Goldfish

by Nat Luurtsema

  I’ve never seen the appeal in smoking, but right now I’d love to fling a cigarette out the window with a world-weary gesture like, “Hey, it’s just another TV gig.”

  Pete Senior opens his window, flicks his soggy cigarette out with a world-weary gesture, and follows it with a gob of spit.

  Less TV Star, more Loitering Outside Pawn Shop.

  I eye the posters for upcoming gigs. I’ve never been to a gig here (or anywhere, if I’m honest), but Lav’s been to a couple with her friends.

  “Oh, I’ve been here,” says Roman. “I came for a soccer sticker swap meet years ago. They made us line up outside in the rain for three hours.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” I say.

  “Nah, we only stayed forty minutes, did all our swaps in the line, and by the time they opened the doors, we’d gone.”

  “All right,” wheezes Pete’s dad, “let’s park.” He puts the handbrake on and swings himself out of the cab. Really? Here?

  We clamber down and join Pete’s dad next to his “parking space.” It looks as if we just parked in the middle of a square—you know, the sort of place where people eat sandwiches, drink a coffee with friends, and don’t park trucks?

  “You bunch go get in the line,” says Pete’s dad, wrestling with the doors at the back. “I’ll unload.”

  “Should we help?” Roman asks Pete.

  “Heavy work, lads,” Pete Senior sniffs.

  “Don’t bother offering,” Pete tells him, walking away. “When my dad looks at me, he just sees a seven-year-old in a tutu.”

  Pete did ballet as a kid? Roman sniggers. I don’t think I was meant to hear that. I hang back so he doesn’t realize I did.

  “Shut up, Ro. You never heard of Billy Elliot?”

  I want to join in, but I still don’t feel like one of them, so I don’t risk it.

  At the front of the line is a massive opening into a huge warehouse-looking area. You could park a plane in there and then lose it when you came back from your shopping.

  We peer in. It’s full of cameras and men with walkie-talkies and young women with clipboards, and big black floor-to-ceiling curtains partitioning off different sections. I’m nervous at the thought of being in the middle of that madness. But that won’t be for a while, because first we have to get in line.

  The line is about five deep; the people at the front are sprawled on the floor as if part of a disastrous sleepover. They’re giving off a nasty whiff—sports sock full of egg—and look crazy around the eyes.

  We walk along the line, looking—hoping—for the end of it. We walk and we walk, and the line just keeps on … being. After we follow it around the building for over five minutes, it no longer looks like a queue; more like a medium-sized country with a whimsical sense of humor said, “Hey, guys, let’s stand in a sausage shape today!”

  There are a lot of dogs in dresses. This is going to be a day I’ll never forget. (Which can be a good thing and a bad thing. I’ll never forget the day I had chicken pox and got a scab up my nose.)

  A ferret wearing a tiny cowboy hat darts at Gabe’s ankle, teeth bared.

  “Anastasia, no!”

  Her owner, a skinny teenager with gauges in each ear, scolds her and scoops her up.

  By now we’re at the end of the line. I think Gabe would rather be farther away from the ferret.

  “Who names a ferret Anastasia?” wonders Roman.

  “The sort of person who dresses it up in a cowboy hat,” Gabe says.

  Pete looks worried. “I hope there are some normal people here, that we’re not just auditioning for a freak show.”

  Now he worries about that?

  “Underwater synchronized dancing probably fits right in,” mutters Roman, who seems to be losing his nerve. I have to do something.

  I give a little peep on my whistle and they all look at me.

  “Let’s sit and wait and stay focused,” I tell them with a confidence I do not feel. Thankfully, no one argues back.

  I pull on another sweater and wriggle into my sleeping bag. After a few minutes of squirming, I finally slide into a comfy position. I look up to find all the boys watching me.

  “Have you never lined up for a gig?”

  We sit there forever. OK, forty minutes, but that’s a really long time to sit on the ground. The line keeps moving forward tiny bit by tiny bit, which is such a pain in the butt—literally—’cause I’m shuffling along on my bum every thirty seconds to keep up. Eventually the boys take pity on me and drag me behind them like a bag of garbage.

  I will really need to wash my hair, I think as I feel it scrape along the tarmac.

