Christian Page 2

  He lists excuses, none of them quite ringing true. ‘We’re not really set up for guests, I’m working long hours, Shell’s got a lot on her plate …’ He trails off.

  ‘Yeah, but,’ I lower my voice, trying not to sound like I’m begging, ‘it wouldn’t be forever.’

  ‘It’s not that I don’t want you to come,’ he says. ‘It’s just…’ I fill in the blanks. It’s just that he doesn’t want me to come.

  ‘Yep. No. It’s all good. Bye.’

  I hang up.

  I don’t look at Mr Kennedy, not right away.

  ‘Looks like I’m staying,’ I say.

  Mr Kennedy nods. I push my chair back and leave the room, without waiting to be dismissed. The old man lets me go without a word.

  Ethan catches up with me in the corridor outside. He slams me against a wall.

  ‘My wallet?’ he demands.

  ‘Dunno what you’re talking about.’

  He pushes me again.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that again if I were you mate.’ He pushes again and I propel him across the hallway and slam him against the metal lockers, old school. ‘I tried to warn you.’ I could play human pinball all day.

  ‘You want my advice?’ he spits, sense of entitlement written all over his smug face. ‘You’re never gonna fit in. And it’s clear you don’t want to be here. So go back to whatever rat-hole you crawled out of. And everybody’s happy.’

  I let go of his shirt, get his wallet out of my backpack and hand it back to him. ‘There’s some cash missing. I can give it back.’

  ‘I don’t want the money.’ He backs off. From a safe distance, he points a finger at me. ‘But you owe me.’

  CHARTER 4

  The schedule is intense. We dance together, live together, work together, study together. As well as dance there are regular subjects to attend. The teachers are standard issue, though the dance teachers are the most intense.

  ‘Pas de deux. Two bodies. One soul. Trust,’ Patrick throws an egg at me, and I catch it, then realise I’m meant to pass it on. ‘Unity. Communication.’ Tara drops the egg and blushes when everyone laughs.

  Patrick divides us off into pairs. I’m hoping for Kat, cause at least she doesn’t take herself and this place too seriously. Instead I get Tara. She smiles nervously. ‘I’ve never danced with a boy before,’ she blurts.

  Patrick introduces the class to my ‘mate’ Ethan and the recently exed Isabelle who are going to show us a little something about how to exist in perfect harmony. Or whatever.

  Two bodies, one soul. Unless you happen to be me and Tara. Then it’s two bodies, one soul and one Ethan. I step aside as he lifts her into the air. Word on the street is that she thinks the guy smells like Christmas. Whatever. They deserve each other.

  After class Patrick’s all: unity blah blah blah communication blah blah blah rest of the day off from classes blah blah blah something about a trust building exercise, but all I hear is day off and I’m out of there, before it turns into falling into each other’s arms and human pyramids and more egg throwing.

  I go back to my room to pick up my skateboard. Sammy follows me in, looking desperate.

  ‘Coming to the beach?’ I ask him.

  He shakes his head. ‘Abigail doesn’t do beach.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, I have to be tethered to her for twenty-four hours. Where Abigail goes –or doesn’t go –I … don’t go. Or something. I’ve come to change into fresh underwear since I won’t be doing that again for a while.’

  I put my hand up. ‘Whoa. Too much information.’

  ‘Yeah, well. You got off easy.’

  I grunt. I don’t even know what lame-arsed exercise Tara picked out for us.

  Sammy does. ‘Twenty questions over twenty-four hours? Piece of cake. In truth, dare or torture, I always choose truth over torture.’ He shudders.

  ‘Isn’t that the game girls play at slumber parties?’

  Sammy shrugs. ‘Yeah. I also give a mean manicure. And I’ve seen Nightmare on Elm Street and Scream 2 a bunch of times.’

  ‘Well, whatever. Just don’t do it, they can’t make you.’

  ‘Are you kidding? It’s assessed. We have to do it.’

  ‘Assessed how? By interrogation?’

  Sammy stares at me, aghast. ‘You think?’

  I leave the poor bloke to his fate. I pass Tara outside the boarding house. In the interests of saving time I quip, ‘Sagittarian, favourite food pizza, I don’t have a lucky number. And … we’re done.’

