Stagefright

by Carole Wilkinson

  “None of your business.”

  “If you go outside this room you’ll be dragged off to play basketball or hockey.”

  Velvet hesitated for a moment. Peter was right. There was nowhere else in the school where she could avoid the sweat brigade. Mr MacDonald had gone to get a coffee. She made another decision. She didn’t like breaking rules. She certainly didn’t want anything in her report about her lacking discipline, but there was only so much an intelligent girl could take.

  “I’m going over to Hades, where I can work in peace.”

  Her phone dialled her dentist as she marched to the door. Taleb looked up and took off his headphones. She didn’t wait to see if he was going to say anything. She left T6 and ducked through the hole in the back fence. She worked in Hades for the rest of the afternoon, interrupted only by her phone calling her old music teacher and triple zero.

  As soon as she got home, she downloaded the Endeavour High application form.

  The next Thursday, Velvet went straight to Hades after lunch. She felt quite bohemian sitting at the laminex table with a cappuccino, writing notes for an essay entitled Psychological Metaphor in Obernewtyn.

  She was now desperate enough to try and make contact with her old friends again, even though they’d ignored her for months. The touch screen on her phone still wasn’t working, but she’d discovered she could speak instructions into it.

  “Send text message to Rhiannon,” she said. “Hi there. Lost all my contacts. Just wanted to make sure you hadn’t changed your number.” She sounded pathetic. “Delete message!”

  The phone took no notice of her. A female voice said something in Spanish. The message was sent.

  Velvet managed to make the coffee last for an hour and a half, and began writing a draft of her essay introduction. She didn’t notice Taleb come in and was able to look genuinely surprised when he sat down at the table with her. He didn’t say anything, but signalled for a coffee like he did that sort of thing all the time. Velvet carefully finished the sentence she was writing before she laid down her pen.

  “What brings you here?”

  Taleb stared at the little red devil hanging above their table for a while before he spoke. “We can’t give up on this play, you know that.”

  “Why not? I’ve got other plans.”

  “Like what?”

  Velvet didn’t answer. She had sent off her application to Endeavour, but she didn’t tell Taleb that she was planning on leaving Yarrabank.

  He sipped his coffee. “We can still make the play happen.”

  “We?”

  “Yeah. It just needs someone to keep it on track.”

  “And let the new girl have the lead role?”

  “I’ve told Mr Mac I won’t write the songs unless he holds auditions for the girls’ parts. He’s bluffing when he says he doesn’t care if the play happens or not. It has to happen or he’ll be in trouble. If I don’t write the songs and you don’t write the script, there won’t be a play.”

  A text arrived from Rhiannon. “Think texting in Spanish will impress me? Loser.”

  Velvet had to face it. Her old friends had dropped her. She didn’t need a lot of convincing to continue with the play, but she let Taleb keep trying anyway.

  “I bet you wouldn’t get a chance like this at your snobby girls’ school.”

  “What? I wouldn’t get a chance to be insulted and yelled at?”

  “You wouldn’t get a chance to produce your own show.”

  Taleb was right. At St Theresa’s, Velvet had never been able to get a lead role in the school play. She’d only ever had the part of someone unimportant in the background. They never wrote their own scripts, and the Drama teacher did the directing.

  “I’ve been thinking about what you said before … how it could be like … you know …” Taleb apparently had something on his mind, but was having trouble getting it out.

  “Andrew Lloyd Webber?”

  “It wouldn’t be anything like that,” he added hastily.

  “No, but it could be the same concept.”

  “A story – with songs.”

  “And we can adapt the story a bit. It doesn’t have to be exactly like Shakespeare wrote it.”

  “Yeah.” Taleb opened his guitar case. He had a sheet of paper with lyrics scribbled on it, much crossed out. “I’ve finished Lady Anne’s song. Do you want to hear it?”

  Velvet nodded. The only other customers, two mums with kids in pushers, also listened as Taleb sang the song for her.

  “What do you do when those you loved

  Are suddenly dead and gone?

