‘Good God, I’m good,’ he proclaimed.
Arnold’s eyes went a bit wide. ‘Pardon?’ he said.
‘This portrait is the first step. Has resolved those issues, pretty much.’
‘Issues?’
‘Now you are free.’ Tufty bowed to Arnold. ‘Free to be an artist.’
What a pretentious creep, I thought.
Tufty came round to my side. He stood behind me and stared at my portrait of Arns. It was mostly done – I was just increasing contrast between light and dark around the jaw and background. My teacher was silent. I stopped painting.
‘You’re finished now,’ he told me. ‘Always, you paint too much. Put it to dry over there.’ He gestured to a far table against the back wall. I saw my canvas from Monday propped up on it, and walked my tabletop easel over there carefully, and left it to dry, facing the wall.
‘The next few weeks,’ yelled Tufty, making us all jump, and Arns swear quietly, ‘are going to be vital. I’ll be choosing the best work from this art school to show at the Port Albert Regatta celebrations. Our pieces will be hung on the main marquee walls for all to see.’
No pieces of mine, I thought, picking up my bag to go. Arnold’s portrait of me was already dry, and tucked away in his portfolio case though he was supposed to leave it in the studio. He swung his backpack to his shoulder and carried the case carefully under his arm as we headed out of Art House. I was suddenly desperate to see it. ‘Can I take a look?’ I asked him.
‘No,’ he replied.
‘Please?’
‘Tatty.’
Heavy sigh. ‘Then your sketchbook? I can see that?’
‘Never.’
‘Oh you are a little turd,’ I muttered.
We reached the end of the path to see hordes of girls exiting the school gates just up the road. ‘Hey, there’s Helen Cluny. Let’s ask her about the bird flu.’
Helen Cluny wasn’t in the mood to talk, but she answered our questions. ‘The Parks guy came round yesterday afternoon,’ she sighed. ‘Said they’d had an anonymous tip-off about bird flu killing all the ducks and swans up at Frey’s.’
‘All the birds are dead?’ asked Arnold. ‘Seriously?’
‘Wow,’ I murmured. ‘Mr K was maybe right about the note . . .’
‘Yes,’ said Helen. ‘The Parks guy had Dad burn his shoes, clothes, everything from going up there. He had weird overalls on, and put them in a big bag.’
‘So have they, like, roped the area off?’ I asked. ‘We can’t go up there?’
‘The crime-scene tape has come down, but now the whole hillside is blockaded. No one’s allowed in,’ said Helen. ‘Not even Parcel Brewster.’
‘Geez!’ I said. ‘I’d forgotten all about him!’
‘Who’s Parcel Brewster?’ asked Arns.
‘Homeless guy who camps up at Frey’s,’ said Helen. ‘But he’s not there now.’
‘Where is he?’ I asked.
Helen shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Dad’s a little freaked out. He’s worried we’ll have to foot the bill for a massive bio-hazard clean-up.’
‘Oh no,’ I said, my forehead creasing in concern. ‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously,’ Helen ground out. ‘See, Tatty, some of us have real problems to think about, not stupid things like imaginary jinxes just to get attention.’
My eyes went wide at her vehemence, and I was aware that my jaw had dropped a little.
She stalked off and I could feel I had a frozen where the hell did that come from? face on, but somehow I couldn’t hide the dull stab of anguish I felt.
My cheeks burned and I was uncomfortably aware of Arns uncomfortably at my side. He bumped me amiably, nudging me a little way out of my embarrassment.
‘She’s not peed off at you,’ he said. ‘She must be really stressed. She’s probably feeling bad right now for taking it out on the loveliest person at Hambledon Girls’ High.’
I nodded and swallowed. ‘I love it that you say things like “lovely”, Arns,’ I said in a small voice.
‘I am pretty lovely myself,’ Arns agreed, and I laughed. He put his arm round my shoulders and matched my steps back towards school, talking about the human condition all the way. Something about universal consciousnesses and how we as people pulled things out of the atmosphere and blah blah. All his scientific analysis was making me feel better.
Even though I was actually on the way to Dance Club. Groan. Just what I needed.
And suddenly I was telling Arnold how I hadn’t seen much of Jack, and I told him all about Jazz, at which point Arns said, ‘Yeah, I noticed she had a thing for Jack. She’s pretty creepy.’
