by Aimee Said
Going to party and still having nothing to say at debrief would only draw attention to the fact that I’m a huge loser.
Illusion of teenage parties being hotbeds of sin and debauchery may be shattered. (Hang on, is this a bad thing?)
Possibility of being only girl there who isn’t kissed.
Of course the lunchtime conversation is all about the party: who’ll hook up with whom (it seems Kate’s options are down to Alex Cole or Michael Harrigan as the Bs have called dibs on every other guy on their list except Daniel) and what they’ll be wearing – all the big issues. Once I’ve finished my sandwich, and therefore lost my excuse for not joining in the conversation, I decide that desperate times call for desperate measures.
“I, uh, have to go to the library to do some research,” I say casually, getting up and brushing the grass off my bum.
“The library? At lunchtime?” Bethanee sounds horrified. “Gah, Freia, don’t you think that’s taking things a bit too far? I mean, I know your olds are mental about marks and everything, but really.”
“Yeah, I know, dagarama, but if I don’t do well on the next EE assignment, I won’t be going to any parties till I graduate from uni.”
The good thing about none of the Bs doing EE is that they don’t know what the workload’s like, so it’s become a handy excuse for those times when I’d just rather not do stuff with them. (Belinda needs help rearranging her wardrobe this weekend? Sorry, I’ve got an essay due. The Bs need a cheer squad for hockey? Sorry, too much reading to do …)
I have no intention of actually going to the library, but by the time I’ve walked from Our Tree to the good loos and past the Zen garden (really just a dirt patch with a pile of pebble-mix left over from when Ms Mooney made her cacti window boxes last year) I’m pretty much there already. I figure I can find a deserted aisle and have a little nap.
“Hi, Freia,” whispers Vicky Soong from her station behind the computer at the librarian’s desk.
“Hey, Vicky,” I whisper back. “Just doing some research,” I add, as if I need to justify my presence in the library. I head for the nonfiction section and secrete myself in the first vacant aisle I find.
Kate and I perfected the library nap in Year Eight during a particularly dull study skills class. You find a clear aisle, pick a book off the shelf that could conceivably have something to do with a topic you’re studying, curl yourself into the corner with the book open on your lap and nap away. If anyone springs you, you just say that you must’ve dozed off while you were reading.
As luck would have it, I manage to plonk myself in the drama and stagecraft section. Perfect. I scan the spines of the books in front of me, looking for a nap prop. I almost go for the one on costume design, but the picture on the front of women in bows and bonnets reminds me of P&P. I put it back with a shudder. On the next shelf down is a likely candidate – not too thick, sturdily bound. That should do the job nicely. I slide it out.
The title of the book is Stage Lighting for Dramatic Visual Effect. Now, I’m not a huge believer in omens, but I can’t help feeling that this is, as Kate would say, A Sign. I mean, what are the chances? (I momentarily consider asking McSporran how to work out the probability of randomly picking out the single book in the library on stage lighting at the single time in my life when it can be of use to me … nah.)
I flick through the book until I come to a chapter called “Lighting for small-scale musicals”, which again seems like A Sign. The chapter shows different lighting effects and has lots of diagrams like the ones Daniel was working on. It explains how different colours affect the mood of the stage and how the angle of the lights creates the right shadows for day and night, interior and exterior. By the time the bell for afternoon classes rings, I actually understand some of the stuff Daniel coached me to say last week.
“You’re keen today,” says Kate, speeding up to keep pace with me as I overtake the Bs on the way to rehearsal.
“Sooner we start, sooner we finish,” I reply, which makes no sense at all, since no matter what time we start we’ll still finish at five, but she doesn’t call me on it. The book’s given me some ideas about lighting the ball scene and I want to draw up a schema to show Daniel before he gets distracted by positioning Belinda’s spotlight or making sure the chorus isn’t standing in the dark.
I go straight to the balcony, willing Daniel to be late so that I can get something down on paper before he arrives. I find a blank lighting schema sheet on the mixing desk and set to work, using my protractor (!) to work out the angles the lights need to be at to light the ballroom in an evening glow.
