The Mag Hags

by Lollie Barr

  Mand nodded and bit her bottom lip, but didn’t trust herself to speak.

  Through the walls came the strumming of an acoustic guitar and a gravelly voice crooning: ‘Even if the road was paved with gold, I’d still come back to you.’ It was her dad, she recognised his voice immediately – when nobody was home Mand would play his old records, and somehow, although he was a forty-two-year-old man and she was a fifteen-year-old girl, they had a similar tone to their voices when they sang.

  ‘Ready, love?’ said Mel.

  ‘As I’ll ever be,’ said Mand as Mel knocked on the door that read Performers’ Changing Room. The music stopped and the door flung open. There stood Mand’s dad. His hair had turned a salt and pepper grey but he was still an attractive man. A gaggle of old musos sat around behind him, instruments in hand.

  ‘Mandy baby,’ he said, because he didn’t know Mand had grown out of Mandy two years ago.

  ‘Dad …’ said Mand, getting lost in his embrace and the whiff of his cologne, the same one he always used that smelled of wood, musk and grass. That familiar smell of him unleashed a well of emotion. Don’t cry, Mand told herself, please don’t cry, oh god, not in front of his band. But to no avail – she started sobbing. Her carefully applied black mascara and eyeliner slid down her face. It was humiliating. ‘Oh baby, don’t cry,’ said Mand’s father, half-laughing, wiping away her tears and smiling at her, but looking kind of guilty.

  ‘Peter,’ said Mand’s mum sternly in a form of a greeting.

  ‘Mel,’ he replied, giving her a cursory nod and steering the conversation out of emotional waters. ‘Look Mandy, I’ve got a new guitar. It’s a beauty. Are you still playing? I remember you were learning.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Mand, composing herself. ‘I write songs and stuff too.’

  ‘She’s actually very talented,’ piped up Mel. ‘Her songs are fantastic and she’s got a fabulous voice.’

  Mand did a double-take. She didn’t know her mother took that much notice.

  ‘Chip off the old block, eh?’ said Peter picking up the guitar and holding it out for her. ‘Want to crank out a tune?’

  Mand could have crawled into a deep dark hole for eternity. Oh yeah great Dad, she thought, all I need now is to humiliate myself even further by doing a live performance in front of professional musos. Her dad, despite his heartfelt lyrics, could be as insensitive as an oaf.

  ‘Go on!’ he said, with that boyish enthusiasm that was impossible to ignore, thrusting his guitar towards her. ‘I’d love to hear you sing!’

  She reluctantly took the acoustic guitar from her father and sat down on a big black guitar amp covered in stickers. She checked the guitar was in tune, closed her eyes and started playing.

  Picking up Sticks

  Sorting through the shit

  Picking up the sticks

  Putting it together again

  Turning the wheel

  Tell me what’s real

  Pieces land where they fall

  Wading in it deep

  Think about it

  The world is changing again

  Just when it’s sussed

  You all make a fuss

  Putting it together again

  We’re just picking up the sticks

  Blowing down the house

  Playing cat and mouse

  Putting it together again

  Just picking up sticks, just picking up sticks

  Just picking up sticks, just picking up sticks

  Just picking up sticks, just picking up sticks

  As the last note rang out there was a stunned silence in the room. Mand opened one eye and peeked out. Her mum started clapping hysterically. Directly in her line of sight sat her father; she couldn’t read his expression, but she could see the tears glistening in his eyes. ‘Mandy, that was bloody brilliant!’ he said, jumping up and hugging her. ‘Music is in the blood, kid, it’s in our blood!’

  ‘Yeah, right on. Nice tune, sweetheart,’ said an old guy with badly dyed black hair, holding a bass and smiling at Mand. ‘Watch your back, Pete, your kid is going to make you look like a has-been, she’s so good’.

  Mand’s dad laughed a little too hard. ‘Yeah, one day,’ he said. ‘But before you steal all the glory, Mand, I’ve got to get ready for my gig’.

  Mand and Mel went around to the front of the stage and stood in the crowd. There was an odd mix among the two hundred or so people in the audience – young kids on the eighties revival being ironic, her dad’s old fans and a few people who had just turned up at the venue and looked like they were having a good time anyway. It was weird watching her father up on stage. She didn’t really take much notice of the music, she just watched him as he danced, sang and played his heart out. She couldn’t believe that they were related. It was kind of cool, but kind of embarrassing as well.

