Screw Loose

by Chris Wheat

  Back in the kitchen, she dropped them into the saucepan. There were quite a few laces and they filled the pot. Now she felt better.

  People thought she was insane, but she was just very clean. And Angelo recognised this special quality. ‘You’re crazy,’ he said now, ‘but…’ He understood her needs; his eyes were saying so. Their lips gently touched. The saucepan boiled.

  She had just closed her eyes when she heard the taxi again. No way! She glanced out the window. ‘Back again! Quick, cupboard!’

  ‘No!’ he protested angrily. ‘I’m sick of this. Your parents need to learn a few facts. Give my laces back, please.’

  The shoelaces were boiling noisily as the kitchen door flew open.

  ‘Dad!’ she exclaimed. ‘Hi, Mum.’

  ‘Boy!’ her mother screamed. ‘You have a boy in kitchen.’

  ‘I’m just boiling his shoelaces.’

  They all stood staring at one another.

  ‘It’s for a school project.’

  Her mother was looking at Angelo’s feet. ‘You have tried to capture him. You have a screwed-up brain!’

  ‘No!’

  Her father suddenly grabbed a piece of baklava from the plate on the bench and hurled it across the kitchen at Angelo. Just as quickly, Angelo caught it and hurled it back, hitting her father in the face! Then Angelo pulled off his runners and, pushing past her parents in his socks, charged out the door.

  HOW GAY

  IS ROWING?

  JOSHUA YEATMAN SLID down into a plastic chair in Room 29 of Vistaview Secondary College and rested his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands. The room had a funny smell. He watched the tops of the trees outside the window toss about in the cold wind. On the wall next to the window was a laminated poster warning students about drugs. It was wasted on him: he had never had marijuana because he was sometimes asthmatic; and he still didn’t like the taste of alcohol after an episode one afternoon with the music up full volume and his dad’s Glenfiddich whisky.

  He leant back, stared at his hands and wondered where Angelo Tarano was. Angelo wasn’t a member of the SRC, so he was probably out on the basketball court or in the gym, as usual. Joshua hadn’t had a call from Angelo for over a week – not since the I-don’t-want-to-drop-Zeynep episode.

  Chelsea Dean burst in. She was president of the SRC. ‘Josh, thank heaven you’re here. After the SRC has agreed to my proposals, you and I will need to see Mr Dunn as soon as we can.’

  He was the secretary of the SRC and did what Chelsea told him to do. She slid into a chair and flipped open her folder with a bang. Her hair seemed particularly shiny this lunchtime and he wanted to ask her how she got it like that. Then, surprisingly for Chelsea, she groaned and covered her face with her hands.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked with concern.

  She looked at him through her fingers with miserable eyes. ‘I can tell you, I guess,’ she said, ‘but don’t tell anyone else.’

  Joshua nodded.

  ‘My mother is seeing Craig Ryan’s father behind my father’s back.’

  He was about to laugh but checked himself when a tear trickled onto her hand.

  ‘I caught them doing the Nutbush.’ She covered her face again and her voice was muffled. ‘Craig’s father has a ponytail! Can you imagine?’ A tear hit the table.

  He got up to hug her, but at that moment some other students crashed in, including Zeynep, who instantly began to straighten the tables.

  He took advantage of the interruption to open a few windows and clear the air.

  ‘Stop that, Zey!’ he said. ‘Come and sit next to me.’

  Zeynep used to be Joshua’s girlfriend, but now she was Angelo’s. They were still good friends, though – all three of them.

  Chelsea blew her nose.

  ‘Fight it, Zey! You have to fight it,’ he whispered. ‘The world is always going to be messy. You can’t win.’

  ‘I’m seeing the counsellor,’ she told him, then she noticed Chelsea. ‘What’s the matter, Chels?’ She went over and put an arm around her.

  Chelsea wiped her eyes. ‘Just some personal matters, Zeynep. I’m coping,’ she sniffed.

  ‘Do you want to go outside to debrief?’ Zeynep asked.

  Chelsea shook her head vigorously and looked brave. There was a silence in the room.

  ‘How’s Angelo?’ Joshua quietly asked Zeynep when she sat back down.

