by Davina Bell
Soph takes the flower crown from me. Do you know how hard it is to make a flower crown from actual flowers?! But #ipersisted, and I’m pretty happy with how it looks – like part of a costume from a Shakespeare play we saw last term called A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
She looks up at me, and her eyes fill with tears. Actually, people get teary a lot at this party, like when Judy shows up with the ice-cream that I got her to make specially, called Snow Angel (coconut with those little silver-covered sugar balls). And when I give Soph the Anne of Green Gables book with Anne wearing a flower crown on the cover, and when Patrick shows up with Pony Soprano wearing the tuxedo I sewed for him from op-shop offcuts. And when we finally walk into the clubhouse and Soph sees the long table that I set up, decorated with the giant tablecloth I sewed myself. RexRoy are standing on the stage – and Maisie’s sitting at the drums in her flower crown because Rishi is playing electric banjo while Jules is at the snow, and Maisie is the only other drummer I know.
They play a song I’ve never heard called ‘We’re All Howling at the Same Moon’. I wish I could press rewind and listen again immediately, it’s that beautiful. The end of their performance is the only slight hiccup of the whole night. Soph jumps up onstage and goes to give Rishi a giant hug – I guess to say thank you – but they do it totally awkwardly and end up clashing noses. Rishi leaves with Belle’s self-freezing ice pack strapped to his face, and then it’s finally just us.
As we eat pizza, sitting at the table in our flower crowns, we fill Matilda in on some of the things we’ve got up to as a group over the years. We tell her about the schemes Belle has come up with, and the good things she’s done in her own bossy way – incredible things, actually. In return, Matilda tells us funny stories from Hollyoakes and how Belle has a campaign to fight their anti-homework policy. We deliberately don’t talk about Gracie, but I imagine she’s here – listening in from the kitchenette, or behind one of the stage curtains, enjoying everything. When I bring out the cake decorated like a baseball – Gracie’s favourite sport – well, there are tears then, too.
‘Hey – Soph!’ I say as I cut a second piece. ‘You’re a teenager! What does it feel like?’
‘Random,’ she says. ‘But the weird thing is, I don’t really feel that different.’
‘I guess I don’t either,’ says Maisie, who turned thirteen a few months ago. ‘Maybe nobody ever really changes. Maybe we just stay exactly the same but everything around us changes.’
She’s got that right. Your friends find other friends. You think you’re one person, then you act like another. But I try to squish all those thoughts down. Tonight’s not about me.
‘Maybe we spend our whole lives trying to be people we’re not,’ I say as I look up at the stage – at the word kintsugi, which I painted there last holidays. It’s Japanese and means ‘the broken bit is beautiful’. I’m surprised by how good it is – like I’m looking at someone else’s work. It feels big and loose and free.
‘Sorry to break this up when it’s getting deep,’ says Maisie, ‘but guys?’
‘You’ve got to go,’ we all say together.
‘Killer?’ I say, sweeping her up in a huge hug and spinning her around. ‘You’re a champion, however the comp goes.’ I put her down and pull something out of my pocket. ‘Here’s an un-birthday present for you.’ It’s a pair of tiny earrings that I’ve made her out of felt. They’re very small Pony Sopranos, and he’s wearing a cat hat. ‘I know you’re not allowed to wear jewellery when you’re competing, but put these on for the next few days. So you feel like we’re with you.’
‘And I knitted you these,’ says Belle, pulling a pair of purple legwarmers out of her bag. ‘To wear between apparatuses.’
Soph has baked her caramel brownies and Matilda has recorded a phone message from her famous mum, saying good luck, which she’s a little embarrassed about. ‘It was her idea,’ says Matilda. ‘My mums know pretty much everything about you all.’
‘You guys,’ Maisie says, looking really pleased and a little embarrassed at the fuss.
‘And if you feel scared up on the beam, think about this,’ I say, quickly pulling off my flower crown. My fringe springs up straight away.
‘Did you stick your fingers in an electric socket?’ Maisie asks.
Soph’s hand flies to her mouth. ‘Oh, gosh,’ she says. And then she starts to laugh. ‘Sorry!’ she gasps. ‘Sorry! It’s just …’
Belle can’t even get the words out. She is literally crying. When we’re finished laughing, I remember that there’s one last treat.
