The next day the captain of the A basketball team messages Karen: ‘Thanks 4 the other nite. Lets just be friends. CU around.’
‘It wasn’t love after all.’ Karen pretends that it doesn’t hurt her.
Chapter Twelve
Exams. High pressure. Eddie is actually studying—mainly because Dad is home and checks. Angie has a Maths and English coach to help her. Irina is studying constantly. She confesses to me that her parents expect her to get into Medicine, even though she doesn’t want to be a doctor. I’m managing my studies but Karen has all but dropped out.
Exam week is tense and intense. No parties, no guys, no netball, no cemetery walks, no shopping, no concert preparations. Not Perfect is on hold. I’ve taken time off from my job. I’ll miss the money. Karen is taking my shifts. Insomniac Road plays in my room. I hardly sleep, except when I fall asleep reading my textbooks. Fluffy Rabbit lies next to me.
It’s three days of doing papers and comparing answers afterwards. The days are the same. Only the timetables vary. The hall is set up with rows of desks separated by aisles. Paper, pens, the clock and a teacher demanding our attention overload me. ‘These are your first serious examinations as senior students.’ Instructions. Instructions. Instructions. I can barely hear them. My heart’s racing. I glance at Irina, who’s listening intently. Angie’s fiddling with her fingernail. Is it broken? Karen’s three rows down. I watch her flick her blonde hair. She can’t see me. Our exam papers are face down next to glucose sweets to suck when your brain has frozen. Tissues for emergency sneezes and colds dot desks. Pencils are sharpened and spare pens are ready for disasters. White-out and rubbers. I organise my desk, touching and retouching everything. Final instructions. ‘Turn your papers over. You may start.’
Stress and relief. Maths. English. Geography. Practical Music assessments. More subjects. Study. Eating too much. Not sleeping. Mum cooking. Dad approving.
The time passes. Suddenly exams are over. The pressure is lifted. I’m back. Eddie’s back. The world is back.
To celebrate, Eddie takes Not Perfect for a spin in his car along the beach road. Music blares from his radio and Eddie starts crooning.
‘That’s not singing,’ I shout at him. He gives a horrible laugh and belts out an out-of-tune song. ‘You’re kidding, Eddie.’
Nothing stops him. Karen and I not at each other and we start. Then Angie joins in. Then Irina. We’re swamping Eddie. Not Perfect is back and in three weeks the school concert is on.
The concert takes on serious dimensions. Non-music teachers are grateful, as music preparations make inroads into their lessons. They have time to mark exam papers while the senior Music girls take over. Music teachers aren’t grateful, as they have to mark exams and work on the concert. They flit around, helping, advising, reorganising, approving, disapproving, stressing. Groups, years, bands, choirs are allocated rooms and spaces. Classrooms become singing, instrumental and design studios. Karen and I are finalising the arrangements for group music pieces. As we race between classrooms, singing erupts in odd places, like the Art rooms and Science labs. Everyone has to participate. Even the untalented are forced to find talent. There are auditions for lead roles, and special segments, and tears from those who aren’t picked. ‘Just give me another chance.’ ‘I was nervous, that was all.’ ‘I can do it.’ I didn’t realise how many deluded singers there are in the universe. At least I can carry a tune, and don’t belt out off-notes that make everyone cringe. Have they heard of self-delusion?
There are a few screaming sessions going on: ‘Can you just shut up and play?’ ‘That sounds terrible.’ ‘Have you ever heard of learning your lines?’ There is laughing when the front row of singers topple onto each other. Then there are sessions where people slow down, stop, listen. The jazz band is having a brilliant session. Sometimes the music is fantastic. Sometimes not.
We’re working with a mass choir today. All ages. All years. Karen is edgy. She’s directing two soloists. They’ve got to sing on a higher register than the choral singers and they’re starting to panic. Karen shouts at a girl who is already flushed and ready to cry.
I wander over to Karen. ‘Everything all right?’ I look over at the singers. Karen looks at them, then back at me.
‘All right? Pip, it’s…’ She stops in mid-sentence. Her eyes shimmer, barely holding back tears. I want to hug her, but can’t. Not here. Not now. Quickly she rubs her face. ‘Everything’s all right.’ A frozen mask slips over her face. Her eyes clear and she focuses on the soloists. ‘I’ll go easier on them.’
