Free Fins 4 Ur Sins by Naomi Fraser Page A

the surface, releasing the scent of citrus and chemicals. I sit up and
breathe in deeply, then smile. No pain. Yes! I look at the calendar. Science excursion. No! I flop back onto the pillow.
    I can’t go back to sleep so I
shove away the blue comforter, climb out of bed and then hurry through my
shower. I haven’t hung up my school shirt. It’s still on my dresser. I wonder
how Mum kept from fussing about the mess in my room. I pick up the glass, swirl
the liquid around and then take a long, deep gulp. I figure it doesn’t matter
that my shirt is creased, it’s Friday. The journal is in my top drawer, and I
flip to the next blank page and write a few notes about my nightmare.
    After I slide my arms into the
sleeves, I discover the buttons don’t want to meet. “You’re kidding me.” I
shrug the fabric closer, stretching it across my shoulders. The buttons strain.
Not across my breasts, but my ribcage.
    “. . . the hell?” I suck in a breath and do up the clear buttons one by one, pull down the
hem and then adjust my shoulders. Looking at myself in the mirror, I can see my
bra as the shirt strains between my shoulders. The shirt’s too short.
    Did I grow two sizes overnight?
My watch reads 8.15 a.m. I don’t have time to spend looking for an alternative,
but there’s no way I can wear this shirt. I yank open all my drawers to hunt
for something else with the same white collar to hide beneath my school jumper.
Where have I grown? Not my breasts . . . well it could be, but I’m not that
lucky. It’s not my height, either. Maybe my stomach? I
rub a hand over the flat plane of my abdomen, then across my hips to the sores
that are healing. It’s tender, but there’s no extra weight there. Yet, my bones
feel a little different, as if they’re protruding. Strange . I’ll need a new skirt and shirt. And I’ll have to tell Mum about the
outbreak on my hips.
    Did all this happen because of
how I died? The uncertainty of not knowing the truth and the formal
investigation around other people dying in similar circumstances means I can’t
forget. There’s the pain in my lungs and the visit to the psych ward. Speaking
to Dr. Farrow and trying to gloss over the
nightmares. I just need to get through today and then I’ll be at Bethany’s,
having fun. Focus on the positive, Dad used to say.
    My blonde, curly locks bounce
around my elbows. Mum is right. My hair has grown. It’s never been this thick
or luxuriant. So maybe it isn’t odd that other parts of me have grown, too? The
school jumper is two sizes larger than my shirt and fits a lot better. I leave
my hair loose, because I know from yesterday we are
going to do a report on the life cycle of a butterfly. No flame from the Bunsen
burners today.
    We’re heading out to the breeders
for research first thing.
    I’m just in time for the bus to
school with the heaviest backpack in the world, but thankful for the jumper.
The overcast sky means the wind has teeth. I don’t see Bethany when I get to
the school gates. The other year eleven students shiver, and my phone buzzes
with an incoming text.
    I palm my iPhone out of my skirt
pocket and check the messages.
    Cu @ lunch
:) B
    I smile and answer: Ok , and
then wait at the front gate with the other students, but don’t talk to anyone.
The 514 bus arrives for our form class, plus another form whose room is in the
mathematics building.
    Wacky gestures to the open door,
and I follow the line of students who climb on board. As usual, there’s a rush
to fill up the back seats, but I slide onto a bench somewhere in the middle,
not wanting to get in anyone’s way.
    My backpack bulges, zippers
almost bursting. I shrug it off and rest it on the seat. I might have gone crazy
with the overnight gear, hair straightener and shoes. Trying to stuff the bag
away is similar to hiding an elephant between the cracks in the seats.
    I angle my face toward the
window, feigning interest in the scenery. I doubt anyone will want to sit