Six Impossible Things

by Fiona Wood

  It’s definitely gutless but maybe it’s also a reply of sorts: me saying here I am; I show myself to you.

  ‘Interesting,’ she says. ‘It’s like he’s having his teenage years now, instead of back then. Because he and your mother got together so early, before he knew who he’d turn out to be.’

  ‘Yeah, I guess.’

  ‘He must have really loved her to want to get married and have you, even though somewhere inside he must also have known it mightn’t be right for him.’

  ‘Why do you think it took him so long?’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘Imagine how hard it would be. Years ago you land on married-daddy planet. Then you have to turn around to the whole world and say, actually, guys, I took a wrong turn – didn’t mean to come here – I’m supposed to be way over there.’

  ‘He should have known sooner.’

  ‘Maybe he did but by that time you were a family. It sounds like you were a happy family.’

  ‘We were.’

  It’s a relief to remember that’s still true.

  ‘Years could go by. He probably couldn’t bear to hurt you. Then, in the middle of the big meltdown, maybe he thought, jump, it’s now or never.’

  She’s good. Are all girls natural psychologists? Everything she says lightens my load of worry bricks.

  When I tell her about the unopened birthday present she even has a theory about that. I didn’t open it at first because I was angry. It was a simple withholding, a rejection of him. But the longer I leave it unopened, the more it symbolises. So wrapped up in there, with whatever, is the hope that magically, improbably, impossibly, my father can give me something that will make everything okay again. And for as long as it’s unopened, that hope is alive.

  I’m not kidding, she could charge money for this.

  26

  II FREAKISHLY FAST TIME there are only five days until the social, then four, then three – everything seems to be organised – then two days to go. . .

  And two things happen.

  The first one is that there’s a rush on ticket sales. All the undecideds, too-cools and can’t-afford-its unexpectedly commit. Like an invisible message received by the herd, going to the social is the accepted thing to do.

  It may have something to do with Vile Bodies whose reputation is firming based on decent performances at a couple of recent parties.

  Which makes the second thing that happens two days before the social even worse. And it’s completely my fault.

  I somehow manage to collide, in classic ‘running around the corner from opposite directions too fast’ manner, with the lead guitarist. This seems to annoy him. A lot. He’s extremely fond of himself.

  When I say sorry he screams abuse at me so I tell him to chill and he says, ‘Chill on this, arsehole,’ and swings a punch in my direction.

  Being a dedicated fan of pain avoidance, I manage to duck and swerve on a rush of pure fear, and his punch lands on a metal locker door. I fall off the unexpectedly-popular-entrepreneur pedestal in one loud, agonised expletive.

  Jayzo gets the call in English.

  ‘You’ve really done it now, dickhead,’ he says to me. ‘You broke his fucken meta-something.’

  ‘Metacarpal?’ asks Lou.

  ‘Yeah, that,’ he replies.

  ‘One of these bones,’ says Lou, pointing to the back of her hand.

  ‘No guitar for a month,’ Jayzo says. He’s enjoying it. ‘All gigs are off.’

  A gasp of horror sweeps around me.

  ‘Are you saying we’ve got no band? For the social?’ asks Janie.

  ‘That’s right. All thanks to him,’ says Jayzo.

  ‘He punched me,’ I remind people in feeble defence. No one cares about the details.

  I’m the prize spoiler of all fun, skewered by the dagger stares of the entire class.

  I more or less expect hatred from Jayzo, but even my friends are turning on me.

  ‘They were going to play our song,’ says Lou.

  ‘We don’t have a song,’ I say, deliberately obtuse.

  ‘Mine and Fred’s,’ she says. ‘Obviously.’

  ‘Mine and Fred’s, mine and Fred’s,’ I echo childishly.

  ‘What, are you jealous? Can’t be happy for us? Set us up and then regret it?’

  I can hardly defend myself by saying I’m so self-obsessed I’ve barely given them a second thought.

  ‘None of the above,’ I say. ‘I just didn’t think you of all people would go so teenage on me.’

  She looks at me. Very unimpressed.

