The smiley emoticon alternately snored and winked, flashing on the screen.
PeterPan had signed off and gone to bed.
Emma sat dumbly in her chair.
Harry Potter???
CHAPTER 26
“Lah, lah, lah, lah, I DON’T WANT TO KNOW ABOUT IT!”
It was early on a Saturday evening, and the girls were at Alana’s for a sleepover. All four were working on their homework. (This time, English. The fun and lightheartedness of the school holidays was already a distant memory.) It was the only place they could work in peace. Maddie’s little brother and sister always wanted to play. Khalilah’s mum was reaching a critical point in her thesis. This meant she was always jumping up to groom the cat, prepare a snack, or check on Khalilah’s activities. Anything that stopped her from Getting Started – she had no idea a blank page could be so frightening. Sofia’s brothers’ latest obsession was seeing who could pee the furthest. So far, Dmitri declared himself winner, but the twins accused him of cheating by stepping over the line. The girls agreed boys were disgusting. Most boys. Except for Jet Tierbert.
“Listen to this, everybody,” Sofia said, reading from her latest Go Girl! magazine, “Jet Tierbert likes long motorbike rides through the forest, but soccer fans, don’t expect Jet to be cheering alongside you. It appears he can’t stand watching the game. If you’re a sleepyhead, chances are you will drive Jet Tierbert nuts. This guy hates to miss out on the lavish morning spreads found in hotels while on tour. He likes to make what he calls his special Cereal Surprise: all the cereals mixed together in the ONE BOWL! Oh Jet, you are one crazy cat! But the guitar-twanging rocker has a soft side. Go Girl! magazine correspondent, JuJu, caught him crying in the movie, Puppy Dog Blues. Aww shucks, this guarantees Tierbert-ers will only love him more…” Sofia sighed as she put down the magazine. “He is too adorable!”
With a mouthful of warm, caramel popcorn, Khalilah agreed. “Even though he’s not a soccer lover, I’d still like to be a passenger on one of his Long Bike Rides in the Forest –”
“– and ask him to go faster so you had an excuse to hold him tighter,” Sofia winked, gripping a giggling Maddie’s waist to demonstrate.
Alana quickly finished beading Maddie’s hair before grabbing the magazine to read the rest of the article. If she didn’t already have a good reason for not liking Jet Tierbert before, she certainly did now. How could he not appreciate the skill it took to play soccer? The footwork, the evasive maneouvering, the team strategy? And calling his Pop efforts ‘Rock’ was an insult to every true Rocker who ever lived. While the other girls wove colourful friendship bracelets, Alana read the article silently to herself.
Jet Tierbert is not only sweet, he also has a sweet-tooth. His all-time favourite dessert is his mum’s Banana Cream Pie, which he likes to eat while reading his favourite series, Harry Potter. Alana felt a familiar tingle, almost a shiver, in the back of her mind.
Something wasn’t right.
Alana’s mum, Emma, wandered into the living room, Katriona and Ling Ling hanging on to her every word.
“…so then I asked him what his favourite book was, and he said…”
“…Harry Potter,” Alana said before she could stop herself.
Emma turned to look at her daughter in amazement. “That’s right. He said, Harry Potter. How did you know?” she said, eyes wide.
Alana slid the magazine under a pile of books. Her hands were shaking. She hid those next. “Lucky guess, I guess.”
“Yeah, I don’t know. I feel a bit irked by that. I mean, Harry Potter? Should I feel icky? I feel icky.”
Alana shook off the same feeling, and berated herself for an overactive imagination. Plenty of people rode a motorbike, hated soccer and enjoyed buffet breakfast cereals. She was sure Sofia, now an avid collector of useless trivia, would say thousands of people cried in the same film and enjoyed Banana Cream Pie. But not all those things in the one person, a tiny voice insisted. Jet Tierbert = PeterPan?! It was ridiculous. Unthinkable. Illegal. What was he? Ten? Twelve? Alana checked the magazine. Sixteen. It was all a crazy coincidence. But there’s no such thing as coincidence, the voice continued to taunt her. This time, there is, she growled. To believe otherwise was too awful.
Katriona was quick to point out that Harry Potter book covers came in two designs, one for adults and another for children. The series was popular with both – it was nothing to worry about. Lots of grown men liked Harry Potter.
