by Chris Wheat
Girls loved Angelo. Last Friday, a group of Year 8 girls had walked around the school with photos of Angelo sticky-taped to their backs. He was a magnet to every female he met: the lollipop lady at the crossing had the hots for him; the canteen ladies gave him extra sauce; girls talked about him when he walked by. Angelo had it made. And to top it off, who was his girlfriend? Zeynep Yarkan, probably the most beautiful girl in the school, with flawless white skin and brown eyes and really red lips and an amazingly perfect body and … Pump iron. Zeynep was off limits. He got off the bench to do some curls; Angelo was already doing chin-ups.
For a Fermi problem in Maths they’d been asked to estimate the number of people his age on the planet. Khiem had extended it and estimated that there were around fifty million sixteen-year-old girls on planet Earth – maths could be used as an antidepressant. It was also his talent. Because he liked it, he sometimes did it when he had nothing else to do. He even read maths textbooks for fun – but he’d never admit to it.
If you laid fifty million sixteen-year-old girls end-to-end, how many times would they encircle the equator? Six hundred and fifty sixteen-year-old girls to the kilometre, and the equator was 40,057 Ks. He estimated that they’d go round twice – more if each girl held the feet of the girl behind her. But why would they do a weird thing like that? Work-outs always made him obsess about girls. He curled with more determination, and his bicep started to hurt. It was definitely getting bigger.
He had to go straight. The cops knew him. The thing about illegal activities was that they gave you a rush, and you got addicted to the rush. For years he’d needed it. He’d got it from shop-stealing when he was younger, and now the big rushes were being dangled before him: major crime, violence, revenge. He wanted to get away from it – ever since three of the Mernda boys got caught, he’d been trying to go straight – but the guys kept ringing.
At the moment, he had two hundred and seventy DVDs under his bed; the Mernda boys had asked him to look after them before they got busted. Bruno had brought them over – he’d never liked Bruno. The DVDs were enough to put him in Malmsbury for a year, maybe two. And the girls Khiem liked were the girls who would dump him in a nanosecond if they knew about the DVDs. The solution was to keep away from Victoria Street, where a few of the guys hung out.
Angelo was on the bench now. Angelo never got himself into trouble, never got mixed up with illegal stuff – and everyone respected him. Khiem went over, and Angelo, lying flat, grabbed the bar firmly. His little finger was in plaster, but he still trained. That was how dedicated he was. The bar was heavy, but so it should be – Angelo trained at school, at home, and with the Cockatoos. He was a legend.
The bar rose unsteadily from the cradle, then Angelo lowered slowly. Khiem got behind the apparatus, ready to help. The thing about Angelo was that he was serious about everything. He wanted to be a star. He was grimacing like a tiger.
They both spent their lunch hours in the gym. Angelo had to get bigger if he was going to survive out there with the big guys, he’d told Khiem. And Khiem – well, he had to be ready for anything. Going straight would be a tough call.
The weights wavered and wobbled. Angelo roared with the strain. He was done. Khiem grabbed the bar as his mate’s arms shook. Loud exhalation. Angelo sat up, sweat running down his cheeks, and dried his face with a paper towel.
‘You a Muslim, Khiem?’ he asked.
‘Nope!’ Khiem took some weights off. ‘Buddhist – but resting.’
Angelo got behind the apparatus now. Khiem grabbed the bar and lowered fast. He’d decided to do them quick.
‘That’s a crap way to do it,’ Angelo said. ‘Slow is better.’
Khiem slowed down, but the bar was too heavy. Angelo helped him put it back. ‘Why’d you ask?’ Khiem said.
‘It’s Zeynep. She’s just so neat and tidy, and I was wondering if it was a Muslim thing.’
Khiem shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I think it’s just a Zeynep thing.’
Angelo grunted. ‘Girls.’
Craig Ryan came in from basketball. Khiem looked at the clock. They only had about six minutes ’til the warning bell. Craig was bouncing the ball. ‘Working tonight?’ he asked Khiem. Craig was kind of Kheim’s best mate. They worked at New World.
‘Yep. You?’
‘Yep.’
New World was Addiction World. All that stuff to take. It was a test of willpower. Craig was Khiem’s model, too. He was honest and he had a girlfriend. Well … it was a bit hard to say what Matilda was. But she was hot.
