Blue Noise

by Debra Oswald

  ‘Hunh,’ grunted Luke in Ash’s direction. That was Luke-speak for ‘Hello. I’m alive. Are you alive?’

  ‘Hmhmh,’ Ash grunted back. Translation: ‘Yes, I’m alive.’

  Ash rummaged in his brain for something to say but the only subject Luke could talk about was Clash of the Titans.

  ‘So, got past Level 70 yet?’ asked Ash.

  Luke flapped his hand, which probably meant ‘Oh yes, I’m way past Level 70 now.’ At the beginning, their mum had tried to bargain with Luke: she agreed to leave him alone until he reached Level 30 on Clash of the Titans, if he agreed to go back to school after that. But Level 30 had gone by a long time ago and Luke was sunk deeper than ever into Titan World.

  Standing there in the hallway with his brother, Ash couldn’t think of any other conversational topic, so Luke just said, ‘Hrhhh’ (‘See you later’) and sloped off to the bathroom.

  Ash watched his brother as he walked past. Luke had a computer tan – pale, spongy skin like uncooked pizza dough – because he never went outside in sunlight anymore. He didn’t eat healthy stuff, ranging across the five food groups. In fact, he ate only one food group: noodles. He’d fix himself humungous bowls of mi goreng noodles, four packets at a time.

  Ash noticed that Luke had left his bedroom door open. That room was incredibly festy and even from the hallway Ash copped a lungful of the disgusting air inside. Air so stale and re-breathed that it was thick, almost a solid. And there was the overpowering stink from the bowls Luke left lying around the room, bowls in which the leftover sauce from mi goreng had turned into a dried-out sticky goo, coated in dust and carpet fluff. Tasty.

  Ash swung into the lounge room, hoping there’d be some sign of his eldest brother. He was busting to tell someone about jamming with that Charlie guy and getting his hands on the Butterscotch Blonde Fender. His brother Ben was the one person who would understand how cool that was.

  Ben Corrigan sort of lived in the house and sort of didn’t. He went away a fair bit – for work, visiting mates or checking out places up the coast – and you could never predict when he might show up again.

  A foam mattress was propped against the wall in the lounge room. Ben slept there when he was home. Ash noticed the way the doona and pillows were stacked alongside the mattress – that was a sign Ben had not been around in the last twenty-four hours.

  Ben was twenty-one. He was a super-charming person who could make everyone in a room laugh and feel good. He was that kind of guy.

  Ben always used to be obsessed with playing guitar and at school he’d formed a band with some of his mates. When the band practised in the Corrigans’ garage, Ash used to sneak into the laundry to listen. If he sat on the sagging cane lid of the laundry basket he could hear the music through the thin wall between the laundry and the garage. He’d been ten or eleven then.

  Ben’s band was seriously good; it wasn’t just Ash who thought so. They were so good they even scored a couple of paid gigs before it all got messy and the band broke up.

  The house felt way more alive and buzzy when Ash’s eldest brother was in it. The two of them could talk music, have some laughs and help each other survive their loserish family. But tonight, no luck.

  Ash flicked on the light in the kitchen and saw the Post-it notes from his mum. She had given up cooking family dinners. Luke only vacuumed up noodles, Ben was unpredictable and Marion herself just picked at crackers and those tiny packets of sultanas.

  But she wanted Ash to eat properly and that’s where the Post-it notes came in. Before she’d gone to bed, his mum had stuck Post-its on the kitchen bench for him. ‘Ash – your dinner.’ There was an arrow pointing to a plate of salad and a bread roll, covered in cling wrap. Next to the plate was another Post-it that said: ‘Cooked chook in fridge.’

  Ash sat at the kitchen table to eat dinner and in the dead quiet of the house, he could hear his own chewing noises, loud and juicy. He thought about the black holes in the universe.

  He often pictured his family as a black hole: a dark, silent entity sucking matter and energy into its own nothingness. Or something like that; astronomy wasn’t his favourite subject. But he would never forget the science teacher talking about spaghettification. ‘Spaghettification’ is a proper scientific term. It’s the process that happens when an object falls into a black hole. The forces in the black hole split and stretch the object until it becomes a series of long strings of atoms, like the thinnest imaginable pasta. Sitting there in a dark, silent Corrigan house, Ash felt himself splitting apart into a pile of brittle dry spaghetti.

