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Annie
Tamsin’s bed is scattered with all the types of clothes I’m not allowed to wear and the kinds of CDs I’m not allowed to listen to.
‘You like Silverchair?’ she asks as she slips her midriff top over her head and turns to check her reflection in the mirror.
I’ve heard Silverchair songs enough times on the radio to recognise them. ‘Sure.’
She points to the bed. ‘Put Freak Show on.’
It takes me a moment to find it. I flip it over and read the song titles on the back as I make my way over to the player.
‘What do you think?’ Tamsin asks, turning in a circle.
My gaze falls to her belly piercing and continues down her 26 Red jeans to the white Reeboks peeking out at the bottom. ‘You look really good.’
‘So do you,’ she lies. ‘You should take your hair out, though. It looks gorgeous down.’
I reach up and tug at the elastic, brushing my hair out with my fingers.
Tamsin assesses me. ‘Do you want to borrow something to wear?’
‘You just said I look good,’ I reply, teasing her.
Her nose crinkles. ‘You do, but we’re going to a party, not hanging out at the courts.’
I wouldn’t know what girls wear to either. My wardrobe is divided into two parts: meeting clothes and nonmeeting clothes. Meeting clothes are long skirts, blouses, cardigans, conservative dresses, and sensible dress shoes. Nonmeeting clothes are oversized T-shirts, flannel, jeans, leggings, riding pants, and cheap sneakers. They’re mostly thrift shop finds and hand-me-downs from my sister.
I bet Bridget has an amazing wardrobe now.
Tonight I’m wearing a Billabong T-shirt I found at a sale, Levis, and R. M. Williams boots. ‘I’m okay in this.’
Tamsin walks over and lifts the hem of my T-shirt, inspecting the jeans. ‘Such a great arse. These are actually a good cut for you, but you can’t see that with your T-shirt hanging to your thighs.’ She twists the bottom of the T-shirt and ties a small knot, then steps back to admire her work. ‘That’s so much better.’
I turn to the mirror and tug the T-shirt down so it meets the top of my jeans. It does look better. I imagine what people in my congregation would think if they saw me like this. The things they would say.
‘You want some make-up?’ Tamsin asks, holding out her mascara.
I take it and move closer to the mirror to apply some. 1 Peter 3:3 pops into my mind: ‘Do not let your adornment be external.’ The consensus in our congregation seems to be it’s fine to wear make-up to meetings, so long as it doesn’t look like you’re wearing make-up.
I pick the red lipstick, a colour I most certainly wouldn’t wear to a meeting.
‘Oh my God, yes. Perfect colour for you.’
She’s right. It’s bright and fun, and it suits me.
‘Ready?’ Tamsin asks. ‘Mum will drop us off.’
‘I can drive.’
She tilts her head. ‘No, you’re drinking with me, remember?’
As tempting as it is to drive, I want this experience. And I trust Tamsin. That does nothing to stop the guilt that hits me from both sides, though.
‘Let’s go,’ she says, grabbing my arm and tugging me along.
Tamsin’s mum’s name is Sue. She’s kind, funny, and so… normal. She chats away the entire drive, asking me about my jewellery, school, and my plans post-school. Any lingering guilt is eaten up by this entirely comfortable moment.
It hits me then. What if temptation for me isn’t a boy or a fancy career? What if it’s a stable family to spend time with?
