by Chris Wheat
Several teachers pushed through the crowd and knelt around her, too. All he could do was stand and watch. Girls kept looking at him, and then Penny looked up, too.
‘She has a pulse,’ Penny said. ‘Clear a space around her. Has she been eating blackberries?’
‘It’s ink,’ Georgia Delahunty said firmly. ‘She went mad.’
‘She’s been poisoned,’ cried someone in the crowd.
Teachers were now ordering the girls away. Then they lifted the crazy woman up and carried her limp body back up the stairs.
‘I’m glad I left this madhouse,’ announced Chelsea from the steps.
A girl turned to him. ‘You’re a very incompetent driver,’ she said. ‘And you look so young.’
Khiem turned to Penny, who was staring at him. He wanted to explain.
‘My part-time job,’ he explained feebly. ‘I’m Chelsea’s chauffeur.’
‘He didn’t do anything,’ Georgia Delahunty reminded them.
‘I did.’
‘Well,’ Chelsea said, stepping forward, ‘I can’t negotiate with a lunatic. Khiem, you’ll just have to drive me home.’
Craig was still filming. That would be proof perhaps that he hadn’t hit the woman.
Penny was still staring at him.
‘I don’t know what happened,’ he whispered. ‘She just charged the car.’
‘She’s like that,’ Penny responded. She looked up towards a commotion going on behind the big green doors, which were now rattling violently. Around him, girls were discussing the incident. Chelsea was chatting with a group of them, and Craig was still filming.
‘I’m in the middle of tutoring a Year 7 girl,’ Penny said finally. ‘I better go.’
‘Not for good?’ he said. ‘Please…’
She smiled. ‘It’s fine. I didn’t know you had your Ps.’
‘I…’ He was going to tell the truth but she was already gone.
Start the day in an interesting way
CHELSEA DEAN AWOKE to the roar of the juicer in the kitchen below. Craig had discovered juicing. And he seemed to be juicing an orchard.
Once, Chelsea would have opened her eyes on a Sunday morning and stretched luxuriously as the sounds of her parents getting up and the scent of her father’s Calvin Klein drifted through her darkened room, but now there was a man sleeping in her father’s bed (she wanted to scream when she thought about it), and Craig Ryan, with his beaten-up skateboard and dirty baseball cap, had turned the guest bedroom into a hovel.
As she’d predicted, Craig and his father were proving to be a nightmare to live with. Craig’s skateboard rattled incessantly on the tiles around the pool, and he thumped up the stairs two at a time. And the food situation was awful: the fridge and freezer were full, crowded with trays of meat, full-cream milk and chunky-style chips; meals took place earlier in the evening than was necessary; and there was a lot more snacking.
She’d tried to be patient with Craig – she hadn’t sacked him from the rowing team, and she’d allowed him to film her at Mary Magdalene the other day – but it had been four weeks now, and it was becoming very trying.
The juicer continued to roar and Chelsea ground her teeth. Career Girl Barbie was the first to protest. ‘Stop that noise, Chelsea! We’re losing beauty sleep.’
Angel of Peace Barbie was next. ‘Read the bugger the rules!’ Angel of Peace Barbie had made some very pertinent points when they were drawing up Craig’s list late the previous evening.
‘Yes, start the day in an interesting way,’ chortled Titanic Barbie.
The juicer stopped. Chelsea listened for more kitchen sounds. Nothing – just the sweet Australian music of carolling magpies. Perhaps he’d gone back to bed, his skateboard thrown in the corner, his T-shirt and jeans on the carpet beside his filthy runners.
Chelsea’s first list of rules had worked reasonably well: wild dancing had ceased; the van was in the garage beside the Merc; she hadn’t heard yabba dabba doo once; and she had been allowed to eat separately whenever she chose. Her list had been far from comprehensive, but it was a start.
The juicer roared again. She was up! She needed to focus on the formal – her reputation depended on it, as did the future happiness and marriage prospects of hundreds of Mary Magdalene girls. But first she had to sort out her domestic situation. This house had been designed for just one precious girl and two adoring parents and for nobody else except the occasional clean and well-mannered guest. She couldn’t bear this!