  After the show, she went back to the dressing room with Mel. Peter acted as though they were old mates, introducing her to the new band members as if there had never been a three-year separation. When she left, he hugged her tight, said ‘I love you’ and told her he would call her as soon as he got back from the tour. Mand softened just a little inside but she didn’t want to get her hopes too high, it was her dad after all.

  When Cat suggested to her sister the plan to get some dirt on Reanne, Debs agreed, not on the premise of getting fit, but because playing a starring role in a mini soap opera beat the living daylights out of watching Daylight, the daytime American soap she had recently become addicted to.

  The ruse was that Debs told Shirley, Sol’s mother, that after watching Oprah, she had been inspired to finally lose the weight that drinking a never-ending bottle of soda pop, stuffing your gob full of junk food and not doing a skerrick of exercise can make you put on. Of course, Shirl recommended she go to see Sol for a kickboxing session. After some snooping, Debs found out that Reanne trained at 5.30 pm on a Tuesday and Friday. So Debs booked herself a session at 4.30 pm on Tuesday, on the proviso that Cat would accompany her.

  It didn’t take much convincing for Evelyn to leave work early to drop the girls at Out for Kicks. ‘Thank god,’ she said. ‘It’s about time you did something about your weight, Debs. I can’t believe you would let yourself go. Did you know at your age I was a size 8 and what am I now? A size 8. You must get it from your father’s side, there were no fat people on my side …’

  ‘Mum! Get over it,’ said Cat venomously. ‘Give her a break.’

  At which Debs stuffed a handful of tortilla chips into her mouth, got out of the car and slammed the door without saying goodbye.

  Out for Kicks was full. There were loads of hot boys with toned bodies punishing punch bags and each other. Some were fighting in a ring, doing these cute kung-fu moves, their feet kicking out like bulls with unwanted cowboys on their backs, their hands punching like pistons. You could almost choke on the testosterone in the room.

  ‘Debs, Cat,’ called out a sweaty stocky dude with muscles on his muscles. ‘Glad you could make it.’

  ‘Hi Sol,’ said the girls shyly as he climbed out of the ring and walked over to them.

  ‘Right, let’s get you two kitted up,’ said Sol.

  ‘Oh no, I’m not going to fight,’ said Cat indignantly. ‘I’m here to watch.’

  ‘You should learn a few self-defence moves, Cat,’ said Sol. ‘You never know when you might need them.’

  The thought of Kylie Mannigan’s wormy little face came into Cat’s mind. Kylie had a hard girl reputation, so maybe Cat should really learn a few moves. The thought of fighting made her sick to her stomach. She’d never had a fight herself, but she had seen two sixteen-year-old girls inflict untold damage on each other’s faces with two sets of false nails, at a Baywood Under-18 do called ‘Harmony’. She felt an involuntarily shiver run up her spinean involuntarily shiver run up her spine

  ‘Okay,’ said Cat. ‘Where are the boxing gloves?’

  Sol took the girls off to the kit room, which stank of Deep Heat and sweat and he
dug around in a big blue box full of red boxing gloves looking for their size. He then got a long length of black material and wrapped the girls’ hands up, before slipping the red gloves over the top. Completing the look was a head guard. ‘You’re not serious!’ said Cat, feeling incredibly self-conscious as Sol placed it over her head. ‘I feel like Rocky!’ To which Debs started humming the theme tune and yelled out, ‘Adrienne’ before both girls did a little Rocky dance and then dissolved into a fit of giggles.

  Beside the ring, Sol taught them how to punch and how to execute elbow strikes, knee strikes and kicks. Then a combination of all of the above, which was exhausting, especially for Debs who had not done a bit of exercise since she captained the Year 9 basketball team to an upset victory over champions Conrey Park. She’d been slim enough then to be carried on the girls’ shoulders for a victory lap.

  ‘Now I want you to practise punching this punching bag,’ said Sol. ‘Debs, you first.’

  Debs threw some punches but the bag hardly moved.

  ‘Okay Debs, imagine this bag will take all of your frustration and anger. Direct all your negative energy at it,’ said Sol. ‘Really go for it!’

