Screw Loose

by Chris Wheat

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Not really? We were told you said no to the lot,’ Vasilevski snapped.

  ‘Um, no time?’

  ‘There’s always time for a nice girl, Angelo. Always,’ said Coach Beck.

  He smiled nervously. ‘After my exams, maybe?’

  Coach Beck leant right back in his chair. He grabbed the edge of the table suddenly to stop himself from toppling over backwards. ‘This Candibelle, the ex, she had you straightening wheelie bins along her street, we heard. What a great sight that would be if a TV van just happened to be in the vicinity!’

  They knew everything.

  ‘She’s an obsessive-compulsive.’ Coach Beck was looking down at his folder.

  ‘Fruitloops attract,’ Paul mumbled to the other two.

  Coach Beck smirked.

  ‘You go to school with Candibelle?’ Ashley asked gently.

  He nodded. ‘Zeynep’s her name, actually.’ He shifted around in his seat. ‘It’s hard for her. The publicity. She’s Muslim. Her parents are traditional – strict.’

  ‘She’s Muslim? Not that it’s a problem,’ said Ashley. ‘Some of the Cockies are Muslims: Hakan, Omar. Great blokes.’

  Angelo nodded. ‘Great blokes.’

  Coach Beck raised his voice. ‘So this is the current state of play: you’ve now dumped the girlfriend; you’re attending training regularly; you’re the May recruit in the forthcoming Afl calendar; you’re moisturising; and you’ll have a bit of psychotherapy so that you can wear makeup without hyperventilating.’ He paused. ‘The world’s a perfect place – but maybe we’ll drop you from this year’s review.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Angelo tried to look grateful.

  Ashley cleared his throat. ‘We’ve got to be tough on you, Angelo, for your own good. You’re a young bloke and you’ve got a bit to learn about the Cockies’ image.’

  Paul interrupted. ‘We need to do some work on you to bring you up to scratch. We’ve arranged a new girlfriend for you.’

  ‘Really?’

  Coach Beck was firm. ‘Your contract stipulates we can declare it null and void if you bring the club’s name into disrepute. We’ve drawn up a contract with the mother. It’ll cost us a pretty penny, but it’ll be great for publicity and involves a very interesting marketing synergy. The mother’s pretty keen on the whole idea.’

  ‘What? What’s going on?’

  ‘It’s Matilda Grey – Dingo Girl. She attends your school. It will generate huge publicity and, as a result, much-needed revenue for the club.’

  ‘NO WAY!!’ Angelo yelled.

  ‘OUR WAY!’ Coach Beck yelled back. ‘Don’t shout at us, Angelo. You want a run next week or the week after? It’s the Dog Girl or you’re out, mate. You’ve got twenty-four hours to decide!’

  EMO ATTACK

  STANDING NERVOUSLY ONthe escalators, Joshua Yeatman slid smoothly up to the concourse of Flinders Street Station. After almost a week of anticipation, he was shivering. This was his first real date with a guy, and there were a lot of unknowns.

  After staring into his wardrobe this afternoon and trying on two pairs of pants and two pairs of shoes, he’d decided anything was okay: jeans with a beige T-shirt and a beige pullover. It had seemed unimaginative, but he’d shrugged at his reflection and left the house.

  At five o’clock on a Sunday afternoon, Flinders Street Station was a flood of humanity, whirling with footy fans. A group of people in the middle of the concourse were giving away boxes of powdered soup, and the eerie sound of a distant saxophone blended with the white noise of the station.

  Joshua scanned the hurrying crowd nervously – not that he was confident he’d know Fly on sight, anyway. How old was the photo on GayWayz? They’d spoken again the previous night, and Fly had said he’d be wearing a Bored of being bored T-shirt and a butterfly badge. Josh had told Fly to look for a beige T-shirt printed with blurry, meaningless sentences, so he took off his pullover.

  ‘Yanmate?’ Someone tapped him on the shoulder.

  He spun about and froze. Bored of being bored.

  ‘Fly? Are you Fly?’

  ‘I is da man!’ Fly kissed him on the cheek.

  Josh’s muscles became rigid. Fly was wearing a necklace, an eyebrow ring, a lip stud, bangles, and yellow and white nail polish. There were three others with him – two guys and a girl.

  And they were all emos.

