Screw Loose (34 page)

She pollutes! She pollutes!'

‘It's just a bit of tag-team wrestling,' Mr Dunn laughed, helping to brush him down. ‘Just a bit of healthy relationshipbuilding. But it's not appropriate at a social gathering, Angelo.'

‘This boy is damaged!' the teacher cried. ‘By the Choudbury-Foote!'

‘Dear lady, no need for distress. This boy is undamaged. He's a Cockatoo,' Darryl Dunn responded.

The strange teacher was staring closely at him as Joshua charged up, followed by four people Angelo didn't know. They were all signing with their hands as they stared at him. They had to be deaf.

‘You okay?' Josh asked.

He nodded and felt his face. ‘Just. Am I scratched?' He lifted his chin and Josh inspected it.

‘No one could see it,' Josh said. ‘It's very small.'

‘These girls are crazy for me!' Angelo said, trying to neaten his hair. ‘I'm at risk. My hair is messed up!'

‘You look okay.'

‘I need a mirror.'

A federal policeman returned his shoes.

‘Autograph me, will you Angelo?' one of Josh's friends said. He held out a bare arm and a texta.

‘This is Heath,' Josh said. ‘My boyfriend.'

Angelo nodded. But he wasn't in the mood to be worshipped. He signed.

You're the greatest,' said Heath. ‘Never leave the Cockies, man.' He retreated, and his friends all touched his arm.

The Magdalene girls were re-forming in front of the stage, chanting the lyrics to a rap song the band was playing. One of them had climbed on stage and was about to throw herself off. The Magdalene girls and Vistaview girls were forming a mosh pit.

‘I'm up the back learning to cartwheel,' Josh said, patting him on the arm. ‘Want to come? Heath's, like, a cartwheel genius.'

Angelo shook his head. ‘I'm looking for Zey, and I need a toilet. Come to the toilet with me, will you?'

‘Nah, that's what girls do,' Josh said. He waved as he and his mates moved away. They crossed paths with Vasilevski and Melanie.
Damn!

‘Okay, Angelo,' said Paul. ‘You know what you have to do.

We have Matilda secured in the foyer. We've briefed her. She's hostile, but you can tame her.'

‘What happened to you, sweetie?' Melanie asked.

‘I was jumped by girls,' he told her. ‘They scratched me and mucked up my hair.'

‘You poor darling. Come out to the foyer and I'll fix you up.'

She patted him on the bum.

Heart sinking, he followed them through the gyrating crowd.

Chelsea Dean emerged from the fracas, smiling and giving tiny waves to everyone she passed. Khiem was filming her.

Chelsea looked overdressed. She stopped and stood on tiptoe to say something in Angelo's ear; he bent over to listen.

‘Angelo, I just have to tell someone, it's actually my birthday today.' She giggled loudly.

‘Is it?' he said. ‘Happy whatever. Have you seen Zeynep?

She's not in the foyer, is she?'

Chelsea looked cross. ‘I have no idea. Why don't you try the local laundromat?' She turned away.

‘Hey Ang,' Khiem said as he passed. ‘Don't be obvious, but are there two losers following me?'

There were two shifty guys just behind him, trying to look innocent.

Angelo nodded.

‘Damn! Thanks.' Khiem kept going, camcorder aimed at Chelsea.

Angelo reached the foyer door and stopped. Josh's brother's band had ramped up the energy. The drummer was standing, belting a drum held between his knees. The lead guitarist was lying flat on the floor as he played. ‘I'M A TANK ENGINE.

STOKE ME UP,' Josh's brother screamed. The mosh pit was crazy. Where was Zeynep?

Melanie's hand appeared from the foyer and yanked him through the doorway. It was so crowded. Heaps of Matilda fans broke into screams.
What to do?
The Cockies and kissing Craig's girlfriend – or Zeynep?

‘No kisses,' Matilda suddenly announced when they were standing in the lights. ‘Only licks.'

No way!

