“None of your goddamned business.”
“It is my biz!” Jasper snapped. “We’re whānau. You’re like a brother to me, and I thought I wuz like one to you too.”
I exhaled loudly, today growing worse by the minute. “You are my bro, even more than Ash, which is why you can’t kill Happy Meal. Cos if you do, it won’t be jail you needa worry ’bout, it’s his dad. If you get your fat arse caught, he’ll have you tortured and killed.”
“If I get caught.”
“No, when you get caught, and if you’re so concerned ’bout Happy Meal harassing me, I’ll talk to my cousin. Hunter can get someone to scare him off. His connections are more powerful than Happy Meal’s, so chill, you don’t hafta kill the prick. There are other ways to get him offa my back.”
Jasper’s dark eyebrows pulled together. “You sure Hunter can help? Cos if Happy Meal so much as looks at you wrong—”
“It’ll be fine! I’ll phone Hunter as soon as you leave.”
He pointed a finger at me. “I’ll check with him if you’re lying.”
“Why would I lie?”
“Cos that’s all you bloody do.”
“I don’t lie to you.”
“You do so. Anyway, I gotta split, got shit to do.” He yanked opened my bedroom door and headed down the passage, shouting, “If you ignore me again, I’ll smash your favourite guitar over Happy Meal’s head.” The front door slammed.
I peeked through the blinds, spotting him lumbering towards the gate. My gaze shifted to his two-storey house, where he lived with his auntie and father. I turned around and bobbed down, removing a floorboard to get some sleeping pills. I swallowed them down, then crawled into bed, wanting Jasper’s auntie dead instead of Happy Meal.
18
CLARA
I entered the school hall and sat down next to Harry Grey a few rows from the stage.
He nodded a hello. “Thank you for agreeing to help out, Clara,” he said, his posh English accent so different from Markus’s working-class Cockney one. He also looked posh, his attire much more formal than any of the other teachers. Today, he was dressed in smart grey pants the same colour as his hair, and a matching vest layered over the top of his white dress-shirt. I smiled at the bowtie he was wearing, thinking he was the only man I knew who could get away with it without looking pompous or silly. Instead, he looked dashing, a silver fox with a cheeky gleam in his pale blue eyes.
“It’s my pleasure,” I replied, looking forward to the auditions, the students yet to arrive. “I love Othello. It’s my favourite Shakespearean play.”
Harry’s eyes lit up. “You’re a woman after my own heart.” He placed a hand on his chest, the slight flutter of his fingertips and his tone giving off a gay vibe. I pushed the thought aside, my observation obviously wrong, since he was looking at me with far too much interest to be gay. Or maybe he was bi. Either way, I was sure he could charm the pants off both men and women alike, his looks and demeanour very attractive.
He continued, “It’s my favourite too. Ever since the students performed it a few years back, I’ve been trying to cajole Paul into agreeing to a musical version, but he kept refusing, so I went to the principal.” He smiled shyly, looking a little ashamed over what he’d done, but no doubt pleased with the end result. “Principal Sao instantly agreed. Like me, he feels the adapted version will resonate with the students much more than the original. Unfortunately, Paul’s furious. He thinks I went behind his back, which, in all truth, I did. It’s just ... it was the only way I could make it happen. He has a habit of overriding everything I propose, which is why I asked for your help.” He gave me a good-natured nudge with his elbow. “Though, don’t make me regret it like I did with Dante.”
I smiled. “Don’t worry. I think it’s a great idea.”
“I was hoping you’d say that. I thought if I’d asked you instead of Beverly, I’d have some chance of not being overridden. She always sides with Paul. He would’ve gotten her to help bully me into changing it back to the original.”
My lips thinned out, thinking the word bully was an appropriate description for Paul Aston. I’d seen him bail up a number of male students, being quite intimidating. Though, he hadn’t been as rough on them as he’d been with Dante. My mind drifted to Dante, wondering why he’d gotten so upset yesterday. It had bothered me ever since. Although he’d said it wasn’t to do with me, I couldn’t shake the feeling it was. Or maybe it was to do with his poem. Either way, I was worried about him, the boy a puzzling enigma.
