Karen closes her eyes for a moment, then opens them quickly. ‘Why not? Okay Pip.’ She slides off the desk. ‘You’re on. Are we doing it?’ She presses play on the CD and Insomniac Road blasts through the Music Home Room. She calls out. ‘Are we a band?’
I jump off the desk, dragging Irina and Angie with me. ‘A band, band, band.’
‘Without a name,’ Karen shouts above the music.
‘I’ve got a name.’ A name that’s me. I look at Karen. A name that’s Karen. I look at Irina and Angie. A name that’s Irina and Angie. ‘Not Perfect.’
The music blares as we look at each other. They know it’s right. I can see it in their eyes. ‘Not Perfect.’
Karen’s dancing around the room with her blonde hair spiking the air. ‘Come on.’ She pumps the floor with her feet and I’m dancing with her. Irina and Angie are dancing too.
We sing, ‘Not Perfect, Not Perfect, Not Perfect.’
Chapter Nine
Band practice is serious now. Irina studies before school, very early in the morning. We’ve banned her from working in the library at lunchtime. Angie’s banned from lying in the sun tanning with her skirt pulled up, gossiping to friends. Karen’s banned from burrowing through the wire mesh to the boys’ school. I don’t want to be in the library or sunbake or burrow. I want to be in the Music Home Room, the place where Not Perfect practises, writes, lives.
Mr Connelly approves of Not Perfect. ‘Good name.’ He smiles. ‘Practice makes perfect.’
‘That is awful, Mr Connelly,’ I tell him. He laughs, but more importantly he gives us the exclusive use of the Music Home Room. It’s ours when we write our songs, ours for working on the arrangements for the school concert, ours for Not Perfect.
Mr Connelly has given the other Music students the room next door. It’s finally finished being refurbished. The other students are happy about it. But we’re even happier with our own private place. It may be rundown, but it’s ours.
Mr Connelly is there for our naming ceremony, when I stick a ‘Not Perfect’ sign on the door. The sign is written with a purple felt pen. It’s big, scrawly, beautiful. We scribble and scroll our names around it. ‘Could be worth money one day.’
‘Sure, Pip,’ Karen struts around mimicking a pop star.
I stand looking at it. ‘Not Perfect.’
‘Perfect name.’ Angie must think that is an original comment.
Mr Connelly waves at us as he rushes away. ‘It’s up to you now, girls.’
It is. I can hardly breathe. Karen and I look at each other. She can hardly breathe too. My dream. Her dream.
Saturday, early. Today Not Perfect is going to Rockfest. It’s our first concert together as a band. Not that we’re performing, but one day…
Dad has no idea what Rockfest is, and I like it that way. He’s been better. Not so angry. There haven’t been as many scenes. Maybe it’s the counselling…But I still don’t trust him.
None of the fathers has any idea what Rockfest really is. Mainly because we all lie. ‘Yes, it’s school approved.’ ‘Safe? Of course.’ ‘Helps our school grades. For sure.’
The mothers have no idea either. Angie’s mother thinks the sun shines out of Angie’s bum, so she can do no wrong. Irina’s mother is still in Russia and struggles to cope. She really has no idea. Karen’s mother is lost in renovations and her boyfriend. My mother? Well, she sort of understands, but says nothing except ‘You’ll have fun, Pip, I know.’
As if Mum knows. ‘Sure, Mum.’
Rockfest will be a Not Perfect day. Our girl band day.
Eddie’s got his all guy day out organised. He doesn’t need permission from his girlfriend for once, since she’s not here. Good. I think his girlfriend could be dumping him. There’ve been no phone calls. He’s not even that miserable. He’s starting to be Eddie again.
The weather is cool, but I know the survival dress code. The less clothing the better. Denim skirt with pockets for phone, wallet and camera. Singlet top, joggers.
‘You’ll be freezing.’ Mum tries to force a jacket into my hands. Mum has got to be kidding. The concert stages are not called Boiler Room and Hot House for nothing. Clothes have to be minimalist if you don’t want to pass out from heat exhaustion. Clothes also have to be nearly glued to your body, if you don’t want to lose anything in the crush. Thongs, scarves, beads, bags can mean strangulation, among other things.