Paul was annoyed, too. He glared at Matilda, then rolled his eyes. ‘Okay, fine! A lick is fine. But you
both
have to lick one another. It's in the contract, Angelo. You belong to us.'

Paul signalled to the media, who moved in immediately.

Craig was standing among the crowd, watching. He had his hands in his pockets and he looked sour.

This was just too ridiculous. ‘I'm not licking anyone!' Angelo announced. The cameras were on. He didn't care.

‘Just a quick lick,' Melanie whispered.

Paul whispered viciously: ‘You either lick Matilda or leave the Cockies – now choose!'

Paul was just like the bizarro genie. All the choices were duds! If he licked Matilda, it would mean he'd almost certainly lose Zeynep; if he didn't lick Matilda, he'd lose his
Afl
career.

The lick or the sack.

‘Choose, Angelo!' Paul demanded.

‘
Rick Machiruda!
' the Japanese fans started chanting.

‘GO ON, ANG, YOU'RE A STAR, MATE. GO COCKIES! GO TARANO! LICK HER
!
' other people shouted.

This was unfair. No guy should be given these choices. No wonder players drank themselves stupid. The pressure was building up inside his head. He felt crazy. He wasn't going to do it. Yes he was. Footy was his life. No it wasn't! What to do?

These bizarro choices. Then, unexpectedly, his mouth opened and he yelled at the cameras:

‘I CHOOSE GENITAL HERPES!'

The foyer fell silent.

‘What?' Paul said.

‘Just trade me!' Angelo cried. ‘Stuff the Cockies!'

Shouts of disbelief.

Mobiles pointing at him.

Cameras flashing.

He spun around in despair. And there was Zeynep – smiling at him.

He threw his arms around her tight. His Zeynep. Their mouths collided. Their tongues – touched!

Yes!

Stuff the Hobart Cockatoos. This was heaven.

AN UTTER DUPER
SUPER
STAR

C
HELSEA
D
EAN LOOKED
proudly around the auditorium.

The last few months had not always been smooth sailing: her parents had separated; she'd almost drowned; her home had been invaded; she'd been savaged by Matilda Grey; Ms Defarge had belly-flopped her mother's Mercedes. She'd slept rough, had been accused of aiding a terrorist, and had been abused, very unfairly, by Tamsin Court-Cookson, Mr and Mrs Yarkan, and her own mother! And why? Because she'd tried to serve her fellow human beings.

She did so much for others. There was probably a chance she would be nominated for a Churchill fellowship to study social activities in overseas schools. And tonight was yet another notch on her philanthropic belt: her attempt to bring the three schools together was a brilliant success. All around her, Vistaviewers were dancing with Maggers girls, Ethels with Vistaviewers – everyone with everyone! People were cheering, laughing, talking. A few were even hugging. By the end of the night, many new relationships would be flourishing, and she would be modestly accepting the gratitude of her peers. Because it was all thanks to her.

Of course every silver lining had a cloud, and her perfect evening had been dampened by the occasional shower. The helicopter, for instance. An Indian prince, some friend of Georgia Delahunty's, had landed a helicopter on the hockey pitch: Chelsea loathed that sort of ostentation. And Ms Defarge was on the loose somewhere in the auditorium, clamouring about the saints and searching for Phoebe Choudbury-Foote, even though everybody knew she was in Albury-Wodonga with Gary Deare, living in a caravan. One of the Magdalene staff had explained to Chelsea that Ms Defarge was on special nightrelease from her clinic, as a reward for good behaviour. It just would not do.

Meanwhile, Matilda Grey was also on the loose, her groupies clogging the entrance, receiving far too much attention from both the media and the Mary Magdalene girls, all of whom should really be focusing on Chelsea; and Joshua Yeatman and his boyfriend had been doing cartwheels and making an absolute spectacle of themselves at the back of the hall, until she had ordered them to stop.

So no, all was not perfection. But these events were passing showers. She was not drenched by them. She never would be.

