Lula Does the Hula (11 page)

Arns finished way before me, but I had about five minutes’ painting still to do. ‘Can you wait a bit?’ I asked Arns.

‘Sure,’ he said, and sighed, but I knew he didn’t really
mind. He cleaned up quickly and sat back down, chatting quietly all the while. At 3.15 p.m. we heard the final bell of the day go, and Mr Tufton came striding back in. He was delighted with Grace and Delilah as usual. Arnold and I shot nervous glances at each other, but
he
had no need to be anxious. Tufty loved Arns’s portrait of me.

‘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.

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.’

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.