Pretty Girls Don't Eat Read online

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ Melody said. ‘God, I’m stuffed. Let’s get out of here.’

  ‘Yeah, I’d better go,’ George agreed. ‘I promised Mum I’d do the grocery shopping today.’

  We split the bill and George headed off to the market while Melody decided to spend a couple of hours in the State Library. Seriously, that girl does not know what it means to relax. I was still a bit hungry but I decided to walk home. It wouldn’t hurt to burn some extra calories. I stopped off at a fabric shop and found some stretchy vegan leather that I knew would be perfect for Melody’s leggings. I then made the hour-long trek back to my house, feeling virtuous and guilt-free.

  Chapter 3: When Kids Say Your Mum Is a MILF

  Mum likes to say she’s a minimalist with edge. She loves neutrals and Danish furniture, with a witty designer lamp or a giant hamburger sculpture by an up-and-coming young artist. Which means our house looks kind of like an art gallery, all clean lines and OCD neatness. Except for my room. That door stays shut when I’m not home. Mum says it’s an eyesore.

  ‘What do you think?’ Mum asked me as soon as I walked in the door. ‘It’s finally here!’

  For my mother, the new sofa was a massive deal. The Walter Knoll couch, designed by a small group of handsome Austrian men, was Mum’s dream seating arrangement and she’d been talking about it non-stop since she ordered it two months ago. And I had to admit, as she lounged on the pale grey wool and leather, in her signature Paper Denim & Cloth cut-offs and relaxed cashmere blend black tank, she did look like a model posing for a catalogue shoot.

  ‘Gorgeous.’ I sat down. ‘And comfy.’

  I could feel Mum looking at me with disapproval. When she and Dad got together and had kids I bet they thought their genes would mix to create some kind of super species. We’d have Mum’s looks and Dad’s brains. Now Spencer was in LA trying the actor/model thing (last week he auditioned for Hoochilicious Party Bandits because, let’s face it, he’s kind of a himbo). And me? Well, you should know enough about me by now to realise that my parents’ home-style genetic engineering needs a bit of fine-tuning. I was the biggest I’d ever been. Even though I was wearing a flattering ox blood-red pencil skirt and my favourite Blondie T-shirt, I knew she was scrutinising my weight.

  That’s what you get when you have a MILF for a mum.

  I was thirteen years old the first time someone called my mum a MILF. She’d just dropped me off at school in the electric blue left-hand drive Mustang that Dad had imported for her from the States. She was wearing a floaty floral-print tank top, denim cut-offs and cowboy boots. Not many kids had a mother who would even attempt to pull off an outfit like that and I could tell everyone was checking her out.

  ‘Good morning, Sienna,’ said Felix Anders, a boy I had known since Prep. He was doing his best to be charming, but I thought he looked like a dick with his baggy shorts and old man suit jacket.

  ‘How’s it going, Felix?’ Mum said. ‘Cool jacket.’

  Felix watched Mum give me a kiss and get back in the Mustang.

  ‘Your mum’s a total MILF.’ Felix leered.

  His friend Noah laughed. ‘That’s for sure.’

  I didn’t know what they were talking about so I just said, ‘Shut up,’ and walked away. Later on I asked George if he knew what they meant.

  ‘Is it like milk?’ George looked genuinely puzzled.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You know, how your mum’s skin is pretty white and everything. Like milk.’

  So at lunchtime we went to the library and googled it.

  ‘Gross,’ George cried out. ‘I’m not sure you’ll want to know.’

  ‘Why? What is it? Is it really bad?’

  ‘Kind of.’

  ‘I don’t care. Please tell me, anyway.’

  So George read from the screen.

  ‘MILF, an acronym for mother I’d like to … you know, it’s a colloquial term common in English and generally regarded as vulgar when spelled out. It denotes a sexually attractive female, usually several years older than the person using the term.’

  ‘That’s disgusting! Oh gross. Shut it down! Shut it down!’

  George and I were laughing so hard that even Jenny, the librarian who is really cool and nice, asked us to quieten down. But the truth is, I felt really shitty. It sucks when everyone talks about how good-looking your mum is, all the while looking at you and thinking, ‘What went wrong?’

  ‘I wish I had a normal mum,’ I told George on our way back to class.

