Finding Freia Lockhart

by Aimee Said

  Mum sighs. “That’s not normal, Freia. That’s just boring.”

  “Well, maybe I like boring.”

  I stomp to my room, well aware that I’ve been a bitch to Dad. I know I should say sorry to him, but that would be like admitting Mum’s right and I’m not prepared to do that. Even if she is.

  To make my mood even worse, since Kate put the idea of being nervous about rehearsals into my head, my palms have started to sweat every time I think about Monday afternoon.

  Ten things I like

  1. Otters

  2. Orlando Bloom

  3. Double-fudge chocolate brownies

  4. Long, stripy socks

  5. Boris (except in hair ball season)

  6. Christmas morning

  7. Summer holidays

  8. Riding my bike down steep hills

  9. Charlotte’s Web

  10. Dancing alone in my room

  7

  Every Monday morning in the locker room the Bs debrief about their weekend. From what I’ve observed, it’s an opportunity to brag about how much you drank, who you hooked up with and what you bought. I have yet to have anything to contribute.

  “Ohmygod,” Belinda’s saying when I join them, “it was so embarrassing because I puked all over his sneakers!”

  “Ohmygod!” squeals everyone in response.

  “Did he still want to kiss you after that?” asks Kate.

  “Gah, Kate, of course he did!” Bethanee shakes her head at Kate’s naivety. “And how was your weekend, Freia? I thought I saw you at Parkville Metro with some old bloke in a cardigan and” – she pauses for dramatic effect – “clogs!”

  My cheeks burn but I’m determined not to walk away from this conversation wishing I’d had a comeback, so I say the first thing that pops into my head.

  “Oh yeah, that’s my dad. He’s a clog dancer with the Cardigan Dance Brigade. They’re really talented; you should come to one of their shows.”

  Bethanee looks annoyed when Kate and Brianna laugh with me. “Come on, Bella, the bell’s about to go,” she says, giving me her well-practised death stare.

  This year we’ve got Maths for homeroom. Belinda’s in the advanced class. Kate, Bethanee, Brianna and I are all doing intermediate, which is a diplomatic way of saying we suck at it. The four of us sit in the second-back row. Bethanee and Brianna take it in turns to sit by the window, Kate sits next to them and I sit next to her. This is the Natural Order of the group. If we were a litter of puppies, I’d be the starving runt for sure.

  “Good morning, girrrrls,” says Mr McLaren, trilling the “r” for far longer than is necessary, in typical McSporran style. “Before we seek our mathematical enlightenment for the day, a few announcements. First, a reminder from Ms Burns that all girrrrls involved in the school musical are to assemble by the blue gate by 3.15, in full school uniform. Jewellery and make-up are not permitted.”

  Bethanee passes a note to Brianna who smirks and shows it to Kate. Kate nods, writes something and passes it back.

  McSporran continues. “Also, there will be a cake sale at recess to raise funds for Year Eleven’s wee semi-formal. I am reliably informed that chocolate features heavily.” He pauses to give us time to laugh, which we do, because we’ve learned the hard way that Mr McLaren can get quite moody if his jokes fail. He holds his hands out in front of him making the “enough” gesture that actors do when people won’t stop applauding. Poor, deluded McSporran.

  “Right, girrrrls, let’s talk trigonometry. Who can tell me the difference between sine and cosine?” I try to maintain an air of studious interest while avoiding eye contact with him. “Freia?”

  “Um …” I scan the notes I copied off the whiteboard the day before. “Sine is the ratio of the base of the triangle to the hypotenuse and cosine is the ratio of the height?”

  “You’re not often right, Ms Lockhart, but you’re wrong again.” Pause for laughter. “Bethanee, can you tell Freia where she’s gone wrong?”

  Bethanee looks at me smugly. “Cosine is the ratio of the adjacent side to the hypotenuse; sine is the ratio of the opposite side to the hypotenuse.”

  “Very good, Ms Dixon. Does that make sense now, Freia?”

  I nod. I’m not prepared to admit that I’ve got no idea what a hypotenuse is, even after two weeks of trig.

