Alana Oakley (11 page)

Mrs Snell broke eye contact with Alana and whipped her head to face Miller. “Isn't that right, Mr White?” she whispered with a nasty gleam to her eye.

The teenager, cheeks bulging suspiciously, let out a croak.

“
Ribbit
?”

With a roll of her eyes and a muttered, “Fool!”

Mrs Snell shuffled closer … and closer … and then
past
their desks until she reached the two seniors, who were so caught up in each other they didn't notice her approach.

“So cosy. So cute. Young Love,” she sneered. “I was young once.” Mrs Snell sighed with real regret.

“Yes, but which century?” Miller wondered aloud. Alana stifled a giggle.

The strident call of the bell sounded, marking the passing of another hour – and the end of detention. There was a rush for the door.

“Not so fast, Dearies. You,” she said, pointing a long knitting needle at Colin Johnson, causing his ears to blossom a deep shade of red, “can leave the little drawings you've been working on, on my table.” Colin gulped. Alana hoped, for his sake, they weren't the usual caricatures that were so cruelly accurate. “And you two,” she fixed her beady eyes on the seniors, “I shall see again tomorrow … in SEPARATE classrooms! And you,” she said, suddenly grabbing Chris Kruger by the collar, “should know better than to stick foreign objects up your nose.” With three hard taps of her Size 8 knitting needle against his nostril, the offending jelly bean fell to the floor with a
plink
! “I have no doubt that I shall see both of
you
again,” Mrs Snell said meaningfully to Alana and Miller, who walked backwards, slowly and calmly, until they reached the door … and then ran full-speed up the stairs.

As Alana neared the top of the landing, she could hear the strident wail of a siren. It was loud and piercing – almost human in its despair. A long, red fire-engine screamed past the school. A second one followed. Alana watched both trucks tilt on two wheels as they careened around a corner. The tall column of smoke caught her attention next. A line of dirty thumbprints on the city skyline.

“I wonder what's on fire?” Alana wondered aloud.

A small boy from Year Seven scurried past. “Somebody said it's St Bernadette's College,” he yelped.

One look at Miss Beatrice – formerly of the Benedictine Sisters and St Bernadette's College itself – confirmed it. She was sobbing hard as Coach Kusmuk patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. Miss Beatrice clutched the edge of Coach Kusmuk's tracksuit top to wipe her eyes and then blow her nose. She gave a loud
honk
.

“Thank you, my child,” she sniffed, releasing the sodden clothing. Coach Kusmuk stiffened.

Alana backed away quickly before the coach could find another reason to put her on detention.

CHAPTER 17

The sounds of music

The autumn sky was grey and gloomy. Leaves that had deepened to the reds and oranges of the season were turning brown and crinkly at the edges. The sky matched Alana's mood. It was the kind of mood that demanded loud guitar riffs, harsh chords, and a wicked, deep bass. Alana didn't want to dwell on why she was feeling this way. She just needed to clear her head and play guitar.

“…my fa-vourite things –” a voice warbled. Miss Beatrice, red-eyed and snotty, was strumming an acoustic guitar. Alana backed out of the Music rehearsal room as quietly as she could, but not quickly enough. “Oh, Alana,” Miss Beatrice's face lit up, “do come in.”

“Sorry. Didn't know anyone was in here,” Alana apologised.

“That's okay,” Miss Beatrice gave a watery smile. It made her eyes look like the surface of a goldfish bowl. “I'm working through some … angst. I find music
such
a comfort, don't you? Some people jog, others punch a bag, but I like to sing.”

Alana smiled. “Yeah, me too. I often come here to blow off some steam. Guitar helps me think straight. Sometimes I like to write songs. What were you singing?” she asked.

Miss Beatrice gave a little laugh and looked embarrassed. “Oh, just a little ditty about all my favourite things. It comes from a musical that was very popular a long time ago. A real classic. Back in those days people didn't go around setting fire to, to, to,” she gulped and took a deep breath to wail, “schools!” Alana patted Miss Beatrice on the shoulder, taking care not to stand too close in case the teacher got any Ideas. Miss Beatrice made a big effort to regain her composure, and dried her eyes. “You must think me very foolish and sentimental. Tell me more about these songs you write. What are they about?”

