by Aimee Said
Alison Alexander is renowned for giving PowerPoint presentations at every opportunity. It’s like being in class with a sales rep. Of course, Ms Reid loves her.
Alison’s presentation is on the decline in marriage rates since Jane Austen’s era, complete with graphs and footnoted statistics. I can’t see what it has to do with our appreciation of the book, but I don’t say anything in case I’ve missed the point and make a fool of myself.
“That was topnotch,” says Ms Reid when Alison finally reaches her last graph. “Now, I thought we’d begin our study of Pride and Prejudice by talking about our first impressions.”
I slump deeper in my seat and pray she won’t ask me any questions. Weirdly, everyone else gets into the discussion, even Siouxsie.
At the end of class Ms Reid hands out the schedule for our Pride and Prejudice presentations. Mine is in four weeks. At the rate I’m going I’ll be lucky to have finished reading it by then.
“What are you doing your presentation on?” Siouxsie asks me.
“I haven’t decided yet,” I lie, not wanting to admit I haven’t even thought about it.
“Me neither – it’s hard to narrow it down when there are so many good options, isn’t it?”
I nod as if this is exactly why I have no idea what I’m doing.
There’s a rush to get out the gates on Fridays. None of the usual last-minute trips back to lockers or staying back to talk over a tricky assignment question with a teacher, just a swift snake of green and brown uniforms making a break for the freedom of the weekend. On Friday afternoons the sun shines brighter, the air smells sweeter and the walk home takes no time at all. Even the sight of Ziggy and his mates raiding the fridge when I get home can’t spoil my good mood.
“Make sure you leave some milk for the rest of us,” I say when I see him pouring three large glasses.
“Growing boys need their calcium,” he says.
“You’ll need more than just calcium if there’s no milk for Nicky’s coffee.”
“Ooh, I’m so scared.”
I lean in close to him and try to sound menacing. “You know, Ziggy, puberty is a very delicate time in a boy’s life. You wouldn’t want me to do anything that might permanently land you in the alto section of the choir, would you?”
Ziggy gives me the finger and heads out the back with his basketball. His friends bolt after him. At least they seem intimidated by me.
Nicky arrives ten minutes later. Today her hair is very blond, with a shock of black at her left temple. “Paul watched 101 Dalmations last week,” she says when I compliment her on it.
We sit at the kitchen table nibbling on chocolate muffins, a present from her friend at Switch.
“So, tell me you love Pride and Prejudice and can’t put it down.”
Luckily, I don’t have to pretend with Nicky. “I hate Pride and Prejudice and can barely bring myself to pick it up.”
“Freia! Why? It’s one of my favourite books.”
“It’s boring and all the characters annoy me. They’re always going on about marriage and balls, and Elizabeth thinks she’s so superior …” I pause because Nicky’s just about doubled over with laughter.
“Fray, most of them are meant to annoy you. Don’t let your first impressions colour your reading of the entire novel.” She cracks up again.
“And what is the deal with ‘first impressions’?” I demand.
“If you’d read the introduction to the novel” – as I promised her I would – “you’d know that ‘First Impressions’ was Austen’s original title for the book. It’s all about how what you first think of someone isn’t necessarily true; about the prejudices that colour the way we see things and how our pride stops us from revealing our true feelings.”
“Hang on, that doesn’t sound like the book I’m reading. The book I’m reading is about silly, giggling girls who fawn over any man in a uniform and think that catching a husband is the be-all and end-all in life.”
We agree to disagree on the merits of the book. Nicky says she doesn’t mind if I hate it, as long as I can make a convincing argument in my presentation and essay about why I feel that way. I promise to finish reading it by next Friday.
“How are rehearsals?” she asks as we walk to her car.
“They’re okay, I guess, but I don’t have anything to do. Apparently, the only assistance needed with the lighting is making sure the guy doing it doesn’t wreck the equipment.”
“He sounds like a catch – not.”
“Actually, it’s the boy from the cafe last week – the Mick Jagger/Joey Ramone look-alike.”
“Really? That reminds me–” She pulls a CD out of her bag and hands it to me. “Let me know what you think.”