  I use the cake sale as an excuse to get away from the Bs for a little while, knowing that every one of them, including Kate, has declared herself on a diet until the final performance. Siouxsie and Stephanie are in front of me in the queue.

  “Were you at the supermarket on Saturday, Freia?” asks Siouxsie.

  Great, another witness to my paternal humiliation. “Yeah, I was there with my dad for the weekly grocery torture session.”

  “That was your dad? I love those clogs! Do you know where he got them?”

  Siouxsie – the queen of Westside alterna-cool – loves my dad’s crappy old clogs with the wooden soles. I manage only to shake my head in response as the shock has rendered me speechless.

  The best thing about Mondays is that we have double English after lunch. You may be surprised that I enjoy English, given my hatred of EE, but normal classes aren’t too bad, especially since this year we’ve got Mr Naidoo (aka Mr I-Do, on account of half the girls in the school wanting to marry him). He’s the complete opposite of Mr McLaren: good-looking, well dressed, funny and he treats us like we’re real people, not just a bunch of teenagers. (Okay, so I am part of the tragic fifty per cent of Westsiders who have a crush on my English teacher. Give me a break: compared to the other men in my life – i.e. my crusty old dad, McSporran and Ziggy’s footy mates – he’s Orlando Bloom and Johnny Depp rolled into one great package.)

  We spend the lesson writing alternative endings to fairytales. I’m just getting into mine (in which Cinderella gives her nasty stepfamily food poisoning and goes to the ball with her head held high) when Kate passes me a note.

  Come to the loos near the blue gate as soon as I-Do lets us out.

  What for?

  To get ready for rehearsal!!!

  For a moment I think that she must be worrying about the lack of girls’ loos at Parkville, which has crossed my mind more than once today, but when she points to the umpteen shades of lip gloss she’s taken to keeping in her pencil case I get what she means.

  When the bell goes I obediently follow Brianna, Bethanee and Kate. Belinda is already stationed in front of the mirror, along with most of the chorus. There’s so much deodorant in the air that the toilet block must have its own dedicated hole in the ozone layer.

  While everyone else jostles for space in front of the mirror, I head to the loo. Even though I already went during class and deliberately didn’t drink my apple juice at lunch, I feel like I need to go again.

  “Hurry up,” says Kate as I’m washing my hands. “We’ve only got a few minutes.”

  I wipe my hands on my uniform. “Ready.”

  “What? You can’t go looking like that!” Kate sounds annoyed. “At least brush your hair.”

  Brianna eyes me critically and holds out some brown powder. “You could do with some bronzer, too.”

  Three minutes later I’ve got my hair tied back, half an inch of sticky pink goo on my lips and a face the colour of an Oompa-Loompa after a trip to the solarium.

  I’m worried that Kate’s overdone it, but when we get to the gate I realise I look positively natural compared to everyone else. Even Ms Burns has put on lipstick, and she’s wearing the leather skirt she usually reserves for parent–teacher nights and presentation dinners.

  “Come along, girls,” she singsongs as she leads us out of the school grounds.

  The schools are about a ten-minute walk from each other, but Ms Burns is in such a hurry that we get to Parkville in seven. As soon as we walk into the main building, we’re hit by the overwhelming odour of teenage boys: a pungent mix of sweat, mouldy towels left in lockers after swimming practice, festering footy socks and testosterone. (Not that
I know what testosterone smells like, but I think we can safely assume that there’s plenty of it around here.) It’s like being locked in Ziggy’s bedroom with the windows closed.

  Ms Burns makes us wait outside the assembly hall while she gives us the obligatory don’t-embarrass-the-school lecture.

  “Now, girls, I know we’re all very excited to be doing this production with Parkville, but as you’re aware, it isn’t going to be all fun and games. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that you are expected to behave in a manner befitting young ladies at all times, including during weekend rehearsals.” She directs this at Bethanee, who almost lost the role of Slave Three in last year’s production of Joseph after she and Slave One were discovered under a pile of fake palm branches.

  Everyone makes final adjustments to their hair and uniforms as we follow Ms Burns into the hall. The ten or so boys who are already there don’t even bother to stop talking among themselves as we lurk awkwardly near the doors. A small, white-haired man appears from nowhere. He reminds me of a Maltese terrier, yapping with excitement.