  ‘You’re lashing out because you’re under siege. I get that. But just try to play nice, and remember who your friends are,’ she says, walking off.

  Isn’t it a bit early for them to have a song? Already? They’ll be married with children by next year if they keep going at this rate.

  Estelle and Janie corner me at the lockers.

  ‘Aren’t we having a hard enough time about the social without you doing this?’ Estelle asks.

  ‘It was an accident.’

  ‘Bad timing, Dan, really bad timing,’ says Janie, digging her biro into someone’s lock.

  ‘You two might not even be able to come!’

  They glare at me.

  ‘Thanks, I feel so much better now,’ Estelle says.

  ‘I can still organise music,’ I say, wondering how.

  ‘Good luck with that,’ says Janie. ‘That gym sucks up sound like the Grand Canyon. The very least you need is a damn kickarse sound system.’

  I think about the large plastic radio I have at home. It was Adelaide’s. One of the earliest FM models. It struggles to pick up Triple J.

  ‘It’s about the atmosphere,’ says Estelle. ‘Every girl will be walking in there looking for a night to remember.’

  She gets a misty-eyed look, dreaming of disc boy no doubt. I give an exasperated sigh.

  ‘Hey, we’re the ones who are annoyed here,’ Estelle says. ‘You’re the one who’s messed things up.’

  If there were any justice in the universe, this is where I’d step in, stunning everyone with my hitherto modestly-never-mentioned guitar brilliance, and they’d go wild and insist I play in the band at the social. And Estelle would fall for me . . . maybe she’d join me up on stage . . .

  ‘Could you not stare into space like we’re boring you? A “sorry” would be nice.’

  ‘Of course I’m sorry, but . . .’

  But nothing. It isn’t worth it. No more ‘it wasn’t my fault’. I just have to wear it.

  ‘You’re up against a thousand sleepovers with romcoms about proms. We’re looking for the director’s cut,’ says Janie, in a soothing ‘let me explain’ tone. ‘All the good bits left in.’

  ‘Including the band,’ says Estelle.

  At lunchtime Dannii comes towards me with an angry posse and starts throwing the brackets around like weapons.

  ‘I totally cannot believe what I hear. Omigod we’ve got orders. Things that like so cannot be cancelled,’ she says.

  ‘That’s okay, it’s not like the social’s been called off,’ I try.

  She rolls her eyes at the posse and they roll theirs back in response.

  ‘It’ll be so totally random with like no music,’ she says.

  ‘I’ll get music.’

  ‘You better or you’re a full gay loser.’

  They turn on a collective (chunky black lace-up) heel and walk off.

  By the end of the day I’ve been made to feel bad a hundred ways, but nobody gives me a harder time than Jayzo. Naturally. He’s loving it, and making a big deal about the guitarist being his friend.

  So after slagging off at me most of the day, he waits till the last class, English, picks up one of the tagger’s heavy-duty textas, grabs my hair and tags my face. He’s covered most of it before I manage to get hold of the pen and shove him off. I’m sent out to wash it off but it’s permanent marker and it won’t budge.

  I stand up voluntarily in front of a
class for the second time ever. When the jeering, whistling and abuse simmers down, I reassure them all that I’ll fix things up. I’ll organise something as good as, or better than what we’ve lost. And I’ll do it by tomorrow night. I’m not going to let them down. They should trust me. Believe me. The social is on.

  I walk home alone, mulling. My problems are like waves – just as one disappears with a snarl and a hiss there’s another shaping up to knock me down.

  I try booking agents first. In three calls it’s pretty clear that even the most pathetic cover bands are way out of our budget league. That leaves jukeboxes. These are affordable, but offer dodgy music selection and sound quality. But beggars can’t be choosers. I make some more calls. Despite feeling uncomfortable about settling for second best, it turns out second best isn’t even available on one day’s notice. It must be party season or something. The only thing I track down that I can afford is a kids’ special loaded with Wiggles music. It’s not going to cut it with angry fifteen year olds. Now it’s five-thirty, businesses are shutting, I’m talking to answering machines and I’m dead. I’ve come up with nothing. Good odds on me being a casualty of crowd violence by around eight-thirty tomorrow morning.