  More and more people join the line behind us, so at least we feel like we’re ahead of someone. Just then I see a very unwelcome sight: an upside-down view of Debs, Cammie, Melia, Nicole, and Amanda walking past us. Cammie stops when she sees Pete. I sit up and knock a candy wrapper out of my hair.

  Debs notices her team has stopped and comes back to see what’s happening. “Oh, hello,” she says, vaguely drifting her eyes over everyone as if she doesn’t really remember us. Cheers, ex-favorite teacher. She recognizes the boys and I see her putting two and two together. So that’s what we were doing at the pool.

  “Are you going to line up?” I ask.

  “No,” she says. The girls smile a little, like, “Oh, how LOL, but I can’t laugh or I’d crack my makeup.”

  “We got through weeks ago,” says Debs smoothly. “We’re here to do interviews, dress rehearsal with our bespoke swimming pool … you know.”

  I nod, but I don’t know, especially the word bespoke.

  I hope it means “full of snakes.”

  “Uh-huh,” says Gabe. (Love Gabe, he’s never rude to anyone. I’m so glad he’s picked up on the tone here. The other two are just dribbling over the girls. Please focus, team.) “Yah, we’ve got a freestanding swimming pool too. Ours is industrial, though, higher build quality—well, you know…” he says, having an elaborate stretch and yawn to show how very unbothered he is.

  I’m quietly Googling bespoke on my phone, inside my sleeping bag so Debs can’t see. Oh, it just means someone made it for them. Well, someone’s making our pool for us, actually, so …

  “Hey!” comes a yell from behind. Great timing, Pete Senior.

  “Heyy!!!” he says again, clearly feeling that the whole line should be listening. “I’ve got yer fish tank set up!”

  chapter 20

  At the words fish tank, I can see everyone in the line starting to giggle and look around. To be clear about this, these are people who put hats on their ferrets and dresses on their dogs, and they are laughing at us.

  “Thanks, Dad!” yells Pete, leaping to his feet. Then he sees the tank and his face droops. I haul myself up using Gabe as a crutch, stumble over a few magazines, and shuffle to stand next to Pete. And we stare together.

  Well. If one were to scrabble around for a nice thing to say (and let’s be nice, why not?), it looks a bit like modern art. It lurches and bulges wonkily at the sides. I can’t imagine it holding a small mouse, let alone gallons of water. And it’s really small—the swimming routine is going to involve a lot more cuddling than I’d choreographed.

  Also, how are we going to move it into the studio? Already a traffic cop is eyeing it and reaching for his notebook.

  “I won’t keep you,” I say crisply to Debs and her team. They drift off with a couple of pitying backward glances and snickers.

  “Stay here,” says Pete wearily to me. “Hold our place.” Happy to! His dad was tetchy when I asked him his surname; imagine how moody he’ll get when questioned about his crazy fishbowl. I watch the three boys slope away from me and toward the wobbly upside-down greenhouse in the middle of the pedestrianized zone.

  My stomach is churning with cheese, worry, and pickle. I fiddle with my whistle, which usually bolsters my confidence, but right now I feel out of my depth. I look at my phone and think about calling home, but I’ve got no bars.

  Pe
te, Roman, and Gabe finish talking with Pete Senior and walk back to me with faces of men who have seen their own doom and know there is nothing left to do but face it with dignity.

  “Good news?” I say brightly.

  Gabe looks at Pete, who says nothing, so he fills me in. “We have no idea how we can move it from out here to in there. And that tank is so small, if we attempt the triple dive, someone’s going to end up pregnant. And it can’t be me, because I need to focus on my education.”

  I sink deep inside my sleeping bag. All this hard work for nothing! After a few seconds, I poke my head back out to see what’s going on. They’ve fallen silent. Roman and Gabriel are staring at Pete in utter astonishment.

  “What?” I demand, pushing my hair out of my face. “What have I missed?”

  “Pete just apologized,” whispers Roman.

  “Do it again,” says Gabriel incredulously.

  “Oh, shut up!” snaps Pete. “I’m sorry, OK? I really thought my dad would come through for me.”

  “To be fair…” I say slowly.

  “Oh, seriously, Lou, can you not?” interrupts Pete. How is everyone allowed to make fun of him except me?