I grab Soph’s hand and lead her out of the clubhouse. Mikie is at the bottom of the steps with his coffee cart, waiting patiently, ready to make hot chocolates for us all. He has a giant jar of pink marshmallows. Gracie’s favourite. Sophia’s too.
‘Oh, Lola,’ says Sophia as she puts two into her drink. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘It wasn’t for you,’ I say, winking, ‘so you don’t have to say anything at all.’
On Thursday, I wake up with true panic in my heart. It’s the same panic I felt at Clives on the morning that my big project was due. The same sick feeling that I’ve wasted all this time and done nothing. I bolt out of bed and run down the stairs two at a time. Oh. It’s already past midday. Whoops.
But as soon as I get to the kitchen, I know something else is wrong. It’s dead quiet. I can smell rougaille simmering. Everyone’s sitting around the table, not talking. Not even Gwynnie. Their faces are sad and quiet. It reminds me of the day that Gracie passed away.
‘What happened?’ I ask. A terrible thought pops into my mind. ‘Nana Marjorie didn’t die, did she?’
‘No, honey,’ says Mum.
‘Pony Soprano? TALLY?’ My voice is starting to go all hysterical.
‘Everybody’s alive,’ says Dad.
Oh. Hang on. Has Clives called?
Oh no.
Oh, brother.
‘I failed my Raptor exam,’ he adds sadly.
‘Oh, Dad!’ I say, running over to throw my arms round his neck. ‘I’m sorry. What happened? You practised so hard. I thought you were really good!’
‘I got stage fright, I guess. Mixed up my diplodocus and my brontosaurus. And then …’ His voice cracks. ‘I stuffed up the pterodactyl.’ He starts to sob.
We all nod and make sympathetic noises as he wipes his eyes.
‘Anyway,’ he concludes eventually. ‘I feel as if I’ve let you all down. And Jean-Pierre too,’ he adds.
‘I think you’re teaching us all a valuable lesson about the necessity of failure and the importance of resilience,’ I tell him, channelling my inner Belle, which reminds me of the whole necklace situation. Yick.
‘I am?’ asks Dad.
‘You totally are,’ says Rishi, standing up. ‘I’m off to fail again at the drums.’
‘And we’re going to fail at cleaning up after ourselves in the play room,’ says Gwynnie, and she and Pop slither down from their chairs.
‘And if you want to go cheer-up surfing, I can look after the littlies,’ I say.
‘Thanks, Lollyshop,’ he says, and goes to find his wetsuit.
Mum smiles at me, then checks her watch. ‘I’ve got Pepper Peters coming over for a singing lesson soon.’
Ugh. No, thank you. ‘How about I take Gwynnie and Pop to feed Pony Soprano,’ I suggest, ‘and then take some rougaille to Nana Marjorie?’
‘Good thinking, honey,’ Mum says. ‘Just don’t let Gwynnie spend too long near the stable – maybe take Pony Soprano out for a stroll. You know how she gets sneezy with the hay.’
‘Sure,’ I say.
But by the time I’ve gone through the hand-washing basket to find my peach jumper with WHO CARES? YOU CARE stitched on the front in silver, and waited for the coast to be clear so I could sneak Tally’s Styx L. Queen jeans from her wardrobe, I realise I really don’t have time to exercise Pony Soprano, visit Nana Marjorie AND do those sets. So I decide to multitask.
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nbsp; Gwynnie and Pop and I go and fetch Pony Soprano at the stables and walk him all the way to Sunny Heights. People in cars honk and wave at him as we pass, and slow down to let us cross the road in front of them. Moose comes out from behind the counter at the deli to throw me an apple for his morning tea. Little kids clap their hands, and he blows air out his nostrils to say hello. In the cold winter air, it comes out in a white puff, like he’s a baby dragon, and they squeal with happiness. It must be nice to be Pony Soprano, spreading joy wherever you go. We drop him in the conservatory, where Flora’s got the screen hooked up to her phone and they’re all playing Words with Friends. I bet he’ll be good at that.
‘Back so soon?’ Nana M says when we find her by the window reading a magazine.
‘Nana Marjorie,’ I say, ‘I brought you rougaille. And did you hear about the musical? You can come! There’s going to be a ramp and everything.’
‘Of course I can come,’ sniffs Nana Marjorie. ‘But do I want to? Not much point without Tally in the show, is there?’
UMMM. WHAT?!
‘I’m in the show!’ Pop says. ‘Come and see me!’
‘You have one line,’ says Gwynnie. ‘It’s not a big deal.’
