I follow her into my bedroom and dump the pipes on the floor.
Bella flips up her mask and cranes her neck to look at my ceiling. ‘Just as I thought – the perfect spot.’ She pulls a pair of black goggles from inside her jacket and throws them in my direction. ‘Put these on.’
‘For what?’ I ask.
‘Duh,’ Bella says. ‘To protect your eyes.’
I was actually asking what she meant by ‘perfect spot’, but I don’t get time to clarify before Dad walks past and does a double-take. ‘What the— Is that a blowtorch?’
Bella takes off her mask and sighs. ‘I’m surprising Grace with a chin-up bar, Mr Bennett. I just need to weld a few pieces together and attach it to the ceiling.’
My own chin-up bar! What an awesome idea.
Dad storms in, shaking his head. ‘No, no, no.’ He holds out a hand for Bella’s blowtorch.
‘It’s my welding gear, Mr Bennett,’ she protests. ‘I know what I’m doing.’
Dad takes the torch and turns a knob, which makes a hissing sound. Bella quickly snatches it back. ‘Careful, Mr Bennett! That’s gas. You could’ve caused some damage.’
‘I need to check this with your parents, Bella,’ Dad says. ‘Don’t light that thing until I call them, thank you very much. Then we’ll discuss whether I’ll let you use it in my house.’
Bella shrugs as Dad leaves the room. She’s got nothing to hide. Her parents supply all her gear – everything from modelling clay to barbed wire.
I flop onto the bed. ‘Sorry about this,’ I say. ‘I think he’s extra grumpy since missing out on that first round of Manchester United tickets.’
‘Hey, I read an article about one of the ManU players in that hideous Pose magazine,’ Bella says. ‘You know, the one Mr Ashton gave me?’
‘How could I forget?’ I say. ‘But why was there was an article about soccer in a fashion magazine?’
Bella laughs. ‘It wasn’t exactly about soccer. It was an article about how one of the players is getting married in the first week of March. Boring.’
‘Maybe they’re getting married here in Newcastle,’ I say. ‘Their match against the Jets is March sixth.’
Bella mimes an over-the-top yawn to show her lack of interest in the wedding.
‘Perhaps you could design the bridal gown, Bella,’ I say. ‘That would impress Mr Ashton – you could be a designer to the stars!’
Bella points the blowtorch in my direction again. ‘A gown is a gown, Grace. I won’t be designing any such thing, so I suggest you pipe down.’
Dad returns at exactly the wrong time.
‘Are you pointing that blowtorch at my daughter?’ he yells. ‘That’s it! I couldn’t reach your parents, so I’m sending you home myself. Out, Bella!’
We don’t mean to be disrespectful, but Bella and I both start giggling. We know there’s no use arguing with Dad.
‘See you later, Grace,’ Bella says. ‘Chin up! Although that may be a little hard without a bar.’
Beep, beep, beep. Beep. Beep.
I smack the alarm clock and jolt into a sitting position. There’s no way I’ll be sneaking a few extra minutes of sleep today.
‘You up, Grace?’ Dad calls.
I throw down the doona and call back: ‘Sure am!’
I can hear the shower running. It must be one of the boys. I don’t want to hold everyone up, so I change out of my pyjamas and into a tracksuit without bothering to wash my face or brush my teeth.
Tom and Harry must have been thinking the same thing, because they’re sitting in the lounge room fully dressed, with mop-top bedheads.
‘Oliver had better be quick,’ Tom says. ‘We need to get there as soon as we can.’
Dad packs a thermos and six bananas into a bag. ‘Come on, Oliver! We’re all ready.’
The shower stops running and Oliver calls, ‘I’ll just be a minute.’
Mum starts pacing the hall. I know she feels responsible for missing out on the first round of Manchester United tickets. I do too.
I follow her and gently touch her shoulder. ‘Calm down, Mum,’ I say. ‘It’s going to be okay.’
She looks at the grandfather clock. ‘I don’t know, Grace,’ she says. ‘Maybe we should’ve camped overnight.’
Tickets go on sale at nine this morning. We live half an hour from the box office. I’m sure there will be plenty of people lined up already, but we’re giving ourselves more than enough time to guarantee a good spot.
