Uniform

Jennie Del Mastro

12/07/2025

After the Alchemy exhibition, Amy drifted through the museum to Zoology. It was light, cosy, and full of families. She opened every illuminated drawer, finding eggshells, centipedes and coral. Kids pushed ahead of her, but she didn’t mind. Let other adults rein them in today.

One small boy stood hard on her foot, holding up a sea urchin.

‘Wow, thank you.’

He ran away, beaming.

She held it lightly before leaving it on a table.

Its gentle prickliness followed her across the city and into the train station. Invisible spikes pressed her palms as she waited on the platform. All those mesmerising, unpredictable forms of life, now dried and put under glass. It was a relief to think of the school lab: tiny uniform sodium hydroxide pellets, slim spatulas lifting neat powder mountains, scales calibrated to a negligible margin of error. Inorganic and predictable – except for the students.

The familiar train of thought took a turn as one of those students swanned into her sight. Jasmine Clinker.

Amy had watched years of girls in kilts and blazers pass through the school (a very good school, really), to be pressed into a mould: bright, polite contributors to class, school life and society.

Jasmine stood beyond the yellow warning line, in short, tight shorts, sharing a vape with some boys. Her hair tore back in the vortex as a train arrived. ‘Woo!’

Amy averted her eyes. The boys found a spare bench while Jasmine rode an electric scooter along the platform, shrieking with laughter.

‘How do I stop?’

‘Use the brakes.’

At the escalator base, Jasmine fell off the scooter. She dragged it back and half-tossed it at one of the boys. ‘This thing suuuucks.’

‘I told you.’ He didn’t look up from his phone.

Maybe they weren’t bored with her, Amy told herself. Maybe they valued her for more than her potential behind closed doors. Maybe they were her brothers, her cousins, her friends-since-birth.

But all those years teaching had shown Amy that things were usually exactly what they seemed – if you took a close look. Oh, child, what are you doing?

The loudspeaker burbled, and she checked the screen. The regional train was running late. She headed for the toilets. No queue, and an empty stall first on the right.

‘Jazz! Hurry up!’ The male yells came from above Amy’s head – she gathered her trousers further from the floor and craned anxiously, but the windows were high up and obscured.

‘Jazz, the train’s coming!’

Amy jumped, dropping her waistband.

‘No, it’s not,’ Jasmine called from the washing area. ‘Morons.’

Amy’s trousers were on the floor. Ugh. She yanked them up and sighed. Two hours and she’d be home: books, Greg and a clean bathroom.

Amy rearranged her clothes, flushed, unhooked her bag and opened the door. The morons were quiet. She pushed through feminine murmurings to a free basin, glanced at the mirror and caught Jasmine’s eye.

‘Ms Swatch.’

‘Jasmine.’

Jasmine was delicately brushing a finger along her eyelashes. Ridiculously black, impossibly long. Prosthetics, Greg called them.

Did you submit the titration report? Oh, child, what are you doing? Say nothing personal, Amy told herself, sluicing her hands. Nothing negative. Nothing appearance-related. The soap gripped her skin, refusing to be washed away. Nothing nagging. Nothing trying to sound young. Basically, nothing.

She caught Jasmine’s eye again. ‘Don’t your eyelids feel heavy?’ Oops.

‘Are you okay?’ said Jasmine simultaneously. She pressed her eyelid taut with one hand and peeled away the lashes.

Amy winced.

‘It doesn’t hurt – unless you’ve got the glue all over your real lashes. Then you might wax them off.’

Amy winced again.

‘I don’t have any real ones anyway. Here, stand still. Close your eyes.’ Jasmine pulled Amy under the light and put a finger and thumb flat on her eyebrow and cheekbone. The pressure was firm and impersonal, like a nurse.

Amy’s head spun. Nobody touched a teacher’s eyes. Nobody applied eyelashes fresh from their own eyes. Or did they? Outside school, what were the guidelines?

A cool line ran along one of Amy’s eyelids, then the other. A steady hand patted the eyelashes into place. There was a soft tearing sound, and the second set, still warm, settled on her other eye.

Amy wrinkled her nose, grimacing, then blinked a weighty flap, like a giant, slow-motion butterfly.

Jasmine laughed, spreading fruity breath, and held up a tube of glue. ‘It’s strong but easy to remove. Once it’s dry, you can wash and everything. They won’t come off unless you really pull.’

The tube end looked melted and scorched, like it had been cut and resealed. ‘Did you make the glue yourself?’

‘Yeah!’ Jasmine’s bare, childish eyes gleamed. ‘I have a lab in the garage at home.’

Five years rolled back. Amy saw twelve-year-old Jasmine winning a school fountain pen for growing the biggest copper sulphate crystal in the class – the biggest Amy had ever seen, in fact. She should be concerned that some backyard concoction was sitting on her eyes. But she was too surprised and too damn proud to care.

The boys were yelling. This time, the train really was coming, Amy guessed. ‘Don’t they annoy you?’

‘Eyelashes? No. Guys? Yes.’

Jasmine gathered bottles and tubes and threw them in a bag. They left the bathroom together and dashed for the platform. The train vortex blasted; Amy’s lashes billowed like sails but stayed put.

‘See you tomorrow, Ms Swatch.’

‘Titration prac report.’

‘I just need to write the conclusion.’ Jasmine brushed at her eyes, then stopped, laughing. ‘Technically, I do have eyelashes, but you have to look close. Ok, let’s see if those morons recognise me.’

As they parted, Amy took a closer look. Short, light brown lashes – quite pretty.

That night, Greg smiled across the coffee table. ‘They catch on your reading glasses. Cute.’

Amy blinked innocently. ‘I might keep them for a while. Test the glue’s properties. Encourage a self-motivated student.’

‘I’d support that.’

***

Second Prize: Jennie Del Mastro

Jennie Del Mastro is a secret extrovert who prefers to write surrounded by people. She lives in Gippsland (Gunaikurnai country) with her husband, three sons who are taller than her, and a very pretty rescue kelpie. You can read her short stories in The Big Issue Fiction Edition, Aurealis magazine and various anthologies. Her first novel, Dear Anxious Heart, is set to be released in late 2025. Find her at www.jenniedelmastro.com