The student council had decreed (at Larrie’s suggestion, no doubt) that there would be no muck-up pranks to mark Year Twelve’s last day of school. Instead, a “friendly” soccer match between Year Twelve and Year Eleven was scheduled in place of afternoon classes on Friday. Ordinarily, I was no sports fan, but I was prepared to wave pompoms if it meant missing double Maths.
After lunch the entire student body trooped over to the sports field adjoining the school and crowded into the stands. The two teams ran onto the pitch, their captains meeting in the centre, where Larrie was waiting to throw in the first ball and get the match started. The Year Eights sitting in front of us cheered like it was the World Cup.
“Remember when we were that young and carefree?” sighed Maz. “Back before the teachers started talking nonstop about continuous assessment and vocational training, when we thought free periods really were free.”
“And the Year Tens treated us like dirt,” added Prad. “I’ll take being older any day.”
“Yeah, and I was still two years away from being Larrie-free. No, thank you.”
The crowd roared when Mitch Doherty (#1 Whitlam School Hunk and Larrie’s most recent victim boyfriend) took possession of the ball. He smiled at Larrie as he passed her, to which she scowled in reply. Mitch lined up a kick at goal and missed.
The ball was passed to the Year Eleven team and received by Josh Turner. I tuned out of what Maz was saying, mesmerised by the way Josh manoeuvred the ball down the field as if it was attached to his foot by invisible wires. And by how good he looked doing it.
Maz poked me. “Are you listening? Since you didn’t come to Vertigo Pony’s rehearsal yesterday, you could at least pay attention while I vent about how bad we sounded.”
I rubbed my arm. “Sorry, I was thinking about something.”
“Something or someone?” Maz tilted her head in Josh’s direction.
I raised my right eyebrow and was relieved that she accepted the signal to drop the subject. Maz and I could talk about anything, but I didn’t feel like having my interest in Josh exposed in front of the guys. My relief turned to annoyance when I realised that she wasn’t going to let it go after all.
“Simon,” she said as though a thought had just popped into her mind, “you used to play soccer, didn’t you?”
Simon nodded. “Till this season. Why?”
“I was trying to remember why you gave it up.”
“Because I grew twenty centimetres over summer and Josh Turner told me I was too uncoordinated to play A-grade any more. He gave me the choice between playing C-grade with the junior kids or quitting. So I quit.”
“Oh, that’s right,” said Maz, narrowing her eyes at me. “I remember now.”
I turned my attention back to the game. Much as I loved Maz, her Poor Simon campaign was starting to bug me. It wasn’t Josh’s fault Simon had grown freakishly tall and kept tripping over his size twelve feet, and it wasn’t my fault that I found him about as appealing as Mum’s steamed sago pudding (i.e. not at all).
Despite Josh’s heroic efforts, Year Twelve won the game 5–3. Mitch accepted the gold plastic trophy with minimal grace, immediately shoving it in Josh’s face. Josh was obviously gutted. While the rest of the Year Eleven team shook hands with the victors, he stalked off the field to the change rooms. Even in defeat he was so hot I almost had to fan myself.
Walking to the gates after the final bell, I couldn’t help smiling at the thought of turning up to a Larrie-free Whitlam High on Monday. For a moment I even let myself imagine that people might have forgotten Larrie altogether by then. I was so absorbed in my fantasy that I didn’t think twice about turning around when Mitch Doherty shouted, “Hey, Larrie’s little sister!”
If nothing else, four years at Whitlam should have taught me that no one in my sister’s year would address me unless they a) had a message for me to pass on to Larrie, or b) wanted to soak me with supersized water pistols and throw flour bombs at me. But there is a part of me (my id? My superego? My refusal to accept that I am of no interest to guys like Mitch except for my genetic proximity to the most wanted girl in school?) that fills with hope that this time they will want to talk to me about something other than Larrie. But Mitch and his entourage didn’t have talking on their agenda.
It all happened so fast that I was still standing glued to the spot, my mouth frozen in a shocked, flour-filled “O”, when Larrie appeared. “What do you think you’re doing, Mitch? Didn’t you hear what Mr Masch said about instant expulsion for muck-up day pranks?”
“Chillax, Lazza.” Mitch flashed the grin that’s been known to melt the schoolgirls’ hearts at ten paces. “We were having some fun, weren’t we, Larrie’s little sister?”
I nodded, not because I was having fun, but to annoy Larrie. Her pinched expression told me I’d succeeded.
“Anyway,” continued Mitch, “it’s 3.15, which means our school days are officially o-ver.”
“Then take it off school grounds. Or at least where I can’t see it.” If I closed my eyes, Larrie sounded disconcertingly like Brandy giving me a lecture.
“Come on, guys,” said Mitch, turning towards the gates where a crowd was waiting for the school buses to arrive. “Let’s go somewhere where the anti-fun brigade isn’t on duty.”
By this time I’d regained my wits enough to try to at least clear the flour from my mouth. I spat globs of white goo into the nearest bin, trying not to inhale the heady aroma of sweating banana skins and half-eaten tuna sandwiches.
“Are you okay?” asked Larrie, attempting to wipe some of the chunkier bits off my shoulder.
I shrugged off her hand. “I was fine, until you butted in and made me look like a whining baby.”
“What the – I was trying to help you, Al. If I hadn’t come along when I did, you would’ve got part two of the attack. There are some Year Sevens you might like to ask about it – they’re in the lower toilets trying to get the smell of rotting fish off themselves. How would your super-sensitive nose cope with that?”
“It’s only a bit of flour and water,” I shot back. “And I don’t need you to protect me any more. This isn’t the infants’ adventure playground, Larrie. I can fight for my own spot on the swings these days.”
“Fine,” she said, with a dismissive shake of her head. “I’ll see you at home.”
Larrie walked towards the car park, where Beth was waiting for her. I didn’t need to see Larrie’s face to know she was rolling her eyes.
I did some eye rolling of my own when I saw the time on the belltower clock. It was nearly 3.30 and if I turned up at work in this state Jay would have a fit.
Al Miller can fight her own battles.