by Chris Wheat
‘Do not call me sis!’
‘But—’
‘How am I supposed to get up on the stage now?’
‘You’re just as gorgeous wet,’ the sucky Ethel responded.
‘Sis, the old man and your mum—’
‘Craig! Don’t speak to me. You’re no better than your canine acquaintance!’
‘Chelsea, your mum’s pregnant!’
AIR KISSES
TO
EVERYONE
A BABY! CHELSEA REELED. There were simply not enough bedrooms in the house. A baby would have to be adopted.
She shook her head. She’d think about it later. Right now, there were bigger things in life – like her speech.
Her formal was a brilliant success, despite the drenching. But now it was nearly over. The three heads were mounting the stage in single file: Mr Dunn in the lead, followed by Ms Defarge (wearing only one shoe), and then Dr Norton, the head of St Ethelred’s.
Chelsea waited a moment before she mounted the stage too, followed by Fraser and Priscilla Marginson. The music faded gently, and people began moving to the front. Despite having been assaulted with a fire extinguisher and finding out that her middle-aged, live-for-the-moment mother was carrying a love child, she was determined she would pull this off with style and composure.
‘There’s no need for you to say anything, Priscilla. I’ll speak for both our schools,’ she told Priscilla in a kindly way.
She looked across at Fraser. He was quite delicious, and like putty in her hands. There would be no reception-centre dances tonight. So long as he didn’t own a skateboard, he would suit her just fine.
‘Ready?’ she smiled at him. He returned the smile and nodded.
She centred herself in the spotlight – and there, right beside her, was the mobile disco. If she stumbled against it, the thing might roll off the stage and crash to the floor. Pity.
She surveyed the buzzing mass of students who filled the auditorium. Where once there had been prejudice and contempt between the schools, now there was acceptance and affection. And who had brought this about?
Little bubbles of bliss burst from the top of her tiara and floated gently down around her to her new Manolo Blahnik shoes. She had!
Chelsea looked up to the rear of the auditorium, caught Joshua’s eye and nodded. A large screen descended at the back of the stage.
‘Ahem!’ Her voice ricocheted off the walls, and a hush fell.
‘My name is Chelsea Dean, and I’m a tiny bit damp.’
There was a cacophonous cheer and some laughter. She smiled, waved and waited for quiet. She had learnt her speech by heart.
‘Some of us go to school on one side of the river, at Vistaview Secondary College, and some on the other bank, at Mary Magdalene Ladies’ College and St Ethelred’s Boys’ Grammar. Between us flows a dirty river which, people say, divides us. But it doesn’t divide us at all! It is only a river. There are bridges we can use to cross, and this formal is one of those bridges: it bridges the divide!’
There was more cheering and clapping.
‘Because I have been fortunate enough to attend Mary Magdalene as well as Vistaview, students from both places have vilified me. Mary Magdalene girls seem to imagine I now regularly fly economy class, and Vistaview students think I am a snob because I run etiquette classes free of charge and use words like vilified, which they don’t all understand.’ She glanced across at Craig, who was cuddling his creature.
‘It means we used to hate you – but we love you now, Chelsea,’ a Year 11 boy from Vistaview called out. Everyone laughed.
‘Why did I put all this effort into organising tonight’s formal?’ Chelsea went on. ‘Because I had a dream – a dream that one day public schools and private schools would come together like a blended family. I have had some experience of blended families, and I know they can work. All we need to do is forget our prejudices, the way I have forgotten mine!’
Solid applause.
‘The schools we go to are all hopeless in their own way: Vistaview has snakes on the oval; Mary Magdalene girls do not own their own hair!’
The Maggers girls all screamed at that.
‘And although the St Ethelred’s boys are quite cute’ – Chelsea smiled across at Fraser – ‘I’ve been told that they can’t kiss!’
Screams and howls broke out. She had them in the palm of her hand.
‘I don’t expect praise for what I have done,’ she continued, smiling. ‘My reward will be to see inter-school romances bloom. I hope that tonight the Mary Magdalene girls, whom I love dearly, have met some totally gorgeous guys, and that the St Ethelred’s guys have loosened those ties a little and thrown away the blazers!’
There was the sound of deep guffawing. A blazer sailed into the air.
‘And I know that my wonderful new friends from the other side of the river have come to realise that students from Mary Magdalene and St Ethelred’s are really just like them – only richer. I love you all so much! Enjoy the rest of the night.’
Chelsea curtsied and waved to tumultuous applause, noticing that the cameras, which had focused mostly on Matilda throughout the evening, were now at last focused on her.
As she stepped away from the microphone, glowing, she caught a glimpse of Tasmin Court-Cookson delivering Georgia Delahunty’s gregarious Indian friend an almighty slap. He staggered backwards from the force.
Fraser stepped up to the microphone next, sporran swinging. Lots of the Magdalene girls pressed closer, their faces turning upward.
‘Good evening everyone,’ he began. ‘On behalf of the prefects of St Ethelred’s, welcome to our first blended social event. This formal has made me realise that none of us has really chosen which school we attend; that decision was made for us by our parents and other adults, and what they’ve done is separate us and make us envious or snobbish. I know that I once had prejudices. But not any more. I’m taking a chance: I’m going to ask a young lady from Vistaview Secondary College for a date next week!’
There was a roar of approval. Chelsea giggled. This was so good!
