Screw Loose (6 page)

Craig Ryan came in from basketball. Khiem looked at the clock. They only had about six minutes 'til the warning bell. Craig was bouncing the ball. ‘Working tonight?' he asked Khiem. Craig was kind of Kheim's best mate. They worked at New World.

‘Yep. You?'

‘Yep.'

New World was Addiction World. All that stuff to take. It was a test of willpower. Craig was Khiem's model, too. He was honest and he had a girlfriend. Well … it was a bit hard to say what Matilda was. But she was hot.

Khiem smelt himself. He needed a girl. Aussie would be fine. Greek would be fine. Somali would be fine. Tongan would be fine. But Viet wouldn't be. They'd be too close to the community, and the community thought he was evil. He used to imagine himself with the Aussie wife living in Box Hill: nice brick house with a triple garage, swing set and trampoline for the kids, security lights, outdoor entertainment area, big tropical aquarium. He'd be the manager of a major retail outlet.

The bell went.

‘Girls,' he said to Angelo. ‘You never want to obsess over them.'

‘Who's obsessing?' Angelo said. ‘Got your Lynx?'

He threw it to Angelo. He'd bought it legit at New World the previous night. Angelo sprayed all over his clothes and even his backside. That was the way to get the girls. Craig grabbed it from Angelo and did the same thing. Khiem had to get rid of the
DVD
s. And smell sweet. Do his homework. Be a good boy.

His phone went. He checked it. Bruno.
No way
. He switched it off.

‘Hey, Khiem?' Angelo sighed. ‘Do me a massive favour, buddy?' He grinned.

‘Sure.'

‘Get your contacts to put someone in hospital.'

The rep stuck like gum. He knew Angelo was joking. But he did know people who would do that. ‘Who?'

‘Zeynep's old man.'

‘How come?'

‘He chucked a cake at me.'

Craig snorted.

‘Hey, I'm Angelo Tarano.' Angelo jabbed his chest. ‘No one throws a cake at me.'

‘Haven't you got mafia contacts?' Khiem asked. ‘You're Italian.'

‘No, man. Don't be racist.'

‘Hey, don't
you
be racist.'

Angelo laughed and packed up his bag. Craig chucked the Lynx back and Khiem sprayed all over, even his hair. ‘Come on,' he said. ‘Now we're late.'

They all walked off to class smelling irresistible.

RATHER KEEN
ON ELTON JOHN

F
OUR DAYS AFTER
the
SRC
meeting, Joshua Yeatman followed Chelsea Dean as she bustled straight down the centre of the corridor and knocked firmly on Mr Dunn's door.

‘Come,' Joshua heard the principal chime from his room.

Chelsea pushed open the door. The first thing you saw when you entered Mr Dunn's office was a large glistening brown snake mounted in a glass case on the wall above his head. That snake was famous. Joshua remembered the time in Year 8 when Mr Dunn had called an emergency assembly to show the whole school the snake he'd killed on the oval that morning.

Holding it up, he'd warned them to report any snakes they saw, particularly in classrooms. A number of students left the school after that assembly.

Joshua sat down uneasily and waited for Chelsea to take the lead.

‘Ah, President Chelsea and Secretary Joshua,' Mr Dunn said with a laugh. He was usually in a good mood. Most students called him Dunny. ‘It's good to have you aboard. I've heard a lot of very impressive reports about both of you from the staff.'

‘Well, thank you, Mr Dunn,' Chelsea smiled. ‘We do our best.

Did you really kill that snake all by yourself? That is so awesome.' Chelsea had her hand on her chest.

Darryl Dunn nodded and swivelled his chair to look up at the snake above his head. ‘It is awesome, Chelsea: enough venom to kill the whole school.'

Chelsea gasped. Joshua looked at the thinning hair exposed above the top of the swivel chair.

Darryl suddenly spun to face them. ‘Don't be afraid, Chelsea.

It's long dead.'

‘Mr Dunn, you're one of the bravest principals I've heard of.'

She opened her folder. ‘Thank you for giving up your valuable time.'

