Maeve had never spent so much time with a boy before, except for Ned. And that definitely didn’t count. Working with Jackson made her feel like a different person. Two evenings a week and nearly all day Sunday, she and Jackson twirled and bounced their way across the stage during the rehearsals of Seussmania. As the opening night of the show drew closer, Maeve began to feel as though she and Jackson really were Thing One and Thing Two, two crazy creatures that could conjure mischief and mayhem with a flick of their wrists. Jackson was always in motion. Maeve couldn’t imagine him being still for more than five seconds. Even when he was standing around waiting for his call, Jackson would be doing something with his hands. Whether he was juggling, doing card tricks or practising a weird version of Tai Chi in front of a mirror, Jackson was always in motion.
‘You are so vain,’ said Maeve teasingly. ‘I reckon you just do that Tai Chi so you can have an excuse to stare at yourself.’
Jackson laughed. ‘It’s not Tai Chi, dummy. It’s a martial art called Wing Chun. I’m practising my form.’
‘So you bore people to death by forcing them to watch you make all those little gestures.’
‘It’s a type of kung fu. Will does it too. So should you. You shouldn’t count on me being around to protect you forever.’
‘Funny ha ha,’ said Maeve, drawing herself up to her full height and trying to look down on Jackson. Tactfully, he ignored her.
As they stood side by side, she studied their reflections in the mirror. They were both dressed in bright red costumes like baby jumpsuits, and blue wigs. They looked so much like little kids, it made Maeve want to laugh.
‘I’m actually three centimetres taller than you, you know,’ she said. Jackson stopped practising and turned to look at her.
‘No way. Bianca!’ he called. ‘Grab a book or something. This chick reckons she’s taller than me.’
They took off their wigs and turned back to back, their heels touching, their backs flush against each other. Maeve could feel the sharpness of Jackson’s bones, the warmth of his body against her own.
Bianca laid the spine of her maths book across the top of their heads. ‘Sorry, Jackson,’ she said. ‘Maeve is definitely taller than you.’
‘Crap,’ said Jackson, turning around and standing on tiptoes, stretching so his chin was higher than Maeve’s. ‘Just give me time. One day, Maeve Kwong, you are going to get a crick in your neck looking up at me.’
Maeve laughed. ‘Maybe I’d better come along to that martial arts class before you catch up with me.’ When Maeve phoned Por Por to ask permission to attend the martial arts class, Por Por wasn’t impressed.
‘But it’s a Chinese martial art,’ said Maeve.
‘Between dance classes and this play, you never sit still! When will you have time to study?’
The summer with her grandparents had been like living in a cocoon and Maeve was desperate to spread her wings. But she couldn’t tell Por Por that’s how she felt, nor could she tell her about Jackson. There were so many small secrets that she had to keep from her grandmother. It took another ten minutes of pleading, but eventually she talked Por Por around.
The house mother wasn’t happy either. She gave Maeve a long lecture about the number of outside school activities she was already involved with. Maeve hung her head and let the words wash over her, but she didn’t give up. She hated spending her evenings in the common room, arguing with Gina and Viv about whose turn it was to use the remote. Eventually, McCabe smoothed the way, finalising the permission slips and even arranging for Will and his girlfriend to pick her up from school.
On Wednesday night, Maeve stood waiting in the school foyer for Will to arrive. A stream of parents filed into the multi-purpose room. Maeve stood by the open door and watched as Ms Donahue screened a video of last year’s drama club trip. Senior girls stood with their arms linked in front of ancient stone cottages, hiked across deep green fields and posed in front of theatre posters. The tour ran for nearly three weeks, with half that time spent in England and the other half in Ireland.
A Powerpoint presentation showed highlights of Dublin: famous streets, green parks and crowds of people standing outside the Abbey Theatre. Maeve found herself wondering if one of those faces in the crowd could be her father. Maybe he was captured for a split second in one of those frames. She leant forward, frowning. He probably wasn’t there. He was probably still somewhere in Nepal, completely out of reach.
Maeve tried not to stare at Will as she sat in the back of his beaten-up old station wagon. In profile, he looked a lot like his father. But there were things about him that were nothing like McCabe. Maeve couldn’t stop thinking about Bianca’s suggestion that Will was a long-lost son. If it was true, then how had he and his father found each other? She wriggled uncomfortably in her seat, trying to think of a way to ask him. Will’s girlfriend, Lauren, politely tried to include Maeve in their conversation but there was only one thing Maeve wanted to talk about. Finally she blurted out a question that she hoped would lead somewhere.
