by Davina Bell
It reminds me of the summer Belle and I went to surf camp, and she thought she could master surfing by doing mathematical equations about each wave and using the answers to tweak her technique. But you don’t have time for maths when you’re surfing – the waves just come at you, fast and strong. All you can do is hope that the things you’ve learned stay in your brain as you’re facing them. Maybe growing up is a bit like that.
When I open my eyes again, I see Matilda and Belle jogging around the other side of Handkerchief Place. Matilda is going slowly so that Belle can keep up. Their steps match perfectly. And I can hear Belle chanting something to the rhythm of their strides. ‘Three. Point. One. Four. One. Five …’
Oh, gosh. She’s reciting the numbers of pi! My heart aches for that goon, and I wish she were sitting here, beside me, swinging her legs off the side of the gazebo as she listened to all my problems. She’d know what to do. Belle always does.
But she hasn’t even noticed I’m over here. As she and Matilda turn the corner and jog out of sight, I get a torn-apart feeling in my chest. It’s like I’m watching Belle on an iceberg, floating further and further away from me. Like the more I reach towards her, the bigger the gap will get, until I’m leaning out over the edge of a big, cold sea and she’s just a fading speck of darkness against a huge, white sky.
‘Are you ever worried you’re going to run out of ideas for songs?’ I ask Rishi as I hand him the peanut butter. ‘I feel like I’ve got zero for the sets. Do you ever think that maybe you’ll never make anything good again?’
‘No,’ he replies. ‘Because I’ll never run out of feelings.’
I roll my eyes. ‘Don’t you ever get tired of being the emotional one in the family?’ I ask him.
‘What do you mean?’ he asks defensively. ‘I’m not emotional. I’m sensitive.’ He’s been especially sensitive lately and Mum thinks it’s because he has Girl Problems, but we’re not allowed to ask.
I raise my eyebrow at him. ‘Fine. You’re the sensitive one. Tally’s the famous one. And the responsible one. And Gwynnie’s the bossy one and the loud one. Pop’s the cute one. And I’m …’
‘The happy one?’ he asks. ‘The arty one? Hey – we really do all have “ones”! How did that happen?’
I shrug. ‘Big family, I guess. I’m kind of over it. Maybe I just thought I was creative because everyone was always, like, Lola’s the arty one.’
‘But are you still the happy one?’ he asks gently. ‘You haven’t seemed that happy since you’ve been home.’
I think about Clives, and the musical, and Belle and Matilda. I think about Tally Powell, YouTube star. I sigh. ‘I don’t know which “one” I am anymore. It feels like things have changed while I’ve been gone.’
‘Speaking of … uhhh, I need to talk to you about something.’ He looks squirmy. He’s got the same expression he had the night he had to tell me that he’d killed my axolotl. ‘So … there’s this song on my new album called “Red-headed –”’
‘Hey – I meant to ask you about that! Why haven’t you given me your album? And don’t say it’s not ready yet, because Soph already told me she’s living for it. Even Belle’s into it. You could have sent it to me at Aunty Claire’s, Rishi.’
‘Soph likes it?’ he asks.
‘Yeah, and Belle likes the bit with the Edgar Allan Poe poems.’
He looks pretty pleased with that, and five minutes later he comes and finds me in the basement, where I’m frowning at my blank sketchbook. He holds the USB of songs out to me, but as I reach to take it, he snatches it away.
‘A piece of advice from your big bro.’
I roll my eyes, but secretly I love that he’s the kind of brother who gives advice. In case you hadn’t picked up on it, Rishi Powell is actually a pretty sweet guy.
‘With your art? You’ve just got to stop overthinking it. Go back to what makes your heart sing.’
So I lie on the couch and stare up at the ceiling. Nothing. Except some thoughts about pie. Turns out, looking into your own heart isn’t easy. To be honest, I give up pretty soon after I start and head to my room to listen to RexRoy’s album. Holy moly, it’s amazing. You were right about the RR album … so good, I message the girls. PS I miss you guys.
Maisie sends through a video of her landing her beam dismount, and a photo of Coach Sanders in hospital, giving a thumbs-up. Belle sends a selfie of her and Matilda dressed head-to-toe in leopard print, which probably means they’ve been working on the costumes today. So I guess I’m not involved in that, even though fashion is one of my favourite things. I tell myself that I don’t care. Nothing from Soph.