  Maybe my mother will have a solution, like sending me to a new new school, or getting me into a witness protection pro-gram or something.

  But she has new problems of her own. So much so that she barely blinks at the sight of my texta-covered face. She needs a crown. The tooth sort not the head sort. It’s going to cost megabucks. The news has sent her into a misery spin. All her frantic balancing of bills and debt is tipping over.

  ‘You know what I feel like doing? I feel like getting a flint and a hammer and just knocking the stupid thing out like Tom Hanks did in that movie when he was on the island.’

  ‘It was an ice-skate blade and a rock,’ I say.

  ‘Bring it on!’

  It’s so preposterous it makes us both laugh. But I see she’s really worried and probably not up for a ‘help teenage son sort out consequences of his own idiotic actions’ session. I’m relieved when the phone rings and it’s Oliver saying I can come over for my haircut.

  When I start explaining why my face is tagged, the whole stuff-up of the century and my useless attempts at solving it come burbling out.

  They listen sympathetically as Em hacks into my hair in a seemingly haphazard but very confident way. She chooses bits of hair, picks them up, twists them, cuts them in no apparent order, lets them drop and chooses again.

  ‘Voila,’ she says, putting the scissors down when I think she’s about half done. I look into the mirror. My hair is a complete mess, long and short bits all over the place. But I take my cue from the two satisfied expressions smiling back at me and say thanks.

  ‘Did I tell you she was good?’ asks Oliver.

  ‘Yeah. You did.’

  ‘Never, never, never brush it,’ says Em. ‘Ever.’ She hands me a tube of hair goo. ‘Rub a bit of this through to mess it up after you wash it. But don’t wash it too often.’

  I nod as though I understand what the hell she means, and make a mental note to ask Estelle about it.

  ‘And with the dance,’ she says. ‘I can maybe do your music.’

  I nearly fall off the stool. Is my life about to be saved?

  ‘What’s the venue?’ she asks.

  ‘The school gym. But it’s tomorrow night. Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m not booked for anything till next weekend.’

  I know from Oliver than Em is the famous DJ Pony. Posters advertising her gigs are plastered around everywhere.

  When I mention the amount of money we have to pay the band, she laughs.

  ‘That’s cool, we’ll put it towards speakers hire.’

  ‘What about your – payment – fee?’

  ‘Well, you know, any friend of Oliver’s . . . I’ll do you a freebie, lad.’

  My face must be a picture of complete disbelief.

  ‘It’s not a big deal,’ she says. ‘I won’t make the music, I’ll just plug in one of my playlists. A dancy one. And maybe get some lights. Fluorescent tubes in wire cages don’t do it for me.’

  I look at them, unable to make sense of such good luck. Oliver is like a miracle – a kind of hip older brother fairy god-mother style guru hybrid.

  ‘I don’t mind the tagged face,’ Em says as I leave. ‘It’s kinda urban warrior. Cute.’

  After another scrub there’s still no change to the texta face. It might as well be a tattoo.

  Back in my room I hear a knocking from above and Estelle climbs down the storeroom ladder. She’s brought make- up remover.

  ‘I’m sorry about today,’ she says. ‘I wasn’t very supportive. Or – supportative?’

  ‘Supportive.’

  She’s putting the lotion on my face. It’s dissolving my concentration but having no effect on the texta, apparently. She stands back, puzzled. ‘This even takes off stage make-up.’ She stops abruptly, looking at me. ‘Your hair! It’s amazing. How did I not notice? You have sharpened right up since the beginning of term.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ve got replacement music for the social.’

  ‘That’s great. Who?’

  ‘DJ Pony.’

  ‘What? How?’

  ‘She’s Oliver’s girlfriend.’

  Her mouth is still open with the shock of it.

  ‘I’m living next door to DJ Pony? Me? She’s there? Like, now?’

  I nod.

  ‘But how can we afford her?’

  ‘She’s doing it as a favour, for what we’ve got.’

