Screw Loose (5 page)

‘If we have these social events, I'm going to have to start etiquette classes.'

She'd done this before, but at her house and with boys only. Chelsea had many agendas.

‘What's etiquette?' asked a young girl in the front. This was followed by a boy who asked what riffraff meant. Chelsea frowned and, like a teacher, waited for silence.

A Year 9 girl turned to face the boys. ‘Etiquette is a French word.' She tossed her hair.

Chelsea nodded. ‘Thank you, Traycee.' Then she went on: ‘Etiquette is manners. Manners is an Australian word. All those in favour of social gatherings with the Mary Magdalene girls and St Ethelred's boys, hands up!'

Joshua lifted his hand fairly slowly; he thought Chelsea was sailing blindly into trouble.

‘Unanimous. We'll talk about it in detail at the next meeting. In the meantime, Joshua and I will see Mr Dunn to get his approval.' She slapped her folder shut. ‘Meeting closed. Go have your lunch.'

‘Them Magda girls are hot!' Joshua heard one of the boys say as they streamed out of the room. ‘Teach me etiquette now, Chelsea!'

Chelsea rolled her eyes at him. She was already heading for the door. ‘Come on, Joshua. Spit spot. We're off to make a time to see Mr Dunn.'

He followed dutifully.

CRUEL BUT
DELICIOUS

G
EORGIA
D
ELAHUNTY WAS
truanting, at the Park Hyatt. She had fallen out of love with Vistaview Secondary College. There were lots of reasons. The hockey team had been eliminated in the first round of the finals, for starters. Zeynep Yarkan had insisted on becoming friends with busybody and snob Chelsea Dean. Matilda Grey, whom Georgia had befriended in retaliation, was a major challenge. And that wasn't even the half of it.

Over the last year, Georgia's life had gone pear-shaped. Firstly, she'd discovered that her parents were still living, and were not, as her aunt and uncle had informed her, buried under an avalanche in the Himalayas. Then she'd found out that her father was an Indian maharajah, which she found a little embarrassing, because that officially made her a princess. She didn't want the publicity. What she wanted was a girlfriend.

Mary Magdalene, the school Georgia wanted to move to, had a thousand girls: the odds of finding someone there would surely be better. So she'd rung her parents in India and asked them if she could change schools. Her parents, perhaps because they really didn't have enough to fill up their days, had flown straight to Australia to discuss the matter. Now the three of them were sitting in the elegant ground-floor restaurant of her parents' hotel exchanging small talk.

Her parents always began with very small talk, usually about their own lives. Georgia was more inclined to jump right into the big things. So far today, they'd chatted about the air-conditioning, the waterlilies at the Fort, and a tribe of troublesome monkeys. Their dawdling conversation was accompanied by a snowfall of piano notes, the muffled voices of other diners, and the tiny chimes of silver striking china. This was a very expensive restaurant.

She always enjoyed meeting them – this was the fourth time – although they did make her rather nervous, particularly her father. He was amazing to look at. His teeth were very white; his moustache jet black. As he sat tapping his fingers happily on the tablecloth, the precious stones on his fingers flashed blues, reds and greens. He rubbed his hands together. ‘I'm jolly hungry,' he announced.

When she examined her father's face Georgia saw some of her own features, but she had her mother's fine hair and slender dancer's body. As they had all glided in formation across the lobby towards the restaurant earlier, she had felt proud and perhaps a little self-conscious that these exotic adults were hers. They even smelt exotic.

Georgia's aunt and uncle had brought her up. They were born-again Christians. All her life she had lived with them in their ordinary weatherboard house. Her uncle and aunt were dear people, although they told her there were no lesbians in the Bible. She had read some of the Bible, but it was an enormous book with quite a few dull patches, and the thought of searching it for any mention of lesbians made her feel tired. Her uncle and aunt prayed for her salvation, and Georgia counter-prayed for a girlfriend. The prayers appeared to have cancelled one another out.

