Finding Freia Lockhart

by Aimee Said

  “I like to ride fast,” I say, which, even though it’s true, sounds like the lamest line ever.

  “Oh right,” he says, and I can tell by the smug look on his face that he’s about to come out with something nasty. “See, we thought maybe you were in a hurry because you had something important to do. Something like, say, getting high with someone who was wagging footy?”

  “Young man,” says Ms Chan, standing between us with her bicycle in hand and her helmet still strapped to her head, “I don’t know what the rules are at Parkville, but at Westside we do not fraternise during school hours. I’m sure this conversation can wait until your time is your own.”

  “Sorry, Miss. I was just going.”

  Ms Chan “tsks” and shakes her head in disappointment at my fraternising.

  “What did Michael want?” asks Kate on the way back to school.

  “He was just saying hi,” I answer, unable to bring myself to tell her what he really said.

  “Do you think he likes you?”

  “No! I hardly even know the guy. I don’t like him and he definitely doesn’t like me.”

  “Okay, no need to get defensive. It’s just that I don’t think Bella would appreciate it if you and Michael, you know, got together.”

  “Well, we’re not going to get together, so it doesn’t matter, does it?” I snap.

  Kate doesn’t reply. She speeds up to walk with Bethanee and Brianna, leaving me trailing behind.

  As usual I’m the last out of the change rooms and the group has already left for rehearsal. I run to catch up with them. The rational part of my brain wonders why I’m racing to be with people I don’t even think like me. The part of my brain that has to turn up to Westside five days a week knows it’s because hanging around with people who don’t like you is better than not hanging around with anyone at all.

  Daniel is whistling a cheerful tune when I arrive.

  “Hey,” he says, looking up from the desk. “Feeling better?”

  “Hi,” I reply, not answering his question and not making eye contact, or eye-to-fringe contact, as the case may be.

  “Thank God you’re back. You wouldn’t believe the crap Dazzle was giving me on Monday. It’s like this play’s his once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to boss people around and he’s determined to do it as much as possible just to make himself feel like a big man.”

  I don’t respond. I feel angry towards Daniel and I don’t know whether it’s because he’s in such a good mood when I’m feeling like total crap, or because he’s acting like we’re friends when we barely know each other, or because between him and Michael Harrigan I’m getting a bad rep on all sides without actually having done anything with either of them.

  “You okay?” he asks after a few minutes of silence.

  “I’m fine,” I answer in the tone I usually reserve for my mother.

  “Okay, sorry. I only asked because you seem unhappy about something.”

  “Yeah, well, not all of us have access to artificial means of making ourselves happy, do we?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that I didn’t spend the afternoon wagging and getting stoned.”

  “And you think I did?”

  “I saw you, Daniel. In the park. Puffing away like there was no tomorrow.”

  Daniel shakes his head. “Uh, last time I checked, tobacco didn’t get you high, Freia. I was smoking a cigarette. Bad for my health, yes, but not mood altering. And, okay, I did skip footy, but that’s because I’m sick of being ‘accidentally’ kicked, knocked down or trodden on whenever Steve Neilsen or Jamie Boyd has the chance.”

  “But Michael said …” I stop myself because I know, I just know, that what Michael Harrigan says can’t be trusted. “A lot of people are saying that you …”

  “That I … what? Take drugs? Dress up in women’s clothing? Torture small animals? I don’t know what you’ve been hearing about me from Michael Harrigan or his loser mates but if it’s anything like the rumours they spread about the girls at your school, I wouldn’t be in a hurry to believe any of it.”

  I feel stupid. Ridiculous and stupid. “Sorry,” I mumble.

  “Forget it,” he says, turning back to the lighting desk, his good mood evaporated.

  Mr Wilson calls for silence and cues lights and staging. Daniel hands me the script, on which he’s marked all the lighting changes and fades and spots, and indicates that I should run the desk. I’m grateful that he’s letting me have a go at it, but of course I can’t tell him that. Instead, I nod and bring up the stage lights for scene one.

  We don’t speak for the rest of the afternoon.