  He wolfed down the last bits of food and then hunkered down in his room to play guitar. That was one way to avoid being spaghettified.

  The guitar he’d been given for his eleventh birthday was a low-grade one, pretty battered now, but it did fine for mucking around by himself. There was no amplifier in the house to plug into anymore. Ben had sold his amp, along with his guitar, when he needed some cash a year ago.

  So Ash had rigged up a system where the guitar was plugged into an old CD player. The sound quality was crap – tinny and crackly – but good enough for noodling around. When he practised in his room, Ash always ran the sound through headphones so the noise of the guitar wouldn’t disturb anyone: not the neighbours, not Luke or their mum.

  That night, Ash found himself going over and over the blues riffs that Charlie guy had shown him. Those riffs felt good under his fingers.

  Chapter Three

  Erin Landers had absolutely normal ears. They were normal looking; she didn’t have pointy alien ears or bulbous drooping earlobes. And they worked perfectly well as ears – that is, at hearing. In fact, Erin had quite acute hearing. She could often detect a mobile phone ringing in someone’s bag when no one else could. Not that she would ever boast about this skill. It wasn’t a superhero-type amazing power or anything.

  The point is, Erin had no trouble with the hearing functions of human communication, but she wasn’t so good at the talking component. There was nothing wrong with her vocal hardware or her vocabulary. The problem was choosing what to say.

  Someone would ask something pretty straight forward, like, ‘Hi, Erin. How was your weekend?’ She would rehearse in her head a possible reply and then analyse it. What was her weekend truly like? She’d imagine herself describing the fantastic novel she finished reading on the weekend – but would that make her sound like a wanker? She’d mentally rehearse describing how she’d spent Saturday night lying on the couch in her pyjamas watching DVDs with her little sister – but that might make her sound like a loser. Then again, maybe this person didn’t really care how her weekend was and Erin didn’t want to be an annoying bore to anyone, especially a person who was polite enough to ask how her weekend was. Even if that person didn’t really care about the answer.

  So half the time, she’d barely manage an ‘Uh … umm …’ in reply. A lot of people at Mulvaney High thought Erin Landers was simply too difficult to converse with.

  Wandering down a corridor at school one Tuesday lunchtime, Erin was thinking about the ridiculous way she over-thought everything so much that she ended up grunting at people like a brain-damaged walrus.

  That mental image made her laugh. Then she had a sudden moment of panic: did she actually laugh out loud just then? Probably she only imagined that she’d laughed out loud. How crazy would that seem, walking down a corridor laughing to yourself? She’d look like that derro lady who smelled of stinky armpits and muttered to herself as she swayed near the bus stop, gripping a shopping trolley full of mysterious bulging plastic bags.

  Erin clocked the looks on the faces of the kids walking past. People were glancing at her oddly and she thought, Oh poo. She really had laughed out loud and the laughing-when-you’re-by-yourself thing makes anyone appear a bit crazy. To make it worse, she must have muttered to herself while she was imagining the shopping trolley lady and how sad her life must be.

  She noticed a group of Year 10 girls whispering to each
other. You didn’t have to possess supernatural hearing to work out what they were saying. ‘There’s Erin Landers talking to herself like a mental case.’

  Erin tipped her head forward and strode down the corridor as if she was in a major hurry to get somewhere. That’s when she almost collided with Charlie Novak.

  Charlie Novak had started at Mulvaney High the day before. Within hours of his arrival, everyone in Year 10 and a fair few other kids had declared the new guy to be an A-grade fruit loop, a tragic nutbar.

  Two seconds after Charlie Novak almost collided with Erin, he stopped, wheeled around and faced her.

  ‘Are you Erin Landers?’

  ‘Yes,’ responded Erin. (That was one question she could answer without having to think about it too much.)

  ‘I hear you’re a fantastic piano player,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Oh … uh …’ mumbled Erin, giving one of her usual razor-sharp replies.

