It's a Girl Thing

by Grace Dent

  Sheesh. I didn’t realize that so many Blackwell kids took after-school classes at the Anouska Smythe School of Dance, the local dance school. Honestly, I didn’t.

  I thought most kids just lay about in each other’s bedrooms from four P.M. onward, listening to loud music and putting off doing their homework like me, Fleur and Claude do. Well, that was until I sat through four girls, one after another, clad in tight-fitting leotards, chunky leg warmers and sweatbands. Every one pirouetting, leaping and high-kicking to classical music until I felt quite, quite bilious.

  They’re all so flipping energetic, I think. I bet they don’t get lapped by the asthmatic kids when they’re doing the 1500 meters, like I do.

  “And can I just tell you,” gushes one tiny blond girl, “that I’m so excited about this opportunity to perform for you!” The silver ribbons tying up her curly locks match the girl’s sparkly ballet pumps exactly. “I mean, I’ve been singing and dancing around the house since I was, like, two years old or something!”

  “Great,” the LBD all say.

  “And can I just add that everybody in my family, as well as Anouska Smythe herself, says I’m going to be a worldwide superstar!” she says.

  “Really?” says Claude.

  “Really!” Blondie squeaks before twirling into the distance, a flurry of arms, legs and curls.

  “Good,” says Claude. “NEXT.”

  “Did you bring any headache pills?” whispers Claude, touching her scalp. “I think I’m getting a migraine. This is quite stressful, isn’t it?”

  “Sorry, mate, I’ve not got any,” I say, noticing Matthew Brown, a Year 10 lad, approaching us.

  “Hang on, I have,” announces Fleur, delving into her rucksack. “Er, but wait a second,” she says, furrowing her brow. “Why is Matthew Brown carrying a large teddy bear?”

  We all look up at the next audition waiting to do his turn: She’s right, he is holding something very bearish. But it’s not quite a teddy bear, that’s far too cute a word for the di sheveled, manky stuffed animal that Matthew is clutching to his chest.

  “Errr . . . Matthew?” begins Claude with a puzzled expression.

  “Good afternoon, ladies,” says the boy. “I am Matthew Brown and this is Mr. Jingles, the amazing talking bear . . .”

  “Oh my God, he’s a ventriloquist, isn’t he?” I shudder. I feel exactly the same about ventriloquists as I do about jugglers. They depress me.

  “Let’s see if he can do it first.” Fleur giggles, waving at the furry freak show. “Hello, Mr. Jingles! How are you today?” she says.

  “I’m gelly well, Gleur!” says Mr. Jingles, damn, I mean, says Matthew. I don’t know how I’m possibly getting confused. My granny Tish could see Matthew’s lips moving from half a mile away, and she’s only in possession of one good eye. I’ve seen ventriloquism before; this is not the dictionary definition.

  “Mr. Jingles, what have you been up to today?” continues Matthew to the moth-eaten museum piece.

  “Gwell, Maffew,” says the bear, “I’ve bween gwatching twe livision!”

  Thankfully, Claude has seen enough.

  “Matthew, this is a music festival audition,” interrupts Claude quite firmly. Obviously Mr. Jingles has tested her patience. “What’s with the ventriloquism?”

  “Aha, but we haven’t got to the singing, tap-dancing part yet! Have we, Mr. Jingles?” says Matthew, turning to the tufty puppet.

  “Gno, we gwhaven’t!” says the bear, shaking its head.

  “But Matthew, we have got to the end of your allotted time. Sorry,” says Claude, tapping her watch and tutting.

  This alone seems to annoy Matthew Brown a great deal. In fact, long after he’s huffed and puffed out of the gym with Mr. Jingles slung over his shoulder, we can still hear him fuming about “people not recognizing great talent when they see it.” He’s probably out there now joining forces with the squeaky curly-blond superstar girl, cooking up a plot to storm LBD HQ and batter us to death with his stuffed bear. Could these auditions get any worse?

  Claude was looking a little weary by now too, so I prescribed a chocolate muffin to cheer her up. Little C smiles and begins searching in her rucksack. And boy, was Claude going to need cheering in light of the Blackwell Bellringing Society, who have just arrived en masse, proceeding to ding-dong merrily and on high (one of them even stood on the vaulting horse, clanging away) until the LBD begged for sweet mercy.