“Absolutely,” Alana agreed quickly, though struggling to imagine Uncle James or Mr Hornby tucked up in bed with a copy.
“And his avatar is a cartoon caricature. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?” Emma persisted.
“I would rather find out more about that tattoo of his. Like, what it is.”
“Yeah, and where it is,” Ling Ling said with a look full of meaning.
Katriona and Ling Ling were soon nudging each other and winking and laughing while Alana and her friends rolled their eyes.
“Hey, hey, I’ve got an idea, Emma, I’ve got an idea,” Katriona cried. “Why don’t you get a tattoo?”
Emma felt a sudden thrill. She’d always wanted one but could never decide what design, or where to put it.
“Yes, yes, why don’t we ALL get one? We could get one that kind of fits together. So when we stand like this,” Ling Ling said, demonstrating, “it will be one picture. See?”
“Or not … Maybe matching tattoos would be better! Otherwise when we’re not standing Like This, it will look as if they didn’t finish it. Yes, let’s do it. I know a brilliant tattoo artist,” Katriona said, eyes shining.
Katriona and Ling Ling were already holding hands and jumping up and down. Emma turned to Alana as if to ask for permission. But Alana didn’t notice. She had closed her eyes, blocked her ears with her hands, and was singing at the top of her voice, “Lah, lah, lah, lah, I DON’T WANT TO KNOW ABOUT IT!”
Before Emma raced out the door, she arranged for a sitter, popped her Mexican sombrero on her head, and grabbed the-spare-change-from-a-jar-on-the-fridge. Then she threw open the freezer and shoved a block of ice in her bag … in case that wasn’t enough.
CHAPTER 27
Tattoos, chooks and botched translations.
Tony’s Tattoos did not do tiny roses on shoulders, or mini-love hearts at the base of the spine. They did not do wreaths of flowers encircling fingers, wrists or ankles, either. The art Tony and his crew did covered huge swathes of skin. Their pictures covered toes and travelled the length of legs, only to change direction and re-appear mysteriously across the other side on a shoulder. Their usual canvas was whole backs, necks and even faces. Tony himself had a tattoo of the map of St Christopher’s Cemetery. In case he needed it, he said. It covered his entire chest, a muscled torso of hairless bronze.
Emma found herself staring at the tombstone of a Felicity Fairchild: Angel, beloved sister and daughter, 1881 – 1882. “The detail is amaaa-zing …” she whispered.
Tony stepped back slightly so Emma’s head no longer nestled in his under-arm. Ling Ling grabbed Emma’s hand just in time, before it could touch the realistic outline of a tree. Katriona pointedly ignored her as she smiled and air-kissed the tattoo artist with loud mwahs.
“Tony! Dah-ling! It’s been too long!”
“What can I do you for, Kat?”
Katriona gave a girlish giggle. “Actually, my friends and I are thinking about matching tattoos…”
Tony’s eyes lit up. He rubbed his hands with delight. He crooked a finger and gestured for them to look at his computer screen, displaying a host of designs.
“I’ve been saving this one for you,” he said, showing Katriona a picture of a leopard to cover her entire body. “I could do a dragon for your friend over there, and for her…” he said, looking at Emma speculatively, “maybe a rabbit.”
“A rabbit!” Emma repeated in disgust.
“With fierce teeth. Really fierce,” Tony said with a buck-toothed grrr.
Tony of Tony’s Tattoos led Katriona to a screened-off area, where she was invited to put on a robe. Ling Ling and Emma were placed in similar cubicles to do the same. Emma thought. A rabbit on my skin. Forever. Would she still like the rabbit tomorrow? Or next year? In ten years? A tattoo was not something you got rid of easily, or changed like a pair of shoes. The more Emma thought about it, the more she realised that maybe a tattoo wasn’t for her. At least not the forever kind. And definitely not a rabbit, however fierce.
“Hi, umm, Guy,” Emma said to the tattoo artist, who swished the curtains aside to enter the room. “I don’t know if I want a real tattoo, you know what I mean? Maybe we could start off with one of those ones that wash off with water, or something? Do you have any of those?”