‘That’s great, Karen,’ I say softly.
Mr Connelly is helping out, playing the piano. The sopranos are being led by Angie. They sound like baritones half the time. Her green eyes look bloodshot. It’s the stress. ‘You’re doing a great job, Angie,’ I tell her.
I don’t roll my eyes this time, Angie does.
I turn to the altos. ‘Everyone, we’re going to give it a go.’ I lift my baton. Irina gives the beat on the drums. I call out to the singers, ‘Just copy me.’ I sing a small section, then conduct the altos. ‘Not bad.’ I raise my hands. ‘Let’s try again.’ Angie does the same with her sopranos. We get it together for a few minutes before it falls apart grinding to a halt. Angie’s right. Stress. The hour moves like a snail in spasm. Finally I check my watch. ‘Break, break. This’ll be good. You’re doing well. We just need a bit more practice. See you all tomorrow.’
As they leave, Angie slumps onto a chair. ‘They sure need practice. A lot of it. They’re terrible.’
‘It’ll be fine. We just have to keep working at it.’
We decide to take our lunch to our Music Home Room to debrief. We need to get Not Perfect ready for our premiere as well. A shiver races down my back. A premiere of what?
I walk there with Karen. She’s talking too quickly, throwing ideas all over the place. ‘Let’s go to the Breakers Festival.’
‘We’ll all get there one day. You know that. Just maybe not this year.’
‘It’s on the first weekend of the school holidays. Let’s just get our stuff and go, all of us.’
‘Great idea, but we’ve got no tickets.’ I’m a bit tired of Karen. She’s been hyper all day. ‘Let’s get through the concert first.’
Karen just laughs as she races off to the toilets, to smoke or do whatever.
When I walk into the Music Home Room, Irina’s at the drums already and Angie’s eating her lunch. I take out my salad sandwich. We discuss how to organise the singers, get them on stage, off stage and singing in harmony. I look towards the door. Where’s Karen?
Suddenly the door slams. We jump. Karen’s back smelling of smoke and ready to go somewhere, somehow. She calls out, ‘Ready?’
Irina starts hitting the drums, creating a pacey beat. Angie packs away her lunchbox and picks us her bass. I unzip my guitar bag, take out my guitar and plug in my lead.
‘Ready?’ Karen calls out again, strumming her guitar.
‘No.’ I shake my head. Karen’s so manic today.
Irina raises her drumstick, hits the drums. We’re ready.
Karen sings.
You made me feel always scared
I knew you never cared
You left me all broken and scarred
And made our life so hard
Irina steps up the pace. Angie’s bass sounds good. I sing backup as Karen pushes ‘Psycho Dad’ out there.
You left me all broken and scarred
And made our life so hard
Reports for senior students are a high priority at both Eddie’s and my schools. The Principals work together on this one. I wish they didn’t. My Principal tells us reports will be available by the end of term. He declares, ‘I expect you to achieve to the best of your ability.’ If she says that one more time I’m going to scream. Karen just doesn’t listen, but it makes Irina study even harder.
Preparations for the end-of-term concert release teachers to mark, except for Music teachers. Exams results are dri
pping in already. I get As, except for Geography, where I get a B. I’m pretty happy. I thought I’d ruined my Geography paper.
Angie’s not happy. She failed Maths and scraped through Music. She’s hopeless at Maths, so that doesn’t count in her view. But Music is the one she’s worried about. ‘Mr Connelly is unfair.’
‘Sure, Angie.’ Mr Connelly is never unfair.
Maybe Angie’s life isn’t so perfect. Her marks aren’t, anyway.
Eddie and I have decided not to tell Dad about our results unless he asks. If he hears about mine, he’ll criticise the Geography mark and say, ‘Pip, you can do better.’ But Eddie will get destroyed. He didn’t do that well, even though he studied more than usual. Mum is coerced into the conspiracy. She still doesn’t trust Dad’s temper.
‘I’m not telling Dad about parent-teacher interviews,’ Eddie announces.
‘Your father will find out.’
‘He won’t, Mum.’ Eddie taps the side of his nose. ‘I’m smart. I’ve got a plan.’
Mum and I look at each other and say together, ‘Sure.’