“I also thought you might back me up since you don’t like Paul,” Harry said, cutting through my thoughts.
“What?” I asked, having lost the flow of our conversation.
“I said, I thought you’d also back me up since you don’t like Paul.”
I placed a hand on my chest in mock indignation. “You thought I’d let personal differences interfere with my work?” I gasped dramatically.
He laughed. “A man can only hope.”
I tsked at him good-naturedly. “I wouldn’t do that, but you still have my support. Again, I absolutely adore the idea of Othello being performed as a musical.”
“And if you didn’t, I would’ve laid on the charm until I got what I wanted,” he said, overemphasising his posh accent.
I laughed, thinking he was delightful. I could see why he was a popular teacher. “And here I was thinking you were already laying on the charm to win me over to the musical side, Mr. Grey.”
“I wasn’t even trying,” he smiled flirtatiously. “And why are you calling me Mr. Grey? All the pretty ladies call me Harry.”
I smiled back, unable to help myself. He definitely liked women, the man extremely flirtatious, just better at it than his horrid friend. The back door creaked open, capturing my attention. I looked over my shoulder, spotting the man in question entering the hall. Paul lumbered down the aisle on my left, glaring at me. I wondered whether he’d known I was helping out, or whether Harry had failed to tell him.
“What are you doing here?” he grunted, clearing that up instantly.
Harry answered for me. “She’s going to be helping with the musical, and what happened to your eye?”
Paul touched his left eye, which was swollen and badly bruised. “Had a disagreement with a parent.”
“Who?”
“An animal who should be in jail, so quit asking and tell me why she’s here.”
“To help us, obviously.”
“She can’t help us. This is a drama production, not some book club reading,” he said disdainfully. “Beverly should be here, not this woman.”
“There’s no need to be so rude to Clara,” Harry replied curtly, his pale blue eyes narrowing at his friend. “And if you have an issue, don’t take it out on Clara. Isaac’s the one who suggested her,” he added, referring to Principal Sao.
Paul crossed his arms over his beefy chest. “Ye know I won’t let this slide.”
“And you know it’s too late to do anything once Isaac’s made up his mind.”
Paul grunted something unintelligible, suggesting he already knew that. He slid into the seat next to me, knocking his hip against mine. I shifted towards Harry, not wanting to be anywhere near the brute. Again, I wondered how Beverly could like him so much.
Paul glanced past me. “I think ye’re making a mistake turning Othello into a musical, Harry. It’s going to be impossible to find a whole cast of kids that can act and sing as well as fit the roles.”
“I disagree. I have a number of your students in my class who can sing really well.”
“Who?”
“Dante Rata for one.”
“I don’t teach that hooligan anymore. After his drunken debacle, Isaac shifted him to Beverly’s class. And the only acting he ever does is acting up.”
Harry smirked, looking like he agreed, just in a fond way. “True, but he has the most sublime voice.” His attention shifted to me. “Please tell me you’ve managed to talk him into coming, because h
e just grunted something unintelligible when I asked him.”
“I think so. I dared him to prove he could sing.”
He waggled his fingers with approval. “That was a clever move, especially since that boy doesn’t like being called a chicken. He’s all show. Knock his pride and he’ll come running.”
Paul snorted derisively. “He’s not worth bothering with, and even if he does show, he probably won’t turn up to the rehearsals. Not to forget he causes fights.” He gave me an accusatory look.
I grimaced at him, thinking he’d caused the fight by mishandling Dante. He returned my grimace, but averted his gaze first, making me smile inwardly at my small victory.
“He still should try out,” Harry stated. “No one in this school can sing as good as that boy. He’ll have you captivated by the end of his audition.”
“Again, that’s if the delinquent even shows,” Paul muttered. “The only thing he’s obliged to show up to is a court hearing.”