  ‘No, we’re not,’ she pouts. ‘This exercise is important.’

  ‘Well I already know everything about you. It’s kind of been broadcast around the whole school.’

  I’m not facing her, but I can guarantee there’s some more pouting action. She reminds me of this girl from primary school, Lucy Gladewright, wideeyed idealist, protector of insects and birds with broken wings. Except Lucy, wherever she is, is now sixteen, and Tara is still ten. ‘Where are you going?’ she calls.

  ‘The beach.’

  Which is where she tracks me down. I skate up the ramp to find her standing on the edge of the skate bowl. ‘You some kind of stalker?’ I say.

  ‘Not always. You’ve got nineteen questions left.’ Ka-ching. Cute. Very cute. ‘So where’d you grow up?’

  ‘Malabar. One suburb down.’

  ‘By the beach? Lucky.’

  ‘Yeah. Houso. Real lucky.’

  ‘Houso?’

  ‘Housing commission. Where the poor people live.’

  She laughs. ‘You think I’m rich?’

  ‘You’re at the Academy aren’t you?’

  ‘So are you!’

  ‘Yeah well.’ I shrug. ‘That’s different. I won’t be for long.’

  Then she starts asking all these really personal questions about my brother and if we’re close and what my dad does for a living. I don’t need to ask her any questions. I can guess what her family is like –four-bedroom house on the North Shore with a mum and a dad and an SUV and a kitten that sleeps on the end of her bed.

  ‘You have to answer,’ she says finally.

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘That’s the rules!’

  ‘Oh the rules. Okay, my turn. How far have you gone with a guy?’ She blinks. I keep going. ‘There’s first base. There’s second base. Ever even kissed a guy? You haven’t, have you?’ I lean in. ‘Maybe I could help you out.’

  She turns away in disgust. ‘Maybe you could get lost,’ she says, and her fat bottom lip wobbles, reminding me of Lucy again.

  As she walks away I shout, ‘Hey! I’ve still got more questions!’ but she doesn’t react.

  She takes herself way too seriously. That’s what I tell myself. I jump back on my board and swoop down the ramp, blocking out the image of her wide hurt eyes and her trembling lip.

  I walk up the beach in the long light of the late afternoon. I can’t quite get her out of my head. My brain does this thing, where it likes to put people into their compartments. It’s easy to tell where most of the kids at the Academy fit in. Kat, well, she’s from ballet stock, it’s important to someone she’s here, because she owns it, is completely comfortable with the place, but she’s not into it. And Ethan, her brother, he’s like the Prince Regent, heir to the throne, best beloved. Sammy can’t decide if he’s a rebel, going against his father’s wishes to be here, or a girl. Abigail is invested. She would kill herself, and anyone else, to get to the top. But Tara? I just can’t figure out where she fits in.

  She comes across as ridiculously exposed, every passing emotion flashing on her face like neon lights. Which should make her seem vulnerable, and yet there’s a wiry strength to her too, like no matter how much she gets pushed around she just springs back up again. I’m not saying I like her. She’s pretty much the most annoying person I’ve ever met. But I must admit I feel bad about pushing her so far, about trying to be the one to break her.

  And then there she is, proving my point entirely about the vulne
rable yet strong thing; she’s shouting at a carload of revheads and dumping what looks like five dollars worth of hot chips into their car, but at the same time, I think she’s going to cry.

  I bound up to her before I’ve even thought about what I’m getting involved in.

  ‘Come on!’ I shout. ‘Run!’ And the two of us make for the beach where the car can’t follow. It takes a few minutes of sprinting for us to work out they haven’t leapt out of the car to chase us.

  ‘Do you have a death wish?’ I shout at her.

  ‘Didn’t you see what they were going to do?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter! You don’t pick fights around here.’

  She falls quiet. For a moment –flash –she looks like a little girl, lost, far from home.

  I smirk at her. ‘So. No limo today?’

  Her mouth drops open. ‘When have you seen me in a limo? You know nothing about me.’

  ‘Way more than I wanna know.’

  ‘I’ve never met anyone so rude. Doesn’t your mother teach you manners?’