  “I wasn’t going to!” I protest. “I was going to say that he got a gigantic truck across town, carrying a quite big and” (I hiss this bit) “stolen fish tank in it, and he managed to put it together, sort of. Your dad did all that because he loves you (and is criminally reckless), but it’s still amazing.” I trail off, suddenly becoming shy again.

  Pete’s dad ambles up.

  “No good, then?”

  We hesitate.

  “It’s brilliant, Dad, thanks,” lies Pete, and hugs his dad, who gives him a surprisingly comfortable hug back.

  “Thanks, Pete!” we all say with big fake smiles.

  “Good,” says his dad. “Call me when you need me. I’ll be in the pub.”

  “Aaahh,” says Gabe as we watch Pete Senior wander off. “I love to hear those words from the man who’s driving me home in a ten-ton truck.”

  There’s a shrieking, scratching noise behind us, and we turn around just in time to see the tank collapse in on itself. A raggedy cheer and a round of applause rises up from the line.

  So it’s come to this, I sigh to myself. Plan B—as in Bloody Stupid.

  I wriggle out of my sleeping bag and divest myself of a couple of sweaters. I’m walking to my doom, and I don’t want to look like a laundry basket that sprouted legs. I’ve been formulating a desperate idea for the past ten minutes that I really hoped I wouldn’t have to put into action. I head toward the TV cameras at the front of the line.

  I see Debs from the back; she’s standing just inside the entrance to the aircraft hangar. She’s leaning on one leg slightly, hand on hip. Even when she’s relaxed, Debs always looks ready to pounce and kill. Which doesn’t help right now.

  “Debs?” I say. She doesn’t turn around. She’s watching her girls give an interview to two smooth-faced men holding microphones.

  “COACH!” I yell, and she wheels around. Instinct.

  “Can I talk to you?” I ask.

  “Not now.” She turns back, dismissing me. Hannah would do this so much better than me, but she’s not here, so it’s up to me. I grab hold of my inner Hannah and take a deep breath.

  “Durbs!” I announce in a reedy shout. Oops, spit bubble in my throat.

  Ahem.

  “Debs!” I shout less froggily. “I’m sorry I didn’t swim fast enough at the Olympic time trials. I’m sorry that after all your coaching and hard work, I just wasn’t good enough! I’m a failure!” The camera hovers over to me.

  “But now I’ve coached a team of swimmers for this show, and it’s helping me feel confident again! I just want a chance to show what we can do and make my gran proud. My gran who … died.” I shield my eyes so I don’t cry (very little risk of that TBH—both my grans are fine). The crowd around me murmurs sympathetically. I’ve seen this show; I know how it works. I lift my face out of my hands and do Big Eyes at Debs.

  “So please, Debs, can we borrow your—bespoke pool?” The world goes very quiet as I stare at her and wonder what she’ll do next.

  Debs has a peculiar look on her face and I realize she doesn’t know what to feel, let alone fake. I really have got her on her weakest area here. Genius, Lou! And only a little bit humiliating for me, but no worse than having tampons flicked at your head.

  “That’s a beautiful story,” says one of the presenters, putting an arm around each of us. From the look on Debs’s face, I’d be surprised if he gets that back in one piece.

  “Great backstory. I know we can’t wait to see these two former Olympic teammates become rivals today.” He’s not really talking to us; he’s twinkling at the camera. Debs looks homicidal, so I say, “Thanks, Coach!” and run off.

  “Hey!” A man with a walkie-talkie gestures to me. I hesitate, bouncing on the balls of my feet. “The pool will be here. Come and find us when you’re a hundred away from the head of the line, OK?” I nod and run off to tell the boys.

  chapter 21

  My team is so pleased with me that they spend a ten on snacks from the local gas station and shower me in chips. An hour later, the chips are all gone and my hair feels salty, but I feel happy. This audition might actually happen. I make the boys stretch so their muscles don’t stiffen up. They protest that they look stupid.

  I nod at a woman dressed as a cow. This is not the place for shy people. Now get stretchy.

  Roman keeps running to the head of the line to count back and see how far away we are from the front. Finally he sprints back, shouting, “Ninety eight!”

  “OK, people, this is go, go, go!” I say, sounding a bit like Debs. We sprint to the entrance. I’m blinking in the unfamiliar darkness when a blank-faced security man puts his hand on my chest.