  Then he saw it behind Fly’s ear – the ultimate accessory. A cochlear implant. He realised that the group was signing. Fly and his friends were deaf emos. This was a disaster!

  Fly put his hands to his ears and smiled. ‘Don’t be scared; I can understand you. Bionic ear.’ He moved his head to the side, showing off an aid. Then he pointed to the butterfly on his T-shirt. ‘Butterflies are deaf.’

  The girl with Fly came up to Joshua. ‘Nice to meet you, Yanmate.’ Her words were loud and a little blurred. His nick sounded ridiculous when it was shouted.

  ‘Yeah, dude. Nice to meet,’ said one of Fly’s other mates, offering a limp hand displaying multiple rings.

  Joshua smiled politely and shook the guy’s hand. ‘Nice to meet.’

  ‘Yo!’ said the second guy and waved an open palm in Joshua’s face. He had a tongue stud.

  Then the four of them began signing to one another. One of them, Josh noticed, had a Hobart Cockatoos badge sewn onto his cap.

  ‘This is deafies’ turf,’ said Fly. ‘Can you sign?’

  Joshua shook his head. He pointed to the Cockatoos badge.

  ‘I know Angelo Tarano.’ It tumbled out of his mouth.

  Fly’s face broke into a grin: ‘No way!’ he cried out. ‘Angelo Tarano!’ He started jumping up and down on the spot. ‘Zoe, he knows Tarano! He knows Tarano!’

  Joshua’s body was twisting. He couldn’t take this. Not with all these people swirling around them and staring. All he had to do was turn and run towards the escalators and this would be over.

  Fly was still ecstatic. ‘Sheeeet! Man! I’m, like, looking at someone who knows the Angelo Tarano!’ He grabbed Josh by the shoulders. ‘I have major fantasies about him. I’m pumped.

  I’ve gone to heaven! I’m in heaven!’

  If only Fly would keep his voice down. Maybe he didn’t know how loud he was being. The rushing people all around them kept glancing over.

  ‘Angelo Tarano, get your clothes off!’ the guy with the tongue stud cried out.

  ‘Hey, don’t yell,’ Joshua said.

  Fly stopped and his face became serious. ‘What?’

  ‘Sorry. You know. You were all yelling. It was just a bit loud.’

  With each word, his regrets piled.

  Fly’s face had changed. ‘Who in hell are you to tell me what to do?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  He needed an instant invisibility cloak.

  ‘You can’t hack deafies, eh? Scared?’ jeered Fly.

  ‘No!’ Joshua shook his head vigorously. ‘Not at all.’ His voice had risen two or three tones.

  ‘You prejudiced prick!’ Fly yelled in his face.

  ‘Sorry. I just meant …don’t worry about it.’

  ‘You can’t hack deaf faggots, right?’ said the girl, who was pulling a face.

  It was like this was a set-up; like they’d lured him to the station to humiliate him.

  Fly’s three friends encircled him. Then one of the guys gave him the finger.

  Joshua ran.

  As he darted through the crowds, he knew he could never return to Flinders Street Station – not in this lifetime. He joined the crush on the escalators with his heart beating fast.

  He wanted to blow up, to shoot into the sky like a firework and explode.

  Deaf guerrillas, that’s what they were, luring innocent suburban gay guys out of their bedrooms to assassinate them at Flinders Street Station.

  Just don’t cry, he kept saying to himself. Just don’t cry.

  ARE YOU

  A LEMON?

  GEORGIA DELAHUNTY WAS walking alon
e along one of Mary Magdalene’s many neat paths in the winter sunshine. It was the beginning of her second week at the new school and she felt a bit lonely. Thank goodness she hadn’t taken the penthouse; despite the prayers for her salvation, her aunt and uncle’s company was comforting in the evenings – familiar. Her parents had returned to India once her application was approved.

  The path led Georgia via some stone steps to the lower hockey oval. Girls passed her, arms entwined, laughing and sharing their secrets. It was like some gorgeous stage production, real and unreal: shining skin, gleaming eyes and girlish glee. She listened but didn’t make eye contact:

  ‘… and this is definitely the happiest day of my life, no question about it…’

  ‘…my sister’s in Paris and just, like, totally shopping…’

  ‘…I’m so not a skier either, but I adore snow. Have you tasted gluhwein?’

  ‘…my mother was like, They scratched the Steinway! and my father was like, We’ll buy another!’

  Gales of laughter.