The CD is called Ramones Mania. I go straight to my room and put it on, sitting on my bed and studying the photo on the back: four guys with bad hair and tight-tight jeans. The sound that emerges from the tinny little speakers attached to my CD player (a birthday present from Grandma Thelma) is fast, loud and, to be honest, a bit off-key, but it’s pretty catchy in a pop-punk way. After tapping my feet along for a few songs I get the urge to get up and dance. I usually reserve my solo boogie moments for Kylie, but there’s something about the speed and the roughness of the music that makes me want to stomp and kick the air. I pretend the Bs and Ms Reid and McSporran are all lined up in front of me and kick them down one by one.
“What are you doing?” Mum’s standing in the doorway of my room. I’m not sure how long she’s been there, but given that I was right in the middle of giving Bethanee some pretty hefty body blows, I imagine she thinks I’ve lost the plot.
“Knocking, Mum, knocking.”
“You wouldn’t have heard me over this racket anyway,” she says. “Can you turn it down a few decibels, please?”
I hit the pause button.
“That’s better. Honestly, I know my parents thought my taste in music was pretty terrible, but these days it’s just noise.”
“Some of this was recorded in the seventies, when you were young.”
“Really? Well, your dad and I certainly weren’t listening to it. Give me Neil Diamond any day. I just came to see if you have any requests for the video store? Zig and I are heading up there while the chickpeas cook.”
“Thanks, but I’ve got too much homework to do to be watching movies.” This is not strictly true, but it’s too tragic to spend Friday night hanging out with your parents and younger brother.
Mum looks disappointed. “Can’t you take a night off?”
“Do you want me to do well at school or not?” I snap.
“Okay, Fray, calm down. It’s just that the book says it’s very important to have a balance between schoolwork and free–”
“Well, The Book doesn’t have a French test on Monday, does it? Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to get some of this done before dinner.”
Mum closes the door behind her without saying another word.
When I was yelling at her I felt so angry. I mean, how can she and Dad go on and on about how important it is for me to do well at school so that I can get into uni, and then turn round and tell me not to do too much homework? But now, I just feel like a bitch. And I’ve condemned myself to yet another night in my bedroom, which, no doubt, I’ll spend stressing about rehearsal tomorrow. I plug my headphones into the CD player and turn the volume as high as it goes. I spin around the room till I can’t see straight and I can’t stand up any more. Afterwards, my brain feels calmer.
After dinner I head to the lounge with everyone else to watch Lord of the Rings. Ziggy’s choice, obviously. (The whole family’s seen it a million times, but it’s a pretty good movie and Orlando Bloom does look particularly tasty in his fairy costume.) Mum says nothing about my homework commitments when I sit down next to her on the sofa. She suggests that the movie would go better with ice-cream (the real stuff, not that tofu gelato she tried to fool us with last time), which I take as a sign that she’s not upset with me any more.
10
I had thought I might get out of Saturday house-cleaning duties for the next six weeks, but Mum’s having none of it. By the time I’ve cleaned the bathroom and my bedroom and mopped the floors, it’s 11.30 and she’s yelling at me to get ready for rehearsal. I give up on trying to make my hair behave and tie it in a ponytail, throwing on my jeans and the T-shirt Nicky brought me back from her trip to Japan last year with Maneki Neko, the waving cat, on it. On my way out I grab the pink lip gloss Kate gave me for Christmas, just in case.
Mum offers to drop me off on her way to the supermarket. I shudder at the thought of her pulling up in our crappy Volvo alongside all the flash four-wheel drives and station wagons designed to make parents feel like they’re still cool even though they’re basically running a chauffeur service for their kids. Worse, what if she insisted on getting out of the car in all her clog-ed glory? I tell her I need the exercise and grab my bike from the garage where it’s lain neglected since the end of the summer holidays. The tyres could do with a bit of air, but otherwise it’s in pretty good shape.
