‘Just as I thought,’ she says. ‘There are 102 students. That will mean four classes.’
Four teachers climb the stairs to the stage. I recognise three of them as fifth-grade teachers from last year. The fourth, a broad-shouldered man in white sneakers, must be new.
The school principal, Mrs O’Neill, joins them. ‘Welcome to fifth grade,’ she says into the microphone. ‘Let me introduce you to this year’s teachers: Mr Ashton, Miss Shapiro, Mrs Hughes and Mr Talbot.’
They wave and we all clap.
‘Mr Talbot has recently moved here from Greenville,’ Mrs O’Neill continues. ‘And as well as teaching, he will coach the school’s soccer teams.’
Emily, Bella and Chloe shoot me a knowing look. I cross my fingers that I’m in Mr Talbot’s class.
Mrs O’Neill puts her reading glasses on and pulls a clipboard from her briefcase. ‘Could the following people please line up in the back left corner of the hall,’ she says. ‘You will be in Mrs Hughes’s class this year. You may know her from the computer club.’
Emily takes a deep breath.
Mrs O’Neill reads out names in alphabetical order. ‘Tao Liu, Jemima Long, Peter Lucas, Lisa McDonald, Keely Maris, Rose Menzies…’
Emily drops her bottom lip.
I give her a nudge. ‘Hey, don’t worry,’ I whisper as Mrs Hughes leads her students out of the hall. ‘This means we’ve got a better chance of being in a class together now.’
Miss Shapiro steps forward and I shudder. She’s wearing stilettos – the least sporty shoe possible.
Mrs O’Neill starts calling out names again, and I close my eyes. ‘Please not her, please not her,’ I repeat under my breath.
I don’t have to wait long. Bennett is close to the top of the roll.
‘Gaynor Baxter, Lucien Beaumont, Philippa Bienke…’
‘Phew.’ I open my eyes. ‘Two down, two to go.’
None of the other anti-princesses’ names are read out for Miss Shapiro’s class. We smile excitedly at one another. Maybe we will be grouped together again.
Mr Ashton gets up from his chair with a huff and a puff. He clasps his hands on top of his bulbous stomach. Something tells me he’s not the sporty type either.
Mrs O’Neill gets through the Bs without calling my name, and I squeal a little. I’ve got Mr Talbot, the soccer coach!
Mrs O’Neill ignores my noisiness and continues. ‘Timothy Johnson, Madeline Jones, Chloe Karalis…’
Chloe’s eyes widen. She’s not sure whether she should be happy or upset. One thing’s for sure – we’re not in the same class.
We all hold hands as the rollcall continues. ‘Lindsay McDonald, Jonah Mackenzie, Kobi Marshall, Fergus Nicholls…’
Emily practically tackles me in excitement. ‘Woohoo!’ she yells. ‘We must be together, Grace!’
Mrs O’Neill pauses and looks in our direction. ‘Calm down, girls. I still have a lot of names to get through, so please be courteous.’
She continues reading, ‘Manu Rousseau, Sunny Ruskin, Dora Sarkis, Mabel Sedgwick, Bella Singh…’
Bella throws her arm around Chloe. At least they’ll be together.
We zip our lips, but none of us care about the rest of the names. Bella and Chloe are in Mr Ashton’s class and Emily and I are in Mr Talbot’s. The anti-princesses have been divided, but none of us are alone.
‘Fifty-fifty,’ Emily whispers. ‘It’s a great result – and not just from a mathematical perspective.’
Our first morning back is whizzing by with choosing desks, getting-to-know-you games and the fresh scent of new notebooks. The usual stuff.
Mr Talbot tells us he loves all sports, but his favourite is soccer. I think we’ll get along just fine.
‘He seems okay,’ Emily says as the recess bell rings. ‘I wonder how Bella and Chloe are doing.’
Bella and Chloe’s classroom is closer to the picnic tables than mine and Emily’s. They’re already eating their snacks when we arrive.
‘Hello, hello,’ I say. ‘Have you two had a cruisy morning like we have?’
‘We’ve been filling out surveys,’ Bella says. ‘Mr Ashton wanted to know our interests, strengths and weaknesses.’