Mum is the driver. When she collects Irina, Irina’s mother talks forever at the side of the car, until Irina stops her and we can get away.
Karen’s at the terrace this weekend. Her mother talks forever at the side of the car too, until her boyfriend calls her in.
Angie’s father walks to Mum’s side of the car. He’s the one who usually drives us around. ‘I see the girls changed chauffeurs. They wanted the pretty driver this time.’ Mum blushes. She is pretty.
Mum drops us at the station. We race towards the train fitted with groupies, fans, goths, punks, metal-heads, freaks. T-shirts with band names splattered over them are everywhere. Coalface, Good Charlotte, Fox Father, Red Day, Insomniac Road. No Black Bullets. I catch my breath when I read the name ‘Insomniac Road’ on the program I printed off the Internet. They’re playing on the Orange Stage. I’m going to be in the front row even if I get crushed to death.
There are some grey-haired ladies on the train, obviously going shopping. They keep staring and shaking their heads. It’s funny. Angie starts giggling. Irina elbows her to stop. Most of the ‘normal’ people get off at different stations until the train is left with just Rockfest supporters. As it draws up at the platform there’s a buzz of excitement.
‘We’re here,’ I grab Karen’s arm.
Rows of turnstiles mark the entrance. There is a mass of grunge, coloured hair, punk, leather, ripped denim, girls dressed as fairies, guys dressed as super heroes and goths with spiked chins. Imagine kissing a guy with a spike. It’d rip your face out. I fiddle with my belly-button stud and shudder.
We flash our entry tickets. Bags are checked for illegal food, drinks and drugs. Dope-sniffing dogs smell us as the security gives us the once over. We’re in.
Angie sees signs for henna tattoos and points us in that direction. ‘No way,’ Irina, Karen and I groan together. We drag her away. I love the henna tattoos but we’re here for the music.
Angie can’t resist buying a red and green flashing headband. ‘You look like a lost cause.’ I laugh, but Angie is happy with it. Karen enjoys annoying her when she buys a black spiked belt, which she wraps around her waist.
We head for the Boiler Room. Security guys in their fluorescent orange jackets check us as we move from blue skies and yellow sun into murky darkness. The first set has already started. The video monitors hang from the ceiling, blaring music in time with the DJ mixes. The room is a dancing frenzy. Some of the dancers are psycho spinning, throwing themselves around the floor. They’re on speed for sure. I don’t know how they get it past security. Karen’s told me that people hide it in their ears, under their tongues in plastic and in other places. I’m not going there.
The music is manic. The crowd is manic. We join in, jumping up and down, letting the beat take over. There’s no talking—it’s too loud. There’s no touching—it’s too hot. There’s nothing to see—it’s too dark. Luckily Angie’s flashing headband keeps us together. We jump around her.
I’m boiling in the Boiler Room. It’s nearly an hour later when Karen shoves past the crazed dancers, leading us all outside. The bright sunlight makes us gasp. We crash onto the grass. ‘Drinks, drinks.’ Angie gulps down water. We all gulp too, rehydrating on the water.
‘That was amazing,’ Karen rolls onto her stomach.
‘Amazing.’ Irina beats the grass with her hands. ‘My parents would die if they saw this.’ She enjoys her subversive revolution. ‘It’s the Russian thing.’
‘It’s not because they’re Russian. Parents just don’t get it.’ Karen twirls her fingers, making a no-idea sign.
&nb
sp; That makes us all laugh. The conspiracy is fantastic. Having our own band is fantastic.
We head for the smaller outdoor stages. That’s where the up-and-coming bands get a chance. There usually aren’t many people listening, but they get videoed and if they’re lucky they get on cable TV. Maybe Not Perfect could get a gig there one day. I live in hope.
The alcohol is really working, not on us, but on the crowds. Fights are breaking out over nothing. You’re not allowed to bring alcohol in from outside, but you can buy as much as you like once you’re inside, at rip-off prices. That’s the rule at every music event. You have to be over eighteen to get the special drinking identification wristband. So that leaves us out, except we can get anyone else to buy us drinks. But I don’t want to drink. I want to hear the bands, not lie horizontal passed out on the ground.
