by Chris Wheat
He knew who she was. She was the Magdalene rowing coach. She’d saved Chelsea. And he’d once seen her with her mother on television. She was tall, made taller by a top hat. He smiled, and she returned his smile. ‘I’ve heard about you. You helped to organise this,’ she said. ‘Don’t let Chelsea Dean rule your life.’
‘I don’t,’ he said.
‘Yo,’ said Craig and held out his fist. ‘This is crazy. Classy do.’
He blew on his fingernails and polished them, then looked behind him as another commotion broke out.
Chelsea sailed into the foyer. She looked amazing – you’d have to say beautiful – in a long pink dress and small tiara – like a rather compact, buzzy princess. She approached and he lifted his stamp, smiling at her.
She held up her palm: ‘Joshua, I don’t need a pass out – it’s my party,’ she said. She leant closer. ‘In fact, it’s actually my birthday.’
She smiled more broadly and turned to the Channel Ten people, who’d followed her inside
‘I’m, like, so embarrassed!’ she said, smiling at the cameras. ‘This was just going to be a small birthday – but all my friends have come. Matilda Grey is not my friend, but Angelo Tarano is, and I’m a tolerant person, so she can join in.’
She beamed at the camera and walked slowly to the auditorium door.
He had to admire her.
BIZARRO
CHOICES
ANGELO TARANO SHOT furtive looks in all directions as he followed his embarrassing little partner for the night, Matilda Grey, through the Mary Magdalene auditorium; she seemed to be making a beeline for a large milling gang of Magdalene girls.
Paul Vasilevski and Melanie were somewhere among the crowd of girls and guys from the three schools, preparing to set him up for the big media kiss. That was their dream, but they were sick in the head. He’d come with Matilda, betrayed his girlfriend and his mate, lied to the public; wasn’t that enough for these freaks? Lately, he’d started thinking about asking to be traded for some guy in another club.
He looked around the auditorium. Joshua’s brother’s band was tuning up on the stage. They weren’t his style: too shabby, a bit too druggy. Josh wasn’t like his brother at all. But girls seemed to like guys who didn’t shower in the morning. Girls were weird sometimes. When there were great-looking males who looked after themselves, they went for guys who looked like they slept in coffins.
The Magdalene girls were grouped together, a sea of total babes – shiny and wiggly and tweety like gorgeous little canaries. So nice to look at, but nothing compared to Zeynep. They had flocked together on one side of the auditorium and were whispering and peeping at the Vistaviewers. A lot of them were looking over at him, he noticed. Oh well, what could a guy do?
The Vistaviewers, dressed in their best stuff, had clumped in a big pack on the other side of the large room and were doing their own thing, while the St Ethelred’s guys were lounging at the back, dressed quite weirdly in their school uniforms, or in kilts, because their school was incredibly strict.
He had to find Zeynep before some Ethel hit on her. She was somewhere in the auditorium, in her brother’s suit. She must have worn it for him. That was so sweet. He intended to spend the night dancing with her and maybe, when they found a dark corner away from prying Cocky eyes, teaching her the finer points of the no-holds-barred kiss.
Georgia strode past with her girlfriend, who was dressed like a symphony conductor. Hot. Right behind them were two Indian dudes, one in a red-and-gold jacket, the other wearing white. Georgia looked mad.
‘Georgia!’ he called out. ‘Have you seen Zey?’
‘Will you disappear!’ Georgia snapped at the guys behind her, ignoring Angelo. Her girlfriend gave them the finger. Then Georgia turned to Angelo. ‘I haven’t seen Zey,’ she answered. ‘I’ve been too busy trying to get rid of these lunatics to do anything else.’
Angelo took in the scene and wanted to thump them. He gave the Indians a major greasy and wondered if they’d seen him on television. Probably. ‘Back off, dudes, she doesn’t want to know you,’ he said firmly.
The bloke in white moved forward, his hand raised and his eyes round. He was scowling. Probably a bodyguard. Angelo hesitated. They both had swords.
‘She will not be able to resist me,’ the bloke in red and gold responded, just as firmly. ‘I have much to offer. Many delightful pleasures! The ride in the helicopter.’ He wiggled his eyebrows.
‘I couldn’t think of anything more boring,’ Georgia countered.