  “Bellringing and migraines DO NOT mix,” mumbles Claude, spitting chocolate chips all over her paperwork.

  the lost boys

  Of course, by this point the very blatant nonappearance of Lost Messiah (and more crucially Jimi Steele) is playing on my mind. The possibility that I’ve been blown out began as a tiny seed of insecurity an hour ago, blossoming with each ticking second of the gym clock into a whole forest of self-doubt.

  “Lost Messiah coming down to perform a special song for us”? Pah. Yeah, right.

  “Jimi wanting to know especially if I was going to be there”? As if. My behavior of late is taking the term “dweeb” to previously unseen depths.

  I could give myself a slap for believing the stuff that Fleur comes out with. I mean, it’s not that Fleur’s a liar, it’s just that you have to take a lot of the things she says with a large pinch of salt cos she tends to exaggerate. But when she’s saying something that you desperately want to hear more than anything else in the world, it’s difficult to stick your fingers in your ears and play the “Can’t Hear You” game, isn’t it?

  I stand up, scanning the line hopefully for Jimi’s floppy locks or Naz’s spiky shark’s-fin haircut. No Aaron, no Danny, no Tyson: no Lost Messiah.

  Nothing.

  Total blowout.

  Never mind, I don’t give a hoot anyhow. Not that much. It’s not like I made a special effort to look nice today or anything. It’s not like I hardly slept a wink last night for going over my imaginary script of what I’d say to Jimi when he showed up.

  Suddenly Claude lets out a little gasp, disturbing me from my worries. Another act has arrived; another act that isn’t Lost Messiah.

  “Liam?” Claude says. “What are you doing here?”

  “These are the auditions, aren’t they?” says Liam Gelding, his silver earring glinting in the late-afternoon sun. “Why do you think I’m here?” Liam has an electric guitar strapped around his chest, and he’s holding sheets of paper with what looks like song lyrics scrawled all over them.

  “We’ll just set up quickly, then,” Liam says, gesturing to the rest of his, er, band: Benny Stark (plus trademark mad curly hair) and a girl holding a guitar and a snare drum.

  I’m truly stunned to see Liam Gelding here at Blackwell Live’s auditions. I mean, Liam’s in our form, so we see him more than most folk . . . but hang on. Liam Gelding adding weight to a Blackwell after-school activity? This just isn’t Liam at all. Liam’s exactly the sort of lad who’d call us nerds for even dreaming up Blackwell Live in the first place. I sat with him for an hour today in PSE and he never even spoke, let alone mentioned his band.

  Freaky.

  “We’re called Guttersnipe,” mutters Benny to Fleur.

  Fleur writes the name down dutifully as Guttersnipe’s rather fearsome blond bass player, apparently called Tara, plays a deafening therwwwwwwwang, checking her amp’s working.

  It certainly is: The table has just reverberated.

  “I’m set to go when you lads are,” Tara announces, holding a guitar pick between her teeth.

  Wow. Tara really does look fantastic with that guitar. I must remember to ask Mr. Foxton tomorrow exactly why I’ve wasted three years farting about on a glockenspiel when I could have been mastering bass guitar. By now, I could look exactly like Tara: cool, powerful and totally intimidating. You don’t really get that look with two mallets playing “Old MacDonald.”

  As Tara and Benny prepare, Liam hovers center stage, strumming the occasional chord and looking slightly jittery.

  “C’mo
n, Benny, get a move on,” Liam starts to nag.

  But just what Liam Gelding plans to contribute to Guttersnipe is really puzzling me. You see, I’m pretty sure Liam can’t even read or write properly, so I don’t suppose mastering lead guitar is high up on his things-to-do list either. I’m not being a bitch here, before you start thinking it, I’m being truthful. I really like Liam, but there’s a bit of a story attached to him. He’s just a bit “wild,” as my mum would say. You see, during Year 8, Liam sort of stopped turning up at Blackwell, preferring to hang around the Westland Shopping Mall instead. Liam Gelding proved to me that if you wanted to “opt out” of school, it could be done. Easily. And even when he did show up, he did stupid things like climbing up on the school roof or swearing at teachers, which meant that Mr. McGraw kicked him out again, tout de suite.

  “Suits me fine,” Liam would snort, heading for the gate.

  Claude knows Liam a lot better than I do.