  ‘So do I!’ he replied, shaking his head.

  I told Mum all about what Felix said when I got home from school that afternoon.

  ‘Do you know what Felix said about you this morning?’ I asked Mum as she was making after-school green smoothies for herself, Spencer and me.

  ‘Oh, God. What?’ she asked, adding way too much kale.

  ‘A MILF.’

  ‘Gross!’ Spencer declared. ‘Why did you tell us that?’

  ‘The little shit,’ Mum muttered. ‘That is totally inappropriate.’

  I wasn’t sure what to say, so I stayed quiet.

  ‘Sorry to say this, Spence, you know I love you,’ Mum lectured. ‘But teenage boys – actually, men in general – can be pretty crass and stupid. They can also be very sexist and objectify women because they feel threatened and insecure. If he says it again, tell him to piss off!’

  ‘I can’t say that at school!’

  ‘You know what I mean.’ Mum handed me a glass of green slime. ‘Drink this. It’s amazing. Kate from roller derby gave me the recipe.’

  From that day on, green smoothies always made me think of Felix and Noah perving at my mother.

  ‘Dad’s working late so it’s just you and me for dinner tonight.’ Mum was leaning back on one of her new Marimekko cushions. ‘I thought I’d just make up a quinoa salad. Is that okay with you?’

  ‘Sure,’ I replied. Having been so restrained at lunch I was starving. But I never liked to admit hunger to Mum, so I kept quiet. ‘I’m just going to my room for a bit.’

  In our art gallery house, my bedroom is a sanctuary. In the corner sits my brand new Janome, a sixteenth birthday present from Mum and Dad. I have piles of vintage fabrics that I’ve sourced from op shops and three flying toucans on the wall above my bed that George and Melody gave me when I turned fifteen. On my bed is a Mexican Day of the Dead quilt I made when I was twelve and first started getting serious about sewing. It’s admittedly a little wonky, but I was so proud of it, my first big project. A string of coloured fairy lights decorate my bed and a hilarious, yet inspiring, poster of Tim Gunn with the slogan, ‘Make it work’, is posted above my sewing station.

  When I sit down at my machine I am transported. No longer am I Winter Mae Jones, fat sixteen-year-old who has never been kissed. Instead I’m Winter Mae, one of the world’s most influential fashion designers, thin and stylish and coveted.

  In my dreams.

  Mostly I am a self-taught sewer, but I do go to a Monday night sewing class at the local neighbourhood house. A South American woman called Maria who is neat, trim and matter-of-fact, runs the class. She proudly wears impeccably-made clothes she made in the 1980s. There is nothing Maria does not know about sewing.

  ‘If you spend on fabric and take your time with construction,’ Maria says, ‘your work will last you a long, long time.’

  There are two women in the class and one sullen girl called Tessa, who is about my age and attends with her mum. The other women are pretty old, at least forty, and are the types Mum would say have ‘let themselves go’. Caroline mainly sews for her two Shih tzus, Doris and Darby, and Tessa’s mum, Mandy, loves to make quilts with muted floral prints that are kind of depressing. I’ve been doing Monday night sewing for almost a year and Tessa has been working on the same pair of pale blue, puppy print flannel pyjamas the entire time. Whenever she comes to a new instruction she has to ask Maria what to do, even when it’s something like, ‘Fold
over and press’.

  Still, I keep going, mainly because of Maria. She makes me feel like I can do whatever I want, encouraging me to try new projects and techniques. I just finished a 1950s polished cotton party dress with a boned bodice, handpicked zip and the flounciest, twirliest skirt you have ever seen. Maria said it was my best work yet. Even though she is trim and petite, Maria never talks about my lumpy body when she helps take my measurements. To her, they are just numbers that mean nothing more than the road to a perfect fit. Not once has Maria given me the look.

  In the sanctuary of my room I laid the vegan leather on the polished floorboards, pulled out Melody’s standard legging pattern piece and cut it out. Mum likes to eat early as she thinks it’s better for the metabolism, but I figured I could finish them before dinner.

  Except that I was starving.

  Mum has never allowed chocolate in the house. Occasionally she’ll come home with a tiny block of organic, raw, sugar-free cacao and we’ll have a square or two after dinner, but let’s just say that family-sized blocks of Cadbury Dairy Milk have always been strictly forbidden and deemed toxic. Which is why I make sure I have some hidden in my sewing supply cupboard, a place I know Mum would never look.

