Smart Girls Don't Wear Mascara

by Cecily Paterson

‘Why is it funny?’ I asked.

  Mum looked a bit taken aback. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I guess it was just so unexpected. Not the kind of phone call I normally get in the middle of the day.’

  ‘But I can do it, right?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Have singing lessons. I’d like to. I really would.’

  Mum’s face went a bit funny. She gave Dad yet another look.

  ‘Oh. Well, I hadn’t thought of it that way.’

  ‘Are they expensive?’ I asked. Things being expensive was an issue in our house.

  ‘Well, no, not really.’ She looked at Dad again.

  ‘How much?’ he asked.

  She looked down at her fingers. ‘She said she’d do it for free. But I’m sure she didn’t mean it. And anyway, we couldn’t take advantage of her. That wouldn’t be fair.’

  ‘You could check with her,’ I said. ‘Or I could ring her. Do you have the number?’

  Mum looked at Dad again, a little lost this time. He shrugged his shoulders. ‘If she wants to, I suppose ...’

  ‘I suppose you could try,’ she said. Quietly, this time. Not joking around. ‘But if she wants us to pay, then you’ll have to stop. We don’t have the money to put towards things like that.’

  ‘No. That’s fine,’ I said. ‘Everything’s fine.’ My feet were on fire and my fingers were tingling. ‘I’ll do anything. Just ring her back and tell her I’ll come for the singing lessons. I’ll come as soon as she’ll have me.’

  Chapter 5

  Two days later, school went back.

  ‘Are you ready for this?’ said Mum, turning in the front car seat to look at me in the back, next to Miles.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I said. ‘I love the first day of school.’

  ‘It’s just, it seems like yesterday you were in kindy and now you’re Year Six. Top of the school.’ She made a funny, sad face.

  ‘Boss of the school,’ muttered Miles, rolling his eyes. I generously ignored him. Today of all days, I could be grown up and more mature than a nine-year-old.

  ‘I’m going to be a school leader,’ I said, like I was explaining it to a five-year-old. ‘We have to be the bosses. It’s our job.’

  ‘Have fun,’ said Mum, ‘and don’t—’ but I didn’t hear the rest. I was out of the car, pushing on my hat, swinging my bag onto my back and running in through the gate. I was met by the loudest, longest scream ever.

  ‘Aaaaabbbyyyyyy.’

  It was Buzz and Jessie together, all the way across the playground. They ran to me and I ran to them and we met in the middle for a crazy, wild hug.

  ‘Year Six,’ screamed Jessie.

  ‘We’re in Year Six,’ exalted Buzz.

  ‘I know, I know,’ I laughed and we kept hugging and jumping and hugging even more. And then there were Sam and Ollie, so we hugged them too. Then even more of the boys in our class were joining in, so we hugged everyone and finally, exhausted and happy, with our arms all around each other, we walked over to the Year Six seats. We sat and stretched out, feet on the table, arms and legs everywhere.

  ‘This is totally awesome,’ said Buzz, her head practically on Ollie’s shoulder. ‘I can’t believe we’re finally here.’

  ‘Yeah, totally,’ said Ollie. And his face went red.

  I gave Buzz a look that said, What are you doing? Sit up. He’s a boy, but she wasn’t looking at me. I started to speak but no one heard me because the bell went.

  ‘Eeeek. It’s happening,’ squeaked Jessie, jumping up. ‘I’m so happy.’ She grabbed a little kid walking past to give him a hug.

  ‘No, Jessie,’ I said, rushing up behind her. ‘Haven’t you remembered you’re not supposed to hug the kindy kids? They get scared.’

  She let go in a panic. ‘Sorry,’ she said to Max, the tiny dancer from the Show, who scuttled away with big eyes. ‘Oh no. I hope I’m not going to be in trouble. And I’m a school leader now and everything.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ hissed Buzz, coming up behind us and getting in line. ‘Here, Ollie, there’s a spot next to me. Seriously, Jessie. Abby’s just panicking.’

  ‘I am not,’ I defended myself as we filed into our classroom. ‘It’s the rule.’

