Alana Oakley (4 page)

Emma, vegetarian and misguided animal-lover, looked at them in dismay.

“Oh, you poor widdle fishies,” she crooned. “I bet you're vewy, vewy lonely. Look, Alana,” Emma said, holding up a bowl, “don't you think they look lonely?”

Alana, barely glancing up from a magazine, replied, “Put the fishbowl down,
Maman
,” and continued to read. Alana often threw French words into her conversation. She tried to learn a new word or phrase every day. In a way she hoped that by speaking French she was keeping the memory of her father alive – a memory that, with every year that passed, felt more frayed and chewed at the edges.

Emma looked around the empty room and crept sideways, careful not to spill the container she held. With a final check that neither Alana nor the receptionist was looking, Emma tipped the bowl until one tiny slip of colour joined the other. “There you go,” she said, “now you can make fwends.”

“The doctor will see you now,” the receptionist's voice called flatly.

Emma hastily returned the bowl and wiped wet hands on the seat of her pants. Alana, seeing the look of panic on Emma's face, took her mum's hand and led her into the room. Emma saw a figure in a white lab coat swivel in his chair. He stood up and held out a friendly hand. He was short. A thatch of dark hair was carefully slicked down with some kind of oil. He looked to Emma, like the kind of person who trimmed his nasal hair, ate fibre-rich cereal and drove under the speed limit.
I bet he's never been on Speedsters,
Emma thought irrationally. She shook the dentist's hand dumbly. To her panicked ears his greeting sounded muffled, like he was speaking through a wad of foam.

Before Alana could protest, Emma pushed her daughter firmly into the dentist's chair. “Just a routine clean,” she said, ignoring Alana's hazel-flecked eyes, which silently promised murder when they got home. Emma wasn't disobeying the court's ruling: she
was
visiting the dentist. That Alana was having the appointment was a minor technicality. Emma felt very proud of her solution.

“Well, if it's just a routine clean, why don't I get our lovely dental assistant to take care of you?”

The ‘lovely dental assistant' turned out to be Joy, now in a crisp, white overcoat of stiff, over-starched cotton which covered her Gothic garb. Above the face mask, Joy's lifeless eyes shone with sadistic delight as she looked into Alana's panicked ones. The chainsaw
buzz
of a dental machine started up. Emma couldn't suppress the shudder that ran through her body, and clamped a hand over her mouth. The dentist reacted instantly.

“Here,” he said, leading her to a side office, “Can I get you some water?” He peered closer at her face. “Or a bucket?”

Emma accepted the glass gratefully and gave a self-conscious laugh. “You must think I'm an idiot.”

“Not at all,” he assured her. “Dentists scare a lot of people. Why don't you stay here until your daughter's treatment is finished?” And with that he walked out the door.

Twenty minutes later, Joy's less-than-joyful scream cut through the air. Emma raised her head from the plastic bucket in alarm and rushed into the waiting room. Where there had been two live fish in a bowl, now there was only one. The survivor's orbit now resembled a shark's. Alana glared at her mother. Any minute now she was going to say
Sorry, Terribly Sorry,
like she always did after causing trouble.

“Sor -” Emma began.

“Thank-you-we'll-be-going,” Alana gabbled, snatching the invoice, grabbing her mother's hand, and fleeing the room.

Their footsteps pounded the pavement as they ran to the car. “Fighting fish,” Alana explained breathlessly.

CHAPTER 5

Torture in History

Within a few weeks Alana and her friends settled back easily into the routine of study and school work. Gibson High had not changed much. And Year Eight was the same as Year Seven, if slightly harder. They still had Mr Hornby for Maths, with his obsession for morbid trivia, but for reasons unknown, Mr Murray, with the too-tight trousers, never returned from sick leave for Science. Miss Metcalf had discovered an abundance of photocopied worksheets, though, and always disappeared for a coffee during Science Practicals – to the delight of Miller and his friends. Jack Stratt – or ‘Strut', as Alana called him – was on a Country Music Tour, so Miss Beatrice, formerly a nun of the Benedictine Sisters from St Bernadette's College, was taking them for choir.

