by Aimee Said
The brownies are in the oven and the whole house smells deliciously of chocolate by the time Siouxsie arrives for our EE essay-athon.
“Yum, I think I’m getting the better part of this deal,” she says, sniffing the air.
By the time Mum calls us for dinner I’ve done an essay plan, written the introduction and we’ve only taken one brief boogie break. I can’t remember the last time I felt so in control of my schoolwork.
Siouxsie wins Mum over by insisting that we don’t have brownies until we’ve finished the first draft of our essays. She says it’s to motivate us, but I reckon it’s got more to do with the cannonball that’s forming in her stomach after a second helping of Mum’s nutloaf. She’s right though, thinking of the rich brownie full of oozy warm chocolate with vanilla ice-cream melting through it does make me work faster and when I write my final full stop I’m shocked to see that it’s only just gone 9.30.
It’s a warmish night so we take our brownies and ice-cream to the garden. I fill Siouxsie in on the dramas at rehearsal with Daz.
“So are you going to ask Daniel out sometime?” she asks straight out.
“What? No! We’re just friends.”
“Come off it, Freia. You’ve told me three times in the past ten minutes how blue his eyes are, you were worried sick about him when he disappeared and you obviously enjoy hanging out with him. Why can’t you admit it?”
I pretend to be engrossed in scooping up equal amounts of brownie and ice-cream while I consider the question. Because the Bs already hate me and this just gives them more ammunition. Because I’m not at all sure he likes me as more than a friend. Because even if he does like me, I have absolutely no idea what I’m supposed to do about it.
Finally, I say, “It’s not an issue, since he wouldn’t want to anyway.”
“Cop-out!” she says, but she doesn’t push it the way Kate would.
32
On Monday morning I steel myself before entering the locker room. All the way to school I’ve been repeating a mantra of Get in, get books, get out and trying to use the power of positive thinking to will it to be that simple.
Kate and the Bs are gathered around Belinda, gushing over something she’s showing them.
Get in, get books, get out, I repeat to myself as I grab what I need for morning classes without them even seeming to notice me. I run into Steph on my way out and she asks me to come to the art rooms at lunchtime to help her choose the final selection of photos for her exhibition. All in all, this being a no-friends freak thing is working out pretty well.
When Kate and the Bs walk into English I understand what they were fussing over this morning. Next to Kate’s school badge a little gold bee catches the sunlight. It shines almost as brightly as her smile. She sits at a desk diagonally opposite mine, fiddling with the bee for the entire double period. At last, she has got her wish. She is officially a B and I can’t help wondering whether ditching me was what it took to earn it.
Mr Naidoo hands back our essays. When he gets to mine he automatically heads to where Kate and Bethanee are sitting and does a double take before looking all around the room and finally spotting me with Vicky.
“Not the best structured essay you’ve ever written, Freia, but passionately argued. Well done.”
Vicky smiles and gives me the thumbs up.
Steph’s photos from rehearsals cover an entire wall of the room. En masse they look like a typical collection of school production stills but, when you look closely, every one of them reveals a tiny detail, like a movement or an eye roll, that hints at what’s going on behind the scenes. I’m entranced, looking intently at each of them to spot the hidden detail, trying to catch the subjects betraying their true characters when they think no one’s looking. It’s like a game.
“What do you think?” asks Steph.
“I think they’re all great. I don’t know how you’ll choose.”
“I know what I’d do,” says Siouxsie. “Expose these fakes as being human after all.”
“It’s tempting, but when I took these I didn’t intend for them to be some sort of bitchy exposé. It was more about catching moments when peoples’ guards were down than making them look dumb,” says Steph.
“Some people manage to do that all by themselves,” says Siouxsie, indicating a photo of Luke staring slack-jawed at Belinda’s boobs.
“Exactly. There’s no challenge in stuff like that. I think what I want to show is more like this,” says Steph, pointing to a photo in the corner.