I get to Parkville five minutes late thanks to catching every red light between home and the school. Kate and Brianna are already standing in their spots onstage for the opening street scene. I can’t see Belinda, but I can hear her practising her Cockney screech. She sounds a bit like Grandma Thelma’s parakeet going mental when he thinks you’re eating peanuts and not giving him any. Stephanie looks up from her camera and waves.
To my surprise, Daniel is already on the balcony, hunched over a drawing of the stage that he’s marking with a pen and ruler. I prepare myself for another afternoon of doing nothing. I’ve brought P&P with me today; I figure it’s the best gauge of boredom there is. Ms Burns flaps around the stage like a headless chook, pushing chorus members into their places and bossing Mr Wilson around like he’s one of the kids. Finally, she calls for the stage lights to be turned on.
“They’re not ready yet,” Darryl yells from the wings, but Daniel flicks a few switches and slides one of the slidey things and the stage is bathed in a cold, dull light that could well pass for London on a rainy night.
“That’ll do very nicely, thanks!” says Mr Wilson.
Daniel’s mouth turns up at the edges in what could possibly be a smile. “Dan one, Dazzmeister nil,” he says without looking at me.
“That looks really good,” I tell him.
“Thanks. I’m just working on the schema for the drawing room scene. It needs to look warm and cosy. Any ideas?”
“Um …”
“I was thinking if we used orange and red gels on the main striplight, it would do for the backdrop of most of the indoor scenes. That way we’d only have to add front lights for wherever the actors are and, of course, a follow spot for the solo numbers. What do you think?” He’s definitely looking in my direction now, even if his eyes are still curtained by hair.
I get the same feeling that I have when Ms Reid asks my opinion of a book before I’ve heard what anyone else in the class thinks, except this time I don’t even understand the question.
“Yeah, that sounds fine,” I say, hoping he won’t want to discuss it any further.
“Cool. Will you take the Dazzmeister through it when he comes up to tell me off? I think it’d go down better if we say it’s your idea.”
“Uh … sure, but you’ll have to talk me through the finer points.”
“No problem.”
Daniel spends the next ten minutes explaining his diagram of the stage and lighting rig, showing me the area each light will illuminate and what angle it should be on. I find out that gels are colour filters and that the striplight lights the back of the stage. He loses me when he starts talking about the angles of the front lights, but I think I’ve pretty much got it by the time Darryl arrives.
“I suppose you think you’re smart,” he says to Daniel. “Well, I’m responsible for this equipment, and if I tell you not to touch it, I mean don’t touch it. You might’ve been allowed to do whatever you wanted at your old school, but at Parkville we follow the rules. Understand?”
“Ah, Darryl! Just the person I wanted to see!” Mr Wilson sounds slightly out of breath from climbing the stairs. “Bang-up job on the lighting there! I was wondering if we could have a follow spot on Eliza during ‘Wouldn’t it be luvverly’?”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll see to it.”
“Actually, Mr Wilson,” says Daniel, “Freia’s already come up with an idea for the drawing room lighting. Would you like to see it?”
Mr Wilson makes pleased noises as I explain Daniel’s plans. Darryl clenches his fists by his sides and glares at Daniel with angry eyes.
“This is all splendid!” says Mr Wilson when I finish. “Keep up the good work, you two! Now Darryl, if you’ll come with me, there seems to be an issue with the fireplace not glowing brightly enough in scene two.”
“I’m not finished with you,” Darryl mutters as he follows Mr Wilson.
“Dan and Freia two, Dazzmeister nil,” says Daniel, smiling for a moment then stopping abruptly, as if it hurts or something, and going back to his plans.
At break Kate shows me where the loos are. (It turns out they’re just behind the hall – and there are signs pointing to them everywhere, duh.)
“I think I’m in lust,” she says as we’re washing our hands.
“I thought you’d decided to give up on Jamie Boyd?”
“Jamie? Oh yeah, I’m so over him. He’s following Bethanee round like a lovesick puppy. Right now he’s doing a latte run and he doesn’t even drink coffee. No, I’m talking about Steve Neilsen. He stands between me and Brianna in the opening scene, you know when we’re all waiting around after the theatre? Anyway, he’s absolutely gorgeous. He’s a footy player, but he has to sit out this season because of a torn hamstring. He has shoulders. To. Die. For. Of course, I’m keeping an eye out for someone for you, too. I feel bad that you’re stuck up there with Skeeter while we have all the fun.”
