by Davina Bell
‘The residents are in the rec room,’ Candy, the receptionist, tells me when she’s let me through the security door. (She has the most epic rose-gold glitter nail polish.)
‘Oh – am I interrupting Activity Hour?’ I ask as I sign a sheet on a clipboard to say who I am and what time I arrived.
Candy shakes her head. ‘Donna, the chair aerobics instructor, isn’t here yet. I’m not even sure if she’s coming today. So go right ahead.’
The rec room at the end of the hall looks out over the rose garden. The Goldies are all sitting on chairs in there, waiting. Except Nana Marjorie, who’s in her wheelchair. She’s the only one who can’t really walk. The rest of them have frames and sticks and things. I wonder if that’s why she’s always so snippy.
‘What’s that you’re wearing?’ Nana Marjorie sniffs before I’ve even said hello.
‘It’s a quilted kimono,’ I explain. ‘I sewed it myself. Without a pattern or anything.’ For some reason, she makes me feel like I have to prove myself and so I end up weirdly bragging about things and then hating myself afterwards. No wonder she prefers Tally.
‘That’s an unflattering garment,’ she tells me. ‘You look enormous. Almost as large as your sister.’
Oh, brother. Here we go. I take a deep breath and give her a dazzling smile. ‘Are you guys waiting for aerobics?’
‘We’re actually just waiting to die,’ says Joel, who’s this really funny old guy. He beams. ‘Hi there, young Lola. How’s art school?’
‘She’s not the one at art school,’ says Edna, who can be a little muddled. ‘She’s the one in the band.’
‘The one in the band is a punk,’ says Joyce. ‘This is the movie star.’
‘Oh, that’s right,’ says Flora. ‘I’ve seen you on YouTube.’
‘That’s my sister,’ I say politely, trying not to get the Sour Feeling. ‘What have you been doing today?’
‘Breakfast was terrible,’ says Nana Marjorie. ‘Did you bring me an almond croissant?’ Nana M is obsessed with almond croissants.
‘Ah, no,’ I say. ‘But I brought you magazines and a magnolia.’
‘Fouf,’ says Nana Marjorie. ‘Horrid things, magnolias. When I was a girl …’ Then she tells a story about frangipanis that goes on for a million years. I tune out, wondering if morning tea is anytime soon, and if I’ll be allowed one of those lemon biscuits that melt in your mouth.
‘… and that’s why you’ll never understand the first thing about true loneliness,’ she finishes.
‘It’s a little cold in Sunnystream for frangipanis,’ I say, tuning back in. ‘Guys, I don’t think Donna is coming. Maybe it’s time for morning tea.’
‘But we haven’t done any cardio,’ says Joel. ‘We need to earn those sweet treats. Perhaps you’d like to lead the aerobics?’
‘Can you hook your phone up to the speakers for the music?’ asks Flora, who is clearly a tech geek. ‘Donna’s musical tastes are a little outdated.’
I smile. This is what Maisie will be like when she’s older, I bet. ‘I’ve used all my phone data for the month, Flora, so I can’t stream anything,’ I tell her.
‘We’ve got a CD player,’ says Nana Marjorie. ‘Will that suffice?’
Sigh. I guess I’m doing this. I check what’s in the CD player. It’s the Beatles’ Red Album. That’s the one from when the Beatles were young and dorky and had bowl haircuts. I choose Dad’s favourite song, ‘I Want to Hold Your Hand’.
Then I stand there, wondering how you do aerobics in a chair. I wave my arms in the air, feeling stupid. Joel frowns. Nana Marjorie gives me a death stare, like I’m embarrassing her.
‘Hey!’ I say, stopping the song for a second. ‘Have you guys heard of Raptor?’
‘Of course,’ says Flora. ‘It’s the new Zumba.’ Why couldn’t Flora be my grandma?!
Turns out, you can do a lot of dinosaur-inspired dance cardio when you’re sitting down. I remember most of my dad’s explanations, and the Goldies pick the moves up pretty quickly.
‘T-rex! Brontosaurus jaw! Diplodocus neck!’