Guy, bald as the day he was born, with his head and the skin surrounding one eye inked in a complex design of machinery to make him look like a cyborg, grunted a no. He then grabbed her arm gently but firmly to begin the preliminary design. Later, he would re-trace the lines, using a needle to pierce the skin, and then fill with colour. Emma watched him work and marveled at his skill. She was almost tempted to go through with it until she heard the buzzing of the tattoo needle next door. It sounded just like a drill at the dentist’s. Emma suppressed a shudder. She hated going to the dentist! But it was the rattle of the trolley that made up her mind, as a pile of blood-soaked gauze wheeled past. Ah yes. That was the other reason Emma had never got a tattoo. Her low threshold for pain. Very, very low.
Emma jumped up suddenly, taking Guy by surprise.
“I’m so sorry. I can’t. It’s beautiful artwork, but I just can’t. You understand, don’t you?”
Guy did. He had been in the tattoo business with Tony for many years, and if he knew anything, Emma was not the tattoo type. Even for a cute little bunny rabbit with Fierce Teeth.
Katriona was in the next room. When Emma peeped in, she saw her friend lying on her tummy, hitting the bench with one hand.
“Stop! Stop! I can’t take it,” she shrieked. Tony raised his eyes to Emma’s with Basset Hound resignation. “It’s so TICKLISH!” A leopard’s ears and eyes stared out from Katriona’s back in washable ink. Tony had not managed to finish the design, much less start tattooing. Katriona continued to giggle.
“I’m going to the corner shop to grab some munchies. Won’t be long.”
“Take your time,” Tony said somberly, as Katriona continued to snort. “It could be a long night.”
Emma shivered as she navigated Darlinghurst’s busy streets. The harsh fluorescent lights of convenience stores and take-away outlets hit the pavement in angled trapezoids. A ‘vacancy’ sign flashed on and off, momentarily illuminating two couples like a stop-start film while they strolled hand in hand. That they had feather boas, five-inch heels and four Adam’s apples between them didn’t surprise her, but throwing coins at a busker, did. Even for the back-streets of the city, it was a stretch to call it music. The musician was a short man with random tufts of hair on his head, pouches under his eyes, and cheeks darkened by stubble. He kept his eyes closed as if in a trance, and hit the top of a metal trash can with a stick. He was oblivious to the fact he was now eight dollars richer.
Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.
“Shut up! Get outta here,” yelled a voice from upstairs, before a shower of rubbish came raining down. A trash can lid followed as a further incentive to move, crashing down on the pavement and narrowly missing them both.
The busker opened his eyes. He reached out and tapped on the second lid. It was slightly higher in tone.
Bang. Bing. Bang. Bing. Bang. Bing.
Emma hurried forward before anything else came down. The winter air bit through the thin cotton of her top. She was thankful the Mexican hat covered her ears and most of her face. The corner store was not far away and not very large. With three or four aisles, it stocked the usual items people discovered a sudden need for at 3 o’clock in the morning. Emma bent down to check the label on a bag of organic crisps. It promised less fat and less salt than its competitors. She added it to her pile, then transferred her shopping to one hand as she juggled her handbag open. She was sure she had enough coins to pay. And if that wasn’t enough, she could always defrost her credit card.
It was Alana’s idea that Emma’s seven credit cards be reduced to one. And that that one credit card be frozen in a block of ice. After 450 copies of Pride and Prejudice had arrived last year, it seemed the only sensible thing to do. Emma blamed the confusion of online shopping for the mistake. The lovely man at the call centre was very understanding. After he stopped laughing, he agreed to take it all back and cancel the transaction. Nevertheless, Emma’s ‘spending money’ was reduced to the-spare-change-from-a-jar-on-the-fridge (a bulky, clay urn which weighed a ton) and the large slab of ice for emergencies. Everything else was paid for by Internet banking … which Alana, quite sensibly, controlled.
While Emma searched for a suitable drink to go with their snacks, she heard the tiny, silver bell above the front door of the corner store jangle. Somebody was yelling.
“This is a stick-up. A stick-up. Let me see your hands. Give me your money. I want everything. Everything in the till,” a youth in a mask roared. He reached into his jacket and pulled out … a rubber chicken. This was not the Lethal Weapon he was expecting. He rushed to his accomplice who was guarding the door. A furious burst of whispering ensued. Today had been a Bad Day for them, full of miscommunications and stuff-ups. The ill-chosen bludgeon was the Last Straw. Nevertheless, he rallied and returned to bang the rubber chicken on the counter.
