10

I had thought I might get out of Saturday house-cleaning duties for the next six weeks, but Mum’s having none of it. By the time I’ve cleaned the bathroom and my bedroom and mopped the floors, it’s 11.30 and she’s yelling at me to get ready for rehearsal. I give up on trying to make my hair behave and tie it in a ponytail, throwing on my jeans and the T-shirt Nicky brought me back from her trip to Japan last year with Maneki Neko, the waving cat, on it. On my way out I grab the pink lip gloss Kate gave me for Christmas, just in case.

Mum offers to drop me off on her way to the supermarket. I shudder at the thought of her pulling up in our crappy Volvo alongside all the flash four-wheel drives and station wagons designed to make parents feel like they’re still cool even though they’re basically running a chauffeur service for their kids. Worse, what if she insisted on getting out of the car in all her clog-ed glory? I tell her I need the exercise and grab my bike from the garage where it’s lain neglected since the end of the summer holidays. The tyres could do with a bit of air, but otherwise it’s in pretty good shape.

I get to Parkville five minutes late thanks to catching every red light between home and the school. Kate and Brianna are already standing in their spots onstage for the opening street scene. I can’t see Belinda, but I can hear her practising her Cockney screech. She sounds a bit like Grandma Thelma’s parakeet going mental when he thinks you’re eating peanuts and not giving him any. Stephanie looks up from her camera and waves.

To my surprise, Daniel is already on the balcony, hunched over a drawing of the stage that he’s marking with a pen and ruler. I prepare myself for another afternoon of doing nothing. I’ve brought P&P with me today; I figure it’s the best gauge of boredom there is. Ms Burns flaps around the stage like a headless chook, pushing chorus members into their places and bossing Mr Wilson around like he’s one of the kids. Finally, she calls for the stage lights to be turned on.

“They’re not ready yet,” Darryl yells from the wings, but Daniel flicks a few switches and slides one of the slidey things and the stage is bathed in a cold, dull light that could well pass for London on a rainy night.

“That’ll do very nicely, thanks!” says Mr Wilson.

Daniel’s mouth turns up at the edges in what could possibly be a smile. “Dan one, Dazzmeister nil,” he says without looking at me.

“That looks really good,” I tell him.

“Thanks. I’m just working on the schema for the drawing room scene. It needs to look warm and cosy. Any ideas?”

“Um …”

“I was thinking if we used orange and red gels on the main striplight, it would do for the backdrop of most of the indoor scenes. That way we’d only have to add front lights for wherever the actors are and, of course, a follow spot for the solo numbers. What do you think?” He’s definitely looking in my direction now, even if his eyes are still curtained by hair.

I get the same feeling that I have when Ms Reid asks my opinion of a book before I’ve heard what anyone else in the class thinks, except this time I don’t even understand the question.

“Yeah, that sounds fine,” I say, hoping he won’t want to discuss it any further.

“Cool. Will you take the Dazzmeister through it when he comes up to tell me off? I think it’d go down better if we say it’s your idea.”

“Uh … sure, but you’ll have to talk me through the finer points.”

“No problem.”

Daniel spends the next ten minutes explaining his diagram of the stage and lighting rig, showing me the area each light will illuminate and what angle it should be on. I find out that gels are colour filters and that the striplight lights the back of the stage. He loses me when he starts talking about the angles of the front lights, but I think I’ve pretty much got it by the time Darryl arrives.

“I suppose you think you’re smart,” he says to Daniel. “Well, I’m responsible for this equipment, and if I tell you not to touch it, I mean don’t touch it. You might’ve been allowed to do whatever you wanted at your old school, but at Parkville we follow the rules. Understand?”

“Ah, Darryl! Just the person I wanted to see!” Mr Wilson sounds slightly out of breath from climbing the stairs. “Bang-up job on the lighting there! I was wondering if we could have a follow spot on Eliza during ‘Wouldn’t it be luvverly’?”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll see to it.”

“Actually, Mr Wilson,” says Daniel, “Freia’s already come up with an idea for the drawing room lighting. Would you like to see it?”