Khiem smelt himself. He needed a girl. Aussie would be fine. Greek would be fine. Somali would be fine. Tongan would be fine. But Viet wouldn’t be. They’d be too close to the community, and the community thought he was evil. He used to imagine himself with the Aussie wife living in Box Hill: nice brick house with a triple garage, swing set and trampoline for the kids, security lights, outdoor entertainment area, big tropical aquarium. He’d be the manager of a major retail outlet.
The bell went.
‘Girls,’ he said to Angelo. ‘You never want to obsess over them.’
‘Who’s obsessing?’ Angelo said. ‘Got your Lynx?’
He threw it to Angelo. He’d bought it legit at New World the previous night. Angelo sprayed all over his clothes and even his backside. That was the way to get the girls. Craig grabbed it from Angelo and did the same thing. Khiem had to get rid of the DVDs. And smell sweet. Do his homework. Be a good boy.
His phone went. He checked it. Bruno. No way. He switched it off.
‘Hey, Khiem?’ Angelo sighed. ‘Do me a massive favour, buddy?’ He grinned.
‘Sure.’
‘Get your contacts to put someone in hospital.’
The rep stuck like gum. He knew Angelo was joking. But he did know people who would do that. ‘Who?’
‘Zeynep’s old man.’
‘How come?’
‘He chucked a cake at me.’
Craig snorted.
‘Hey, I’m Angelo Tarano.’ Angelo jabbed his chest. ‘No one throws a cake at me.’
‘Haven’t you got mafia contacts?’ Khiem asked. ‘You’re Italian.’
‘No, man. Don’t be racist.’
‘Hey, don’t you be racist.’
Angelo laughed and packed up his bag. Craig chucked the Lynx back and Khiem sprayed all over, even his hair. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Now we’re late.’
They all walked off to class smelling irresistible.
RATHER KEEN
ON ELTON JOHN
FOUR DAYS AFTER the SRC meeting, Joshua Yeatman followed Chelsea Dean as she bustled straight down the centre of the corridor and knocked firmly on Mr Dunn’s door.
‘Come,’ Joshua heard the principal chime from his room.
Chelsea pushed open the door. The first thing you saw when you entered Mr Dunn’s office was a large glistening brown snake mounted in a glass case on the wall above his head. That snake was famous. Joshua remembered the time in Year 8 when Mr Dunn had called an emergency assembly to show the whole school the snake he’d killed on the oval that morning.
Holding it up, he’d warned them to report any snakes they saw, particularly in classrooms. A number of students left the school after that assembly.
Joshua sat down uneasily and waited for Chelsea to take the lead.
‘Ah, President Chelsea and Secretary Joshua,’ Mr Dunn said with a laugh. He was usually in a good mood. Most students called him Dunny. ‘It’s good to have you aboard. I’ve heard a lot of very impressive reports about both of you from the staff.’
‘Well, thank you, Mr Dunn,’ Chelsea smiled. ‘We do our best.
Did you really kill that snake all by yourself? That is so awesome.’ Chelsea had her hand on her chest.
Darryl Dunn nodded and swivelled his chair to look up at the snake above his head. ‘It is awesome, Chelsea: enough venom to kill the whole school.’
Chelsea gasped. Joshua looked at the thinning hair exposed above the to
p of the swivel chair.
Darryl suddenly spun to face them. ‘Don’t be afraid, Chelsea.
It’s long dead.’
‘Mr Dunn, you’re one of the bravest principals I’ve heard of.’
She opened her folder. ‘Thank you for giving up your valuable time.’
‘Always time for students who are prepared to go that little bit further.’
Chelsea smiled warmly. ‘Now Mr Dunn, as you know I came from Mary Magdalene Ladies’ College on the other side of the river, and Mary Magdalene – and many other independent schools – have rowing teams. The SRC has decided we should have one, too.’
Darryl looked surprised. ‘Really? A rowing team?’
‘Yes. We have a river. Why not?’
‘That’s a terrific idea. I’m agog.’
‘Thank you, Mr Dunn. My father would be prepared to procure two second-hand boats from St Ethelred’s. He’s an old boy.’
Mr Dunn’s eyes were wide now. ‘What a wonderful asset to the school you’ve turned out to be, Chelsea. I've been looking for someone with your initiative for years. A girls’ rowing team.’