Tom and Harry follow Dad out to the van. I’m about to do the same when a crash echoes down the hallway.
‘Aaaaaaahhhhhhh!’
I run to the bathroom with Mum on my heels, yank the door open and see my half-dressed brother sprawled on the tiles.
‘Oliver, what’s the—’
Mum screams. Oliver’s right foot is sticking out an awkward angle and his ankle has swollen to the size of an orange.
‘Call an ambulance!’ Mum yells.
I run back into the hallway and collide with Dad, who pushes past me and Mum into the bathroom. He takes one look at Oliver and starts ordering us around.
‘I need an ice pack,’ he says, and Mum rushes to the freezer. ‘Grace, I’m going to lift Oliver up – I need you to hold his ankle and keep it elevated above the rest of his body.’
I slide my hands under my brother’s ankle and lift until it’s higher than his torso.
‘There’s no use calling an ambulance,’ Dad says. ‘We’ll make it to the hospital quicker ourselves.’
Mum helps Dad lay Oliver down on the minivan’s backseat and I prop his leg up on a pile of blankets. His eyes are squeezed tight, with tears running down his cheeks.
‘It’s going to be okay,’ I tell him. ‘We’re taking you to the hospital.’
Mum climbs in the front as Dad starts the engine.
‘What happened?’ asks Tom.
I shake my head. ‘I guess Oliver slipped. He was probably in too much of a rush.’
I catch Dad’s worried reflection in the driver’s side mirror. The minivan zooms through the neighbourhood, along a few back alleys and onto the freeway.
Oliver moans. His face has turned a ghostly shade of white.
‘Nearly there, Oliver,’ Mum says. ‘You’re doing so well.’
Dad mounts the kerb outside the emergency department and slides the minivan door open. Cradling Oliver like a baby, he dashes into the hospital with the rest of us behind him.
The nurse at the front desk gasps when she sees my brother’s ankle. ‘Straight through here,’ she says, motioning behind some curtains.
Dad lays Oliver down on a bed and we all crowd around.
The nurse frowns. ‘No, this won’t do. The children will have to take a seat in the waiting room. There’s not enough space in here.’
Tom and Harry are about to argue, but Mum puts a finger to her lips. ‘You heard the nurse,’ she says. ‘We’ll see you out there soon.’
I follow the boys into the waiting room and look at my watch.
Half past five. We won’t be out of the hospital in time to snag the tickets.
‘Please tell me that putrid odour didn’t come from your butt, Chloe,’ I say. ‘It doesn’t smell human.’
Bella laughs, then catches a whiff herself. ‘Whoa. I need some air.’
Emily is the next to take a sniff. She gags and starts breathing heavily through her mouth.
Chloe pinches her nose too, and her voice goes all nasal. ‘I’m afraid my body can’t take credit for that,’ she says. ‘But I’m glad you find it so stinky.’ She pulls a lidless jar out from underneath her bed.
‘What is it?’ I ask.
Chloe screws a lid on the jar, then seals it in a plastic bag. ‘This, my friends, is an experimental brew for my perfume project,’ she says. ‘Otherwise known as rotten eggs whisked with vinegar. I think it’s time to throw it out.’
Yiayia takes the bag. ‘I think you will fail your first assignment, paidi mou,’ she says. ‘This is not
a pretty fragrance. In the bin it goes.’
Chloe cackles like a witch. ‘What is pretty, anyway?’ she says. ‘One person’s roses could be another’s rotten egg and vinegar.’
Yiayia shudders as she heads for the door with the ‘perfume’. ‘Nobody would like to rub this behind their ears.’
Emily taps a pen on Chloe’s desk to get our attention. ‘I declare this meeting of the Anti-Princess Club open,’ she says. ‘Grace has already indicated she has an urgent matter of business, so let’s start with her.’
She, Chloe and Bella all turn to me with sympathetic expressions. I emailed them when my family, minus Oliver, finally got home from hospital.
By the time we made it out of the emergency department the box office for Manchester United tickets was well and truly closed. They had sold out within an hour of the doors opening.
‘As you know, we didn’t get tickets to the big game,’ I say. ‘Oliver is going to be in hospital for a week or so. He has to keep his leg elevated for a few days so the swelling can go down enough for it to be operated on. Then he’ll need therapy.’
