Screw Loose (27 page)

K
HIEM
D
AO HAD
been given his instructions by Chelsea. He was to slowly proceed along the drive to the Mary Magdalene administration building, stop outside the entrance, jump out and walk quickly around the car to open Chelsea's door, nod to her as she alighted, close the door, and then wait with Craig for her to return. Craig was to film her arrival.

Khiem was wearing one of Chelsea's father's old reefer jackets, which was really too big. It was dark blue with gold buttons. Chelsea was going to meet the headmistress to discuss the combined-schools formal and, very importantly, to explain that the boat crash and subsequent mutual assistance was something both schools could be proud of: a fine example of inter-school cooperation.

At this moment, Chelsea was sitting in the back seat in her Vistaview uniform with Craig beside her. Khiem glanced at them in the rear-vision mirror. Lunchtime was a perfect arrival time: all the girls would see Chelsea with boys. Craig had strict instructions to keep his mouth closed.

The possibility that the cops might pull them up did worry Khiem, but Chelsea had it all worked out: she would handle the police if they pulled them over. The cops would be told that she was delivering an emergency supply of insulin for Tamsin Court-Cookson, the Deputy Prime Minister's daughter. Chelsea would do all the talking because her chauffeur, a refugee from Laos, could barely speak English.

‘When you have to tell a falsehood, Khiem, it is best to tell several at once, as they never know which one to deal with first. Often they get diverted by the more tragic one and forget to go back to the real issue. In this case, the Deputy Prime Minister's daughter is having a major hypo – that's tragic – and so they forget that the chauffeur looks twelve. Easy.'

Driving without a licence and driving someone else's car without their permission were pretty major offences, but the smoothness, the power and the size of Mrs Dean's Merc were irresistible, and anyway, Chelsea had made it clear that he was doing this for a good cause – helping her to organise the social event of the year. So Khiem kept his eyes on the road and remained silent. He was rapt to be driving this car and even more rapt to be driving it to Penny's school.

When Penny had asked him about his criminal activities, he'd told her a bit of stuff because he thought she probably knew anyway. But not everything. He'd explained he was trying to go straight. She'd said she'd help him and believed strongly in rehabilitation not punishment.

‘Can I drive home?' Craig begged.

Chelsea was firm. ‘Not today. I say when, Craig. It's my car.'

Craig leant forward. ‘Thrash it, Khiem.'

Khiem glanced at his mate in the rear-vision mirror and grinned.

‘Don't thrash it!' Chelsea ordered.

‘These Mercs are crap anyway,' Craig said and flopped back into the leather seat.

‘And your father's car is a… ?' Chelsea enquired.

‘HiAce van – and he thrashes it.'

‘So cutting edge. And don't film me now, thank you.'

They had arrived at the huge gates of Mary Magdalene.

Khiem pulled over and waited for instructions.

‘Okay, I want you to drive slowly along here, Khiem. So they all see. Craig, you jump out as soon as we stop and video Khiem opening the door for me. This is going to be so excellent!'

They turned in. The driveway was long; it curved gently between manicured flowerbeds. He kept below fifteen Ks as the signs requested.

‘Look at them all. This place is so yesterday. Look over there – see those girls near the fence? They're desperately waiting for a passing male. But they have to stay five metres away from the fence in case they get abducted. Khiem, watch the drive and not the girls. I know you're looking for Penny Wong-O'Neill.

How tragic is that? Penny Wong-O'Neill – the queen of quadratic equations.'

‘So you can't do them?'

‘Excuse me. Drive, please.'

Khiem pulled up gently outside the administration building, put the car in neutral and got out. Craig was out, too, ready to film. Khiem opened Chelsea's door and nodded to her. Chelsea stepped out. Some girls were watching. He returned to the driver's seat, just as he'd been instructed.

‘Bunsy!' someone called. ‘Who taught you to navigate?'

Unfortunately it wasn't Penny. Chelsea waved to the girl, then began climbing the steps towards the admin building's double doors. She turned around several times to wave. Craig had the camcorder on her.

Suddenly the big doors swung open. A woman in a black cape with frizzy blonde hair and huge deep-blue lips charged towards Chelsea, who jumped out of the way in surprise. The woman stumbled forward, followed by Georgia Delahunty! Georgia seemed to be chasing her!

The woman, who reminded him for a moment of Professor McGonagall, was heading towards the Merc like a crazed bat, black gown flying. Without any warning, she suddenly flung herself across the bonnet and landed with a terrific thump, screamed, ‘Phoebe Choudbury-Foote!', then rolled off the car onto the gravel. Khiem jumped out of the car and raced around to help her. Shrieking girls were running towards the car from every direction.

‘Ms Defarge has been run over!' someone cried.

The woman was rolling on the gravel drive now, repeating in a high-pitched scream: ‘Phoebe Choudbury-Foote, Phoebe Choudbury-Foote! Viper at my breast!' Khiem was paralysed.

It would look like he'd hit her with the car.

‘Quick. Get an ambulance,' Georgia Delahunty yelled. ‘She's gone mad.'

‘It's Ms Defarge. Chelsea Dean's chauffeur just ran over her!' another girl cried. ‘Help, she's injured!'

More and more girls were crowding around the woman. He stood there in a panic. If the cops came he'd be stuffed.

‘She's was cracking up,' Georgia Delahunty said, ‘so I hit her.'

‘
He
hit her,' one of the girls yelled, pointing at him. ‘The chauffeur in the baggy jacket.'

He shook his head.

‘No he didn't!' Chelsea called from the steps. ‘She threw herself onto the car. And the chauffeur's Laotian. Doesn't understand English.'

‘She just charged the car,' Khiem said feebly. ‘I didn't do anything.'

‘He spoke!' a little girl yelled.

