Grace's Dance Disaster

by Samantha Turnbull

  Mr Ashton nods along but he is only semi-impressed by the paper cylinder. ‘And does it fly?’

  Matt seems to have forgotten that part. ‘Oh, yeah. Like this.’

  He slides the paper rocket onto the straw and uses his mouth to blow through the end. It pops off and into the air.

  Matt’s mother cheers supportively while the rest of the audience half-heartedly claps.

  ‘Poor Matt,’ Bella whispers. ‘He wanted to make perfume for his mum.’

  A hush sweeps over the crowd as Mrs O’Neill arrives at the presentation and takes a seat next to Yiayia.

  ‘Oh good, the principal is here,’ Mr Ashton says. ‘I think you’ll enjoy the next project, Mrs O’Neill. Daisy Northcott is our next student.’

  Daisy holds up her bottle and smiles awkwardly. ‘This is my perfume. It’s made from rosemary, lavender, water and alcohol.’

  Mr Ashton nudges her towards the audience. ‘Hand the bottle around for our guests to smell, Daisy,’ he says.

  Daisy passes her concoction to Yiayia, and I catch Mrs O’Neill yawning.

  ‘Chloe Karalis, you’re next,’ Mr Ashton says.

  Bella, Emily and I hoot as Chloe pulls the sheet off her crate.

  She has built a rocket that’s as tall as her shoulders. It’s metallic, with four tailfins, a cone-shaped nose and a huge NASA sticker on the side.

  Mr Ashton shakes his head with such force, he sends his droopy cheeks flapping like a bloodhound’s. ‘Chloe, you were supposed to make perfume, remember?’

  The crowd begins to murmur. I can already hear a few hints of disapproval over the girl–boy divide.

  ‘It’s okay, Mr Ashton,’ Chloe says. ‘I have made a fragrance. This rocket is just what you’d call the dispenser, I suppose.’

  Mr Ashton narrows his eyes and steps back cautiously.

  ‘Let me start by telling you about the rocket,’ Chloe says. ‘It’s made from a plastic canister, cardboard and tape.’ She pulls a glass bottle and a bag of white powder from the crate. ‘And this is the perfume. Also known as rocket fuel.’

  A few of the parents at the back of the crowd stand to watch Chloe as she tips the powder into the canister part of the rocket.

  ‘Now, I’m going to have to ask you all to keep clear,’ she says. ‘This baby is about to take off.’

  Everyone takes a few steps back as Chloe pours the liquid from her bottle into the canister. She seals it quickly and jumps away from the rocket.

  It takes about four seconds for the rocket to launch. It flies so high it clears the tops of the closest trees and we lose sight of it until it hits the ground.

  ‘Woooooohoooooo!’ Bella, Emily and I yell. ‘Go Chloe!’

  Mr Ashton stands up and signals for everyone to be quiet. ‘While that was a very good example of a bicarb soda and vinegar rocket, Chloe, I’m afraid you failed to make the perfume as instructed.’

  Some dads up the back boo.

  Then it comes.

  Yiayia pulls out a handkerchief and covers her nose with it.

  ‘What is that stench?’ one of the mums calls out.

  I pinch my nostrils. Bella pulls her shirt up over her nose. Emily starts to cough. We’re surrounded by people gagging, spluttering and covering their faces.

  ‘You’re right, Mr Ashton,’ Chloe says. ‘It is a bicarb soda and vinegar-powered rocket. But I added an ingredient to fulfil the perfume assignment.’

  Mr Ashton’s cheeks have blown up like balloons.

  ‘Rotten eggs,’ Chloe declares. ‘Mixed with vinegar, they make a very strong perfume, don’t you think?’

  Mr Ashton grabs his stomach and runs away towards the classroom. He covers his mouth with his hand as he goes.

  ‘He’s going to spew,’ I say to Bella.

  The parents begin to whisper, while a few of the kids giggle, and Mrs O’Neill stands up to address the crowd.

  ‘I’m afraid we may have to take a raincheck on those other presentations until Mr Ashton is feeling a little better,’ she says. ‘Thank you for coming, and we’ll let you know when we can resume.’

  Mission Blast-Off: complete.

  Mrs O’Neill’s familiar drawl reverberates through the school’s sound system.

