by Aimee Said
I force myself to join the Bs under Our Tree, mainly because I’m paranoid that if I don’t, they’ll spend the lunch hour bitching about me. At least if I’m there, they have to say it to my face.
But no one says anything. Kate seems fine and chats on and on about how cute Alex would be if he got his hair cut like Zac Efron. I encourage her to talk more about him, looking pointedly at Bethanee as Kate recounts their conversation word for word. Bethanee gives me the death stare and fiddles with her bee pin, angling it towards the sun so that it flickers with light.
Thankfully, we have double English after lunch, so I can distract myself by gazing at Mr Naidoo, who’s looking scrummy in a crisp white shirt and green tie.
“Today we’re going to continue looking at Shakespeare’s sonnets. Open your books to page fifty please.
“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day …” He reads in a voice like honey that makes the back of my neck tingle.
I float off on a cloud of I-Do lightness, crashing back to earth when he says, “Now it’s your turn. Think about the feeling that you’re trying to capture in those fourteen lines. Make every word count.”
I pick up my pen, trying to come up with a snappy opening. Kate’s already written three lines, no doubt using Alex as her inspiration.
I’m still sitting with my pen poised when I-Do comes round ten minutes later.
“How’s it going, Freia?” he asks, squatting next to my desk so that we’re on eye level.
“I’m having a bit of trouble getting started,” I say. I drape my arms across my folder to hide the fact that I haven’t written anything at all.
“Just try to relax and go with it. Pretend you’re writing to someone you love.”
I’m aware of Belinda and Beth giggling behind me. I try to shut them out and think about how it would feel to be in love. I’ve got no idea. Kate’s sister Emily says it’s like being on a roller-coaster, although I’m not sure that she means that in a good way. And Mum says she loves me and Ziggy so much she’d kill anyone who tried to hurt us, but that doesn’t sound very romantic. I recall how I felt in my dream when Daniel was going to kiss me. Definitely not appropriate to share with my English teacher. Finally, I settle on something vague about a flower, mainly because it rhymes with a lot of words (hour, power, shower, sour …).
A note whizzes over my shoulder. Kate’s name is written on it in Belinda’s handwriting. Kate reads it, laughs and scribbles a response. While she’s busy writing I sneak a look at what’s so funny.
Ode to Mr Naidoo by Freia
Shall I compare thee to Orlando Bloom?
Thou art more sexy and more hairy
When our eyes meet ’cross the English room
You make me feel like I’m a fairy
Oh, Mr N, you make my heart race
When you squat beside my table
And when I see your spunky face
To write my sonnet I’m unable
Kate folds up the note and passes it to Bethanee. Whatever she wrote, it’s not likely to have been in my defence. I look at her out of the corner of my eye, but she’s leaning so far over her folder that I can’t see her face at all. I keep my eyes down and bite hard on my inside lip in the hope that the pain will distract me from the tears that are threatening to fall.
On any other day I might have been able to laugh along with the joke sonnet. It’s no secret that I fancy Mr Naidoo – so does Kate and so does Brianna – but there’s something about the fact that the note was for Kate’s eyes only that makes me feel like she’s in on the bitchiness this time – and that stings. The sick feeling reappears in my stomach. When I feel saliva start to pool in my mouth I know it’s not just a feeling.
I run from the room with my hand over my mouth, praying I can make it to the toilet in time. I get as far as the basins before throwing up. I’m trying to wash it all down the plughole when Stephanie comes in.
“Are you okay? Mr Naidoo asked me to come and check on you.”
“I’m fine.” I wonder whether Mr Naidoo specifically asked Stephanie to come or whether he asked someone to check on me and Stephanie took it upon herself because no one else volunteered. “I think maybe I’ve got a stomach virus or something.”
“You don’t look too good,” she says, passing me some paper towels and indicating that I should wipe my mouth.
“I’ll be all right. I think I’d better stay here for a while though, in case that’s not the end of it.”
“Do you want me to stay with you? I-Do wouldn’t mind.”