It’s almost sunset, so I look out the window, and there she is, sitting up in the tree house in her backyard, like she often is at this time of day.
I wonder if she wants to be alone, or if I should go and see her. Then I get sick of wondering, so I decide to take action.
When we were eight, Soph’s dad hooked up a flying fox between her tree house and the tiny balcony outside my window. We’ve been riding it back and forth ever since. I do a long, low whistle to warn her I’m coming, and then I swing through the sky on the wire. When I land, I can see that she’s been crying. I sit next to her and put my arm around her shoulders.
‘Hey, stranger,’ I say.
‘Hey,’ she whispers.
Then there’s silence again.
‘Are you thinking Gracie thoughts?’ I ask, trying to be brave because, as my mum would say, sometimes it’s hard to ask hard questions.
‘Yeah,’ she squeaks, sniffing.
‘Any particular ones or just general?’
Soph doesn’t speak for ages, and we just sit there. From up here, the spikes of the town are silhouetted against the purpling sky. Already the full moon is giant and the first stars are out. The stars come early in winter.
‘It’s my birthday on Wednesday,’ she says eventually.
‘I know,’ I say. ‘You won’t shut up about it.’
Soph smiles, because she’s the exact opposite of the kind of person who’d tell you it’s their birthday. ‘I’ll be thirteen,’ she continues. ‘And Gracie … She’ll never be thirteen. She’ll always be twelve.’
‘True,’ I say.
‘She’ll be twelve her whole life. It’s like … Like she’s trapped. Forever,’ she says. ‘And I can’t set her free.’
The wind is icy. I lay my head on Soph’s shoulder and snuggle into her for warmth. ‘You know who else will never grow up?’ I say. ‘Peter Pan. And everyone loves that guy. But that probably doesn’t make it any easier, huh?’
As Soph shakes her head, one of her tears plops onto my forehead, and I wish so desperately that she didn’t have to feel this way. But if I could take the sadness out of her heart, I’d also be taking away the memories, and then there would be nothing.
Soph is very still, looking up at the sky. The stars seem extra-crisp, like Christmas tree lights. It’s as if she’s searching for something among them. I imagine I’m seeing through her eyes as I try to figure out what that might be. In her pocket, Soph’s phone dings (the boy!!) and it’s like it pings the answer into my brain.
‘Gracie would want you to be happy,’ I tell her. ‘She’d want you to do all the things that she never got to do.’
Soph keeps staring up at the sky. Eventually she whispers, ‘She always wanted to make a snow angel. You know, when you lie on the ground in the snow and make an angel shape?’
I smile. ‘Sure.’ That doesn’t surprise me one bit. Gracie wasn’t the kind of kid who’d mind lying on the ground getting slushy.
‘And before she … before she died, she wanted to make me a flower crown. Like the one on the cover of Anne of Green Gables. Anne has red hair too, you know? But Gracie … by then her hands weren’t strong enough to bend the wire.’
‘I love Anne,’ I tell her. ‘And Soph … Gracie wouldn’t want your life to stand still just coz she’s gone. She’d want you to know what it really feels like to be thirt
een.’
‘Thirteen!’ says Soph. ‘It sounds so old. I remember when we were seven and we did that Dancing Through the Tulips class and you tied me up with a scarf.’
Oh gosh. It’s possible I’ve been naughty my entire life. Poor Mum. ‘I remember when we were six and you pretended you couldn’t see properly so you could get glasses like Gracie’s, but you were a terrible liar. Still are, actually. BTW, are you going to tell me who’s messaging you all day, every day?’
‘Your mum?’ Soph says cheekily, and I pretend-pummel her stomach.
‘Hey, want to come to the Powell Friday Night Movie?’ I ask. ‘It starts in an hour. But I’m just warning you, it’s Gwynnie’s choice. So that means –’
‘The Sound of Music,’ Soph finishes, laughing. ‘And cheddar popcorn.’
Gwynnie has literally never chosen anything else, and she is definitely not open to suggestions. If you think Tally and I are stubborn, you should meet Gwyneth Yvette Powell.
‘Sure,’ Soph says. ‘But do you mind if I go to the clubhouse first?’