  ‘Let’s not waste time with false modesty,’ he went on.

  People passing in the corridor were blatantly staring at Charlie. Erin could understand why. There was his odd bleached hair – like a crumbling carpet on his head – plus the hyperactive way he was flitting around, hands flying, raving at Erin. So it wasn’t surprising that people considered him a weirdo.

  Charlie didn’t seem to give a blue fart what anyone thought. Erin admired that: the not-caring-what-people-think thing. She wished she could be a bit more like that. But maybe without having to be quite as strange as Charlie Novak.

  ‘So, anyway, I’m putting a band together,’ Charlie raved on. ‘Blues music, plus some soul thrown in. Drawing inspiration from John Lee Hooker, Lead Belly, B.B. King, Charlie Musselwhite, Ray Charles, Etta James, Howlin’ Wolf, Stevie Ray Vaughan, Muddy Waters and all those guys – you know.’

  ‘Uh, sorry. I don’t really know them,’ muttered Erin.

  The musicians Charlie was yabbering about were dead guys or so old they were nearly dead. Kids at Mulvaney High weren’t into that kind of music. The cool music people only wanted to play their own versions of songs by the latest big-deal cool band. So Erin couldn’t imagine who Charlie Novak was going to find to play in his blues band.

  Erin drifted off in her own thoughts but Charlie Novak kept talking, prattling on about ‘the life-changing power of the blues’. Then he announced, ‘I’m looking for a keyboard player for the new band. You interested?’

  ‘Oh no, I don’t think you – I mean, I learn classical piano. I’m not –’ Erin began.

  ‘That’s no problem. If you can play, you can play anything.’

  Erin opened her mouth to explain the reasons she couldn’t play in Charlie’s band but she wasn’t sure how to say it without sounding mean or snobby. In the end, no words came out of her mouth at all.

  ‘Anyway, let’s talk,’ he said and took off round the corner like a miniature cyclone with feral bleached hair.

  That afternoon, Erin stayed late after school. Every Tuesday, she had a piano lesson then performed as the accompanist for one of the ensembles. She liked playing the piano; she was pretty good at it and people enjoy things they’re good at, don’t they? But if she was honest with herself, piano felt like a habit, something she kept doing because she didn’t know how to stop.

  It was five-thirty by the time she flopped against the school gate to wait. On Tuesdays she scored a lift from her mother on her way home from work. The car swung into the school driveway and Erin chucked her bag onto the back seat. Inside, she was hit by the strong plastic smell of her mother’s new car, then a second later she was hit by the usual barrage of questions.

  ‘Did you work on your Bach or your Chopin piece today?’ asked Mrs Landers.

  ‘Uh, Chopin mostly.’

  ‘Did your teacher say anything about the date for your Grade 8 exam?’

  Erin shook her head. Her mother was ridiculously excited about Grade 8 coming up. Both her parents loved to see Erin and her twelve-year-old sister, Phoebe, climbing up through the music grades.

  ‘Oh, and did you get back the mark for the maths test?’ asked Mrs Landers.

  ‘No. Not yet.’

  ‘What about the English assignment?’

  ‘I got twenty-three,’ Erin replied.

  ‘Out of what?’

  ‘Out of twenty-five.’

  ‘That sounds good.’

  ‘It’s fairly good, I guess.’

  ‘What were the marks like generally?’ queried her mother.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Erin’s mum and dad were only truly interested in activities that had grades attached to them, activities that could be measured. No one gave you a mark or a grade for your social life, so the Landers couldn’t see the point of Erin going to some party with her friends when she could stay home to study for an exam instead.

  As the car cruised towards their house, Erin imagined the speech she’d make to her parents. In her head, she wrote brilliant lines about how she wanted to make more of her own decisions and how she wanted to go out more. But there was never the right moment to say ‘Listen to me for a minute.’ So, as usual, they turned into the driveway at home without Erin saying anything and things just dribbled along the same way they always had.

