Yarrabank High was sports mad. The students played every ball game known to man – soccer, Aussie Rules, cricket, baseball, basketball, volleyball, lacrosse, tennis, hockey. Then there was swimming. Yarrabank boys had been state swimming finalists for fifteen years straight. In the two weeks that Velvet had been at the school, they’d had three assemblies with motivational speeches from famous old boys – one played football for Essendon, another batted for the Bushrangers, and the third had three Commonwealth Games bronze medals hung around his neck.
There were no restrictions on the sports girls could play. There were girls’ teams even for Australian Rules and lacrosse. The Muslim girls had a special sports uniform that included long pants and a hood, all in the school colours. There was wheelchair basketball for disabled kids; judo, kung-fu and wrestling for the thugs. And in winter there was a sports camp in the snow.
Though the rest of the school was falling to pieces, the sports’ facilities at Yarrabank were better than those at St Theresa’s. There was the Olympic-sized Hawker Hardware Pool and a new gym, which was the biggest in the state.
Yarrabank’s motto was Semper Vigilatis Vestribus Pilas, which, according to the school song, meant “always keep your eye on the ball”, but the translation popular with students when they sang it at assembly was “always watch your balls”.
Velvet was sure there wasn’t another student in the whole school who read serious literature. No one had heard of Isobelle Carmody or JRR Tolkien. And if that wasn’t bad enough, the small classrooms were packed with smelly, foul-mouthed boys.
Velvet hated every day at Yarrabank High, but she dreaded Thursdays the most. At St Theresa’s, Velvet had been president of the Literary Club, a member of the Madrigal Choristers and first clarinet in the school orchestra. Occasionally, wearing an attractive leotard, she had taken part in a lunchtime tai chi group. But sport? Never.
She now spent all her waking hours devising ways of getting out of sport. She soon learned that, at Yarrabank, illness didn’t exempt you. No amount of coughing, limping or bandaging had got her excused. It was disgusting the way the rest of the school was so enthusiastic about sport. Everyone – all the loud-mouthed boys from her class who never listened to a teacher; all the girls with black-rimmed eyes and multicoloured hair; the thugs with tattoos and shaved heads; even the emos with piercings and black hair hanging in their eyes – happily changed into their sports uniforms and applied themselves seriously to sport. It was like a disease.
Velvet had to try out in the gymnasium next. She couldn’t vault or hang upside down from a bar. She couldn’t even do a backward roll.
A group of girls in what looked like white pyjamas caught Mr Kislinski’s eye.
“Sofia,” he called out.
A girl with short black hair and a dagger tattooed on her neck came over. She had a mean look in her eye.
“This is Sofia Ritano,” he said, “our state judo champion.”
“Show Velvet a few simple movements, Sofia.”
Mr Kislinski was distracted by a pommel horse routine that was getting loud applause.
“Hi, my name’s Velvet.” Velvet smiled at the girl. She didn’t smile back. “Look I don’t know the first thing about ju –”
Before Velvet knew what had happened, Sofia had tripped her, thrown her on her back and wedged her knee against Velvet’s windpipe.
Mr Kislinski came back. Velvet was still gasping for breath.
“Perhaps athletics might be more your thing,” he said.
Running last in a race was easy, flattening the hurdles as she attempted to jump over them wasn’t hard either, but snapping the low jump bar took a certain amount of skill. Mr Kislinski was not one to give up on a potential sportsperson, but Velvet was a match for him. When he suggested she try out in the pool, Velvet told him about the congenital disease that made her allergic to chlorine and had been responsible for the tragic deaths of three family members.
Mr Kislinski was undaunted. “I’m sure we’ll hit on your special skill, Velvet.”
By the end of her third week at Yarrabank, Velvet had tried out for every team sport and failed at each one. Mr Kislinski was still working his way through the track and field disciplines. He had a pile of what looked like weapons at his feet.
“How about shot-put, Velvet?”
He called over a small Year 7 boy to demonstrate. The boy tucked the shot-put under his chin like a professional and hurled it a surprising distance.
Mr Kislinski applauded. “Well done, lad. Now you have a try, Velvet.”
Velvet picked up one of the metal balls. It was heavy. She summoned all her strength and threw the shot-put and it flew quite well, but in the wrong direction. It landed on the Year 7’s toe. After he had been helped off to sick bay, Velvet concentrated on the other track and field sports. Her discus scattered the students at the long jump, her javelin caused a flurry in the garden of the retirement village next door and her hammer broke a window in the gym.
Mr Kislinski sighed and surrendered. “I’m afraid you’ll have to join the cultural studies class.”
Velvet put on an award-winning display of disappointment, while mentally high-fiving herself.
“It’s over in T6.”
Velvet turned and hobbled across the oval, a smile creeping over her face. It’d taken three weeks of hard work, but she’d won. No more sport.