  So I tried to focus on Melody’s leggings, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the chocolate. My mouth watered and the craving was so strong it was almost physically painful. Dammit. Of course. It was 4pm and this happens to me every single day. I tell myself I’ll only have a couple of squares, which inevitably becomes one row. Then two, three, four. Shit.

  There was no way I could sew Melody’s leggings while I felt like this. So I caved and ate half a block of chocolate, which of course made me feel guilty and ashamed by my lack of willpower. My constant failure in the face of fat and sugar. But at least the cravings were gone.

  When the leggings were done, Mum knocked on the door to tell me dinner was ready. We sat down together and had a nice quinoa salad, complete with pomegranate seeds and a glass of San Pellegrino.

  ‘Thanks, Mum,’ I said, clearing the table. ‘That was delicious.’ And I wasn’t lying. Mum is actually a good cook, even if she is a little stingy when it comes to portion size.

  That night Mum downloaded the latest episode of Grey’s Anatomy and we watched it together, drinking herbal tea while sitting on the new couch.

  ‘Everyone goes on about McDreamy,’ she said, ‘but I don’t miss him at all. That Dr Hunt. Now there’s a dish and a half.’

  ‘Mum.’ I frowned. ‘Please.’

  ‘Oh, Winter,’ Mum said. ‘One day you’ll realise that a woman is never too old for a good celebrity perv. In fact, it’s one of life’s greatest pleasures.’

  My stomach rumbled and I wished Mum would keep her sexy thoughts to herself.

  Chapter 4: Smash Face Sienna

  ‘Mum and Dad are working tonight,’ George said as we sat at our usual lunch spot eating sandwiches. ‘Wanna come over?’

  Normally I love Fridays. But I was dreading today like you wouldn’t believe. ‘I can’t, Mum is making me go to that roller derby tryout.’

  ‘Yikes,’ Melody said. ‘I was hoping for your sake it was just a pipe dream.’

  ‘No such luck,’ I said. ‘Why are your mum and dad working on a Friday night?’

  ‘They got some big corporate cleaning job. Apparently the pay is great so they didn’t want to turn it down,’ George told us.

  ‘I think they’re inspiring,’ Melody said. ‘They work so hard and they’d do anything for you.’

  George frowned in thought. ‘I guess.’

  ‘Can I come over and study?’

  ‘Sure!’ George was his usual upbeat self. ‘But can we at least have dinner first?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll cook!’

  ‘Awesome,’ George said. ‘I’m totes open to your famous fish curry. Mum and Dad left me some money, so my shout.’

  I felt a little left out, but I was glad Melody was getting out of the house tonight. George and I are the only kids at school who know the truth about how Melody lives. Most kids assume she is the smart, over-achieving child of uptight professionals. Which is exactly what I thought when we got partnered up in Year 8 science class. To tell you the truth, I was intimidated. Melody was all gorgeous and Eurasian and super smart. I’m not saying I’m dumb or anything, but in what world does a chubby, artsy fashion-head end up being BFFs with a genius princess with perfect hair? Well. I guess it’s true that life is full of surprises because Melody and I made the coolest paper rocket in the class. We painted her fluoro pink, with a face that included big red lips and ginormous eyelashes. We called her Zelda. Not only did she fly higher than any of the other kids’ rockets, but Melody and I laughed our way through the entire project.

  Melody started hanging out with George and me after our rocket-building bonding session but it wasn’t until Year 9 that we found out where and how she lived. For the first year of our friendship, when George and I spent time with Melody outside of school, it was always at my house or at George’s place. My house, being pretty big, was an easy place to be. Mum loves George and Melody. Sometimes I think she likes them more than me. When they come over she gets all excited, making them taste her latest avocado-based, agave-sweetened, chocolate mousse, or her so-called-famous sugar/wheat/dairy free chocolate chip cookies.

  ‘You’ll never guess what these brownies are made of !’ Mum will exclaim, excitedly presenting us with a plate fresh out of the oven.

  ‘Oooh, something delicious,’ George will say. ‘They’re so moist and fudgy.’

  ‘Black beans!’ Mum will shout. ‘Can you believe it?’

