by R. M. Corbet
‘What is this? Forty years old?’ he asked Ella.
‘It’s registered and roadworthy.’
Mr Wu chipped some rust off the roof.
‘You know what this car is?’
‘A deathtrap?’
He shook his head. ‘It’s a classic.’
It turned out Mr Wu was a BMW fanatic. Stunned into silence, we sat listening while he reminisced about the various makes and models he had owned.
‘The finest cars in the world,’ he declared.
I gestured at Phoebe.
‘We’ll be late for the ball,’ she told her father.
Mr Wu stepped back to wave us goodbye. ‘Have a great time! You must all come for dinner soon!’
Simon sat up and brushed himself off as we took off down the road. There were no hugs or kisses. Phoebe was happy to see him, but concerned that her father was watching.
‘Besides, you’re not my date. Lou is,’ she told him, and everyone started to laugh.
It took a few close shaves, a few hops and bumps, some lurches and stalls, but we finally made it. Outside the school, there were scores of couples being dropped off. Some were in flash cars. Others in taxis. Some groups had hired stretch limousines. Ella hit the gutter and ran one wheel up on the curb. The brakes screeched and the engine died with a clunk.
We piled out. We straightened our dresses and ties. Then we linked arms and made our way in through the gate.
Phoebe had Simon. I had my punk-rocker penguin.
The ball was being held on the grounds of our school, in a lovely old music hall, right at the back. There were fairy lights in the trees and flickering lanterns all the way along the path. The doorway was crowded with glamorous couples, waiting their turn to go in. There were two big vases of flowers on either side. I’m not sure what kind of flowers they were. I was too nervous thinking about what lay ahead.
The hall had been decked out in some kind of sea theme, with luminous fish-creatures and crepe-paper seaweed dangling from the roof. Soft lights. Mood music. A stage at the far end. A dance floor in the middle. A long table decked out with food. It had something more than the neon-lit boys’ school disaster. It had atmosphere.
‘So far, so good.’ I nudged Lou. He smiled but I knew he was nervous, like me.
The four of us hovered. We tried to fit in. But none of us knew how to chitchat. Simon asked Lou what footy team he followed, but Lou said he didn’t follow the footy. Lou asked Simon what music he liked, and Simon said AC/DC. Phoebe asked me if her earrings looked straight, and I told her she wasn’t wearing any. A waiter whizzed past with finger food. Another one whizzed past with drinks. A lady came by selling raffle tickets: first prize was a solid bronze serving platter.
It looked like a war-shield for Vandals and Visigoths.
Then Shauna appeared in a pink strapless gown that didn’t leave much to the imagination. She air-kissed me and told Phoebe she looked gorgeous. ‘Polka dots! How imaginative!’ She gave Simon a quick smile, then looked Lou up and down suggestively: ‘Nice tux! You look like a million dollars!’
‘Twelve dollars, actually,’ said Lou.
Shauna was done flirting. She dragged off her eight-foot Neanderthal man-date, and that was that.
I breathed a deep sigh of relief.
‘Let’s find our table,’ said Phoebe.
‘I’ll meet you in there. I gotta go powder my nose.’
‘But your nose looks fine.’
‘It’s a figure of speech,’ I explained.
In the toilets I ran into Bianca, who had just finished talking to Alison at home. Shauna, it turned out, had snatched Alison’s date, and now Alison was in bed with a migraine. It wasn’t clear how and when the snatching had occurred, but it sounded like it had been messily done.
Bianca was upset and undecided. Alison had given her a message to pass on to Shauna: ‘Have a nice time at the ball.’ But what exactly had Alison meant by it? Would passing on the message make Shauna upset? Would she blame Bianca for getting involved? But would not passing it on offend Alison? Would she think Bianca was on Shauna’s side?
Poor Bianca was caught in the middle again.
I must have been in there for five minutes max, but when I came out they were gone! Lou, Phoebe and Simon had disappeared. I checked all the tables. I scanned the crowd carefully. I even checked under the tables, just in case. They were nowhere on earth to be found.
