Magic!
Alana, meanwhile, sneaked out of the classroom to follow Lara, who had slipped to the toilets yet again. She eased the door open carefully, so as not to make a noise, and placed her feet on the tiles, toes first. All but one of the cubicles was free. Through the closed door, Alana could hear somebody mumbling and moaning. Alana inched forward. She became aware of how her chest rose and fell as she attempted to muffle the sound of her breathing. Taking the stall to the occupied cubicle’s left, she pressed an ear to the wall.
“Should I give it back?” a faint voice could be heard saying. There was a groan of frustration, and then the question repeated. “Should I give it back?”
Alana decided to stand on the cistern to take a peek at next door’s occupant. With the wall for support, she was able to climb up and balance without difficulty, but to observe Lara, the awkward angle stretched Alana’s body into a precarious diagonal line, one metre off the ground. Alana clutched the top of the cubicle wall with sweaty fingers as her toes balanced on their tips.
As Alana peered over the top she could see Lara sitting on the closed seat of the toilet. Sofia’s missing charm bracelet was in her hand. Every now and then, Lara shook the magic eight-ball charm in increasing frustration. The magic eight-ball was not giving her the answer she wanted.
“Oh, you stupid thing! I wish I’d never taken you!” Lara’s tear-streaked face suddenly turned towards the ceiling. It changed to one of shock, and then horror, when she saw Alana’s face.
Both girls erupted from their respective cubicles. Lara defensive, as Alana went on the attack. But it didn’t take long for Lara to crumple in defeat, and begin sobbing, tears and mucous streaming down her face. Alana looked at her with a mixture of pity and anger. It was obvious Lara was sorry for what she had done, but Alana was still upset on her friend’s behalf.
“Why did you take it? You knew it was special to Sofia.”
“I need it more than she does. You don’t know what it’s like being me. I never know what to choose, what I should do, which way to go. I always feel stuck. And then Sofia seemed to have the answer. This magic eight-ball tells Sofia the answer to everything,” Lara gestured wildly, “You heard her. The magic eight-ball never lies.”
Alana’s heart softened. She did know what it was like not being able to choose, and being afraid of making the wrong decision, but her fear never left her paralysed. She just made her choice and hoped for the best, convinced no matter what happened, good or bad, right or wrong, she could live with the consequences. Life was about making choices. Making mistakes was how you learnt.
In a gentler voice, Alana asked, “What happens if you don’t like the answer the magic eight-ball gives you?”
Lara sniffed noisily, “I just shake it again.”
“So you keep shaking it until you get the answer you want; the answer that’s in you all along. It’s there, you know. You just have to be confident and listen to it.”
For the first time since she had known her, Alana saw Lara smile. It wasn’t the kind of smile you could use for a tooth-paste commercial, it was more wobbly and watery, like a lukewarm rainbow struggling through a grey cloud.
But it was there.
It was a start.
…
When Lara had to return the charm bracelet to Sofia, she was so frightened of the other girl that her heart beat in her chest like a trapped bird. With a look of encouragement from Alana, her trembling hand held out the missing piece of jewellry.
“I’m so sorry,” Lara whispered. “I just felt so desperate and thought your magic eight-ball was the answer to my problems, but I know better now. I guess I need to learn to make my own decisions from now on.”
Sofia’s first reaction was relief and she gave Lara’s hand a squeeze. “It’s okay. It was good for me to make choices of my own, even if some of them were pretty bad.” A flash smiled across her pretty features. “Thanks for returning it. That was really brave.” The two girls exchanged a grin. “Now,” said Sofia, giving the charm a shake, “should we go to the school bakery for some pastizzis?” Before looking at the answer the charm had for them, Sofia shot Lara a cheeky look. “What do you think?”
Lara broke into a fresh sweat as she struggled for an answer. “I think, I think, it would be a terrible idea. I heard Miller’s on duty, and last time his muffins tasted awful.”
Sofia displayed the charm’s answer and let out a hoot. “Good call, Lara. Good call.”
No way! was its unequivocal answer.
CHAPTER 24
Food brings humanity together.
