Will

by Maria Boyd

  She’s in Year Ten, you idiot, so she can only be assistant head of Green, which shows exactly how much you don’t know about her!

  Whatever! It doesn’t matter, mate, she blew that kiss at me. It’s the Jockmeister touch.

  He shook his head and slapped me on the back.

  You know, Will, I’m not worried, ’cause as soon as she meets me you don’t stand a chance.

  At that point I grabbed my doughnut and chocolate milk and retreated to the music room. The safest place in the school.

  I was wondering when you’d slide your way in here, you coward.

  Chris. The perpetrator.

  Yeah, well, this is all your fault.

  Take it easy, mate. Nothing like a little bit of public humiliation to make the school day more interesting.

  Yeah, right! It would be different if it was you being hung out.

  He stopped mucking around with the kit and looked at me.

  It was a joke.

  I know, I said, starting to relax a little. It’s not just the Elizabeth thing, it’s Andrews. I don’t know what his problem is.

  He’s all right. He would have done that with any of the blokes in the class. Lighten up, mate!

  Lighten up! The man’s out to destroy me.

  Chris shrugged and picked up his drumsticks. He was over the conversation and so was I. I strapped on the guitar and played loud. We fell into jamming with one another and then the music room began to work its magic. Andrews, the musical, everything faded away.

  After a good ten minutes Chris looked up from the drum set and grinned.

  What? I asked when I saw him looking over at me.

  Have you finished freaking out? Because there is one more piece of information I did find out.

  I grinned back at him. Sorry.

  It’s cool. So do you want to know?

  Know what?

  If she’s seeing anyone.

  Yeah?

  Well, she’s not.

  How do you know?

  One of the Year Ten reps knows her little brother.

  How did you find that out?

  I asked at the combined reps meeting.

  You didn’t!

  Mate, don’t freak out again! Since when did you turn into such a drama queen? I did it smoothly. I just asked if anyone knew any of the girl leads in the musical because we’ll have to contact them and do an interview for the next edition of St. Andrew’s Angles. That’s all.

  Chris looked pretty pleased with himself.

  So come on …

  What?

  He went to grab my chocolate milk and doughnut.

  Payment.

  I sidestepped him and shoved the doughnut in my mouth and attempted to speak.

  No way, mate. I still hold you responsible for all the hassle. You should have heard bloody Jock. Wait until everyone else starts.

  They’ll get over it.

  There was a crashing at the door. After three attempts at turning the lock the wrong way, Luke Chan made his way into the room. It was a comfort for those of us in the St. Andrew’s world of piss-takes and rumors that Luke could always be depended upon. He was never quick enough to get a smart-arse comment together and he was always forty-eight hours behind Tim, who was always twenty-four hours behind everybody.

  Hey, Willo, I hear you’re mad for some girl in the musical.

  OK. I am a dead, dead man.

  The assignment

  Andrews had insisted I see him at lunchtime to discuss the stereotypes assignment. I nearly didn’t go but I figured that would have caused me more grief. I think he knew I had no intention of doing it and was trying to avoid a full-on confrontation in front of the class. But then again, maybe he wanted to apologize for humiliating me. Anyway, I was curious and he would have gone and whinged to Danielli if I hadn’t turned up.

  I’d always rated Andrews as a teacher, but lately it felt like he was always in my face. It was like the dropping of the pants incident signaled his appointment as my keeper. Like he was playing Big Brother, and I don’t mean the TV show, I mean the George Orwell, 1984, I’m-always-watching-you kind of Big Brother. It was bad enough with Mum watching me all the time, but that was her job. It wasn’t his. I had enough bloody keepers, thanks.

  He was sitting in a chair behind his desk, which seemed weird because in class he was always on it or around it but never behind it. I didn’t bother knocking.

  Hello, Will.

  Sir.

  I stood, ignoring the chair he’d put out.

  I’m pleased you made the time to see me. I’m also pleased with the way you are meeting your responsibilities with the musical.

  Praise now. An unexpected tack. Unless it was a windup.

  This assignment, Will, what’s the problem?

  Sir, I don’t think it’s fair. How come I can’t do what I want?

  I can understand your frustration, Will, but the assignment stands. He stopped and indicated the seat. Please.

  I sat down.

  He pulled his chair around to the front of the desk and faced me.

  When Mr. Waverton and Mr. Danielli agreed to your punishment, they also insisted you write a 3,000-word statement about the negative effect your misdemeanors have had on the college and your academic life.

  They couldn’t be serious!

  I suggested that since you were involved with the musical, perhaps it would be better for you to journal your thoughts about the experience, which would be a far more positive focus.

  Andrews paused. If he was waiting for me to thank him, we’d both end up being very hungry.

  However, when I set the class assignment it occurred to me that you could use that instead. That way it would count for something rather than just ending up in your file.

  He paused and sifted through some of his papers on his desk as if looking for something.

  So I thought I was doing you a favor.

  He looked right at me.

  I know that you might find that hard to believe, Will, but it’s true. Your reaction to the assignment, however, told me loud and clear that no one had informed you of your contractual obligations.