‘Totally,’ I said. ‘But Jack doesn’t see that.’
‘No,’ he agreed. ‘And neither does Mona.’
‘She doesn’t?’
‘No way. Think about it. Every time Jazz is with them she’s sweet as pie to everyone, and all over them like a bad rash.’ He shivered.
I smiled up at him. ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I feel better now.’
‘Wonder if Jazz knows about the bird flu yet,’ said Arns. ‘From what Mum said, it all sounds hush-hush till they get the results back. Would be great if you got Jack the inside edge yourself so he’s ready with another local news piece the second an announcement is made.’
‘So great!’ I shouted, suddenly buoyed up. ‘So, so great! You are great, Arns!’ I planted a smacker on his cheek, bade him farewell and jived all the way to dance class.
Yes!
Nothing was going to keep this girl down. Tatty Bird was Back In The Game.
Chapter Twelve
Thursday afternoon. Sordid salsa
Having Mrs Baldacci demand hip rotations and pelvic thrusts with vigorous demonstrations was a shock to the system. She popped not a bead of perspiration the entire time, while we felt like a herd of stomping, sweating, heaving cattle. After twenty minutes, Mrs Baldacci clapped her hands to say well done and swung out for a cuppa, leaving a panting line of girls slumped against the wall.
‘You see?’ I hissed to Alex, pulling my tights off to let my legs breathe, even though we were in the hall and not the changing rooms. ‘You see why I didn’t want to do this?’
‘It’s pretty scary,’ admitted Alex. ‘Salsa is more complicated than I thought.’
‘So we can chuck this in?’
‘No,’ she said.
‘Everyone’s telling me no,’ I moaned. ‘I want someone to do as I say, just once.’
‘Stop whining, Tatty.’ Alex sounded ratty. ‘Your life is pretty much perfect.’
‘A perfect life would have no salsa dancing.’
Alex sighed heavily. ‘You are really bad at the salsa.’
I flushed. ‘Am I terribly, awfully bad?’ I looked at Alex pleadingly. ‘Or just quite bad?’
Alex was about to reply when Mrs Baldacci came swanning back in, a cup of tea in one hand and an ice pack in the other. She tossed it elegantly at Alex. ‘For your foot, Alexi,’ she said, with a hard look at me.
‘I said I was sorry,’ I mumbled.
Mrs Baldacci bent her head in acknowledgement, taking a delicate sip of tea. ‘Don’t worry, dear. Next week we have the boys, and the boys have tougher feet. You can stomp on big hairy toes instead of poor Alexi.’
‘Eep!’ I said, my eyes wide. I whirled to face Alex. ‘Alex! Did you know about this? Did you? Did you?’
‘Er . . .’ said Alex, concentrating on the ice pack. ‘I hope this toe’s not broken . . .’
‘But for now,’ continued Mrs Baldacci, ‘we do the hula. Hula is a lot more gentle. Even Tallulah can do the Coconut Tree motion. Maybe some kaholo with the legs. We have no time to lose. Everybody up!’ She set her empty teacup down on a windowsill. ‘We make most of every minute. Just two and a half weeks till we dance hula at the Port Albert Regatta!’
‘OH NO!’ I cried.
‘I beg pardon?’ said Mrs Baldacci, turning slowly, her eyes narrowing to scary slits. Any other teacher,
and I would have been out of there, declaring myself unfit to continue, but Mrs Baldacci is a force to be reckoned with. I looked wildly at Alex. She had a grim stare of determination on her face. The expression of someone who was thinking Leave me now and you die!
‘It’s just that . . . I’d love to do the hula for . . . um . . . all of Hambledon and Port Albert, but my dad is performing, and I’ll need to be helping him.’ Mrs Baldacci continued to stare at me. With menace. ‘I think. I think I’ll need to be helping him.’
‘Dance is five minutes. Your papa can spare you for five minutes, no?’
‘Er, no, actually.’ I went bright red at my audacity.
‘I will speak to him,’ said Mrs Baldacci. ‘I need eight girls for hula dance and you . . . you are number eight.’
‘Oh!’ I blustered. ‘Um, I’ll talk to Dad. If it’s a problem, then you can . . . you know . . . talk to him.’
Mrs Baldacci inclined her head in another imperious nod. ‘Everyone standing like so. Hips ready for swaying like this . . .’
After another half hour we were slumped again against the hall wall.
