Alana Oakley (9 page)

“Come on, Uncle James,” Alana teased, “we're not going to win the next game by lazing around.”

James jumped up to give her a tickle before leading them in some drills. By the time they were finished, everyone was hot and sweaty and in need of a cold drink. While the others scooted off to the Milk Bar across the road to grab one (and to chat about Flynn), Alana continued practising with James, relishing the one-on-one time.

Alana and James began with headers.
Pum
, the ball went as it bounced off Alana's head into James' waiting hands. Before long they had worked themselves into an easy rhythm.

“Mum had a date last night,” Alana said mid-bounce.

James fumbled the ball – it rolled away to the side. He walked over with slow, measured steps to retrieve it. He picked it up and resumed practice, saying casually, “Really? A
date
?”

Pum.

Alana wasn't fooled. “Yep. A doctor, too. Auntie Ling Ling thought he was very, very handsome, loh,” she said in a perfect copy of Ling Ling's nasal tones.

“A doctor, huh?”

Pum
.

“He's some teenage specialist author guy,” she said, watching his face closely.

Pum.

“Well,
I've
tried knocking sense into you with this ball for years, but it hasn't done much good,” he teased with another accurate aim at Alana's head. “Maybe your mum needs some expert advice,” he said lightly. “How do
you
feel about it?”

Alana caught the ball and transferred it to her feet, bouncing it up and down from knee to toe in a trick James had taught her long ago. She shrugged. “I don't know,” she said honestly. “It's good, I suppose. I want her to be happy … and she has been in her own way. But I get the feeling now she needs more …” she trailed off.

“And having a new guy in
your
life is okay?”

Alana's cheeks dimpled. “Well, of course he would have to pass my very stringent test first.”

James motioned for Alana to pass the ball, and she did so; it now shuttled smoothly between their feet. “And that would be?” he asked.

“Uh, uh,” she wagged a finger. “No cheating. I'm not giving any hints to the contestants. Although,” she said with a sly look, “decent taste in music is an absolute must.”

James gave a loud laugh. Alana's favourite band at the moment was a group of 20-somethings who called themselves
Dead Dogs Rotting
. Heavy on the electric guitar and even heavier on the drums, they had attracted hard-core fans like flies to their name. “So The Golden Oldies are out?” he asked with a cheeky grin.

“Absolutely.”

“Easy Listening Music?”

Alana made a gagging noise.

“Disco?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

“Definitely not.”

James gave a theatrical sigh. “Guess I'm out of the running, then.”

“Alana!” It was Khalilah. “Are you coming?” she called out from across the field. It looked like she'd found a cream bun.

Alana gave Khalilah a thumbs-up sign and then grabbed the ball, hugging James with one arm. “Thanks,” she said against his chest.

James hugged her back. “You're welcome.”

“For practice too,” she added as she let go.

James nodded gravely. “You're welcome.”

As James headed off to his car, Alana called his name. He turned with a ready smile.

“She didn't do it, you know.”

“
Who
didn't do
what
?”

“Mum. She didn't go through with the date. Said she couldn't.”

James let that thought sink in before replying in an upbeat way, “Oh!”

Alana and her friends yelled their final thanks and goodbyes to James from a distance. Alana's last image of James was of one hand raised in acknowledgement, the other in his pocket, and a thoughtful look on his face.

CHAPTER 15

“And though she be but little. She be fierce …” Shakespeare.

It was now April, which meant ‘Shakespeare Week' for the Year Eights at Gibson High to celebrate the birth of William Shakespeare in 1564. A range of activities had been organised: students were given the opportunity to learn Elizabethan dances, exchange insults in Shakespearean language, and listen to senior students performing the courtly music popular during Shakespeare's time.

Alana noticed that Miller and his friends, Colin Johnson and Chris Kruger, took particular delight in abusing each other in Shakespeare-speak every lunch hour as they played their favourite computer game.