“Paul,” Harry snapped, now looking annoyed. “Until you’ve walked in his shoes, don’t assume anything about that poor boy.”
“I’m not assuming; he is a delinquent.”
“If you knew what I knew, you wouldn’t be so ready to condemn him,” Harry said, making me wonder whether he’d been told the full story too.
The back doors opened, cutting off their argument. I glanced over my shoulder, seeing an influx of students. They were carrying numbered papers that a senior was handing out at the hall’s entrance. I smiled as I spotted Dante amongst them, relieved he’d shown.
Dante sat down a few rows back with his friends, the boys talking between themselves. The other kids filed into the seats around them, their chatter excited.
“Number one,” I called out loudly, needing to get the auditions finished by the end of lunchtime. “Please take the stage.”
A girl with bright orange hair and a face full of freckles walked past us. She climbed the stairs to the stage, stopping in the middle of it.
“Hello, I’m Annabelle Aston,” she said with a thick Scottish accent.
Paul sat up straighter, looking like a proud father. Though, I hadn’t realised he had a kid. I filed the information away, curious enough to ask Beverly about it.
Annabelle started singing a Britney Spears song, her accent disappearing in an instant. The students were allowed to choose whatever they liked, just without backup music, since we didn’t have the time to waste on changing tracks. Harry had also stated in his email that he wanted to hear the kids sing without accompaniment, which was a hard task for any singer, something I knew, since I’d sung at school, musicals being another passion of mine.
The girl finished the song, sounding worthy of a part, but probably not the lead female. She bowed, then descended the stairs, walking past us with a smile. Behind me, Dante’s friends clapped and hooted, the only ones being overly loud with their applause.
Paul looked across me at Harry. “My niece is great, isn’t she?” he said, answering my curiosity. “I think she’d be perfect for Desdemona.”
Harry replied with a “Mmmm,” not sounding so keen on the idea.
Then Phelia headed for the stage. She’d had her afro straightened, the thick curtain of brown hair reaching halfway down her back. She stopped in the centre of the stage, her eyes locking onto someone in the audience. I glanced over my shoulder, seeing Dante making a cock-sucking motion at her.
“Dante!” I snapped.
He pursed his lips at me, blowing me a kiss, his sullenness from the day before nowhere in sight. I scowled at him in response, not amused with what he was doing. Although I’d apologised over what had happened in the toilets, I wasn’t going to put up with any more of his nonsense.
I turned back to face the stage, waiting for Phelia to sing, and to my surprise she had a great voice. Her rendition of Spanish Guitar was lovely as well as unexpected, although her appearance did sort of remind me of a young Toni Braxton. But despite that, she was overdoing her performance. She was tipping back her head every so often, as well as twisting this way and that, looking like she was trying to imitate the singer’s moves. I smiled a little, finding it amusing.
Harry leaned towards me. “Don’t you think she’d be perfect for the part of Desdemona?”
Before I could reply with a yes, Paul butted in, “No, she’s brown.”
Harry scowled. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
Paul rolled his eyes as though his friend was an imbecile. “Desdemona’s white. The role calls for it.”
“I don’t care; she’s the best female singer in the school. She deserves the part.”
“My niece is much better.”
Harry snorted. “Are you deaf? It’s like saying Britney Spears has a better voice than Christina Aguilera. It’s absurd.”
Paul’s expression darkened. “Are ye insulting my niece’s voice?”
“No, I’m simply saying Phelia’s better.”
“Well, I don’t agree, plus Annabelle would be perfect for the role.”
“Only because you’re her uncle.”
“No, because she fits Desdemona’s profile.”
“Then, you’re a racist.”
Paul glowered at him. “I am not! The part requires a white actress.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Then, what aboot the line where Iago says to Desdemona’s father aboot ‘an old black ram is tupping your white ewe’? It’s a reference to the black Othello eloping with the man’s white daughter, Desdemona.”
Harry let out a frustrated sigh. “I already told you we’re using the adapted musical, not the original text.”