A new subject for Year Eight was History, with a Mrs Snell who had recently joined the school. Mrs Snell was an elderly woman who wore thick, thermal underwear, whatever the weather. The layers guarded her in equal measure against sudden drops in temperature and the threat of Peeping Toms. Neither of which was ever a concern. The
click, clack
of her knitting needles clattered in harmony with the smack of her dentures and the creak of her chair, which she liked to rock back and forth. Although Mrs Snell looked to be as wholesome (and as harmless) as her apple-pie smile, experience soon taught Year Eight students otherwise. Her reputation spread throughout the school like wildfire. Within days of joining Gibson High, the gummy ‘great-grandmother' – strictly a figurative term – became one of the most feared teachers of the school. Even fellow staff quaked at the sight of her. Alana liked Gibson High for its progressive policies that allowed Sofia to have hair dyed three different shades of purple, a librarian who
didn't
use the Dewey system for filing books, and a school bakery run by the students themselves. But employing Mrs Snell was Going Too Far. For their topic, ‘Tortures of the Eighteenth Century', there was consensus that everything Mrs Snell taught them was true …
if only because she'd been there to administer it in person!

New Boy, Flynn, didn't seem to care. He walked into all his classes with nothing but a pen, which he twirled expertly between fingers. He never used it for writing. As he slouched in his chair, the slim rod constantly wove itself into a blur. He could twirl it over his fingers, under his fingers, and side-to-side. Others tried to copy him but nobody could match his fluidity or speed. At the end of History, when the students had to hand in their first assignment on ‘Medieval Torture Devices', Flynn's hand shot up. His pen twirling like a baton in the air.

“Sorry, Mrs Snell, but my dog ate it.”

Immediately, a nervous titter danced round the class.

The knitting needles kept up a steady tempo.

“What was that, Dearie? Sometimes my hearing isn't very good.”

Flynn was consulting what looked to be a magic eight-ball like Sofia's. It was, in fact, an Instant Excuse Ball. The kind you buy from novelty or joke shops, along with fart bombs and fake moustaches. It wouldn't have surprised Alana if Flynn had a stash of them, too. He sent a cocky look around the class as he read another excuse in a louder voice. “I can't hand in my homework because I was abducted by aliens.”

Desks shuffled. Even Khalilah edged away.

“Speak up, please, Dearie. Old age is a terrible thing.”

This time Flynn made no effort to hide the ball he was shaking. “Plus I had Mexican food last night …” he said, faking a groan and rubbing his stomach with a wink. A practised belch erupted like an exclamation mark.

The class inhaled sharply.

Year Eight History – minus Flynn – was ushered from the room by the bell and Mrs Snell's deceptively friendly smile. But a few of them, like Alana and her friends, hung back to see what would happen next. A low murmur was all they could hear. Silence. Then a short, high-pitched yelp. The kind a Chihuahua might make when it gets stepped on. By a ten-foot giant.

“Thank you, Dearie. I knew I'd heard wrongly. I look forward to reading your assignment over the weekend. ‘Medieval Torture Devices' is one of my favourite topics,” the elderly teacher said as she opened the door. The eavesdroppers scattered. A much more subdued Flynn walked out, pigeon-toed, and shuffling. As he passed Alana and her friends, he gave his Instant Excuse Ball to Sofia.

“I won't need this anymore, you can have it,” he wheezed, waddling away in obvious discomfort – but not before Alana caught sight of a deep imprint of a size-eight knitting needle in the middle of his forehead, and the top of his underpants sitting unreasonably high above his trousers.

Sofia gazed after Flynn, clutching the Instant Excuse Ball to her chest. “Don't you think Flynn is just the nicest guy?” she sighed.

Alana stared at her friend. She knew that look. She'd seen it before. Usually worn by girls drooling over a Jet Tierbert poster.

Alana took Sofia's magic eight-ball charm in her hand, shook it, and showed her the answer.

Don't count on it,
Sofia read.

CHAPTER 6

Teenagers, toddlers, same-same lah

Emma was nervous. She had never done any teaching before, yet somehow she was expected to help rehabilitate Troubled Teens. Not that they were called ‘Troubled Teens' anymore. Now they were referred to optimistically as ‘Second-Chancers' – even though for most of them this was their fourth or fifth ‘chance'. Community Service also meant a drastic change to her routine. Life, for the last four years since her husband's death, had consisted of getting up, researching on the computer, interviewing people – celebrities, politicians, activists – writing up an article, and then more research. If she managed to change out of her bedclothes, brush her hair, or eat for any of the time she wasn't interviewing, it was a miracle.