Maude McNaughton: ditched and deserted.
In the end, I found Simon outside on the grass. He was standing alone round the corner, with a cigarette in his hand and a lost look on his face.
‘I didn’t know you smoked.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Where is Phoebe?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘And Lou?’
‘He’s gone to find her.’
‘What happened?’
He explained that Phoebe had caught Shauna flirting with him. Simon had not been flirting back, he insisted; just politely going along with it. He’d told Phoebe it was better than making a scene. But Phoebe was upset. She had stormed off and Lou had run after her.
‘I have no idea why it upset her so much.’
Simon tossed his cigarette away and we stood there for a little while, watching the sky. I wondered whether this whole double-date switch thing had been such a good idea. Simon was my pretend date, but he wasn’t mine. Lou was my real date, but he wasn’t there. And now Phoebe and Simon were fighting.
It had the potential to get messy.
‘Are you planning to apologise?’ I asked.
‘Do you think I should?’
‘I think you should get down on your knees.’
‘But I didn’t do anything wrong, did I?’
I explained how it wasn’t always the best course of action to be non-confrontational; how sometimes a girl needed their man to stand up – to tell girls like Shauna to back off.
‘Boys are hopeless when it comes to flirting,’ I said.
‘So what now?’ said Simon.
‘We wait.’
We waited till, thank goodness, we saw them returning.
Phoebe marched straight up to Simon with a wild look in her eyes. For a moment I thought she might slap him, but instead she threw her arms around him and kissed him. They both apologised. They both laughed. Then off they both went, arm-in-arm.
‘What did you tell her?’ I asked Lou when they’d gone.
‘That boys are hopeless when it comes to flirting.’ He grinned.
Back inside people were eating, and this time the food wasn’t about to run out. There were quiches, pastries, smoked salmon, meatballs, chicken wings, sushi rolls, salads and dips. (Girl food – food that had actually been cooked.) Lou and I got busy sampling it all, sharing and stealing from each other’s plates, just like we’d always done, since we were kids.
The DJ came on and the music started. It was one of those typical techno-type beats, with synth-bits and big booming bass. The house lights went down. The mirror ball started twirling. It didn’t take long before couples were moving out onto the dance floor. Everyone except me and Lou.
‘This sucks,’ he said. ‘I can’t dance to this.’
‘It’s dance music. That’s what it’s made for, you dork!’
I took his hand and he let me lead him out into the thick of the dancers. The strobe lights were flashing. The sound was intense. But Lou’s feet were stuck to the spot.
‘It’s too fast and mindless,’ he shouted.
‘At least it’s not the Wiggles.’
‘I think I’d prefer the Wiggles.’
‘Wake up, Jeff!’
‘Who’s Jeff?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
Then suddenly, there we were, moving and grooving, me in my tight dress, Lou in his tuxedo, shaking and shimmering, twisting and turning, laughing and showing off, itching and twitching.
Just like all the other couples, all around us.
Just like any girl
and boy, out on a date.
We were doing fine till the dreaded slow waltz started up. All the couples around us began to hook up. Dancing cheek-to-cheek. Gazing into each other’s eyes.
I tried not to notice, but Phoebe and Simon were kissing!
Lou held out his hand.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We can do this.’
Holding him felt familiar, but also brand new. As kids we had wrestled and tumbled together. We had tickled and piggybacked and leapfrogged each other. We had never been close quite like this before, though. We had never been quite so uncertain.
‘You smell nice,’ he said.
‘So do you.’
We began swaying slowly in time with the music. It wasn’t hard letting the music decide. No one was leading now. There were no rules. I tilted my head back and let myself go.
I was perfectly happy. I had no agenda. It was just us, and just what we made of it . . .
‘Maude?’
‘Lou?’
‘I have to go now,’ he said.
support act
‘WHAT? YOU MEAN right now?’
Lou looked at his watch.
‘My gig starts in twenty-five minutes!’