At first it just looks like a photo of the chorus with Kate standing in the front row, grinning a showbiz grin, but on closer inspection I notice that the only other person smiling in the photo is Alex, and then I see his hand on her waist, which is definitely not part of the choreography for the Ascot races scene.
“Whereas this one,” says Steph, indicating a shot of Bethanee in the wings with Luke’s tongue down her throat, “is probably not the vibe I’m after.”
“Have you considered using these for blackmail purposes? I reckon you could get a new lens for your camera for what Bethanee’d pay to have those negatives destroyed,” I say.
Steph laughs. “Luckily for Bethanee, I’m all about the art.”
Finally, we get it down to about thirty pictures, including the one of Kate and Alex and the shot of Daniel the afternoon before he went away.
“Now all I need is somewhere to exhibit them,” says Steph. She stands back to admire her handiwork.
“Actually,” says Siouxsie, “I have an idea about that.”
Everyone involved in the play is excused from classes at recess on Tuesday to prepare for the preview performance for Westside and Parkville juniors. I walk there by myself, taking cover amongst the Year Nine chorus members chattering excitedly about Belinda’s party.
I know Daniel and I have our lighting down pat, but I still feel a bit queasy at the thought of doing it in front of an audience. He’s already sitting at the desk, even though it’s still almost two hours till the show begins. He greets me with a grin.
“I suggest you stay here. Wilson’s having a nervous breakdown and Darryl’s out for blood – it’s not safe down there.”
“That goes double now that Belinda’s arrived,” I say, nodding to where she’s standing with Luke. She’s giving him a proper telling-off, if the fierce expression on her face is anything to go by. “So what do we do till they’re ready to begin? I thought they’d have us on hall detail, putting out chairs and stuff.”
“Nah, it’s all been done, care of yesterday’s detention duty – every chair you see down there has been precisely positioned at 180 degrees to the stage by me and a guy in Year Eight called Paul Pinkus who suffered the indignity of being caught hiding in the change rooms to avoid being beaten to a pulp in thugby.” Daniel reaches into his bag and pulls out his iPod. “Want to share?”
I nod and he makes a show of wiping the earbud on his jumper before offering it to me. He presses play and something screechy with a lot of electric guitar blares. I try to look like I think it’s cool, but when it gets to an extended and particularly loud guitar solo I can’t help grimacing.
Daniel catches my eye at exactly that moment and laughs. “Sorry, I forget that Led Zep’s not everyone’s bag.” He hands me the iPod. “You choose something.”
I’m so technically backward that the closest I’ve ever been to an iPod is looking at (no touching allowed!) the one Bethanee got for her birthday. I hold Daniel’s iPod with both hands, as if I’m six years old and carrying Grandma Thelma’s best crystal vase. I think back to Bethanee showing us how she’d loaded every single Pussycat Dolls album on hers, and try to imitate the way she twirled her finger round the control pad to scroll through them. Thankfully, it works, but I don’t recognise any of the names appearing on the display. Then I see it, like a beacon in the musical dark: Ramones Mania. I hit play and breathe a sigh of relief. Saved.
“Good choice,” says Daniel, with an approving nod, as “I Wanna Be Sed
ated” starts. If Kate and I were still friends, and if I could talk to her about Daniel, I know she would say that it’s A Sign. Siouxsie would probably tell me he just has good taste.
The performance goes pretty smoothly except for Luke stepping on Belinda’s foot twice during the waltz. (Call me a cynic, but it didn’t look so accidental the second time.) At any rate, the juniors seem to enjoy it and they clap their little hearts out. Belinda takes three curtain calls and would go for a fourth except Darryl refuses to open the curtains again.
Mr Wilson and Ms Burns gather us all around the stage afterwards and give us a pep talk about keeping up the momentum for opening night tomorrow. When they finally tell us we can go home Belinda positions herself by the doors, handing out invitations to her party. I feel a wave of panic, praying to avoid a scene, but she acts as if she doesn’t see me and Daniel at all.
“Let me guess, Queen B’s having an exclusive soiree and only the fairest princes and princesses in Parkville are invited?” says Daniel.