Just then Joshua’s brother’s band broke into Teenage Dirtbag and the Vistaviewers and Magdalene girls went crazy. Kaboom!
Dancing everywhere. The Magdalene girls looked particularly wild. Several of them were throwing popcorn into the air, and a few threw their shoes.
The Indian bloke’s face had lit up. He pulled out a sword and Angelo took a quick step back. Georgia shook her head in disgust as the bloke’s hips and arms and legs began to thrash about to the beat. He threw his head back and laughed as he slashed his flashing sword.
‘THE UNCONSTRAINED JOYS OF BOLLYWOOD!’ he bellowed over the pounding beat as he danced a circle around Georgia. ‘SUCH RHYTHMS! SO SENSUAL!
’
Georgia’s girlfriend emitted a strangled cry, grabbed Georgia by the shoulders, and pushed her into the crowd of dancers.
They vanished. The mad Indian danced furiously after them, followed by his bodyguard.
Angelo looked after them in bewilderment. Who were those jokers? And where was Zeynep? He noticed the Ethel’s guys had sent out reconnaissance scouts to check out the girls. Predictable. Others were already starting to mix with the ladies, and one nut in a kilt was actually dancing. This was going to be a pretty wild event.
Just as one of the Magdalene girls lifted the guy’s kilt and smacked him on the backside, Angelo found himself flanked by two Wilderness koalas. One rattled its plastic bucket at him; the other looked like it might go in for a hug. Just like in his nightmares! Angelo screamed and bolted.
He headed for the safest place in the auditorium: the dance floor’s core. This was densely packed with Magdalene girls – too densely packed for Wilderness koalas. He’d be safe there. He pushed himself through the gyrating, chanting bodies, terror still in his veins.
The girls were all nudging one another and smiling at him. What could a guy do? He smiled back, calming a little: the big I think you’re all gorgeous and I’d like to go out with every one of you, but hey, I’m only mortal smile.
‘I’VE GOT TICKETS TO IRON MAIDEN, BABY,’ they were singing at the tops of their voices. Their eyes caressed him. Big smile, nod. They loved it. He ran his hand carefully through his hair – the way you do. Look a little bit shy and lost. Look down. Look up. A bit of fast blinking. Sends them crazy. Help me, I’m drowning in a sea of girls.
Two cute girls pushed up to him. ‘Hi, Angelo Tarano. I’m Cressie and this is my friend Chloe, and we were wondering if you’d mind kissing us! It’s kind of a crazy dare.’ Both girls giggled hysterically and presented their cheeks. He wondered what Zeynep would say. She probably wouldn’t be all that rapt. But what the heck. Just two quick pecks. Keep the fan base happy.
Suddenly, he found himself pitching forward. He’d been hit! In the back! He crashed into Cressie and Chloe with a terrific thump, the three of them sprawling on the floor among the crushed popcorn.
He’d been tackled – smashed onto the floor – and something freaky was going on. People were piling onto him. Ump! Free kick! What the hell was happening? Some Ethelred’s goons? No, it was girls! Girls! He was being buried under a heap of Magdalene girls. Stacks on the mill! Is this heaven or is this hell?
It was hell! There were way too many of them for it to be fun. He struggled to budge them – all his footy skills came into play – but he was overwhelmed. They were trying to pin him.
They seemed to be after his clothes! This was not okay. Teachers should come. A girl was planting wet kisses all over his fac
e.
They had pinned his legs. They had pinned his arms, too. This was girl power gone mad!
One girl was undoing his belt – they were after his Cocky jocks! No way was he having those auctioned off on eBay! His shoes were off, too. Stop! They were wrecking his hair!
Some guys might think this was a dream come true – but there was no ump, and these Magdalene girls were animals.
He yelled desperately for security, but it was hard when you had a pair of lips all over your mouth.
Then finally there was shouting and he was saved. The girls all started getting off him. Security guards and a lady teacher and Mr Dunn were yelling. The teachers and guards lifted him off the floor. He had popcorn on his suit. Sometimes he wished he wasn’t so damned attractive.
‘They got my shoes and my belt,’ he panted. ‘I think my face is scratched.’
The frizzy-haired lady teacher was shaking her head and brushing him off. ‘It’s the influence of Phoebe Choudbury-Foote,’ she said in a screechy voice. ‘She’s somewhere in here.
She pollutes! She pollutes!’