  A riot of images ran through Deb’s mind – her super-skinny mum nibbling on a Ryvita, her sister teasing her in front of her friends, her dad who never called, the crap jobs she never got, the boys that never even saw her, despite her being twice their size. Then, with a mighty combination of punches and kicks, Debs belted the living daylights out of the bag.

  ‘Wow, Debs,’ said Sol, when she finally stopped, hands on knees, gasping to get her breath back. ‘I think you’re a natural, girl.’

  Cat was next, turning the bag into Kylie Mannigan, but even so, she didn’t have the same intensity as Debs. To finish off, Sol suggested the girls spar with him. Spar meaning fight, not take a hot bubbly spa bath with a hot and sweaty Sol, although the thought did cross Deb’s mind.

  Sol said he would fight both girls, so they joined forces in an unholy sisterly alliance, and were chasing Sol around the ring, trying to batter him. It reminded them of playing rumbles with their dad when they were small, which usually ended in tears, when their dad got kicked in the nuts. Of course, being the State champion, Sol deflected their blows easily, like a mozzie buzzing around your head on a hot summer’s night evades death.

  ‘Sol, babe,’ said a voice. ‘Sol, over here.’

  The girls and Sol stopped sparring to see Reanne Rowles standing by the ring, dressed in black tracksuit pants and a little crop top, a big sports bag at her feet. ‘Hey, Reanne,’ said Sol, smiling. ‘You ready for a session?’

  The girls looked at each other wide-eyed. ‘Just finishing off with the girls,’ said Sol. ‘Be with you in a tick.’

  ‘Okay, babes,’ said Reanne, picking up her bag and walking off, all eyes in the ring upon her.

  The girls were unsure what to do next, so Debs took the lead. ‘Can we hang around and work on our punches, Sol?’

  ‘Sure thing. I love your enthusiasm!’ he said, jumping down from the ring and following Reanne. ‘See you next week, girls.’

  After pretending to punch the bag a bit, Cat and Debs went in search of Reanne and Sol. Through a glass door, in a small room at the side of the gym, they saw Reanne sitting at a desk: it looked as though she was crying. Sol was standing behind her, his hand on her back, patting and rubbing like she was a small baby in need of burping.

  ‘Damn, I wish we could hear what they’re saying,’ said Debs.

  ‘I don’t think we need to,’ said Cat. ‘I think that is proof enough, don’t you?’

  ‘Maybe she’s just upset,’ said Debs.

  ‘Yeah, that she has to marry Belle’s fat little dad, not Mr Super Spunk himself. I’ve seen enough to know exactly what is going on here.’

  As the girls took their gear off and dropped it into the equipment room, two very cute boys, sweaty from a round of punching and kicking, walked in. ‘Girls,’ said the tall guy with the bright blue eyes and mini mohican.

  ‘Hi,’ said the sisters in melodic unison, then walked out of the room and burst out laughing.

  ‘This is the coolest place ever!’ said Debs, sounding upbeat for the first time in absolutely ages. ‘Not only do I love kicking the living shit out of things, but this place is full of the hottest, most gorgeous men!’

  Cat laughed; maybe it was the endorphins from the kickboxing and sneaking around, but for the first time in the longest time, she felt glad that Debs was her sister. ‘Yeah, kick arse, sis!’

  The formal was taking place in just four weeks’ time, so who was going with who was the topic on everyone’s lips. When Cat heard from Jodi Mark that Nate had a date, her brain went into overdrive. Apparently Nate had told Glen McDonald, who told his sister Marav, who told Imogen Smith, who told Jodi Mark, that Nate was bragging that he had pulled the hottest girl of the year as his date, but wouldn’t divulge any more. This, of course, sent Cat’s blood pressure skyrocketing.

  A hundred faces and possibilities went through her mind. If it was that cheap-as-nylon Kylie Mannigan, well, she would consider some form of harakiri. It wasn’t until two days later, at water polo training, that Nate told Glen McDonald, who told his sister Marav, who told Imogen Smith, who told Jodi Mark, who told Cat, making the daisy chain of gossip complete, that the mystery girl was, in fact, one Corabelle Askew, the millionaire’s daughter, who had apparently said yes without a moment’s hesitation.