“From the top, people!” calls Mr Wilson from the stage. Then, “Stage lights, please!” I look up from my work. “Hello! Did you hear me up there? Lights for scene one, please!”
I look at the mixing desk with its array of knobs and switches. How the hell do I turn it on? I close my eyes and try to recall watching Daniel do it on Saturday. Which knob did he turn first?
“Oi,” yells Belinda/Eliza in a very unladylike way. “Turn the lights on!”
I take a guess and flick the “on” switch. The stage illuminates in its streetscape set-up.
“Thank you!” calls a voice from the stage.
I’m starting to panic about what I’ll do when they change scenes, when I hear Darryl’s workboots clomping up the stairs.
“Can’t you do anything right? If you keep missing your cues, I’m going to have to–” He stops himself when he sees me sitting alone at the desk. “What are you doing? Where’s he gone?” I shrug, not wanting to tell him that, far from going, Daniel hasn’t come at all.
“Bloody typical. I told Wilson he couldn’t be counted on but, oh no, ‘everyone has to be given a chance’. Little psychopath’s probably off torturing small animals or something. Well, I don’t have time to hold your hand today. Just touch as little as possible and don’t break anything.”
And he leaves. Without giving me a chance to say anything. Not a word. Not even to ask where the manual for the lighting desk is. I scramble through the papers on the desk until I find it, cursing Daniel under my breath for leaving me in the lurch.
Luckily for me, Ms Burns is very unhappy with the way the opening scene is going and makes them do it over and over again. The only hairy bit is when Belinda demands a spotlight on her when she’s selling her flowers. I panic and start looking through the index of the manual, but Mr Wilson deems it unnecessary, since her only words are “Two for a tuppence, guv’nor”.
When Ms Burns finally calls it a day I feel as if I’ve just finished a huge exam – relieved and exhausted. Before anyone has a chance to leave the hall, Belinda announces that everyone’s invited to her party on Saturday. At first I think I’m the only person who hasn’t raced to join the queue in front of the stage where Belinda’s doling out invitations, but then I see Stephanie shake her head and go back to packing up her camera equipment.
“How did you manage all on your lonesome at rehearsal today?” says Ziggy, passing me the dinner plates to stack in the dishwasher.
“How do you know about that?”
“I saw Skeletor’s name on the detention list. Michael told Ben that he got busted for telling Mr Watts to stick a Bunsen burner up his bum.”
“Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know. The guy’s a psycho. He was probably ripped off his nut or something.”
Our conversation is interrupted by the phone ringing. “I’ll get it,” yells Ziggy, running from the kitchen like a man possessed.
Mum gets there first. “Oh, hello, Katie. How are you? How was rehearsal today?… Party? What party?”
I throw the last plate into its slot and race to the hallway. Mum holds up a wait-a-minute finger. “I see. Well, it certainly sounds like a big occasion, doesn’t it? We’ll have to talk about it. Here she is.”
I pull the phone into my room before I say anything. “Kate, how could you?”
“I’m sorry, I assumed you’d have asked her
by now. You do want to go to the party, don’t you?”
“Yeah … I do. I was just waiting for the right moment to ask, that’s all.” Kate wouldn’t understand my reasons for not wanting to go to Belinda’s. She’s learning fast from the Bs – to her it’s one big opportunity to flirt and pair up.
“I think I’ve done you a favour. Your mum sounded pretty okay about it. I told her she could call Bella’s mother if she wanted to.”
Great, that’s all I need. “I’d better go and get this over with. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Mum’s sitting at her desk with a stack of essays to mark in front of her, but I can tell she hasn’t been doing any marking because The Book is open on her lap.
“So … what do you think about Belinda’s party?” she says.
“I think it’s a party and boys are going to be there, so I won’t be allowed to go,” I answer, hoping that if I say it myself we can get this over with quickly.
“Is that why you didn’t tell us about it?”
I nod because it’s easier than trying to explain why I wasn’t planning to go in the first place.