Bella gives my knee a little pat. ‘You’re an awesome sister, Grace,’ she says. ‘Your whole family is awesome for putting Oliver first.’
There was never any question that Mum, Dad, Tom, Harry or I would leave the hospital to get those tickets. My brothers may test my patience sometimes, but I love them just as much as the anti-princesses.
‘But the thing is, there’s no more soccer-loving family in all of Newcastle than the Bennetts.’ I grab my toes and pull them back towards my hips. Sitting still in hospital for more than six hours yesterday was not easy. ‘So, I’d like to set another mission. I don’t know how I’m going to do it, but I need tickets to that game.’
Chloe shifts uneasily in her seat. ‘Mission Blast-Off will be easy. Getting tickets to a sold-out match is more like a dream.’
Chloe is right, but something in me thinks we can do it. I look to Bella and Emily for support.
‘It is a dream,’ Bella says. ‘But dreams can come true.’
The decision rests with Emily. ‘Okay, Grace,’ she says. ‘Mission ManU: Get Manchester United tickets for the Bennett family. All in favour?’
Bella, Emily and I raise our hands. Chloe hesitates, then sticks her arm in the air as well.
‘We can figure out how we’ll do it later,’ she says. ‘There must be a way.’
Emily slams her laptop shut. ‘I don’t understand some people, Grace,’ she says. ‘We weren’t like that in third grade, were we?’
That’s an easy question to answer. ‘Certainly not,’ I say. ‘We’ve never had a major fight. Never will.’
Emily extends her pinky finger and I link it with mine. It seems like a big promise to make, but we’re sure it won’t be broken.
As we head down to the corridor towards our classroom an announcement comes over the loudspeaker. ‘Could the following students report to the principal’s office immediately: Emily Martin, Bella Singh, Grace Bennett and Chloe Karalis.’
Startled, Emily and I stop in our tracks. None of us have ever been called to the principal’s office.
A group of sixth-grade boys point at Emily and me. ‘Ooooooooh,’ they call. ‘The anti-princesses are in troooooouuuuuble.’
We start the walk of shame to Mrs O’Neill’s office. Chloe and Bella bump into us halfway there.
‘What do you think it could be?’ Bella asks.
‘All of you, inside,’ Mrs O’Neill interrupts. She’s standing outside her office waiting for us, wearing a cat’s-bum mouth.
We follow single-file into the principal’s office. It’s not what I expected. There are daisies in a vase, a gold-framed photo of a fluffy dog on her desk and a painting of a rainbow on the wall. Not scary at all.
‘Take a seat,’ Mrs O’Neill says.
There are only two chairs, so Bella and Chloe share one while Emily and I squeeze onto the other.
‘I’m going to cut to the chase,’ Mrs O’Neill says. ‘I know you all call yourselves “anti-princesses”, but who built the Anti-Princess Club website?’
Emily slowly raises her hand.
‘Emily Martin, the computer whiz. I should’ve known.’ Mrs O’Neill speaks as if she’s just finished sucking on a lemon. ‘And what role do the rest of you play?’
‘Well…we’re all in the Anti-Princess Club,’ Bella says.
Mrs O’Neill shifts her gaze from us to her computer screen. The maths chatroom is up on the monitor, messages popping up every few seconds.
We all lean across her desk to take a closer look.
Emily’s head is in her hands.
‘It says you’re the moderator, Emily,’ Mrs O’Neill says. ‘But how involved are the rest of you?’
None of us quite know what to say. Emily runs the chatroom, but we can’t leave her to be punished alone.
‘Well, I sometimes help Emily moderate,’ I say.
Emily lifts her head. ‘Nice try, Grace,’ she says. ‘It’s just me, Mrs O’Neill. I’m the president of the Anti-Princess Club. I built the website and I run the chatroom.’
Mrs O’Neill peers over her glasses to study Emily’s face, searching for any sign that Emily’s lying. ‘I find it very difficult to believe that a single ten-year-old is responsible for such a complicated operation,’ she says. ‘But I am also aware of your technical prowess.’ She stands up and folds her arms. ‘Last chance. You’re telling me that you’re the sole operator of this chatroom, Emily?’