  Sir, I don’t know what you’re talking about.

  It’s all in that behavior-management contract you signed after your meeting with Mr. Waverton.

  I vaguely remembered signing something in Waddlehead’s office. As if I would have read it.

  Not much more I could say to that and Andrews knew it. It didn’t mean I was going to shut up, though.

  Yeah, well, what am I meant to write?

  Come on, Will, you’re smarter than that. This is a traditional boys’ high school. How do you think the boys who try out for musicals, who are involved in things other than sport, are perceived?

  I don’t … I nearly said I don’t care, sir, but figured he might add an extra five hundred words to the assignment. I don’t know, sir. I don’t think it’s that big a deal anymore.

  Why did you have such a big reaction to being involved then?

  That’s different, sir. It’s just not my thing.

  You’re a musician, aren’t you?

  Yeah, but I’m not that type of musician.

  What do you mean by that, Will?

  Well, you know the type, that …

  He gave me one of those looks that said he was just about to prove a point.

  Well, you know what I mean, sir …

  And what about that kid who keeps trying to hang out with you? Zachariah Cohen? Don’t tell me you don’t view him as some sort of type.

  Well, maybe I do, but that doesn’t—

  That has everything to do with it, Will.

  He turned away and started to pack up his things. That was it?

  Sir?

  You have to do the assignment, Will, no negotiation.

  He stopped his packing and eyeballed me.

  You could use this opportunity to demonstrate to the world just how capable you actually are, Will.

  Here it was, the under
achiever talk. They never leave it alone.

  I’ll do the assignment because I have to, I interrupted before he could get started. Save the motivational talk for someone who cares.

  And with that I was gone. I knew I had stepped over the mark but I didn’t give a crap.

  Middle Eastern feast

  That afternoon the veggie patch got a real workout. Andrews was such a wanker. He came over all friendly with the whole I only did this to help you bullshit and then the very next thing out of his mouth is how crap I am and how I could be so much better.

  I threw the weeds I was ripping out at the back fence, imagining they were sections of Andrews’s hair. How did he know? How did he know what I was and what I could be? And what the hell did that mean anyway? I was who I was, end of story.

  I grabbed the fertilizer and piled it on, digging it in around the veggies that were just beginning to push their way to the top.

  That’s what the difference was: with these little buggers, if you piled shit on them they actually started to grow. If they kept piling shit on me, I was just going to keep living in it.

  I looked up to find Mum staring at me. I had no idea how long she’d been standing there. I couldn’t deal with another Patricia Armstrong heart-to-heart tonight.

  Don’t look at me like that, Will. I called to tell you dinner was ready three times.

  Dinner I could manage.

  I moved into the kitchen, half expecting to see the old fancy place mats and flowers. Mum and Dad always had this thing about eating together at the table, like it was some kind of big deal. TV was definitely barred. I hated it when I was a kid because it meant I missed out on the TV shows they talked about at school. Later on I didn’t mind. Dad would carry on telling us stories from work, and considering he was an engineer and always visiting building sites, they were pretty funny, sometimes so funny that Mum would tell him they weren’t appropriate, but he’d just grin at her, say Come on, darl, and keep telling his story.

  Since January we hadn’t really sat at the table together. Mum would sometimes, but I’d go and watch TV or take dinner into my room and listen to music. Mum never made a big deal of it.

  I thought we might eat in here tonight.

  I followed Mum’s voice to the lounge room. She was sitting on a cushion at the low table where she’d set out one of her Middle Eastern feasts she used to do on special occasions. She’d lit all the candles, put the screen in front of the TV and arranged floor cushions around the table.

  I stood in the doorway. Instantly I could hear their voices carrying on at one another like they always did. The lounge room was yet another Armstrong Family Project, but it was also a constant windup for both of them. Dad wanted to have the big lounge and telly to match so he could relax and watch the Manchester United games on cable. Mum wanted no couch and no TV, only a decent stereo system and big cushions. Dad kept calling her a sad hippie and Mum kept calling him an Aussie yob. Eventually they came to a compromise. Mum dragged out the screen she had from when she was teaching English in Japan and put it in front of the TV. Dad got his big couch but Mum made sure she covered it and everywhere else with huge floor cushions. And that is exactly how they always did things. They’d keep at something until both of them were happy and then continue to give each other heaps about it while they were cuddling up together on the big couch with the big cushions. Watching the big TV.

  Mum looked up at me expectantly. She was obviously thinking it was a good idea.

  Come on, Will, this used to be one of your favorites.

  What could I do? She was happy.

  So what’s the occasion?

  I was just thinking it would be nice…. It kind of reminds me of good things and I thought maybe …

  She looked at me.

  Yeah, Mum, it’s all good.

  In fact, it was better than good. It was a feast! She’d prepared enough food for a Lebanese family, including cousins. I sat myself opposite her on the second-biggest floor cushion in the room and hooked in. Mum was obviously doing the same as I caught her putting three stuffed vine leaves in her mouth at the same time.

