by Chris Wheat
‘The club? Nah…’ But doubt flickered over Angelo’s face.
‘So what if they do, anyway.’ He sat up and punched the doona.
‘Would Zeynep want to have sex with me, Josh? What do you reckon? If she did I wouldn’t drop her for sure.’
Joshua considered the question. He smoothed his doona and shrugged. ‘I don’t think she would, Angelo,’ he said sympathetically.
‘No. Bugger! She has this smile that makes me think maybe she really does.’
‘Zeynep wouldn’t like to have sex before marriage. But the way girls smile is not my area of expertise.’
‘Yeah. Your area of expertise would be the way guys smile, right? In fact, your smile is a bit like a girl’s, isn’t it?’
Joshua was shocked. ‘What do you mean?’
Angelo got off the bed, cocked his head to one side, and smiled down at Josh, blinking rapidly. ‘Like that.’
‘Crap!’
Angelo laughed. He crashed to the carpet and started to do push-ups.
‘Do you want to have sex right now?’ Josh asked.
Angelo stopped. ‘What?’
‘With Zeynep, I mean! Or, like, do you mean in a few years?’
Angelo expelled air and collapsed onto the carpet. ‘I want to have sex every twenty minutes for the rest of my life – I thought you meant do I want to have sex with you. I was about to get the hell out of here!’
Joshua laughed very loudly. ‘No way. You’re not my type.’
‘You’re definitely not mine.’
It felt like a brick on the head. ‘It’s not just the way they smile,’ Joshua tried to explain. ‘You have to figure it out by other stuff – what they say and what they do. Zeynep is a good Muslim girl.’
‘I want to convert her,’ Angelo sighed.
‘Convert her to being a Catholic?’
‘To being a bad Muslim girl.’
‘She’s an obsessive-compulsive virgin. It’s not possible. Don’t pressure her.’
‘I don’t pressure her. Jeez. She shut me in her cupboard for half an hour. That just shows how much I don’t pressure her.’
Angelo rolled over on the carpet and stretched out his body, flexing his leg muscles. ‘The club…’ He expelled air slowly.
‘They said they’d find me a girlfriend who’s more suitable.
They’ve posted these girls on YouTube, all asking me to go out with them. It’s crazy!’ He began to do stomach-crunches.
‘What? You have to be kidding.’ Joshua raised his voice.
‘That’s, like, evil. What if you can’t stand these girls?’
‘They want to run your whole life. You can’t argue with them.
You even have to wear the club jocks!’
‘They have club underwear? No way!’
‘True. You have to wear the friggin’ underwear at all times.
It’s a rule.’ Angelo was puffing now from the crunches.
‘Even at school?’
‘Yep!’ Angelo laughed bitterly. ‘They ring you up and ask if you’re wearing the Cocky jocks. Look.’ Angelo bounced to his feet and slipped his thumbs under the top of his shorts to pull them down. Joshua sat up. ‘Look, a bloody great cocky!’
Angelo was wearing a pair of silk boxers with a huge cockatoo on them. Josh fell back on his bed laughing. As he did, he caught sight of his mother standing at the door.
‘What’s going on here?’ she asked.
‘Mum!’ He bounded off the bed. Angelo hitched up his shorts fast. ‘Angelo was just showing me his club underwear.’
She was frowning. Angelo had his hands clasped on his head and was looking embarrassed.
‘It’s compulsory for him to wear it.’
‘Not in this room, apparently,’ his mother said, then turned and left.
SPEED
DATING
MARY MAGDALENE LADIES’ COLLEGE looked imposing: it had vibrant green grass, carefully spaced bare oaks and elms, and, tracing the long drive’s curve, flowerbeds planted out for spring. The girls themselves were as groomed as the grounds; and one or two of them, Georgia noted, were extraordinarily attractive. Her fantasy that the school would offer hours of happy gym work and tickle-fights at lunchtimes had been quickly put to rest when she noted the crucifix above the entrance to the old grey administration building.
Marjorie Defarge, the headmistress, curtsied. ‘Your Royal Highness, welcome to Mary Magdalene.’ She had honeycoloured, fairy-floss hair and bright red lipstick. They entered her large office. On her desk was a family portrait – two children and a husband. She radiated enthusiasm. ‘The girls are wild about our school, and I’m quite sure you’ll feel that way, too, once you get to know us!’ She was clasping her hands together and leaning forward, all her energy focused on Georgia and her parents. Georgia leant away.