  My tears keep falling to the ground

  I really can’t go on.

  “Why aren’t the angels angry?

  Why doesn’t lightning strike him dead?

  Why aren’t the angels angry?

  Why does he walk around instead?

  “I curse the heart that had the heart

  To do these dreadful deeds.

  It doesn’t change the way things are

  The wound within still bleeds.

  “Why aren’t the angels angry?

  Why does he live and they stand by?

  Why aren’t the angels angry?

  Why is he here to see me cry?”

  The mums applauded.

  Taleb fiddled with the tuning pegs. “It needs another verse.”

  “It’s lovely,” Velvet said. Actually, it was possibly the most beautiful song she’d ever heard.

  “The auditions for the girls’ parts are going to be in the hall next week,” Taleb said.

  “In the hall?”

  “Yeah. Mr Mac thinks it’ll make Hailie and Roula nervous, so that we’ll have to pick Mei Hua. He’s got Drago helping her with her English.”

  Velvet laughed. “That’s ironic.”

  Taleb strummed a chord. “Will you come and audition?”

  “Okay.”

  He handed her his lyrics. They finished their coffee in silence.

  Taleb picked up Velvet’s phone. “Why does it say it’s 9.20 a.m.?”

  “That’s the time in Dubai. Just add six hours.”

  “Right. It’s nearly home time.”

  He felt around in his pockets and pulled out a dollar fifty, a toothbrush and a plectrum.

  “Lend me two dollars? I’ll pay you back next week.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Velvet watched from the back of the hall where no one could see her. The other three girls were up on the stage.

  “Okay, Taleb’s played the song for you,” Mr MacDonald said as he handed them copies of the lyrics. “Now you all get a chance to audition for the part of Lady Anne.”

  His ploy to give the part to Mei Hua seemed to be working. Hailie and Roula looked terrified and were trying to blend into the curtains. Mei Hua stood centre stage as if she belonged there.

  “Roula, you go first.”

  Taleb played the guitar introduction.

  Roula had transformed from a loudmouth whose speaking voice could be heard from the other side of the oval, into someone too timid to sing in front of an audience of seven. It took three guitar intros before she finally had the courage to open her mouth. Her singing voice was whispery and hesitant. When it came to a high note she didn’t even try. At the end of the song Taleb didn’t say anything, he just stood tapping his foot impatiently.

  “I’m not feeling so good today,” Roula explained. “I’ve got laryngitis because I was singing in a talent contest last night. It’s going to be on TV. I might win a sports car.”

  “You were fine, Roula,” Mr MacDonald said.

  Hailie strode to the front of the stage. “Let me have a go.”

  Seeing Roula fail miserably had given her new confidence, but somehow the note that Taleb intended was never the one that she hit. Sometimes it was just above, sometimes just below. Most of the time, it was miles off. Everyone was wincing. Everyone but Hailie, who launched into the chorus pretending to hold a microphone and making dramati
c hand movements like a contestant in a TV talent show. The others held their breath when she hit the high note, or at least one within an octave of it. She ended on a D flat instead of a D with her arms spread wide. No one spoke.

  Mr MacDonald had a smug smile on his face. “Okay, now it’s Mei Hua’s turn.”

  Mei Hua stood straight as a rod and projected the words to the back of the hall like missiles – or at least an approximation of the words, as her English was minimal. Mr MacDonald nodded his head in time to the music and smiled encouragingly, ignoring the scowls of his other students. Mei Hua had a strange Chinese sense of beat that was nothing like the rhythm Taleb was strumming on his guitar. He stopped playing.

  “Why does she make it sound so cheerful? She’s supposed to be sad.”

  No one actually spoke to Mei Hua, they just complained to Mr MacDonald about her. Mr MacDonald pantomimed tearful sadness. Mei Hua nodded and had another go. This time she wailed with loud, exaggerated grief. Taleb tolerated it for a verse and half the chorus, gritting his teeth harder and harder with each bar. Then he played a crashing Toxic Shock chord and stopped. Mei Hua carried on regardless.