Mr Wilson makes pleased noises as I explain Daniel’s plans. Darryl clenches his fists by his sides and glares at Daniel with angry eyes.

“This is all splendid!” says Mr Wilson when I finish. “Keep up the good work, you two! Now Darryl, if you’ll come with me, there seems to be an issue with the fireplace not glowing brightly enough in scene two.”

“I’m not finished with you,” Darryl mutters as he follows Mr Wilson.

“Dan and Freia two, Dazzmeister nil,” says Daniel, smiling for a moment then stopping abruptly, as if it hurts or something, and going back to his plans.

At break Kate shows me where the loos are. (It turns out they’re just behind the hall – and there are signs pointing to them everywhere, duh.)

“I think I’m in lust,” she says as we’re washing our hands.

“I thought you’d decided to give up on Jamie Boyd?”

“Jamie? Oh yeah, I’m so over him. He’s following Bethanee round like a lovesick puppy. Right now he’s doing a latte run and he doesn’t even drink coffee. No, I’m talking about Steve Neilsen. He stands between me and Brianna in the opening scene, you know when we’re all waiting around after the theatre? Anyway, he’s absolutely gorgeous. He’s a footy player, but he has to sit out this season because of a torn hamstring. He has shoulders. To. Die. For. Of course, I’m keeping an eye out for someone for you, too. I feel bad that you’re stuck up there with Skeeter while we have all the fun.”

“Skelet– actually, his name’s Daniel, and he’s okay in a moderately uncommunicative way.”

Kate gives me a funny look. “Don’t worry, we’ll fix you up.”

I didn’t realise I was broken.

“Can you believe those boys would rather play pinball at Benny’s than hang out with us?” asks Belinda as we head to the 7-Eleven to buy lunch.

“Gah, they are so juvenile,” says Bethanee. “If Jamie wasn’t so cute, I’d totally bar his head.”

So much for me meeting anyone during rehearsal breaks. At this rate Daniel will be the only boy I talk to in the entire production.

We eat our sandwiches under a tree near the hall. Belinda declares herself full from the mandarin she had at morning break and lunches on mineral water. She’s looking pretty tired these days.

“Looks like your friend’s all on his lonesome,” she says, pointing to Daniel who’s just emerged from the hall. He sees us looking at him and heads to the opposite end of the grounds.

“Probably off for a smoke,” says Bethanee. “Jamie told me he’s a complete pothead.”

Brianna nods in agreement. “Steve says he’s pretty screwed up. He got kicked out of Greyland for having a bong in his locker.”

“Jeez, Freia, you’d better watch yourself. They say that pot smoking’s been linked to psychosis.” Belinda sounds concerned, but the nasty glint in her eye is a giveaway that she’s trying to freak me out.

“Thanks for the warning. I’ll be sure to bring some brownies with me next time so I can pacify him when he’s got the munchies.”

Brianna starts to laugh, but changes her mind when Bethanee gives her a sharp look.

Kate flashes me an annoyed glance and quickly changes the topic. “I love your top, Bella. Those sequins look gorgeous under the stage lights.”

“Thanks, KitKat. I’m adoring you in that denim mini, too. Is it new?”

“Yeah, Mum took me shopping last night.” Brianna, who’s not usually a resentful person, gives Kate the death stare.

“You’re so lucky to be hidden away on the balcony, Freia,” says Belinda. “No one cares what you wear up there.”

I try to think of a cutting comeback to make, but by the time I do, the moment’s passed and talk is back on who likes who and who’s cuter. I still don’t know any of the guys they’re talking about so I just zone out till Mr Wilson appears, exclaiming that it’s time to begin again.

I hold the ladder for Daniel while he adjusts the angle of the lights above the stage. At one point he moves the spots on the striplight and they make a terrible fingernails-down-a-blackboard squeal. Belinda stops in the middle of her lines to give him a dirty look but Daniel either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. She turns and glares at me. I shrug my shoulders in a “What can I do?” gesture.

“She’s a real diva, isn’t she?” says Daniel when we’re upstairs again. My first impulse is to agree with him, but I have to remember that Belinda is my friend, even if she doesn’t feel like one most of the time. It would be wrong to bitch about her, especially to someone with Daniel’s reputation.