‘It’s just a bit of tag-team wrestling,’ Mr Dunn laughed, helping to brush him down. ‘Just a bit of healthy relationshipbuilding. But it’s not appropriate at a social gathering, Angelo.’
‘This boy is damaged!’ the teacher cried. ‘By the Choudbury-Foote!’
‘Dear lady, no need for distress. This boy is undamaged. He’s a Cockatoo,’ Darryl Dunn responded.
The strange teacher was staring closely at him as Joshua charged up, followed by four people Angelo didn’t know. They were all signing with their hands as they stared at him. They had to be deaf.
‘You okay?’ Josh asked.
He nodded and felt his face. ‘Just. Am I scratched?’ He lifted his chin and Josh inspected it.
‘No one could see it,’ Josh said. ‘It’s very small.’
‘These girls are crazy for me!’ Angelo said, trying to neaten his hair. ‘I’m at risk. My hair is messed up!’
‘You look okay.’
‘I need a mirror.’
A federal policeman returned his shoes.
‘Autograph me, will you Angelo?’ one of Josh’s friends said. He held out a bare arm and a texta.
‘This is Heath,’ Josh said. ‘My boyfriend.’
Angelo nodded. But he wasn’t in the mood to be worshipped. He signed.
You’re the greatest,’ said Heath. ‘Never leave the Cockies, man.’ He retreated, and his friends all touched his arm.
The Magdalene girls were re-forming in front of the stage, chanting the lyrics to a rap song the band was playing. One of them had climbed on stage and was about to throw herself off. The Magdalene girls and Vistaview girls were forming a mosh pit.
‘I’m up the back learning to cartwheel,’ Josh said, patting him on the arm. ‘Want to come? Heath’s, like, a cartwheel genius.’
Angelo shook his head. ‘I’m looking for Zey, and I need a toilet. Come to the toilet with me, will you?’
‘Nah, that’s what girls do,’ Josh said. He waved as he and his mates moved away. They crossed paths with Vasilevski and Melanie. Damn!
‘Okay, Angelo,’ said Paul. ‘You know what you have to do.
We have Matilda secured in the foyer. We’ve briefed her. She’s hostile, but you can tame her.’
‘What happened to you, sweetie?’ Melanie asked.
‘I was jumped by girls,’ he told her. ‘They scratched me and mucked up my hair.’
‘You poor darling. Come out to the foyer and I’ll fix you up.’
She patted him on the bum.
Heart sinking, he followed them through the gyrating crowd.
Chelsea Dean emerged from the fracas, smiling and giving tiny waves to everyone she passed. Khiem was filming her.
Chelsea looked overdressed. She stopped and stood on tiptoe to say something in Angelo’s ear; he bent over to listen.
‘Angelo, I just have to tell someone, it’s actually my birthday today.’ She giggled loudly.
‘Is it?’ he said. ‘Happy whatever. Have you seen Zeynep?
She’s not in the foyer, is she?’
Chelsea looked cross. ‘I have no idea. Why don’t you try the local laundromat?’ She turned away.
‘Hey Ang,’ Khiem said as he passed. ‘Don’t be obvious, but are there two losers following me?’
There were two shifty guys just behind him, trying to look innocent.
Angelo nodded.
‘Damn! Thanks.’ Khiem kept going, camcorder aimed at Chelsea.
Angelo reached the foyer door and stopped. Josh’s brother’s band had ramped up the energy. The drummer was standing, belting a drum held between his knees. The lead guitarist was lying flat on the floor as he played. ‘I’M A TANK ENGINE.
STOKE ME UP,’ Josh’s brother screamed. The mosh pit was crazy. Where was Zeynep?
Melanie’s hand appeared from the foyer and yanked him through the doorway. It was so crowded. Heaps of Matilda fans broke into screams. What to do? The Cockies and kissing Craig’s girlfriend – or Zeynep?
‘No kisses,’ Matilda suddenly announced when they were standing in the lights. ‘Only licks.’
No way!
Paul was annoyed, too. He glared at Matilda, then rolled his eyes. ‘Okay, fine! A lick is fine. But you both have to lick one another. It’s in the contract, Angelo. You belong to us.’
Paul signalled to the media, who moved in immediately.
Craig was standing among the crowd, watching. He had his hands in his pockets and he looked sour.