  There’s no question that our school had the best teachers in the entire universe (people had said they were sick of Mr Bond’s jokes by the end of Year Four, though, I thought they were funny). Because it’s such a small school—with only four teachers and all mixed classes—you ended up spending about two years with each teacher. I was super-stoked to be in Mr Smee’s class last year. He was cool and funny and, even better, he knew that I was smart. I was doing spelling with the Year Sixes when I was only in Year Five. He always had something more for me to do when I’d finished first (which was normal for me). Year Six was back with him again, and I couldn’t wait to see if I was going to be doing Year Seven work.

  ‘Sit on the floor for now,’ said Mr Smee. ‘No, Sam, that does not mean on the bookcase.’ He gestured for us all to make a cluster in front of his desk. ‘It’s good to see you, guys. Congrats to Abby, Buzz and Jessie on your prize-winning performance at the Show. You girls will get a chance to do some more singing this year.’

  I shot my hand straight up in the air. ‘What’s going to happen?’

  ‘Wait until you’re called on, please, Abby,’ said Mr Smee, but he answered anyway.

  ‘This year our school is going to be part of the Regional Choral Festival. We’ll be singing a few songs with the whole choir and presenting one of our own items.’

  ‘Oh, oh, oh,’ I said, pushing my hand up again. ‘Please?’

  ‘What, Abby?’ Mr Smee sighed, but he had a half-smile on his face, so I knew he didn’t really mind.

  ‘Can I sing a solo? I mean, can Jessie and Buzz and I sing together?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘We’ll be working all that out later. Anyway, it’s not for a long time. But don’t worry. It’ll be good.’

  At recess, Jessie, Buzz and I ate with the boys on the Year Six seats, but as soon as the play bell went, I gave them a big wink and nod. ‘I’m going up to the Big Tree,’ I said, and then once more, extra slowly for emphasis, ‘the Big Tree.’

  Sam looked at me weirdly. ‘I’m staying here on the Year Six seats,’ he said. ‘The Year Six seats.’

  I gave him a slit-eyed stare. ‘Am I even talking to you?’ I said.

  He grimaced back at me. ‘Would I even know? Who are you even talking to anyway?’

  I gave him a mysterious face and raised my eyebrows. ‘Those who need to know, will know,’ I said and walked off.

  Two minutes later, Jessie and Buzz joined me behind the tree, far enough away from the playground so no one could hear us.

  ‘You have to be less obvious,’ complained Buzz. ‘They were like, “what are you doing?” It’s embarrassing.’

  ‘Weren’t you going to make up a signal?’ said Jessie. ‘A secret hand thing or something?’

  I pouted. ‘Yeah. But I haven’t done it yet. And you don’t have to tell them where you’re going. They’re only boys. They don’t have to know. And anyway, we all promised this would be a secret from everybody.’

  Buzz breathed in and out and looked up at the clouds. ‘What’s the signal?’ she sighed.

  ‘Okay, so let’s just hold our hands up like this.’ I made a complicated crossed-finger arrangement on my right hand and showed them. Jessie struggled for a minute, trying to get her fingers to do the same thing but then gave up.

  ‘That’s not going to work. I can’t do it,’ she said.

  ‘Just click your fingers three times,’ said Buzz. ‘That’s all you need to do.’ She looked tired and then worried. ‘Can you even click, Jess?’

  ‘She can click,’ I said. I paused. ‘Can’t you, Jess?’

  Her first click was weak but wh
en she tried with her fourth finger, it sounded better. ‘Yeah. I can. That sounds good.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Three clicks mean we need to meet now. Two clicks mean we meet at recess. No, I mean lunch. No, I don’t know. Maybe one click is recess and two is for lunch and three is for ...’

  ‘Just three. It’s simpler, okay?’ said Buzz. ‘You’re over-thinking it. Now. Why are we here?’ She looked around her and then back towards the Year Six seats. Ollie and Sam were stretching and getting up. ‘Maybe we could go play handball.’

  ‘I just wanted to have a meeting of the Smart Girls for the first day,’ I said. ‘You know, because it’s special. Something we’ll look back on.’

  Jessie nodded. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘That’s good.’