“Well,” she says, taking a deep breath like she’s about to say something that pains her, “I’ve spoken with Dad and we’ve decided you can go, as long as one of us picks you up.”
What? This was not part of the plan! The plan was that I wouldn’t mention the stupid party then, tomorrow, I’d go to school and tell everyone that my fossilised parents wouldn’t let me go. Bethanee would make a crack about me having no life, Brianna would suggest I sneak out anyway, Belinda would look relieved, and Kate would be sad for about two seconds until someone mentioned how many guys were going to be there. Now there’s no way out of it. I stare at The Book, willing it to spontaneously combust.
“No need to look so shocked.” Mum laughs. “Your dad and I aren’t living in the Dark Ages, you know. Now go and finish your homework.”
I go to my room and open Pride and Prejudice. Ms Reid has threatened to give us a spot test if “some members of the class” – looks at Freia – “don’t start joining in the discussion”. Unfortunately, I’m up to a bit where the stupid Bennet sisters are getting ready for yet another bloody ball. The fact that they love a party so much only makes me hate them more.
13
The highlight of the week is PE being rained out. Despite Ms Chan’s ongoing argument with Pruney that running around in the mud is character building, ever since Belinda’s dad threatened to sue the school after Belinda came down with a cold because Ms Chan made her do laps of the oval when it was drizzling, we’ve been allowed to do “free study” in the library if it rains.
“Get out some homework or get a book off the shelves and bring it back to the study area,” orders Ms Chan. “I don’t want to see any dillydallying in the aisles or hear a sound that is not directly related to your study. Is that clear?”
Belinda and Bethanee race to secure the table furthest from where Chan has stationed herself. I go to the stagecraft aisle and grab the lighting book. It seems a much more attractive prospect than either homework or P&P. When I sit down Bethanee is reading out horoscopes from the magazine hidden inside her folder.
“Bella – Gemini – ‘This month is a standout for you socially and romantically’” – cue squealing from Brianna and Kate – “‘Be ready to receive more than your share of attention from the opposite sex, especially after the full moon on the fourteenth, when sexy Leo enters your love zone.’ Ohmygod! The fourteenth! That’s Saturday!”
“Right in time for the party,” says Kate. Belinda looks smug.
“What does mine say?” asks Brianna.
“You’re Aquarius, right? ‘Luck shines in your house of relationships, with many pleasurable outings on the cards. Make sure you get out and about this month: you may meet Mr Right at a party.’”
“It’s a sign!” says Kate.
Now, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I don’t believe in horoscopes, but I find it very hard to believe that the movement of rocks in the sky can control what happens in our lives, and even harder to believe that I am somehow the same as roughly every twelfth person walking the earth. But I keep my scepticism to myself, because people like Brianna take their horoscope very seriously.
“What about Freia’s?” asks Kate after Bethanee’s read out everyone else’s.
“Freia?” says Bethanee, as if she’s forgotten I exist. “Oh yeah. What are you again?”
“Virgo,” I mutter.
“Of course, the virgin! How could I forget? ‘This is a month to consolidate your debts and start a savings plan. Canny Virgos will find thrifty ways to feather their nests.’ Would you say you’re a canny virgin, Fray?”
I feel myself blush. Luckily, I’m saved from having to think of a witty comeback when Ms Chan thumps her book (Saddle Up: Equine training and maintenance) on the desk.
“Unless you want to spend the afternoon cleaning grass stains off the hockey bibs, I suggest you put that away and get on with some work.”
I hold my book in front of my face to hide my smile.
“It looks like you’re really getting into this lighting gig,” says Belinda on the way to rehearsal. “I mean, studying up and everything.”
Since Belinda never speaks to me unless she has something specific in mind, her friendly banter makes me suspicious. “I figure I may as well make the best of it,” I say cautiously.
“From what I hear, if you want to impress Skeletor, you’d do much better bringing a bong to rehearsal than playing with the lights.”
“Thanks for the tip, but I’m not trying to impress him. Anyway, I don’t think he’s a stoner – at least not at school.”