  “Welcome, Ms Burns! Welcome, girls! I’m Mr Wilson! We’re so pleased to have you here! Boys! Let’s make our visitors welcome!”

  The boys finally start to drift over, joined by about ten others who’ve been skulking in the shadows all along.

  “Right, everyone! Today’s going to be a getting to know you session! We’ll split into cast and crew!”

  “Cast, stay here with me and Mr Wilson,” coos Ms Burns. “Crew, you’re out the back with Darryl.” She points to the stage where a guy with a greasy ponytail and Metallica T-shirt is standing with his hand raised.

  “Too bad you can’t stay with us, Freia,” says Brianna as she eyes three cute guys heading for the cast assembly point.

  “We’ll keep one for you,” promises Kate as she follows them.

  I look at the group standing on the stage. There are only two other girls in the crew: Lisa Landrow, who’s doing make-up, and Stephanie, who’s the official photographer. The guys are pretty much as you’d expect: not good-looking enough for onstage parts and not athletic enough to have sporting commitments after school. “I’m not meant to be here!” I want to scream as I climb the steps to the stage.

  Lisa, Stephanie and I automatically huddle together at the side of the stage like we’re best buddies. Darryl stands in front of us with a clipboard.

  “When I call your name I want you to step forward and tell the group something about yourself,” he says. “Each person has thirty seconds. Joshua, you’re first.”

  Joshua is the one cute guy in the crew. He’s got piercing blue eyes and wavy hair. For one mad moment I think maybe he’s the guy doing lighting, but with shoulders as broad as his, I can’t imagine him being nicknamed Skeletor.

  Josh – as he introduces himself – tells us that he’s into art and technical design and that he’s responsible for the sets. The rest of the boys seem to be cast in Darryl’s mould. Without wanting to stereotype people, they are your stereotypical geeks: Kevin builds robots in his spare time; Brian inhabits online gaming worlds; Stuart is a Trekkie and proud of it. As we go around the stage, I am more and more certain that these are Not My People.

  Finally, it’s my turn and for once I feel like the cool one in the group. I fix Josh with a winning smile and say, “I’m Freia …” And that’s it. My mind is suddenly blank and I can’t think of a single thing I do or have done or may do in the future. I am Mute Girl.

  “Time’s up!” says Darryl. “Thanks, Freia, that was fascinating. We all feel we know you a lot better now.”

  “Wanker,” mutters Stephanie under her breath. I’m not sure whether she means Darryl or me.

  I think of all the things I should have said: that I publish my own zine; that I’m too busy blogging and podcasting for any other hobbies. Of course, Stephanie comes up with a really cool line about seeing the world through the eye of her camera, and Lisa has them all drooling over her long blond hair, so it doesn’t matter that she’s confessed to being a make-up junkie and the world’s biggest Home and Away fan.

  Introductions over, Darryl sends everyone to their designated areas to await his instructions. Seeing that Lisa and Josh are already deep in conversation, I think I can safely tick him off my list of Cute Guys I Might Meet at Rehearsal. It’s a pity his was the only name on it.

  “Ah, Freia,” says Darryl when it’s just me, Stuart and Brian left. “Daniel Taylor-Fairchild, who will be directing the lighting, hasn’t arrived yet. I don’t explain things twice, so you’ll just have to wait till he turns up – if he turns up. In the meantime go upstairs and don’t touch anything.”

  “He’s probably in the toilets pulling a bong,” says Brian under his breath.

  Great, I’m going to be stuck upstairs with a stoner three afternoons a week for the next six weeks. I silently curse Kate, my parents, Nicky, Ms Burns and Mum’s bloody child psychologist for landing me in this situation.

  I head up the stairs that lead offstage to the lighting balcony. At the top there’s a small platform with a sort of panel thing on it that has lots of sliding switches and buttons. The thought of what Darryl might do if he catches me touching anything is enough to make me stuff my hands in my blazer pockets and keep them there.