‘Let’s move.’ Angie pulls my singlet top. Three guys are bashing each other. Alcohol rage. Here comes the security team. We’re out of here. ‘Lunch.’ Angie points to the food stalls.
I’m starving. Sometimes I feel too fat to go out. It’s not supposed to matter, but I do. The only way I’ll get really thin is after I die. Skeleton-thin. I shrug. It’s stupid to care about weight so much. I’m more than just a body. But then everyone judges you. I ignore the hotdogs and look for a salad roll and fruit.
Food at last. Karen has hot potato wedges, of course. The rest of us are digging into our salads.
The next band is finalising their gear on one of the smaller stages. The sets are usually shorter here, thirty or forty minutes.
Loser Trash are ready. We listen to them play for while. The lead singer has no power in his voice. The drums are drowning him out. If Not Perfect is like that I hope we know it. We lose interest and start discussing our band, our music, concerts.
‘I’d love to go to the Breakers Festival. Three days of bands. Two nights camping,’ I say.
‘We’ll get there.’ Karen digs her fingers into the grass.
‘I really want to go to Breakers,’ I say again.
‘I’ve been working on “Psycho Dad”.’ Karen pulls out a clump of grass.
‘Me too.’
Finally Loser Trash have finished their set. There’s some applause. I look around. The girlfriends of Loser Trash are clapping. Loser Trash. It’s such a stupid name. It predetermines the fact that they are going to be a failure. Suddenly I think about Not Perfect. Is that a loser name too? I look at Irina and Angie and Karen. Too late. But we’re not losers. I refuse to be a loser. And Not Perfect is our identity now.
Karen begins humming, then starts singing a slow version of the chorus of ‘Psycho Dad’:
Cause I don’t want you
And I don’t need you
You were so bad
You were my psycho dad
I play around with it:
Shouting and all the rest
But now I have learned best
What you did was wrong
That’s why I wrote this song
Irina improvises backing, banging her hands on the ground. I shuffle closer to Karen. ‘Fathers. Who needs them?’
Angie starts saying something. If it’s about her shark story, I’ll throw something at her. ‘I need my dad.’ Her words cut the air, clearing away ‘Psycho Dad’.
‘I like your dad.’ Irina lies back on the grass.
I like him too. It’d be special to have a father I respect. I used to need a father, but not any more.
‘So what’s your story? Your dad?’ Karen turns towards Irina.
‘My father?’ She pauses. ‘He’s a hero.’ If anyone else said that, we’d laugh. We don’t laugh at Irina. She looks at us carefully. We’re her friends. She knows that. ‘They put him in prison for a while, because he fought for us to leave Russia.’ She speaks softly. ‘He fought so Jews could leave.’
‘Are you Jewish?’ Angie asks. Why doesn’t Angie know that?
‘I feel Jewish.’ She runs her fingers through her dark hair. ‘Kids spitting at you as you walk to school. Yelling that you’re a Jew. It makes you understand.’
‘Why would they do that?’
‘I don’t know,’ Irina says quietly. ‘It’s religion, whatever that means.’
‘Do you believe in God?’ I ask.
‘There was no God where I was brought up. But a lot of Russians prayed secretly even when Russia had been communist. And the priests taught their Christian traditions. People always believed in the Russian Orthodox Church but it was different for Jews. They were hardly allowed to exist, let alone pray. So I have no idea about God.’
‘I’m Catholic.’ Karen rolls onto her stomach. ‘I don’t go to church any more, but I believe in God. In Jesus. I want to be forgiven but I don’t go to confession.’ She plays with the grass. ‘I have too much to confess.’
‘Who hasn’t?’ Angie and I went to the local Anglican Sunday School together when we were little. Angie was Mary in the church Christmas play one year. I was an angel. I still go with Angie and her family to the church Christmas service every year.
‘Mum likes taking me with her to church for youth services. It’s because they need a guitar. I’m the guitar.’ Angie shuffles closer to me.
I’ve played with Angie at those youth services, mainly because she begs me and I’m her friend. I don’t really mind. The music makes God feel real, protective, like when I was a little girl. There’s always a barbecue afterwards.
We lie on our stomachs in a circle of friends. It’s hard to know what God means. He’s supposed to be the great father, creator, carer. When I think of world terrorism, God frightens me. People kill in the name of religion. Is that God’s will or people’s will? I look at Irina. Think about her father and her mother. God wouldn’t want people to spit at her. Not the God I imagine.
