“Well now, what’s going on here?” a voice boomed. It was Mr Murray, the girls’ Science teacher.
Khalilah and Maddie came rushing in, empty buckets banging against their knees as they ran.
“Oh, Mr Murray!” Khalilah exclaimed, quickly taking in the scene and its terrifying ramifications, “it’s all a big mistake. We were doing a Science experiment after being totally inspired by your explanation about space and anti-matter, and tried to apply the same principles to water and, and …”
“And we tried to make anti-water,” said Sofia, proudly.
“Anti-water?” Mr Murray’s bushy eyebrows disappeared.
“Yes. As in un-wet. We were testing to see if we could make un-wet water,” Maddie said. Even in saying it, you could tell she was having a hard time believing it herself.
Mr Murray unconsciously squatted to release the tension from his tight trousers, which only made them tighter. “Well, goodness. (Squat). Un-wet water, eh? There’s a first. (Squat). I admire your initiative, but it seems clear to me your principle is rather unsound. (Squat). But by golly, I do admire your creativity. (Squat). This is what the school strives for, after all. Enquiring minds, and all that. (Squat). A pity about the mess, but luckily the plants seems to have taken the brunt of it …”
“But, but, what about us?” Coach Kusmuk spluttered. “They deserve at least a detention!”
Mr Murray held up a warning hand. “No, no, (squat) I wouldn’t dream of squashing the Thrill Of Discovery. But,” he said, looking sternly at the four friends, “this boy is right. (Squat). You owe them an apology,” and with one final, deep squat that made him look like a frog poised to spring, he waddled away, chuckling to himself about anti-matter and un-wet water.
He still thought Coach Kusmuk was a student! And a boy! And Coach Kusmuk knew they knew.
The P.E. teacher’s expression was thunderous. She turned to Alana and held up her phone. Coach Kusmuk’s hand, like the rest of her, shook with rage.
“If you want this back, you will see me in my office with one of your parents. Until then, it will stay locked in the Confiscation Cupboard,” she barked before striding through the door.
“We’re sorry, Lara. We didn’t mean you to get wet,” Alana said to the girl who was standing in a miserable puddle. “Why didn’t you use the umbrella?”
“It’s bad luck to open an umbrella indoors. I thought everyone knew that,” Lara said with a sullen look, and slipped away.
The four girls looked at each other. They now knew who was the more superstitious of the two, but it still didn’t prove she had taken the magic eight-ball charm.
“Un-wet water? Seriously?” Khlalilah suddenly asked, eyes glinting with laughter.
Sofia, hands on hips, replied, “Dunking Coach Kusmuk? Do you two have a death wish?”
Maddie shook her head and pointed at Khalilah. “You should have heard the original idea. You’re lucky this was only water!”
Alana put her arms around them all and led them out the door. “It’s not my ideal way of sneaking a peak at the Confiscation Cupboard, but it’ll do. And next time, Khalilah, if you have another Bright Idea, remind me not to listen.”
CHAPTER 21
Emma chooses an adventure over tea.
Emma avoided her study for a whole day. As soon as she woke up, she went straight outside and pottered around the garden (if ‘pottering’ was watering plants refusing to die – weeds – and trimming the rhododendron bushes). After gardening, she went inside and tidied the living room. She even cleaned the kitchen and baked a tray of muffins, which she (unusually) sat to watch rise. This probably explained why they emerged a golden brown colour, like the recipe promised. When she did summon the courage to walk into her study, she spent ten minutes rearranging the papers on her desk into senseless piles. Then the bowls and plates of half-eaten food were collected and put in the kitchen sink. Returning, she looked at the scraps of paper on the Christmas tree without seeing them, her eyes drawn like a magnet to the silent machine on her desk.
Last night she sent a response to PeterPan. Emma was dying to find out what, if anything, PeterPan had said. But also slightly afraid. She now deeply regretted the message she’d typed. Didn’t her mother always warn her that you only got one chance to make a first impression, and yet she’d probably blown it with, ‘What’s a nice guy like you doing in a place like this?’ So L-A-M-E! Emma cringed just thinking about it.