With the mystery of the magic eight-ball solved, Alana began her mid-year school holidays with a light heart. None of the girls was going away, and they made promises to see each other over the break. Everybody was in a jubilant mood. Not only had they survived the first six months of Year Seven but Sofia had her magic eight-ball back and a new-found confidence in Mathematics. The charm, she promised, would remain simply that, a charm, and not the lifeline it used to be. She said this while the trunk of the Hindu god of Luck, Ganesha, peeped from behind an amulet promising protection from the Evil Eye. After all, Sofia maintained, it didn’t hurt to tip the scales of probability in your favour.
Khalilah’s parents were the first to extend an invitation to their home. They had heard so much about Alana, Maddie and Sofia and were curious to put faces to names. Khalilah had also promised Alana her dad’s cooking when they’d first met on the train. A promise Alana was keen to claim.
When they visited Khalilah’s home, evidence of her mum’s research was everywhere. Books, files, and photocopied notes overflowed beyond the study. The bespectacled woman welcomed them warmly before disappearing into the room, with a promise to join them later for lunch. Khalilah’s dad, Mr Madzaini, shifted the remaining material into piles to make room on the table.
“Would you like to offer your guests a drink, Khalilah?”
Khalilah opened the fridge and beckoned to her friends. “So, what do you want? Soda-pop, cranberry juice, or some very dodgy milk?” she asked, sniffing the milk container and screwing her nose in disgust.
“Khalilah!” her dad’s voice was shocked. “That is not how you ask.”
“Relax, Bapa. They’re my closest friends. They don’t do fancy-schmancy.”
Alana, Sofia and Maddie nodded. “No need for fancy-schmancy with us!” Sofia said.
Alana moved forward to admire some photographs hanging on the wall. Her exclamation of delight drew Mr Madzaini’s ire away from Khalilah, and with a grateful glance the girl rushed upstairs to her room, Sofia and Maddie in tow. Alana didn’t mind. As a keen amateur photographer, she often got tips from Uncle James, but Mr Madzaini’s work with a macro lens was a work of art. One photo showed a bug’s eyes the size of her head while it feasted on nectar. Another zoomed in on a delicate drop of water poised to drop from a luscious leaf. The detail was exquisite. They launched into a complicated discussion about aperture and focal points. Mr Madzaini had never before seen such knowledge in someone so young.
By lunch, the conversation had shifted to include everybody, covering everything from family to favourite subjects at school. Lunch was a delicious beef rending curry, just as Khalilah had promised. Looking back now, it seemed a lifetime ago. Khalilah’s mum joined them, and she ate in short, sharp bursts. She was a woman who did not sit still for long and spent most of the meal jumping up and down to fetch things from the kitchen, or to clear the table. Like Khalilah, she wore her hair long, but her face was not as round. Kind, brown eyes took in the animated girls at the table, who hadn’t stopped talking since she’d arrived. The glance she shot her husband was full of gratitude and joy.
“I can’t wait for you to try some of our food,” Maddie said, fanning her tongue from the intense spices and laughing.
“Oh, what kind of food do you usually eat, Maddie?” Khalilah’s mum asked politely.
A mischievous grin tugged at the corners of the girl’s mouth. “You
know. The usual stuff: dingo, kangaroo, that sort of thing.”
Khalilah’s dad opened his mouth to protest, but was stopped by his wife placing a hand over his. “Ah ha ha, good joke,” he said weakly.
…
Maddie’s family gathering ended up being much larger than even Maddie expected. But none of the girls were bothered. Alana – a frequent visitor to Maddie’s home – was used to the various ‘aunties’, ‘uncles’ and neighbours dropping in. With five older brothers and all their friends, Sofia also took it in her stride. Khalilah looked around in approval. In a strange way, it felt like home to her. Both Khalilah’s parents came from large families, and it was common for extended families to live at home. In Brunei she shared a house with four of her mother’s siblings and their families, as well as her grandparents. Back home, she was forever tripping over a cousin, or waiting in queue for a bathroom. Khalilah missed the bustle and noise. Especially since her older brother, Jefri, was still in Brunei for religious studies. The memories brought an unexpected tear to her eye.
Maddie was at her side in an instant. “Are you okay? It’s too much isn’t it,” she stated rather than asked. “My family. I mean, it gets crazy here sometimes.”
