Stagefright (16 page)

Velvet spent a lot of time pondering her new relationship with Taleb – if it was a relationship. He walked Velvet to the station after school (taking the long way to avoid running into Hailie and Roula). They talked about the harmonies for the coronation song, what they would use for a backdrop and the latest home ec. disaster. Did that mean they were going out? Or was the kiss just meant to be a birthday present? A first kiss was a major milestone in a girl’s life, even more important than her first period or her first bra. But it was over and done with before she’d had a chance to realise what was happening.

“What was your first kiss like, Hailie?” Velvet asked during maths the following day.

“It was with Giancarlo Wong. Remember him, Roula, in Year 7? He left.”

“Yeah, he was cute. But, you know, not my type.”

“What was it like?”

“He was a bit too keen. He banged his teeth against mine and chipped a piece off my front tooth. I had to tell Mum I did it playing hockey.”

“My first kiss was wonderful,” Roula said.

“Yeah?” said Hailie and Velvet together, waiting for the crunch.

“It was this gorgeous boy in Greece. He was seventeen and I was only thirteen. Seriously. He was very passionate … on the beach … with the sun setting.”

“Was he your type?” Velvet asked.

“Not really.”

“What about your first kiss in Australia, Roula?”

“That was my cousin Con. I paid him two dollars to see what it was like.”

Velvet decided that her first kiss hadn’t been so bad after all.

Taleb rang Velvet on the weekend, late at night. He was the only student at Yarrabank who didn’t have a mobile phone, and as Velvet’s wasn’t reliable he used the landline. Velvet took the cordless phone to her room and they talked for nearly two hours without her having to worry about using up her phone plan or getting a brain tumour. She learned more about Taleb over the phone than she had all year in cultural studies class.

He told her about his family. He was the youngest, and the only one born in Australia. There were more than fifteen years between him and his eldest brother, who had just gone to Syria to support the rebels. His sister was married and there were two other brothers in their twenties still living at home. His sister and brothers all spoke English among themselves. As far as Taleb was concerned, Arabic was a language for speaking to parents and grandparents.

“So how does your family feel about your music and … your hair?”

Velvet could almost hear him shrugging on the other end of the line.

“I get away with a lot more than the others did. I wanted to buy a guitar when I was twelve. Dad said I wasn’t allowed, but my brothers convinced him it would be okay. I saved up for it by delivering papers and collecting cans after the footy.”

When Velvet was twelve, she’d had three rooms of her own, a monthly allowance of $200 and everything she ever asked for.

“Dad cracked it when I started growing my hair. But my sister said it suited me. He gave up.”

Taleb fell silent. Velvet was trying to think of something else to say, when he spoke again.

“I just finished the guitar solo for the dream scene. Do you want to hear it?”

“Sure.”

The house was dark and silent, but in her ear Velvet could hear the sound of Taleb’s guitar, played just for her.

“Guess what?” Roula said when she arrived at T6. “I just heard a kid in French singing the chorus from the coronation song.”

“Yeah?”

They’d spent the last two weeks practising it over and over again.

“We’re practically famous,” Jesus said.

“He must have heard us after school.”

Taleb was flattered, but also concerned. “We better have the after-school rehearsal in the backstage room as well.”

Everybody groaned.

“Why? I hate that little room,” Hailie said. “It smells all sweaty.”

“That’s Drago,” Roula said.

“It is not!”

“We don’t want everyone hearing all the songs,” Taleb said. “There won’t be any surprises when they see the performance.”

“I think there’ll be enough surprises.”

“Hailie’s singing.”

“Drago’s acting.”

“The lack of scenery.”

“Hey, that reminds me,” Roula said. “There’s a sale on at Spotlight. I need to get some material for the dream scene.”

“You can have twenty dollars,” Velvet said.

“Who put you in charge of the money?”

“I’m the sensible one, remember?”

Drago looked uncomfortable, which worried Velvet because normally nothing fazed him. “What’s wrong?”

A sudden hush came over the cultural studies class.

“What have you done, Drago?”

“Where’s the bank book?”

Mei took the bank book out of her bag and gave it to Velvet. “Sorry.”

Velvet couldn’t believe her eyes. “Five dollars!” Drago was unusually quiet. The rest of them were suddenly noisy.

“How come there’s only five dollars in it?”

“I had to leave something in to keep the account open,” Drago said.

“You rat. You’ve nicked our money.”

“Drago, you miserable … ”

Jesus looked like he was going to attack him. Mr MacDonald had to intervene to prevent bloodshed.

“Just a minute. Let Drago explain.”

“Okay, explain why you stole our money,” Peter said.

Drago didn’t say anything.

“He didn’t steal,” said Mei, acting as Drago’s interpreter for a change.

“Where is it then?”

“He lost it.”

“What do you mean he lost it?”

“In horses’ race.”

“One of my foster brothers gave me a certain winner at good odds. I thought if we had more money, we could get better costumes and scenery and stuff.”

“Drago!”

“Isn’t it against the law to bet if you’re underage?”