Alana opened her notebook to show the teacher her songs.

“
Dream on
;
To hell and back
;
Whatever'
. Hmm, they're very creative titles,” Miss Beatrice said with false cheer. “It looks like we share a love of music.”

There was a long silence.

Alana took back her notebook. “Well, I'll let you get back to your favourite things, Miss Beatrice. I'll come back later.”

“You don't have to go,” Miss Beatrice cried. “We could…” a soft, rose colour flooded her cheeks, “… sing together?”

“No offence, but I don't really, exactly … like musicals.” Alana suppressed a shudder with difficulty.

“You wouldn't have to. We could come up with a list of our own favourite things. Maybe set it to some rock? Work in a guitar solo or two?” she smiled winningly, hands clasped as if in prayer.

Alana shrugged. She supposed she'd done stranger things. And this definitely fitted in with her New Year's resolution of doing Something Different every day. Alana found a seat and got her pen ready. They took turns to contribute lines to the song while Alana experimented with different sounds on the guitar. Miss Beatrice hummed the melody as she wrote and was already looking chirpier. Alana felt her own mood lighten despite herself. The first draft of their composition looked something like this:

Miss Beatrice: Book-swaps, composers and winters in Britain,

Alana: Bright gerbera petals and songs that I've written,

Alana: Rock, Jimi Hendrix and my guitar strings.

Miss Beatrice and Alana: This is a list of our favourite things.

Miss Beatrice: Fluffy, pink pom-poms and cute-looking poodles,

Alana: Soccer, photography, weird, funny doodles,

Miss Beatrice: Musicals, Broadway, the songs that we sing.

Miss Beatrice and Alana: This is a list of our favourite things.

[Guitar solo]

Alana: When I miss Dad,

Miss Beatrice: … and St Bernadette's,

Miss Beatrice and Alana: When we're feeling down,

Miss Beatrice and Alana: We just have a look at our Favourite Things List,

Alana: And then we don't need to drown.

“You know I'm all for a bit of melodrama, but how about we change that last word to ‘frown'?” Miss Beatrice suggested.

Alana nodded her okay and then put her foot on the distortion pedal. She leaned back and readied herself on the guitar. “From the top?”

Maddie closed the door of the music room gently. “I don't know, guys,” she confessed to Sofia and Khalilah, who were waiting outside. “I reckon if we tell Alana that the school Coach Kusmuk was going to transfer to has burned down, it might send her over the edge.”

Another school fire?!

CHAPTER 18

Playing with fire

The matches were forbidden. The boy's dad had made that very clear. It wouldn't hurt just to touch them, though, he thought. The boy, just eight years old, reached out a hand and eased one of the sticks out of the box. Flimsy, he would have said if he'd known the word. They didn't look powerful. Or scary. Or something that could hurt. No harm to light just one, was the boy's next thought. He scratched it against the rough edge of the tiny box, hearing the rasp, feeling the suck of air. The acrid smell of chemical filled his tiny nostrils before a flame burst out – impossibly bright and hot. The boy dropped the match, suddenly frightened. The flame died. Silly, he admonished himself. It's not scary. He reached for the box again.

Hours, or was it minutes later, the boy had no idea, the boy's father returned. But the boy didn't hear him come – caught in the wonder of making magic. Hundreds of charred slivers, twisted and deformed, lay where he'd dropped them. Evidence of the boy's confidence. His confidence was snuffed out as quickly as the flare, though, the instant his father drew near. The boy could feel the heat of the man's anger. His father removed his belt. For the boy it was almost a relief. The angry man was better than the empty husk, the shadow, the memory of the man who'd been wandering the house, unaware his son was still there. You see me now, don't you, the boy said to his dad in his head. You see me now.

Right from the beginning, the boy was fascinated by fire. That there was so much power in something so tiny was a miracle. And that he could create it amazed him. Even more incredible was that he could control it. Such power, such control was the exact opposite to life at home. For if it had been up to him, his mother would never have left and he'd have one of those Perfect Dads on TV that played cricket with The Kids. Relaxed. Grinning. White-toothed. The day the boy's mother walked out, his dad had donned a thick overcoat he never took off again. Stiff. Impenetrable. Cold. It didn't let any feelings in. Or out.