I grab the edge of the table and do a few tricep dips. ‘That would be easy for me. Interests: sport. Strengths: sport. Weaknesses: sitting still.’
Bella laughs. ‘Well, I put design down as my main interest, art as a strength and concentrating as a weakness.’
Admitting to concentration problems is very honest of Bella. She has a tendency to drift into dreamland when she’s in design mode.
‘What did Mr Ashton say to that?’ I ask.
Before Bella can answer, Mr Ashton himself appears from behind the computer labs. He must be on playground duty.
‘Hello, girls,’ he says. ‘Which one of you is Bella?’
Chloe points at Bella, who smiles politely.
‘Right, I have something for you,’ Mr Ashton says. ‘I think it’s right up your alley.’
He pulls a rolled-up magazine from under his arm and hands it to Bella with an awkward smile. ‘It was left in the staff lounge,’ he adds. ‘And I’d just read about your love of design in your survey, so I brought it straight out. See you back in class.’
‘Thanks, Mr Ashton,’ Bella says, unrolling the magazine.
As Mr Ashton heads off, Bella’s jaw drops. She turns the cover outwards to face the rest of us.
Emily and Chloe gasp. I read the neon-pink masthead aloud. ‘Pose? What’s that?’
‘Pose is a spew-worthy fashion magazine,’ Emily says. ‘My mum has loads of them in her salon.’
Bella shoves the magazine in her backpack.
We all sit in silence for a moment.
Chloe tries to smooth things over. ‘I guess Mr Ashton was just trying to be nice. He thought he was giving you something that you’d like.’
Bella glares at Chloe. ‘Giving me a fashion magazine is like taking a vegetarian to a steakhouse,’ she says. ‘It’s like buying shoes for a snake. It’s like giving a pet tarantula to an arachnophobe.’
Everyone nods. I can hardly think of a less appropriate gift for any of us. Except maybe a tiara.
‘So what do we do?’ Chloe asks.
‘We educate him,’ Bella says. ‘Our new teacher has a lot to learn.’
I bet Mr Ashton didn’t expect his first lesson of the year to be Anti-Princess Protocol 101.
‘He’s home!’
I can’t figure out which brother yelled as all three of them run to the front door.
Tom, Oliver and Harry bowl Dad over as he stumbles through the doorway laden with soccer balls and suitcases.
‘Mum!’ I call out. ‘Dad’s back!’ I join the boys in their tangle of arms and legs on the floor.
Dad pins me down and plants a kiss on my cheek. ‘How was everyone’s first day of school?’ he asks. ‘Come to the table and tell me all about it.’
The whole family moves into the kitchen where Mum is serving up fried chicken and vegetables – Dad’s favourite. Dad puts his hands on Mum’s hips and sniffs her hair. It’s a weird thing he always seems to do when he gets home from a trip. ‘Did you miss me?’ he asks.
Mum playfully whacks him with a tea towel. ‘Of course. You think it’s easy looking after these four on my own?’
I take my seat excitedly. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. Mum can finally reveal the news about Manchester United coming to Newcastle. Dad and the boys will flip out.
The boys start spewing out stories about school, soccer and other random, unimportant stuff.
I clear my throat. They ignore me.
‘Erhem,’ I try again. Still nothing.
‘Mum has something to say!’
Mum smiles at me and grabs the envelope from a kitchen drawer. She waves it around in the air, not even bothering to pull the paper from the envelope. ‘Manchester United are coming to Newcastle!’ she yells. ‘They’re playing the Jets!’
D
ad and all three boys jump up as though they’ve just won a million dollars.
‘No way!’ Tom says. ‘Show us the letter.’
Mum passes the envelope to Dad. By the look on his face, he hasn’t heard anything about the match while he was away. He speedily slips the paper out of the envelope and reads out loud. ‘Dear Mr Bennett, blah, blah, blah… the Newcastle Jets will play Manchester United on March sixth…’
Oliver bounces up and down like a hyperactive frog. ‘It’s true!’ he screams.
Dad’s eyes move from side to side as he continues reading to himself. Then his smile disappears.
‘Honey?’ Mum asks. ‘What is it?’
Dad closes his eyes and inhales deeply. Something is definitely wrong.
‘Dad?’ I ask.