“Waaah!” it wailed.
The shopkeeper, a small Asian man, continued to play solitaire with apparent calm.
“Are you listening? Are you deaf? I said I want all your money in the till. NOW!”
The shopkeeper flipped over a card and tutted at the result. It seemed this was not the card he wanted.
“Look, if you don’t mind, I’m in a bit of a rush. I’ll just pay and leave you to it, shall I?” Emma explained with her most winning smile. The masked robber just looked at her in amazement.
“No one’s leaving until I get the money!” he screamed, waving the floppy chicken about. “Explain. Tell him. Tell him if he doesn’t give us all the money in the till, he’s going to … to … get brained by the bird. TELL HIM!” The robber became more hysterical as the cashier sat, almost bored, and continued to play cards.
“C’mon, bro!” came a yell from the door. “Get a move on!” The robber on guard duty had an unusually thick neck. He fidgeted with the mask which was too small for his head and kept riding up.
“But I don’t speak Chinese. I think … he only understands Chinese,” Emma said, looking at the shopkeeper with uncertainty.
“You look Chinese. Kind of. Chinese-Mexican-ish,” he said, taking in Emma’s massive hat.
“I know, but I’m not. Everybody always says that. I think it’s from my mother’s side, you know? Anyway,” she hastened to add as he gestured impatiently. “I don’t speak Chinese. I’m from the Philippines. You know how we all look alike. Ha ha …” she said with false cheer, but the thief was not in the mood for irony. He was ready to implode. He changed tack and asked for Emma’s money instead. Emma held up the-spare-change-from-a-jar-on-the-fridge in one hand, and the block of ice in the other. “My daughter says I have spending issues …”
The thief swore in frustration. Then Emma – because she understood Work Stress – tried to help by miming the actions and speaking slowly and loudly to the now bemused shopkeeper. Because, as any English-speaking tourist will tell you, if you speak slow enough, loud enough, and maintain good eye contact, eventually they’ll understand.
“If you don’t give him … him … this guy … yes … the money … he … will … hurt … you …” she shouted slowly, alternately bashing and strangling the borrowed rubber chicken. She finished off with a death scene of Last-Minute Farewells and Expressive Eyes.
“Waaah!” the rubber chicken waile
d in sympathy.
Emma had always harboured a secret ambition to be an actress. By the time she’d finished swooning onto the floor, therefore, blood was everywhere, and the audience was in tears. But the only thing the shopkeeper saw was a couple of street performers. Amateurs. Pah!
A ding! ding! ding! from a mobile phone preceded a jaunty jingle promising soda-pop, evoking a memory more powerful than the platypus and the surfer who sang it.
Hugo! Hugo’s jingle was the robber’s ringtone, Emma realised, amazed.
“Yes, Mum?” the masked male mumbled. “I’m a bit busy right now,” he continued in an undertone.
Emma stayed dead as a woman’s voice screeched a response.
“Yeah but … yeah okay, but … does it have to be now?” There was an unintelligible shriek. “Okay, okay, which one is it? … Yeah, okay then. I gotta go,” he muttered, as he stomped a small distance away to check the shelves. From the corner of one barely open eye, Emma watched him choose a box of tampons, only to swap it for a ‘silky, cotton’ brand. He stuffed it hastily into the pocket of his jacket and returned to the counter. Even through her now-tightly-shut eyelids, Emma could feel the waves of his frustration boiling over.
The second robber, who stood guard as if standing on hot coals, joined them. He looked at Emma’s prostrate body, and the dead chicken beside her, while bouncing on the balls of his feet.
“What did you do?” he screamed.
The first robber looked down. “Nothing!”
His partner-in-crime rushed to the entrance to check that no-one was coming. He returned almost instantly.
“Come on. Let’s go. Forget it. We can try one up the road. This place sucks!”
His mate, almost tearful, agreed. “Yeah, this place sucks. You suck!” he yelled, picking up the rubber chicken and shoving it back into his jacket as he ran away.
Alana Oakley Page 10