At least these biological parents she was now sitting with didn't seem to mind that she liked the same sex. And they encouraged her to consider Hinduism, which could be a little cooler than born-again Christianity: she loved Bollywood films, after all.

Her mother suddenly grabbed her hand. ‘No child should be brought into the world by selfish parents such as we have been, dearest Georgia. I think of you every day with shame for what we have done to you.' Her eyes were watery and she was squeezing Georgia's fingers.

‘Don't worry, Mum,' Georgia replied, then immediately felt surprised that she'd used the word
Mum
. She still harboured small resentments towards them both for abandoning her, but she supposed these were fading – her parents were now doing their best to make up for their cruelty. That morning in the lift, for instance, they'd offered her a holiday penthouse in Mumbai. But of course she'd refused.

She wanted to change the subject. ‘I really want to move schools,' she said.

Her mother patted her hand. ‘Would you like to go to school in India, my dear?'

Georgia shook her head.

Her mother looked concerned. ‘We thought you were coming to India?'

‘Yes. We have plans for your life.' Her father sounded disappointed.

‘I will,' she said quickly. ‘But not yet.'

‘Do you have a school in mind?' her mother asked.

‘Mary Magdalene.'

Her mother nodded and smiled, saying, ‘Mary Magdalene. I remember it; quite exclusive but very conservative, darling Georgia. Do they still wear gloves?'

‘I don't know,' Georgia answered, hoping they didn't. Why would you wear gloves unless you were a surgeon or a sandwichmaker?

‘We can contact the school and ask if they have a place,' said her mother.

‘Magdalene.' Her father pronounced it differently from her mother. ‘That is the name of my Cambridge college!' He laughed dreamily, then added, ‘I'm sure there will be room at the inn for you.'

Georgia smiled at them both and decided to tell them about her future. ‘I'd like to be a carpenter,' she announced.

A bare hint of surprise flickered over their faces. But her father simply said, ‘Jolly good,' then, turning around in his chair and looking concerned, ‘…and where's that waitress?'

‘Your husband will be a lucky man. You can repair his palace, perhaps,' said her mother with a giggle.

Georgia was shocked. What did they imagine her future to be? Palace, husband? ‘Pardon?' she said.

Her mother laughed. ‘Well, we're just imaging your future, darling.'

‘I like the
same
sex,' she reminded them quietly.

‘Ah yes,' said her father quite loudly. ‘Ripping, but…' He was about to say something else when her mother lifted her finger and they both looked down at the menus that had just arrived at the table.

Georgia stared at the entrees, which were in French. Pâté with something. She knew what pâté was: crushed goose liver – cruel but delicious. She thought she might become vegetarian at some point in her life.

‘Well, my dear Georgia, if we send you to Mary Magdalene then I really think you have to take a penthouse here instead: it's only fair,' said her mother.

Georgia shook her head. Did she really want to live with them in their palace in India, or live in a penthouse in St Kilda Road? Neither. She wanted to stay in Australia and live with her aunt and uncle and play hockey at Mary Magdalene. Even though sometimes she did get a little sick of the nightly prayers and long graces. ‘No thanks. I'd be lonely.'

She noticed her father glance at her mother. Who could truly understand these people? They were really quite new to her.

Georgia looked down at the menu again. ‘I'd like to have the pâté with the something-or-other – I can't read French.'

‘Aha,' said her father, ‘the pigeon breast stuffed with pâté. Food for a princess.' He lifted his glass of water. ‘To happy days at Mary Magdalene,' he said. They all clinked water-glasses and the waitress appeared. ‘And even happier days when you come to live with us in India.'

FIFTY MILLION
SIXTEEN-
YEAR-OLD
GIRLS

K
HIEM
D
AO WAS
in the school gym, spotting with Angelo Tarano. His whole body was sweaty, even on this cold day. Girls didn't like guys' sweat – but he had his Lynx. Fitness and strength and a focus on schoolwork: that was going to be his new life. And girls, of course. Angelo was his model. They were both going to row for Chelsea, give it a go. If it turned out to be crap then she could find other guys. So he'd need arm strength.