‘I’m prepared to coach the boys, Mr Dunn, but I can’t cope with a girls’ team as well.’ Chelsea sounded firm.
‘Most impressive, is all I can say.’ Mr Dunn tapped the tips of his fingers together. His eyes fell on Joshua. ‘Joshua, you’re coaching the girls?’
Joshua felt a twitch in his stomach. ‘I don’t know anything about rowing, Mr Dunn.’
Mr Dunn pursed his lips and turned to Chelsea. ‘Well, it looks like a boys’ team to start with. Tell me, Chelsea, what makes you such an exceptional girl?’
Chelsea giggled and stared at her knees. ‘Well, Mr Dunn, I think I’ve been influenced by Mary MacKillop – the famous Australian nun.’
‘Mary MacKillop.’ Mr Dunn looked wistful.
‘Shall I tell my father you’re interested?’
Mr Dunn punched the air. ‘Go girl!’
Chelsea laughed and looked pleased. ‘Two more things before Joshua and I go, Mr Dunn. Firstly, bridging the social divide.’
Mr Dunn looked puzzled.
‘Quite frankly, there’s a desperate need for boyfriends at Mary Magdalene. I propose that this school and Mary Magdalene have joint social gatherings – with some of the boys from St Ethelred’s who need girlfriends, too. This is a bit of charitable work for Vistaview towards schools more fortunate than ourselves.’
Mr Dunn stared blankly. ‘Go on, Chelsea. I’m not sure what you mean. Would those schools really want to mix with a government school? They’re rather … snobbish?’
‘Mr Dunn, have some pride! Once some of the students at Mary M and St Ethel’s get a chance to meet our students, enrolments at Vistaview will soar. But we’ll need to speak to their principals – you’ll need to.’
‘These sorts of activities need careful arrangement, Chelsea.
I will have to contact my superiors in the Department of Education before I contact the principals of the other two schools.’
‘Of course, Mr Dunn. I even have a date in mind: the seventh of September.’
‘Well done! Efficiency indeed,’ he said, jotting it in his diary.
Chelsea sailed on. ‘We will, as you realise, also require a complete overhaul of the way the boys at Vistaview conduct themselves.’
Mr Dunn pursed his lips and nodded slowly. ‘They certainly need hankies, I’ll admit that. It’s amazing how few students have hankies nowadays, isn’t it, Chelsea? I’ve been thinking about that a lot. Whatever happened to the handkerchief? It’s gone the way of the tiepin.’
Joshua didn’t always follow Mr Dunn, and this was one of those occasions.
Chelsea looked confused, too. But she charged ahead. ‘Absolutely, Mr Dunn. And so to my last point: the introduction of etiquette classes.’
‘Etiquette classes?’
Chelsea smiled. ‘I’m happy to give them free of charge to anybody interested.’
‘Give a job to a busy person and it gets done,’ Mr Dunn said, clapping his hands. ‘Chelsea Dean for honorary staff member!’
He raised his fist again and laughed loudly.
‘Thank you, Mr Dunn. You might get back to me when you’ve spoken to the authorities at both the other schools, and then I’ll get underway with my multiple projects.’
Mr Dunn was making notes.
‘I may need secretarial services,’ Chelsea added.
‘And secretarial services you shall have, Chelsea,’ said Mr Dunn, slapping his pen on the table.
‘And one last thing, Mr Dunn.’ She paused dramatically and looked at Joshua. ‘Homophobia.’
Joshua’s heart skipped.
‘There are gay students in this school, Mr Dunn, and some of them are having a terrible time. Joshua here is gay, and he is constantly humiliated. And there’s Georgia Delahunty, too; she’s often ridiculed for being a lesbian.’
Chelsea turned to Joshua. ‘Tell Mr Dunn what’s it’s like to be gay in this school, Josh.’
He wanted to sink into the floor, but Mr Dunn was staring at him. ‘Well, Mr Dunn, there are lots of jokes and stuff. Gay this and gay that.’ He felt his face reddening.
Mr Dunn waved a hand in the air. ‘I know, I’ve heard it too.
Gay lockers, gay shoes.’ Mr Dunn laughed. ‘Gay subjects.’ He looked up to the ceiling. ‘Gay light fittings.’ He leant over his desk. ‘Rather keen on Elton John?’ He winked. ‘I used to be a very big fan of Elton’s when I was younger. Didn’t know he was gay, of course. Just thought he liked way-out glasses.’ Mr Dunn smiled. ‘So, Elton John is hot, eh Joshua?’
