How to Boost Your Profile Page 5

  Next to the laptop is a neatly stacked pile of tests. I take a peek – it’s the one we did yesterday. Hannah’s is sitting on the top. She got eighty-nine per cent. Mr Cartright takes the chair from the other desk and puts it down in front of me. ‘Sit down please, Anya,’ he says. The chair is way too high for me and my legs are dangling, but I don’t want to try adjusting it in case I accidentally eject myself. I’m pretty sure Mr Cartright wouldn’t find that funny.

  Mr Cartright shuffles through the pile of tests, extracts one and places it in front of me. It’s mine – and I got ninety-five per cent! Ha! I think. Take that Hannah!

  ‘This is an excellent mark,’ says Mr Cartright. It sounds like good news, but the tone of his voice tells me it’s not. ‘Anya,’ he says. ‘Did you cheat on this test?’

  ‘No!’ I say indignantly. ‘I didn’t!’

  Mr Cartright silently turns his laptop around so the screen is facing me. There’s a spreadsheet open on it, with a list of all my marks for the year so far. Fifty-six per cent. Fifty-two per cent. Forty-nine per cent. Then right at the bottom there’s my latest mark, in red. Ninety-five per cent.

  ‘You can probably see why I’m a little suspicious,’ Mr Cartright says quietly.

  ‘I didn’t cheat!’ I say, hating the way my voice has suddenly gone all squeaky so I sound like I’m lying. ‘I just tried really hard this time.’ It’s so, so unfair that when I actually do a good job, I still get into trouble.

  Mr Cartright’s eyebrows rise like two woolly sheep leaping into the air. ‘Do you mean that you didn’t try on all the other tests?’ he says. ‘You deliberately tried to get low marks?’

  Okay, so I can see how that might sound strange – especially to someone like Mr Cartright. Because Mr Cartright is not a girl and if he was ever thirteen (which is hard to believe) it must have been a very long time ago. Too long ago for him to remember why someone might pretend not to be good at something. So I don’t answer.

  Mr Cartright leans forward, his hands clasped on the desk in front of him. ‘Anya, do you have any ideas about what you want to do when you leave school?’ he asks me. I hate this question, but adults are obsessed with asking it. They’re always going on about how you should enjoy being young, but they constantly ask you about what you’ll do when you’re old.

  ‘No,’ I mumble. ‘Not yet.’ I hope this will be enough, but it’s not.

  ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘You must have some idea.’

  I fold my arms tightly. ‘Well, nothing that’s got anything to do with maths, that’s for sure,’ I say.

  ‘Can I ask why?’ Mr Cartright asks, and he looks genuinely surprised.

  ‘Because maths is so boring!’ I say.

  I’m half-expecting Mr Cartright to lose it at me then. I get the feeling that he lives for maths. But instead he just does this long, drawn-out sigh and says, ‘So, what then?’

  ‘Maybe a buyer for a fashion label,’ I say. I know this is Carolyn’s dream, not mine, but I’m desperate and I’m hoping it’ll shut him up because I’m pretty sure Mr Cartright will have no idea what a buyer is.

  Luckily it seems to do the trick, because finally Mr Cartright pushes away from his desk and opens the office door. ‘You can go for now,’ he says.

  The funny thing is that now I’m not sure I want to go. I don’t know what he’s thinking. I hover in the doorway. ‘Mr Cartright? Do you believe me that I didn’t cheat?’ I ask.

  He frowns at me in this puzzled way. ‘I’m not sure yet,’ he says. ‘I’ll have to think about it.’

  ‘Oh,’ I mutter. It’s pretty hurtful to realise that Mr Cartright thinks I’m the sort of person who might cheat. But I guess it also means he thinks there’s a chance that I didn’t. I decide to risk asking one more question. ‘What did Ethan get?’ I ask.

  ‘He got ninety-one per cent,’ says Mr Cartright. ‘You topped the class, Anya.’

  It’s amazing how good that makes me feel.

  Mum is supposed to leave work early on Fridays, but the moment I step into the waiting room that afternoon, I know she’s not going anywhere. It’s like every sick person in the suburb has turned up. I hold my breath as I walk over to the desk to minimise the amount of germs I inhale. ‘Sorry, honey,’ says Mum. ‘I’ll be another hour.’ She looks tired. Even more tired than usual. ‘You can sit in the waiting room and do your homework if you want,’ she suggests.

