, were celebrated — the first pirouette, the first kick (and the fuss about the first goal…), the first race, the first story.
‘You’re so creative,’ Ash’s father would say when Ash or Jane drew him a picture.
‘You’re so clever,’ Ash’s mother would say when Ash or Jane showed her a school project.
When Jo first met Ash’s family, she believed Ash’s parents were acknowledging what was so: Ash was clever and creative and talented. And so was Jane. But Ash’s parents were soon heaping these compliments onto Jo as well. She found them confusing — no one had ever told Jo she was especially talented or clever.
‘Ash’s parents have done a lot of parenting courses,’ Mandy said later to her friend Pam when she thought Jo was out of hearing. ‘They think it’s important you tell your kids how good they are at everything, even if it’s not true. They lie to them.’
‘Yep. The positive reinforcement mob. We have a plague of them at school.’ Pam’s youngest was still at primary school. ‘They’ve moved in from the eastern suburbs.’
‘What’s the point of having a false sense of yourself? They’re setting those kids up for a fall.’
Honesty was Mandy’s big thing. The truth: tell it like it is. People who knew Mandy said she didn’t suffer fools, that she called a spade a spade. Jo’s father, David, said Mandy had no diplomacy and didn’t give a shit about other people’s feelings.