By Rebecca Douglas

So many people have those plaques on their letter boxes: No Junk Mail. I don’t get it. I love catalogs.

Every time a fistful lands in our letter box, I run inside and fan them out on my quilt. It’s like I’m at the top of Enid Blyton’s faraway tree and the wispy, misty Land of Buy-What-You-Want has floated up to me.

I’ve never told anybody about the game I play with my glorious puddles of junk mail. It doesn’t have a name, and the only rule is that I get to go on an imaginary spending spree with a set amount of money. It’s like fantasy football for shopaholics. Nothing’s off-limits. Dior, Chanel, Gaultier…Names, darling, names. Or, more often with the brochures we get around here, Bonds, Target, and Diadora, but whatever. You work with the tools you’re given.

Today, there’ll be no faux spending spree and no bogus brands. I’ve got $143.70 sitting in my Student Saver account, and tomorrow’s payday. This time, we’re going top-notch and IRL.

I cruise past the sports store window at the Westfield three times before I pluck up the courage to go in. My heart’s pounding in my ears. The sales assistant looks like a young Michelle Bridges and flashes me a megawatt smile fueled by endorphins and holier-than-thou healthiness.

“Hi, I’d like to try on a pair of Nike Ultra Zooms in a size eight?”

She bounces away, and I’m left to calculate how many hours of burger-flipping these white-and-silver sneakers are going to cost. About a squillion. They better be frigging worth it. I contemplate my yellowed plasticus K-marticus sandshoes until she returns.

My sneakers emerge so pure and white from the box. They’re a little holier-than-thou themselves.

I try them on, holding them by my fingertips as I take them from the box. The leather rubs at my heels; the toes feel tight. I cringe a little.

The sales assistant’s smile falters. “All good, honey?”

Maybe I should try on canvas ones, or the Diadoras. They’ve always fit in the past. No, these will soften up. I’ll break them in.

“I’ll take them.” The velcro of my no-name surf wallet rips open like a waterproof Band-Aid off a scab.

I ride the shopping high all the way home and call Cass.

“I got ‘em!”

She grunts. “Pics or it didn’t happen!” I’m pretty sure she’s jealous, and I’m pleased. I refuse to Instagram them, and she lets me off with a promise to wear them to school the next day.

I rock up to the school gates in the morning feeling better than in a long time. Finally, I have the latest, most expensive thing. I’ll be getting all the compliments and admiring looks. I’m hoping nobody tries to “christen” these shoes by stepping on them and blemishing their pristine whiteness. At least not before lunch.

Sarah Edmiston and Leah McLeod cruise past, glance in my direction, and whisper.

“Look,” Sarah shouts to Josh and Brett and the rest of their group, pointing. “Little beggar girl’s got herself a pair of Nike knock-offs. What are they, Nekes or Narkies or Norks?”

My face grows hot and prickly. “They’re real! I bought them yesterday.” My voice comes out as a squeak.

“Yeah, right!” Their taunts and snorts of laughter chase me out the gates as the tears burn down my face. “You could never afford those.”

Eyes firmly on the concrete and asphalt, I run home and ditch my dream sneakers in the back of the cupboard, never to be worn again. They cost too damn much.