  “Someone shut her up!” Taleb yelled.

  Mr MacDonald pretended he didn’t know what was wrong. Mei Hua came to the end of the final verse, stopped singing and resumed her annoying smile. Taleb spoke through clenched teeth.

  “She can’t sing this song. It just won’t work. We should let Velvet have a go.”

  “Velvet’s not here,” Mr MacDonald said.

  “Yes, I am.” Velvet emerged from the shadows. She walked up to the stage. She’d never been more nervous in her life, but Taleb didn’t give her much time to think about changing her mind. He played the introduction and counted her in. Her voice wasn’t perfect, but it was strong and tuneful and she’d memorised the words. By the time she got to the chorus, she was feeling more confident. She hit the high note.

  “We should have a vote,” Mr MacDonald said. “Who votes for Mei Hua?” He put up his hand.

  “Forget the democratic rubbish,” Taleb said. “Velvet’s going to be Lady Anne. It’s in her key.”

  Velvet felt her stomach lurch.

  “But Mei Hua has to have the role,” Mr MacDonald whined.

  “No, she doesn’t,” Peter said.

  Jesus agreed. “It sounds dumb when she sings it.”

  Even Drago was on Velvet’s side. “It’s not Mei’s style.”

  When they were in such rare agreement Mr MacDonald had no answer.

  “But Slinky said … the electronic scoreboard … ”

  It was Drago who solved the problem. “Mei can have a main role, but not this one. She can be old Queen Margaret.”

  “Why? Because none of the other girls want to play her?”

  “No, because it’s the best part for her voice. She has to yell insults and curses.”

  “I can write a song specially for her,” Taleb said.

  Peter took over the casting. “Hailie can be Queen Elizabeth. Roula can be Richard’s mum. Okay?”

  Nobody argued.

  Mr MacDonald looked defeated. “What will Slinky say?”

  “Tell him Queen Margaret is the leading role. He’s not going to know the difference, is he?”

  Mei Hua was still standing out the front smiling, with no idea what they were talking about. Drago, who had a personal history of English incomprehension, took pity on her.

  “Tebie de ge,” he said. “Zhi wei ni. Taleb zuo.”

  Mei Hua smiled and nodded.

  The others were all doing French. They turned to Velvet. “What did he say?”

  Velvet had no idea.

  Drago translated for them. “I told her Taleb was writing a special song for her.”

  “You spoke to her in Mandarin?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she understood you?”

  “Apparently.”

  Velvet smiled. She was back in the play.

  “Since we’re here in the hall,” Mr MacDonald said, “you may as well have your first try at acting on stage.”

  The thought struck fear into the entire cultural studies class.

  “I’ve brought a few props and bits of costume.” He pointed to what looked like a pile of things ready to be donated to the Salvos. “Now you can get a feel for the characters you’re going to be playing.”

  “What if someone sees me?” Peter asked.

  “That’s what acting is all about,” Mr MacDonald said. “Sooner or later someone’s going to see you. You’ve all got your roles now.”

  “We’re not ready.”

  “Velvet, I assume you’re no longer on strike as the scriptwriter?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then go and make copies of what you’ve written so far.”

  Velvet returned and handed out copies of the script for Act I. Peter stood in the wings. Roula hid behind the curtains. Jesus wouldn’t even get onto the stage. Hailie thought she had cramps and went to the toilets. Mei was perfectly comfortable on the stage, but she couldn’t read the script.

  Mr MacDonald tried to inspire them as if he were a coach and they were a bottom-of-the-ladder football team.

  “Drago,” he said. “Get up there and run through scene one.”

  Drago threw a blanket around his shoulders and picked up a plastic sword. He thought for a moment and then stuffed his jumper up the back of his shirt to make a hump. Drago didn’t need his script, he’d memorised most of his lines and adlibbed the rest. He strutted around the stage waving the sword and snarling, looking more like a pirate than a duke.