‘Course not,’ I say. ‘Are you taking something over for Belle? I thought she didn’t want anyone at the rehearsal.’ Belle texted earlier to tell us she needs time alone with the cast to build an atmosphere of trust. I checked her schedule online and there’s going to be a rehearsal every night – all weekend, too. I hope she doesn’t wear everyone out.
Soph shakes her head. ‘No. I just … I want to be close to Gracie.’
Of course! Duh. Soph’s going to look at the mural I painted on the side of the clubhouse next to the eucalyptus trees. It’s Gracie’s face, close up, wearing her glasses. I did it last holidays and Soph seemed to really like it.
‘Do you mind if I come with you?’ I ask, because it breaks my heart to think of her sitting there by herself. ‘Or would you prefer to be alone?’
‘You can come,’ Soph says quietly.
It’s only a short walk. The lights at the park are on, and the oval in front of the clubhouse is a field of gold as the Streamers run around doing their training. The clubhouse lights are on, too. As we approach, we can hear someone singing, loud and high and clear. It’s the song Catilda sings about how noisy her brain gets, on account of how smart she is. The door is shut, but we climb the steps and sit at the top so we can listen.
‘Who is that?’ Soph whispers.
‘The person who’s playing Catilda, I guess.’
I have a hunch, but surely, it can’t be … can it?
The singing stops.
‘Great work, Mark,’ Judy says as people clap.
MARK! I was right!
‘But the chorus needs a bit more breathing space,’ Judy adds. ‘Can we take it from the second verse?’
‘And I didn’t hear the “d” sound on sailed,’ Belle says.
‘Gee, sorry,’ says Mayor Magnus. ‘I’ll keep that in mind on the next round.’ He sounds so earnest, like he really wants to please them. This is unbelievable!
‘We shouldn’t interrupt, should we. But can we look through the windows?’ Soph asks.
We race down the steps and around the side of the clubhouse, where there are some trees we can climb. But somebody has beaten us to it. Three pairs of feet are dangling down.
And one is wearing green leather high-top sneakers.
‘You’re sure?’ Belle says, going over it for the hundredth time when we meet for emergency Saturday-morning pancakes at our favourite diner, Sookie La La (everyone except Maisie, who’s at Chinese school). ‘Couldn’t someone else have those shoes? Someone else in Sunnystream?’ Belle suggests.
‘Are you out of your mind?’ I ask with my mouth full of blueberry pancakes. ‘Do you know how much those shoes are worth? Even Tally can’t afford those shoes,’ I say, and swallow. ‘Your dad would have to be an online poker millionaire to be able to buy them. They belonged to Pepper Peters. I should have stayed to make sure, but I had to get home for movie night.’
‘But why would she be spying on us?’ says Matilda, cutting her pancakes and bacon into neat slices.
‘She’s from the Cloud Town Cougars,’ Soph explains. ‘They’re, like, the meanest, most competitive girls you can imagine.’
‘The kind that all look the same,’ I add with disgust.
‘I bet they’re trying to find out stuff that would help them beat us,’ says Belle, bristling with anger. ‘This isn’t just an inter-suburban musical contest.’ (Isn’t it?) ‘It’s a war.’
‘Like what kind of stuff?’ asks Matilda.
‘How organised are we? What’s our system? What’s our process? How professional is our set-up? Are we a threat or just a bunch of goons?’ Belle is on a real rave now, and her eyes are popping out of her head, and she’s talking really quickly. She’s usually already thought of every possible problem and put a system in place, but I guess it’s hard to have a system to fight spies who have green leather high-top sneakers.
Matilda puts down her knife and fork, takes hold of Belle’s hands and pushes her face into Belle’s. ‘Hey!’ she says sharply, but not in a mean way. ‘Quit the dramatics. You’re fine. I was at that rehearsal, and all they would have seen was that you’re incredibly professional, and that your lead actor has the voice of an angel. So just keep going. As you were.’
‘As we were,’ Belle says, more calmly now.
This is a real insight into what their school life must be like. ‘Or … you could go and spy on them,’ I suggest. ‘Just to even things up.’
‘Never!’ Belle cries. ‘They go low, we go high. That’s a quote from Michelle Obama,’ she adds. ‘It means we won’t stoop to their level. But now we know they’ve infiltrated, we’ll keep our ears to the ground.’