By the end, I’ve kind of cobbled together a routine and everyone’s really into it. I play the song one last time and everyone claps when we finish. Even Nana Marjorie isn’t glaring anymore. Her cheeks have a tiny flush of pink. Truly? It was fun. If my dad passes his exam, he should totally teach here. Maybe this could be a bonding thing for him and Nana.
‘Good job, everyone,’ I call as one of the carers, Regina, comes in with the tea trolley.
‘Thanks, Tally,’ says Edna.
‘That’s not Tally,’ says Nana Marjorie. ‘Tally has a much better sense of rhythm.’
‘I’m off,’ I tell her. ‘I’ll see you soon.’
‘If you call next year soon,’ sniffs Nana Marjorie. ‘Wheel me to those biscuits.’
I sigh and take the brake off her chair. ‘I’ll be back sometime this week. And remember, Tally’s in New York so she won’t be around.’
‘I know that,’ says Nana Marjorie as she wraps up three melting moments in a napkin. ‘Flora’s been showing us her Instagram. Take these for Gwynnie. And put that kimono in the first bin you see.’
‘You did what?’ Belle hisses. We’re sitting in Corner Park Clubhouse in the front row of some folding chairs that we pulled out from under the stage – well, all of us except Maisie, who’s at strength training. Belle has a clipboard on her lap and a dark expression on her face. Also, wild eyes. I kind of don’t blame her. If my father was my sworn enemy, I probably wouldn’t want my friend inviting him to audition for my musical either. Plus, she hasn’t had much sleep.
I squirm in my seat. I want to tell her about Mayor Magnus’s eyes – how sad they were. How shiny he looked when he sang. ‘Well, he’s not here,’ I say. ‘He probs won’t come. I just thought I should warn you.’
‘How DARE you,’ she begins. ‘You know I don’t want anything to do with that slimeball.’
‘People can change,’ I say. ‘I think he really has changed. And don’t you always say everyone deserves a second chance?’
‘Oh, come on, Lola. You and I know that that guy is not everyone. For a start –’
So you can imagine how relieved I am when Judy calls, ‘Places, please!’ from the stage, where a group of people are milling around.
‘We’ll talk about this later,’ Belle whisper-roars.
Soph, who’s next to me, shoots me an apologetic look. Matilda buries her head even deeper into the rule book.
Judy explains the audition process – one song, one dance and one poem each. Seeing everyone here, all hopeful and serious about the musical, I wonder if we really can pull this off. I thought doing this would bring us together, but we haven’t even been in one place since it started. So much for my great plan. Belle’s been watching online directing tutorials in every spare second, so I see her even less than before. Matilda told Soph, who told me, that she showed up at Judy’s house at 3am to discuss Catilda’s emotional journey. Mikie thought she was a robber and started to cry.
My tummy growls and I remember about the melting moment biscuits and pull them out of my backpack. I pass one to Soph and Matilda and save none for Gwynnie. Take that, Nana Marjorie!
As Belle leads the crowd in some warm-up tongue twisters (You know New York, you need New York, you know you need unique New York.) I chomp the last biscuit and gaze around the clubhouse. The polished wooden floor is still shining bright, and the black curtains we hung look very professional. It’s weird to think that last holidays the building was a total dump. Now it’s getting used, like, all the time – especially since the Shark Tank closed. They hold Dads-only hair-braiding workshops, and fermenting classes, and flower-arranging courses here ... I read about it in the Sunnystream Gazette. Thinking about how we saved this place makes me feel hopeful; like maybe I shouldn’t give up on the musical just yet.
Soph sees me looking around admiringly, and she smiles. ‘I still can’t believe that we saved it,’ she says. ‘It’s
like a good dream that I hope I never wake up from.’
We all love the clubhouse, but Sophia loves it most. Being here, it’s like Gracie feels closer. Like she’s watching from behind a doorway. Like she isn’t really gone at all.
‘What did you get up to today?’ I ask Sophia.
‘Today? Oh! Uh … Matilda and I went op-shopping. For the costumes,’ Soph says, blushing. ‘I hope you don’t mind? I thought you’d be busy with the sets.’