‘I’ve made early-afternoon appointments for you, Mum. Dad’ll still be at work.’
Mum touches Eddie’s arm. She repeats the reality: ‘He’ll find out. He could get angrier.’
‘Even if he does it’ll be too late.’ Eddie grabs an apple, two peaches, three plums and a tub of ice cream from the fridge. ‘Do you want a fruit crush?’ Eddie’s enthusiasm for food is becoming legendary. I hand him three glasses. ‘Interviews start at three-thirty. So it’ll be over before dinner. You can tell Dad what they said afterwards if he asks. Is that good thinking or what?’
Eddie beams. I call this denial. No one can stop the inevitable. Scared thinking, runs through my head. Dad will find out and there will be a terrible argument.
I get out my guitar. Eddie gets his out too. Since his girlfriend left the scene, I’ve been teaching him how to strum properly. It’s fun. ‘Let’s play some of the songs from Passages of Living and Dying.’
‘What about Black Bullets?’ Eddie winks. ‘Better than Insomniac Road.’
No one is better than Insomniac Road but I don’t take the bait. ‘So do you want to practise, or are you too busy being an idiot?’
‘Eddie’s ready.’ He laughs.
I shake my head, strum a few chords.
Tough times made me, tough times produced me…
The music hums through the room.
Eddie follows my lead. Mum moves in time with the beat. ‘I loved listening to bands when I was your age.’
Eddie laughs. ‘Yeah, yeah. The Beatles.’
‘Not only the Beatles.’ Mum stops dancing and gives us a shifty look. ‘I have a dark side.’
Eddie and I stop. It’s too hilarious. Mum, a dark side?
‘So what is it?’ I’m spluttering.
She pauses for effect. ‘KISS.’
‘Kiss what?’
‘The band KISS.’
Mum and KISS? Eddie and I nearly choke.
‘So you don’t believe me?’
‘Okay, tell us about your dark side, Mum.’ Eddie elbows me.
Mum flaps her hands around. ‘You have to stop laughing. I’m not telling you until you promise to take me seriously.’
‘Promise.’ Eddie and I try not to smile. ‘Promise.’
‘Okay, have you finished asphyxiating?’ Mum is enjoying being centre stage, which is usually Eddie’s position. Mum waits until she has our full attention. ‘When I was your age, KISS and I were connected.’ Mum looks meaningfully at us. ‘I saved my babysitting money, birthday money, Grandma-present money. It wasn’t going to be a boot-polish job for me.’
‘Boot polish?’
Mum ignores me. ‘It was my big moment. I had my face done by a professional make-up artist. I got the look.’ Angie flashes through my mind. I bet it was a different make-up look from hers. I smile. ‘My parents never knew. They would’ve grounded me forever. My best friend and I had our faces covered in white and black with a huge star over one eye. We headed for the gig. There were thousands of screaming kids and we were right in the front row. We were squashed and squeezed all night, but who cared?’ Mum puts her hand over her heart. ‘Gene Simmons winked at me.’
‘Wow, the famous Gene Simmons.’ Eddie smirks. ‘Who’s he?’
‘The brilliant, amazing, heart-breaking lead singer.’
‘Sounds great,’ we mock.
‘There’s more. Wait…’ Mum saunters to her bedroom for effect. She reappears with an old shoebox. She places it on the carpet. We all lie on the floor as Mum reveals her dark side. Old tickets, magazines, photos, letters, postcards…and The Autograph. ‘Gene signed it.’
I raise my hands in make-believe horror. ‘Mum, it’s your bra.’ Is this my mother? ‘I can’t believe it. Mum, he’s written on your bra.’
She twinkles. ‘See, I have a dark side.’
‘Evil Mum.’ We hold on to our stomachs, gulping with laughter, surrounded by the signed bra and the memorabilia of Mum’s dark side. Mum giggles and sings KISS songs. She remembers every word. I get my guitar and improvise some backup chords. When Eddie tries to sing, I jump him. ‘You sound horrible.’ Eddie doesn’t believe me.
Even Mum knows he can’t sing. ‘Horrible.’ She laughs. She repacks her dark-side shoebox and carries it carefully back to its dark hiding place.