  ‘That’s okay,’ I say quickly. ‘I’ll come back in an hour.’ There’s no way I’m hanging around in here with all these sick people.

  I pause at the top of the elevators, trying to decide what to do. I could catch a bus over to the cinema complex and take the bracelet back to Cargo, but the more I think about doing that, the more I realise how weird and awkward it would be. The woman in the shop might not believe I took it by accident. I could just try to sneak it onto a shelf somewhere, but I’d probably look pretty suss doing that. And that’s when I have a brilliant idea. There’s a charity bin not far from where I’m standing. I can put the bracelet in there and then I won’t have to worry about it anymore. Plus giving stuff to charity is good, right?

  I hurry over to the bin and take the bracelet out of my pocket, glancing around first to check that no-one is watching me. The flap of the charity bin creaks and clanks loudly as I pull it down. I put the bracelet on the chute then close it up. It feels good to hear the bracelet sliding away, deep down into the darkness. It’s the sound of a problem being solved. I swear I feel a few kilos lighter as I walk back to the escalator.

  Then I catch a glimpse of myself in a shop window and the heaviness returns. My chest is so flat. I look like a ten-year-old. So I decide to go visit the Charm Bra. Who knows? Maybe it’s gone on sale or something.

  When I get to the lingerie department, I can’t find the Charm Bra anywhere. There are none left on the rack and I can’t see them anywhere else in the teen section either. They must have sold them all. I feel completely gutted. The worst bit is knowing that there are a whole lot of other girls walking around in my bra, having their profiles boosted.

  ‘Can I help you?’ There’s a shop assistant nearby, restocking. It’s not the grandmothery lady from before. It’s a girl who doesn’t look all that much older than me and she’s totally stylish. Everyone who works in the department store wears black – it must be their uniform – but unlike the other lady, who wore a boring black shirt and pants, this girl is wearing a really cute dress and shiny shoes. Pinned to her dress is her name badge, Melissa. Melissa has the best make-up on – it’s sort of retro, I guess, with really thick eyeliner. I instantly decide I’m going to try to do mine like that, too.

  Melissa smiles at me, not in a pushy shop-assistant way, but like she’s being friendly. ‘Can I help?’

  ‘I was just wondering what happened to the purple bras which were hanging here a few days ago,’ I say, pointing to the empty rack.

  Melissa nods. ‘The Charm Bras,’ she says. ‘They’ve been really popular.’

  ‘So there’s none left?’ I say.

  ‘There might be some out the back,’ Melissa says. ‘I’ll go and check.’ Her heels clack against the tiles as she walks off and I wait there, with all my fingers and even some of my toes crossed. A few minutes later she comes into view, holding up two Charm Bras triumphantly. ‘It’s your lucky day,’ she says. ‘These have literally just come in. They don’t even have price tags on them yet.’ Melissa hands them over to me. ‘I think the 8B will probably be right for you, but they run a little large so I brought the 8A just in case.’ I can’t help grinning at that. She thinks I might be an 8B!

  The material is even softer and silkier than I remember. ‘It’s a gorgeous bra, isn’t it?’ Melissa says. ‘I’ve got one too.’

  ‘It’s the most beautiful bra ever,’ I say.

  ‘Go and try it on,’ says Melissa. She feels more like my big sister than a shop assistant – except that she’s way nicer to me than my real big sister is. ‘I’ll come and check on you in a few
moments.’

  The change room is completely deserted when I get there. There’s no attendant waiting to give me a number, either. I hang by the entrance for a minute, waiting to see if anyone is going to turn up, but then I just go and choose a cubicle for myself.

  I peel off my uniform and the boring white bra Mum bought me and dump them in the corner of the change room. I’m careful not to look at myself in the mirror at this stage – I don’t want to catch a glimpse of that blue vein on my left boob. My hands are actually shaking a little from excitement as I put on the Charm Bra – the 8B, of course. The material feels really soft and nice against my skin and I manage to get it done up at the back without having to swivel it around to the front. Then I adjust the little buckles on the strap so that they’re as short as possible. And it fits! Pretty much, at least – especially if I hold my shoulders right back.

