“Five weeks and two days. Five weeks and two days,” chanted Maz when I told her about Larrie’s performance at dinner the night before.
We were sitting in our usual spot down the side of the Humanities block (and as far away from Brandy’s office as possible), watching Simon and Prad divvy up my lunch, which I had no appetite for.
I plucked at the grass on the ground between us. “I don’t know if I can last that long. It’s like my whole life’s on hold waiting for Princess Perfect to stop making me seem crap by comparison. I wish I could get in a time machine and fast forward to the end of Larrie’s exams right now.”
“Y’know, forward time travel is possible, according to Einstein’s general and special theories of relativity,” said Simon, whose ability to catch the smallest snippet of other people’s conversation and turn it into a nerd science rant was uncanny. “But you’d have to be inside a hollow, high-mass object like Jupiter to do it.” He grinned, waiting for us to get the joke.
I ignored him. “At least after next Friday I won’t have to see her at school every day. Once Year Twelve’s on study break, Brandy and Morales and the rest of Whitlam will see that I’m more than just Larrie Miller’s little sister.”
Maz started to say something, but when Nicko sat down between us she seemed to change her mind.
“Have you heard about the SkoolDaze battle of the bands?” he asked.
Maz and I shook our heads.
“It was posted on Whit’s Wit this morning,” said Simon, who, as the school’s unofficial Help Desk, was responsible for making sure Whitlam’s blog ran without a technical hitch. “The winner gets to compete for the regional title and a place in the state finals.”
“Sounds like the break Vertigo Pony’s been waiting for,” said Prad, reaching across me to high-five Nicko.
A cloud of those men’s deodorants that women are meant to find irresistible, but in fact smell like air freshener, hung in the air as their palms met in front of my face, making my nose twitch.
“Vertigo Pony?” I said when my sneezing fit was over. “I thought your group was called Holiday Road Toll.”
“Too depressing,” said Maz, the band’s keyboard player, stylist and marketing manager. “I thought we might have better luck with a more upbeat name.”
Holiday Road Toll/Vertigo Pony formed about a year ago. Basically, Maz invited herself to jam with Nicko and Prad one day and then kind of took over. After a few weeks, she’d even convinced the guys to ask me to be the group’s percussionist, since the rhythm settings on Maz’s keyboard weren’t up to much. It was nice of her to try to include me, but I said no. Compared to Larrie’s musical showing-off accolades, shaking a tambourine and beating the occasional bongo would only have made me look pathetic.
In retrospect, I should’ve given it a go because a few days later Maz came racing from her Music class to tell Nicko and Prad she’d found the perfect percussionist. It turned out that the quiet guy she’d been sitting next to all term not only had his own drum kit, but also shared her love of early David Bowie and Belle and Sebastian. Which is how Simon ended up hanging out with us at every opportunity.
“So what do we have to do to enter this competition?” asked Prad.
Nicko grinned. “I already signed us up for tryouts. They’re on the Friday after next.”
“That gives us two weeks to get our act together!” Maz sounded panicked.
“It’ll be fine,” said Prad, in a lazy drawl befitting someone whose Year Nine report had described him as “incapable of anxiety, even when it is warranted”.
“We need a plan,” said Maz. “Band meeting after school, okay?”
Prad and Nicko exchanged sideways glances. I’d overheard them a few times moaning about Maz’s compulsion to plan and organise everything the band did, even though without her they’d still be sitting in Nicko’s bedroom playing AC/DC covers.
“Can’t,” said Nicko, a little too quickly to be convincing. “I have to study for a German test tomorrow.”
“Me too,” said Prad.
“But you don’t do German,” said Maz.
“I mean, I’ve got a … another test,” said Prad.
“And I’m filling in for Mum in the pharmacy so she can run some errands,” said Simon, looking genuinely disappointed.
“I’ll help you,” I offered. Any excuse to delay getting home to Larrie’s tantrums.
Maz arrived at the top gates fifteen minutes after the final bell. She hooked her arm through mine and swept me along without breaking the stride of her angry march.
“What happened to you?” I asked, struggling to keep up.
“Your sister happened, that’s what. She wouldn’t let me leave till I’d done up my tie properly and put on my belt. We need to plot some serious revenge.”
Plotting revenge is Maz’s main hobby aside from music and her cats, Ziggy and Major Tom. She can spend hours thinking up increasingly cruel ways to get back at people who’ve wronged her.
We got to the bus stop just as the last School Special pulled away from the kerb.
“Shiz. Looks like we’re walking.”
“Let’s go to the village,” said Maz. “I need chocolate.”
“The village” is Kingston Shopping Village – the local business association’s fancy name for the strip of shops and cafes on Kingston Street. It’s a twenty-minute walk from school, but it was a sunny spring afternoon, perfect for strolling past the neighbourhood’s blossoming trees and sunbaking cats.
“What sort of revenge have you got in mind?” I asked when Maz finally finished chatting to the Siamese on the corner.
“Hmmm … what are Larrie’s weaknesses?”
“You know she doesn’t have any. My sister and Mary Poppins are Practically Perfect in Every Way, remember?”
Maz paused to pat a round tabby. “Hello, big guy. Come on, Al, she must have some sort of phobia or fear. Something that she feels sick even thinking about.”
I thought about it while Maz cooed some more at the cat. “There is the dairy thing, I s’pose …”
“Perfect! Let’s see her try to threaten me with a detention when her gut is churning from a lactose overload.”
Larrie was born with congenital lactase deficiency, which means her body can’t digest the lactose in milk products at all – not even the tiniest trace of it. She almost died because of it when she was a tiny baby. When I was born, Mum assumed I had the same condition, so a dairy product never touched my lips until Lily Ng’s fourth birthday party – the day I discovered the joy of ice-cream cake and ate five slices. Mum almost had a fit when I bragged about it afterwards, but when I suffered no ill effects from my dairy adventure, she accepted that I didn’t share the condition. Of course, we still only have soy milk and tofu gelato at home because Larrie’s so paranoid about what might happen to her if she accidentally comes into contact with the slightest trace of lactose. (What does happen to her is “explosive diarrhoea”. Seriously.)
When we finally got to the cafe after stopping to greet every feline that crossed our path, we ordered iced chocolates with extra whipped cream in honour of Maz’s plan. We hadn’t actually worked out how to execute it, but with Maz I’d learned that plotting revenge was far more fun than going to the effort of carrying it out. Her plans usually went no further than being satisfied that she could avenge herself if she wanted to.
Maz opened her notebook to a fresh page and we brainstormed all the things Vertigo Pony needed to do to prepare for the SkoolDaze finals, which she was certain they’d make it to. By the time we’d scraped the last of the chocolate syrup from the sides of our glasses, she’d filled two A4 pages with notes on everything from how often the band had to rehearse to what they should wear on stage. Like I said, Maz likes to plan.
We walked on the other side of Kingston Road on the way home, to lessen the chances of Mum spotting us through the front window of the medical centre. Unfortunately, this meant passing right in front of the Lutz Family Pharmacy. I kept my eyes straight ahead and my walking pace steady, praying Simon wouldn’t see us.
I needn’t have worried. Maz was too busy going on about Nicko’s bass-playing talents to suggest we stop in and say hello. I tried to think of a way to casually mention Josh’s name, while we were on the subject of talented guys, but I couldn’t get a word in before we reached the corner where Maz and I go in opposite directions to get home.
“If Princess Perfect gives you too much grief tonight, just remember the plan,” called Maz as she turned into Queen Street.
Al Miller will have her revenge.