Aware that the Barbies were watching, Chelsea donned her dressing gown and charged across to her mother’s room, knocking hard on the door.
‘Yes Chelsea?’ came her mother’s voice, muffled through the door.
‘Listen. The juicer!’
‘Calm down, Chelsea.’
‘I can’t live with him. He slurps.’
‘There are worse crimes than slurping.’
‘No there aren’t! I am trying to organise the most mammoth social event in the history of Vistaview Secondary College, with absolutely no help from anyone, and I have to live with a juicing hoon!’
‘Open the door.’
Chelsea opened it. Her mother was alone.
‘Chelsea, you can pull your head in. You behaved shockingly saying that Craig got you pregnant. You disappeared overnight and worried me sick. You truant. You made those poor boys row you home from school. You tell me that Tamsin Court-Cookson has thrown our camcorder into the river, and you have no rational explanation for why she did it – I don’t believe she is on drugs. And to top it all off, Brenda tells me that the Mercedes went missing for several hours this Thursday! Did the pool boy take it? What is happening to you? I won’t stand for all this!’
Chelsea was speechless. She stormed back to her room and performed deep-breathing exercises on her bed.
‘He’s defeating you,’ Wedding Day Barbie sang softly.
‘No he isn’t!’ she sang back determinedly.
Her phone went. It was Zeynep.
‘What?’ she yelled.
‘They’ve bought a ticket!’
‘Who? What are you talking about?’
‘Why are you yelling?’ Zeynep enquired meekly.
‘Because I’m being persecuted! A ticket to where? Who?’
‘To Turkey. My parents. This Wednesday!’
‘Well you just can’t go! You’ll miss the formal.’
‘It’s so easy to say that.’ Zeynep was sobbing.
The juicer started yet again.
‘Oh that is just it! Do you know what, Zeynep? We’re both going to Sydney! I’ll ring you back,’ she snapped.
Chelsea stormed down the stairs. There he was in the kitchen in his hideous Daffy Duck boxer shorts. She knocked loudly on the open door. Her father never made breakfast in his underwear.
‘Enter if you’re gorgeous,’ Craig called out.
She did and stared at him defiantly.
‘I said enter if you’re gorgeous. So how come you entered?’
‘What are you doing?’ Chelsea screamed.
‘Making everyone orange juice,’ Craig said, surprise on his face. ‘You’re not a happy chappy in the morning, eh?’
She couldn’t think of a response.
‘Mind telling me where you guys hide the sugar?’ he asked.
‘Yes I mind.’
‘Any Milo?’
‘No.’
He moaned loudly, arching his back and stretching. ‘I’m hangin’ out for Milo. I’m a guy!’
There were squeezed half-oranges and splatters of juice everywhere, and a huge bowl of cornflakes sat on the table.
Now he was opening cupboards. He bent over and she stared at the Daffy Duck squawking from his backside.
They’d never had cornflakes in the house before – it had always been a Bircher muesli residence. Her whole way of life was under attack.
‘Couldn’t you put on a pair of pants, for heaven’s sake? And a top?’
Craig rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t perve at
the goods, then.’
This was just too much! It was time for the list.
‘Basically,’ Chelsea said quietly, ‘it comes down to the fact that I was here before you. I’m an only child. I’d heard boys were ghastly to live with, but nothing they said ever prepared me for you, Craig Ryan. I have drawn up a list of rules.’ She took the paper from her dressing-gown pocket and opened it up on the bench.
‘Have some orange juice,’ he interrupted.
She ignored the offer. ‘If we are to live in harmony as a blended family, Craig, you must agree to the following demands.’
Craig Ryan's Rules
for Harmonious Living by Chelsea Dean
1 C. Ryan has exclusive use of the pool room and guest room, provided he doesn't use any other rooms in the house.
2 C . Ryan is never to answer the door.
3 C . Ryan is not to answer the phone or send text messages in the toilet.
4 C . Ryan is not to bounce a basketball while mounting the stairs.
5 C . Ryan is not to throw food in the air and catch it in his mouth.
6 The following words and phrases are not to be used in the house: scrotum, ma bitches, shake your booty, porker, buns, mighty fine ass, sis, babe. And the T-shirt with the slogan ' You've been a naughty girl, go to my room' is never to be worn again.
