Davina

I never wanted to contemplate the possibility of losing Davina. I held onto the thought that she would always be online and we would always resume where we left off, just chatting and laughing and sharing as if no time had passed at all. When I'd ask, she'd be honest about what was happening to her. She'd tell me of the sequence of procedures, the gruesome and intense pain she was in. I can't imagine what kind of strength she would have needed to endure what she did. We'd type out strategies to feel better somehow, working out how to live mindfully and make music. In spite of whatever was happening to her, she would always ask about me.

I loved being with Davina so much, I loved being at her house. I loved that our history expanded back way into the 1980s, when I was a late toddler with my hair in tight ringlets. We constantly collated our memories of Studley Park and Kew Primary, sharing photos, documents and stories of us hanging out by the peppercorn tree or playing Eliminator, a simplified version of four-square on the basketball courts. She was so warm and loving, always bringing a doona and tattered plush squirrel along to school camps. She belonged to the Double Helix Club and shared my love of slime, stickers and the newly-opened Science Works. Her June birthday parties were legendary, with damper by the Yarra River, awe-inspiring science tricks performed by her dad and extravagant spreads put on by her mum. Kabana and cheese were a Davina staple.

Davina was the original conversationalist, always open to taking a turn around the oval to analyse music, friends and family. I missed her badly when she went to Europe in 1995, but when she returned, she presented a hand-written travel diary to us all, complete with ticket stubs stuck fast with contact on the cover. I loved that diary, the details of the places she visited in her familiar print, often in green or purple ink. I'd keep all the postcards she'd later send to me, sweet and brief reports from her adventures in Tasmania. What she made was always a profound influence on me and more to the point, all the stories I ever wrote about friends frolicking about Europe together were actually dreams of our own adventures. I always imagined we would travel together and we sort of did, going roller skating and to Madame Tussaud's when it toured Melbourne.

She loved and understood music in a way that I loved and understood music. She always encouraged me to write and share my songs with her. She engaged with my theories and insights into Queen, always being open to listen to songs that I loved. She gifted me a cassette dub of Alanis Morissette's Jagged Little Pill and we openly insisted that Oasis and Babylon Zoo reminded us of each other. She sang, played the piano and the recorder and played Theonie in the original musical theatre production of the Crystals of Ashagri. When I became depressed after not receiving a more substantial role in the production, she consoled me for literally decades, insisting that it only happened because I was needed in the orchestra.

We spent so much time together, listening to music and exploring seedy chat rooms like The Park. We'd spend a lot of time on MS-DOS too, playing Pickle Wars or Wacky Races on my 1000 Games CD Rom. We'd later develop an addiction to Bejewelled on MSN. Each night, she'd suggest we'd start another game: "bej?" Our talks rolled on for hours and each night, she'd always cry out when the birds would start chattering, signalling the end of yet another night and another failed resolution to "fix our hours". The friendship would roll on from platform to platform, from ICQ to Myspace, Facebook to Instagram. The chats always just picked up where we left off.

I've been thinking about our nights out together, partying together over New Year's Eve, watching Jackson Jackson at the Evelyn, the Cat Empire at the St Kilda Festival and dancing at Cherry. I've been trying to salvage these moments and the truth is that more details come to light each day. I'm always thinking and remembering Davina, tripping over reminders and conversations that we had. They're the kinds of things we would have reminisced about, but there are also the new things that really had nothing to do with the past. I know that I'll never stop wanting to talk to her. I know that I'll think of her whenever I see a squirrel or the birds start waking up in the morning. I'll always love her and think of her in a very present way. I'll try to preserve all that we shared. Davina knew what it was to love and remember.

Platform

A large throng of girls huddled tightly. Their school dresses were cut jagged and short, the fabric matted with dried blobs of red and yellow acrylic paint. They struggled to all fit together, some leaned outwards, threatening to topple off the two-foot high wooden platform. They held fast to one another, some girls held hands with their friends. Some pressed their plastic firemens' hats to the heads, others remained poised with party poppers.

I stood around awkwardly. Even in the last moments of high school, I never knew where to stand or who to be with. I never stopped envying those tiny microgestures of acceptance, a pose for a photograph, a pause for a moment's conversation. To be acknowledged meant everything to me, only because for those four years, it seemed as if I perpetually stood with some girl's back to me.

Once I received all the attention on that platform where we stood together. I had performed a scene from A Midsummer Night's Dream. I had never been offered the opportunity to perform in a play or a show, not even in the chorus. I had always been predestined for the orchestra pit. It was hugely gratifying to play Bottom, if only for those few moments. I screeched and hammed it up to excess. I died for as long as possible and everybody loved it.