“Yeah, something like that,” I say, speeding up to get past the Bs as quickly as possible.
“Are you going?”
I open my mouth to answer him, but it’s suddenly bone dry. I manage to (literally) choke out, “Uh, I think my invitation may have been revoked. I’m not exactly in Belinda’s good books at the moment. Anyway, I don’t think parties are really my thing.”
“I think that might all depend on who you’re there with. And imagine how much it’d bug her if we went together,” he says and, at the risk of sounding like a complete girly-girl, I feel like a million small things have taken flight in my stomach.
And I don’t know whether it’s because I’ve made it past Belinda unscathed or because I’m thinking maybe the Ramones thing is A Sign, but the next thing I know I’m saying, “Youwanttogowithme?”
And he nods and gives me a huge, huge smile and a flash of blue, twinkly eyes. And things are taking flight in my stomach again, but this time I kind of like it.
So we’re going to the party on Saturday night. Me and Daniel. Daniel and me.
As long as I can get the crumblies to agree.
Reasons why Freia MUST attend the cast party
1. Not to go would be social suicide. (Might work a little bit on Mum, unlikely to move Dad.)
2. I need “closure” on my school musical experience. (Could work if I can find something to back it up in The Book.)
3. I am a normal teenage girl who wants to do normal teenage girl things. (Has never worked in the past.)
4. They need someone to do the lighting on the dance floor. (A stretch, certainly, but if they think I’ll be too busy to actually enjoy myself, they might agree.)
5. Could be my last chance to spend time with Daniel. (DON’T use this one if Dad is around.)
33
Mum knocks on my door while I’m getting changed for the opening night performance. She’s wearing her velvet jacket and “good” clogs, and she’s even put on a slash of pink lipstick for the occasion. She sits on the bed next to me while I tie my laces.
“I just want to tell you how much Dad and I are looking forward to tonight. We’re so proud of you for managing the play on top of school and that business with Daniel. You’ve really shown us how mature you’re becoming.”
“Does that mean I can go to the cast party on Saturday?” I prepare to launch into my list of reasons once she says no.
“Of course! You have to celebrate your hard work,” she says without batting an eyelid, as if this is perfectly normal behaviour for the woman who not three months ago actually called Brianna’s mum to ask whether she would be accompanying us to the video store to make sure we didn’t choose any inappropriate DVDs.
“In fact, I thought you might like something new to wear to it.” She holds out a bag she’s been hiding behind her back. My thoughts as I take the bag from her – ohmygodno, it’s going to be something frumpy and “nice” and I’ll have to wear it to please her – must show on my face because she laughs and says, “Don’t worry, Nicky gave me some pointers.”
I open the bag and take out a denim skirt. Okay, it’s not exactly a mini, but it also doesn’t have any pleats, frills or pink embroidered flowers on it.
“Thanks, Mum,” I say, giving her a hug.
“Come on, ladies,” calls Dad from the hall. “We can’t have the chief lighting designer turning up late for the first performance.”
“Assistant, Dad,” I remind him. “I’m the assistant lighting designer.”
“Only a matter of time,” he says with a grin.
Dad’s made a big effort tonight. He’s wearing his tweed jacket, which is usually reserved for important faculty functions and meetings with publishers, and has even put on real shoes. With laces. Mum makes Ziggy tuck in his shirt and comb his hair.
The school is crowded with parents and grans and scowling siblings when we arrive. Ziggy spots some of his mates and runs to join them, untucking his shirt on the way.
“I’d better go and make sure everything’s set up to start,” I say to Mum and Dad, who send me off with an embarrassingly loud chorus of “break-a-leg”s.
When I get to the balcony Daniel’s not there. I check my watch and scan the crowd, finally spotting him loping through the doors with Dr Fairchild five minutes later.
“I was beginning to think you must’ve finally lost it and decked Dazzle,” I say when he appears at the top of the stairs.