A new band is setting up on the stage where Loser Trash just performed. We watch them for a while. Music hums around us. Not Perfect hums around us. I sing a few more lines. Karen sings a few lines. Irina taps the grass.
I don’t really know what I believe
Is there any point to it all?
Which path is the right one to choose?
Am I just going to fall?
All of a sudden there’s shouting. It’s Eddie and his mates. Eddie grabs my legs and I kick and wriggle. Karen starts laughing.
‘Why are you girls just lying around? There are great rides out there. The Bungie Pod…’ Eddie pulls me up from the grass. ‘Are you coming or what?’
Karen’s clapping her hands, ready to go. ‘Main bands start in half an hour. Got to move now.’
Suddenly we’re running towards the Bungie Pod. I see it reaching into the sky and slow down.
‘No way.’ Irina laughs.
I agree. ‘No way.’
Eddie’s mates climb on board the Pod. Karen is belted into the Pod already. Eddie Show-off slides in next to her and Angie. ‘Easy.’ He winks. I can’t believe that Angie’s going on it. She’s thinks it’ll be fun.
Lock-down. Irina and I watch the Pod as it’s pulled upwards. We can hardly see them when they reach the top. We’re waving madly, then the Pod is released. I see Eddie. His face is all mouth. His mates are yelling too. Karen’s hair is blowing into it. So is Angie’s. They look like stunned fish, except they’re screaming. Irina and I are laughing so hard we’re falling over each other. Then they’re down.
Eddie’s all show. He has a weak stomach, but he has to put on an act for his friends. ‘That was nothing.’ He can hardly walk. As if it was nothing. Karen loved it of course. She’s the original wild child. Princess Angie is laughing. She loved it too. Irina and I don’t care. We’re glad to have missed that one.
‘Orange Stage.’ Eddie leads the way. The band playing first is not bad. I’m sitting at the back, where there are rows of empty seats. This band is okay, but not worth getting crushed to death for. Billy is different. I’ll be right up the front for Insomniac Road. If I die then, I’ll die happy.
Angie disappears, then ar
rives back with rabbit ears for us all. They’re fluffy white, with pink inserts. We look great with big ears. The boys crack up laughing. Eddie steals mine to put on his head.
‘Boofhead.’ I grab my ears back.
The stadium is about three-quarters full. The band is smooth, more pop than rock. Angie loves them. She’s swaying in time with their beat.
I whisper to Karen, ‘There’ll be a Mexican wave in a minute.’ She laughs, shaking her head. ‘You wait and see.’
Oh, no. I was right. Hands are making a roll towards us. I nudge Irina and Karen. ‘Come on. For Angie.’ The boys join in. We stand stretching our hands in the air, moving in time with thousands of other hands. Everyone is singing and Angie’s laughing. We’re all laughing. There’s clapping and yahooing as the audience waves the band off the stage. Angie and I dance in a circle, humming their tunes. I love Angie. Eddie clicks photographs. Karen grabs the camera and snaps us all with tongues sticking out and rabbit ears on our heads.
Next it’s the big event. Insomniac Road. The last band of the night. The mood of the crowd changes as fans pour into the stadium. It’s going to be really packed. Irina and Angie are staying in their seats, but Karen and I are heading for the mosh pit. We take off our ears and start shoving our way towards the stage. Up close and personal. We’ll be squashed, mauled, sweated on, but nothing matters when it’s Insomniac Road. I’m going to be right there. In the front line. Eddie and his mates are coming with us. ‘The protection team.’ Eddie flexes his muscles.
‘We don’t need any of your protection.’ But I’m glad they’ll be there. The Black Bullets concert flashes into my head. Mosh pits are intense.
We’re nearly at the barricades when the lights start flashing. Roadies are doing the final set-up on the stage. Security is manning the stage ready to pull out people trapped by crowd surges. You can get killed at the barriers, when the masses push forward, but I don’t care. The audience is starting to chant, ‘Insomniac Road, Insomniac Road. They’re coming. They’re coming.’ I squeeze Karen’s arm. The crowd presses me forward.
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