This was just too ridiculous. ‘I’m not licking anyone!’ Angelo announced. The cameras were on. He didn’t care.
‘Just a quick lick,’ Melanie whispered.
Paul whispered viciously: ‘You either lick Matilda or leave the Cockies – now choose!’
Paul was just like the bizarro genie. All the choices were duds! If he licked Matilda, it would mean he’d almost certainly lose Zeynep; if he didn’t lick Matilda, he’d lose his Afl career.
The lick or the sack.
‘Choose, Angelo!’ Paul demanded.
‘Rick Machiruda!’ the Japanese fans started chanting.
‘GO ON, ANG, YOU’RE A STAR, MATE. GO COCKIES! GO TARANO! LICK HER!’ other people shouted.
This was unfair. No guy should be given these choices. No wonder players drank themselves stupid. The pressure was building up inside his head. He felt crazy. He wasn’t going to do it. Yes he was. Footy was his life. No it wasn’t! What to do?
These bizarro choices. Then, unexpectedly, his mouth opened and he yelled at the cameras:
‘I CHOOSE GENITAL HERPES!’
The foyer fell silent.
‘What?’ Paul said.
‘Just trade me!’ Angelo cried. ‘Stuff the Cockies!’
Shouts of disbelief.
Mobiles pointing at him.
Cameras flashing.
He spun around in despair. And there was Zeynep – smiling at him.
He threw his arms around her tight. His Zeynep. Their mouths collided. Their tongues – touched!
Yes!
Stuff the Hobart Cockatoos. This was heaven.
AN UTTER DUPER
SUPER
STAR
CHELSEA DEAN LOOKED proudly around the auditorium.
The last few months had not always been smooth sailing: her parents had separated; she’d almost drowned; her home had been invaded; she’d been savaged by Matilda Grey; Ms Defarge had belly-flopped her mother’s Mercedes. She’d slept rough, had been accused of aiding a terrorist, and had been abused, very unfairly, by Tamsin Court-Cookson, Mr and Mrs Yarkan, and her own mother! And why? Because she’d tried to serve her fellow human beings.
She did so much for others. There was probably a chance she would be nominated for a Churchill fellowship to study social activities in overseas schools. And tonight was yet another notch on her philanthropic belt: her attempt to bring the three schools together was a brillian
t success. All around her, Vistaviewers were dancing with Maggers girls, Ethels with Vistaviewers – everyone with everyone! People were cheering, laughing, talking. A few were even hugging. By the end of the night, many new relationships would be flourishing, and she would be modestly accepting the gratitude of her peers. Because it was all thanks to her.
Of course every silver lining had a cloud, and her perfect evening had been dampened by the occasional shower. The helicopter, for instance. An Indian prince, some friend of Georgia Delahunty’s, had landed a helicopter on the hockey pitch: Chelsea loathed that sort of ostentation. And Ms Defarge was on the loose somewhere in the auditorium, clamouring about the saints and searching for Phoebe Choudbury-Foote, even though everybody knew she was in Albury-Wodonga with Gary Deare, living in a caravan. One of the Magdalene staff had explained to Chelsea that Ms Defarge was on special nightrelease from her clinic, as a reward for good behaviour. It just would not do.
Meanwhile, Matilda Grey was also on the loose, her groupies clogging the entrance, receiving far too much attention from both the media and the Mary Magdalene girls, all of whom should really be focusing on Chelsea; and Joshua Yeatman and his boyfriend had been doing cartwheels and making an absolute spectacle of themselves at the back of the hall, until she had ordered them to stop.
So no, all was not perfection. But these events were passing showers. She was not drenched by them. She never would be.
Ms Defarge was her immediate problem. Chelsea could see her at a whiteboard near the auditorium’s stage now, writing Respect the Forty-five Centimetre Rule! in huge letters. She gritted her teeth – next thing the old bat would be breaking up newly formed couples on the dance floor. She was determined to have her subdued.
She saw Mr Dunn dancing with a group of Vistaview boys and pushed in. ‘Mr Dunn, Ms Defarge has gone quite cuckoo! She is assaulting people all over the auditorium. This cannot continue. Please get security and constrain her now. Lock her in the sports equipment room.’
‘But…’
‘Mr Dunn, she may be armed! Duty of care, Mr Dunn, duty of care.’