“Thanks, but if I’m going to puke again, I’d prefer to be on my own.”
When Stephanie leaves I go into the furthest cubicle, put the toilet seat down and sit with my chin on my knees. Is it possible for one conversation with Michael Harrigan to have ruined my life?
I hear the bathroom door open just as the bell goes.
“Freia?” calls Kate.
“In here.”
“I’ve brought your bag. You okay?”
I open the cubicle door and go to the sink to wash my hands and face.
“We’d better get going if we want to walk with the others to rehearsal. Belinda wants to get there early so she can make Luke practise their waltz again.”
“I’m still not feeling that well,” I tell her. “I think I’d better go home.”
“Okay. In that case I’d better run. I’ll let Ms Burns know.” And she races out the door as if someone had told her that Zac Efron himself is waiting to walk to Parkville Boys High with her. Still, at least she seems to be talking to me.
18
Ziggy has footy practice on Mondays so the house is empty when I get home. I help myself to some leftover stir-fry, suddenly ravenous from having missed lunch. It’s ridiculous, but I feel guilty for missing rehearsal, like I’m letting Daniel down. He didn’t feel bad about leaving me in the lurch when he had detention, I remind myself. He probably won’t even notice that I’m not there.
I go to my room and turn up the volume on the tinny speakers as high as it goes. The Ramones sing to me about rock’n’roll radio and the Blitzkrieg Bop and Rockaway Beach and even though I’m not in the mood for dancing today, my heart feels just a little bit lighter.
When the music stops, the crappy day remains (or the day remains crappy, however you want to look at it) and the thought of getting through all the crappiness again tomorrow makes my stomach lurch. I begin laying the groundwork for Mission: Day Off School.
Some people’s parents will let them have a day off school at the drop of a hat. (Belinda reckons all she needs to do is show her mum an ad for a midweek sale and she’s guaranteed a sick note.) In our house you have to either be dying or highly infectious before Mum will let you stay home. This is why I began perfecting Mission: Day Off School in Year Seven. If you only use it once every couple of months, even the most vigilant mum won’t suspect a thing.
Mission: Day Off School
Preparation: Eat a large and sustaining snack before parents get home.
Execution: Maintain listless expression and demeanour at all times.
Refuse dinner on grounds of tummy feeling “a bit funny”.
Request spew bucket at bedside “just in case”.
Massage back of tongue with a toothbrush.
Show contents of spew bucket to mother.
Agree with remorse that you probably need a day in bed to get over whatever is ailing you.
Once everyone is in bed, sneak downstairs and have another large snack.
Wear flannelette pyjamas and pile on blankets to induce “feverish” sweating when mother comes to check how you’re feeling.
Refuse breakfast on account of tummy feeling “tender”.
Put on Brave Little Soldier face and wave mother goodbye, promising to look after yourself and drink plenty of fluids.
The look on Mum’s face when she sees the bucket tells me that everything is going to plan. She takes one glance at its contents (half-digested stir-fry topped off with f
ruit salad and yoghurt for dairy-enhanced grossness) and shakes her head.
“It must be a stomach bug. I think I’d better have a word to Ms Mooney about the hygiene at your school. I’m sure they’re not cleaning the desks properly.”
I nod in a tired, listless way. “I think I’ll go to bed now.”
“Good idea. Bed rest’s the best thing for it. If you’re still feeling off tomorrow, you’d better stay home, okay?”
“Okay,” I agree reluctantly.
I put on my warmest PJs and climb into bed. It’s 7.15. The downside of Mission: Day Off School is that you have to keep up the act until everyone has left the house the next day. Knowing that Mum’s sure to come and check on me at least twice before she goes to bed, I can’t risk being caught reading or listening to music. I turn out the light as if I’m knackered and ready to sleep. Actually, after making myself puke, I’m not feeling a hundred per cent anyway and I doze off pretty quickly.
Mum brings me up a cup of weak, sweet tea and some dry toast for breakfast.