  I stand there for a few minutes, looking at my reflection, flipping my hair over my shoulder and smiling the way the model in the Charm Bra ad does. The change room has those adjustable mirrors so I can see how I look from the back and the side too. The bra looks great from every single angle. Then it’s time for the big test. I grab my uniform from the corner and put it back on over the bra. Then I slip my jumper over the top of it and check out my reflection again. It’s amazing – I look at least sixteen. And that’s just while I’m wearing my baggy school uniform. I’d probably look even older if I was wearing something more body-hugging.

  This feeling of longing swells up inside me then. I want the bra more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my whole life. Owning it will change everything for me. It’ll change who I am and how people look at me. I just know that I’m meant to have it. But I also know there’s no way Mum will ever buy it for me. And I can’t wait the months and months it’d take me to save up for it. So I guess that’s the end of the matter. I could cry.

  Slowly I get undressed, take the bra off and put my old boring bra back on. Once I’m dressed again I unlock the change-room doors and start heading back into the shop. I spot Melissa over in Big Beige Land helping a customer. I guess that’s why she never came to check on me.

  I’m about to put the two bras on the table near the exit of the change rooms when I notice something. Not only do the bras have no price tags on them, but they also don’t have any security tags. Which means there’s nothing to set off the alarms if I were to walk out of the shop with them. I look at the bra, in all its shiny, purple loveliness. I need this bra. I’m meant to have it.

  I step back into the change rooms and very slowly begin to unzip my bag. The noise sounds crazy loud to me – like thunder – but I keep going. When there’s a big enough opening, I tuck the bra into my bag and quickly re-zip it. I leave the 8A on the change-room table, sling my bag on my shoulder and start walking towards the exit. It’s funny – I don’t even feel nervous this time. I guess it’s because the whole thing feels like fate. Maybe Melissa even wanted me to take the bra – that’s why she gave me it to me without the security tag. There’s terrible department-store muzak – ‘Careless Whispers’ – piping over the speakers and I hum along to it.

  I feel a tiny bit nervous when I get to the scanners at the entrance to the store. It’s dumb, but I’m still half-expecting the alarm to go off. It doesn’t, though, and I walk out of the store and into the noise and smells of the food court. I realise I’m a little thirsty. Maybe I’ve got time to grab a Jokey Juice before I go up to meet Mum.

  Then there’s a hand on my arm, holding me back. ‘Just a moment, please, young lady!’ It’s a security guard, dressed in department-store black. Standing beside him is Melissa. But she’s not smiling at me now. Her face has gone really hard.

  ‘Is this the girl?’ the security guard asks her, and Melissa nods. The guard turns back to me. ‘Unzip your bag, please,’ he says.

  When I felt his hand on my arm, it was like my heart had stopped beating. But now it’s making up for those lost moments by beating extra fast. ‘Why?’ I say. ‘I left the bras back in the change room. If they’re not there it’s not my fault.’ But neither of them seem to hear me. A group of girls walk past and stare curiously. My face burns.

  I unzip my bag super slowly, hoping that maybe the bra will have worked its way down to the bottom of my bag where the guard won’t see it. But it hasn’t, and when I hold my bag open for the guard to see, it’s sitting right up on the very top, the diamantés sparkling in the fluorescent lights of the food court. The only thing I feel glad about is that the bracelet isn’t in there too.

  A kid walks past with his mum. ‘Look!’ he says. ‘That policeman’s got that girl.’ I keep my eyes down.

  ‘I can’t believe you did this,’ says Melissa. She sounds disgusted. ‘I did you a favour bringing out that bra with no security tags. I’ll get into heaps of trouble thanks to you.’

  A lump begins to form in my throat. ‘I’m … I’m sorry,’ I say.

  Melissa rolls her eyes and doesn’t even bother to reply. Instead she turns to the security guard. ‘Can I go back to my department now?’ she says. ‘I need to make sure no more little girls are stealing bras that probably don’t even fit them.’

  Melissa is allowed to go. But I’m not. The security guard takes the bra out of my bag and tells me to follow him.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I say, panic starting to bubble up inside me.