  ‘Attention, students. Please make your way to the library at the end of your lunch break. Normal classes will be postponed for twenty minutes as teachers attend an emergency meeting.’

  A bunch of fourth-graders high-five each other near our picnic table. The school librarian is a pushover, so they’re excited at the possibility of misbehaving for twenty minutes.

  ‘I wonder what the emergency is,’ Bella says. ‘Something terribly important like running out of whiteboard markers, I suppose.’

  Chloe and I giggle at Bella’s joke. The sad thing is, we’ve lost a bit of faith in our teachers. Bumbling Mr Ashton is still reeling after Chloe’s rancid rocket stunt, and Mrs O’Neill is making Emily pay for the nastiness on her website with a string of detentions.

  ‘Hey, let’s go meet Emily after her detention,’ I say. ‘We can walk to the library together.’

  We all grab our backpacks and stroll to the room where our president is serving her time.

  I peek through the window.

  Mrs O’Neill is talking to Emily.

  Bella, Chloe and I press our ears up to the gap between the glass and the bricks.

  ‘We have a problem, Emily,’ Mrs O’Neill says. ‘My staff are feeling a little…well… overwhelmed.’

  Emily listens quietly.

  ‘They’re experiencing what I’d describe as an influx of extra maths-related queries since the disabling of your website,’ Mrs O’Neill says. ‘It’s contributing significantly to their workloads.’

  It doesn’t take Emily long to put two and two together. ‘I did do a lot of tutoring on the Anti-Princess Club website,’ she says. ‘It actually got a little out of control.’

  Mrs O’Neill leans against the edge of Emily’s desk and takes off her glasses. ‘Do you want to rebuild the website, Emily?’

  That’s a no-brainer. ‘Yes, I do,’ Emily says. ‘But a new, improved version.’

  Mrs O’Neill paces across the room, scratching her chin just like Emily does when she’s thinking. ‘I’ve got an idea,’ she says. ‘You can rebuild the site with the school’s support.’

  Emily narrows her eyes. ‘What does “the school’s support” mean?’

  ‘Let’s put it in writing.’ Mrs O’Neill opens her briefcase and removes a laptop. She fires it up, plugs in a printer and starts typing.

  Emily spots us at the window and beams.

  Mrs O’Neill finishes typing and the printer beeps and whirs. She takes the freshly printed document and slides it across the desk to Emily.

  ‘Read it out loud!’ Bella calls.

  Chloe and I look at Bella in shock. ‘What are you thinking?’ I hiss.

  Mrs O’Neill walks over to the window. ‘Well, well,’ she says, opening it fully. ‘We have some spies on our hands. Come on in, then, anti-princesses.’

  Chloe, Bella and I run into the detention room. We all gather around Emily as she reads Mrs O’Neill’s proposition.

  ‘Congratulations.’ I pat Emily on the back. ‘You get to resurrect the website and get paid for it.’

  Emily crosses her arms and looks Mrs O’Neill in the eye. It’s negotiation time.

  ‘No more detention,’ Emily says.

  ‘No more detention,’ Mrs O’Neill says.

  ‘I remain the chatroom’s head moderator.’

  ‘You’re the boss.’

  ‘I’m going to write up a code of conduct that stamps out gossiping.’

  ‘Sounds fantastic.’

  Emily types in the Anti-Princess Club web address along with some code. The ‘site undergoing maintenance’ message appears and Emily replaces it with a new line.

  New and improved Anti-Princess Club website – COMING SOON.

  Mission Rebirth: complete.

  Don’t be too
cocky. Don’t be too cocky.

  I repeat my mantra quietly.

  I know I’m one of the best athletes at school, but everyone here is super determined. Attitude could be the deciding factor that snags me one of the six spots to play at halftime during the Manchester United match.

  ‘Good luck, Grace,’ Bella says. ‘We’ll be watching from the grandstand.’

  I hug the anti-princesses and focus on my competition. There are more than a hundred kids warming up around me. My brothers – except for Oliver – are among them.

  Mr Talbot addresses the crowd with a megaphone. ‘You’ve got half an hour to show us your skills,’ he says. ‘Five stations are set up around the field. It’s up to you how long you spend at each and in which order you approach them, but we’ll be looking for well-rounded performers with skills in as many areas as possible.’

  Five stations in half an hour. That’s six minutes per station. I set my watch.