“You feel hot,” she says, resting her wrist against my forehead. “Maybe you should put on some summer pyjamas?”
“But I’m cold,” I tell her, giving a little shiver for emphasis. And besides, I think, it’s the double-thick hiking socks that are really making me sweat up a storm.
“Well, if you’re no better when I get back from work, we’ll have to see Dr Hopkins. I wish I could stay home with you, Fray, but Tuesday’s my tutorial day and there’s no one to cover for me. Will you be okay by yourself?”
I nod and give her the Brave Little Soldier.
When Mum goes I get an attack of the guilts for making her worry. I really am a Bad Daughter. I resolve to punish myself by reading Pride and Prejudice. I may be taking a day off school, but there’s no way I’ll be enjoying it.
I go downstairs and cut some thick slices of cheese to put on the toast Mum made me.
“I have to eat or I’ll have no energy for reading,” I tell Boris when he gives me the death stare from his spot next to the breadbin Dad hides the cat biscuits in.
I put on a T-shirt and boxer shorts and climb back into bed with my toast and a fresh mug of tea. I open the book to Part Two, where I left off reading almost a week ago. The boring Bennets are still mooning around the place, but at least wet Bingley and the completely up-himself Darcy have left, and the ball season seems to be over.
I force myself not to let anything distract me. I don’t get up and put on a CD for a boogie break; I don’t throw Boris’s rubber rat when he drops it into my lap, ready for a game of fetch; I don’t even have a shower, even though a night in my flannelette cocoon has left me smelling more like Ziggy than I care to admit. In fact, I’m so focused on reading that I jump when the phone rings. I check the clock: half past twelve. It must be Mum calling to see how I am.
I pull myself back into listless mode for our conversation, telling her that I managed to keep my dry toast down and that I don’t think a visit to Dr Hopkins will be necessary. She says she’s bought an organic, free-range, grain-fed chicken and is going to make me soup when she gets home. I am a Bad BAD Daughter. The only thing I can think of to alleviate my guilt is to keep reading. (Besides, Darcy’s just proposed to Elizabeth so hopefully she’ll be married soon and stop her bitching.)
Elizabeth turned Darcy down. I make a sandwich to ease my disappointment and plough on.
I’ve just read the news about Lydia, the youngest and most stupid of the Bennet sisters, eloping with Wickham, who was obviously Only After One Thing from the beginning, when Ziggy announces his homecoming by hurling himself onto my bed.
“Have a good day off, bludger?” he asks, bouncing up and down as hard as he can.
“For your information, I’m sick. You can lick the spew bucket if you don’t believe me.”
“Yeah, yeah, sure you are.” He flings himself backwards across my lap, pinning me to the bed.
“Get off me and get lost.”
“Okay, fine. I just thought you might be interested to hear what you missed at rehearsal yesterday. Your boyfriend lost it and had to be pulled off some guy before he beat him to death. Apparently, it was a drug-induced rage. But if you don’t want to know …” He stands up and heads for the door.
Of course I want to know! But I’m not about to tell Ziggy that. Knowledge is power, as they say, and I know from experience that to get information out of Ziggy I’ll have to do something for him in return, like clean the mud off his stinking footy boots or bake brownies next time he has his little mates round. Anyway, showing any interest at all in Daniel’s behaviour will only give Ziggy ammunition.
There’s only one thing for it. I call Kate.
“Hi, Fray, how’re you feeling?”
“Much better thanks,” I say, not willing to admit even to my so-called best friend that I just couldn’t face turning up to school today. “Did I miss anything at rehearsal?”
“Not much. We started practising for the ball scene and Alex made Michael swap so that we could dance together, but then Ms Burns noticed and made us swap back because she reckons that Michael’s too short to dance with Bethanee. Michael looked pretty relieved – I think maybe Bethanee said something to him about what happened with Mrs Sinclair’s vase.”
“Uh-huh. Anything else?”
“Not that I can think of. Why?”