  ‘First stop is the security office,’ the guard says.

  I am way too scared to ask what the second stop will be.

  As the guard leads me through the store I keep my eyes straight ahead, deliberately not looking at anyone, hoping no-one will guess what’s going on. Maybe they’ll think I work in the shop, or that I’m an undercover store detective. Or a lost kid.

  We end up in the luggage department and the guard opens a door I’ve never noticed before. The office behind it is small and depressing. There are no windows, for one thing, and there’s a pot plant that’s all droopy and yellow.

  The only decoration on the walls is a bunch of What to do in an emergency posters – fire, flood, chemical spill.

  There’s a woman with short dark hair sitting at a desk, and she glances up as I walk in. She looks a little like the pot plant – as if she doesn’t get enough sunlight. I guess that’s not surprising if she spends all day in here.

  ‘Shop theft,’ the guard tells her, closing the door behind us.

  The woman doesn’t look shocked or even surprised. ‘Sit there, please,’ she says to me, pointing to a chair near the wall.

  The security guard goes over to where a coffee machine is perched on a shelf and starts making himself a coffee. I’m dying for some water, but I don’t want to ask.

  The woman picks up the phone. ‘How do I contact your parents?’ she says.

  It might sound dumb but up until this moment I hadn’t really thought about that. About my parents finding out. They will freak. ‘My parents have split up,’ I say, trying to stall her. Maybe make her feel a little sorry for me too. It doesn’t work.

  ‘Well, who can get here first? Mum or Dad?’ she says, a little impatiently. ‘The sooner someone comes, the sooner we can get through this.’

  My mouth has gone all dry. Mum and Dad are both going to hit the roof so hard their heads will leave permanent dents in the ceiling. I think about getting them to call Carolyn, but she’s at her friend Lucia’s place this afternoon and she’d probably be cross at me for calling her. Plus I’m pretty sure that a big sister wouldn’t count for this woman anyway.

  ‘Mum works here in the mall. In the doctor’s office on level five,’ I say in the end. I feel sick. Dizzy too. Maybe I’ll vomit or pass out and they’ll have to take me to hospital. Then they’ll discover the blue vein and they’ll realise that I’m actually dying or something. ‘She’s one of the receptionists,’ I manage to add.

  The woman nods. ‘Dr Walters’ office, right?’ she says and dials the number without me having to give it to her. It’d be just my luck that this woman turns
out to be one of Shelley’s patients. As it’s ringing, she says, ‘What’s your mum’s name?’

  ‘Jillian Saunders,’ I croak. Then I shake my head. ‘I mean, Jillian Hoffman.’

  The woman looks at me suspiciously – like maybe I’m trying to pull something here – but before she can say anything someone picks up the phone at the other end and I faintly hear my mum’s voice saying, Dr Walters’ office, how may I help you?’

  ‘Mrs Hoffman?’ says the woman. Her voice is all brisk and no-nonsense, like she’s made this call hundreds of times before. Maybe she has. ‘This is Rachel White. I’m calling from Westland Mall security. We have your daughter – ’ She stops and looks at me with raised eyebrows and I can see I’m meant to fill in my name.

  ‘Anya,’ I mutter.

  The woman’s eyes flick away from me again. ‘We have Anya here. I’m afraid she’s been caught shoplifting. We need you to come to the office immediately so we can discuss the next step.’

  I scrunch down into my chair, trying not to overhear what Mum is saying on the other end of the phone. The woman tells Mum where to find us and the phone clicks back into its cradle. ‘She’s coming,’ she says to me and then starts tapping away at her computer, completely ignoring me.

  It probably only takes Mum about five minutes to arrive, but it feels like the longest wait of my life. When she finally pushes through the door her face is all flushed and sweaty like she ran here. Her hair is coming unpinned at the front and she still has her name badge on her cardigan.

  The security woman stands up and introduces herself. ‘I’m Rachel White,’ she says. ‘And this is Joe, our security guard. Sorry for calling you at work, Mrs Hoffman.’

  ‘It’s Ms Hoffman,’ Mum says. Then she looks over at me. ‘Are you okay?’ she says, and her strange calmness freaks me out. I was expecting her to start telling me off the moment she walked in here.