“No. No. No,” Khalilah was quick to assure her. “It just reminds me of my family. Big. Noisy. Nuts,” she said with a watery smile at ‘Uncle’ Joe, who was tapping his head and yelling, “Wha’s that? I can’t hear ya,” at ‘Auntie’ Mo, who was nagging him to move out of the way.
Maddie didn’t believe her. “You’re just being polite.”
“No I’m not. See that person there?” she said, pointing at a skinny girl standing in the corner with an older teen. “If I squint, she looks just like my niece, Fatin. And him, the one with the baseball cap? He plays guitar, just like my cousin, Azlan.” A loud fart erupted from ‘Uncle’ Joe, prompting a swift mock-beating from ‘Auntie’ Mo and good-natured laughter from everyone else. “See,” Khalilah said pinching her nose, “just like my Uncle Hakim.”
…
At the doorstep of Sofia’s home, a pungent smell just as powerful (but not as deadly) greeted Alana, Khalilah and Maddie, which had them all guessing as to what could be on the menu. This time Sofia’s family of six was playing host. Sofia’s dad was a chef, but he was no ordinary cook. Mr Luciano was part of the ‘experimental cuisine movement’ and his cooking style was as much a scientific exploration as it was a search for extraordinary taste experiences. He designed his meals to excite each of the senses – sight, sound, smell, taste and touch – sometimes depriving the diners of one to highlight another. When the children had been much younger, Mr Luciano had tried blindfolding them at the dinner table so as to heighten the explosions of flavour which burst in their mouths. That was until the boys took advantage of the situation and intensified the ‘touch experience’ by exchanging secretive beatings over the head. Mr Luciano’s kitchen looked like a science lab, and he sported protective eyewear as often as an apron. Sofia’s mum, a chemical engineer, was used to waiting patiently for the results of his latest research: smoking blobs of intense colours that looked more like bacterial samples than food.
Sofia’s brothers had no such patience.
“Is that it?” they would cry, after gulping the carefully prepared morsels whole. Mr Luciano would raise eyes heavenward to pray for strength, before serving up a second course of ravioli or chicken parmigiana to fill them up. Today was no different.
“Guests first!” Mrs Luciano cried, rapping Dmitri over the knuckles. The girls smiled and quickly took a bread roll each, before passing the basket on.
“Daaaad. I didn’t get any meat,” one of the twins, Pepe, whined. The meat – bought especially in honour of Khalilah’s visit – had been bought from a halal butcher, roasted on low heat for 24 hours, fashioned into sheep shapes, piped with white potato and parsnip for maximum effect, and placed on a bed of green pea tubettini made to look like grass.
Mr Luciano scratched his balding head with the acetylene torch as he gave Pepe the missing portion. “I was sure I gave you two already.”
“You did! You did give him two already! He hid them under his bread,” the boy’s twin, Bob, accused. Sure enough, four ‘sheep’ stood demurely on Pepe’s plate. Before anyone could reclaim them, Pepe shoved all of them in his mouth. His cheeks bulged like a hamster’s.
“Pig!” Bob yelled.
Everyone but Khalilah gasped. An awkward silence settled into the room, broken only by indistinct baaa-ing in the background.
“Roberto Salvatore Luciano!” Mrs Luciano’s eyes flashed. Bob looked suitably chastised. The children knew they were in Big Trouble if either parent used their full name.
“Good one, Doofus,” Dmitri said, clipping his little brother round the ear.
With a bang on the table and a gritted smile, Mrs Luciano called for order. “Boys,” she said, “please! We have guests,” with a pointed look at Khalilah. But Khalilah was only chuckling merrily, “Doofus,” she said to herself, savouring the way it hit the roof of her mouth, “that’s a good one. He he he. I can’t wait to use it on my brother, Jefri.”
CHAPTER 25
Alana makes a shocking discovery.