‘I love your dark side, Mum,’ I say under my breath as she leaves. I’ve always known Mum was a free spirit. Sometimes she shows it. But it’s only sometimes. I love her even more then.
Insomniac Road plays. Eddie drums his fingers against the arm of the couch. Mum comes back, smiling. She joins in, singing, ‘It’s me, my life.’ She’s eighteen again. I watch her. Her brown eyes are my eyes. Mum stretches her arms out towards me. ‘You have to promise me, never to give up your music.’
I take her hands. ‘Music is my life. You know that.’
‘I know that dreams can be get buried in life.’
‘Like yours, Mum.’
She doesn’t answer. We hum and sing to the music.
Chapter Thirteen
Friday. Eddie’s parent-teacher interviews. I wait with Eddie for Mum at the school gates. Eddie is talking too much, which means he’s worried. ‘The teachers will say you’re excellent, Eddie.’
‘That’s me, Pip Squeak. Excellent Eddie.’ He pretends to kick a football. ‘Look how far that went.’ I’m right, he’s very worried.
Mum arrives in her official black skirt and turquoise shirt. It’s a serious afternoon. I watch Eddie and Mum walk towards the building. He looks miserable as they go in. I take out my book and plug in my music to wait until they come back.
‘Pip. Pip.’ I look up as Eddie kicks the imaginary football to me. I catch it. An hour has zipped past. Eddie is smiling. There’s been no damage. The verdict is: ‘Talented at Woodwork, gifted at Technical Drawing, struggles with English but is still passing and contributing to the class, great team player.’ Eddie is loud, which means that he’s happy. Mum is happy. So am I.
‘Stop shouting in my ear, Eddie.’
‘Do you mean LIKE THIS?’ He races for the front seat of the car.
‘Eddie, grow up,’ I shout at him. While we’re sitting in traffic I rub the top of his head. He hates that, and tries to grab my arm.
‘Stop it. Are you kids five years old?’ Mum swerves into a parking spot in front of the ‘all-you-can-eat’ Italian pizzeria.
‘I see we’re going to Eddie’s favourite “stuff-your-face” eating place.’
‘It’s not my favourite. Mum’s cooking is my favourite.’
I groan, but Mum is conned. Eddie’s charming her, saying what she wants to hear. He’s going to be the most successful plumber in the world. All those Mums will be lining up to give him work so they can feed him afterwards, then he can tell them that they’re the world’s greatest cooks. Eddie will get fat being a plumber.
We talk about Eddie’s improving guitar playing, the
work he’s done on his car, his new woodwork project. It’s Eddie’s night. No one mentions Dad. There’s a pact of silence on that subject. Eddie’s parent—teacher afternoon is good Eddie news, but secret news. My stomach knots.
Eddie’s going up the coast for the weekend, camping on a beach with a few mates. He won’t see much of Dad. I hope it’s not an avoidance tactic. Dad does live here. He’ll see him some time. Eddie says Dad doesn’t affect him. It’s not true.
Dad arrives home at around eight and I disappear into my room with Insomniac Road.
He shouts, ‘Turn down that racket, Pip.’
I want to turn the music up to double volume. But I don’t. I stick my head out of my room and see Mum fussing around the kitchen. She’s preparing him a late supper.
My head’s splitting. I’m scared for Eddie. There’s going to be trouble. I’m glad when I fall asleep, with lyrics and music rocking inside me.
It’s nearly twelve when I drag myself out of bed. I peer into Eddie’s room but he’s left already. I quickly have a shower, get dressed, and grab a juice and apple, before heading out. I avoid Dad’s eyes as I race for the front door, calling out, ‘Meeting Irina for our Saturday walk.’ I don’t wait for a response. I’m just glad to get away.
Irina’s waiting. She’s worried about the exam results. ‘Why, Irina? You got brilliant marks.’
She shakes her head. ‘Not brilliant enough for my father.’
Fathers. What do they want from us? What does my father want from me? Official report cards are due to arrive in the post on Monday. Some girls said they were going to steal the reports so their parents don’t see them. Others are casual about the result, or nervous or scared or confident. The usual report-card reactions.
When I get home Mum’s dressed in a lemon skirt that floats when she twirls. ‘You look beautiful, Mum.’
She smiles. ‘Dad and I are going out. To the movies.’
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