Joshua found it hard to speak. ‘Not exactly, Mr Dunn. He’s as old as my dad.’
Chelsea jumped in. ‘I think you should call an assembly and order them all to stop calling everything gay. You should stamp out homophobia, Mr Dunn. It’s your duty.’
Mr Dunn nodded. ‘Well, yes. You’re quite right again; we should stamp out this gay business. I’ll call the assembly, Chelsea. I’ll tell them all about your rowing team and the etiquette classes, then I’ll warn them not to call things gay.’
‘Exactly, Mr Dunn.’
Joshua felt sick.
‘Good.’ Mr Dunn promptly stood up. ‘So let’s have a high-five!’
Mr Dunn and Chelsea slapped hands. Mr Dunn turned to Joshua and hesitated, his hand suspended. ‘Joshua, do gay people highfive?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ Joshua said, and he slapped the principal’s hand with sufficient force to cause his own palm to sting. He shook it as he marched out of the office ahead of Chelsea.
A SILVER
LINING
THE BOMB WENT off three weeks after Chelsea Dean had found her mother doing the Nutbush. It was early morning. Her mother gently opened Chelsea’s door and said in a subdued voice: ‘Chelsea, your father and I would like to have a family conference in the sitting room before you go to school.’ Then she disappeared.
Chelsea lay in a kind of depressed shock and listened to Brenda making breakfast. Mr Ryan’s van had not been parked in the street since the incident, so she’d held off on telling her mother she was pregnant. She saw now that she should have taken action; that this morning was the culmination of three long weeks of marital breakdown. The signs had been there, she supposed.
For much of her life, her parents’ disputes had been polite, their voices rarely raised. Arguments had been over unimportant things: vodka bottles in the recycling bin; the date of the Merc’s last service; flying first class or business to Singapore. Lately, though, her father had been spending more time in Sydney, and on his return he had often been tetchy and silent. And last Thursday evening her mother had thrown her father’s laptop into the pool. Her father had retaliated by throwing her mother’s mobile in after it.
Chelsea groaned. She needed help. She chose Presidential Candidate Barbie, who had padded shoulders and spectacles – but quite tasteful earrings. Presidential Candidate Barbie had attitude.
> Using her best grammar, Chelsea spoke meekly: ‘I know this means divorce. What should I do if they ask me with whom I’d rather live?’
‘Don’t choose the parent, choose the accommodation – go for the best house,’ Presidential Candidate Barbie decreed.
‘The party’s over, honey,’ Astronaut Barbie added unhelpfully, laughing cruelly through her space helmet. ‘It’s splitsville for Annette and Barry, and Centrelink for you!’
‘Is my allowance at risk?’ Chelsea asked anxiously.
‘It is,’ said Presidential Candidate Barbie. ‘Ask for a contract, and make sure both parents sign it.’
‘A contract is a girl’s best friend,’ added Supreme Court Judge Barbie from her end of the shelf.
‘Should I try to keep them together by threatening to take a drug overdose?’ Chelsea wondered. ‘Or becoming an emo?’
The Barbies shuddered; they were not keen on emos.
‘Threats are for later,’ Presidential Candidate Barbie said firmly. ‘First, secure the accommodation.’
Chelsea got up and put on her dressing gown. She hated her dressing gown because it was way too pink and quilted, but this morning there were issues greater than sleepwear to contend with. She descended the stairs slowly.
Her parents were waiting for her on separate sofas. It was interesting that they’d chosen to hold this family conference now; they knew full well that Chelsea could be somewhat irrational early in the morning. She chose the sofa on which her mother was sitting, but sat at the end closest to her father.
Their mobiles were on the coffee table, and they were dressed for work: Barry in a charcoal suit and the Hermes tie Chelsea had bought him in Paris, and Annette in navy blue with the gold gumnut earrings Chelsea had bought for her in Sydney.
They’d done that deliberately. The room was full of tension.
Chelsea had already imagined how it might be announced.
Darling, we’re getting divorced. There’s going to be a long custody battle over you. We both intend to contest everything, and I am going to get a court order to make your father pay for all your psychiatrist bills.