  Now Erin had to decide about Charlie Novak’s offer to join his blues band. Her parents would probably hate the idea of her wasting precious time on something like that. If she said yes to Charlie, would she be doing it just to spite her parents? Maybe. Was she that childish? Apparently, she was. But was that such a terrible way to make a decision? Probably. Then again, if she said no to Charlie, would that be another example of letting her parents run her life? And would she be saying no because she was too scared to try something new that might turn out to be absolutely fantastic? But maybe she wouldn’t be able to play keyboards in a blues band without looking like a total idiot. Why should she assume she’d be any good at it anyway?

  She agonised over the decision all Tuesday night and most of Wednesday morning, torturing every brain cell until her head was thumping and her guts were tangled up tight. Sometimes it was hard work being Erin Landers.

  Wednesday lunchtime, Charlie Novak bailed her up in front of the lockers.

  ‘So, have you thought about joining the band? Are you in?’ he said.

  ‘Uh, look … yeah …’ mumbled Erin. The rest of that sentence was supposed to be: ‘I’ve thought about it and decided it’s a bad idea.’ But Erin’s tongue got stuck and Charlie thought she meant ‘Yeah, I’m in.’

  ‘Excellent. Saucy. I’ve consulted a number of people and they all agree that you are the perfect choice for this band,’ said Charlie, grinning.

  What? No. She had to make this small bleached bulldozer understand she couldn’t be in his blues band.

  ‘No, look … uh,’ stammered Erin, ‘you’ve got the wrong idea. I’m not – I mean –’

  ‘I know, I know. You don’t like to big-note yourself. And I respect that in a musician,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Hang on, I’m worried that you – oh – look –’

  ‘Yes. I know what you’re worried about.’ Charlie nodded emphatically.

  Thank God, thought Erin, he understands that I can’t join his band and realises it’s a bad idea.

  But he went on, ‘Please don’t worry your brilliant musical head about getting access to an electric keyboard. I’ve arranged to get you one on long-term loan from the music department. Took a bit of persuading, but Mrs Vallentine could see my compelling case. You need to practise on an electric keyboard.’

  Charlie had already told everyone she was in the band and he’d gone to heaps of trouble to arrange a keyboard for her. So now when she said no she’d feel horribly guilty; and guilt was another thing Erin could agonise about for considerable periods of time.

  ‘First rehearsal Friday afternoon,’ Charlie said, beaming. ‘Do you need to check your diary?’

  ‘No, no, I – umm –’ Erin began, planning to say ‘No, no, I can’t be in your band.�
��

  But Charlie thought she meant ‘No, no, I don’t need to check my diary.’ So he said, ‘Excellent. See you then.’

  Erin opened her mouth to protest but then Charlie spotted Mrs Vallentine, the head of the school’s music department, emerging from the staff room.

  ‘Mrs Vallentine!’ he called out. ‘Can I bother you for one more microscopically small favour?’

  Charlie chased after Mrs Vallentine, buzzing round the corner like a cartoon creature.

  So Erin never gave an actual answer but ended up in the band anyway. The guy was an unstoppable force. Maybe it was better to go along with Charlie Novak for now and worry about her parents later.

  Anyway, this band would most likely fall apart after a few weeks, the way bands always seemed to.

  Chapter Four

  ‘Ash!’ Charlie had barked on his first day at Mulvaney High. ‘You’ve got to come round to my house. There’s some music you need to hear. Drop round anytime.’

  Ash wasn’t too confident about turning up at the house of someone he’d only met a few days ago. But Charlie grabbed a felt pen and scrawled his address on Ash’s forearm. So on that first Wednesday, Ash rode his bike to Charlie’s; it was only two streets across from his own place. Swinging round the corner, he recognised the house.

  It had been a rental place for years and it always looked shabby, with crumbly concrete, faded paint and a spindly, weed-infested garden. Ash thought of it as a sad house, unloved and ashamed of itself, with people only camping in it temporarily.

  With the Novaks living there, it was a different place. Even from the street you could hear noise coming out of the open windows and doors. There were two different songs playing, plus girls giggling hysterically, a burst of bongo playing, the whirring of a food processor and a cheerful voice shouting to be heard over the top of it all.