  ‘At one station you’ll dribble the ball through a set of cones using only your left foot,’ Mr Talbot says. ‘At another you will need to head a ball as many times as you can before it touches the ground. At the southern net you will be goal-shooting. At the northern nets you’ll be goalkeeping. And at the station closest to the grandstand I want to see your dance moves.’

  The crowd erupts in laughter. ‘I’m serious, people,’ Mr Talbot says. ‘At the fifth station, there will be music playing and you’ll be required to dance. If you choose to, that is.’

  Tom and Harry are horrified. I can’t say I’m entirely impressed either, but after Mum and Dad forcing me to do ballet for years I find my brothers’ reaction kind of amusing.

  Tom waves at Mr Talbot. ‘Um, sir,’ he says. ‘Why the dancing?’

  Mr Talbot is deliberately mysterious. ‘Why not?’ He raises his whistle to his lips and yells: ‘On your marks, get set, GO!’

  We scatter across the field like desperate cockroaches.

  I start the timer on my watch and head straight for the cones. ‘Just the left foot,’ I whisper to myself. ‘Keep the right foot back.’

  My watch beeps and I leave about a dozen kids behind at the cones as I run to the heading station. I chip a ball into the air and start bouncing it off my forehead. My eyes are fixed on the ball as it bounces up and down.

  Five, six, seven, eight...forty-nine, fifty.

  My forehead goes numb, but there’s no way that ball is hitting the ground.

  The beep of my watch brings me out of my trance. I let the ball fall into my arms and run to the next station.

  I line up to take my turn shooting at the goal. Tom is a couple of kickers ahead of me and misses completely. ‘Darn it!’ he yells and trudges to the back of the line.

  I get to the ball and pull back my right foot. There’s no need to shoot high, so I lean forward to keep the ball low to the ground. The instep of my boot strikes the leather and the ball curves slightly. It glides across the grass and into the goal.

  ‘Go, Grace!’ Emily yells. ‘Nice shot!’

  I wave to the grandstand as my watch beeps.

  I decide to save the worst for last and sprint to the other end of the field. There’s a motorised ball launcher set up in front of the goal. It must be shooting at top speed, because no one is managing to stop the balls.

  ‘My turn!’ I yell. I take my place in front of the posts and wait for the machine to spit.

  A ball flies above my head and I leap into the air. I arch my back and stretch my fingers. I catch it and roll it away as the next ball shoots across the ground. I slide through some mud and stop the ball with the tips of my toes. Just.

  Beep, beep, beep. Beep. Beep.

  I run to the last station, but there’s no one else there. Either they got their dancing done early or they’re too focused on the soccer drills.

  A cheesy disco song starts up and I step from side to side. I see Chloe in the grandstand running her finger across her throat – it’s the ‘cut it’ signal.

  Impressive dance moves aren’t my forte.

  I spy a ball out of the corner of my eye. Maybe I could use it as a prop.

  I pick it up, lift it above my head and drop into the splits. Then I swing my legs around and throw the ball into the air as I do a backward roll. As I land, I put the ball between my feet and do a handstand.

  There are cheers from the grandstand, but I worry that what I’m doing is more of a rhythmic gymnastics routine than dancing.

  My watch beeps for the final time and I do a pirouette. Finally, those dreaded ballet lessons have actually come in handy for something.

  ‘Time’s up!’ Mr Talbot calls. ‘I’ll be reviewing your performances this evening and contacting the successful students tomorrow.’

  A few faces drop as everyone realises we won’t find out the results immediately.

  ‘The bell will ring any second now, so let’s all head back to class,’ Mr Talbot says. ‘Except you, Grace – a moment, please?’

  I stay put as Emily, Bella and Chloe leave the grandstand. Maybe Mr Talbot wants me to help him pack up the equipment.

  ‘Grace Bennett,’ he says. ‘You’re in.’

  Mr Talbot’s words don’t register.

  ‘Excuse me?’ I ask.

  He starts to collect the cones. ‘You’re in, Grace,’ he says. ‘No need to wait until tomorrow. You’re the only one who danced. Automatic qualification. Although, I must say you were one of the best all round.’

  I’m frozen in disbelief.

  ‘Better get to class,’ Mr Talbot says. ‘Your teacher knows where you are.’