Emma’s fingernails tapped the table. It was already late afternoon. She couldn’t remember the last time she had taken a Day Off. Even on days she hadn’t worked, she’d always hopped onto the computer to at least check emails. Chiding herself for being so silly, she took a deep breath and looked at the screen. There was a message from HookUp. It was PeterPan!
PeterPan: It’s the only place I know people like me for me. Not because of what I look like, who I am, or what I do.
Emma smiled as she sat down. He sounded nice. Sensitive, even. She had no idea if he was online, but decided to answer before she changed her mind.
LegsEleven: So why PeterPan?
Almost immediately, an answer flashed onto the screen. He was there!
PeterPan: Young at heart? Why LegsEleven?
Do you play Bingo often?
Emma smiled as she typed.
LegsEleven: Yes, every night after my bowl of junket, they wheel me out for some entertainment.
Then, because she was anxious to let him know she wasn’t really a pensioner with false teeth and possible bowel issues in an Old Folk’s Home, she quickly added: (Kidding).
PeterPan: Careful. I hear Bingo can get pretty rough. LOL.
LOL? What was LOL? Emma thought to herself. Never had she felt so out-of-touch with the world and modern technology. She glanced at the Christmas tree for inspiration. The song, ‘Frosty the Snowman’, came unbidden to mind. A feisty-looking snowman with a top hat, rakish grin, and walking stick which he didn’t use for walking …
LegsEleven: Don’t worry. I can hold my own. If anyone gives me trouble they’ll meet my walking stick.
PeterPan: Ouch. Looks like I’m going to have to watch out! I was hoping the reason for your avatar was because your legs matched the rest of your body …
Which looks great, by the way ☺…
Emma looked at the smiley emoticon and wished she knew the button on her computer which did that. She made a mental note to ask Katriona and Ling Ling for a crash course on Modern Communication as soon as they came over.
LegsEleven: It’s called Irony. Time for me to go to bed now … 4pm already …
PeterPan: LMFO. K, nite nite grandma. Look forward to chatting again soon.
LMFO? What was that? Modern Communication, it seemed, was full of acronyms and abbreviations and strange symbols. It was like a foreign language. In a panic, she typed:
LegsEleven: Zzzzzzzzzzz …
Emma signed off with mixed emotions. There was a slight buzzing in her brain which she hadn’t felt for a long time. She felt strangely high. Katriona and Ling Ling were right. It was fun.
If she wasn’t careful, it might even turn out to be Fun.
Alana arrived home with a bang of the door. Her running footsteps pounded up the stairs, then down again. Minutes later, she wandered into the study, staring at the perfect muffin in her hand with a look of confusion.
“Are you feeling alright, Mum?”
Emma smiled.
“I feel great,” she said, and was surprised to find this was true.
CHAPTER 22
Alana VS Coach Kusmuk. Round Two.
Coach Kusmuk shoved open a door and led Alana and Emma in. The room was small and neat, just like her. A wall of shelves displayed an impressive number of trophies. One of them, according to the engraving, was a First for ‘Gumnastics’. Somehow, Alana couldn’t imagine Coach Kusmuk laughing at the mistake. A pair of plastic office chairs stood to attention in front of her desk. Coach Kusmuk struggled with the bundle of files in her arms. Emma rushed
to help.
“Here, let me do that, you poor thing. They shouldn’t make someone like you carry so much, but then,” she said, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “I’ve heard the coach is a right prat, so I’m not surprised.”
Coach Kusmuk stiffened. The files landed on the desk with a loud bang. Not surprisingly, her smile did not reach her eyes as she thrust out a hand to introduce herself, “Coach Kusmuk. Or prat. Whichever you prefer.”
Adults have a knack for saying “Uh huh,” and “Yes” and “Really?” with just the right tone and inflection, so you would never know they weren’t listening. So when Alana briefed her mum for the meeting, all Emma heard was: “Coach Kusmuk, blah, blah, blah, prat, blah, blah, blah, took my phone, blah, blah, blah.” And Emma said, “Uh huh,” and “Yes” and “Really?” with just the right tone and inflection.
Adults really should pay more attention.