Girls loved Angelo. Last Friday, a group of Year 8 girls had walked around the school with photos of Angelo sticky-taped to their backs. He was a magnet to every female he met: the lollipop lady at the crossing had the hots for him; the canteen ladies gave him extra sauce; girls talked about him when he walked by. Angelo had it made. And to top it off, who was his girlfriend? Zeynep Yarkan, probably the most beautiful girl in the school, with flawless white skin and brown eyes and really red lips and an amazingly perfect body and … Pump iron. Zeynep was off limits. He got off the bench to do some curls; Angelo was already doing chin-ups.

For a Fermi problem in Maths they'd been asked to estimate the number of people his age on the planet. Khiem had extended it and estimated that there were around fifty million sixteen-year-old girls on planet Earth – maths could be used as an antidepressant. It was also his talent. Because he liked it, he sometimes did it when he had nothing else to do. He even read maths textbooks for fun – but he'd never admit to it.

If you laid fifty million sixteen-year-old girls end-to-end, how
many times would they encircle the equator?
Six hundred and fifty sixteen-year-old girls to the kilometre, and the equator was 40,057 Ks. He estimated that they'd go round twice – more if each girl held the feet of the girl behind her. But why would they do a weird thing like that? Work-outs always made him obsess about girls. He curled with more determination, and his bicep started to hurt. It was definitely getting bigger.

He had to go straight. The cops knew him. The thing about illegal activities was that they gave you a rush, and you got addicted to the rush. For years he'd needed it. He'd got it from shop-stealing when he was younger, and now the big rushes were being dangled before him: major crime, violence, revenge. He wanted to get away from it – ever since three of the Mernda boys got caught, he'd been trying to go straight – but the guys kept ringing.

At the moment, he had two hundred and seventy
DVD
s under his bed; the Mernda boys had asked him to look after them before they got busted. Bruno had brought them over – he'd never liked Bruno. The
DVD
s were enough to put him in Malmsbury for a year, maybe two. And the girls Khiem liked were the girls who would dump him in a nanosecond if they knew about the
DVD
s. The solution was to keep away from Victoria Street, where a few of the guys hung out.

Angelo was on the bench now. Angelo never got himself into trouble, never got mixed up with illegal stuff – and everyone respected him. Khiem went over, and Angelo, lying flat, grabbed the bar firmly. His little finger was in plaster, but he still trained. That was how dedicated he was. The bar was heavy, but so it should be – Angelo trained at school, at home, and with the Cockatoos. He was a legend.

The bar rose unsteadily from the cradle, then Angelo lowered slowly. Khiem got behind the apparatus, ready to help. The thing about Angelo was that he was serious about everything. He wanted to be a star. He was grimacing like a tiger.

They both spent their lunch hours in the gym. Angelo had to get bigger if he was going to survive out there with the big guys, he'd told Khiem. And Khiem – well, he had to be ready for anything. Going straight would be a tough call.

The weights wavered and wobbled. Angelo roared with the strain. He was done. Khiem grabbed the bar as his mate's arms shook. Loud exhalation. Angelo sat up, sweat running down his cheeks, and dried his face with a paper towel.

‘You a Muslim, Khiem?' he asked.

‘Nope!' Khiem took some weights off. ‘Buddhist – but resting.'

Angelo got behind the apparatus now. Khiem grabbed the bar and lowered fast. He'd decided to do them quick.

‘That's a crap way to do it,' Angelo said. ‘Slow is better.'

Khiem slowed down, but the bar was too heavy. Angelo helped him put it back. ‘Why'd you ask?' Khiem said.

‘It's Zeynep. She's just so neat and tidy, and I was wondering if it was a Muslim thing.'

Khiem shook his head. ‘I don't know. I think it's just a Zeynep thing.'

Angelo grunted. ‘Girls.'