  I skip down the grandstand steps and collapse in a heap at the bottom.

  ‘You okay, Grace?’ Mr Talbot asks.

  I start crying. I’ve heard people do this when they’re overwhelmed with happiness.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Talbot,’ I blubber. ‘Thank you.’

  Mission ManU: complete.

  The paparazzi’s cameras are flashing while TV reporters interview fans of Daniel Hastie.

  A woman with big, stiff hair sticks a microphone under my nose. ‘Care to tell us why you’re here today?’

  The pressure to speak on the spot to a stranger makes me uncomfortable. ‘I, ah, I,’ I stutter. ‘I’m a big, big soccer nut.’

  The reporter moves on to a nearby family in Manchester United jerseys.

  Bella is beginning to stress out. ‘We need to get closer to the base of the bridge,’ she says. ‘But the crowd is too thick.’

  Bella’s mum has a brainwave. ‘Miss Journalist!’ she yells. ‘We have a story for you!’

  The reporter looks sceptical and keeps interviewing the other family.

  ‘It’s about Svetlana’s dress!’ Bella shouts.

  Three news crews swarm around us. ‘What can you tell us about the dress?’ asks one reporter. ‘Can you confirm the designer as Donatella Almasi?’ asks another.

  I point to the coathanger and zip-up bag draped over Bella’s shoulder. ‘It’s in there. Bella is the designer. She’s only ten, you know.’

  Two crews walk away immediately.

  The stiff-haired reporter shakes her head. ‘You had me there for a minute.’

  Bella grabs the reporter’s wrist as she turns away. ‘It is a wedding outfit,’ she says. ‘I designed it for Svetlana so she’d be able to climb the bridge. I’ve brought it along just in case she’s not happy with her dress – I researched Donatella Almasi’s style and it’s not exactly practical.’

  ‘That could be a nice little scoop,’ the cameraman says quietly to the reporter. ‘It won’t matter if she doesn’t take the kid’s dress.’

  The reporter looks Bella up and down and makes a ‘hmmmmmm’ sound. ‘All right,’ she says. ‘Come with us, kids. We’ll take you to the media scrum.’

  I link arms with Bella, Emily, Chloe and Dr Singh. We weave through the crowd behind the TV crew until we reach a red rope and a row of security guards.

  The reporter holds up a plastic card on a lanyard. ‘They’re wi
th me.’

  A guard unhooks a piece of rope and ushers us through.

  ‘Just in time,’ Dr Singh says. ‘Here they are.’

  A white limousine slowly pulls up a few metres away from us. Daniel gets out first and waves to the crowd. Svetlana is next.

  ‘Just as I thought,’ Bella says. ‘A completely impractical design.’

  Daniel is wearing a climbing harness over his suit, while Svetlana has one pulled over a ballgown that makes her look like one of those birthday cakes with a doll in the middle.

  The reporters are screaming at the couple, but they ignore the fuss and head to the bridge steps.

  Daniel starts the climb first and extends his hand to help Svetlana. She squeezes onto the narrow staircase, squashing her dress to half the width so she can fit.

  Our reporter turns to Bella with the camera rolling. ‘As you can see, viewers, Svetlana is wearing a signature Almasi ballgown for her bridge-top ceremony. But we’re here with a budding young designer who had been hoping to present the rock climber with a more functional ensemble.’

  Bella confidently takes the microphone. ‘My name is Bella Singh,’ she says. ‘I’m here today because I’ve designed a wedding outfit especially for bridge-climbing. I wanted Svetlana Karpinskaia to wear it.’

  The reporter looks impressed. ‘Why don’t you show the viewers what you’ve got there?’

  Bella unzips the bag, fumbling a little as a gust of wind blows her hair across her face.

  ‘Help!’ a piercing scream comes from the bridge.

  Svetlana is halfway up the steps, her dress billowing around her like a parachute.

  ‘It’s the wind,’ Bella says. ‘It’s caught under her skirt.’

  ‘She’s coming down!’ about twenty reporters call at once.

  We push Bella to the very front of the press pack. She pulls a white jumpsuit and cape from her bag.

  About half of the paparazzi now have their cameras pointing at us.

  ‘Over here, Svetlana!’ I call. ‘It’s us! From the hotel!’

  Bella is waving Svetlana’s jumpsuit through the air like a big white flag.