  When Cat heard about this, she flipped out. There’s something about breaking up with somebody and then later finding out that they have made someone else the object of their affection. It cuts like a nick when you’re rushing to shave your legs. There’s a lot of blood, but when you wash it away, you see that the cut was only surface deep. Cat hadn’t washed away the blood by the time she confronted Belle in the playground at lunchtime.

  ‘Can we have a word?’ said Cat with a grimaced smile, looking Belle directly in the eye. ‘In private?’

  ‘Sure, Cat,’ said Belle, excusing herself from the usual cast of sycophants wanting a go on The Vultron.

  The girls walked across the quadrangle to the seats on the far side of the school, beneath the huge trees that dropped red berries in the summertime.

  ‘Are you going to the formal with Nate?’ said Cat, and before giving Belle time to answer, cried, ‘Nate was, my … my … my boyfriend.’

  ‘Was being the operative word,’ said Belle. ‘Get over it, Cat, you were together for two weeks and you’ve been broken up for ages!’

  ‘You don’t get it, do you?’ said Cat. Her heart thundered and a flush of red spread across her throat and into her cheeks. ‘I’ve been going to kickboxing classes to help you out, making my sister help you too. But do you ever say thanks? No, you just expect it, don’t you? Then you go to the formal with the love of my life, the man who, who …’

  ‘The man who what?’ said Belle, standing up defiantly, her hands on her hips.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Cat with a sigh of defeat. ‘But you know how I feel about him …’

  ‘Cat, I’m only going to the formal with him,’ said Belle. ‘It’s not like we’re getting married or something. Please don’t turn this into an issue. Okay?’

  But Cat stared straight through her, her eyes dead and said, ‘Yeah, yeah whatever’, a word she used when she really didn’t know what to say because to express everything she felt would be far too scary.

  On Saturday morning the girls had arranged to convene at Mag Hag Central after Belle and Wanda had finished playing in the Saturday netball league. It was one of those bipolar weather days, big black and stormy in one part of the sky; bright blue and lit up by the sun’s rays in another. Like the weather, the atmosphere in the room was decidedly unsettled.

  Cat was dreading having to spend time with Belle after the Nate conversation; Belle had lost at netball in the dying minutes of the game and still had her dad’s wedding to contend with and Wanda’s internalised rage at having her sewing machi
ne confiscated was bubbling like Mount Vesuvius at its molten core. Maggie was definitely so over her sister’s wedding and still hadn’t heard anything about the exchange program in Holland. She wanted to be anywhere but Deadwood. Not to be left out, Mand was fed up with her fly-by-night dad, breezing in and then disappearing without even suggesting they have breakfast together. Add to the mix that four of the five girls were experiencing the effects of PMS, and you’ve got the female equivalent of dynamite.

  Maggie had insisted on a four-hour intensive work session, as there was so much work to be done, and she wasn’t averse to a bit of whip cracking. After all, the deadline was looming, and there were still stories to be written, pictures to be chosen, words to be proofed and layouts done.

  After tucking into a plate of mini muffins and a jug of orange juice that Mrs Biggins had left for the girls, Maggie called the meeting to order.

  ‘Okay, let’s have a look at the list of stories. Cat, how’s the Tyler interview going? Have you heard from your contact?’ she asked.

  ‘No, not yet, I’ve been texting the guy like a deranged stalker,’ replied Cat. ‘I swear I’ve sent him over twenty messages. I just hope he doesn’t report me to the police!’

  ‘And the celebrity quiz?’ asked Maggie. ‘That was supposed to be in two weeks ago.’

  ‘You’ll have it when it’s ready,’ said Cat in a huff. ‘Unlike you, I do have a life outside of the magazine.’

  Once this kind of snarly reply would have made Maggie blush furiously and keep her mouth firmly shut. Now she knew Cat better she didn’t seem so scary after all.

  ‘Mand, what about your global warming story that was due last week too. We’re falling behind schedule.’

  ‘I’m interviewing this chick from Friends of the Earth over the phone next Monday. I’ll file the copy at our Wednesday meeting,’ said Mand.

  ‘And have you all done your music reviews? They were actually due yesterday,’ said Maggie with a distinct tone of impatience.