  Hey! You go mad at me for shoveling food …

  She stopped chewing for one second, and then laughed until she nearly choked. I shoved a vine leaf into my mouth, searching for something to talk about. As good as the feast was, if we were going to get through it I had to find something she could get a hold of or we’d end up exactly where I didn’t want to go.

  So Andrews has given me this assignment to do during the musical.

  She beamed. The tactic had worked.

  I’ve got to do some sort of stupid report about stereotypes.

  Mum’s brain had already started to work overtime. She loved this type of stuff.

  Do you remember that time in Year Eight, Will, when you got in trouble for throwing a mandarin at someone’s head?

  Actually she was wrong, it was a banana and I only pegged it at somebody because they threw an apple at me first.

  That was about a racial thing, wasn’t it?

  It was right at the peak of the Year 8 skip versus wog thing. The school did do something about it: we had to sit down and shut up at lunchtime for two weeks in a row. Mum was all for having a round-table conference about it. Dad fortunately settled her down.

  Well, Will, in the world we live in, it’s not such a bad idea to get your head around the effect of judging before you know anything about individuals, or countries for that matter. He’s right, the more you exercise your critical thinking skills the more informed you’ll be.

  I gave her one of my looks.

  OK, I understand that it’s the last thing you want to be writing about. Just know you can run it by me anytime you’d like.

  It was definitely time to change the subject.

  So … the veggie patch is, ahh, looking good …

  She looked back at me strangely and, fair enough, it was a pretty bad attempt at changing the subject.

  … don’t you think?

  Mum’s face broke into a huge grin and then she cracked up laughing so hard she had tears pouring down her face. I grabbed the rest of the vine leaves and ate three more falafel wraps. Once there was no more food on the table Mum broke out the ice cream. Both of us were so full we could barely move, so I got rid of the screen and for the first time in ages we watched telly together.

  And it felt good.

  The kiss

  Andrews was calling for the actors to get their backsides onstage immediately. We were near the end of the rehearsal and he was definitely getting pissed off. He was using the same tone of voice he did in English when one of the boys had stepped over the mark. The whole cast was onstage and from what I could hear he was angry that some of the chorus members had forgotten where they were meant to stand. It wasn’t normal for him to get so wound up. He was going on about how even though it was only the second week of full rehearsals we needed to block the final scenes today so that everybody had an idea of the shape of the show blah, blah, blah. It was good to know the bloke could get stressed as well as creating it for everyone else.

  Mark and Elizabeth seemed to be getting tighter. I heard Andrews saying to Ms. Sefton that he was seeing them three afternoons a week to work on their scenes. That was a lot of time to be spending together. It was on the cards that they’d end up with one another for sure.

  She was hanging in the background talking to him—as usual. It was hard not to stare. She looked great. She always wore jeans, the type of jeans that fit just right around the backside; actually, they fit just right everywhere. They sat on her hips like they were teasing anyone who looked that they were going to fall down lower but they never did. She always wore different T-shirts, mainly ones with weird, funky designs. Jock would be beside himself because Elizabeth wore her hair in a ponytail to most rehearsals.

  One of the best things about her was the way she laughed. Man, she could laugh and crack up the whole room. She laughed a lot. She especially laughed with Mark.


  I had to find some way of talking to her. I was starting to feel like one of those guys who like to watch.

  OK, let’s see what you’ve got. Curtain up—and action!

  They ran through the song and arrived at the scene everyone was waiting for: the one where the guy who’s from the wrong side of the tracks kisses the rich girl, except in this story they’re at a costume ball, dressed in really bad clown costumes, pretending that no one knows who they are. I think it was even worse than the plot of every love story Mum hung out for at the video shop.

  The hall fell suddenly silent. Silent and expectant. The chorus members had been gossiping about this since last rehearsal. The kissing scene. And let’s face it, in a school musical that was the most action you were going to get. The entire cast had pulled up seats around the band to watch. Even the geeks got the idea something important was going to happen.

  OK, everybody, Mark and Elizabeth may need your support in the following scene. As you are all aware—Andrews looked around at the body of expectant voyeurs—this is the scene where our two lead characters, Polly and Tony, fall into each other’s arms and kiss.

  Snickers from the geeks. I suppose you’ve got to cut them some slack considering their stunted development.

  I have asked Mark and Elizabeth if they want the hall cleared, for exactly that reason … Andrews frowned at the geeks. But they have both said that they need to get used to it. So are we all clear with what is expected?

  Everybody nodded and a couple of Sirs came from the pit. So much for not making a big deal of it. I wish they had bloody cleared the hall, then I could’ve got the hell out of there. No one else in the hall was moving apart from Romeo and Juliet onstage. At that point I looked up. The silence had reached a deafening roar. I watched as their lips met, and then continued to meet. They didn’t stop meeting.

  Applause broke out all around me. Whistles, cheers and clapping were the backdrop as the two of them finally separated, looking just a little embarrassed.

  That kiss was not acting. That kiss was for real. It was pretty obvious it wasn’t just the sick losers watching who enjoyed it. Elizabeth and Mark were mad for each other.