‘Dear God,’ I whispered. ‘What have you done, Alex? Was she serious about playing an instrument called the ipu? While dancing? The IPU ? Frik. I don’t feel well.’
‘Put your tights back on,’ commanded Alex, starting to gather her things together. ‘Why you wore them I do not know. This is the summer term, Tallulah. Summer.’
‘Errgh,’ I moaned. ‘I think I hurt my back. Can you put them on for me?’
Alex gave me the slow blink. ‘You want me to touch your sweaty legs? Your sweaty feet?’
‘If you were really my friend, you – nyafrikfrik! I think I really have hurt my back.’
‘I’ll get Mum to give you a lift home. Because I’m such a good friend.’
‘Thank you,’ I whispered gratefully, and began pulling the stupid tights back on myself.
Alex cleared her throat. ‘So the bad news is . . .’
I was instantly alert. ‘Bad news? There’s bad news?’ My thoughts flew first to Emily Saunders. No, I’d have heard. Then to Jack. Had something happened? I’d trusted Mr K to make sure he was all right!
‘Don’t panic,’ said Alex, pulling her hair into a high ponytail. ‘It’s just that Jack can’t make the movies tomorrow night. He’s tried calling you, but your phone’s off. Again.’
‘Nooo!’ I wailed, yanking the tights smooth and stepping into my shoes with little mews of pain. ‘Why?’
‘Because you keep forgetting to charge it.’
‘No! I mean why can’t he make it to the movies?’
‘Work, of course,’ said Alex. ‘I offered to help, but he said he had it covered with that Jazz.’ She looked huffy. ‘You ready to go?’
‘Mm.’ Jazz, AGAIN? I wanted to vent right then and there, but actually, if I’d leaked even a little of the raging emotions and bottled-up anger I felt towards Jazz Delaney, Alex might have had to seek medical assistance.
We staggered out of the hall, up the stairs and through the front doors. Alex’s mum was waiting in the car outside.
‘Hey,’ said Alex. ‘You okay, Tatty Lula?’
I sighed and, like a deflating balloon, all the fury I felt just drifted away. ‘I’m irritated with Jack,’ I admitted. ‘But what makes it worse is that he’s doing nothing wrong . . . I shouldn’t really be irritated with him . . . you know?’
‘Nothing wrong?’ Alex’s face was startled. ‘He’s spending every waking moment with a girl who openly wants him just for herself.’
‘He doesn’t get that.’
Alex shook her head. ‘I know. Stupid boy.’ She pulled me into a hug. ‘I can see he’s making you sad.’
‘He is, but he doesn’t mean to.’
‘You’ll still come to the cinema with us, though, tomorrow, yeah?’
‘I guess,’ I sighed, my face glum. ‘What’s showing?’
‘Love in the Time of Cholera, with Javier Bardem.’
‘Great.’ I put on my best sarcastic voice. ‘That’s going to be cheery.’
‘At least Jack won’t have to see you after you’ve been drizzing for an hour and a half. Your nose goes so red.’
‘Alex,’ I begged, ‘please stop speaking. Please.’
Friday night, Hambledon cinema, lights down low
True to form, I howled away at the sad movie, but at least I had Carrie on my left and Alex and Tam on my right, instead of being all on my own. Thank goodness it was nearly the end. I blew my nose and turned to Alex. ‘I don’t think this is good PR,’ I whispered. ‘We’re the only ones here without boys. I’m back to square one.’
Alex shook her head and popcorn landed all over my jeans. I brushed it off before the butter could grease-up my legs. ‘You didn’t see the way Tony Bufindle looked at you?’ she asked, spraying more popcorn.
Tony Bufindle’s dad owns Hambledon’s ancient cinema. He is the pimpliest boy in Hambledon except for Jason Ferman. And he looks at everyone.
‘Don’t talk with your mouth full,’ I hissed.
‘Will you two be quiet!’ hissed Tam. ‘This is a meaningful moment.’
Alex and I considered the characters on screen.
‘Losers,’ was her verdict.
‘You got any more Maltesers?’ I asked hopefully.
‘Quiet!’ hushed Carrie. She was totally dry-eyed.
‘I can’t take any more of the grief!’ moaned Tam.
I dissolved into giggles, and so did Alex, but at last the credits rolled up. We sat for a minute, slumped in our seats, exhausted by the emotional toil.