  How could I be so dumb? I ask myself as I walk home from rehearsal. I used to think I was a pretty good judge of character – certainly I was right on target with the Bs when Kate started hanging around with them – but now I feel like I don’t really know anyone any more. I am what Dad calls a Prize Fool. I wait until my bedroom door closes behind me before I let my tears fall.

  I cry until I’ve got snot running down my face and my eyes are so swollen I can’t open them properly. There’s a knock on my door. “Freia, can I come in?”

  I don’t bother answering; it’s not as if Mum won’t let herself in regardless. But she doesn’t. After about ten seconds she knocks louder.

  “Freia? Freia, have you got your headphones on?” She’s almost shouting now. I wipe my eyes and open the door, quickly heading back to the bed and burying my face in the doona before she can see it.

  “What’s wrong, Fray? Did something happen at school? Did you and Kate have a fight?”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” I say, knowing that if I told her the truth she’d be full of suggestions from The Book about how to “fix” things, like asking Kate straight out if she’s upset with me and apologising to Daniel for accusing him of using drugs. Frankly, I don’t want to hear it. “I’ve just had a bad day, that’s all.”

  She puts her wrist against my forehead to feel my temperature. “You don’t look that good. Maybe you’re still sick?

  I pull away from her. “The only thing I’m sick of is constantly being interrogated by you. Can’t a person just have some time by themselves in this house?”

  Mum looks hurt. She gets up and walks to the door, closing it behind her.

  Great, now she’s upset with me as well. Why can’t I do anything right any more? Lately, I seem to just launch myself from one huge stuff-up to the next.

  At dinner I join in the family small talk about whether Boris has worms or is just a very hungry cat, and what can be done about the bindies that are threatening to take over the back lawn. I keep looking at Mum, as if to say: Look, I’m really trying, but she doesn’t acknowledge me.

  “Don’t forget there’s a faculty dinner on Saturday night for Bob Riser’s retirement,” says Dad as we’re finishing our tempeh hotpot.

  “Okay, I’ll make spag bol for Ziggy and me,” I say in my most obliging voice.

  “Why don’t you see if Kate wants to stay the night?” says Mum. “It seems like ages since we’ve seen her.”

  “It’s only been a couple of weeks,” I say defensively. Then, realising that Kate used to stay over almost every weekend, I add, “But I’ll ask her.”

  Mum looks pleased.

  20

  I don’t mean to tell Nicky about all the crap that’s going on in my life. Even though I trust her, she’s a bit too closely associated with Mum for comfort. But when she asks me about the party it all comes blurting out. I tell her about Kate’s skirt and how I kind of liked the attention but it made me feel weird; about Michael Harrigan and Kate and Alex Cole; about Daniel showing up and Michael turning psycho.

  “Jeez,” she says when I finally stop to take a breath. “I guess things haven’t changed much since I was a teenager after all.”

  “You mean this is normal?”

  “Well, ‘normal’ is perhaps not the right word, but I don’t think it’s unusual. I bet every single perso
n at that party has at least one thing from the night – something they did or said or heard or felt – that they just can’t get out of their minds for fear that they made an arse of themselves.

  “If it’s any consolation, at the first real party I went to I spilt French onion dip all over my dress and had to lock myself in the loo while my best friend washed it and waited for it to come out of the dryer. To make things worse, it was dry-clean-only fabric, so when I put it back on it was about three sizes too small.”

  I know she’s exaggerating to make me feel better, but it does help.

  “Tell me more about Daniel,” she says.

  “There’s nothing to tell,” I answer, unwilling to reveal what an idiot I’d made of myself on Wednesday.

  “Come on, you must know something about him after spending three weeks in an enclosed space with the guy. I see him at Switch all the time. He seems lonely.”

  “I really wouldn’t know. Anyway, you’ll be pleased to hear I’ve finished Part Two of Pride and Prejudice.”

  “Ah, I see – nice way to change the subject.” She grins. “Okay, tell me what you think.”

  We talk about Elizabeth and how she made assumptions about Darcy, and about Darcy and how he hid his feelings for her, and about Wickham convincing everyone that Darcy was a grade-A bastard, and even though I still hate the book, I’m able to hold up my end of the conversation and that makes me feel pretty good.