The room smelt of furniture polish and was warm and silent despite the afternoon chill and the hum of happy girls in the corridors and gardens. Behind Ms Defarge was a life-size painting in an elaborate frame of a woman in a dull red cape, with an insomniac’s face. A crucifixion taking place behind her suggested that this was Mary Magdalene herself. On an adjacent wall was a large carved crest and below it a finely carved ribbon with the school’s motto in gold: Odi profanum vulgus et arceo. Georgia didn’t know Latin.
‘Please sit down,’ said the headmistress. ‘So nice that you have chosen Mary Magdalene.’
‘So nice of you to accept our daughter,’ said Georgia’s mother, who was wearing a pink sari trimmed in gold.
Ms Defarge looked up from her file. ‘Your last school was Vistaview? What made you leave it, Georgia?’
Georgia froze. She’d left Vistaview swiftly after she’d slapped Darryl Dunn, taking the back streets to her aunt’s house, where she’d sat on the back lawn all day with her phone turned off and waited for the police to knock on the door. There had been around nine hundred and fifty witnesses to what she had done.
The police didn’t knock, however, and a few days later she’d simply had her parents call the school to un-enrol her.
She hadn’t told them what had happened in assembly, and Ms Defarge didn’t seem to know, either.
‘She is a princess,’ Georgia’s mother interjected. ‘This school seemed more appropriate.’
Ms Defarge beamed. ‘You’re not our first titled student,’ she said. ‘And what kind of course are you thinking of doing, Georgia?’
No use beating around the bush. Hit them with the truth.
‘Carpentry.’
Ms Defarge flashed a look of alarm at Georgia’s parents. They registered nothing. Georgia had been the top student in Year 8 Woodwork. Her CD rack had been the best in the class, and she’d been given an A++ for it. She stretched back in the chair and put her hands behind her head. If she couldn’t do carpentry, she wouldn’t enrol.
Ms Defarge tapped her lips thoughtfully. ‘A non-traditional subject.’ Her sparkle was fading fast. ‘We would perhaps have to arrange a school-based apprenticeship. We have a wonderful careers adviser.’
‘Georgia is her own person,’ her father said.
Ms Defarge leant across her desk. ‘You wouldn’t be interested in architecture?’
Georgia’s mother supported her. ‘She wants to use her hands.’
Her father, elegant in a mauve tie and matching mauve handkerchief, interrupted the headmistress. ‘The motto’ – he was looking behind her at the gilded shield on the wall – ‘if my schoolboy Latin still serves me, seems to say something like: I despise awful and profane people?’ He looked at Ms Defarge in surprise.
The headmistress giggled wildly and glanced at the large crest. ‘Odi profanum vulgus et arceo is a trifle dated, I must admit, but we find the translation Shun really unpleasant people a little more appropriate in the twenty-first century. The school is a hundred and thirty years old, Maharajah. We have inherited things from the past that are now a little quaint, but we don’t discard them. Judges still wear wigs.’
‘Quit
e right, too,’ nodded her father. ‘And the devices?’ Ms Defarge’s gaze fell lovingly on the school crest. ‘The crest bears the devices of a mirror in the top right, coins to the left and a hearth below, for beauty, wealth and a comfortable home.’ She paused. ‘It still speaks volumes to our girls.’ She clasped her hands and looked delighted. ‘We are a wonderful school. Our girls never want to leave.’
Georgia’s father remained silent.
‘Well … perhaps you’d like to see Mary Magdalene, Georgia?
I’ve asked Tamsin Court-Cookson to take you on a short tour. She’s captain of Gwen Meredith House and – you’ve probably guessed from the surname – the Deputy Prime Minister’s daughter. We have a rich cross-section of the community here, Maharajah. One of our scholarship girls is the daughter of a postman.’ She laughed. ‘He used to pick her up from school on his little yellow postman’s motorbike until we stopped it.’
Ms Defarge got up and went to the door. ‘Tamsin,’ she tinkled, ‘please come in and meet the maharajah, the maharani and their daughter, the Princess Georgia.’