Now it’s my turn to blush – with guilt. I spent the afternoon making myself tiny cat earrings out of felt. And I do mind. Op-shopping with Soph is one of my fave things to do, because she’s charmingly terrible at it. (You know who’s the actual best at it? Tally Powell.) But I pretend I don’t care that they went without me. ‘Find anything good?’ I ask.
‘A whole lot of leopard print,’ says Matilda, looking up from her book. ‘Like, coats and headbands. We thought we’d just go maximum leopard. Does that sound OK?’
‘It sounds great,’ I tell her. ‘Has Belle worked out the money stuff?’
‘Yep,’ says Matilda. ‘The budget. The schedule. The sound system. She’s channelling her heartbreak into organisational tasks.’
We grin at each other. Of course she is.
‘Seriously, though,’ says Matilda, ‘even for Belle, she’s acting kind of –’
‘Matilda?’ Belle calls from the front. ‘I need you.’
As Matilda jumps up to join Belle and Judy, I get the Sour Feeling again. They’re school friends, I remind myself sternly, trying to be positive. You wouldn’t want Belle to be lonely at school, would you?
Truly I wouldn’t. Something niggles at my memory – something Nana Marjorie said today – but I can’t quite remember what it was. You know who feels lonely at school? Me. Everyone at Clives is so busy with their projects, their research, their art. Sure, there are people I sit with in every class – I’m not a total loner. My friend Sam, who’s into directing Claymation movies. Zadie, who does these incredible sculptures of giant seashells. Candor, who’s into performance art, which seems to mean filming herself riding unicycles over giant piles of rubbish. But I don’t have a bestie. Nobody who I could ask: Do you ever feel so much pressure to be good at this school that you just freeze up? Do you ever worry that you’re not actually talented at all? Could you help me think of ideas, because I have literally none? If I’d had someone like that, maybe I wouldn’t have –
‘What are you thinking about?’ Soph asks me quietly. ‘You look … worried. Or scared. Or something.’
Soph is so gentle and understanding and wise, it’s like she’s the love-child of Dumbledore and Miss Honey, the super-kind teacher in Matilda. She and Gracie were always this pair of smart, energetic, cheeky pixies, flitting round Sunnystream doing good deeds. You could trust Soph with anything: your dog, your secrets, your life.
So I lean in close, and I whisper, ‘I did something really bad. And I feel sick about it.’
Instead of just asking ‘What?! What did you do?’ straight away, like I would, she looks at me with her big brown eyes and says, ‘I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as you think.’
‘It was,’ I whisper back. ‘I –’
‘Quiet, please!’ calls Judy. ‘First up, we have … Steve Morrison.’
Mr Morrison is an old guy with a white beard who’s the town building inspector, so when he says he’s going to sing ‘Single Ladies’ by Beyoncé, everyone is shocked. But he’s good! His poem is also great – it’s called ‘The Highway Man’ and it’s very dramatic. The problem is that Mr Morrison is not a great dancer on account of his knee replacements, which are those fake knees old people get when their original ones are worn out. I bet he’s going to go on the ‘Maybe’ list.
Next up is Mrs Van Den Berg from the drycleaners, whose song goes for a really long time, and I keep wanting to check my phone, but every time I reach for it, Soph frowns and shakes her head a little. After that are some kids from Sunnystream Primary (no offence, but they’re terrible).
Then Pop and Dad bring in Pony Soprano to do his tap-dancing routine. He kills it, of course. And Pop does really well in her audition! I film it for Tally and send it to her with the caption WATCH OUT! A STAR IS BORN!
Soph’s mum is actually excellent and you can tell she’s practised super hard. She’ll get a part for sure. I clap her so hard that my hands hurt, and Sophia looks super relieved. By this stage, I’m really hungry again and zone out until the last audition: Mikie.
Mikie is Judy’s boyfriend. Most of the time. Unless they’ve broken up. It’s Sunnystream’s greatest love story. At the moment, they’re engaged to be married, but Judy’s already threatened to throw the ring into Merry Creek because Mikie spilled a cappuccino over her laptop. He’s a clumsy guy. If the wedding actually happens, Judy wants Pony Soprano to carry the rings down the aisle in a little bag in his mouth while wearing a flower crown. CUTE.