  Instinct told me not to ask Melody too much about her home life, though I can’t say I wasn’t curious. I suspected she was either embarrassed about her extravagant mansion or her perfectionist parents. But one day during first period, some time in the early stages of Year 9, Melody realised that she’d left her laptop at home and panicked. I was surprised that Charmaine, our history teacher, let the two of us go home to get it. Usually teachers just made kids use a spare school computer if they didn’t bring their own.

  ‘Just hurry back, girls,’ Charmaine told us kindly. ‘No dilly-dallying.’

  As we walked to Melody’s place I remember being surprised that we weren’t heading to the most affluent part of town where all the houses are perfectly renovated, tastefully decorated in heritage colours and intricate wrought iron detailing. Instead, we arrived at a street filled with identical orange brick town houses, their small front yards concreted and some of the outside walls vandalised with crappy graffiti.

  Melody walked through the open gate of one of the town houses. ‘God, I wish Mum wouldn’t just leave these lying around.’ Melody picked up a couple of butts and chucked them in the bin. ‘It’s disgusting.’

  ‘This is where you live?’ I asked, obviously confused. Public housing?

  ‘Yes,’ Melody replied matter-of-factly. ‘I guess I’m not the spoilt princess you thought I was.’

  ‘I didn’t …’

  The door opened. A skinny woman with thinning hair dyed fluorescent red and dark bags under her eyes peered out. ‘What are you doing home?’ she asked, then looking at me, ‘who’s your friend?’

  ‘This is Winter,’ said Melody. ‘Winter, my mum, Kylie.’

  Kylie had no teeth. She was scary-looking, the type of woman you would never want to sit next to on the tram. She had the scrawny, haunted look of a crazy person or a drug addict.

  This was Melody’s mum?

  ‘I just came to get my laptop,’ Melody told her mum.

  She ran inside to get her computer as I stood outside with Kylie.

  ‘She studies non-stop, that girl,’ Kylie remarked. ‘Always at the library. Nothing like me. I didn’t even finish school. Gets her brains from her dad.’

  ‘Let’s go.’ Laptop in hand, Melody looked relieved but uncomfortable. ‘See you, Mum.’

  ‘I probably won’t be home tonight,’ Kylie told Melody as
we walked away. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Okay,’ Melody replied, not even turning around.

  As we headed back down the street, Melody said, ‘I can’t trust her with my computer. She’d flog it off given half the chance.’

  ‘Oh,’ I replied clumsily.

  ‘So now you know,’ Melody said.

  I hadn’t a clue what to say.

  ‘You still want to be my friend?’

  And for the first time ever, Melody looked so vulnerable I could have cried.

  ‘You idiot,’ I said, putting my arm around her.

  ‘Can you get your mum to video your roller derby audition?’ George asked, laughing. ‘I could use the footage in my next short film.’

  ‘Shut up,’ I groaned, throwing a scrunched-up lunch bag his way.

  ‘Maybe it will be fun,’ Melody said helpfully. ‘You never know.’

  ‘I doubt it.’ My stomach churned at the thought of what was to come. ‘I’ve just got to remind myself: this time tomorrow it will all be over.’

  Earlier in the week Mum made me watch Whip It in an attempt to inspire me. ‘I can just see you whizzing around the ring like a total boss.’

  ‘I’m no Drew Barrymore.’ I laughed bitterly.

  ‘Oh honey,’ Mum said. ‘You don’t have to be. You’re Winter Mae Jones and once you get those skates on, you’ll be rockin’ it. I know you will.’

  Okay, so Mum’s not-so-secret fantasy involved me being some kind of tattooed roller girl champion with an ironically cool nickname like Shirley Temple of Doom or Dora the Destroyer. Mum’s roller derby name, for the record, is Smash Face Sienna. It took her forever to come up with it and she was so proud.

  I knew I could never be like my mum, but she was really looking forward to this afternoon. When I got home from school she made me what she called a ‘power smoothie’ and she’d even bought me a pair of leopard print booty shorts, black lace tights and a skull print muscle tank to wear for the try-out. All a size too small. I stood in front of my bedroom mirror and almost cried. Like an over-stuffed sausage, I could see fat rolls oozing from my stomach, my boobs barely contained while my arms stuck out like pale sticks of fatty cheese.