  Bless her, she popped around to Liam’s flat several times during Year 8 with projects and course work . . . but Liam was hardly ever home. One night, at LBD HQ, Claude got a bit upset and remarked that even when Liam did get suspended from Blackwell, it wasn’t like anyone back home cared.

  Anyway, I shouldn’t gossip.

  That’s really as much as I know about Liam Gelding. Claude’s very tight-lipped about what else she knows. It’s cool, however, that Liam is turning up for school a bit more in Year 9. Sheesh, some days he even stays right though till 3:30 P.M. and everything.

  “So, er, we’ll just begin then, shall we?” mumbles Liam, fiddling with his hair.

  “Yeah, when you’re ready,” says Claude.

  “Okay, cool,” says Liam. “Right. A-one, a-two, a-three, four, five . . .”

  All at once Guttersnipe strike up a tune, Liam on lead guitar, Benny on a snare drum, Tara on bass. They’re a tiny bit shaky and maybe even a touch off-tune, but extremely good nevertheless. Tara’s belting out a chunky, quite complex bass line, jutting her hips in time to the notes, while Liam concentrates sternly on his fingers . . . concentrating harder than I’ve ever seen him in his whole life. Guttersnipe’s bitter sound is far more serious than anything we’ve heard so far today, which is a welcome change after so many happy-go-lucky tunes and “I love you” ballads. And when Liam eventually sings, although it’s more of a husky whisper, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up on end.

  “You believed in me

  You didn’t believe the hype

  And there’s no one really like

  Really like you

  Who

  Well, you know what I’m really like . . .”

  This is one of Liam’s many verses. It’s certainly a good song, and I can’t help wondering who the heck Guttersnipe stole it off. And as Liam sings his heart out, the whole room is transfixed by the blond, pale-green-eyed lad, beguiled for once by his voice and considerable stage presence instead of some idiotic episode he’s been part of.

  “Er, Claude . . . did you know Liam plays guitar?” I whisper.

  “No . . . no, I didn’t,” says Claude. “He’s certainly a man of mystery.” Claude chuckles.

  “This lot are really good!” announces Fleur. “Whatcha reckon?”

  “Yep, I agree,” I say, watching Tara’s nimble fingers jealously. As Guttersnipe finish their number, the entire gym breaks into applause. Liam’s cheeks redden, then he throws back his shoulders as if he was expecting that all along.

  “Cheers, er, everyone,” he says. “That song was called ‘Promise.’ ”

  “It’s a track off our new album.” Benny sniggers.

  “Yeah, our album that’ll be released just as soon as we get around to writing another twelve songs,” adds Tara dryly.

  “Well, cheers for coming,” says Claude, clearly still a little stunned by Liam’s hidden talent. “Er, Liam.” Claude lowers her voice. “When did you begin playing the guitar?”

  “Well, don’t you always nag me to get a hobby, Claudie?” says Liam.

  “Yeah . . . yeah, I do.” Claude shrugs. “But when did you ever listen to anything I say?” Claude half-jokes.

  “I know. I can’t be feeling well,” replies Liam, almost back to his cocky self. “I’ll have to keep an eye on myself. Got a reputation to keep up an’ all that, eh?”

  “Benny, we’ve got your number, we’ll be in touch.”

  “Whatever, man,” mutters Benny from underneath his heap of hair.

  “Oh, and Liam?” says Claude, extremely quietly now so that only the LBD can really hear her. “I didn’t see you in the lunch hall today.”

  “Nah,” he says.

  “I’ve got sandwiches,” says Claude, rattling her lunch box. “Can I tempt you?”

  Liam’s eyes widen.

  “Cheers, Claude.” Liam smiles. “I’m starving. You’re an angel.” Liam helps himself to some food before wandering out of the gym with pickle all over his face and a muffin under his arm.

  Fleur and I roll our eyes at each other.

  “Right!” says Claude rather officiously. “Mr. Gowan’s going to be in here playing merry hell soon, he’ll be wanting to lock up. Let’s get this show moving, shall we? Who have we got now?”

  “Lost Messiah,” announces Fleur.

  “Really!? Are they here?” I say, brightening up, reaching for my lip gloss, straightening my ponytail and craning my neck to spot Jimi, all at the same time.

  “No. Not really,” says Fleur, sniggering. “They’re still not here, but there’s some more kids from the Anouska Smythe Dance School next up if you’re interested.”

  “I hate you, Fleur,” I say.

