The classes just get better as we go along. Watching everyone practise, I work out why circus is the best thing to learn. For a start, it’s not serious. Let’s face it, you can hardly be too serious about rolling and bouncing, so you can get out of your seriousness and into your floppiness. You absolutely have to discover the part of yourself that’s willing to try and fumble and learn a little at a time without any of it really mattering. Because it’s not as if you’re disarming a nuclear bomb. Secretly, I wonder if it matters to do things that don’t matter. Especially for kids who’ve had to worry a lot, who’ve never felt safe; kids who’ve lost family and home and all their belongings, including best friends, dogs and the right to play; kids with thoughts that are heavier than a small person can carry. It’s better to carry another kid on your shoulders than that kind of weight.
There’s Sali from Sudan. He’s got no parents. He lived in a refugee camp for two years. He’s only ten, but he’s fearless physically. From the start, he was hurling himself around. Sometimes I was afraid he would hurt himself, but by the third class he could already do a dive roll. Aunt Squeezy says she’s never seen him come to life like that. He laughs all the time. He’s even showing off, asking me to hold the hoop higher.
Mohammed sometimes appears for a moment, stands in the doorway, but leaves as soon as anyone notices him. I’ve never even seen him smile.
After the class, I stay behind. I’m kind of exhausted but also determined. I have to make up a good act for the audition. And I have to practise my handstands, my round-offs. I have this idea that what I want to be able to do is a handstand on a skateboard, like this:
The problem is, the only person I can think of with a skateboard is Harold Barton, and as if he’s going to lend it to me. As if.
I get on my bike and head home. I take the back streets, ride on the road and keep thinking. See, I haven’t told anyone, not one single person, not even Caramella, about my plans and, let me tell you, it’s killing me to keep such a big secret. It’s unnatural for a girl like me. I’m getting pressure-cooked inside and I can’t open the lid one little bit, even though I’m about to steam up and burst. I can’t tell Caramella or Oscar because they’d think I was deserting. I can’t tell Aunt Squeezy because then she’d be torn between Mum and me, and I obviously can’t tell Barnaby because he’s not on my side. Besides, Mum would kill him if he took me up to Albury without telling her, so I have no choice but to stow away.
Anyway, I quite like the idea of stowing away. It adds a certain thrilling edge to the whole plan. Unfortunately, just as I am basking in the glory of me as a stowaway, I notice that I’m swerving, as I only have one hand to steer since the other is caught in my jumper, which I am trying to take off without stopping, and now I’m heading straight for a pole.
I have a suggestion to make to you.
Never try to take off a jumper while riding a bike and dreaming up glorious situations all at the same time. Because it’s absolutely humiliating when you crash into a No Standing pole with a jumper over your face and one elbow thrust in the air.
Not only that, it hurts.
Not only that, other people could see it happen, especially if it happens right opposite the tram stop on Nicholson Street.
‘Hey, Klutz, I thought you were s’posed to be coordinated.’
It’s Harold Barton. He’s sauntered over from the tram stop and he’s laughing, though it actually seems he’s trying not to. I don’t give him a second look. Instead, I’m picking myself up and inspecting the damage. Blood and bruise on the ankle, handlebars kind of twisted.
‘Yeah, well I am coordinated. I can’t help it if the pole isn’t. Didn’t you see it swerve towards me?’
Harold actually bends down and picks up my backpack. He ignores my excellent comeback and focuses on the bike. ‘Boy, those handlebars are rooted.’
‘Yeah.’ I know nothing about handlebars but I forlornly agree, only because I want to get Harold in an agreeable mood. (I believe in signs, and this can be the only good reason to have crashed so inelegantly.) It seems I am meant to ask him. First I wind up my jeans so as to reveal my bloodied ankle injury, then I limp forward in a pitiable manner.
‘Hey, Harold, maybe I could borrow your skateboard?’
‘Why? So you can steer it into a pole?’ His voice has gone sneery again. Already I’m beginning to regret asking. There’s nothing he’d like more than to be able to withhold something from me.
‘No. I’ve got a job in Fitzroy. Every Wednesday. Now my bike is stuffed, I thought I could use a skateboard for transport. But, hey, there’s plenty of other people I can ask.’ I turn around and decide to limp away, dragging whatever shred of dignity I have left with me.
I’ve gone at least five fragile steps before he yells out to me, ‘Hey, Klutzo, if you tell me the truth, it’s yours.’
I stop. Could I even contemplate really telling Harold Barton the truth? Of all people, he’s the least trustworthy, the least deserving, least sympathetic, yet the most likely to be able to lend me a skateboard. Before I know it, I’ve spun around.
‘Harold, can you keep a secret?’
He raises his eyebrows and gives an ever so slight nod.
That’s all I need. After all, I just crashed, and maybe my lid fell off in the moment of impact. In fact, maybe I just need to tell someone, anyone. While I’m telling him his expression doesn’t change, not even when I mention the stowaway bit. There’s no sign he’s impressed, nor even interested, though he doesn’t seem uninterested, either. Of course, I leave out the most important truth, which is the fact that I’m in love with Kite and if I don’t get up there I might lose him to Lola, the hot, hip-whirling hoop girl. Let’s face it, Harold Barton wouldn’t understand romantic plot points.
After I’ve finished, Harold frowns and starts to ask me questions about the Flying Fruit Fly Circus, which I answer impatiently since I don’t actually know much; and also I want to get on with the deal, which was that if I told him the truth he’d let me use his skateboard for my act.
‘Well, I’ll think about it,’ he says, pulling the peak of his cap down over his face.
‘You’ll think about it?’
‘Yeah.’
‘But you said if I told you the truth you’d hand it over.’
‘Yeah, well I’m considering whether the truth is worth it, aren’t I?’
I look at him contemptuously, and if he can’t see me because his cap is pulled down so low he can surely feel the heat. I don’t even answer. I’m too mad. I just turn my back on him with a loud sigh and start pushing my rooted old bike home, and slowly I begin to worry. Why oh why did I trust a big faker creep like Harold Barton? What if Harold Barton blows my plan? He only has to mention it to Mum and all will be ruined. The more I think about it, the bigger the worry becomes. And by the time I get home I’m an anxious, limping wreck.