Red Ink by Julie Mayhew Page A

I was staring at my big woman’s figure in the mirror. Mum was sitting on the leather stool in the corner of the cubicle searching for cigarettes and a lighter in her massive shoulder bag. When I asked, she ignored me. Instead she went, “Smells in here, hey? Cheesy, no?”
    “You can’t smoke in here, Mum,” I told her.
    She ignored that too, went back and answered the original question.
    “I want you to be different,” she went, still ransacking her bag.
    “I want to be like the other girls,” I said back.
    I really wanted her to hear that. I really wanted her to see me, standing there, the thick, white elastic crisscrossing my boobs. A sturdy bra, a boring bra. I’m not allowed anything pretty. With my chest, it makes me look too grown-up, Mum says. Makes me look like a stripper, she means.
    “When you older, you be grateful to be different.” That’s what she told me. I wasn’t going to get my sorry. I took off the bra.
    “Maria?” she goes, poofing air through her lips. “Everyone has this name!”
    And then she was off. “On an island far, far from here, where the sea is woven from strings of sapphire blue . . .” Whispering at seeds, yellowstriped armyworms, warm fruit,
ta karpouzia ine etima!
Blah, blah, blah. By the time she’d got to the bit about the truck driving away, she was halfway through a cigarette and I was back in my jumper. She stopped then, poked a finger at the bra on its hanger.
    “What, you are not liking it?”
    “It’s fine, Mum,” I said. “Let’s just go.”
    Mum stubbed out her cigarette in the lid of her fag packet.
    Outside the cubicle, a shop assistant was squirting air freshener and giving Mum a dirty look. Mum breezed away from the changing rooms, refusing to notice.
    Ian is still mouthing my name. He licks the nipple of one of his huge, invisible breasts. Everyone is creased up. Especially Lucy. Everyone in the line is waiting for me to say something. Or, even better, to run to the nearest toilet for a cry. If I bolt, Lucy will send Dionne Agu to follow me and report back.
    I have no razor-sharp reply, no witty answer. I have . . . nothing.
    So I laugh.
    It’s a horrible sound, really phony, but it does the job. Ian stops feeling himself up. He tosses out a chuckle. The laugh shows that I’ve got a better sense of humour than Lucy Bloss. After all, I’m the one getting picked on, not her. The laugh has let Ian off the hook. He turns away.
    The ripples of giggling along the line die down. They’re disappointed, I know it. They wanted me to crumble. That would have been something to talk about.
    Ian has forgotten me already. He’s kicking Dylan’s rucksack, pretending to start a fight. They’re shouting about something else now.
    “Phew-ee!” goes Chick, mouse-like.
    I shrug, I smile, like it’s nothing.
    Inside, I am still searching for that killer line – something to plunge right down into Ian’s soul, something to stop him dead, something to wound him. Make him choke. Something to make him . . . like me.
    I feel sick. I hate myself for making it easy on Ian. I hate everyone in that queue for laughing. But more than that, I hate Mum for giving me my stupid, stupid name.
    When I get home, I will tell Mum this. I will tell her how she has made my life hell.

6 YEARS BEFORE
    I am nine and a quarter years old and my bag is packed. I’ve got clean pants and socks for three days, a nightie, my school uniform, a spare jumper and a pair of jeans. I also have a house key so I can go back and get more clothes if I need them. Inside my wheelie suitcase there are also Cherry Drops and Arthur, my lion, so he won’t be lonely on his own in my bedroom.
    I’m going to stay with Pamela nextdoor while Mum goes to Crete. Usually Mum and me go to Crete together. But that’s only in the summer. Now it’s winter. Granbabas has died. But we musn’t feel sad. Mum says he’s had a good life and he’s lucky his heart held out this long and it is the fate of everyone