He looks at the letter again, then hands it to Harry.
Harry runs his index finger along each line until he finds where Dad was up to.
‘A limited number of tickets will be made available for purchase by VIPs on February first before remaining tickets are made available to the wider public on February sixth.
‘We predict both rounds to sell out quickly and strongly advise you to attend the box office in person on the day of the sales.’
Tom slaps himself in the forehead. Oliver slumps onto a chair.
‘What?’ Mum asks. ‘What is it?’
I get a lump in my throat. ‘We’re too late, Mum,’ I say. ‘The VIP tickets went on sale today. We should have called Dad about the game yesterday so he could arrange for you to get in line early this morning.’
Mum drops the tea towel and covers her mouth with both hands.
I’m torn between feeling angry at her, furious at myself and sad for Dad and my brothers. ‘It’s my fault, Mum,’ I say, putting my arms around her. ‘I didn’t take proper notice of the sale dates on the letter, and I was too caught up in the first day of school today.’
Mum starts to sob. A tear escapes down my right cheek and I wipe it away with my sleeve.
‘Now, now,’ Dad says. ‘The day’s not over yet.’ He takes the telephone from the wall.
‘Please, please, please,’ Oliver whispers. ‘Please let there be some tickets left.’
We don’t make a sound as Dad speaks to the person on the end of the line. ‘Coach Bennett here. I’m calling to enquire about the VIP tickets to the Manchester United game …Yes, I received a letter…I am aware of the date…No…Right…Okay, thank you.’
Dad turns off the phone.
Mum gulps. ‘Well? Are there any tickets left?’
Dad’s gaze doesn’t lift from the floor. He shakes his head and walks out of the kitchen.
The boys all slink away to different corners of the house.
I sniffle as I pat Mum on the back. ‘It’s not the end of it,’ I say. ‘We’ll get there.’
We must get tickets in the next round. The Bennetts will be in the stadium when Manchester United plays. We have to be.
Mr Ashton is whistling to himself as he writes some quiz questions on the whiteboard.
He has his back turned to us as we enter the classroom. We’ve all arrived early to give Bella moral support as she clears up the misunderstanding over the fashion magazine.
‘Hello, Mr Ashton,’ Bella says.
Mr Ashton screams and throws a whiteboard marker across the room. Luckily we all duck in time.
‘Oh dear,’ he says. ‘Sorry, girls, you startled me. I’m not used to students arriving before the bell. I’ve been planning some exciting assignments based on the answers to your questionnaires.’
Chloe raises an eyebrow suspiciously.
‘There were quite a few of you who listed science as an interest,’ Mr Ashton says. ‘So I’ve organised two science-based projects for a group of you – one project for the girls and one for the boys.’
Chloe frowns. ‘Um, what exactly are the projects, Mr Ashton?’
He pulls a cardboard box out from beneath his desk. ‘Take a look.’
‘Wow, Mr Ashton,’ Chloe says, her face lighting up as she and Bella peer into the box. ‘Is that a rocket, and a bottle of some sort of fuel to make it fly?’
Mr Ashton laughs a deep, snorty chuckle that makes his belly wobble. ‘No, silly. It’s a rocket and a bottle of perfume.’
Chloe opens the bottle and has a sniff. ‘It smells like toilet cleaner,’ she says, screwing up her face. ‘What’s it for?’
Mr Ashton laughs again. ‘It’s perfume,’ he repeats. ‘You know, to make you smell pretty.’
Bella groans. She’s figured it out. ‘So, the girls get to make perfume. And the boys get to make rockets.’
Chloe’s face reddens to a furious crimson, but Mr Ashton doesn’t catch on.
‘I went to the biggest toy shop in the city to do some research,’ he says. ‘And they had marvellous perfume-making kits in the girls’ section and rocket-making kits in the boys’ section. That’s where I got the idea from.’
Bella grabs Chloe’s shoulders. I’m not sure whether it’s to restrain Chloe from throwing the perfume onto the floor in a fit of rage or to stop her from fainting in shock over their new teacher’s ignorance. ‘Take a moment, Chloe,’ Bella whispers. ‘Collect your thoughts.’
Mr Ashton is beaming as he opens a folder and pulls out three pieces of paper. ‘It’s your lucky day too, Bella. Any ideas about your first big assignment?’
