Lambing

Greengate was glowing, even the flowers upturned. Alex walked, sure in look if not in spirit, past manicured lawns and painted fences, smiling and nodding at each waving neighbour. Everyone seemed out in force today, stepping from behind twitching curtains to take a good gander at this year’s fresh crop of lambs, lips licking.

Five young girls (maybe eight to ten, pre-lamb) were playing skipping rope in the road, singing an old nursery tune. “Not your body, not your body, not your body on your own, share and share and share your body, share your body with everyone.” The words were so imprinted as muscle memory, Alex found herself humming the la-di-da anthem with each step.

She caught herself. A couple of years ago, she would have happily laughed and proudly sang along, but nothing felt right anymore. Her ears heard a self-grooming slice of mind-fuckery more than a playground jig now, leaving a taste so sour her stomach churned.

This growing sense of unease could easily be dismissed as virginal jitters, but she just couldn’t (wouldn’t?) shake the idea that Greengate, the only home she’d known, the perfect shelter from horrors outside, was just… wrong somehow. The girls paused as Alex passed and threw a mock-salute curtsie. Wasn’t she the lucky one?

She was relieved when her crew appeared from their respective streets, so she wasn’t the only meat on display. Lizzie Beaumont ran up, pigtails swinging and shining bright. “Can you believe today’s the day already? How’s your brother feeling?” Lizzie had crushed on Al since kindergarten and Alex half-suspected he was the only reason Lizzie was her bestie.

Then Marge Butterworth, eyes wider than her glasses. “Can you imagine what’d it be like if we didn’t get picked? I mean, your life is over before it even began, fudging over.” “Marge! Language!”

Colleen Richards still carried her books in her hands instead of in her rucksack. She had seen it on a poster of the perfect war family and favoured tradition over practicality. “Y’know we’ve all got our first choices, but we still gotta be happy with our second or third, y’know…” “What about fifth or sixth?” “Ewwwwww…”

Their chatter grew louder and blurred into one constant slurry of ostrich buggery. Deep breaths, deep breaths. Was this a panic attack? Was she the only one who felt this way? Was Alex the problem, not the town? The gangly freak with the popular brother? She squeezed her eyes but nothing cleared. Everywhere, everywhere! Sometimes the world was so loud she couldn’t hear herself scream.

A splash of water started her back to even louder screeching and wolfwhistles. Vern, Harry and Dick Peterson drove past in their Ma’s VW, waterguns spunking out the window. “You girls didn’t look wet enough already!”

Her crew mock brushed their soaked fronts, acting the part. “Gosh darn Vern you should be so lucky.” “Maybe we should be so lucky.” “Isn’t he a dreamboat…”

Alex thought yet another bad thought. One more to add to the growing collection. Fuck me, she internalised, is everyone in this fucking town retarded?