My first Larrie-free day at school was every bit as sweet as I’d imagined it would be, beginning with assembly, at which Larrie was not on stage making announcements about the environment group’s fundraising dinner or the swimming team’s gold medal in the state championships. When Mr Dempster asked for a volunteer to cover Whitlam’s A-grade soccer team’s semifinal games, I took it as an omen, for both my career and Josh aspirations.
“I’ll do it,” I offered before anyone else could put up their hand.
“I didn’t know you were a sports fan,” said Mr Dempster when he gave me the game schedule at the end of class.
“A journalist has to be prepared to report on anything, don’t they? Besides, Ms Brand can’t possibly object to sports stories, unlike my other posts.”
“Let’s hope not. Just make sure you submit your stories by 10.00 on the night of the match, so that Ms Brand can approve them.”
“Are you joking?” said Maz when I asked her to come with me to Wednesday’s soccer game against Whitlam’s arch rival, St Spiridian’s. “You know I hate sports.”
“Please, Maz, everyone’ll think I’m a complete loser if I go alone. I went to your rehearsal on Saturday, didn’t I? And I’m sure Mum won’t mind if you come for churros with us afterwards.”
Maz considered my proposition. “Does this churros come with dipping chocolate?”
“Milk and dark.”
“Okay,” she sighed. “But I expect to see you at every single Vertigo Pony rehearsal between now and the battle of the bands.”
I held up my right hand and placed it on my heart – our sign that we’ll keep our word to each other. She echoed the gesture with a grin.
“Bringing out the big guns?” asked Maz as we changed after PE on Wednesday afternoon.
I checked my push-up-bra-enhanced cleavage. “Too much?”
“There’s no such thing,” said Tracy Green, pausing on her way out of the change rooms. “Whose attention are you trying to get with those, anyway?”
“Josh Turner’s,” answered Maz, before I could raise my eyebrow to keep her mouth shut.
“You’re right on the money then, Al. But be careful – Josh’s left a trail of broken hearts behind him.”
“You’ve been warned,” said Maz after Tracy left.
I refused to let anything burst my shiny Josh-bubble. “She’s probably jealous because Josh turned her down at some party,” I said.
Maz looked less than convinced.
A decent crowd had turned out for the game. Whitlam’s students sat on one side of the field and St Spiro’s supporters on the other, trying to out shout each other. I dragged Maz to the front row of the stands, clutching a notepad and my camera. When the whistle blew for kick-off everyone except Maz cheered.
“So the point of this exercise is to chase the ball from one end of the field to the other?” she asked, as if she’d never seen a soccer game before. “It’s a bit unproductive, isn’t it?”
“There’s more to it than that,” I said, trying to sound as if I knew what I was talking about. “You need amazing coordination, and game strategy, and–”
“St Spiro’s are a bunch of poofters!” shouted a guy behind us as their captain lined up a penalty kick after Josh was given a foul for tripping someone.
Maz turned to give the culprit the greasy eyeball. “Jamie Butcher, I should’ve guessed. It’s neanderthal throwbacks like him that put me off sports.” She applauded heartily when the ball flew over the Whitlam goalie’s head into the net.
“He was just trying to psych the guy out so he’d miss the goal,” I hissed. “Stop clapping before we get beaten up by our own classmates.”
Maz folded her hands in her lap. “Fine, but remember, I’m only doing this for you. And churros.”
The game was a Whitlam victory, mainly thanks to Josh and his superior ball skills. After the full-time whistle blew, I made Maz come with me to ask him for a photo to go with my story.
“I heard you were covering the game for Whit’s Wit,” he said, flashing a smile for the camera that made my feet tingle.
I clicked shot after shot, wanting to make the conversation last as long as possible. “You looked fantastic out there … I mean, the team looked fantastic,” I gushed like a tragic fangirl.
“It was the best game we’ve played all season. You must be my lucky charm, Al.”
“Turner,” called Mr Hardy, the team’s coach, “stop chatting up girls and join the rest of the team.”
“I’d better go,” said Josh, “the guys get narky if they think I’m getting all the attention.”
“And we’d better hit the car park and wait for your mum,” said Maz, pulling me with her.
I walked backwards until Josh was out of sight and then turned to link arms with Maz. I felt like skipping. “Oh Mazzle, did you hear that? Josh called me his lucky charm!”
“Sure, but he wasn’t talking to your face when he said it.”
“I don’t care; it’s the sentiment that counts. Do you think he’ll ask me out? Maybe we could go on a double date with you and Nicko.”
“I don’t know, Al. Maybe Tracy’s ri–”
Maz was cut off by the screeching brakes of Mum’s car. It stopped dead in front of us and the passenger door flew open.
“Get in; I’m in a hurry.” Larrie’s face was like thunder.
“Where’s Mum? She promised to take us to Parkville.”
“Change of plan: I need the car.” Larrie frowned at her phone as she read a text message. “After I drop you off I’m going to the university library to do some research.”
Maz gave me a what-choice-do-we-have shrug and got in the back seat. I stood dumbfounded on the footpath. Mum had been saying all week how much she was looking forward to our churros excursion. But all Larrie had to do was say that she had “research” to do and it was cancelled?
“You’ve got two seconds to get in or you’re walking,” said Larrie, tossing her phone into the glove box.
I knew from bitter experience that she wasn’t kidding. I slammed the passenger door after me and yanked on my seatbelt.
Larrie drove like she was still on her L-plates, not indicating until she was halfway round corners and slamming on the brakes whenever she wasn’t quick enough to sneak through a yellow light. By the time we got home Maz’s face was as pale as a geisha’s. I asked if she wanted to come in but she reckoned she needed a walk in the fresh air to settle her stomach after the drive.
“How was the game?” called Mum from the living room when she heard me come in.
“The game was fine,” I replied. “Being driven home by a homicidal teenager who thinks it’s her God-given right to treat me like dirt, on the other hand, sucked. Especially since I thought you and I had plans.”
Mum glanced up from her book. “I’m sorry, love, we’ll go for churros another time. Larissa really needed to get to the uni library before it closes. You know her exams are only a couple of weeks off, and–”
“And whatever Larrie wants, Larrie gets – I know. Did you stop to think about what Larrie could possibly need to ‘research’ this close to her exams?”
Mum’s expression turned from apologetic to indignant. “I don’t know what you’re insinuating, but I don’t think I like it. Your sister told me she has research to do and I have no reason not to believe her.”
I knew there was no point arguing. Since finishing school Larrie had been even more moody and bad tempered than usual. I’d hoped she’d calm down a bit once she was on study break, but instead she’d gone into drama-queen overdrive. The day before she’d complained that I was typing too loudly! Mum took her side, even when I pointed out that I had no control over the volume of my computer’s keys.
Larrie got back from the library (or wherever she’d been) in time for dinner. I waited for her to apologise for wrecking our plans, but all she could talk about was how stressed she was about the exams. Mum and Dad fussed over her like she was a VIP. They didn’t even tell her off when she got a text message halfway through the meal and went to the living room to read it, returning to the table a few minutes later as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. If I’d done that, Mum would’ve gone mental and Dad would have given me a disapproving headshake at the very least. But apparently Larrie was excused from having table manners, as well as everything else.
“Give your sister a break,” said Dad when I confronted him about their double standards. “I think she and Beth are whipping each other into a panicked study frenzy by text message. You know how competitive they are.”
As if that made it all okay.
Al Miller is owed churros. And dipping chocolate.