On Saturday morning there’s a definite buzz in the hall. It’s the final dress rehearsal and from the way everyone’s running around and Ms Burns’s voice is getting more high-pitched with every order she barks, you’d never guess that we’ve been preparing for this for over a month.
I see Kate and wonder whether I should wave or go over and say hi or something, in honour of our new we’re-friends-but-not status. The decision’s made for me by Bethanee, who attaches herself to Kate’s arm when she sees me looking in their direction. She whispers something in Kate’s ear, they both look at me for a moment, then turn their backs as they double over with laughter.
Ordinarily, this sort of thing would send me into a frenzy of making sure my fly’s done up and there’s nothing hanging out of my nose, but the sound of raised voices on the balcony distracts me from obsessing about it. As I climb the stairs, the source of the noise becomes clearer.
“If you let that little wanker touch one button on that desk, I’m going straight to Mr Phipps to make a formal complaint,” spits Darryl.
“Now, now, Darryl, I don’t think there’s any call for that,” says Mr Wilson, who looks like he needs a cup of tea and a good lie down. “Daniel’s already apologised for missing rehearsals last week. I think under the circumstances, Mr Phipps would agree that he should be allowed to enjoy the fruits of the labour he’s put into the production.”
“He left that – that girl up here all alone last week. She could’ve destroyed the Lightron 5000 if I hadn’t been here to supervise.”
“Oh, rack off, Daz!” says Daniel. “Freia knows just as much about the Lightron as you do and she’s a whole lot more talented at lighting design. You may have put her up here to babysit me, but she could run the whole thing single-handed, and you know it.”
Darryl has his back to me, but I can see his shoulders rising with rage and I bolster myself for the torrent of abuse he’s about to let fly. He moves towards Daniel with his fists clenched.
“That’s enough, both of you!” shouts not-so-timid Mr Wilson, stepping between them. “I don’t want to hear another word. We’ve got less than five hours to pull this whole production together. Right now the lighting’s about the only thing I don’t have to worry about so we’re all just going to get on with what we’re supposed to be doing and treat each other like human beings or I’ll have you both thrown out of school!” He looks from Darryl to Daniel and back again. “Got it?”
Daniel and Darryl mutter their agreement. Darryl barges past me on his way down the stairs. Mr Wilson looks rather pleased with himself as he follows him.
“Seems like I got here five minutes too late,” I say.
“You didn’t miss much,” says Daniel, but he flashes me a smile.
Ms Burns stands in front of the stage and claps her hands furiously until everyone onstage shuts up.
“This is it, people. We’re going to run all the way through without stopping for anything until lunch break and then do it all again this afternoon. Let’s do this thing!”
Daniel and I exchange eyebrow raises and he fades down the house lights. As the curtain opens, I bring up the stage lights. It’s as if he’s never been away.
Aside from Luke waltzing in the wrong direction and almost knocking over half the chorus, the first dress rehearsal goes without a hitch. The Bs, unable to head to their usual lunch spot in their huge dresses, congregate at the back of the hall near the doors, making it impossible to get out of the building without crossing their paths.
“You heading out?” asks Daniel.
“Nah, I think I’ll eat my sandwich up here.”
“I don’t blame you.” He looks towards where Belinda and Bethanee are standing, now flanked by Kate and Brianna. “They’re a bit menacing when you get them all together, aren’t they? Like baboons poised for attack.”
“Actually, I’m not really hanging out with them any more.”
“What, you gave up being a princess-in-waiting? I go away for a few days and the whole foundation of society starts crumbling.” Then he laughs and shakes his head and I get another flash of blue.
“How was dinner last night?” I ask him.
“Well, the so-called chicken cacciatore was inedible, as predicted, but the sitting down together part was okay. Dad seems to be making a big effort this time. He’s even missing a seminar on adolescent bedwetting to come to opening night.”
“Wow, that’s a pretty huge sacrifice.”
“For him, yeah.” He laughs, but it’s obvious he’s pleased about it.
The brownies are in the oven and the whole house smells deliciously of chocolate by the time Siouxsie arrives for our EE essay-athon.
“Yum, I think I’m getting the better part of this deal,” she says, sniffing the air.
By the time Mum calls us for dinner I’ve done an essay plan, written the introduction and we’ve only taken one brief boogie break. I can’t remember the last time I felt so in control of my schoolwork.
Siouxsie wins Mum over by insisting that we don’t have brownies until we’ve finished the first draft of our essays. She says it’s to motivate us, but I reckon it’s got more to do with the cannonball that’s forming in her stomach after a second helping of Mum’s nutloaf. She’s right though, thinking of the rich brownie full of oozy warm chocolate with vanilla ice-cream melting through it does make me work faster and when I write my final full stop I’m shocked to see that it’s only just gone 9.30.
It’s a warmish night so we take our brownies and ice-cream to the garden. I fill Siouxsie in on the dramas at rehearsal with Daz.
“So are you going to ask Daniel out sometime?” she asks straight out.
“What? No! We’re just friends.”
“Come off it, Freia. You’ve told me three times in the past ten minutes how blue his eyes are, you were worried sick about him when he disappeared and you obviously enjoy hanging out with him. Why can’t you admit it?”
I pretend to be engrossed in scooping up equal amounts of brownie and ice-cream while I consider the question. Because the Bs already hate me and this just gives them more ammunition. Because I’m not at all sure he likes me as more than a friend. Because even if he does like me, I have absolutely no idea what I’m supposed to do about it.
Finally, I say, “It’s not an issue, since he wouldn’t want to anyway.”
“Cop-out!” she says, but she doesn’t push it the way Kate would.