Pictures of Lily

her know what I was up to. Maybe I should find a payphone. But when I step off the bus, there she is waiting.
    ‘How did you know I’d be here?’
    ‘Josh called Michael.’ She leads me to her car. ‘What on earth that boy is doing letting you catch a bus on your own at this hour . . . Michael had a few strong words to say to him,’ Mum says, climbing into the car and slamming the door behind her.
    My insides burn with shame. I hate the thought of Josh getting into trouble because of me. Although Lou will be making him feel better right about now . . .
    ‘You’re alive then,’ Ben remarks when I turn up to work on Monday morning.
    ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
    ‘I hope you caught the bus home on Saturday night.’
    ‘I did actually.’ I don’t want to tell him what happened. ‘Why?’
    ‘Josh usually drives when he’s had a few.’
    ‘Oh, right. Pass me the broom, would you?’
    I was appalled when I woke up yesterday morning to see Josh’s car parked in the driveway.
    ‘Did you drive home?’ I asked him. I’d assumed he’d be catching the bus himself.
    ‘Yeah,’ he replied defensively.
    ‘When you were pissed ?’
    ‘I didn’t have that much to drink.’
    ‘You bloody did!’
    ‘What are you – my mother?’
    At that point I remembered that his mother was dead so decided to shut up about it, but he’d continued to justify himself. ‘I drank a few beers, but it was over several hours, and I ate loads. I felt fine.’
    I shook my head in disgust.
    ‘Don’t tell Dad,’ he urged.
    So here I am on Monday morning getting the third degree from Ben.
    ‘That bloke is a menace behind the wheel,’ he mutters, as he passes me the broom. We’re mucking out the koala enclosures. ‘Are we paying you for this yet?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ I reply. ‘I think Michael is speaking to Trudy today.’ A little flutter of nerves passes through me. I so want a job here.
    Good news comes at lunchtime, but my enthusiasm takes a nosedive when Michael presents me with my uniform.
    ‘Did Trudy say yes?’ I squeal, closely followed by, ‘Do I really have to wear the shorts?’
    ‘What’s wrong with them?’ Ben enquires, ploughing into his homemade cheese sandwich.
    ‘I hate my legs,’ I moan.
    ‘There’s nothing wrong with your legs,’ Michael scoffs.
    ‘How would you know?’ I whine. ‘You’re practically elderly.’
    Ben finds this very amusing.
    ‘You can talk, you’ll be thirty soon,’ Michael jibes.
    ‘Not for another two years,’ Ben objects.
    ‘The time will fly by, you mark my words,’ Michael says knowingly. I just stare down at the shorts in despair.
    The next morning my mum waits outside the door to my bedroom demanding a fashion show.
    ‘Come on, Lily, they can’t be that bad.’
    ‘They’re worse,’ I cry.
    The door handle turns. I leap to the door, holding it closed.
    ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she snaps.
    ‘Come on out!’ Michael shouts.
    ‘I look a right state,’ I shout back. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror on the front of the wardrobe and want to cry. My mum turns the door handle again. I’m too slow to stop her and she bursts in.
    ‘Go away!’ I squawk, bending down to hide my legs.
    ‘What are you going on about?’ Mum says crossly. ‘You look fine.’
    ‘I do not!’
    ‘You’ll have a tan in a few days,’ she tells me.
    ‘Not if I keep applying Factor 30 like it’s going out of fashion. I’m so bored of wearing suncream every day,’ I whine.
    ‘Well, you won’t get any colour if you wear jeans all the time,’ she says. I peek at myself in the mirror, warily, and she senses that my reluctance is waning. ‘Think about what you’ll be able to buy with the extra pocket money,’ she adds.
    I’m not getting paid much, but I’d work for free if they asked me to, so anything is a bonus. As it is, I’m doing five days a week until I start school at the end of January, which is about seven weeks away. I still can’t believe how lucky I am – many people would kill to be in my position.
    ‘Come on, darl. We’d better get to work,’ Michael says.
    Trying to buck myself up, I follow him out of my bedroom door and immediately spy a sleepy-looking Josh in the corridor. He notes my shorts and sniggers.
    ‘Bugger off!’ I shout.
    ‘Language,’ Mum says, annoyed.
    Michael tries to jolly me up on the way to work. ‘So, it’s your birthday tomorrow. What time are you doing your theory test?’
    Since Sunday I’ve been religiously