7 The police will be called if Matilda Grey is found on the premises.
Craig was looking a bit perplexed. She slapped the list onto the fridge door and pinned it with an I ♥ DADDY magnet.
‘And number eight: Never wear underwear in the kitchen.’
‘You’re wearing underwear in the kitchen, and Matilda does what she wants,’ Craig muttered. ‘I can’t control her.’
‘A dressing gown is not underwear, Craig. And you are so infatuated with that girl that you can’t see how absurd she is.
A girl who thinks she’s a dog? Get real!’
‘For your information, Matilda already stayed with me in the pool room,’ Craig announced, crossing his arms. ‘You’ve got the hots for me. Admit it.’
Chelsea shrieked and threw the closest thing at hand – his bowl of corn flakes – straight at his head. It missed and crashed to the floor. Then she unplugged the juicer and threw it at the fridge door.
Next she grabbed a wok. ‘I want you and your father and that dog OUT OF MY HOUSE!’ she screamed and bashed the wok on her mother’s granite benchtop. It chimed like a gong.
‘OUT!’ she screamed and bashed it again.
‘OUT!’ she bashed harder still. The wok had developed a major dent.
‘OUT!’
Craig bolted from the room.
MY TWO
HUSBANDS
CRAIG RYAN HAD been shocked by Chelsea’s tantrum. He wasn’t going to live with her any more – stuff them all, he was moving out with Matilda. This would be his first experience of a mature relationship. The trouble was that he’d never actually slept in a TV box in the bush at night, and he wasn’t sure whether he’d cope without Counter-Strike or a fridge.
But Matilda had her hideaway just down on the river, so you could probably hear traffic and see house lights. And if Matilda wasn’t scared of snakes, spiders, serial killers, bag ladies and werewolves, he couldn’t be either. Anyway, they would have Arnold with them.
So he had packed some TV Snacks, a six-pack of Just Juice, a couple of pairs of jocks, his toothbrush, his deodorant, his old man’s condoms, his phone, two cans of Dingoes’ Dinner for Arnold and the iPod into a backpack, and they’d left Matilda’s place after a big feast of Fruitopia, bread and Nutella.
His note to his father had read:
dad, don’t searc h for me. i’ve gone some place else to live because i ain’t living with chelsea, no way. don’t worry about me i can look after myself you can phone if you like, craig your son.
ps i’ve taken arnold and all the just juice
‘I hope my mother is worried,’ Matilda said as they made their way across the oval and down the track towards the river.
It was a pleasant evening and the sky was a gentle pink. So long as Matilda and Arnold were curled up beside him in their box, this would be fun. He was the only other person in the world who knew about this secret sleeping place.
‘They’ll go nuts when they find you missing.’
‘Suffer.’ She laughed. ‘Suffer tourists. Suffer Chelsea Throwback Dean.’
They were holding hands now and she squeezed his hard. That was a good sign. She was wearing a windcheater with a hood and had her own backpack, and she walked with her other hand on Arnold’s back.
They descended a path and the air got a little colder. The sound of traffic diminished and darkness descended. Matilda had a torch. They reached an area of dense bushes.
‘It’s here. Now we have to crawl.’ She indicated a small opening in the foliage. ‘You’ll have to take your backpack off and push it along the secret path.’
‘Are there snakes?’
‘No, they’re asleep, but I reckon there’s a fox somewhere.
I can smell it.’
‘Do foxes attack?’
‘Only if you corner them and go for their testes.’
‘It would be scared of Arnold,’ Craig said nervously as he followed her example and got down on his knees.
‘It would be.’
He looked at her bum: pretty sweet. She was wearing jeans.
‘Follow me,’ she said and disappeared into the black little opening in the bushes.
Arnold squeezed in front of him, following Matilda. Craig pushed his backpack along before him, following them both.