  The path turned around a large oak and there, sitting on a seat, just as Georgia had hoped, was Tamsin Court-Cookson, reading a book. She’d been looking for Tamsin last week, but Tamsin had been absent. Feigning curiosity about the hockey field, Georgia stopped and shaded her eyes, not daring to look at the amazing girl who sat there wound in a school scarf, a box of tissues beside her.

  ‘Interested in hockey?’

  Georgia turned. ‘Oh, hello, I didn’t notice you.’

  ‘Of course you did.’ Tamsin put down her book and patted the old seat. ‘Sit.’

  Georgia walked across, feeling nervous. ‘What are you reading?’

  ‘A biography of Navratilova.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Georgia as she sat down on the cold stone.

  ‘So what do you think of Maggers, then?’

  ‘It’s very different from Vistaview.’

  ‘Well it should be! It’s so damn elite, it’s ridiculous. Sometimes you just want to cause havoc. The girls here are all so bells-on-your-toes precious.’

  ‘And happy?’

  ‘Get over it. They’re all absolutely drowning in drugs and booze. Half the school is bulimic or anorexic, and we’ve had two pregnancies this year.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Tamsin sniffed. ‘I’ve been in America with my mother. I caught a cold.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘So do you have a major emotional issue?’ Tamsin asked.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘You’ll be in the minority, then. I advise you to develop an eating disorder, or you’ll be considered maladjusted. And where do you live when you’re in Australia?’

  ‘Clifton Hill.’

  ‘Your parents live in India and you live in Clifton Hill. This does not compute. My mother is in Canberra half the year, so I have to fend for myself too, but at least it’s Australia. Why don’t you live with them?’ Tamsin asked.

  ‘Long story.’

  ‘I like long stories.’ She threw her arm over the back of the seat and turned an intense smile on Georgia.

  ‘They conceived me out of wedlock and gave me to my mother’s brother and sister-in-law when I was born. Otherwise my father wouldn’t have been permitted to marry my mother. She wasn’t royalty or anything – she’s English. So my aunty and uncle brought me up. Then my parents came and found me, and now they kind of want me back. But I sort of like my Australian family, even though they’re very religious, and I don’t want to live in India.’

  Tamsin looked riveted. ‘You must be rather screwed up, then – psychologically speaking. Barking, even. But a barking princess is not unheard of.’

  ‘I’m not mad.’

  ‘What house did Defarge put you in?’

  ‘Edith Lyons.’

  ‘Damn! Those Lyons bitches. Learnt their house war cry yet?’

  Georgia shook her head.

  ‘It’s: Edith! Edith! Edith! Rip their blazers, pull their hair! Edith!

  Edith! Edith! We never lose, we’re never fair!’

  ‘Harsh,’ said Georgia. ‘We didn’t have war cries at Vistaview.’

  ‘Passion for your house is de rigueur here,’ said Tamsin. ‘We all have war cries.’

  Georgia laughed and leant back, too. ‘You remind me of Chelsea Dean.’

  ‘What?’ Tamsin looked offended. ‘Don’t say that! Ever!’

  ‘Sorry.’

  A tall, elegant, anxious-looking girl approached. ‘Seen you-know-who?’ she asked Tamsin quietly.

  Tamsin shook her head. The girl glanced distractedly at Georgia and hurried off.

  ‘That’s Phoebe Choudbury-Foote from Year 12. She’s having a torrid affair with Gary Deare, the school maintenance person.

  You mustn’t tell a soul, but most of us know, of course. She thinks hardly anyone knows. She gives him the most fantastic lovebites. Absolutely mauls him. They have their little liaisons in his shed! It’s wonderful to see them at the end of lunchtime: sometimes she comes out with wood shavings in her hair. It’s so deliciously sordid, and it’s available on phones all over the school. We love it.’

  Georgia watched Phoebe rushing down the path in her quest for Gary Deare.

  ‘And where do you live?’ she asked Tamsin.

  ‘Oh, ghastly Toorak.’

  ‘Your mother is the Deputy Prime Minister.’

  She sighed. ‘Yes.’

  Two girls walked by, arm in arm. They looked over and smiled.

  ‘Hi Tam, hi new girl,’ one of them called.

  ‘Her name is Georgia,’ Tamsin answered.

  The girls wheeled around, still arm in arm. They could have been twins – both were blonde, both of similar height and weight.