“Methink'st thou art in need of a good kick up the buttocks, thou cankerous, beetle-headed dotard!” Miller yelled with glee.

“Oh yeah? Eat my knickers, oh beslubbering, swag-bellied canker-blossom!” Colin cried.

“My finger in thine eye, thou mammering, toad-spotted maggot-pie!” Chris responded as he punched frantically on the keyboard.

Colin Johnson was a stocky boy and one of the few in Year Eight with the beginnings of facial hair. A faint line of fuzz sat incongruously above his rosebud mouth. Colin's pale blonde hair was cut closely and evenly to his scalp. And he always had a pen or two tucked behind his ears. Their shell-like shape had changed permanently from the constant burden to resemble a launching pad. Mostly that's what people saw. Not his hazel green eyes but the top of Colin's head bent down in concentration as he drew. Colin was only ever comfortable with a pen or pencil in his hand … or a joystick.

While Colin gave the impression of pale fuzz, Chris Kruger, was all hair. He had a dark curly mountain of it as well as a set of furry ear muffs over his ears, all year round. A pair of thick eyebrows sat like two caterpillars over Chris's dark deep-set eyes. Chris Kruger reminded Alana of a villain from the silent black and white films – hunched over with both hands rubbing together in fiendish pleasure.

Today, Chris was doing just that because the Year Eights were in The Newtown Theatre to perform their favourite lines from Shakespeare's plays. Not just Chris was excited. The buzz of anticipation from all the Year Eights was tangible. There was some good-natured jostling as to who would go first.

“Your attention, please,” their English and Drama teacher called out. Dr Olivier looked over his bright pink spectacles and glared a couple of talkers into silence before continuing. “The theatre is warmer than we'd like because the air-conditioning is down, but I'd still like to see lots of movement, expression and emotion. Remember to project your voice and to
feel
the words.” Dr Olivier liked to grab at the air when he said the word, ‘feel', and he said the word, ‘feel' a lot. Students were always being encouraged to ‘feel the words', or ‘feel the pain', or ‘feel the emotion', while he waved his arms like a conducting pelican.

Dr Olivier consulted his clipboard. “Could we have Chris Kruger, Colin Johnson, and Miller White to the stage, please?”

The three boys were dressed in futuristic costumes and pushed a home-made robot onto the stage from the wings. It wasn't the chance to perform drama which had Chris excited but the opportunity to drive the mechanical contraption he had made. Chris – a self-confessed ‘petrol head' – manipulated the machine on the stage with difficulty, dressed as he was in his own robot costume. Chris wished he could keep working on it but he had to sneak the robot's motor back into his grandfather's electronic scooter before it was missed.

There was some giggling when the students noticed Colin wearing a dress and pink fluffy boots. It was interesting to note, however, that the boy's usually tremulous voice, which bordered on a stutter, disappeared while he performed. Swords clashed. Insults in Shakespeare-speak were exchanged. Spaghetti guts erupted from Miller's abdomen. It was hard to see what the boys' performance had to do with Shakespeare at all, but apparently Evil Aliens were fought and given the boot, quite literally, by a victorious Colin.

The three boys exited the stage – Miller-the-Alien limping – followed by the sound of tentative clapping. By the time they ran back to take a bow, all clapping had ceased.

“Awkward,” Maddie whispered in a sing-song voice to Alana.

“Right, well, thank you boys. I think. I could really
feel
the urgency of that scene. Well done. Back to reality now, people. Let's have Flynn Tucker, shall we?” Dr Olivier mopped his bald head, which had become slick with sweat, and sat down. “When you're ready, thanks, Flynn.” The theatre quietened.

In an instant Flynn was striding around the stage like a matador. Two hands shook out an imaginary cape and slowly curled up into twin fists over Flynn's mouth. His shoulders hunched forward. Everybody's eyes tracked the slightest movement he made. What would Flynn perform? Othello? Hamlet? Macbeth? Curiosity and anticipation had everyone leaning forward in their seats.