“I wish,” he says. “Dad insisted on having dinner before we came. He’s taking this whole eating together thing way too seriously at the moment.” But he smiles as he says it.
We run through our preparations, checking that no bulbs have blown since yesterday and making sure everything’s in its place. I’m feeling surprisingly relaxed until Daniel mutters, “I don’t believe it, he’s made a friend.”
I look over to where his dad’s sitting and see Mum next to him, going on about something and not letting him get a word in. I pray she’s not telling him off again. Dad has the same look on his face that he gets when she calls waiters over in restaurants to point out spelling mistakes in the menu. I fear the worst.
“That’s my mum,” I tell Daniel, figuring he’ll find out the awful truth soon enough anyway. I busy myself at the desk, not wanting to witness the public humiliation that will surely follow.
“Really? She must tell a good joke. I haven’t seen Dad laugh like that … well, ever.” And sure enough, when I look again Mum and Dr Fairchild are chuckling away like old mates.
Mr Wilson gives the cue for the houselights to go down and Daniel takes his seat next to me.
“Here we go,” he whispers. The curtains open and he brings up the stage lights.
After the show we head down to the canteen where proud parents are milling about drinking watery tea and instant coffee. Mum and Dad are standing with Dr Fairchild on the far side of the group. They wave frantically when they see us approaching.
“Congratulations! You two did a great job,” says Mum, beaming at us.
Dad nods. “It was the only professional thing in the whole show. Since when does ‘The Rain in Spain’ end with jazz hands?”
“Since Belinda Sinclair decided to do her own choreography,” says Daniel, holding out his hand and introducing himself.
“Terence Lockhart,” says Dad as they shake hands, sounding all paternal and protective and looking Daniel up and down.
“Good to meet you, Mr Lockhart,” says Daniel. Mum shoots me an approving look as he turns and does the same to her.
Dr Fairchild invites us to join him and Daniel for a celebratory hot chocolate, but Mum looks at her watch and tsks about the time and says tomorrow’s a school day. We round up Zig on the way to the car.
“Not bad, sis,” he says as we pull out of the car park. “If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought you and Skeletor actually knew what you were doing.”
“His name’s Daniel,” says Mum. “And he seems like a very nice young man.”
<
br /> “He does, although I’m not quite sure what all the hair’s about,” says Dad. “I thought I was having a flashback to my own uni days for a moment there.”
“It’s about being a–” starts Ziggy, but Mum cuts him off.
“Perhaps you should get to know him before you pass judgment, Zig.”
“But Michael Harrigan says …”
“Michael Harrigan’s a bloody liar and a bastard.” I expect to be told off for using Language, but Dad just raises his eyebrows in the rear-view mirror and Mum starts humming as if she didn’t hear me. Ziggy scowls, but doesn’t say another word.
34
The week passes in such a blur that I don’t have time to think about what it’s going to be like when the production’s over and life goes back to normal. I try to savour Saturday, knowing that this time next week I’ll be trawling the supermarket at Parkville Metro and hoping no one sees me with Mrs Clogs or Mr Cardigan. When Siouxsie suggests we meet at Switch I’m on my bike quicker than Mum can say, “Help me unpack the groceries.”
Siouxsie, Vicky and Steph are already there when I arrive. It takes me a few seconds to register that there’s something different about the room, then I realise that the wall next to us is covered in Steph’s photos.
Steph can’t stop smiling. “My first solo show.”
“Pretty cool, huh?” says Siouxsie. “I knew Jay was an art lover the moment I met him.”
I stand up to get a better look. I run my eyes over them, ticking off the quirks they reveal as I go, until I come to one I haven’t seen before. It’s of me. And I’m laughing. A great big here-are-my-tonsils laugh. The sort of laugh I don’t usually let myself do in public because it’s, well, out of control. I notice the white cord coming out of my ear and realise Steph must’ve taken it on Tuesday when we were waiting for the performance to start. And even though you can see far too much of the back of my throat and my eyes are all scrunched up and squinty, I look okay. I look … like myself.