“My foster brother did it for me. The horse’s name was Gloucester Rose.”

He seemed to think that would explain everything.

“So what?”

“It seemed like a sign. You know, Richard was the Duke of Gloucester, the War of the Roses.”

Everybody started shouting. Everybody but Drago, who for once had nothing to say. After a few minutes they ran out of names to call him and suggestions for horrible things to do to him. An angry silence settled over T6. The money was gone.

“What are we going to do about costumes now?”

“We’ll have to manage without them,” Mr MacDonald said. “Do it in ordinary clothes.”

“We can’t do that,” Velvet said. “It’ll look awful.”

“What else can we do?”

They all scowled at Drago, but no one had any ideas.

It was Miss Ryan and Velvet’s mum who came to their rescue. Miss Ryan had been offering to help with costumes and scenery all the previous term. Jesus’s dad was a house painter and he had given them a drop sheet and some half-empty tins of paint. Eventually, they’d given in and let her start painting a backdrop. Miss Ryan got the perspective all wrong and she had the worst sense of colour coordination in the world. It looked awful. But she could sew. She had already made headdresses for the girls and told them she could run up a doublet or two out of a bedspread she had at home. They were desperate enough to let her try.

But there were some things that Miss Ryan couldn’t sew. Drago needed a crown, even though no one thought he deserved one. They needed swords, a throne and more paint. That’s where Velvet’s mum came in.

“We need a fundraiser,” Peter said, “like the school has for sports equipment. A raffle or something.”

Peter was unconvinced. “We haven’t got a prize.”

“A garage sale.”

“We haven’t got anything to sell.”

“What about one of those ‘guess how many jelly beans in the jar’ competitions?”

“Roula, just keep your dumb ideas to yourself, will you?”

“You should be the one thinking of something, Drago. It’s your fault we need money.”

“My mother had this idea,” Velvet began, then changed her mind. “No, that was a dumb idea too.”

“What?”

“She said something about a multicultural food thing. She meant a get-together for parents, but we could have a stall at lunchtime. If everyone brought stuff from home we could sell it to the other kids.”

“That is such a lame idea,” Hailie said. “Trust you to come up with it, Velvet.”

“I could bring some spring rolls,” said Peter, whose parents ran a Vietnamese restaurant.

“My mother make dumplings,” Mei said.

“That’s great. Roula, what about some of those vine leaf things and spanakopita?”

“Spanner what?” Jesus wasn’t familiar with Greek food.

“Pasties with feta cheese and spinach in them.”

Roula nodded. “Yeah, my yiayia makes them.”

“What sort of food does your family eat, Jesus?”

“Just normal stuff.”

“What am I supposed to bring?” Hailie said. “Kangaroo tail soup?”

“I’ll make passionfruit tarts,” Velvet said.

“You were right, it’s a dumb idea,” Taleb said. “I’m not gonna stand about selling cakes.”

“Got a better plan?” Velvet was annoyed by his lack of support.

“I’d rather do some busking outside Yarrabank Plaza.”

Jesus offered to go busking with Taleb.

“Let’s do both.”

“I’ll do a flyer about the food stall,” Roula volunteered.

“Sure, Roula,” said Drago, who never believed anything Roula said.

“She can draw, Drago,” Velvet said. “What exactly are you doing to contribute?”

“I’ll think of something.”

Miss Ryan managed to get permission for them to hold a Multicultural Food Stall the following week. They stuck Roula’s flyer around the school. Everyone agreed to bring food, but Peter was the only one who would help Velvet on the stall. The rest of them thought that being seen fundraising was far too daggy.

“No one will bring anything. They’ll forget, I know they will,” Velvet muttered to her mother as she was filling passionfruit tarts the night before.

But they didn’t forget, everyone brought something. Drago, whose current foster mother was part Italian, brought a slab of pizza. Jesus brought egg sandwiches. Hailie brought some slightly burned cookies. Even Taleb brought kebabs and baklava.

Mr MacDonald borrowed the microwave oven from the staffroom for them to heat up the food. And they set up a table near the canteen with an extension cord running in through a classroom window. Miss Ryan was flapping around, concerned about health and safety issues. Mr MacDonald was their only customer at first. He did his best and bought six different things, even though he’d already eaten his lunch at recess. Miss Ryan bought one passionfruit tart. Velvet was just starting to really panic, when Drago rounded up some Year 7s and threatened them with torture if they didn’t buy something. The queue at the canteen was as long as it always was, so when the Year 7s actually seemed to like the food and none of them dropped dead from poisoning, other students started to buy from the stall. Soon they were doing brisk business. Some teachers bought things as well, since their microwave had mysteriously disappeared. The stall was a success.

Afterwards they all skipped period six and went to the band practice room to count the takings and pigout on the leftovers. Jesus ate the passionfruit tarts two at a time.

Velvet counted up the money. “There’s fifty-four dollars and seventy-five cents.”

“Is that all?”

“How much did you think we’d make from a food stall?”

“I dunno, but it’s not even enough to hire two outfits.”

“We’ll have to see what the busking makes.”