The bell echoed across the courtyard. Girls screamed, arms flailed, confetti fell. Out of nowhere, Nancy suddenly hugged me tightly. She was a tough girl who boasted about hanging out with the Triads on the weekend. On Year 9 camp, she had pinned me down, straddled my mid-section and punched me repeatedly during a night time game. In Year 12, she was reprimanded for punching Amelia. Her swollen left cheek morphed from blue to purple and then black.

I never thought to ask why Nancy suddenly hugged me like that and it was funny that even during that embrace, she still couldn't bring herself to look at me. At the time I consoled myself thinking that the gesture was the apology, albeit the apology of a coward. In retrospect, I think she was just pleased that we would never have to see each other again.

In the years that have followed high school, I have spoken openly about the sadistic bullying practices of our year level. To each other, we used to joke about the widespread myth that every second year level at our school was particularly dysfunctional. It was funny that despite the heightened level of self-awareness (and lengthy group-counselling sessions), we could never get it together.

In theory, it should have all ended in that moment, as we stood in friendship and relief on that platform. In actuality, every incident from those four years seems to spin around in my head forever. The memory of it manifests itself in interesting ways, like I used to live with this insatiable desire to confront any and every bully. Even in my dreams, I wanted to embarrass and condemn those who are cruel.

In more recent times, I haven't been thinking about the cruelty, I have only been thinking about the classes. I loved almost everything that I did and I think back to how inspiring those classes were: Shakespeare in Performance, Women in History, Protest and Conflict, Journalism, Fashion, Photography. In my head, I continue to navigate those grounds, the hallways and the classrooms, but everything is empty. Everyone is gone.

When people ask what high school was like, I say: "It wasn't as bad as it was."

Bullies

The idea of bullies in America's Next Top Model is no strange thing. After all, in every cycle, in every model house, there is the hard girl, the cruel girl who stands independent of the others. Like Tiffany (Cycle 4), like Jade (Cycle 6), like Angelea (Cycle 14), the models make oblique references to their past to account for why they bully. Cycle 16 is no different in that Alexandria is immediately cast as the bully. From week to week, she comes across as rude, abrasive and controlling. She tries to direct the photoshoots, to which any ANTM viewer is a well-known cardinal sin. The other housemates often bitch about Alexandria, often insinuating that she needs to be on medication for her mental health. It went as far as Monique reading through her diary. Matters came to a head in the most recent episode of ANTM when it became apparent that it was no longer Alexandria who was the bully, but Brittani. Brittani's outburst during a photo-shoot challenge, her hysterical proclamations that "everyone wants you gone" and "you don't deserve to be here" made it clear that the bullied had become the bully.

What do you deserve?
I had such investment in my disdain for Alexandria that I failed to see what was really going on. Brittani, too, felt as if she was entitled to victimise Alexandria as she did. It was only when she was interrogated by Tyra and Nigel Barker at panel that she showed visible signs of remorse and embarrassment. But even through the tears and the panic attack, it was apparent that Brittani did not feel sorry for treating Alexandria as she did. Brittani only felt sorry that she "let (Alexandria) do this to her." It forced a lot of viewers to evaluate and compare the actions of both models and consider whether the bully deserved to be bullied. In spite of my initial dislike for Alexandria, I saw so much cruelty in the behaviour of not only Brittani, but in the whole model house. I saw so much ugliness, so much hypocrisy and I was disappointed to see that other YouTube viewers didn't seem to feel the same way. The majority of the commenters felt as though Brittani's bullying should have been carried out back at the house, far from the eyes and the ears of the clients.

The incident forced me to consider the ongoing battle with the bullies of my past. It all went down more than ten years ago, but I dream about them still. I dream about confronting them and shouting at them. I dream of understanding why they were so cruel and sadistic. I figure that is why it is still so relevant to me, I fail to understand what I could have done to deserve that treatment. At the same time, I am uncertain as to what effect my bitching, my snide comments had on my tormentors. I remember a number of girls who hated me so much that they couldn't even look me in the face. One girl spread a rumour that I had planned to do a "Columbine". Another girl stood with a clipboard outside her party and without looking down, she said I wasn't on the guestlist. I remember that night, but I also remember listening to the other girls talk about her. They speculated why all her hair was falling out. They speculated whether she really had an abortion.

I hated these girls, I really did. It wasn't until Top Model that I'd considered that they might have had a reason to hate me too.