  “I know,” says Fleur, sniggering even louder.

  Just when I thought I couldn’t face another high kick, a change of pace comes in the form of Frank Gillespie, a huge, six-feet-tall chunk of lad who goes by the Blackwell nickname of Shop (so nicknamed because he spends every breaktime making pilgrimages to the local shop to stock up on sweets and pies. See, I told you Blackwell kids were cruel, didn’t I?). Shop’s clad in a pair of electric blue brogues boasting turquoise laces, and within seconds he’s in full flow, singing . . . you’ve guessed it . . . “Blue Suede Shoes” by Elvis Presley. Shop has quite obviously practiced his act for many long hours in front of his bedroom mirror, and when his time’s up, he can’t quite get out of character.

  “Cheers, Shop! That was grrrreat!” shouts Fleur. “No, really. It was.”

  “Huh, thankyouverymuch, little lady,” drawls Shop, curling his top lip just like Elvis Presley, the King of Rock ’n’ Roll himself, before attempting to walk with dignity out of the gym. No mean feat for a fifteen-stone lad wearing a pair of neon-blue shoes four sizes too large for him.

  “Those shoes are enormous!” squeals Claude. “They must belong to Shop’s dad, he’s the only person in the surrounding area I can think of who’s bigger than Shop!”

  “Big shoes doth not make a good performer, Claudette,” mutters Fleur with a worried expression.

  As the LBD begin a small, heated argument about the merits of Shop and his possible involvement in Blackwell Live (me arguing that Shop is cool, funny, and any grown-ups who bought tickets would like him; Fleur arguing that Shop should be arrested for “crimes against music” and she’d rather watch Matthew Brown and Mr. Jingles again than include “that big buffoon”), a growing mumble of excitement begins to creep through the gym. Just as Claude is about to lose patience and bang our heads together, a rather arrogant voice cuts in.

  “Ahem. If you’re not too busy with your little squabble, children,” says the plummy rasp, “we’d like to make a start with things. Thank you.”

  We all look up at once to see the unmistakable face of Panama Goodyear glowering down at us. Panama’s sleek brown chin-length bob is pulled back by her trademark prim scarlet velour headband, her cold hazel eyes look disdainfully at the LBD, almost as if we’re maggots she’d found crawling in her lunch box. As ever, Panama is dressed immaculately in perfect
black Lycra trousers that taper stylishly to the heel of her incredibly pricey Prada sports shoes, her matching corseted boob tube clinging to every curve of her generous bust and toned torso.

  “Or shall we just stand here while you twitter on?” continues Panama, turning to the rest of Catwalk, her band.

  “Huh-huh!” sniggers Abigail and Leeza, both equally as chic, clad in designer dance-studio outfits and coordinated sneakers.

  “I mean, I don’t know about you people,” Panama says for the whole gym to hear, “but I’m on the edge of my seat wondering whether these kids will allow us to play at their little concert, aren’t you all?”

  Fleur rolls her eyes, placing the cap back onto the top of her pen.

  “I’ve tossed and turned all night, haven’t you, Abigail dar-link?” mocks Panama.

  “Oh, totally,” says Abigail, flicking around her white-blond dead-straight locks.

  “Well, we’re ready for you now,” says Claude, trying to sound unintimidated.

  “Good, good,” says Panama sniffily. “Now, we thought we’d do the routine today that we performed for the Wicked FM Roadshow ‘Search for a Pop Band’ quarterfinals.”

  Groan. I was wondering how long it would take Panama to bring the Wicked FM competition up. That was under eleven seconds, possibly a world record.

  “I mean, everybody, even all of the DJs and important record company executives in the audience that day, loved that one, didn’t they, Zane?” brags Panama.

  “Oh, yeah, loved it. Everyone loved it,” bleats Zane, one of the male members of Catwalk. Zane seems to have gone overboard with the fake tan today. Although his neck is quite pale, his head is a strange streaky tangerine color.

  I don’t dare risk a chuckle.

  “Oh, everybody just loves Catwalk. It’s a fact,” pipes up Derren, Panama’s other dismal henchman: a boy with dance trousers so tight, I can see what brand his underwear is.

  Sadly, and I hate to say this, Zane and Derren might have a point here about Catwalk being ultrapopular. Everyone in the gym, aside from the LBD, is slavering and fighting for a prime place to watch these local microcelebrities perform.