“She’s okay once you get to know her.”

“Hmm, I think I’ll pass. No offence, Freia, but your friends don’t seem like my kind of people.”

“At least I have friends,” I spit back without thinking.

Daniel doesn’t respond. He goes back to fiddling with the lighting panel, but I swear I see him shake his head just the tiniest bit.

I feel stupid and immature and mean for what I said and wish I could take it back. I spend the rest of the afternoon pretending to be engrossed in the chorus choreography while Daniel continues drawing up his plans. Neither of us says goodbye when Ms Burns calls it a day.

I wonder when my brain will start ruling my mouth again.

The ride home clears my head. It’s a rare feeling these days. I go an extra few blocks, just to savour it. When I get home Ziggy’s in the kitchen, regaling Mum with a blow-by-blow description of every one of his, no doubt, dozens of tries and great passes. I tiptoe to my room, carefully missing the squeaky third step, and collapse on my bed. Boris wakes up and gives me the death stare from inside my laundry basket where he’s taken up residence.

“What have you got to be narky about?” I ask him. “The only things you have to be responsible for are keeping your bum clean and cute-ing it up occasionally for extra treats.”

I put on the Ramones and go nuts to “Sheena is a Punk Rocker”. Boris swishes his big fluffy tail in irritation, but I refuse to let his disdain get me down. For two minutes and forty-seven seconds I don’t care what anyone thinks of me. I don’t care that the Bs think I’m tragic; that Daniel thinks I’m like the Bs; that Mum thinks I’m a huge disappointment; or that Boris thinks I dance like a freak. When the song ends I have to sit down to get my breath back. There’s a knock on the door. Mum comes in without waiting for me to say it’s okay.

“I didn’t even know you were home till I heard that terrible noise. It’d be nice if you came and said hi to us.”

“Sorry,” I say, even though I’m not.

“Is everything okay? You look a little flushed.” She reaches out her hand as if she’s going to check my temperature, but I intercept and push it away.

“I’m fine, just … tired.”

“I missed you at the supermarket today. I got that terrible check-out boy who always puts the tofu in with the washing powder. I swear he does it on purpose.” (I think he does, too, ever since Mum told him off for letting someone have double plastic bags instead of making them buy a daggy green bag.)

“Fraaaaaay-arrrrrrrrrrrrr,” yells Ziggy from downstairs, “Kate’s on the phone.”

“I’d better take it.” Mum nods, always pleased that I’ve at least got one friend in the world.

“You left without saying goodbye,” Kate says accusingly.

“Sorry. I couldn’t see you. I thought you must’ve already left with the Bs.” This is only half a lie. I really didn’t see Kate, but I did spot Bethanee and Belinda fawning over Luke Parkes so I knew the rest of the group must still be there. (There’s an unspoken rule that no one leaves anywhere until Belinda does.)

“I was going to ask if you want to stay over. Emily’s making Damian a romantic dinner and I don’t want to spend the night sitting alone in my room while they do it on the couch.”

“Ew. Sorry, I can’t. Mum and Dad are going out so I’m stuck here with the Zigmeister.”

“Zigmeister? Where did that come from?”

I think for a moment and realise I must’ve picked it up from Daniel. “I don’t know. I must’ve heard it on some American sitcom or something.”

“How about I stay at yours instead? I could pick up the ingredients for double-fudge brownies on the way.”

I don’t even have to ask Mum if Kate can stay. When she was in her Raising Successful Teens phase she became obsessed with me having Firm Friends and told Kate that she was welcome any time. Kate has used this to her advantage more than once, although she hasn’t been over since her weekends became filled with watching the Bs play hockey and hanging out at the mall.

Last year I wouldn’t even have bothered to pick the dirty clothes off the floor before Kate came over, but now I don’t feel so comfortable about her scrutinising my room. I chuck as much of the clutter into the wardrobe as I can and stuff my old teddy bear under the doona. Something also makes me put the Ramones CD in my desk drawer – I have a feeling they’re not on the Bs approved playlist Kate listens to these days.