‘We’ve got to get Tatty out before anyone sees her nose,’ decided Alex suddenly.
I sighed, but she was right. We pulled on our jackets and swung through the front entrance, being careful on the old, cracked marble steps.
‘Let’s go for hot chocolate,’ suggested Tam. ‘I need to recover from that film.’
‘Let’s,’ I agreed. ‘I have a cunning plan to reel Jack back in.’
We got to Big Mama’s, which is a deli/café/tearoom kind of place, just before eleven. It stays open for a couple of hours after the cinema is done for the night so people can have a slice of something calorific and a cup of something calorific too.
I got to the front of the queue and promptly went as red as my nose. Which was still, like, really red. ‘Chocolate cake and hot chocolate, please,’ I asked the boy behind the counter.
‘Ha! No surprises there-a,’ said Gianni Caruso, pulling out the cake and a large knife.
I watched Gianni wield the knife aggressively, and swallowed.
‘You got lemon cake, Gianni?’ asked Alex. ‘Where’s Big Mama?’
‘Big Mama probably knew this girl was a-coming,’ said Gianni, pointing at me with the knife. He put the cake on a plate and spun it on to the counter in front of me before turning to the coffee machine.
‘Probably,’ agreed Carrie. ‘Is there any Victoria sponge left?’
‘For you, Alexi, there is the lemon cake. For Tamara’ – he gave her a sexy grin, and she blushed – ‘melt in the mouth mousse! You must have it! My treat-a.’ He kissed his fingertips to her. ‘For Carrie, no Victoria sponge. Sorry-a.’
‘What? But I can see –’
‘Instead, vanilla cream cake. Look here-a.’ He produced an amazing confection that made me a little weak at the knees, and there wasn’t even a crumb of chocolate on it.
‘Ooooooh,’ we all said. Gianni spun and whirled behind the counter, producing plates for all of us, and foamy mugs of hot chocolate. The girls saw the leather sofa at the back was finally free and went to claim it. I was the last to pay.
‘Thanks, Gianni,’ I said, pocketing my change.
‘Tallulah,’ he said, and winked. ‘This new boy of yours okay with the jinx, huh?’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘There was never a jinx, Gianni. Just a bit of bad luck.’
‘You still carrying that around, though.’
I raised my e
yebrows. ‘Why’d you say that?’
His forehead creased. ‘You no see in-a window?’
‘Pardon?’
Gianni nodded towards a small table for two tucked into the front window, behind the counter and away from the door.
My heart stopped.
Jack de Souza enjoying a frikking night out with bumly bumly bum bum JAZZ.
She was laughing, and bowing her head intimately towards him while licking chocolate mousse off a long-handled spoon.
I took a deep breath, my pulse going three hundred and four.
Gianni was looking at me expectantly.
‘Oh, that’s Jazz,’ I said airily. ‘She and Jack are running the news story on Emily Saunders. Can you believe it?’ I smiled proudly.
‘What,’ said Gianni, unimpressed. ‘Every night-a they go on-a and say no news.’
‘Pretty much,’ I admitted.
‘Why no one is freaking out-a?’ asked Gianni. ‘Huh? No offence-a, but they put students’ – he gestured with his head at Jack and Jazz – ‘on a beeg news story?’
I blew on my hot chocolate and took a sip. ‘To be honest,’ I said, ‘I think it’s because Emily has taken off before. You know? She generally turns up at her grandparents’ place over in Jersey, and her parents seem convinced that’s where she’s headed. At least that’s what all her friends at school are saying to everyone now. And she took her phone, her purse, a bag, clothes with her. She must still have it otherwise it would have been found. Even so, the police are looking, apparently.’ I took another sip. ‘And Jack is a good news reporter,’ I said quietly. ‘If there was anything worth knowing, he’d find it out.’
We both turned and looked at the couple in the window.
‘Okay,’ said Gianni. He grabbed a bag of foil-wrapped chocolate coins from a bowl on the counter and tossed them to me. ‘Take-a these. You’re gonna need ’em. She’s a hot babe.’
I laughed, and it came out okay – just a touch hysterical. ‘Thanks, Gianni.’ He gave me a sympathetic look that made me want to do terrible violence. I picked up my hot chocolate, chocolate cake and chocolate coins and staggered over to the couch.
Lula Does the Hula Page 8