‘Is your mum going to come to the show when it opens?’ she asked.
Lauren fell silent and Maeve knew she’d said something wrong. Will glanced over his shoulder quickly and then turned back to concentrate on the road. ‘My mum died of cancer when I was sixteen, but my brothers will probably turn up. And of course, Dad will be there. I don’t think he’s missed a single show I’ve ever been part of, from the kindergarten nativity play upwards.’
Maeve squirmed with embarrassment.
‘Sorry about your mum,’ she said.
‘Hey, it’s okay. I know you lost your mother too. That first year is tough. Everything changes so fast. Just hang in there, Maeve.’
‘I’m trying,’ she said. ‘But sorry, I know this is weird, and none of my business . . . but I thought your dad said he’d been a priest.’
‘He was for a while. He left the priesthood to marry Mum. It must have been so bad for him when she died and he was on his own with me and my brothers. We all went berserk for a while, but Dad pulled us through.’
Light and shadow flickered across Will’s face and for a moment Maeve could see that he was remembering his mother. She knew that feeling, when all the hurt came rushing to the surface and then somehow you managed to push it back down. How could people who’d had bad things happen to them look so normal most of the time? She looked down at her own body, amazed at how much hurt, how many painful things she could keep inside it and never show the world.
The Wing Chun class was held in an old building in Leichhardt, above a coffee shop. As they climbed the stairs to the second floor, the sharp, rich scent of ground coffee made Maeve feel awake and alert. It seemed to have permeated the walls of the building. Two sides of the studio upstairs were lined with mirrors. Rows of men and women in white stood practising a series of hand gestures in front of their reflections.
‘I thought this was a martial arts class,’ said Maeve. ‘Doesn’t anyone fight?’
‘Wing Chun is different to other martial arts,’ said Lauren. ‘It’s not about brute strength, it’s about neutralising your enemy. It’s the only martial art that was invented by a woman, so it’s very precise.’
Maeve smiled. ‘That’s cool. But does that mean I won’t get to hit Jackson?’
Will laughed. ‘They say that Ng Mui, the Shaolin nun who developed it, came up with the idea after watching a rat fight with a crane. That’s why Jackson digs it. I’ve got to concentrate to keep ahead of him!’
Lauren shook her head. ‘Will’s being modest. He’s already a Si-Hing, which means he’s a senior student, and soon he’ll be a trainee instructor.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Will. ‘Jackson’s pretty good. He’s got a big advantage being fourteen. He’ll slaughter me in a couple of years time.’
‘I’m fourteen next month,’ said Maeve.
‘That’s a good age. Wing Chun was only fifteen when she became Ng Mui’s student,’ said Lauren. ‘She was really beautiful but was bullied by this guy who tried to force her to marry him. So Ng Mui taught her to fight and then she challenged the bully to a fight and beat the shit out of him. The technique was named after her.’
‘That’s why Lauren comes along,’ joked Will. ‘Trying to keep me from bullying her.’ Lauren punched him playfully on the shoulder and then went to join her sparring partner.
Will led Maeve to the end of the room and introduced her to the instructor. When the students had finished practising, Maeve was paired with Jackson, who showed her the Wing Chun stance and the basic position for fighting. Then they practised a move where Jackson had to grab her from behind and the instructor showed her how to free herself from his grip.
‘So, Warrior Princess,’ whispered Jackson, when the instructor had moved on to the next pair of students. ‘Time you really learned how to kick arse.’
Maeve could feel the warmth from his body, even though he was centimetres away from her. Her heart started to beat faster as she waited for him to grab her again. As his arm encircled her neck, she caught the salty sweet smell of his skin. Instinctively, she executed the move the instructor had taught her, tracking her heel down Jackson’s leg and ramming it into the crown of his foot while elbowing him in the ribs at the same time.
Jackson let out a grunt of pain, lost his balance and fell onto the mats. Maeve put her hand over her mouth, appalled at how hard she’d hit him.
‘Sorry!’ she said. ‘I didn’t think it would work that well.’
‘I’m all right,’ said Jackson, getting to his feet slowly. ‘But next time, just try and maim me. You can kill me when the show closes, okay?’