A curious sound emerged from Flynn's mouth. It sounded like spitting and coughing and a little bit like … a … train?

Was Flynn
beatboxing
???

I wrote
sonnets
,

I mean come on
man
,

I never
stumbled
or
mumbled
,

On my
magic
and I'll take it
backwards
,

After
what
happened
,

When I was a boy I
backslapped
,

Yeah!
Backhanded
.

But the
fact
is…

I'm a legendary
poet
,

And everybody
knows
my name,

And I'm here to
show it
,

To
show
the way,

Don't believe me I'd be like
open sesame
.

I've got the keys now I'm out of this
cage
.

All the world's a
stage
,

And I'm a
main role
,

Performed a lot of masterpieces,

That they found
gold
,

My language is so
great that
it's in your
education
,

I had a disaster with my family,

It took
dedication
,

Look
straight man
,

I've finished
debating
,

I'm not gonna waste my time
reciting like crazy
, I'm a
celebrity
,

Death is a
comedy
,

My plays are
comically funny
,

I mean
honestly
,

You can never
conquer me logically
,

I'm the
prophecy
,

The people can't get
enough of me
.

With a dramatic flourish, Flynn held out a skull. A skull that ordinarily would have prompted the: “Alas, poor Yorick!”-line from one of Shakepeare's plays, but instead became the prop for Flynn's finale …

So this is I,

Yes this is
me
,

As you look yes as you look and
see
,

Call me an
MC

Of the
15th century

I am a
masterpiece
,

Like Midsummer Nights
Dreams
.

(Taken from
The Shakespeare Rap
by William Brien)

The Year 8 audience began whistling and clapping. Before Dr Olivier could thank Flynn and compliment him on his innovative rap which
overflowed
with feeling, Sofia jumped up on stage, startling the skull from Flynn's hand. It dropped to the floor and rolled onto its side, sockets empty and mouth ajar in a hideous grin. “Doubt that the stars are fire, Doubt that the sun doth move his aides, Doubt truth to be a liar, But never doubt I love.”

Alana smacked her hand on her forehead with a sharp
slap
. What was Sofia doing? Where was the girl's pride? Did she even know what she was saying? With one look at Sofia's face, Alana realised that she did. Alana ran up on stage with her costume – an ass's head – tucked under her arm, and leapt between the two with a loud
thud
. “Love sought is good, but giv'n unsought is better,” she appealed to Sofia, meaningfully jerking her head behind her at Flynn. But her friend was past caring.

“Can one desire too much of a good thing?” Sofia argued.

Much to the two girls' astonishment, Khalilah replied, joining them on stage. “We cannot fight for love, as men may do. We should be wooed and were not made to woo.”

But Sofia, having taken the first step towards revealing her true feelings, wasn't giving up, especially with a romantic rival declaring her own interest. “
I'll
follow thee and make a heaven of hell, to die upon the hand I love so well,” she implored a very confused Flynn.

Alana tried to inject some sense into her friends once more. “Expectation is the root of all heartache.”

This time it was Maddie who chimed in as she too joined them. “The course of true love never did run smooth.”

Flynn's attempt to speak was squashed by Alana, who pushed him away with one hand and warned him, “Give thy thoughts no tongue,” then turned to her friends to plead, “Tis one thing to be tempted, another thing to fall!”

But Flynn was determined to have some say, even if he wasn't quite sure which Shakespeare play they were performing. “The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”

Alana's lip curled. “Do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe?”

Flynn answered with a smug shrug. “Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind.”

“The empty vessel makes the loudest sound,” she said, knocking on his head with exaggerated strokes. This brought an appreciative chuckle from the audience. Meanwhile, Dr Olivier flicked through the papers of his clipboard to make sense of the performance.
First alien warfare, a rap, and now this?
He pulled at his collar and adjusted his bow tie. So far, the group had recited lines from at least five different Shakespeare plays!