  ‘My dad threw baklava at him, then he threw it back.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘I was boiling his shoelaces and my parents arrived home unexpectedly and found him in the kitchen with me.’

  There were a number of questions he needed to ask.

  ‘Was he injured?’

  ‘He said his hand got scratched.’

  ‘On a cake?’

  ‘Mum’s baklava has sharp edges.’

  Joshua remembered that it could be rather solid.

  ‘I’ve got his shoelaces in my bag. I ironed them.’

  He nodded. ‘He’ll be rapt.’

  The room was filling. Chelsea was now frowning. There were supposed to be twenty-eight students in the SRC, but not everyone had turned up.

  Zeynep looked around. ‘Georgia’s away again,’ she said and sighed.

  ‘All right SRC, we’re starting.’ Chelsea’s voice rose above the noise. Her nose sounded a little congested.

  The room fell silent. Someone threw a Twistie.

  ‘As you are no doubt aware, before I came to Vistaview I attended a very prestigious private girls’ school not far from here, Mary Magdalene, so I am able to make comparisons between this school and my old one.’

  There were a few sniggers.

  ‘While this school is so much better in many ways, it does have a few failings, and my dream is to turn this place into a school much like the one I once attended.’

  ‘Why’d they chuck you out, Chelsea?’ one of the boys up the back asked.

  ‘That’s a long story, Mark. Just let’s say they didn’t have a sense of humour. But I want to talk about this school. I think this place is badly in need of a rowing team!’

  She looked about the room, smiling brightly and assessing support.

  ‘Why?’ someone asked.

  ‘Because if this school had a rowing team it would be more prestigious. And that helps you get better jobs and meet prestigious people.’

  ‘Crap!’

  ‘Prestigious people like you?’

  ‘What are you on, Chelsea?’

  She disregarded them all and went on. ‘I am able to get a couple of second-hand boats from my father’s old school. He has contacts.’

  ‘How gay is rowing?’ asked a Year 9 boy.

  Joshua had learnt not to show any reaction, but Chelsea shot a glance at him then turned aggressively to the boy.

  ‘Rowing is not gay. That is so totally not appropriate. Perhaps you’re gay yourself?’ She stared him into embarrassment and went on: ‘So I’ll need to recruit eight very fit senior boys.’

  Another mumbled voice from the back: ‘Fit gay boys.’

  Her eyes fired piercing beams of contempt towards the back of the room and her tone changed. She started to speak very slowly and precisely. ‘I’d like to select them as soon as possible. And we are going to have to train three nights a week if we want to win the Head of the River. I’m not prepared to drive myself into the ground if people aren’t going to commit themselves.’

  When Chelsea spoke her head was always lifted a little high, her chin tilted forward. She reminded Joshua of a dog defending a gate.

  ‘I’ve spent some time observing rowing teams from my balcony,’ she continued.

  Joshua had seen Chelsea’s telescope strategically aimed at the river winding below her enormous house.

  ‘Great idea,’ a boy sitting near him murmured.

  ‘The river’s polluted,’ a girl interrupted.

  ‘We are talking about social prestige!’ Chelsea snapped. ‘If St Ethelred’s can have rowing teams, a
nd even my ghastly old school has them, so can we!’

  ‘Marry me, Chelsea!’ someone called out.

  Chelsea went on. ‘All those in favour of the school having a rowing team?’ She looked around. Three-quarters of the hands went up, but someone called out, ‘It’s still a crap idea.’

  ‘Good. It’s done. I will see Mr Dunn after the meeting. Next item: social occasions between my old school and this one. The girls at my old school are looking for a broader social life, and some of the boys at St Ethelred’s would love to meet girls at this school. So it is my opinion that the three schools should get together for social activities.’

  Cheers and table-banging. There was always a belief that students at other schools were more attractive than the ones at Vistaview. But that wasn’t true, in Joshua’s opinion: Angelo Tarano went to Vistaview.

  ‘I’d like to speak to Mr Dunn about this too, but I need your support.’

  Very loud cheering and rhythmic desk-hammering broke out.

  ‘Silence, please! There’s a desperate need for better manners and better grooming among some of the riffraff at this school. Before we meet any private school students, some of you are going to have to lift your game!’