But then Emma said the one thing which seemed to erase all ills:
“Is that a photo of Cristina Ibrahmovic? Goodness, she seems so young there.”
Coach Kusmuk was surprised. “You know her?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say know. We got trapped in the same elevator once. Stuck there for five hours …”
The thing about Emma was she was sweet, and funny, and good at telling stories. Very good at telling stories. And she always knew the right one to tell. It made people lower their guard and open their heart. Within five minutes, Coach Kusmuk and Emma were sharing memories of the talented gymnast-turned-icon, and how Ibrahmovic had transformed both their lives.
“Of course, Cristy’s commitment to bringing gymnastics training to underprivileged kids was always going to be a challenge, but you know her, she’s a real fighter, and when Champion magazine agreed to let me write a piece about what she was doing, well, it just snowballed – exposure, sponsorship, you name it, everything clicked into place.”
“So you were the one who wrote that article in Champion? That changed her life. It changed my life. I got a scholarship when her foundation received more funding.” Coach Kusmuk’s voice held a new note of admiration.
Emma waved it off with a flick of her hand. “It was just the right article, in the right magazine, at the right time. If only I could be so lucky every time, hey Alana?” deftly bringing the conversation back to the reason for their meeting.
Coach Kusmuk beamed at Alana. The transformation was so dramatic that Alana checked she wasn’t looking at someone else. “Hmmm, yes. Alana. She did very well during her assessment, you’ll be pleased to know. I’ve recommended her for our Elite Sports Squad, which starts next year. As for her phone, I think Alana’s learnt her lesson about using it during school hours. It’s certainly not something we encourage, you understand.”
Emma nodded, and nudged Alana so she could show signs of repentance. Alana assumed a contrite expression.
“Let me get my key for the Confiscation Cupboard. It’s a treasure trove of booty, let me tell you,” Coach Kusmuk said with pride. “I inherited it from the previous coach, who inherited it from the one before that, and so on. We’ve probably got about five generations’ worth of stuff in here,” she said as she slid back a shelf of trophies to reveal a rickety steel locker standing as high as the ceiling. It was packed with all sorts of things: paintball guns, slingshots, fart bombs, playing cards, silly putty, martial-arts weapons and Indian peace pipes – it was all there. Every object ever taken from the troubled teens of the Police Boys’ Club, and more recently, the students of Gibson High was in that cupboard. Alana looked at the impossible tower of impounded items. How would she know if Sofia’s charm bracelet was there? There were hundreds of things. Neatly stacked like packed fruit or a pyramid of tin cans. So perfectly placed that one false move would bring the lot down.
With a sharp intake of breath, Emma moved in for a closer look. “Oh, my! That looks just like my old Whammo Yoyo. I’m almost sure it’s the same one I, uh, lost ages ago, and oh, I can’t believe it could still be around. May I?”
Before Coach Kusmuk could answer, Emma was already reaching for the vintage toy and pulling it towards her.
There is a moment in time when Time itself seems to stand still. As if the world is taking a deep breath before letting out a loud, shocked gasp. As soon as Emma had her Whammo Yoyo in hand, there was one such pause. After that, there was a ripple effect as first the Rockem Sockem Robot, next to the Super Stretch Slinky, tipped. Row upon row of dangerous detritus fell over. Over and off. The ratatatat of falling debris got faster and louder as more things dropped. The paintball guns, slingshots, fart bombs, playing cards, silly putty, martial-arts weapons and marbles made a terrific racket. A toy monkey in red-and-white-striped trousers and a yellow vest began playing the cymbals; its fallen body convulsing on the floor.
The sound left a ringing in their ears.
Coach Kusmuk did not smile at Emma’s Sorry’s, Terribly Sorry’s, as the three of them scrambled on the floor to gather everything up. Although she did say Don’t worry about it. But not the way Hugo said it. It was more like, Don’t. Worry. About. It. Clipped and short. And her eyes said Don’t. Touch. A. Thing. as she silently handed Alana her phone.
With her long-lost-yoyo in one hand, and Alana’s hand in the other, Emma fled the room.
CHAPTER 23
Alana finds the culprit!