This was kind of insane, like playing mums and dads, but there was some chance it may turn into doctors and nurses, and for that reason he wasn’t chickening out.
His good jeans were going to be wrecked crawling up and down this little path, and he was missing the semi-final of Australian Idol. Two days living like this would probably be enough. By that time, the TV Snacks would be eaten and the batteries in his iPod and phone would be flat. Then they’d have to return to civilisation.
‘We’re here,’ she called from somewhere in front. He could now see a little better. There was Arnold, sitting beside Matilda, and they were both smiling at him. Her nest.
She had made a little round room and built up walls of branches and a kind of roof. On the ground were a couple of blankets. On one side was the TV-box bedroom, barely big enough for one, let alone the three of them. He couldn’t work out how she’d got it in there. She’d even found some plates! On a branch was a picture of Inspector Rex. She’d been collecting this junk from along the river and dragging it into her hideout.
‘What do you think?’ she asked proudly.
‘Not bad.’
She had her arm around Arnold. He patted Arnold too and felt safer. Arnold would get a fox for sure.
‘Want to see my Inspector Rex collection?’ She unzipped her bag. He’d seen it all before several times, but he had to humour her.
‘Want some TV Snacks?’ he asked, opening his backpack as well.
She got out the folder of photographs, and he handed her the box of biscuits. Arnold licked his lips and stared intently at the box. He had a big tongue, too.
He and Matilda shared a Just Juice. ‘This is just perfect,’ she sighed and lay back on the blanket.
That wasn’t quite how he would describe it.
Arnold curled up beside her. ‘Here we are in our new home and I have my two husbands.’
‘Two?’
‘You and Arnold are my husbands.’
‘Arnold is a dog! Who brought you the TV Snacks and the Just Juice? Not Arnold.’
She leant over and rubbed her hand up and down Arnold’s back. ‘He’s a very special dog.’ She leant over and kissed Arnold on the nose.
‘Hey, stop it. Don’t act weird. Act like a girl. Kiss me on the nose too if you kiss him!’
She did.
‘Arnold is important, Craig. He’s more than a dog. He ha
s talents,’ she said.
‘Like…?’
‘Digging talents.’
‘Brilliant.’ He felt like challenging Arnold to a digging competition.
He suddenly wanted to go home. This wasn’t going to work out. Maybe they weren’t compatible. Fifteen minutes in their love nest and they were having a domestic.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘You are good at tummy rubbing. I’m sorry.’ She lay down. ‘Would you like to rub my tummy and my ears now?’
Craig looked at her lying on the old blanket, her head partly in the cardboard box, and she was pretty damn attractive. But he decided to make her wait. ‘Maybe in a minute,’ he said. ‘Or you can get Arnold to do it, if he’s so special.’ Maybe he was a little jealous. Was that normal?
‘Don’t be crabbity,’ she said. ‘Be nice.’ She closed her eyes.
He leant over. This was what he’d been waiting for, after all.
He began to rub and a little smile appeared on her face. She really was so pretty with that little smile.
Suddenly she hoisted herself onto her elbows and started to sniff the air.
‘What’s wrong?’
She sniffed again. ‘A rabbit!’ she whispered. Arnold had pricked up his ears. ‘Somewhere quite close. Come on, Arnold.’
She got on her knees and vanished down the little secret path, with Arnold right behind. He was left in the dark, alone.
He could hear them both jumping about in the bushes not far off, so he shone the torch in that direction. There was nothing but a black wall of trees. He really wanted to be back home now. He couldn’t compete with Arnold, and psychopaths could be lurking out in those trees.
How long could you live away from home? Just long enough to get your point across to your old man. He would probably be mad when he found his condoms missing.
The scampering sounds increased; Matilda and Arnold were returning. He focused the torch beam on the tunnel and suddenly they both appeared out of the dark.
He yelled as the torchlight illuminated them. In Matilda’s mouth was a rabbit!
‘What the … ? Get it away from me,’ he cried as she dropped the thing in front of him and then grabbed hold of it when it tried to jump. Arnold was growling and watching it closely.