  Buzz dropped to the ground dramatically. ‘Here we are. We are the Smart Girls. We have a secret code and a secret meeting place. And I propose that our first order of business is to have as much fun as possible this year, right?’ She looked at me, her eyebrows up.

  ‘Well, totally,’ I said. ‘As much fun as possible.’

  ‘And you love handball, and so do we, so let’s go play.’ Buzz put on her puppy-dog eyes, which she brings out when she really, really wants something. I always thought it was so funny that I usually let her do exactly what she wanted, and this time was no different.

  ‘Alright,’ I said, smiling. ‘The Smart Girls will play handball. Our first meeting is over. But there will be many more to come!’

  Chapter 6

  That afternoon, when I got off the bus, I didn’t even have time to tell Mum all about the first day (which was awesome) and being leaders (it made me feel mature). Not even who I sat next to in class! (Sam, unfortunately. Unfortunately, not because I didn’t like Sam, because obviously I did, but because I didn’t get to sit with Buzz or Jessie). I only had time to dump my hat and bag, give Ziggy a quick pat, and grab a couple of cookies to shove in my mouth.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ I yelled, as I ran out the door and down to my bike sprawled in the driveway. ‘I’m going to be late.’

  Miles came running out with a cookie in his hand.

  ‘Where are you going? Can’t you help me with my volcano?’

  I buckled on my bike helmet. ‘No. I told you before, remember? It’s singing.’

  He pointed at my wheels. ‘That looks like you’re biking. Not singing.’

  I made a frustrated noise. ‘No. Singing lesson. With Francesca. That teacher.’

  He opened his eyes wide like whatever, and stepped back. ‘Sing good.’

  ‘It’s “sing well”,’ I said. ‘You don’t do something “good”. You do it well. Now I really have to go.’

  ‘Go good,’ he yelled after me, but I ignored him. I had more important things to think about. The first being Francesca.

  She lived in a little grey cottage on the main street of town, just opposite the pool. It had a cute garden with roses everywhere. I’d ridden and walked past it heaps of times, but I’d never known who lived there. I only really paid attention to the houses that my friends lived in. Mum had rung her back to say, ‘Thank you for your offer. Abby will do lessons.’ Francesca had described the house and where it was, as like most other houses in our tiny village, there were no numbers on the gate. You just have to know where you’re going.

  I rode as fast as I could because I didn’t want to be late. By the time I’d made it to her house and flung my bike down on the grass on the side of the road, I was red-faced and hot, with prickles of sweat starting on my shoulders. I wiped my nose with the back of my hand and onto my school dress. And then, I also felt a prickle of nerves in my stomach. I stood still for a second, feet kind of frozen on the path.

  Did I really want to go in?

  And then another question popped its head up into my throat.

  A question I’d never, ever asked myself before.

  It said, quite clearly, What if I’m not good enough?

  I swallowed the question down again.

  Breathe, Abby. Don’t be silly. These are just singing lessons. And then I lifted my chin, balled my fists and took the four steps up to the wooden veranda in a bound.

  Knock, knock.

  The knock echoed through the house, but nothing happened immediately, so I stepped back to look around. The door was painted white with a big bronze doorknocker in the middle. A few steps away was a cane armchair, white as well, except for its bright red cushion with hot pink trimmings and orange tassels. I blinked with surprise. Not just because everything was so neat and tidy, but because it was also clean. Our house was constantly covered in cobwebs; dusty grey bits of muck dribbling down the bricks. Spiders get crazy here in summer and Mum gave up trying to clear away the webs when I was about eight.

  ‘The spiders will catch the mosquitoes,’ she said. ‘And the flies too. It’s a good thing. Live and let live.’

  Obviously, I thought it was a good idea to be sustainable and not use poisonous sprays (Mum shuddered every time she went into the chemicals part of a supermarket), but I never really realised that the outside of a house could look as clean as this one did.

  I turned around towards the garden and got surprised all over again. It wasn’t native, like ours, but it was totally adorable, with hedges and roses and lavender. I stepped forward to peer out over the veranda railings. The biggest pink rose I’d ever seen was bobbing in the breeze, just half a metre from my face. I leant over and reached out to see if I could smell it.