“No wonder you can't get a date,” her friends, Katriona and Ling Ling, often moaned.

But to Emma, Getting A Date was not a top priority, much to her own mother's disgust. In Mrs Corazon's eyes, now that a suitable mourning period had elapsed, it was high time Emma did the sensible thing and re-married – preferably someone nice, like Manny ‘Mandela' Manalog, or DOCTOR Manny Manalog, since he was an orthodontist now, you know.

It was a constant source of frustration to Emma that the only Nice Men her mother knew were doctors, lawyers or dentists. Just the thought of going out with a man who spent eight hours a day with his fingers in other people's mouths was too gross to think about. She was perfectly happy with her life, thank you very much. Work was immensely satisfying, she had a wonderful daughter, and she had very good friends.

Alana didn't agree. In her opinion it couldn't be healthy to be so obsessed with work. Her mum burrowed into her job like a mole, and when she
did
bother to surface, her so-called ‘friends' were always getting her into trouble. Last year was a perfect example. Katriona and Ling Ling had set Alana's mum up on a dating website, where she began an online flirtation with
PeterPan,
who ended up being teen heart-throb, Jet Tierbert. That made Emma old enough to be his mother! Ewww! That was one birthday surprise Alana could have done without. What's more, they broke into the Sydney Aquarium, swam with dolphins, set off a fire extinguisher in the shark tank, and kidnapped a Little Penguin called Noodle.
But
they'd also held Emma's hand through the heartbreak of losing Hugo: months of walking around in a daze.
Gone. Gone forever.
The words had circled in Emma's brain until she thought she'd go mad.

It was no surprise that she turned to them again in this time of crisis.

“Look on the bright side,” Katriona said matter-of-factly. “It'll be good for you to meet some new people. Maybe even some single dads,” she winked. “Save a cute one for me,” she added quietly with a wiggle of her shapely bottom.

Emma
tsked
as she popped another painkiller in her mouth. A different brand this time, because the last one had turned her tongue blue.
And
caused an involuntary tick in one eye. Not exactly the first impression she wanted to make.

“Teenagers, toddlers, same-same lah,” Ling Ling said before following Katriona in a floating flurry of sunburnt swirls. The Beauty Bar they ran offered Complete Makeovers (or ‘Takeovers', as Alana called them) and their 2:30 was due. Ling Ling couldn't wait to transform their client into the beautiful woman she knew was hiding in oversized t-shirts and baggy pants.

Emma headed off to the first of her sixty hours of Community Service with those words of wisdom and an old copy of
Taming Your Tiny Two's
. She coaxed her battered ute up to 15 km/hr, ignoring the impatient toots and horns from the drivers behind her. Her car's debut on
Speedsters
had taken its toll. The ute shuddered to a halt outside the Police Boys' Club with a wheezy cough. Emma took a deep breath. The mouldy scent of old paper and baby sick that was the book's signature scent filled her nostrils, and she tried to stem the flood of memories it evoked.

Three youths meandered past her car. One wore a leather jacket that was too big for him and too warm for February. The jacket had the words ‘Crazy Mother' embroidered on the back. In the morning sunlight it was easy to see where a border of hearts and flowers had once been, by the tiny trace of holes they had left behind. Another boy – of Asian descent – was weaving up and down the pavement on a well-worn skateboard. He used the low brick wall by the club's entrance to attempt a Casper Slide, and landed head-down and legs up, like a banana.

“Epic fail!” Leather Jacket jeered.

The third youth – a heavy-set boy whose low-seated pants were weighed down further by a monkey wrench in his back pocket – stretched his arms sumo-style to prevent the two from fighting. Emma couldn't see his face because he had his back to her, but his ears were the cauliflower kind that suggested a long history of playing some kind of rugby. That, and his lack of neck.

If that was the kind of people she was dealing with, Emma thought, she had better set some ground rules. Which is exactly what she did when she found herself in class in front of the same youths, fifteen minutes later. On the whiteboard provided by the administrator – who had simultaneously wished her ‘Good Luck' and whispered instructions on how to use the Emergency Exit – she began to write the words, ‘No bullying'. Puzzlement painted faces a stormy black as the three youths struggled to read.