  At the end of the session Nicky asks what I’m going to do my presentation on.

  “I haven’t quite decided,” I tell her. “But I’ve got a few ideas.”

  “Give me a call if you want to talk over anything before Friday. Otherwise, I’ll pick you up after school for a post-preso celebration at Switch. Deal?”

  “You bet,” I say. It’s not until she’s driving away that I realise I didn’t ask her how her date went last week.

  Possible presentation topics

  Why did Jane Austen make the Bennet girls so stupid/insipid/annoying?

  Is Mrs Bennet the most annoying woman in literature?

  How many balls is too many in one book?

  Why would anyone fall in love with Darcy???

  The next day Daniel is an hour late to rehearsal because he has a detention for the Darryl incident, as Darryl himself smugly informs me when I arrive. I’m relieved; it gives me more time to practise my apology.

  It’s the first dress rehearsal and I feel a pang when I see all the girls in their long dresses and flowered and feathered hats. Stephanie’s already snapping away with her camera. Belinda is swishing about the stage in her ball gown, looking gaunt but undeniably beautiful. Kate is engrossed in conversation with Alex, straightening his bow tie as they chat and looking every bit a couple. I catch Michael Harrigan giving me the death stare. He turns away before I can return it.

  “Places please, cast,” calls Ms Burns. “Cue sound and lighting for the ball scene.”

  I slide the faders into place and select the lights for the scene, turning them up just as the curtain opens. My timing is perfect and I can’t help wishing that Daniel was here to see it. He arrives during the Ascot races scene.

  “Hi,” he mumbles, sitting in the chair to the side that’s usually mine.

  “Hi,” I whisper back. “How was detention?”

  He looks at me as if I’ve just asked him whether he enjoys eating glass. “I can think of more interesting ways to spend a Saturday morning.”

  I take a deep breath and prepare to say the words I’ve been practising in my head all morning: I’m sorry about the other day. Six little words that will hopefully end the weird-bad feelings between us so that we can go back to the weird-but-easygoing way we were before.

  Six little words. I’ll say them. He’ll tell me not to worry about it. We’ll both pretend it never happened.

  It should be so easy.

  I exhale. Really loudly. So loudly that Daniel gives a tiny jump in his seat. “Sorry,” I say. “I mean sorry about the noise … but also sorry about the other day … what I said … Michael Harrigan … you know?” And the last two words actually are a question, because I can’t see his eyes, so I can’t tell whether he’s comprehending what I’m saying or just wondering what the hell I’m on about.

  “It’s okay,” he says, so I figure he must have got the gist of it. “I’m getting used to hearing all sorts of things about myself around this place. You know, I hated Greyland. I hated the spoilt, rich, up-themselves guys. I hated being the son of a Greyland old boy. But Parkville’s not that different.”

  “Is that why you got expelled from Greyland? You did it on purpose?”

  “Expelled? I wasn’t expelled. I left because my dad said I was an embarrassment to his name there and that he wasn’t going to waste his precious money sending me to the most exclusive boys’ school in the state if I wouldn’t make an effort to fit in.”

  “Oh,” is all I can say, trying to recall how many times and from how many people I’d heard the expulsion rumour. “So I guess you weren’t caught with drugs in your locker, either?”

  Daniel laughs as if I’ve made a joke. “I hate to disappoint you, but I’m not into drugs and I’ve never been caught with them, at school or anywhere else. Not to spoil your illusions of me being some wild and crazy guy, but I’m afraid I’m just like everyone else.”

  I’m trying to think of a tactful way to point out that everyone else doesn’t cover their face with their hair, dress like Joey Ramone, tell teachers where to go, or pick a fight with the AV guy, when a shout comes from the stage.

  “Oi! Where’s the spotlight for my big line?” demands Belinda, standing with her hands on her hips.

  All afternoon I try to bring the conversation back to what we’d been talking about, but Daniel seems wary of saying any more and keeps steering it back to lighting and pointing out the upcoming cues marked on the script.

  After rehearsal I meet Kate and the Bs outside the hall. They’re all still wearing their stage make-up and I feel even more out of place with them than usual.