‘He didn't hit her,' Georgia said. ‘She dived onto the car.

She's lost her marbles.'

‘She car-surfed it,' a girl claimed.

‘Her lips are blue,
CPR
!' screamed another one.

Then he saw Penny. Her face was pale. She pushed forward and, kneeling down, looked carefully at Ms Defarge, grabbed her wrist and began to take her pulse.

Several teachers pushed through the crowd and knelt around her, too. All he could do was stand and watch. Girls kept looking at him, and then Penny looked up, too.

‘She has a pulse,' Penny said. ‘Clear a space around her. Has she been eating blackberries?'

‘It's ink,' Georgia Delahunty said firmly. ‘She went mad.'

‘She's been poisoned,' cried someone in the crowd.

Teachers were now ordering the girls away. Then they lifted the crazy woman up and carried her limp body back up the stairs.

‘I'm glad I left this madhouse,' announced Chelsea from the steps.

A girl turned to him. ‘You're a very incompetent driver,' she said. ‘And you look so young.'

Khiem turned to Penny, who was staring at him. He wanted to explain.

‘My part-time job,' he explained feebly. ‘I'm Chelsea's chauffeur.'

‘He didn't do anything,' Georgia Delahunty reminded them.

‘I did.'

‘Well,' Chelsea said, stepping forward, ‘I can't negotiate with a lunatic. Khiem, you'll just have to drive me home.'

Craig was still filming. That would be proof perhaps that he hadn't hit the woman.

Penny was still staring at him.

‘I don't know what happened,' he whispered. ‘She just charged the car.'

‘She's like that,' Penny responded. She looked up towards a commotion going on behind the big green doors, which were now rattling violently. Around him, girls were discussing the incident. Chelsea was chatting with a group of them, and Craig was still filming.

‘I'm in the middle of tutoring a Year 7 girl,' Penny said finally. ‘I better go.'

‘Not for good?' he said. ‘Please…'

She smiled. ‘It's fine. I didn't know you had your Ps.'

‘I…' He was going to tell the truth but she was already gone.

Start the day in an interesting way

CHELSEA DEAN AWOKE
to the roar of the juicer in the kitchen below. Craig had discovered juicing. And he seemed to be juicing an orchard.

Once, Chelsea would have opened her eyes on a Sunday morning and stretched luxuriously as the sounds of her parents getting up and the scent of her father's Calvin Klein drifted through her darkened room, but now there was a man sleeping in her father's bed (she wanted to scream when she thought about it), and Craig Ryan, with his beaten-up skateboard and dirty baseball cap, had turned the guest bedroom into a hovel.

As she'd predicted, Craig and his father were proving to be a nightmare to live with. Craig's skateboard rattled incessantly on the tiles around the pool, and he thumped up the stairs two at a time. And the food situation was awful: the fridge and freezer were full, crowded with trays of meat, full-cream milk and chunky-style chips; meals took place earlier in the evening than was necessary; and there was a lot more snacking.

She'd tried to be patient with Craig – she hadn't sacked him from the rowing team, and she'd allowed him to film her at Mary Magdalene the other day – but it had been four weeks now, and it was becoming very trying.

The juicer continued to roar and Chelsea ground her teeth. Career Girl Barbie was the first to protest. ‘Stop that noise, Chelsea! We're losing beauty sleep.'

Angel of Peace Barbie was next. ‘Read the bugger the rules!' Angel of Peace Barbie had made some very pertinent points when they were drawing up Craig's list late the previous evening.

‘Yes, start the day in an interesting way,' chortled Titanic Barbie.

The juicer stopped. Chelsea listened for more kitchen sounds. Nothing – just the sweet Australian music of carolling magpies. Perhaps he'd gone back to bed, his skateboard thrown in the corner, his T-shirt and jeans on the carpet beside his filthy runners.

Chelsea's first list of rules had worked reasonably well: wild dancing had ceased; the van was in the garage beside the Merc; she hadn't heard
yabba dabba doo
once; and she had been allowed to eat separately whenever she chose. Her list had been far from comprehensive, but it was a start.

The juicer roared again. She was up! She needed to focus on the formal – her reputation depended on it, as did the future happiness and marriage prospects of hundreds of Mary Magdalene girls. But first she had to sort out her domestic situation. This house had been designed for just one precious girl and two adoring parents and for nobody else except the occasional clean and well-mannered guest. She couldn't bear this!

Aware that the Barbies were watching, Chelsea donned her dressing gown and charged across to her mother's room, knocking hard on the door.

‘Yes Chelsea?' came her mother's voice, muffled through the door.

‘Listen. The juicer!'

‘Calm down, Chelsea.'

‘I can't live with him. He slurps.'

‘There are worse crimes than slurping.'

‘No there aren't! I am trying to organise the most mammoth social event in the history of Vistaview Secondary College, with absolutely no help from anyone, and I have to live with a
juicing hoon
!'

‘Open the door.'

Chelsea opened it. Her mother was alone.

‘Chelsea, you can pull your head in. You behaved shockingly saying that Craig got you pregnant. You disappeared overnight and worried me sick. You truant. You made those poor boys row you home from school. You tell me that Tamsin Court-Cookson has thrown our camcorder into the river, and you have no rational explanation for why she did it – I don't believe she is on drugs. And to top it all off, Brenda tells me that the Mercedes went missing for several hours this Thursday! Did the pool boy take it? What is happening to you? I won't stand for all this!'

Chelsea was speechless. She stormed back to her room and performed deep-breathing exercises on her bed.

‘He's defeating you,' Wedding Day Barbie sang softly.

‘No he isn't!' she sang back determinedly.

Her phone went. It was Zeynep.

‘What?' she yelled.

‘They've bought a ticket!'

‘Who? What are you talking about?'