‘Always time for students who are prepared to go that little bit further.'

Chelsea smiled warmly. ‘Now Mr Dunn, as you know I came from Mary Magdalene Ladies' College on the other side of the river, and Mary Magdalene – and many other independent schools – have rowing teams. The
SRC
has decided we should have one, too.'

Darryl looked surprised. ‘Really? A rowing team?'

‘Yes. We have a river. Why not?'

‘That's a terrific idea. I'm agog.'

‘Thank you, Mr Dunn. My father would be prepared to procure two second-hand boats from St Ethelred's. He's an old boy.'

Mr Dunn's eyes were wide now. ‘What a wonderful asset to the school you've turned out to be, Chelsea. I've been looking for someone with your initiative for years. A girls' rowing team.'

‘I'm prepared to coach the boys, Mr Dunn, but I can't cope with a girls' team as well.' Chelsea sounded firm.

‘Most impressive, is all I can say.' Mr Dunn tapped the tips of his fingers together. His eyes fell on Joshua. ‘Joshua, you're coaching the girls?'

Joshua felt a twitch in his stomach. ‘I don't know anything about rowing, Mr Dunn.'

Mr Dunn pursed his lips and turned to Chelsea. ‘Well, it looks like a boys' team to start with. Tell me, Chelsea, what makes you such an exceptional girl?'

Chelsea giggled and stared at her knees. ‘Well, Mr Dunn, I think I've been influenced by Mary MacKillop – the famous Australian nun.'

‘Mary MacKillop.' Mr Dunn looked wistful.

‘Shall I tell my father you're interested?'

Mr Dunn punched the air. ‘Go girl!'

Chelsea laughed and looked pleased. ‘Two more things before Joshua and I go, Mr Dunn. Firstly, bridging the social divide.'

Mr Dunn looked puzzled.

‘Quite frankly, there's a desperate need for boyfriends at Mary Magdalene. I propose that this school and Mary Magdalene have joint social gatherings – with some of the boys from St Ethelred's who need girlfriends, too. This is a bit of charitable work for Vistaview towards schools more fortunate than ourselves.'

Mr Dunn stared blankly. ‘Go on, Chelsea. I'm not sure what you mean. Would those schools really want to mix with a government school? They're rather … snobbish?'

‘Mr Dunn, have some pride! Once some of the students at Mary M and St Ethel's get a chance to meet our students, enrolments at Vistaview will soar. But we'll need to speak to their principals – you'll need to.'

‘These sorts of activities need careful arrangement, Chelsea.

I will have to contact my superiors in the Department of Education before I contact the principals of the other two schools.'

‘Of course, Mr Dunn. I even have a date in mind: the seventh of September.'

‘Well done! Efficiency indeed,' he said, jotting it in his diary.

Chelsea sailed on. ‘We will, as you realise, also require a complete overhaul of the way the boys at Vistaview conduct themselves.'

Mr Dunn pursed his lips and nodded slowly. ‘They certainly need hankies, I'll admit that. It's amazing how few students have hankies nowadays, isn't it, Chelsea? I've been thinking about that a lot. Whatever happened to the handkerchief? It's gone the way of the tiepin.'

Joshua didn't always follow Mr Dunn, and this was one of those occasions.

Chelsea looked confused, too. But she charged ahead. ‘Absolutely, Mr Dunn. And so to my last point: the introduction of etiquette classes.'

‘Etiquette classes?'

Chelsea smiled. ‘I'm happy to give them free of charge to anybody interested.'

‘Give a job to a busy person and it gets done,' Mr Dunn said, clapping his hands. ‘Chelsea Dean for honorary staff member!'

He raised his fist again and laughed loudly.

‘Thank you, Mr Dunn. You might get back to me when you've spoken to the authorities at both the other schools, and then I'll get underway with my multiple projects.'

Mr Dunn was making notes.

‘I may need secretarial services,' Chelsea added.

‘And secretarial services you shall have, Chelsea,' said Mr Dunn, slapping his pen on the table.

‘And one last thing, Mr Dunn.' She paused dramatically and looked at Joshua. ‘Homophobia.'