A tall girl with a shock of hair combed from left to right just like a boy’s stepped into the room. She had the most beautiful clear skin and the most defiant look in her grey eyes. In a whisper, Ms Defarge told Tamsin Court-Cookson to curtsy.
She didn’t.
‘I wonder if you’d mind taking Georgia on a short tour of the school? There will be flavoured milk and Tiny Teddies waiting for you both here in my office when you return in half an hour.’
‘Certainly,’ said Tamsin, looking coldly at Georgia.
Georgia followed Tamsin as she led the way into the windy afternoon. Tamsin was certainly imposing.
Without looking at Georgia, Tamsin announced, ‘We’ll visit the chapel first; you may need to pray. Why on earth did you come here from India? You must be mad.’
Georgia didn’t know how to answer that. What was it about this school, that it bred girls like Tamsin Court-Cookson and Chelsea Dean? This wasn’t a friendly introduction at all.
‘Actually, I’m from Vistaview Secondary College,’ she responded bravely.
Tamsin stopped and turned to face her. ‘Really? How peculiar. Do you know Bunsy Dean?’
Georgia was mesmerised by Tamsin’s grey eyes but managed to mutter, ‘I know Chelsea Dean.’
‘Same Looney Tune. She used to be a student here. Sister Francis, the previous head, expelled her for kidnapping a statue of Our Lady from the chapel – as a joke, of course. Bunsy sent postcards for a month from various parts of the world, then returned the statue with a lei around its neck – and a Mickey Mouse watch. Best thing that happened to the school all year. There were rumours that the Pope was going to excommunicate all of us. Then Sister Francis was put out to pasture, and we were saved.’
‘I think Chelsea once mentioned something like that.’
‘We were all in on it. But Chelsea took the rap.’
‘Chelsea is starting a rowing club at Vistaview.’
Tamsin laughed. ‘I’ll bet it’s boys-only.’
Georgia nodded.
‘She was boy-obsessed. That’s why she really got herself expelled. To be closer to boys. You know, she once told me that her dream was to be rowed down the river to her place by an all-boys rowing team. She’s trying to get her wish. Ghastly Chelsea. Do your parents have a palace?’
‘A fort, actually.’
‘A fort? Are they often attacked?’
‘It was built ages ago. They haven’t been attacked for centuries.’
The two of them had arrived at an old bluestone chapel with a tower.
‘This is it: scene of the notorious kidnapping!’ Tamsin pushed open the door, and Georgia stepped into a blue-and-red stained-glass silence. The cool air smelt of incense. A bluerobed statue of the Virgin stood in one corner.
‘And here you will be told to remain pure.’ Tamsin’s eyes rolled. ‘Are you Hindu?’
‘I’m not anything.’
Tamsin began to pace noisily around the chapel. Georgia watched her out of the corner of her eye. She might be fun to know.
‘And why do you live in Australia?’ Tamsin’s voice reverberated off the walls.
‘It’s a long story.’
‘I’d love to live in a fort. I’d love to have my own army.’ Tamsin straightened up. She was quite tall. ‘Okay, what other parts of Gormenghast might I show you?’
‘I’m not sure. The woodwork room?’
‘The woodwork room?’
‘Or the gym.’
Tamsin looked pleased. ‘We have a zoo, too.’
‘This school has a zoo? Amazing.’
‘Well, it’s tragic actually. It has a sheep – poor thing – and a tortoise, a pony, a one-winged eagle, some canaries and budgies, about twenty rabbits that have been given no birthcontrol advice – it is a Catholic zoo – and every creature is over fed.’
They left the chapel, and Georgia followed Tamsin down a flower-lined path. ‘I have an elephant,’ she said, trying to impress this amazing girl.
Tamsin stopped. ‘That’s a first. You should come to school on it.’
‘It’s in India,’ Georgia laughed.
Tamsin Court-Cookson’s eyes were twinkling. ‘I’d love to go to India. You should invite me.’
Georgia didn’t know what to say.
‘Go on, invite me.’
Life was moving unexpectedly fast. Georgia heard herself say: ‘Please come to India with me.’
‘Thanks,’ said Tamsin. ‘When?’
She hesitated. ‘As soon as possible?’
