Blame It on the Bikini - By Natalie Anderson Page 0,30
want more of a hard time now. I don’t want my parents disappointed. Life’s been tough enough on them.’
She’d been bullied as she walked across the neighbourhood in her school uniform—the only kid in the block to go to a school with a uniform. Taunted—told she’d become a snob, torn down. Freak. You think you’re better than us?
She hadn’t thought that. She knew just how hard those in her ‘hood worked—or worked to try to get a job. Sure, a couple hadn’t. A couple had gone off the rails in the way Lauren had once threatened to. But she knew better than anyone that snobbery worked both ways. In the one hand she’d carried the hopes and dreams of her parents; in the other she’d been burdened with the spite and jealousy of others. She didn’t fit in here any more, but she sure hadn’t fitted in with her new school either.
And now she was held up as the neighbourhood example—her cousin’s five-year-old daughter had said she wanted to go to uni and be just like her. She couldn’t let them down.
She’d had opportunities others hadn’t had and she’d squandered them on a man who was so removed from her own sphere—that elite, born-to-it world that she’d never once felt comfortable in. She couldn’t let them know what an idiot she’d been. And she couldn’t be that naïve girl again. This damsel was doing her own rescuing. No man, no fairy-tale fantasy, would come between her and her studies.
‘How will you get home after lunch?’ he asked as they neared her home.
‘Same as always.’
She knew he was looking at the gang symbols graffitied on the fences they passed. The lush greenery of the affluent central suburbs gave way to unkempt, sunburned brown grass and bare dirt. The old-looking swing-set in the park and the new activity set that had already been defaced, litter spilling from the bin. She knew what he was thinking; she thought it too. The neighbourhood wasn’t just rough; it was unsafe and was worsening. Her resolve firmed. She was getting her parents out of here as soon as she could.
They were sitting on the porch when Brad turned into the driveway. The two-bedroom government-supplied house had been modified so her father could walk in easily. He didn’t rise as Brad stopped the car, but her mother hurried over. Brad got out of the car and greeted her with his intensely annoying polite manners. Mya watched her mother blink a couple of times, watched his full impact on her—that overpowering charm. And she helplessly watched him accept her mother’s invitation to join them at lunch. All done before she’d even said hello.
When Brad walked into the house, he was shocked—but not for the reasons Mya might have thought he might be. He’d seen way smaller, emptier properties. No, what shocked him was the wall in the lounge.
It was smothered in the evidence of Mya’s achievements. There were certificates everywhere. Certificates going back more than a decade—from when she won spelling competitions at age six. Competitions far beyond her years at that. There were newspaper articles citing her academic successes. There were pictures of her in her uniform. Pictures of her accepting cups and prize-giving. But there were no pictures of her playing.
Proof of their pride in her was everywhere and he realised she hadn’t been kidding about the pressure. No wonder her identity was so bound up in performance—perfect performance. But surely her parents weren’t so success-obsessed for her that they’d disown her if they knew she’d failed? She was their only child.
‘Brad’s a lawyer. A tutor at university.’ Mya walked in with her father, who was leaning on her arm. ‘He’s been helping me with my studies this year. He just gave me a ride because I was running late to get here.’ She bit her lip and looked at Brad as if worried she’d made a slip in mentioning law school given she was supposed to be on holiday.
‘She doesn’t need my help, you know.’ Brad went with her story with an easy smile. ‘She’s just trying to make me feel useful.’
The sad thing was he liked feeling useful to her. Even if in truth he wasn’t.
‘She’s a genius.’ Even as he was saying it, he realised he was buying into the Mya-brain-box worshipping—doing it as badly as her parents. Talking her up until she was terrified of failing. Mya, who needed no help academically because she was such a star. Never-fail Mya. Never dare