I open my mouth to speak again, but Emily hisses: ‘I don’t need rescuing.’
Mrs O’Neill hands Emily a red card. I’m not sure what it means in school terms, but I do know it’s the severest form of discipline you can be handed on the soccer field.
‘We have a strict anti-bullying policy at this school as well as rules about appropriate use of technology,’ she says. ‘While I can’t see any evidence of you engaging in bullying yourself, Emily, I’m afraid I have to hold you responsible as the creator of this online haven for gossip and nastiness. This card represents ten lunchtime detentions. Starting today.’
Emily looks at the card as if it’s a death notice.
I slowly stand up and the other anti-princesses follow.
‘One more thing, Miss Martin,’ Mrs O’Neill says. ‘I want that website taken down. ASAP.’
‘But I can’t—’
I gently push Emily out of the office mid-protest. Ten lunches without our president is enough punishment for now.
Anyone would think we’ve just been to a funeral. We’re as sad as polar bears in the tropics, especially Emily.
‘Ten detentions is one thing,’ she says. ‘But being ordered to pull down the website is disastrous. I worked so hard to build it – and I’ll be abandoning all the other anti-princesses.’
I put my arm around her. ‘It seems so unfair,’ I say. ‘Surely we could’ve just weeded out the bullies somehow.’
Emily shrugs my arm off her shoulders. ‘No use arguing with Mrs O’Neill,’ she says. ‘I’m just glad we don’t have to catch the bus today. I’m so depressed.’
Beep, beep, beep. Beep. Beep.
Bella’s mum is across the road. She has a rare afternoon off and is picking us up.
‘Turn those frowns upside down, sad sacks,’ Dr Singh says as we climb into the car. ‘I’ve got some popcorn, chocolate and a box of mangoes for your meeting this afternoon.’
Four half-hearted thank-yous emerge from our mouths.
‘Okay, what’s up?’ Dr Singh asks. ‘This is not like you girls at all.’
Bella turns on the radio. ‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ she says. ‘We just need some time to dwell, then we’ll tell you all about it. I promise.’
A country song about a man who stole some cows and went to jail hums through the speakers. It’s very dreary. Quite appropriate, really. Then the music fades and a loud, over-the-top announcer comes on air. ‘And, in breaking news, Manchester United players have arrived in
our fair city to settle in before their match against the Newcastle Jets. We’ll let you in on some of their pre-match plans after this ad break.’
I squeal and almost jump out of my seat. Bella, Chloe and Emily smile for the first time in hours.
‘That’s more like it!’ Dr Singh says.
The announcer’s voice booms through the car again. ‘If you’re a soccer fanatic, pass by the Harbour View Hotel to catch a glimpse of the team. Our sources say that’s where they’ll be based while they’re in Newcastle.’
I squeal again.
‘And in other ManU news, striker Daniel Hastie will be marrying his rock-climbing fiancée Svetlana Karpinskaia while they’re here. They told reporters they’re planning a small ceremony with no bridesmaids or groomsmen, but they’re yet to decide on an exact location. Karpinskaia said they were scouring Newcastle for somewhere unconventional and unique. Now for our next hot hit on a hundred point nine, always on time, triple L FM.’
Bella turns the radio down. ‘Did you hear that?’ she asks.
Everyone nods excitedly.
‘I mean, did you hear the bit about the wedding?’ Bella asks.
We all shrug.
‘Daniel Hastie is marrying a professional rock climber,’ Bella says. ‘Don’t you see? For my spew-worthy class project, I could design a wedding outfit for a rock climber. And they want somewhere weird. They could do it on top of Hangman’s Peak! She’ll need special shoes, pants, maybe some abseiling gear…’
We all start talking at once and don’t notice at first that Dr Singh is clicking her fingers and trying to get our attention.
‘Bella,’ she says. ‘Girls, I might be able to help you with this.’
We pause and listen to Dr Singh.
‘I know the manager of the Harbour View Hotel,’ she says. ‘I performed an operation on his spinal cord. He wouldn’t be able to walk if it wasn’t for that procedure. I could see if he’d be willing to arrange a meeting between us and the bride-to-be. We could pitch the idea of a mountain-top wedding and offer up your design skills, Bella!’
Grace's Dance Disaster Page 3