To avoid any trouble, we slipped out the back, through the door marked EXIT at the side of the stage. Making sure we weren’t being followed, we scooted down a corridor, out through a back door then down to a side street, where Ella was waiting with the car engine running, like the perfect getaway driver.
The Funky Junk Orkestra gig was just across town – a half-hour support spot before the main band. The address of the venue had been written down. The problem was reading the street directory.
‘Left at the next street. Now right at the lights.’
‘Shouldn’t we have kept going straight back there?’
‘I’ve got the map and the map said Go Right.’
‘That’s because you’re holding it upside down!’
We pulled into a petrol station to ask for directions. We did a U-turn and we retraced our steps. The car was beginning to make funny noises. The engine was hissing. A red light came on.
Ella was starting to run out of patience, cursing the car and the jerk who had sold it to her.
‘It cost me a hundred. He gave me his word!’
‘A hundred dollars! What did you expect?’
The car lurched and shuddered. It rattled and groaned. As Ella pulled over, the poor thing just died.
‘You go,’ she told us. ‘It’s just up the road. I’m gonna call the jerk. See if he can’t come and fix it.’
We set off on foot in the direction she pointed, down a dark street, past empty car yards and factory warehouses. Not a fashionable neighbourhood, exactly. It felt like we’d left civilisation behind.
It took us forever to find the right place. The Bricklayers Arms was a smoke-filled old dive. The main bar was crowded with punters – bogans and punk rockers, mostly. There were pool tables, darts games and pay-TV sport. The girl at the bar had a spider tattoo. I felt people eyeing my slinky red dress.
The gig was out back in the old bingo lounge. The small stage was full of the headline act’s gear: amps and a drum kit, a PA and lights. Repetitive Strain Injury, it said on the backdrop.
The Funky Junk Orkestra had set up in front, on the dance floor. There were tin drums, hub caps and sheet-metal gongs, spanners and hammers and wrenches – the handyman’s version of the full catastrophe.
Ivy and Miles were there, sorting it out.
‘I’m glad you guys made it,’ said Ivy, relieved.
‘Wow, Maude! You look hot!’ Miles nodded.
‘Sorry. She’s already taken.’ Lou smiled.
‘You heard him. Back off!’ said Ivy.
The sound guy for the main band came over.
‘Where are your instruments?’ he asked.
‘Those are our instruments.’ Lou pointed.
The guy looked uncertain. He set up a few mikes and shifted a spotlight so it shone on the back of Lou’s head.
‘Any time you like.’
‘You want us to start?’
‘Ten minutes ago.’
‘But there’s no one around.’
‘They’ll drift in, as soon as they hear you.’
Ivy and Miles went to go tell the others.
Lou looked at me. ‘Do you want to intro the band?’
‘Okay, but what would I say?’
‘Just try to make us sound famous.’ He grinned.
The band took up their places while I adjusted the mike. Jill glanced at me and I gave her a thumbs-up. I knew she was nervous. I felt nervous, too. I had never done a big intro before.
‘Ladies and gentlemen! You guys out there in the bar! Following the massive success of their recent world tour, their critical acclaim and their platinum-award-winning album . . .’
Lou was shaking his head.
‘They make their own instruments,’ I continued. ‘They write their own music. They practise twice a week and they’re getting much better. So put your hands together and give a big warm welcome . . . to the Funky Junk Orkestra!’
There was a smattering of applause from a smattering of punks. The lights dimmed. The players stood, waiting. Ivy looked focused. Miles took a deep breath.
On Lou’s count of four, they started.
It was a machine shop, a factory of noise. A foundry of metal on metal. Waves of noise, rising in volume; forming and swelling, then breaking apart. Crests of noise, surging and tumbling and foaming. Whirlpools and currents of turbulent noise.
People began to move in from the bar – some faces curious, others in shock. It wasn’t like anything they’d heard before. It wasn’t like anything anyone had heard.
The song stopped and for a moment the whole room went quiet, as if they’d all fallen into the same trance. There was a drunken cheer. Some uncertain applause. Then somebody yelled out: ‘Wankers!’