Bella gazes at the image Mr Ashton has handed her. I lean over and take a peek. It’s a drawing of a woman in a white ball gown.
‘Is it a…a princess?’
If Mr Ashton says yes, we may explode.
‘Almost,’ he laughs. ‘It’s a bride. There were three of you who listed design as a passion. The other students, Julie and Petra, said they were interested in fashion, so I assume that’s what you meant too. I spoke to the other girls yesterday and Julie suggested you all design a wedding gown. I think it’s a magnificent idea.’
Bella slowly scrunches the paper up in her fist.
Mr Ashton looks a little concerned, but then he grins. ‘Ah, I understand. You’re an artist and you want to design an original gown rather than copy a picture. Admirable, very admirable.’
The bell rings before Bella can even begin to explain how wrong he is.
Emily and I head for the door as Bella and Chloe turn to look after us with expressions of absolute despair.
I know we said we’d be cool if we were separated, but now I’m not so sure.
Bella, Chloe and I are waiting patiently on the floor of the treehouse while Emily types so quickly her hands are a blur of movement. We’re busting to start our next meeting of the Anti-Princess Club.
‘I know you want to help everyone, Emily,’ Bella says. ‘But we’re going to run out of time.’
She stays logged on, but pushes the laptop away. ‘I declare this meeting of the Anti-Princess Club in session,’ she says. ‘Let’s get down to business.’
Chloe is the first to vent.
‘I can’t believe Mr Ashton,’ she says. ‘Can anyone tell me why he thinks girls and boys should be given different science projects? And why the boys get to do something cool like launch rockets, while the girls have to make lame, boring, smelly stuff that serves no purpose?’
I bend into a yoga pose I saw on TV once. Apparently it’s effective for reducing stress. I’m not sure if it’s helping my mind, but it’s a good stretch for my quadriceps. ‘Let’s try to stay calm,’ I say. ‘Mr Ashton obviously needs help. He’s stuck in the olden days when girls and boys were treated differently.’
Chloe nods. Her yiayia has spoken to us about what life used to be like for girls.
‘And maybe he’s used to the type of girls who, you know, actually wear perfume and stuff,’ Emily says. ‘There are people like that out there. My mum is one of them.’
Chloe stares up at the stars being projected onto the dome-shaped ceiling. ‘I’d like to propose our first mission for the year,’ she says. ‘I will make the spew-worthy perfume, but I
’ll also build a rocket – to prove to Mr Ashton that girls can do any type of science project.’
Emily opens her computer and creates a new document.
‘All in favour?’ Emily asks.
We all raise our hands.
Oooooeeeeeee, ooooooeeee, ooooooooeeeee.
‘It’s the emergency signal!’ Emily says.
Emily created a chatroom function that allows anti-princesses to get her attention if she’s logged on but not responding. It’s only supposed to be used in true emergencies – like someone’s mum entering them in a beauty pageant.
We huddle around as Emily clicks on a flashing red flag in the corner of the screen.
Emily stops typing and turns to us. ‘What does that mean?’ she asks. ‘Do you think Miss Shapiro would have a problem with the site?’
I can’t see why any teachers would be upset about the Anti-Princess Club website. After all, Emily is doing them a favour with all her online tutoring. ‘She was probably just angry that Rihanna and the other girls weren’t paying attention in class,’ I say.
‘Do you think we could get in trouble for this too?’ I ask. ‘You know, because it’s our website.’
Emily closes her laptop. ‘I’ve never been in serious trouble at school before,’ she says. ‘But I guess there’s a first time for everything. And some of us aren’t having much luck with teachers so far this year.’
A Darth Vader look-alike is standing on my front lawn.
‘Pick up these pipes for me, will you?’ it says. ‘You’re the muscly one around here.’
It’s Bella, in a welder’s mask, gloves and leather jacket. She’s even holding a small blowtorch. Half a dozen metal tubes are lying next to her feet.
I pile them into my arms. ‘What are you up to, Bella?’ I ask cheekily. ‘Shouldn’t you be designing a wedding dress or something?’
She points the torch in my direction. ‘Watch yourself, Grace. I’m armed and dangerous.’
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