“Then how come he got expelled from Greyland for having dope in his locker?”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“I never reveal my sources. But you want to be careful, Freia. A girl could get a bad reputation hanging around a guy like him.”
Daniel is on the balcony when I get there, studying the diagram I started on Monday.
“Hey, Freia,” he says, as if we’re old mates. “Did you do this? It’s pretty good.”
“Nice of you to show up,” I say, still agitated by the conversation with Belinda.
“Yeah, sorry about Monday. I heard you coped without me though.”
“Once I figured out how to turn the bloody thing on. I think you’d better teach me how to use the desk properly if you’re planning to tell any more teachers where to go. I can only fudge it for so long with Dazzle.”
“Dazzle.” He laughs. “I like it. But how did you hear about Mr Watts?”
“I never reveal my sources,” I say. Then, realising I’ve just quoted Belinda, I hastily add, “My little brother told me. He hears everything.”
“Ah, Ziggy Lockhart, a junior cog in the Parkville rumour mill. Honestly, I don’t know why girls have such a bad rep for gossiping, the guys here are twice as bad.”
“But it’s true, right?”
“About Mr Watts? Yeah, that one’s true.”
I think about what Belinda said about Daniel’s reputation rubbing off on me. At the time it seemed ridiculous. I mean, who’s going to believe that I, Freia Lockhart, earnest if not brilliant student, social recluse, eternal virgin and offspring of two elderly academics, am a psycho drug fiend? But after what Daniel said it doesn’t seem so impossible after all.
I’m tempted to ask him about the other rumours, but I’m not sure I want to know the answer. “What’s a fader?” I ask instead.
By the end of rehearsal I’m fading and cross-fading like a pro (it turns out that’s what the slidey things are for) and I know which buttons to hit to change from the street scene to the drawing room. I’ve even used the follow spot and only lost track of Belinda with it once.
“Jolly good show with the lighting!” says Mr Wilson as we’re leaving the hall. “I told Darryl we’ve got a crack team here!”
“Thanks, Mr W,” says Daniel, blushing a little and
grinning.
“So Fray,” says Dad at dinner (nutloaf with a tahini sauce – I swear one morning I’ll wake up and find I’ve turned into a legume), “are you looking forward to the party on Saturday?”
“Yeah, Freia,” says Ziggy, “are you and Skeletor going to hook up?”
“What?” Dad looks worried.
“Who’s Skelter?” asks Mum.
“What’s hooking up?” asks Dad.
“His name is Daniel,” I say, aiming for Ziggy’s shin under the table and missing. “He’s the boy directing the lighting, that’s all.”
“And why do they call him Skelter?”
“Skel-e-tor,” corrects Ziggy. “It’s because he’s really tall and built like a toothpick – you know, like the bad guy in Masters of the Universe. The only part of his body that would stick out from behind a lamppost is his lips – they’re huge!” He puckers and makes kissing noises at me.
Dad turns to me. “Is he nice?”
“I don’t know. I don’t even know the guy!” I give Ziggy the death stare and will him not to say any more.
“Word around school is that he’s a druggie,” he says with a smug smile.
“Freia, is this true?” Mum sounds panicked. “Has he offered you drugs? I hope you’d talk to us if anything like that happened.”
“What do you know about this boy?” asks Dad.
“Nothing! He’s tall, he’s skinny, he’s quiet and he seems to get a lot of detentions, that’s about it.”
“Well, those sound like drug-taking signs to me,” says Mum, getting up from the table, and I know she’s gone to consult one of her “Is Your Child on Drugs?” books.
Dad looks concerned. “Freia, we trust you to make good decisions about things like drugs and what kind of people you choose as friends … but maybe this Daniel’s not really–”
“For God’s sake, we’re not friends; we’re barely even acquaintances. Daniel Taylor-Fairchild has about as much interest in being my friend as Ziggy has in becoming a ballet dancer, so I really don’t think you need to worry about him wanting to share his precious drugs with me.”