  The laughter drained off into silence. There was one loud sigh.

  ‘If we have these social events, I’m going to have to start etiquette classes.’

  She’d done this before, but at her house and with boys only. Chelsea had many agendas.

  ‘What’s etiquette?’ asked a young girl in the front. This was followed by a boy who asked what riffraff meant. Chelsea frowned and, like a teacher, waited for silence.

  A Year 9 girl turned to face the boys. ‘Etiquette is a French word.’ She tossed her hair.

  Chelsea nodded. ‘Thank you, Traycee.’ Then she went on: ‘Etiquette is manners. Manners is an Australian word. All those in favour of social gatherings with the Mary Magdalene girls and St Ethelred’s boys, hands up!’

  Joshua lifted his hand fairly slowly; he thought Chelsea was sailing blindly into trouble.

  ‘Unanimous. We’ll talk about it in detail at the next meeting. In the meantime, Joshua and I will see Mr Dunn to get his approval.’ She slapped her folder shut. ‘Meeting closed. Go have your lunch.’

  ‘Them Magda girls are hot!’ Joshua heard one of the boys say as they streamed out of the room. ‘Teach me etiquette now, Chelsea!’

  Chelsea rolled her eyes at him. She was already heading for the door. ‘Come on, Joshua. Spit spot. We’re off to make a time to see Mr Dunn.’

  He followed dutifully.

  CRUEL BUT

  DELICIOUS

  GEORGIA DELAHUNTY WAS truanting, at the Park Hyatt. She had fallen out of love with Vistaview Secondary College. There were lots of reasons. The hockey team had been eliminated in the first round of the finals, for starters. Zeynep Yarkan had insisted on becoming friends with busybody and snob Chelsea Dean. Matilda Grey, whom Georgia had befriended in retaliation, was a major challenge. And that wasn’t even the half of it.

  Over the last year, Georgia’s life had gone pear-shaped. Firstly, she’d discovered that her parents were still living, and were not, as her aunt and uncle had informed her, buried under an avalanche in the Himalayas. Then she’d found out that her father was an Indian maharajah, which she found a little embarrassing, because that officially made her a princess. She didn’t want the publicity. What she wanted was a girlfriend.

  Mary Magdalene, the school Georgia wanted to move to, had a thousand girls: the odds of finding someone there would surely be better. So she’d rung her parents in India and asked them if she could change schools. Her parents, perhaps because they really didn’t have enough to fill up their days, had flown straight to Australia to discuss the matter. Now the three of them were sitting in the elegant ground-floor restaurant of her parents’ hotel exchanging small talk.

  Her parents always began with very small talk, usually about their own lives. Georgia was more inclined to jump right into the big things. So far today, they’d chatted about the air-conditioning, the waterlilies at the Fort, and a tribe of troublesome monkeys. Their dawdling conversation was accompanied by a snowfall of piano notes, the muffled voices of other diners, and the tiny chimes of silver striking china. This was a very expensive restaurant.

  She always enjoyed meeting them – this was the fourth time – although they did make her rather nervous, particularly her father. He was amazing to look at. His teeth were very white; his moustache jet black. As he sat tapping his fingers happily on the tablecloth, the precious stones on his fingers flashed blues, reds and greens. He rubbed his hands together. ‘I’m jolly hungry,’ he announced.

  When she examined her father’s face Georgia saw some of her own features, but she had her mother’s fine hair and slender dancer’s body. As they had all glided in formation across the lobby towards the restaurant earlier, she had felt proud and perhaps a little self-conscious that these exotic adults were hers. They even smelt exotic.

  Georgia’s aunt and uncle had brought her up. They were born-again Christians. All her life she had lived with them in their ordinary weatherboard house. Her uncle and aunt were dear people, although they told her there were no lesbians in the Bible. She had read some of the Bible, but it was an enormous book with quite a few dull patches, and the thought of searching it for any mention of lesbians made her feel tired. Her uncle and aunt prayed for her salvation, and Georgia counter-prayed for a girlfriend. The prayers appeared to have cancelled one another out.