“Skelet– actually, his name’s Daniel, and he’s okay in a moderately uncommunicative way.”
Kate gives me a funny look. “Don’t worry, we’ll fix you up.”
I didn’t realise I was broken.
“Can you believe those boys would rather play pinball at Benny’s than hang out with us?” asks Belinda as we head to the 7-Eleven to buy lunch.
“Gah, they are so juvenile,” says Bethanee. “If Jamie wasn’t so cute, I’d totally bar his head.”
So much for me meeting anyone during rehearsal breaks. At this rate Daniel will be the only boy I talk to in the entire production.
We eat our sandwiches under a tree near the hall. Belinda declares herself full from the mandarin she had at morning break and lunches on mineral water. She’s looking pretty tired these days.
“Looks like your friend’s all on his lonesome,” she says, pointing to Daniel who’s just emerged from the hall. He sees us looking at him and heads to the opposite end of the grounds.
“Probably off for a smoke,” says Bethanee. “Jamie told me he’s a complete pothead.”
Brianna nods in agreement. “Steve says he’s pretty screwed up. He got kicked out of Greyland for having a bong in his locker.”
“Jeez, Freia, you’d better watch yourself. They say that pot smoking’s been linked to psychosis.” Belinda sounds concerned, but the nasty glint in her eye is a giveaway that she’s trying to freak me out.
“Thanks for the warning. I’ll be sure to bring some brownies with me next time so I can pacify him when he’s got the munchies.”
Brianna starts to laugh, but changes her mind when Bethanee gives her a sharp look.
Kate flashes me an annoyed glance and quickly changes the topic. “I love your top, Bella. Those sequins look gorgeous under the stage lights.”
“Thanks, KitKat. I’m adoring you in that denim mini, too. Is it new?”
“Yeah, Mum took me shopping last night.” Brianna, who’s not usually a resentful person, gives Kate
the death stare.
“You’re so lucky to be hidden away on the balcony, Freia,” says Belinda. “No one cares what you wear up there.”
I try to think of a cutting comeback to make, but by the time I do, the moment’s passed and talk is back on who likes who and who’s cuter. I still don’t know any of the guys they’re talking about so I just zone out till Mr Wilson appears, exclaiming that it’s time to begin again.
I hold the ladder for Daniel while he adjusts the angle of the lights above the stage. At one point he moves the spots on the striplight and they make a terrible fingernails-down-a-blackboard squeal. Belinda stops in the middle of her lines to give him a dirty look but Daniel either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. She turns and glares at me. I shrug my shoulders in a “What can I do?” gesture.
“She’s a real diva, isn’t she?” says Daniel when we’re upstairs again. My first impulse is to agree with him, but I have to remember that Belinda is my friend, even if she doesn’t feel like one most of the time. It would be wrong to bitch about her, especially to someone with Daniel’s reputation.
“She’s okay once you get to know her.”
“Hmm, I think I’ll pass. No offence, Freia, but your friends don’t seem like my kind of people.”
“At least I have friends,” I spit back without thinking.
Daniel doesn’t respond. He goes back to fiddling with the lighting panel, but I swear I see him shake his head just the tiniest bit.
I feel stupid and immature and mean for what I said and wish I could take it back. I spend the rest of the afternoon pretending to be engrossed in the chorus choreography while Daniel continues drawing up his plans. Neither of us says goodbye when Ms Burns calls it a day.
I wonder when my brain will start ruling my mouth again.
The ride home clears my head. It’s a rare feeling these days. I go an extra few blocks, just to savour it. When I get home Ziggy’s in the kitchen, regaling Mum with a blow-by-blow description of every one of his, no doubt, dozens of tries and great passes. I tiptoe to my room, carefully missing the squeaky third step, and collapse on my bed. Boris wakes up and gives me the death stare from inside my laundry basket where he’s taken up residence.