‘I’d like to excuse myself from the judging process,’ says Judy when Mikie comes onstage. ‘For obvious reasons. Belle, this one’s yours to call.’
Belle’s face lights up – she’s glowing with the responsibility, and probably also a little with the power. ‘Accepted,’ she says dramatically. ‘You may begin.’
Soph and I grin at each other.
Mikie closes his eyes and sings a song called ‘Hallelujah’, which I know from a movie called Shrek. He’s a little off-key, but I can tell nobody minds because he’s trying so hard. For his dance routine, he synchs his phone up to the speakers and does breakdancing, which is basically spinning around on the floor. At the end, he does a headstand. There’s loud applause from the doorway at the back of the clubhouse. Everyone turns to look and …
It’s Mayor Magnus. GULP.
‘Gee, you nailed that, son!’ he says. ‘Give him the part, girly!’
Belle and Judy glare at him so intensely that I think I’m going to burst trying not to laugh. I look across at the others, and I can tell Matilda feels the same as me.
‘Aren’t you, like, banned from Sunnystream?’ Mikie asks curiously as he stands up.
‘Nah. Only from being the mayor,’ says Mayor Magnus, walking towards the stage. ‘So I thought I’d try out for the show. Am I too late?’
Judy looks at Belle. Actually, we all look at Belle. If there were a ticking clock on the wall, you’d be able to hear it really well right now. Things are tense.
‘Fine,’ says Belle. ‘I believe in equal opportunities for everyone. Go ahead.’
From the second Mayor Magnus opens his mouth, everybody is hypnotised – and not in a cheesy, shopping-centre-show kind of way. In a can’t-look-anywhere-else kind of way. His voice rings out through the clubhouse, rich and full. He’s singing a song called ‘Just a Little Bit of Your Heart’, and when it gets to the key change, we all burst into applause. When he dances, he can do these impossibly high kicks, like a French can-can dancer. He recites ‘In Flanders Field’ for the poetry part, which is a really beautiful poem about war. By the end, Soph is wiping tears from her eyes. Then her phone dings and Belle glares.
Judy clears her throat as everyone holds their breath, wondering what’s going to happen. Surely they have to say yes? ‘I’d like to take five to talk to Isobelle outside,’ she says.
‘I don’t need five,’ says Belle, standing up and looking straight at Mayor Magnus – right into his eyes. ‘If you promise to turn up to every rehearsal, every choreography session – and I mean every. SINGLE. ONE – and if you’re willing to take our directions, and be a team player, and learn the lines, and –’
Belle goes on about demonstrating commitment and partaking in a shared vision. To get what an enormous deal it is that she’s even talking to him right now, you have to understand that Belle’s dad left her mum when she was three. She was so ashamed that he was her father, she didn’t even tell us who he was. We only found out last holidays at the clubhouse rally.
But now his head is bobbing up and down earnestly, and at the end of
her speech he says, ‘You bet.’ He seems serious, and maybe … imagine … what if …?
‘Do you think they’ll end up, like, loving each other?’ I whisper to Soph. ‘Like a real family, I mean?’
‘If they do,’ she whispers back, ‘it’s because you brought them together. This was a really good plan, by the way – the musical, I mean. It’s going to be epic.’
I grab her hand and squeeze it quickly, feeling my worries melting away a little. Maybe even a lot. Duh – it’s going to be fine! Better than fine. Usually when you have a Big Idea, you’re lucky if it turns out half as well as you imagined. But when I’m with these guys, in this place, life truly feels magical.
And as Belle calls, ‘That’s it. The cast list will be posted on the clubhouse door tomorrow at nine,’ I jump to my feet and run past the neatly set-up chairs. I yell, ‘BYE!’ as I keep running out that sweet blue clubhouse door and all the way back home, where my paints have been waiting for exactly this feeling to arrive.
Before any great artist creates anything, they need nachos. So I’m in the kitchen grating cheese when Pop comes hurtling in and throws herself against my leg. I bend down and give her the squeeziest hug imaginable. Her hair smells like apricot baby shampoo. She also smells a little like farts. ‘You did great today at the audition. But don’t you ever get any bigger, you hear me?’ I tell her. ‘Don’t you ever get older than four.’