My heart sank as they launched into their next number. The tempo was slower. I could hear people laughing. Whatever novelty value the band had was gone, and the crowd started booing and shouting:
‘This isn’t music.’
‘This sucks!’
‘Get off!’
It broke my heart to see the look on Lou’s face. It was awful, but what could anyone do about it?
By the end of the next song the jeering was worse. It was coming from the back, where the punters were drunk. It was so mean and nasty, it made me feel sick.
After all the hard work they had done.
I stepped up into the spotlight and shouted into the mike: ‘PLEASE LISTEN!’
The whole room went suddenly quiet. Everyone was waiting to hear what I’d say next. The trouble was, I was too angry to speak.
‘Sing us a song, luv!’ someone shouted.
The crowd started laughing.
‘Weren’t you on Australian Idol?’
‘Play some rock’n’roll!’
I looked at them all, with their cool haircuts and drunken stares. All those ‘wild’ people, out for a ‘wild time’. All those rebels and misfits they copied and worshipped. But when something that didn’t quite fit came along, they were just as small-minded as anyone else.
Black sheep were just like ordinary sheep underneath.
‘You want us to play rock’n’roll?’ I shouted. ‘This IS rock’n’roll. This is OUR rock’n’roll!’
Outside in the street, I heard a loud rumbling. The walls of the pub shook. The beer glasses rattled. From the back of the room, several large figures appeared, tall and imposing in black leather. It was Smiley and his mates from the bikie gang, pushing their way through to the front of the stage.
The crowd was hushed. Smiley didn’t need a mike. His voice was filled with dark menace as he stood there and sized up the audience.
‘Are you folks havin’ a good time yet?’ he snarled.
Nobody spoke.
Smiley winked at me, then he turned and gave Lou a nod.
‘
Show these punks. Play freakin’ loud!’
The FJO finished its half-hour set. There was modest applause and a few relieved groans. One guy was shouting and stamping his feet, but he may have been holding an iPod.
‘AWESOME!’ I shouted, because Ella wasn’t there.
Lou told the rest of the band they’d played well. That was the only thing that mattered, he said. Being booed was just part of playing new music. It was all about taking risks.
Repetitive Strain Injury came over to shake all our hands. They said the music was unreal – the best thing they’d heard. They said they’d be happy to give us more gigs. They asked Lou if he wanted to get up and jam.
‘I’ve got be somewhere else,’ he explained.
We packed up our stuff and got out after that. We had a group hug out the front. There were back-slaps and handshakes and warm smiles all round. Ivy said she liked my intro, and Jill said she liked my dress.
It had been a good gig, overall.
‘We better rush,’ said Lou.
Ella was in the street, talking to Smiley and his mates. There were four Harleys parked there, but no sign of the Beamer.
‘The motor is shot. We can’t fix it,’ she said.
‘It’s a piece of crap,’ Smiley agreed.
She looked at him pointedly. ‘So do I get my money back?’
Smiley pulled a single note from his jacket.
‘I’ll go you halves. Fifty–fifty.’
Ella scowled, then pocketed the note.
‘So what now? Do we call a taxi?’ I asked glumly.
‘No drama,’ said Smiley. ‘We’ll take you.’
Talk about making an entrance. Lou and I arrived back at the dance at one minute to midnight, each on the back of a black Harley Davidson. If you’ve never been on a Harley before, the word that best describes them is loud. (The word for four Harleys is louder.) We had our own bikie-gang taxi service. We both had on black helmets and black leather jackets. We arrived at the speed of sound, riding wild thunder. There was wind in our hair. We were outlaws!
It was the pumpkin hour. The most romantic hour of all. Except that the school had kicked everyone out and told them to go home. A long line of cars stretched around the block. There were taxis and limos and family wagons. Smiley squeezed his Harley up onto the path, then he opened the throttle and the four of them powered on in. Heads turned and jaws dropped in deep admiration. We were rock stars and heroes, returned from the Gig. We were legends.