Ms Defarge was her immediate problem. Chelsea could see her at a whiteboard near the auditorium's stage now, writing
Respect the Forty-five Centimetre Rule!
in huge letters. She gritted her teeth – next thing the old bat would be breaking up newly formed couples on the dance floor. She was determined to have her subdued.

She saw Mr Dunn dancing with a group of Vistaview boys and pushed in. ‘Mr Dunn, Ms Defarge has gone quite cuckoo! She is assaulting people all over the auditorium. This cannot continue. Please get security and constrain her now. Lock her in the sports equipment room.'

‘But…'

‘Mr Dunn, she may be armed! Duty of care, Mr Dunn, duty of care.'

He nodded and hurried away on his mission.

Chelsea lifted her head up and touched her tiara, feeling satisfied. Well, almost satisfied; something was still missing on this, her special night. She knew what it was.

Vistaview Secondary College hadn't quite lived up to its steamy Mary Magdalene reputation as a place bursting with wildly attractive males. Sure, there were a few, but Craig Ryan was now out of the question, Angelo Tarano remained obsessed with Zeynep Yarkan, and Joshua Yeatman was running around in another playground altogether.

Sun Goddess Barbie had suggested she take Khiem Dao to the formal, but Khiem was besotted by Penny Wong-O'Neill – who was almost certainly entranced by his high distinction in the Australian Maths Competition. Khiem did have nice skin, nice teeth and natural obedience – and certainly no Magdalene girl would have accused her of bringing along a trophy boyfriend – but even Khiem had been snapped up.

Without a partner, and emotionally divided between two schools, Chelsea was standing in the centre of the auditorium feeling just the teensiest bit disappointed when out of the Ethel scrum strode a vision in a kilt that took her breath away.

‘Chelsea Dean?' the vision enquired politely, bending towards her. In the looks department, he got a six-star rating: tall, broad-shouldered, messy blond hair, blue eyes, dimple. She had once explained to Zeynep that she would choose her guy for looks alone. You were stuck with your looks, she'd explained, but the personality could be moulded.

‘Yes?' she gasped. Her smile would be twinkling like the tiny tiara on her head. Along with her dress and the limousine, the tiara had been one of her mother's conciliatory birthday presents. Her mother had much to feel ashamed of, and Lindy's gift of the Manolo Blahnik shoes had certainly shaken her out of her maternal complacency. They were now on affectionate terms again, and despite her mother's limited income, Chelsea had decided to put the installation of a lift back on the negotiation table. She shook her head.
Focus!

‘Well, at last. I've been looking for you all over the place. I'm Fraser Murray, head of St Elthelred's. We spoke on the phone about the music arrangements.' He smiled warmly, in a very gracious way – a very St Ethelred's way; the product of hours of homework, Saturday sport, and long, regular detentions.

‘Hello.' Her skin tingled. He had, she noted, the most attractive knees.

‘I want to congratulate you. I thought this formal would be a joke when I first heard about it, but it's great, and you're responsible,' Fraser said gallantly.

She could see from the pins on his blazer that he was Captain of Debating, Captain of the First Eleven, Captain of Rowing, and some sort of national winner of a Schools Clean Up Day competition. He was also, if her pin-reading skills served her correctly, some sort of General thing in the St Ethelred's cadet unit. A boy in a kilt and with his own army: the ultimate catch.

‘It's nothing.' She laughed and glanced at his knees again. ‘I love kilts,' she added coyly.

‘I could tell from your voice you were gorgeous,' he replied immediately. ‘If you were taller, you'd be a supermodel for sure. May I dance with you later?'

‘Oh, why not?' she giggled. ‘I am short, but all the better to admire your kilt.' She beckoned him down to her level and cupped her hand around his ear. ‘Please don't tell a soul, Fraser, but it's my birthday today.'

‘Your birthday? Hey! I'd love to light your candles, Chelsea.'

And he bent forward and brushed his lips across her cheek.

Yes!

She looked at her hands and giggled. ‘But I don't want this formal to be about me,' she explained. ‘I want it to be about our three schools.'