When the boy became the Fire-Starter, he finally had a coat of his own.

CHAPTER 19

All fired up

Sofia's bedroom was as small as a cupboard. In fact it was a cupboard – a very generous storage space under the stairs – until it was converted into a bedroom for one of the six Luciano children. The three-bedroom home, unlike Alana's, was a squeeze for the family of eight. With Carlo and Monte at university, however, Sofia finally felt like she could breathe. A single mattress took up most of the floor. A small “shrine” displaying her good luck talismans had replaced the collection of dumbbells belonging to the room's former occupant. As well as a poster of Jet Tierbert which took pride of place where the centrefold from
Monster Muscles
had once hung. Electric drum pads sat in one corner and a strip of gauzy chiffon trimmed with bronze medallions hung down from the ceiling to hide her clothes. As the only girl, Sofia was grateful for the privacy Carlo's former bedroom provided; she was getting too old to share a room with Dmitri (brother number three), the twins, Pepe and Bob, and their collection of stinky socks.

“Did you know that there are at least three thousand firewalking instructors?” Sofia informed her friends. The spate of school fires had ignited her usual thirst for macabre facts.

“There are
schools
where you can learn to walk through fire?” Khalilah asked with wide eyes.

“Don't tell Coach Kusmuk that, whatever you do. Otherwise we'll be walking on hot coals next, rather than balancing beams. I heard she's getting advice from the military for her obstacle-course designs.” Maddie grimaced. “Apparently hurdles, quicksand and climbing frames are way too tame.”

Alana rolled her eyes. “As long as she doesn't team up with Mrs Snell,” she said. “That woman has artefacts I reckon a few museums in France don't know are missing.”

The four girls were hunched over their mandala designs for Art. Positive Thoughts, Wishes or Statements of Gratitude were written in very small, squashed handwriting, round and round in circles. Their Art teacher – unlike Ling Ling, who had absorbed only the
colours
of Buddhist spirituality – had spent time with some
real
Tibetan monks and was now convinced that Art should be a vehicle for World Peace and Optimism.

“I don't actually mind world peace,” said Maddie, leaning back and rubbing her eyes. “I mean I've got nothing against it, but it's giving me an awful headache.” It occurred to her that World Leaders probably felt the same way. The positive words that Maddie had chosen to write were ‘infinite success' – she had a Grade 6 violin exam coming up and she was determined to get a High Distinction.

Khalilah looked down at her colourful artwork, pleased with her efforts. She'd gone for the ultimate in Positive Thinking and penned a statement of gratitude for something that
hadn't happened yet
. ‘Thank you for my six-pack' she wrote in tiny, round letters that sat side-by-side like a rainbow of beads.

So far, Sofia calculated she had written the words ‘good luck forever' three hundred and fifty-eight times, and was still only halfway, which was why she put her pen (
grape-scented, delicious
) down and began passing her finger through the flame of a candle.

Khalilah shuddered. “Ooh, don't do that, Sofia,” she cried, horrified and fascinated at the same time.

“It doesn't hurt,” Sofia said, “see?” And she passed her finger through again (not the one with the mood ring, obviously) only this time more slowly, like a daredevil stunt-rider who has added another semi-trailer to the jump.

Maddie welcomed the excuse for a break. “Let me have a go,” she said, finally succumbing to the blurriness of her eyes. ‘Infinite success' was being written as ‘intifite succceess” and she wasn't sure if that counted.

Khalilah gripped Alana's hands so that she had to stop and watch too. All three girls were spellbound as, with the lights off, Maddie's long, thin finger made its daring journey through fire, her face a semi-circle of reflected gold.

“Does it hurt?” Khalilah asked.

“Nah,” Maddie shrugged. “You try.”

Khalilah shook her head. “No thanks, not me.” In her mind she was imagining the school fires – thankfully nobody had been hurt – and the damage and destruction they had caused. The photographs in the newspapers painted a grim picture – melted filing cabinets so deformed on one side that they looked like a Salvador Dali painting; charred books and ashes in piles, all that was left of a school library; and the huddle of distraught students. Fire was not something she felt like playing with.