  ‘I’m Chloe and this is Cressie,’ said Chloe, shaking Cressie’s arm, ‘and we’re a bit mad. We think you should be in the Gwen Meredith play,’ she continued. ‘We need a Roman centurion.

  You’d be wonderful! Could you die nobly?’

  Georgia was reluctant to commit herself to a play – or dying nobly. Not yet.

  ‘There’s a lovely breastplate and a sword and a helmet,’ said Chloe.

  ‘For lovely breasts,’ said Tamsin, and Chloe and Cressie shrieked.

  ‘And a spear,’ said Cressie. ‘We’re slaves from Gaul.’

  ‘I’ll need to think about that,’ said Georgia.

  ‘We’re discussing something, actually,’ Tamsin said.

  ‘Sor-ry!’ they chorused, then wheeled around again and cantered away down the path.

  ‘Can you row?’ Tamsin asked.

  ‘No. I play hockey.’

  ‘I’m head of rowing. I hope you’ll try out for the rowing team.’

  Georgia laughed. ‘Well, I’m not sure.’

  ‘At least come out with us and try it.’

  ‘I could.’

  Tamsin looked into her eyes. ‘Are you a lemon?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Come on, don’t be Miss Innocent.’

  Georgia felt uncomfortable, but she gathered up her courage.

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Huh! Thought so.’ Tamsin slapped her knee and grinned broadly.

  ‘How did you guess?’ asked Georgia.

  ‘Just sniffed it out. You’d make a great centurion, you know.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Georgia looked at Tamsin and decided to plunge in, too.

  ‘Are you a lemon as well?’

  ‘Of course!’ Tamsin laughed. ‘But you must be quiet about it.

  My mother, you know.’

  Georgia nodded. ‘I’m discreet.’

  ‘I thought you might be lemonish as soon as I saw you standing there in Defarge’s office,’ Tamsin whispered.

  ‘Same with me,’ said Georgia.

  ‘Call me Tam – or between you, me and this oak tree, call me Tim!’

  Georgia smiled and felt a slow, deep glow inside. At last! She looked into Tim’s twinkling grey eyes and grabbed her hand.

  ‘C
all me George!’ she said.

  HIS IMMACULATE

  HANDBALLING

  SKILLS

  ANGELO WAS IN his living room trying to work out how to handle the Matilda Grey issue. He had the house to himself and had pumped up the music; he was doing push-ups to the beat and thinking about Zeynep.

  When he was playing footy he thought of Zeynep constantly, hoping she was following the play and admiring his fast twists, his clever short passes, his courageous tackles. He couldn’t give her up – not those eyes, not that voice. He couldn’t let some other guy get her. But she would dump him for sure if he agreed to go out with Matilda. They wanted to make an announcement in the Herald Sun. Zeynep would flip. Any girl would.

  Today in homeroom he’d arranged all the pencils in her case so that they faced the same way after she’d spilt them on the floor. But he knew that wouldn’t save him. What right did Matilda’s mother have to make deals with Cockatoos management anyway? He stopped the push-ups and collapsed on the carpet, feeling the pulsing ache in his arms and shoulders.

  He loved Zeynep. He needed Zeynep. He loved footy. He needed footy. He grabbed his phone and rang Joshua.

  ‘Josh, mate!’

  ‘Angelo?’ Josh sounded a bit sad.

  ‘Man. I’m stuffed. They told me I have to give up Zeynep.

  Guess who they’ve lined me up with? Matilda Grey.’

  ‘No way! What does Craig Ryan think about that?’

  ‘They got permission from her mother. Don’t know about Craig.’

  ‘That is so crap.’

  ‘You’re telling me. What do I do?’

  ‘Ignore it. Angelo, I have a problem, too.’

  ‘I want to play footy. I want them both – and I don’t want Matilda.’

  ‘Well, don’t take some guy’s girlfriend. That’s dirty. Angelo, can I—’

  ‘True. But I took yours.’

  Josh didn’t speak for a moment. ‘That was different. I let you. It was a win-win-win situation.’

  ‘You’re right.’

  ‘Can’t you go out with Zeynep secretly? Just don’t tell them.

  You hide your relationship from her parents anyway, don’t you? It would be easy enough to hide it from those Cockatoo losers, too. Disguise her.’

  ‘Disguise her? No way. I hate disguises. You know they make me hyperventilate.’