“Desdemona is still white and Othello shouldn’t be relegated to ridiculous show tunes.”
“Too bad for you Isaac agreed with me. And we can adapt the role for Phelia, like we’ll do for Dante in regards to Othello’s part.”
“That’s if he even gets the part, which, as I said, I’m not keen on.”
I lifted a hand to stop the argument, their bickering not only wasting time, but looking bad in front of the students, who were now sniggering behind us. “Let’s at least finish the girls’ auditions before we discuss who gets what,” I said.
Both of them conceded begrudgingly.
“Good,” I breathed out, again wondering how they could be friends with the way they argued. “We’ll wait and see if there’s anyone better for the part.”
But there wasn’t. All the girls going for Desdemona’s role were nowhere near as good as Phelia. We whispered amongst ourselves, both Harry and I eventually forcing Paul to accept her.
Then the boys started taking to the stage, with Dante’s friend Jasper up first. His voice was good, but not good enough to take the lead role of Othello, although Paul kept saying it was, probably because he was dark like Othello. But again, both Harry and I outvoted him.
As we neared the end of the boys’ auditions, I started to wonder whether Dante was going to perform. I glanced behind me as I called out the last number, relieved when he pushed to his feet. He sauntered past me and the other teachers, his swagger almost comical. It looked as though he was accentuating the walk to grab further attention ... and it was working. His friends were laughing, while the girls were wolf-whistling and catcalling.
Instead of climbing the stairs, he grabbed onto the edge of the stage and hoisted himself up, finally stopping his silly swagger. Grinning wide, he rose to his feet and held up his number, which he’d changed from 19 to 69. The students started laughing, his mates being twice as loud as everyone else.
Paul boomed, “Silence!”
Except for a few sniggers, the students quietened down.
“Dante!” Paul barked. “Start singing before I lose my patience with ye.”
Dante gave him a contemptuous look, then dropped his number. The paper drifted down, gently floating past the stage, eventually settling on the wooden floorboards below. The plastic bag scene from American Beauty instantly popped into my head. I
frowned, wondering why I’d thought of it. It was just a piece of paper, not a plastic bag dancing in the wind. Or maybe the correlation had something to do with the film’s theme. But, I wasn’t anything like Kevin Spacey’s character. I was young and without children, while he was a father in the throes of a midlife crisis. Though, Dante was provocative like Mena’s character, a beautiful temptation. I shook the thoughts out of my head, almost laughing at myself for even thinking about it, because I wasn’t infatuated with Dante.
Not at all.
My gaze rose to him. He cut a striking figure up on the stage as he declared what song he was singing. I didn’t hear what it was; more caught up with the way his lips moved as he spoke, and how he ran his palms down his pant legs, possibly wiping sweat off them. Despite his arrogant facade, I could tell he was nervous. It was endearing, the boy not as self-assured as he portrayed himself to be.
He started singing Bent by Matchbox Twenty, taking me completely by surprise. I’d expected him to choose a rap or R&B song, not a love ballad about a broken person. But what surprised me even more was his voice. It was stunning, full and rich, his notes perfectly on pitch, sending chills up my arms. I couldn’t even make out his accent, every word sung to perfection. Not only that, his interpretation of the song was nothing like the original. It came across as more personal, sounding as though he believed every word he was singing: that he was broken, or bent like the title, unable to be fixed. I continued to listen to his amazing performance, totally enthralled, captivated by both the emotion in his words and on his beautiful face.
After he’d sung the last note, applause broke out. Even Paul rose to his feet, clapping along with everyone else. Dante frowned, that hurt and pleading look in his eyes still there, giving me the feeling he didn’t like the applause, which I didn’t expect, considering the way he was acting before he’d sung. Then the hurt expression disappeared, defaulting to his usual arrogant facade. Smiling at the audience, he bowed low, exaggerating the sweep of his arm.
A loud voice from the back of the hall cut through the applause: “Appropriate song for you, Rata, since you are bent!”
Broken English (Broken Lives Book 1) Page 17