Free The Good Daughter by Amra Pajalic Page A

of muscle. ‘You weight-lift?’
    He nodded. ‘At least an hour after school. Do you think I’m a freak?’
    â€˜Because you weight-lift?’ I squeaked.
    â€˜Because I wear make-up.’ He slanted his eyes. ‘Sometimes I wear eye-liner and mascara too.’ He started gabbling. ‘There are heaps of guys who wear make-up, The Killers, Good Charlotte, The Chemical Brothers…’
    I strained to remember other rock bands. ‘Yeah, it shows you’re interesting. It’s not gay, it’s fashionable!’
    Brian smiled. ‘You’re a good friend.’
    When the train drew up at St Albans station. Brian helped me put on my backpack, leaving his hands to rest on my shoulders. We were the same height. His eyelashes were thick and spiky, his eyes a soft, velvet brown.
    â€˜I had a great time.’ He leaned in.
    He was going to kiss me. My eyes closed as his face went out of focus. His lips brushed against my cheek. My eyes flew open and I blushed. I hoped he didn’t see me close my eyes. ‘I had a great time too.’ My voice was husky.
    â€˜See you tomorrow,’ Brian said.
    I took a few steps and glanced over my shoulder. He was watching me. I turned back and resisted looking behind me again. I’d never met a boy like him. He was sweet and gentle, but still did boy things like weights and soccer. The boys I knew before hadn’t prepared me for someone like Brian.
    As I remembered the flutter in my stomach when he kissed my cheek, I broke into a shit-eating grin. It was wonderful, nothing like the jaw-wrenching, slobbery mashing of lips that Joshua, my only other boyfriend, had inflicted on me.
    Two girls were standing on the corner of my street. ‘I think that’s her,’ one of them said.
    When I met their gaze they looked blank. They followed me down my street. Hearing their footsteps in time with mine made my heart speed up. At my house, they kept walking without looking back. I breathed a sigh of relief. I was imagining it.
    My stomach rumbled. I dropped my backpack in the hallway and went to the kitchen to make a sandwich. I reached into the breadbox. ‘There’s no bread!’ I yelled.
    â€˜Here.’ Mum took out a ten-dollar note from her purse. ‘Go and buy it.’
    â€˜Why didn’t you buy it?’ It drove me mad when there was no bread. It wasn’t like she didn’t know what time I was coming home from school, or that I’d be hungry. ‘What were you doing all day?’
    â€˜I was busy,’ Mum said. ‘If you want it, you get it.’ She put the note on the table.
    I grabbed the money and slammed the back door. ‘Busy, my arse,’ I muttered under my breath. ‘Busy sleeping in until noon.’ Mum claimed that her medication made her lethargic, that she needed to sleep like a hibernating bear. My version was that she was lazy.
    â€˜Sabiha!’ Mum yelled. I stopped in my tracks and kicked the stairs. She heard me. ‘Buy milk too.’ Mum stepped out holding a five-dollar bill.
    â€˜I don’t drink milk!’ I yelled. ‘If you want it, you get it.’
    Walking back, I held the sliced Vienna loaf under my left arm. I split the top of the plastic bag and pinched off bits of bread and ate them. The girls from the corner of my street were following me again. I sped up and heard footsteps pounding behind me. Something smacked into me and I dropped the bread. Fists pummelled me and the half-chewed bite of bread fell out of my mouth. Arms pulled me up.
    One of the girls held me while the other one slapped me in the face, once, twice, before she punched me in the stomach. I went down, my knee landing on the bread and grinding it into the concrete. They high-fived each other and ran away, their feet echoing down the street.
    The bread I’d chewed was by my foot. My stomach heaved and I dry retched, moaning with the violent jerks. My ribs ached. I wiped