‘I don’t think it’s healthy for a child so young to be on the stage,’ says Nana Marjorie. ‘It will give her a giant head.’ Then she looks at me pointedly – or at my head, to be precise. I’m wearing Tally’s sparkly silver head scarf to cover my fringe.
‘Are you coming on Saturday or not?’ I say. ‘Because we’ve got handsome rock stars to help escort you if you’re interested.’
Nana Marjorie drops her eyes to her lap. Then she whispers something so softly that I can’t hear what she’s saying.
‘What was that?’ I ask, bending closer.
‘I said, I don’t have anything to wear,’ she whispers. ‘I haven’t been clothes shopping for years. Nothing here except trackpants and windcheaters.’ She sniffs. ‘Hideous.’
‘What about that skirt you wore at Easter?’ asks Gwynnie, who has a freakishly good memory. ‘That was nice.’
‘If you were attending a nun’s hundredth birthday,’ says Nana Marjorie.
‘You know a nun?’ asks Pop, impressed.
‘Nana, I’ve got three words for you,’ I tell her.
‘Harden up, princess?’ she asks, and I grin. Tally’s right – she is quite funny.
‘No,’ I tell her. ‘Tally. Is. Away.’
By the end of the afternoon, the Goldies are obsessed with Pony Soprano. They think I’ve brought him along as a therapy pet, and Candy, the receptionist, says she’ll look into whether he can do regular visits. Flora’s found his Instagram account and Pony Soprano is watching on approvingly as they scroll through it on the big screen. And Gwynnie and Pop and I have rolled a giant suitcase of Tally’s stuff to Sunny Heights for Nana Marjorie to try on. We’ve finally decided on an outfit with the help of Regina, who dresses the Goldies in the mornings. Trying out all the different combos was super fun. Nana Marjorie got into it in a big way.
‘It’s not too much?’ Nana M asks as she admires herself in front of the mirror in her little sunny bedroom, looking very pleased.
I lean over the back of her wheelchair and put my arms around her neck. In the mirror, it’s easy to see that we have the same eyes, brown and sort of mischievous, and the same teeth, big and white, and maybe even the same mouth. A large one.
I can’t remember the last time I hugged Nana Marjorie. She doesn’t like it when people fuss over her, and she shoos Pop away when she tries to climb into her lap. But now, with her smart outfit on, she doesn’t shrug me off. She reaches up and pats my arm.
‘Nana,’ I say. ‘It is everything. Except …’
I reach up and take off Tally’s silver sequin head wrap. Then I fasten it around her thick, white hair. With the rest of the things we’ve chosen, it looks incredible. Like one of those older ladies who have their own Granny-glam Insta accounts.
‘There,’ I say. ‘You couldn’t wear that to a nun’s hundredth birthday.’
‘Most certainly not,’ says Nana Marjorie. And she actually smiles. At me.
As I arrive at the clubhouse for Friday’s final dress rehearsal, with Gwynnie and Pop and Pony Soprano in tow, the new concrete ramp is in place. Wow!
‘It’s still wet,’ calls Belle to everyone as they arrive. ‘Take the stairs, people.’
Soph and I clear the backstage area of some random bits and pieces, and then our duties are over. We can sit and watch and take pics to show Maisie, who’s resting up because tomorrow is the State Champs. EEEK! I wish I could tell you that the dress rehearsal is a repeat of Wednesday: word-perfect and a total triumph.
But … it’s not.
To start with, Mayor Magnus is really late and Belle freaks out that he’s not coming. He turns up with a box of cupcakes with her face painted onto the icing, which come from this really expensive shop over in Willowbank. He’s wearing the purple sparkly cape he used to wear when he was hypnotist/mayor.
‘For the apple of my eye!’ he says as he holds the box out to her, all sweet and proud. ‘Apple and cinnamon flavour.’
‘Take that cape off,’ Belle hisses. She’s so stressed she picks up a cupcake and throws it at his head. And then another and another.
Do you know who loves cupcakes – especially apple ones? Pony Soprano. He breaks free of Pop, who’s holding his lead rope, and trots over to gobble them up, paper and all. Nobody can stop him. And after that, hoo boy, he’s frisky. It’s hard to get him to focus on anything. Especially tap-dancing.