  I look down to where the cast is still getting to know each other. They’ve split into two groups and are taking turns to fall backwards and be caught. It’s “trust exercises” like these that really put me off group activities. I mean, what if everyone just leaves you to splat on the floor? Needless to say, when Belinda drops daintily backwards, every guy in the group rushes to catch her.

  After forty minutes on the balcony I’m really busting, but there’s no way I’m asking Darryl where the loos are. I try to take my mind off my bladder by watching the Bs for flirting tips. Brianna is sitting on a desk, swinging one of her legs back and forth so that her foot brushes against the boofy bloke she’s chatting to. Bethanee has undone her second top button (strictly against Westside rules) and is twirling her bee pin casually while the boy she’s chatting to talks to her cleavage. I pay close attention to Belinda’s method of flirting with three boys at once (address each in turn; giggle at everything they say; flick hair seductively if their attention starts to wander). It just seems to come naturally to them, these fifteen-year-old harlots, whereas I can’t even speak to the geeks without my brain going into meltdown. Perhaps it’s just as well that I’m going to be up here with Skeletor (if he ever shows up). Imagine what a fool I could be making of myself down there.

  I’m so engrossed in my anthropological study of teenage interaction that I don’t realise I’m no longer alone on the balcony until I hear Darryl’s voice.

  “I hope this isn’t going to set a precedent for the rest of the play. When I agreed to have you in the crew it was on the strict condition that you take it seriously.”

  “Sorry,” says a quiet, low voice. “I had to see the deputy principal.”

  I turn around and see a boy with long, skinny legs and full lips. I don’t need to get as far as the heavy fringe to realise that it is the boy from the cafe. Nicky’s going to love this, I think, springing to my feet. It’s just like one of those eighties teen movies she’s always on about. If Mick/Joey recognises me, he shows no sign of it. Darryl gestures towards me.

  “This is … what was your name again?”

  “Freia.”

  “Of course, how could I forget after your memorable introduction?” Darryl laughs. I’m relieved that Daniel doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

  “Hi, I’m Daniel.” He holds out his hand.

  No one’s ever offered me a handshake before and I don’t know how to respond. Should I grab it tightly or just kind of put my hand in his? Do you actually shake or is it more of a pumping action? While I’m considering all this, Daniel seems to take my delayed reaction as a sign that I don’t want to shake his hand at all and withdraws it sharply, shoving it into his pocket.

 
“Hi,” I finally manage.

  “And this,” says Darryl, gesturing towards the panel with all the knobs and switches, “is the Lightron 5000, a state-of-the-art console that fully controls the lighting for the entire hall.” He points to the rows of lights attached to the ceiling and either side of the stage. “The Lightron 5000 is not a toy; it is a very valuable piece of machinery and it has taken me three years of fundraising to purchase it for the school. Until you are very, very familiar with the Lightron 5000 and its capabilities, you will not – I repeat, will not – touch it without my supervision. Is that clear?”

  “I’ve used one before, at my old school,” says Daniel. “I think I can teach Freia how to use it.”

  “Oh, have you? No doubt Lightron rigs are pretty common at schools like Greyland,” says Darryl in a posho voice. “But at Parkville we’re not used to having the latest equipment and we can’t afford for anything to happen to it just because someone thinks they know how to use it.”

  I sneak a sideways glance at Daniel to see how he’s reacting to Darryl’s tirade, but of course I can’t see anything through the fringe. He seems to be gazing blankly as Darryl blathers on about “faders” and “cross-faders” and “spots” and “strips”. Perhaps Daniel is stoned. How could I tell? I sniff in his direction, but I can’t smell anything unusual. I fight the urge to push his fringe out of his eyes and check them for redness.

  “Okay, everyone!” Mr Wilson claps his hands to get everyone’s attention. “That’s it for our first day! On Wednesday we get down to the nitty-gritty! Belinda and Luke, please make sure you listen to the soundtrack a few times before then so we can get straight into the musical numbers!”

  Darryl thrusts a thick instruction manual into Daniel’s hands. “And I expect you to know this backwards.” He turns and heads down the stairs without saying goodbye to either of us.

  “Jawohl,” says Daniel, giving a little salute to his back. If Darryl hears him, he doesn’t acknowledge it.