Excerpt: The Denim Miniskirt Bare Essentials

The aeroplane was abysmally loud. In fact, it grew exponentially louder with each hour that passed since the craft, rapidly shrinking into claustrophobia, had crossed the International Date Line. Both Gemma and I were doing our best not to complain, and as a result came full stop talking to each other. Consequently the flight was also getting longer by the minute. This better be worth my time, Paravati.
‘Do you think she’ll do it?’ Gemma had asked when I told her of my post-graduation plans.
‘Of course she will. You haven’t met Paravati,’ I had coolly replied. But I hadn’t been so sure. And now, sickening from a diet of plastic dinner look-alikes and forty-minute turbulence, shrivelling in the dry, re-circulating air, I was even less sure. I was down to guessing, hoping. But still. A shot in the dark was still a shot, which, according to William Henry whenever he was attempting something mad, had a 36.7% chance of success if you took it with enough confidence. I hoped my desperation could be taken as confidence.
It certainly was more of a shot than poor Gemma had. She had been such a good mate to me over the years and it was hard to see her hopes trickle away torturously slowly. She deserved better than her dastardly family’s crooked business, but you won’t ever hear her complain. Good of her to come, really. Whatever she says was the reason, we both know it’s to put off her going home as long as possible.
‘I reckon I’ll be awake the whole sixteen hours at this rate.’
‘Me too. Wish we had a video or something,’ I empathised.
‘Fucking Qantas.’ Gemma went back to staring pathetically at the black screen of the ‘Patented Personal Entertainment System’ in the headrest of the seat in front, wiling it to suddenly come to life and end our boredom with Friends reruns.
‘Times like this I wish I got airsick just so I could throw up on it.’ She laughed. Mission accomplished. I stood up slowly.
‘Where you headed?’ She asked, shuffling her legs to the aisle so I could pass.
‘I’m going to find the dodgiest passenger on this flight and offer my firstborn for any pill, patch, or plant that will put me to sleep.’
‘I’ll throw in a kidney if you can wrangle two.’
‘Don’t fret, love, I’ll throw in my second born too. Save your organs. They’re worth more in China.'

I did have to run to class, that was no lie. But I didn’t. Instead I headed home, weaving through the sea of absent-minded bicyclists, phone-distracted pedestrians, and skateboarders who thought themselves daredevils and tried to knock into the rest of us like bowling pins. I opened the door to my building only to be met by a loudly complaining line. As if they didn’t already know the lift is older than their grandmothers and took twice as long to descend two floors.
I turned down the corridor towards the stairs, feeling strangely guilty but elated. I don’t know what it is about school of any nature, but I will always grow tired of classes. Even now, a seasoned vet at term-paper bullshitting and academic bullet dodging, I am unable to role model. I tried to be good, I honestly did, but I turned out to be, if possible, a worse university student than I was a prep school student. I regularly attended lectures for all of about three weeks before retiring to my old nefarious ways, though this time around none of my professors seemed to care if I showed up and I was thus saved a trip on the ethics seesaw having to fall back on any of the numerous (and bogus) mental and learning disorders I had registered with the student health office at the start of my first year. Honestly, it wasn’t like that was even difficult. Dad’s signature is painfully easy to forge (I’ve been doing for years, since he told me to stop asking him to sign permission slips and just go wherever the hell they want to take me already), and Dr. Mickey will do anything if you mention you’d be willing to buy him a package of anise candy. Alack, my precautions were totally unnecessary.
I dropped my bag in the middle of the room with no care to its contents and face planted into the clean laundry pile on my bed with a ‘fwwwwhump’ so long I could have taken a nap in it. Karinne, my German roommate of one year was either absent or rather adept at hiding (I once found her between the icebox and the sink, asleep), so I slid my jeans off in favour of sleep at the proper temperature. Eleven minutes later my mobile called me back from dreamland.