Fraser went on. ‘So on behalf of you all, I’d like to thank the amazing, the very special, and if I may be so bold as to say, the exceptionally hot Chelsea Dean, for really getting this great idea off the ground. And I hope I might be able to prove to her … some time later this evening … that St Ethelred’s boys can kiss!’
Thunderous waves of howls and screams reverberated off the walls as Chelsea returned to the front of the stage to take Fraser’s hand for a general bow to the audience. She waved modestly – his words were embarrassing, but understandable.
Fraser held up his hand for silence. ‘And one last thing. One last thing. A little bird whispered in my ear that today is actually your birthday, Chelsea,’ he cried over the hubbub.
She covered her face with her hands and shook her head. Blending with the cheers came the strains of Happy Birthday.
‘No, no!’ she yelled into the microphone. ‘Forget it, please! Enough! My birthday is not important! It’s a coincidence. Tonight is about you!’
But the singing did not stop. She scattered air kisses to everyone, giggling shyly at them all, then signalled to Heath and Joshua with a special wave.
The lights in the auditorium dimmed, and the words Mysterious Girl One appeared on the screen above the stage. A hush fell as a voice echoed throughout the auditorium – Khiem’s, of course.
‘Mysterious Girl. Who could she be?’ Khiem’s voice asked. Chelsea’s face appeared, huge up on the screen. She looked very pretty, staring wistfully down the long Mary Magdalene driveway.
‘She arrived at my school one day, after being unfairly thrown out of her old one.’ Chelsea’s face again, a small tear in the corner of one eye.
‘No one knew who she was, but everyone instantly liked her.
She was very pretty.’ Her face filled the screen again, this time smiling at the Vistaview entrance sign.
‘She was kind, and went out of
her way to help others less fortunate than herself. She organised a rowing team…’
Shot of the boys rowing her home.
‘…she taught etiquette…’
Shot of her in the etiquette class.
‘…she gave advice to other students; the advice was better than that given by school counsellors…’
Shot of Zeynep shaking her hand.
‘…and she supported up-and-coming football stars.’
Shot of Angelo Tarano giving her a little kiss.
‘Then, despite cruel and unusual treatment from a small group of girls at her old, boy-deprived school, she organised a very special formal. She is very popular, very respected, and maybe one day they’ll name something after her – like a freeway, or a cruise ship.’
A rainbow-coloured graphic appeared on the screen: Happy Birthday, Chelsea! Then the final words: Look for ‘Mysterious Girl Two: the Formal’. Available soon on YouTube. The lights flickered on.
If the audience hadn’t already been standing, she would be receiving a standing ovation. Chelsea looked across at Priscilla Marginson and gave her an extra-big smile. Fraser stepped up to the spotlight again.
‘So, to end the night, and really get us all mixing for the last time this evening, I want to take the birthday girl down onto the floor to lead us all in a dance that I know is the favourite of every guy at St Ethel’s. I’m sure it’s your favourite, too, Chelsea – it may be old, but by golly it’s gold – let’s all get down with Chelsea and do – the Nutbush!’ Chelsea froze. Fraser put his arm around her shoulder and squeezed. She took advantage of the moment and staggered heavily into the mobile disco. It shuddered, but stayed where it was.
Fraser yelped. ‘Chelsea! Are you okay?’
‘Fraser, you pushed me into that thing,’ she whispered in a hurt voice.
‘Pushed you? No way, Chelsea! I’d only ever push you into my dreams.’
She glanced at him. Looks: ten. Sincerity: two. Still, sincerity could be moulded. He led her down the stairs and through the clapping, cheering throng onto the dance floor. She adjusted her dress. Keep smiling – and try to find a silver lining.
Everyone was forming lines. It was ghastly, but at least Matilda Grey would never be able to do the Nutbush.
The music started. Fraser had his arm around her. He was very handsome – that could not be denied.
She peeped at his knees. The Nutbush was a very kneesy dance.
…gin house… Chelsea jumped ninety degrees. Of course she could do this ridiculous dance – she was Chelsea Dean. And this formal really wasn’t, as her irresponsible mother had so unfairly put it when she’d realised the date on which it fell, a scam of monumental proportions. Not at all!
Life had been so incredibly harsh. Surely she was entitled to some compensation for all she had suffered. This formal was simply a glorious celebration of her birthday.
And she most certainly deserved it!
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to thank Eva Mills for her ongoing support of this book; and Kerensa Low and Raffaele Ammirati for their courageous contribution. Thanks also to Heath McKenzie and Bruno Herfst for lifting the appearance of the book with their sharp designs and artwork, and to Hieu Nguyen for some nifty checking. Phillip Siggins has been a stern but wonderful critic, and much is owed to him. But my appreciation must go particularly to Elise Jones for her extraordinary and inspired editing. Without all of you the book would have been half itself.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Chris Wheat grew up in Melbourne, where he still lives and works. He takes an active interest in politics and education and believes everyone has to do something to help save the planet. He has lived a life largely without trauma, although he has been attacked by a lemur, three German shepherds and a tribe of monkeys; been twice beaten up by gangs; had a meat pie thrown at him by a stranger; and slept in an igloo – not all on the same day. He has published four novels for young adults: Two-Stroke Shane, Loose Lips, My Excellent Lives and Grinders. He is happy to be a vegetarian.