Conflicted

Panic begins to rise in me. Normally my clothing is the last thing on my mind, since all I do lately is school and study, but I know first impressions are important. I have nothing suitable for this kind of interview, and no money to buy anything. I glance hopefully in her direction. She rolls her eyes then waves her hand dismissively.

“Raid my closet, it’s fine,” she says. “The black skirt I got last week would look great on you with that charcoal top you have. You know, the one decent article of clothing you own?”

I nod, suddenly thankful for my friend’s online shopping addiction. Last month alone she spent more than our rent on clothes. Even though she’s twenty-two, her parents still fork over a huge weekly allowance and pay all of her bills. It’s a stark contrast to my situation. The second I turned eighteen, any assistance I’d been receiving from my parents stopped so I could learn the importance of independence and the value of money. Of course, it had nothing to do with the fact that I’d decided against the career path that was expected of me. Besides, I’m the most frugal person I’ve ever met. I struggle spending even a few dollars on myself if there is something else I could be spending it on.

That’s the other reason I need this internship. The money, while not great, will go a long way in helping me be able to work less during my final year next year. I made the mistake of working too many shifts at the local pizza place during my first year and my grades suffered. I can’t afford to have them drop again.

After sorting out what I’m going to wear, I do a load of washing and reluctantly tidy my room. If there is one thing I hate, it’s housekeeping. My cleaning regime consists of once a week doing as little as I can to keep the rodents out of my room. Thank God for Ariel’s parents, who insisted on hiring us a housekeeper and refuse to accept any contribution from me for it. Once my clothes are hanging on the line, I go back inside and make myself a sandwich.

I’m halfway through my peanut butter sandwich made with stale multigrain bread when the doorbell rings.

“It’s open,” I yell, knowing it’s Lucas. He walks in, shaking his head.

“Do you just invite everyone in?” he chastises me. He slaps me on the bum and I glower at him, ignoring the flutter in my stomach. “What if I was a serial killer?”

“Then I guess I’d be dead.” I shrug. “Besides, I knew it was you because I heard your shitheap of a car pull up.”

“Hey, you know how I feel about Macy,” he says, his expression wounded.

“And you know how I feel about you naming your car after my grandmother,” I say, rolling my eyes. I can only imagine my prim and proper grandmother learning Lucas had named a car after her. She’d be turning in her grave. I flop down on the sofa and turn on the television. “Want some?” I ask, offering him half my sandwich.

“Not a fan of nuts.” He smirks, falling into the seat.

“Not what I heard,” I giggle, ducking as he reaches out to swat at me. He still manages to grab hold of me, pulling me into his arms. Laughing, I struggle as his fingers graze over my breasts. My nipples harden and I break free, crossing my arms over my chest.

“Cold in here, huh?” he says, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Eat a dick.”

He laughs as I glare at him. I get up and move to the armchair over the other side of him, ignoring his stupid smirk.

I spend the rest of the afternoon lazing on the sofa watching Twilight with Lucas—much to his disgust. Exam time means our classes have ended, even though holidays don’t officially begin until next week. I’m supposed to be going home to Melbourne to spend Christmas with my parents, but if I get this job, my plans will change and I’ll probably be spending most of the holidays here in Sydney. The thought of being away from them for Christmas doesn’t spark up the emotions it probably should. Holidays in my house are always the same: forced conversation with relatives I don’t like and passive-aggressive small talk being exchanged between me and my parents. I’m not even sure they’ll notice me not being there, considering they’re constantly distracted with their first-world problems, like what colour to paint the sunroom.

“Shouldn’t you be studying for your chemistry exam?” I say, nudging Lucas. He’s already failed once. If he fails his make-up exam too, then he’ll be repeating the entire year. Not that you’d think that, considering his relaxed attitude.

“No, all sorted,” he says, his eyes glued to the screen.

“How?” I ask. I have no idea how he can be so laid back all the time. I get anything lower than a high distinction and I’m in panic mode. Maybe that’s the difference in our upbringings. My parents would sooner die than admit to their friends I scored anything lower than the best. A pang of guilt hits me. At least I have them. As much as I dislike the pressure they put on me to succeed, I do love them and I’m thankful that I still have them.

“The TA in that class fucking loves me,” he replies, his eyes twinkling. “I asked her to help me prepare for the exam and she practically gave me the answers.”

“But when I suggest all the girls are in love with you, I’m kidding myself?” I laugh, thinking back to yesterday morning.

“Only when you’re wrong. I can’t help it if that’s all the time,” he teases. “Besides, you said Sara Bonner, not all the girls.”

I reach for the nearby remote and launch it at him.

He grabs it and changes the station. “Thanks. I couldn’t take another second of this shit.”

“Oh shut up,” I groan, sick of his constant harassment of my taste in entertainment. The downside of not having a boyfriend means I have to do some hard negotiating with Lucas to get him

to take me to the movies, or anywhere else I don’t want to go alone. “Have you seen some of the crap you watch?”

“What?” he protests. “The last thing I made you go and see was Die Hard, which, if I recall, you loved.”

“One movie out of twenty isn’t a great track record,” I snicker. “You forced me to watch Star Wars last week—which I hated.”

“You only hated it because you refused to watch the other movies. Of course you’re gonna hate it if you don’t get it.”