Joshua's heart skipped.

‘There are gay students in this school, Mr Dunn, and some of them are having a terrible time. Joshua here is gay, and he is constantly humiliated. And there's Georgia Delahunty, too; she's often ridiculed for being a lesbian.'

Chelsea turned to Joshua. ‘Tell Mr Dunn what's it's like to be gay in this school, Josh.'

He wanted to sink into the floor, but Mr Dunn was staring at him. ‘Well, Mr Dunn, there are lots of jokes and stuff. Gay this and gay that.' He felt his face reddening.

Mr Dunn waved a hand in the air. ‘I know, I've heard it too.

Gay lockers, gay shoes.' Mr Dunn laughed. ‘Gay subjects.' He looked up to the ceiling. ‘Gay light fittings.' He leant over his desk. ‘Rather keen on Elton John?' He winked. ‘I used to be a very big fan of Elton's when I was younger. Didn't know he was gay, of course. Just thought he liked way-out glasses.' Mr Dunn smiled. ‘So, Elton John is hot, eh Joshua?'

Joshua found it hard to speak. ‘Not exactly, Mr Dunn. He's as old as my dad.'

Chelsea jumped in. ‘I think you should call an assembly and order them all to stop calling everything gay. You should stamp out homophobia, Mr Dunn. It's your duty.'

Mr Dunn nodded. ‘Well, yes. You're quite right again; we should stamp out this gay business. I'll call the assembly, Chelsea. I'll tell them all about your rowing team and the etiquette classes, then I'll warn them not to call things gay.'

‘Exactly, Mr Dunn.'

Joshua felt sick.

‘Good.' Mr Dunn promptly stood up. ‘So let's have a high-five!'

Mr Dunn and Chelsea slapped hands. Mr Dunn turned to Joshua and hesitated, his hand suspended. ‘Joshua, do gay people highfive?' he asked.

‘Of course,' Joshua said, and he slapped the principal's hand with sufficient force to cause his own palm to sting. He shook it as he marched out of the office ahead of Chelsea.

A
SILVER
LINING

T
HE BOMB WENT
off three weeks after Chelsea Dean had found her mother doing the
Nutbush
. It was early morning. Her mother gently opened Chelsea's door and said in a subdued voice: ‘Chelsea, your father and I would like to have a family conference in the sitting room before you go to school.' Then she disappeared.

Chelsea lay in a kind of depressed shock and listened to Brenda making breakfast. Mr Ryan's van had not been parked in the street since the incident, so she'd held off on telling her mother she was pregnant. She saw now that she should have taken action; that this morning was the culmination of three long weeks of marital breakdown. The signs had been there, she supposed.

For much of her life, her parents' disputes had been polite, their voices rarely raised. Arguments had been over unimportant things: vodka bottles in the recycling bin; the date of the Merc's last service; flying first class or business to Singapore. Lately, though, her father had been spending more time in Sydney, and on his return he had often been tetchy and silent. And last Thursday evening her mother had thrown her father's laptop into the pool. Her father had retaliated by throwing her mother's mobile in after it.

Chelsea groaned. She needed help. She chose Presidential Candidate Barbie, who had padded shoulders and spectacles – but quite tasteful earrings. Presidential Candidate Barbie had attitude.

Using her best grammar, Chelsea spoke meekly: ‘I know this means divorce. What should I do if they ask me with whom I'd rather live?'

‘Don't choose the parent, choose the accommodation – go for the best house,' Presidential Candidate Barbie decreed.

‘The party's over, honey,' Astronaut Barbie added unhelpfully, laughing cruelly through her space helmet. ‘It's splitsville for Annette and Barry, and Centrelink for you!'

‘Is my allowance at risk?' Chelsea asked anxiously.

‘It is,' said Presidential Candidate Barbie. ‘Ask for a contract, and make sure both parents sign it.'

‘A contract is a girl's best friend,' added Supreme Court Judge Barbie from her end of the shelf.

‘Should I try to keep them together by threatening to take a drug overdose?' Chelsea wondered. ‘Or becoming an emo?'