  ‘That is so good. I wasn’t looking forward to tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Me neither. I was going to be the dead one.’

  She gives my face another swipe with the cotton square. ‘I don’t know why this isn’t working.’

  It’s working for me.

  We stand there for a stretched out second, looking at each other. It’s weirdly like a ‘who’s jumping first?’ moment at the edge of a swimming pool. We both chicken out this time, babbling into each other’s words as Estelle makes for the window.

  Relief and disappointment, again. I wish I knew what I was doing.

  ‘So, the tree,’ she says.

  ‘We’ve still got to figure out how to get down the tree,’ I say.

  I open the window and we check it out. In tree fashion, the branches are lighter the further away from the trunk they get. So even though they brush and scratch against my window, it’s the wispy end not the weight-supporting end that’s touching.

  ‘I was thinking maybe a rope attached to my bed and tied to the tree trunk, so we’ve got something to support us till we reach the strong part of the branch.’

  ‘It’s quite a long way down, isn’t it?’ says Estelle leaning out.

  ‘That’s what I’ve been talking about.’

  ‘I get it. But rope should work. Do you have rope?’

  ‘I think there’s some at the op-shop. I’ll go after school.’

  ‘And I’ve still got to rummage for something to wear,’ she says, pointing to the attic.

  ‘Have your parents said Janie can sleep over?’

  ‘Not quite.’ She has an absent nibble of her left hand little fingernail. ‘Not at all, actually.’

  ‘Would you go without Janie?’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘Is your mother showing any sign of thawing?’

  ‘Can’t tell. It’s tougher than I expected. I might have to work on my dad as well. I’ll get clothes for you, too.’ She gives my hair a playful tug. ‘If there’s anything cool enough for you up there.’

  I can’t get to sleep. And I can’t decide if I want Estelle to make it to the social or not. When I think of her dancing with unworthy disc boy, it makes me clench my teeth in anger. If this is love, it hurts. Heart and jaw both aching. The other ache is more easily dealt with.

  27

  ‘WE EXPECT YOU TO behave legally and responsibly. Strictly no alcohol. A
nd remember, if you don’t behave there will be consequences. For a start there will be no Year Nine social next year. ..’

  Doesn’t Pittney realise no one could care less about what happens next year? None of us would bat an eyelid if all the Year Eights were slurped off the face of the earth by an alien gizzard at morning recess. If you could see thought bubbles over kids’ heads all anyone is thinking about right now is dancing, drinking and hooking up. Some are focused on more illicit substances than alcohol, and others have nothing but hair and make-up on their minds. No one gives a toss about Pittney’s sermon.

  My eyes are still adjusting to the vivid spray-tan colour of the transposable brackets who are all working their phones under desk level, confirming limousine pick-up times and making final arrangements for deliveries. The one person I can see paying the slightest attention is Deeks, who is sitting to one side lining Pittney up in an imaginary crosshair and blowing him away.

  ‘And remember, age-appropriate behaviour please everyone. We don’t want you Year Nines attaching to each other like limpets.’

  ‘What’s a limpet?’ asks Billy, one of the taggers, genuinely perplexed.

  ‘A marine gastropod mollusc that lives suctioned onto surfaces,’ says Pittney.

  He looks out at the sea of blank, bored faces.

  ‘I’m talking about pashing on, making out, hooking up . . .’ he says.

  This meets with raucous noises of approval and various people yelling out things like, ‘Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about’, ‘Go, Pit-dawg’, ‘Free condoms at the door’.

  He gives up.

  ‘Remind your parents that pick up is promptly at twelve o’clock. We don’t want you all turning into pumpkins.’

  ‘What’s he talking about now?’ Billy asks his neighbour.

  Jayzo calls out, shooting me a venomous look. ‘What’s Cereill done about the music?’

  I stand, secure in the amazing life raft I’ve been thrown.

  ‘We’ve got DJ Pony.’

  There is uproar. At least half the class knows who she is. The other half just wants to scream. We’re all on a hair trigger and I haven’t heard that volume of whooping and woah-ing since . . . ever. When they calm down Jayzo says, ‘Bullshit.’