The mystery of the missing magic eight-ball charm had reached a turning point. The girls took turns to check the scanned photo of Coach Kusmuk’s Confiscation Cupboard, which Alana managed to snap before running with her mum from the room.
“She doesn’t look very happy, does she?” Maddie observed, looking at their P.E. teacher glaring at the camera, surrounded by hundreds of Inappropriate Items. Maddie promptly zoomed out and searched a different part of the image for a hint of the charm. None of them could see it anywhere.
Coach Kusmuk was looking less likely to be the culprit. All the evidence so far, pointed at Lara, whose trips to the toilet took on a suspicious air.
“I’ve noticed Lara seems to rush to the loo whenever she has to make a decision.”
“Funny, now you mention it, I think you’re right. She always goes to the bathroom before choosing her library books.”
“And she doesn’t take forever to order lunch anymore. She seems to know exactly what she wants –”
“– after going to the toilet,” Sofia said as realisation dawned.
“She passed our superstition test on all three counts, too. I also overheard her get angry at someone for writing her name in red ink. Said it was bad luck, and made the person trace over it in black,” Maddie said.
“Although it could be a coincidence.”
But, as mystery stories had shown Alana, it didn’t pay to ignore even the slightest coincidence. “She’s definitely our Number One Suspect. I think I’m going to do a little bit of investigating in the Girls’ Toilets when I get the chance,” she said, a thoughtful look on her face.
The opportunity came sooner than expected. Their next class was Mathematics, and Mr Hornby asked them to work in pairs for their study on Probability. Alana surprised Lara by suggesting they be partners. Lara, after a slight hesitation, agreed.
Just like Mr Murray, who frequently liked to Digress and talk about unrelated topics (hence his previous discussion on anti-matter), Mr Hornby also meandered from topic to topic. But while Mr Murray’s detours took him to the edges of the universe and beyond, Mr Hornby’s tangents seemed to contain a world’s worth of trivia.
“Did you know that the chance of you dying on your way to collect your lottery ticket is greater than your chance of winning?” he said with an eager smile. The Year Seven students were not sure whether it was the thought of their impending doom or the numerical implications which caused him the most excitement. “Probability is everywhere. It surrounds us wherever we go, and whatever choices we make.”
A few of the students glanced around nervously, as if trying to catch a glimpse of this Mathema
tical shadow.
“Now in pairs, I would like you to flip a coin and record your results. You’re to flip it a total of fifty times, and count how many times you get heads, and how many times you get tails. Then we’ll come together to discuss it. ”
A couple of desks away, Sofia moaned about her missing magic eight-ball. She always felt the loss more keenly in Mathematics than any other time.
Mr Hornby drifted over and drew up a chair. “What seems to be the problem?”
Perhaps it was the fatherly way in which he sat patiently, hands in lap, or it could have been the kindness of his expression, filling his warm brown eyes, but whatever it was, Sofia began telling him the reason for her unhappiness. When Sofia was agitated, she spoke quickly without pause, and virtually no punctuation, so her words linked together like a long chain. Barely taking a breath, Sofia spoke about her various charms, (which Mr Hornby dutifully admired) the reasons she wore them, and the specialness of her magic eight-ball, which said yes, no, and maybe, in a multitude of ways that helped her decide.
“Well now, this is simply wonderful!” Mr Hornby declared. At Sofia’s hurt expression, he rushed on to say, “No, no, not that you have lost such a precious object, but that you can see the magic in numbers which are represented in this lucky, magic eight-ball you’ve just described. This is exactly the kind of passion that warms my heart, my dear. And now,” his voice dropped to a whisper, “I’m going to share with you some of Probability’s special secrets.”
Sofia did not know what to say. She would never have described herself as passionate about numbers. Frightened, perhaps. Horrified, sometimes. But passionate? No. Never. However, Mr Hornby, with his soothing voice, pulled away the mysterious fog that made numbers appear puzzling and secretive. He teased away her fear. It was like a parting of cobwebs. For the first time ever, Sofia understood. As the clatter of coins continued in the background, Sofia looked at the squiggles and marks on her paper, and they made sense for the first time. The Math teacher’s eyes twinkled as he looked at Sofia’s glowing face. Both were thinking the same thing.
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