  Not quite.

  I stood on my tiptoes, leaning out as far as I could, and then, all at once, three things happened. First, I kind of lost my footing and started to feel myself wobbling over the railing, almost falling. Second, I heard a door slam behind me and a voice say, ‘Whoops.’ Third, I felt hands grab at my arms and pull me back from tumbling into the garden.

  The hands belonged to Francesca.

  As did the voice.

  ‘Are you okay?’ it said again. ‘Are you Abby?’

  My feet wanted to run back down the steps to my bike, but my brain stepped in and told me to, Breathe, Abby. Singing lessons!

  I brushed myself off and wiped my face. Adjusting my pigtails, I said sorry about 50 times before following Francesca—who was dressed in a white tunic—past her white arm chair and through her white door into her cottage. The room we entered was so gorgeous, I stopped still with my mouth open until my brain took over again.

  Mouth, Abby!

  It was only really one room with a little kitchen off to the side, but it had wooden floor boards, white furniture, bright flower pictures on the walls, and sunshine coming in through French doors at the back. And there were roses everywhere. The whole place smelled like a café my dad once took us to in a huge garden centre, with the wafting fragrance of roses, tea and cake.

  ‘Wow. This is so pretty,’ I said. And then I turned around and my mouth fell open again. ‘Is that a grand—?’

  ‘A grand piano?’ said Francesca, her eyes twinkling. She was tall, with frizzy dark hair and enormous turquoise earrings. ‘Yes. This is my piano, Celeste. She is a baby grand.’

  ‘The piano has a name?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ She put her head to one side, her earrings jingling, and smiled. ‘Of course. Music has personality. A soul. And when you have a soul, you must have a name. But you must know this, yes? I have heard you sing.’

  I twisted my nose to the side. ‘Um. I don’t know. I just kind of sing because I like it.’

  She looked at me intensely for a second, and then walked over to the piano. ‘For now, that is enough,’ she said. ‘Later, you will understand. But come. Stand here. Now you will sing.’

  She sat at the piano and twisted off a large silver ring on her first finger, which she put next to the music holder. Then she placed her hands on the keys and began to play the opening bars of ‘Tomorrow’.

  �
��That’s the song we sang—’

  ‘—At the Show,’ she said. ‘Of course. Better to get you to sing something you know first.’

  I shrugged my shoulders. The nerves prickled back in my stomach again. ‘I’ve never sung just for one person before.’

  ‘It’s harder,’ she said, over the music. ‘Harder than for a group. Because it is closer, you see. You have to touch only that person’s heart. It has to be more perfect, more vulnerable.’

  I blinked and grimaced. I felt as small as I did before starting Year Two at Kangaroo Valley School, before I’d ever met Buzz and Jessie. But then the introduction finished and Francesca nodded at me to come in, and I began to sing.

  At first, standing so close to her, my voice sounded tiny and even scratchy. I cleared my throat, took a step back and waited a few beats. When I came in again on the chorus, my voice was stronger and by the third verse, I’d forgotten where I was. With boards under my feet and sunshine coming in on my face like lights, I imagined that my dream of being Annie on stage was actually happening, and when the song finished, the audience would be calling my name and lining up for autographs.

  Francesca’s voice cut into my daydream. ‘You are quite talented, you know?’

  I shook my head slightly. ‘Sorry, what?’

  ‘You have some talent.’ She swivelled her legs around the piano stool so she was facing me. ‘You have a lovely natural tone and the rhythm is good. There’s colour there, you know?’

  ‘Colour?’ I said.

  She laughed. ‘Like in the garden. Some of the plants blend in and some pop out like, kazing!’ She brought both hands together, clapped them once and let them fly out above her head. ‘It is ... special.’

  I nodded. Okay.

  ‘The question for you is not whether you can sing. I know you can. And you know you can, yes?’ She raised her eyebrows and tilted her head.

  I nodded again and looked down at my feet. ‘I think, maybe?’

  ‘There is no maybe,’ she said, and her feet, in white sandals with jewels on them, tapped twice. ‘You know it. The only question for you is: can you learn?’ Her face was intense.