‘Terrific! Deal’s done,’ said Tamsin Court-Cookson and held out her hand for a shake. ‘This is just like speed dating!’
START UP
THE MIRROR
BALL, BABE
KHIEM DAO’S PHONE BEEPED. It was Chelsea Dean: ‘U need work?’
He had the job at New World, but he needed a bigger cash flow to keep him away from thug life. Chelsea Dean, however, was a major pain in the proverbial. She’d always treated him like a charity case. Once she’d tried to train him to be a boyfriend-for-hire to some of her stuck-up Magdalene girlfriends; on another occasion she’d conned Zeynep Yarkan into letting him stay in Zeynep’s old cubbyhouse, which he’d unfortunately burnt down. As a social worker Chelsea was a dud, and this might be another attempt. But then again, she was single and cute in her own bunnywabbit-on-speed kind of way.
He’d never ask his aunty for money. She knew he was bad, and she was always harsh towards him. People told her he was no good.
‘Sure,’ he messaged.
This was the new Khiem Dao: two jobs, creaming them all at school, Vo Vietnam black belt soon, straight as a die – and two hundred and seventy DVDs still under his bed.
He moved to the window to look out across the houses and trees towards the hills at the edge of the city. Being on the fifth floor gave him a great view. Seagulls skimmed at eye level. He could see Chelsea’s house in the distance, above the river, not far from the tower of Mary Magdalene Ladies’ College – that smorgasbord of stuck-up girls in a garden of Eden. Chelsea’s family was rich – rich enough not to know if small stuff went missing. He’d thought about burging the place once when he’d visited. That was in the old days, though; the bad days when he didn’t care about anything except drugs and quick cash.
The phone went again. He looked at the screen. Chelsea.
‘Come now.’
Chelsea gave orders as if she ran the school. But she was a bit of a rebel – he liked that.
He should change his shirt if he was going to see her, because he was still sweating after Vo Vietnam training. He was getting back into it after a two-year lapse. They were glad to have him again. His uniform, blue like the sky, was now folded carefully over his chair. Respect the uniform, respect yourself, respect others.
Khiem padded to his bedroom and pulled on a clean T-shirt, then he kicked the DVDs and went back to the window to look at Chelsea’s house ag
ain. He could just make out the balcony above the pool. She wasn’t on it. She lived in the mega-rich area of the city. Hundreds of thousands of Aussies lived in those green eastern suburbs, sheltered by waves of green trees. An ocean of green trees. If Khiem became Chelsea’s toy boy, she could send signals to him from her bedroom window on that hill. Click, click. Come quick. He’d grab his bike and pedal up to her place in the middle of the night to sip fine wines in her spa and watch the little spinning lights flashing from the mirror ball and the little floating candles and rose petals shimmering on the surface of the water. She’d pay top dollar for his company.
Khiem shook his head. He couldn’t remember her address, although he did recall a painting of a naked lady halfway up their staircase. That showed how rich they were. They had nudes.
‘Address?’ he messaged, just in case he got the wrong house.
She responded instantly: ‘4 Petworth Close.’
He grabbed his jacket, keys, phone and bike, and headed for the door. There was a family in the hall waiting for the lift. Their accent was Northern. The flats were like a mini Vietnam.
Outside, Khiem checked his tyres. Crappy ride there, nice ride home. He’d be sweating like a pig again by the time he got to the top of Chelsea’s hill, even though it was still cold. She wouldn’t like him if he stank. She’d probably suggest they have a spa immediately, before their late afternoon of love. Start up the mirror ball, babe! He doubled back and got his deodorant.
HAVE BABIES
WITH ME!
CRAIG RYANWAS down on his knees in New World stacking boxes of raisins. And he was furious.
The night before, Craig’s dad had finally confessed to his son that he was seeing Chelsea Dean’s mother. It was one of the crappiest nights of Craig’s life. It had been a week since Chelsea’s visit, so Craig had been waiting for it.
He’d expected his father to try the old father–son KFC thing: sit down with Craig over a family-size bucket and tell him Chelsea’s mother and he were good friends … Instead, his old man had flipped out. Big time.
Chelsea had kept her word. She’d told her mother she was pregnant, and that the father of the child – Craig – had Tourette syndrome.