  “Sorry, sir…”

  I take out my hair clip, and my hair tumbles down.

  He takes his hand off my chest very quickly and begins apologizing. I walk past him and find my walkie-talkie guy, who is standing on top of a big podium, shouting and pointing at things. Everyone’s very busy here, in a sort of “Behold my busy-ness, marvel at my loud efficiency!” kinda way.

  “Excuse me!” I shout up at him, my voice sounding all weedy in the aircraft hangar. I’m aware that the security guard will soon be hot on my heels.

  “It’s me, swimming-pool girl? Can we have a look at the pool we’re borrowing, please?” He nods at me and whispers something stern to his wrist. I hope he’s got a microphone up there; our last pool provider was a little mad; we need this one to be less so.

  “OK,” he says, stepping down from the podium and heading toward us. He’s listening to something in his earpiece and talking to us but looking three feet above our heads.

  “They’re just finishing up in there. The girls were doing a demo for the cameras.” He jerks his head toward a big black curtain behind him. I’m desperate to see Debs’s routine, and I step forward without thinking. Wrists Man puts a hand up to stop me.

  I can hear splashing and bare feet padding around in there, some murmured thank-yous, then silence. Wrists Man peers around the curtain and nods at us to go through, holding it open for us. Gabe plucks at my arm in excitement, I pluck his back, painfully hard, and we do “Eeee!” faces at each other. We step through the curtain and stop, dazzled by the bright studio lights.

  The pool is a huge, freestanding circle, about twelve feet high. It dwarfs us, and it takes me a few seconds to walk all the way around it, running my fingers admiringly over its sides.

  All the way around … its … sides.

  The sides are made of black plastic. I can’t see into the pool. Of course, because they’re doing normal synchronized swimming. I’m an idiot.

  I keep walking until I bump into the boys. Pete is resting his forehead on the side, looking suddenly very tired.

  “You can’t see in,” he says, though there’s no need. Gabe picks at one of the edges.
/>
  “It won’t come off,” he adds.

  Roman thumps his head a few times against the side of the pool.

  Debs appears. “Stop that. It’s bespoke.”

  We walk back outside in silence, past Wrists Man and the presenters, who look confused about the kids who skipped into the studio and trudged out minutes later, all hope gone. Once we’re outside we turn left as if to rejoin the line when we realize there’s no point.

  “You didn’t even see the pool?” Pete asks.

  “No!” I say. “I couldn’t, ’cause it was backstage and I didn’t even think. I … I just thought I’d fixed everything,” I trail off miserably.

  “Never mind,” says Roman, but he doesn’t sound at all like he means it.

  We head toward Pete’s dad’s truck, as it seems the only thing left to do. Mom calls as we walk. I answer and tell her what happened in a half whisper. Right now I feel like Pete and Roman are having to stop themselves from yelling at me. This isn’t fair. I did my best. Gabe puts a comforting arm around my shoulders. (Luckily, I’m stooped with sadness, or he would have struggled to reach.)

  Mom hangs up and, just as I’m thinking, Never mind, in a couple of hours I’ll be in bed eating cheese on toast, I see that the megatruck has been booted.

  Then I see Pete Senior weaving toward us with the snooty air of a drunk person who’s trying to hide it, and I’m grateful that it has. Dad does this at Christmas: “Ah am shimply overwhelmed by all the festivitivitivi … turkey.”

  “Oh, balls,” says Pete Senior, and gives the boot a halfhearted kick. He takes it very well, I must say, but I guess if you don’t plan ahead, you’re less fussed when plans suddenly change.

  We stand around the collapsed fish tank while Pete’s dad makes a series of phone calls to friends. Not standing too close in case it collapses further and also because a bored line of hopeful BHT contestants are taking selfies in front of it. They’re all blatantly going to end up online, and I don’t want to be tagged.

  Not that I’m on Facebook. It’s one thing to not have loads of friends, but there’s no need to flaunt it publicly.

  Pete’s dad fetches us coffee from the gas station. Mine tastes like licking a battery and is not going to help my stomachache, but I feel so adult. Finally three cars turn up, driven by men who all nod at Pete before having huddled chats with his dad. They each take a shard of glass and wedge it in the back of their car. It’s quite impressive, like ants transporting a leaf.