  “Do you want to stay over tonight?” I ask Kate. “Mum and Dad are going out so I’m making spag bol.”

  “Oh, thanks, Fray,” she says, glancing over at the Bs, “but I promised I’d go over to Bella’s and help her with her lines. Maybe next week?”

  I feel guiltily relieved that she can’t make it. I don’t know that I feel up to a night of listening to her go on about how perfect Alex would be if she could just change everything about him, or about how gorgeous and perfect “Bella” is.

  Over dinner Ziggy gives me a blow-by-blow account of his footy game, in which his glory as Man of the Match was only marred by the fact that Dad read a book through the entire game and didn’t even look up when they were chanting Ziggy’s name after he scored the winning try.

  “Don’t take it personally, Zig, he’s just not a sporty guy.”

  “Hmph. I hope he takes a book when he goes to your stupid show, then you’ll know how it feels.”

  I hadn’t even considered that Mum and Dad would see the play, but of course they will. The Book says that Good Parents support their children in all of their activities (hence Dad sitting through Ziggy’s football games when he’d rather be holed up with Boris listening to their favourite concerto). There’s no way they won’t make an appearance on opening night. Hell, Mum might even decide that it’s her parental duty to come to every performance.

  “Oh yeah, sis,” says Ziggy, smugly, when he sees my horrified reaction. “And I bet they’re going to want to meet your boyfriend, too.”

  “For the last time, Siegfried, Daniel is NOT my boyfriend.” I’m almost shouting now. I’m so sick of saying it.

  “That’s not what I hear from Michael Harrigan. According to him you two were getting so hot’n’heavy on Wednesday afternoon that the lighting was all over the place and Wilson had to tell you to calm down.”

  “What? Michael Harrigan’s full of it! I can’t believe you even listen to him. You’v
e known me for almost thirteen years, do you seriously believe I’d do that in front of everyone?”

  “I guess it would go against your usual prudish nature, but love makes people do crazy things.”

  “Ziggy!”

  “Hey, I don’t make the stuff up. I just report it.”

  I’ve had enough of Ziggy for one night. I go to my room and close the door, turning the Ramones up as high as my crappy little speakers will go. I do kung-fu kicks to the soothing strains of Joey’s shout-singing, imagining each one of them making contact with the sensitive parts of Michael Harrigan’s anatomy and wonder how I – the perfectly average girl – could be the subject of not just gossip, but gossip about a guy?

  21

  I have to find out if what Ziggy said is true. I leave for school ten minutes early on Monday, hoping to catch Kate away from the Bs. When I get to the lockers she’s already in her place in the huddle around Belinda who’s announcing that, as of this morning, she’s switching from lattes to long blacks because even skim milk has one per cent fat. The Bs nod at her wisdom, not one of them seeing fit to mention that Belinda herself has only about one per cent fat and could probably do with a few full-fat chocolate milkshakes with whipped cream on top.

  I walk next to Kate to Maths, trying to get her attention, but she remains intent on listening to Bethanee, even though she’s talking about what happened on last night’s Australian Idol – a program I know Kate can’t stand. When she rushes to take the seat between Bethanee and Brianna, I get the distinct feeling she’s avoiding me.

  Mr McLaren announces that tickets for My Fair Lady go on sale this week and makes a crack about how much he’s looking forward to seeing “my own fair ladies” – points at Bethanee, Brianna and Kate – “in action”. I look at Kate to exchange our traditional eye roll in response to McSporran’s “joke”, but she’s too busy grinning at Bethanee and Brianna to notice.

  I feel a twinge of jealousy, not because I want to be one of McSporran’s “fair ladies”, but because in this tiny, inconsequential moment I realise that Kate and I have less in common now than ever. I guess I always thought that Kate and I were only friends because we didn’t have anyone else to hang out with, but now that she has the Bs I realise how much she really meant to me. And even though she’s discovered Cosmo and bronzer and Alex Cole and isn’t interested in going for a bike ride or baking a batch of brownies, I miss her. If only I could get us back to the way we were before rehearsals started. That’s all I want. Even if it means two more years of hanging in the shadow of the Bs and pretending to like Beyoncé.