Free The Dark Part of Me by Belinda Burns Page B

around the cake table. It was so hot in the jumper that I
could feel foundation running off my face, my fringe pasted in clumps on my forehead. I pictured my freckled scar-face next to the Asian chick’s cool oval of perfection.
    ‘Rosie, do you want some cake?’ Mrs Greenwood sang out to me and everyone turned to stare at the red-faced girl in an orange jumper, stuck in the middle of the lawn.
    ‘Nah, I’m OK,’ I squeaked, willing my legs to function; a jerky walk, a skip, then a run across the lawn and into the house. Back in Scott’s bedroom, I ditched the jumper
and re-did my makeup, wondering how long I’d have to wait till Scott and I were alone.

    I spent the next few hours downstairs, sitting in a corner of the rumpus room, drinking Fruity Lexia and watching old codgers play shit pool, waiting for the party to end. Scott
didn’t come near me but I figured he was flat strap catching up with his friends – there would be heaps of time for us later. Around midnight, the old codgers went home. Mrs Greenwood
marched upstairs to wash up and Mr Greenwood went to bed maggot. I headed out the back, fairly wasted by then.
    A slight breeze rustled through the tree-tops but the night was dense and muggy. It was hard to breathe. Scott was standing around with his mates, polishing off the last of the beers with Nick
and the rest of The Grubs. I lingered by the doorway, waiting for him to see me and come over, but despite some intense vibing, he didn’t. The coloured lightbulbs throbbed like crazy fruit
growing off the fence. I sauntered over to check them out. The red ones looked good. Plump and ripe and bursting as rampant tomatoes. But when I reached out they were so fucking hot I burnt my
fingers. I ran inside and iced the poor suckers in the esky. Feeling stupid and a fair bit agitated, I carted the empty salad bowls upstairs.
    Mrs Greenwood was bustling around, wrapping the leftover bread rolls in Gladwrap, transferring the cold snags and burnt steakettes onto smaller plates for the fridge. Kirstie, Bomber’s
on-off squeeze, was at the sink washing up. She was gossiping in a whiney voice to Mrs Greenwood but stopped midstream when I appeared at the top of the stairs.
    ‘Rosie! Thanks for bringing those up,’ said Mrs Greenwood.
    ‘No worries,’ I said, dumping the salad bowls on the bench.
    ‘Hi.’ Kirstie waved one blue rubber glove in my direction and smiled sickly sweet. We’d been in first-year law together until I dropped out. I shot her a fake smile, then
turned back to Mrs Greenwood, who looked more youthful than when I’d seen her last. Her hair was streaked with gold highlights and she was wearing a daring shade of hot pink on her lips which
matched the giant hibiscuses on her dress. She was way more glamorous than Mum.
    ‘Kirstie and I were just talking about you,’ she said.
    ‘Really? That’s nice.’ It pissed me off no end to see them so chummy. I plonked myself down on a stool. ‘Good to have Scott back?’
    ‘Oh, yes,’ said Mrs Greenwood, untying her apron. ‘I’ve missed washing his dirty footy socks, making his cooked breakfasts.’
    ‘I heard he had a girlfriend over there,’ said Kirstie. ‘Some Asian chick.’
    A spurt of vomit came in my mouth but I swallowed it down, gripping the bench. Kirstie’s beady eyes vultured for a reaction but Mrs Greenwood, never wanting to cause a scene, came to the
rescue.
    ‘He hasn’t mentioned anyone to me.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Besides, I can’t imagine Scott with an Asian, can you, Rosie?’
    I shook my head and breathed.
Good on ya, Mrs Greenwood. Nah, I can’t imagine Scott banging an Asian. No way. No fucking way.
And even though I’d seen the photo, I believed
her ’cause she was Mrs Greenwood and she was like my second mum.
    Kirstie sniffed and turned back to the washing-up. ‘Well, that’s just what I heard.’ I scowled at the back of her small, peroxided head.
    ‘Anyone for bourbon?’ Mrs