  At least these biological parents she was now sitting with didn’t seem to mind that she liked the same sex. And they encouraged her to consider Hinduism, which could be a little cooler than born-again Christianity: she loved Bollywood films, after all.

  Her mother suddenly grabbed her hand. ‘No child should be brought into the world by selfish parents such as we have been, dearest Georgia. I think of you every day with shame for what we have done to you.’ Her eyes were watery and she was squeezing Georgia’s fingers.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mum,’ Georgia replied, then immediately felt surprised that she’d used the word Mum. She still harboured small resentments towards them both for abandoning her, but she supposed these were fading – her parents were now doing their best to make up for their cruelty. That morning in the lift, for instance, they’d offered her a holiday penthouse in Mumbai. But of course she’d refused.

  She wanted to change the subject. ‘I really want to move schools,’ she said.

  Her mother patted her hand. ‘Would you like to go to school in India, my dear?’

  Georgia shook her head.

  Her mother looked concerned. ‘We thought you were coming to India?’

  ‘Yes. We have plans for your life.’ Her father sounded disappointed.

  ‘I will,’ she said quickly. ‘But not yet.’

  ‘Do you have a school in mind?’ her mother asked.

  ‘Mary Magdalene.’

  Her mother nodded and smiled, saying, ‘Mary Magdalene. I remember it; quite exclusive but very conservative, darling Georgia. Do they still wear gloves?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Georgia answered, hoping they didn’t. Why would you wear gloves unless you were a surgeon or a sandwichmaker?

  ‘We can contact the school and ask if they have a place,’ said her mother.

  ‘Magdalene.’ Her father pronounced it differently from her mother. ‘That is the name of my Cambridge college!’ He laughed dreamily, then added, ‘I’m sure there will be room at the inn for you.’

  Georgia smiled at them both and decided to tell them about her future. ‘I’d like to be a carpenter,’ she announced.

  A bare hint of surprise flickered over their faces. But her father simply said, ‘Jolly good,’ then, turning around in his chair and looking concerned, ‘…and where’s that waitress?’

  ‘Your husband will be a lucky man. You can repair his palace, perhaps,’ said her mother with a giggle.

  Georgia was shocked. W
hat did they imagine her future to be? Palace, husband? ‘Pardon?’ she said.

  Her mother laughed. ‘Well, we’re just imaging your future, darling.’

  ‘I like the same sex,’ she reminded them quietly.

  ‘Ah yes,’ said her father quite loudly. ‘Ripping, but…’ He was about to say something else when her mother lifted her finger and they both looked down at the menus that had just arrived at the table.

  Georgia stared at the entrees, which were in French. Pâté with something. She knew what pâté was: crushed goose liver – cruel but delicious. She thought she might become vegetarian at some point in her life.

  ‘Well, my dear Georgia, if we send you to Mary Magdalene then I really think you have to take a penthouse here instead: it’s only fair,’ said her mother.

  Georgia shook her head. Did she really want to live with them in their palace in India, or live in a penthouse in St Kilda Road? Neither. She wanted to stay in Australia and live with her aunt and uncle and play hockey at Mary Magdalene. Even though sometimes she did get a little sick of the nightly prayers and long graces. ‘No thanks. I’d be lonely.’

  She noticed her father glance at her mother. Who could truly understand these people? They were really quite new to her.

  Georgia looked down at the menu again. ‘I’d like to have the pâté with the something-or-other – I can’t read French.’

  ‘Aha,’ said her father, ‘the pigeon breast stuffed with pâté. Food for a princess.’ He lifted his glass of water. ‘To happy days at Mary Magdalene,’ he said. They all clinked water-glasses and the waitress appeared. ‘And even happier days when you come to live with us in India.’

  FIFTY MILLION

  SIXTEEN-

  YEAR-OLD

  GIRLS

  KHIEM DAO WAS in the school gym, spotting with Angelo Tarano. His whole body was sweaty, even on this cold day. Girls didn’t like guys’ sweat – but he had his Lynx. Fitness and strength and a focus on schoolwork: that was going to be his new life. And girls, of course. Angelo was his model. They were both going to row for Chelsea, give it a go. If it turned out to be crap then she could find other guys. So he’d need arm strength.