“Ziggy just said he’d heard that there was some kind of fight or something …”
“We did hear shouting when we were on the grass out the front of the hall learning the waltz, but I don’t know who it was. Why?”
“No reason,” I say quickly. “I’m just desperate for some gossip after a day stuck in bed, that’s all.”
“Hmmm.” Kate sounds like she doesn’t believe “that’s all” at all.
Our call ends abruptly when the call waiting tone beeps and Kate says she’s expecting a call from Brianna.
19
“Feeling better?” asks Stephanie as we queue to get changed for PE the next day.
“Yeah, thanks. It must’ve just been a twenty-four-hour bug.”
“You missed a great show on Monday. Daniel and Darryl had a run-in and Mr Wilson had to pull them apart.”
I get a mental image of Daniel and Darryl throwing each other against the balcony railings Wrestlemania-style.
“What about?”
“I dunno, but I heard Mr Wilson telling Darryl off afterwards.”
I want to ask her more about it, but Belinda is watching us from the other side of the change room and the look on her face says she doesn’t approve of me talking to Steph.
“I have a special surprise for you today,” says Ms Chan when we’re all assembled. “The grass on the hockey field is being repaired following a particularly brutal match against Our Lady of Mercy.” Cheers rise up from the Bs, who were no doubt at the centre of said brutality. “Settle, please. Anyway, since we can’t use the field today we’re going for an invigorating bike ride in the park.”
I can’t believe my luck. For once a sport that I can not only do without fear of mortal injury, but one I actually enjoy. I almost give an involuntary whoop, but the look on the Bs’ faces at having to miss their precious midweek hockey session stops me.
The imaginatively named Parkville Park is halfway between Westside and Parkville Boys. The hire bikes are pretty crappy, but I make sure I get one with decent tyres and a well-padded seat.
“I hate bike riding,” moans Belinda. “It gives you enormous calves and helmet-hair.”
“I know, it’s the worst,” agrees Kate, my bike-riding buddy of three years.
Their complaining is interrupted by a swarm of Parkville guys in footy gear heading towards us.
“Ohmygod, it’s Luke,” says Belinda, whipping off her helmet and shaking out her hair.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, apparently blind to the fact that we are all standing next to bicycles. In a park. Next to the bike track.
“Hockey was cancell
ed.”
“Make sure you wave when you go past the footy field,” says Steve, ostensibly to all of us, but of course he’s looking straight at Brianna.
“Girls!” calls Ms Chan, brring-brringing her little bike bell furiously. “Mount and move on, please!”
We get on our bikes and start down the track. After listening to Kate and the Bs moan for five minutes about the horror of Luke and his mates having seen them in – gasp! – tracksuit pants, I make a break for the front of the pack. It’s not good form to go off by myself when I’m on even-shakier-than-usual ground with the Bs, but today I don’t care. Maybe spending so many lunchtimes in the library has made me into what Mum’s books call a “Loner”? (Not a good thing if you want to be a Successful Teen.)
On my second lap I spot Daniel sitting under a tree reading a book. His hair is falling across his face, but I’ve seen him hunched over the mixing desk like that so many times that I recognise him immediately. As I ride past, debating whether to ring my bell in greeting, he exhales a large plume of smoke.
At first I wonder whether I saw what I thought I saw. Would Daniel really get stoned in the middle of a public park while his classmates played footy? When Michael told me the rumours about Daniel this was the sort of thing that had made me think they were too far fetched to be true. I speed up to try to make it round the track again and double-check, but when I get back to the spot where I saw Daniel no one’s there.
I’m just about to start another loop when Ms Chan calls me. “Time to dismount, Lockhart! Take your bike back to the shop and wait for the rest of the class there.”
While I’m waiting for the others to arrive, the Parkville boys emerge from the park. Michael Harrigan breaks away from the group he’s with and comes over to me.
“Hey, Freia, you were riding pretty fast today. I tried to catch your eye as you came round, but you were in a real hurry to get somewhere.”