When Maddie and Khalilah convinced the other two to enter their song in a local radio station’s competition, the school holidays took on an air of excitement and anticipation. First prize was two free tickets and backstage passes to see Slam Guru in concert and meet him in person. This in itself was exciting, but what thrilled Alana’s friends even more was that Jet Tierbert was confirmed as the supporting artist! Although it meant only two of them could go, two was better than none. They would draw straws to decide. Even Alana, who wasn’t a Jet Tierbert fan, couldn’t resist their enthusiasm, and she too hoped to win. They followed the radio station’s blog. Their hearts rose and dipped with every rise and fall in votes. It was an emotional rollercoaster from which none of them could escape. Time would tell whether or not their song, ‘Stormy Heart’, would win first prize.
But despite the buzz and exhilaration the school-break brought, Alana noticed something amiss at home. Her mum, Emma, was taking more care with her appearance. She was combing her hair, stepping into sprays of perfume and brushing her teeth regularly … just to sit at the computer to work. This was suspicious behaviour coming from a woman who was known to spend days in the same nightie. One day, Alana noticed an American cook book, Mom’s Best, from the library, on the kitchen bench. The page for Banana Cream Pie was earmarked. That was weird too. After her stint with the orangutans in the jungles of Borneo, and her diet of bananas, Emma had sworn off the fruit for life. Why would she be interested in that recipe? And almost like clockwork, Emma began a tuneless but happy hum at 8:30 every morning before rushing into the study. Perhaps the most damning evidence was the piece of paper of dictionary-type definitions Alana saw on the living-room table – but not for words her mum would ordinarily need:
DLTM = don’t lie to me.
(@@) = you’re kidding.
:|) = it’s great.
:`( = I’m going to cry.
?4U = a question for you.
(::) (::) = bandaid
911 = emergency
411 = for your information
BTDT = been there done that
SWDYT = so what do you think?
LOL = Laugh out loud
LMFO = Laugh my face off
:0 = scream(ing)
W-E = whatever
:# = kiss
:P = in your face
MFEO = meant for each other
WC = way cool
WITW = what in the world?
BW = Blair Witch = not fair
MY = miss you
OMG = Oh my goodness
OMG indeed. And it was in Ling Ling’s writing. Alana’s radar for Trouble perked up.
“Alright,” she said, cornering Emma one day. “What’s going on?”
Emma looked hounded as she fumbled for a reply. “What do you mean?”
; “I mean, the make-up, the perfume, the cookery books … wait a minute,” a thought seemed to occur to her. “Do you have someone in there?”
Alana rushed into the study, searching in and around the Christmas tree. She checked behind Emma’s pile of books and under the pillows of her bed. Nothing. If somebody was there, they were very, very short. Then suddenly, the flashing of the computer screen caught Alana’s eye. Emma moved in front of it, almost in defiance.
“What’s going on, Mum?” Alana repeated quietly.
Emma slumped as if someone snatched away some invisible support, leaving her limp and defenceless.
“It was only meant to be a bit of fun … It was Katriona and Ling Ling’s idea …”
At the sound of their names, Alana pushed her mother aside and read through the chat history between PeterPan and LegsEleven.
Alana looked up, eyes solemn. “You do realise he could be a serial killer. Or an alcoholic,” she paused. “Or a dentist.”
And so the next time Emma corresponded with PeterPan, she made it very clear. If he was any (or all) of those things, then their ‘relationship’, such as it was, had to stop now. She wondered, with a guilty start, if she wasn’t being a little bit hypocritical; after all, the words Widow, Single Mother and Writer, remained untyped.
Instead, what they did write about was what they liked. (Emma: Waterfalls. Peter: Long motorbike rides through the forest). What they didn’t like. (Emma: Karaoke. Peter: Watching soccer – how could they play a whole match for 90 minutes and the score only be one-nil?). Their pet hates. (Emma: The sand that collects in the seat of your bikini bottom. Peter: Missing the buffet breakfast because you’ve slept in – come on, five different types of cereal). What made them cry. (Emma: Almost everything. Even stupid commercials on TV when you know they’re acting. Peter: Losing the family dog to cancer). The best dessert they’d ever eaten … ever. (Emma: Tiramisu. No, it’s not the name of an Italian city. Peter: Banana Cream Pie. Mom’s, of course). The most daring thing they’d ever done. (Emma: Shaved my head after a bad perm. Peter: Got a tattoo). And their favourite read. (Emma: The Importance of Being Earnest. Peter: Harry Potter).
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