  The Year 11 hockey team, who were taking a shortcut through the hall to the showers, paused to watch, sweaty and boisterous after another win.

  “Check out the drama queens,” one of them said.

  The rest of the hockey team sniggered.

  Taleb played the introduction to Richard’s soliloquy song, and Drago lost his nerve.

  “I’m not singing,” he muttered. “Not in front of them.”

  “Okay, let’s move on to Lady Anne’s entrance,” Mr MacDonald said. “Velvet, you’re the experienced performer. Show us how it’s done.”

  The hockey coach gathered up his team and herded them out of the hall. Velvet put on the dressing gown that was making do as Lady Anne’s dress and walked onto the stage. They acted out the scene where Richard wooed Lady Anne. The others sat in the front row and shouted encouragement. Drago handed Velvet his sword and put the point over his heart. Velvet made as if she would stab him, but didn’t. Drago gave Velvet his ring (a cheap plastic thing with a skull and crossbones). The others applauded.

  It wasn’t exactly a great performance, but it was a start.

  CHAPTER 13

  It was a beautiful late-autumn day. Velvet was sitting on the oval frowning at the Chinese characters that she was supposed to translate for homework. They made no sense at all.

  Drago joined her for a lunchtime script meeting.

  “I don’t get it,” she said. “How come you have trouble reading English, but you can read this?”

  Drago shrugged. “I’ve got a good memory. I just remember them.”

  He was eating a pie that he’d just stolen from a Year 7 boy. Velvet looked around to see if anyone was watching. She didn’t want people to think she and Drago were going out.

  “With English, if you come across a new word, at least you can have a guess at how to pronounce it,” Velvet said. “With a Chinese character, there aren’t any clues as to how it should sound. I don’t understand how Chinese children ever learn to read.”

  They worked on Clarence’s murder scene. Drago wanted to make it funny, and it worked out well.

  Velvet had an idea. “Drago, why don’t you learn English words the same way that you learn Chinese characters?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When you come to word you don’t know, don’t try to read it letter by letter. Just look at it like it’s a Chinese character, and remember it.�
��

  Drago didn’t look convinced. Velvet pointed to a word in her script.

  “That’s the English character for ‘winter’. This one,” she flicked through the pages, “means ‘palace’.”

  “But Mrs Dwyer writes the new characters on the board and tells us what they mean.”

  “I’ll point out words as we go through the play and tell you what they are. All you have to do is memorise them.”

  Drago shrugged.

  Peter wandered over to them with his lunch.

  “Act one is going to be okay,” Velvet said. “There’s a lot happening – the soliloquy, the prophecy, Richard wooing Lady Anne, Margaret’s curses, Clarence’s murder.”

  “Yeah, but act two is boring,” Drago said. “Nothing happens.”

  “King Edward dies.”

  “That’s not exactly an action scene, is it?” Peter said. “He doesn’t die in a fight or anything. He just … dies.”

  “Actually, it’s not a scene at all. It happens offstage.”

  Jesus and Roula came over and joined them, sharing chips and Twisties with the others.

  “It needs some romance,” Roula said.

  “A sex scene!”

  “Shut up, Drago.”

  “It’s boring. People will fall asleep. Can we have some special effects?”

  So far, the extent of the special effects was when the murderers put Clarence in the barrel that’s supposed to be full of wine. Taleb had to drink a mouthful of Ribena from a jar inside the empty barrel and come up spitting it out as if he was drowning.

  “What about when Clarence dreams that he’s underwater?” Drago said. “We could have a dream scene.”

  “Have you been reading the play, Drago?” Jesus asked.

  Drago didn’t say anything about Velvet reading it out for him. He saw Taleb near the bike shed and called him over.

  “He’s right,” Velvet said, thumbing through her copy of the play. “But that’s in act one as well. Clarence dreams he’s on a boat and falls into the sea. He sees sunken ships and skulls and fish eating dead bodies. Then he dreams he’s dead and he goes to the kingdom of night where there’s an angel covered in blood.”

  “Sounds awesome.”