When they make the human pyramid in the dance number, Pop farts as she climbs on the top. Mikie, who’s on the bottom row, starts laughing, and that makes Soph’s mum, who’s above him, start to wobble. The whole pyramid collapses. I have to sprint to Buck’s to grab a whole heap more self-freezing ice packs.
Belle and Judy ask me about the sets and I have to lie and say they’re still drying, and convince the backstage crew to practise changing the backdrop using an old sheet we find.
Pony Soprano gets impatient. He also gets hungry. Somehow, he sniffs out Mayor Magnus’s icing-covered cape. Gwynnie was supposed to be minding him but she was playing hide-and-seek with Pop behind the theatre curtains, so there’s nobody to stop him when he canters out the clubhouse door and down the ramp, leaving hoofprints in the wet concrete.
The cast members who aren’t nursing injuries chase him round and round the oval. He thinks it’s a funny game and the chase only stops when he lies down on the cricket pitch and goes to sleep. Major sugar crash.
‘I guess that was a good group-bonding activity,’ I say to no-one in particular as we all troop back inside, sweating.
By the time we finish the rehearsal, it’s getting late.
Judy gathers the cast around for a final pep talk. ‘You know what they say,’ she says grimly. ‘Bad dress rehearsal, great opening night. We have the strength of Cat Trunchbull and the wits of Catilda and the courage of Miss Honey. I believe in you guys.’ Then she tells everyone to meet her at Judy’s Eye-Scream for a free double-scoop cone.
I’ve got to grab Belle and confess about the sets – it’s now or never. I can actually taste the vomit in the back of my throat. But I see her looking at her dad leaving, as if she wants to follow him. Maybe to apologise.
‘You should go,’ I tell Belle. ‘Go get ice-cream.’
‘Are you sure? I need to go through this Set-up Checklist,’ she says, waving it around.
‘I’m sure. Hand that over,’ I tell her. ‘We’ve got this. But only if you promise to try a new flavour.’
Soph and Matilda stay behind to help put the chairs out for tomorrow night. When we’re halfway through, there’s a whole lot of beeping, and when we go outside to see what’s up, a big truck is reversing on the oval. It’s the delivery of the marquee for the backstage area. Apparently Pepper Peters’s aunt organised the whole thing through her theatre friends. By the time we’ve finished the ch
airs and swept the stage, it’s up and it’s huge and it looks professional.
‘It has its own generator,’ Soph says as we stand to the side, watching lamps and heaters being carried inside. ‘How much do you think it cost?’
I shrug. ‘I bet Pepper’s aunt paid.’ Turns out, Belle investigated and Pepper’s aunt owns a house in Cloud Town, so she’s allowed to take part in the competition. Bummer. I tick off ‘Cloud Town marquee delivery’ on the list. I tick off ‘put out chairs’ and ‘sweep stage’. I can see why Belle gets so into this.
‘We did it,’ Matilda says in wonder when there’s nothing left to tick. ‘And mostly we did it ourselves. No parents. No boyfriends.’
‘That we know of,’ I say, giving Sophia the side eye. ‘Do you really think it’s going to be OK? That rehearsal …’
‘It wasn’t great,’ Matilda admits. She shrugs. ‘I guess time will tell.’
When I get home from the dress rehearsal, I lie on my bed and look up through my window at the moon. If I were in New York right now, I wouldn’t be in this predicament. I could be standing in front of a Chagall painting at the Lincoln Center without a care in the world.
Need to talk to you, I text Tally. Skype?
Yzz, she messages back. All OK?
HUH, I reply, and then the emoji with crosses for eyes, as in, I’m dead.
Here’s what you need to know about me and Tally. Quite a lot of the time, she wants to kill me for stealing her clothes/nail polish/hair products. But in my defence, she gets sent heaps of stuff for being a celebrity, and I need to spend my pocket money on milkshakes at Sookie La La, so I figure the least she could do is share. Then there are the times I’m dark on Tally for being so famous and successful, which I really should just get over already. But when something goes wrong, Tally and I are really there for each other. And sure, that’s about two per cent of our total lives. But, if I’m honest, it’s my favourite part.
Tally is a great listener and she gives great advice – much better than Mum, who has all those cheesy sayings, and Dad, who gets completely offended if anybody is mean to us or leaves us out and wants to show up on their doorstep waving a rake in their face. When I think about what I want to be like when I grow up, I don’t think about a profession. I think about how Tally runs straight into the ocean, even in winter, never stopping to shriek at the cold bit where the waves meet the shore.