‘And our eyes on their Snapchat accounts,’ I add. I clear my throat. ‘Guys? Sorry I bailed on rehearsal the other day after the whole sets thing. I guess I was bummed because I was trying something new and, like, original, and it didn’t work out. But I’ve started again and they’re, err, they’re going really well now.’ Liar!
‘Do you want me to come over and offer constructive feedback?’ Belle asks, stifling a yawn.
‘No!’ I say quickly. Maybe too quickly. ‘My, um, my dad’s really stressed about his Raptor exam. It’s not a good time for visitors. How’s your dad?’ I ask her in a swift topic change.
‘He hasn’t missed a rehearsal yet,’ says Belle approvingly. ‘He shows up early and helps pack away at the end.’ (These are the exact kinds of things that would impress Belle.) ‘He’s already word-perfect. And you know what? Last night, after rehearsals, he bought Judy’s ice-cream for the whole cast. Judy said that if we win the golden hat-trick, she’s going to make a special ice-cream in our honour.’
The others start naming the triumphant special (Choc-Chip-Chip-Hooray, Number One-derful), but the golden hat-trick relies on having kick-ass sets, and that reminds me that at the moment we have no sets, not even lame ones.
‘I don’t know what the standard is usually, but I think Sunnystream has a great chance,’ says Matilda. ‘The script’s great – funny, sad, sweet. The trifecta.’
‘And Judy’s an amazing director,’ says Belle. ‘She’s now top of my list of Living Inspirational Women. And she’s letting me do some actual directing! I hope I’m performing well enough, given my personal circumstances.’
‘How are you feeling?’ I ask, reaching for the maple syrup.
‘I did an online quiz about coping with lost love. The results suggested that I was losing my mind.’
‘You haven’t lost your mind,’ I tell her. ‘You’re just going through something emotional.’
‘I’ve barely slept in weeks. I’ve memorised pi to eight hundred and thirteen places,’ she says unhappily. ‘I’ve joined an online support club for people who are addicted to the Huckle Roses. I’ve taken up jogging. And yesterday, I left the folder of scripts on the top of Punk Sherman’s car, and they flew off on the highway, which is … littering.’ She shudders. ‘I’m definitely lo
sing my mind.’
This might not sound like a big deal, but Belle never forgets anything. ‘Want to talk about it?’ I ask. ‘The break-up, I mean?’ When I was in primary school, I always imagined that this is what high school would be like: sitting round, talking about who you liked and drinking coffee. ‘It might make you feel better.’
‘I’d rather channel my woe and discomfort into action,’ Belle says briskly.
Matilda starts to laugh but she’s sipping her coffee and some of it comes out her nose.
Belle glares at her. ‘How’s it going with Pony Soprano’s big dance number?’ she asks Sophia.
‘Good!’ she says. ‘He’s a natural. Obviously.’
‘I just … I just still don’t get how a horse can dance,’ says Matilda. ‘I’m sorry.’
We all look at her blankly.
‘He dances how anyone else dances,’ says Belle. ‘With his soul.’
‘And the rest of the choreography?’ I ask Sophia, trying to figure out if she’s been procrastinating, or if it’s just me.
‘Almost done. I just need to finish it off this afternoon. I’d love to show you guys tomorrow before I teach it to everyone. And I need to pick the song – you know, the one that isn’t from either musical.’
OK, it’s just me who’s been putting off their responsibilities. Eek. ‘I could come to the clubhouse in the morning – before the rehearsal?’ I say. ‘Are we allowed to watch yet?’
‘Yes,’ says Belle. ‘We’re moving on to a new phase in our creative journey.’
I wait for Belle to ask about the sets, but it’s like she’s completely forgotten. Which is good, I guess. Just … out of character.
‘Sorry to cut this short,’ she says, ‘but Matilda and I need to do an hour of power on the lighting cues.’
Matilda raises one eyebrow.
‘I mean, would you mind please casting your eye over these with me, Matilda?’ Belle says sweetly.
I guess you’d call that progress. ‘Can we help?’ I ask.
Belle shakes her head. ‘It won’t make sense because you haven’t been to any rehearsals.’