  ‘She’s dead.’

  There’s the silence that always haunts those words. It has texture but it’s colourless. Then we start moving again.

  Finally she says quietly, ‘I can’t imagine what it would be like to lose my mother.’

  ‘No,’ I say, bluntly. ‘You can’t.’

  ‘Did she dance?’

  ‘Yeah, when she was young.’

  ‘Is that why you’re at the Academy?’

  ‘I promised Mum I’d audition. Doesn’t mean I’m hanging around.’

  ‘You’re going to quit?’ she asks, incredulous.

  ‘I’m not into it.’

  ‘I don’t believe you!’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  ‘I’ve seen you dance.’

  I think about telling her about the lead weight in my stomach when I dance, the sick feeling that only goes away when I run or skate or surf. But like I said, I’m not here to make friends.

  Evening falls as we walk. By the time we get back to our rooms it’s late. I’ve learned everything I ever wanted to know about Tara Webster. All about her mum and dad and Patchewalling. She’s right, I misjudged her. Her family life sounds simple. Nice. I don’t hate her for what she isn’t anymore, a spoilt rich ballerina. But I envy her like mad for what she is.

  I head towards my room. It’s been a long walk and I’m tired. Tara stops me. ‘I’ve got one question left. Question twenty.’

  ‘Hit me.’

  ‘Why’d you tell everyone about me in the boys’ change rooms? You knew it was an accident.’

  All good feeling drains away. ‘Why would I even bother?’

  ‘I can’t believe you’d still lie about it. I know you did.’

  I shake my head. ‘I wasn’t the only one there. Ever thought about that?’

  CHAPTER 5

  I’m starting to think I should build a little nest under Mr Kennedy’s desk. It’s probably cleaner under there than my room, thanks to Sammy. And it would save Kennedy the hassle of tracking me down. He leafs through my file.

  ‘One hundred per cent attendance rate in class. You haven’t broken curfew once. And you’ve managed to keep your nose clean.’ He closes the file. ‘You’ve ticked all the boxes.’

  I stand to leave.

  ‘Sit. I’ve spoken to your teachers. All agree, you have real potential, but that potential is underutilised. You lack commitment.’

  I shrug. ‘I’m here aren’t I?’

  ‘You have the opportunity to be up there with the best in a challenging and rewarding art form …’

  I yawn. Yeah, yeah. I’m special.

  ‘How do you see your future?’

  Spoken like a man who always knew he had a future. ‘I don’t know. Get a job I guess.’

  ‘Packing supermarket shelves?’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  He doesn’t bite. ‘I have to ask. Why did you audition for the Academy?’

  ‘I promised my mum …’ I cut him off before he starts to think he knows me. ‘To audition. Not to be the best.’

  I coast into the cemetery. I like coming here in the late afternoon when most of the other visitors have been and gone. I speed along under the blue sky, past the marble angel spreading her wings. My skateboard rumbles along the ground. Why is it when I skate or run or surf I feel free, but when I dance, no matter how lightly my feet skip across the ground, all I feel is a lead weight in my stomach?

  When I get to Mum’s gravesite, I place the flowers next to her headstone. Just simple ones from the supermarket. She didn’t have fancy tastes. I suppose she could never afford them.

  I’m pissed off to see someone’s tagged her headstone. I try to clean it with my sleeve.

  ‘Oi you–get out of it.’ A groundsman marches towards me. ‘I said get out of there.’ He takes out his phone. ‘You want me to call the police?‘

  I stand up. That’s my mum, I want to say. If you were doing your job properly, they wouldn’t have tagged her headstone. I can’t be bothered saying it. What’s the point? Why would he care? He just sees some random kid who doesn’t belong anywhere. I skate away.

  Bye, Mum.

  When I get back to our room, Sammy’s crap is spread all over. I go downstairs and beg a garbage bag off Gloria who works in the kitchen. I cram all of Sammy’s things into the bag, and bury all my rage in there as well. I think about chucking it in the skip outside, but, picturing Sammy’s face, I can’t actually do it. I shove it in the cupboard. But if I ever have to clean up after him again, I promise myself, I’ll go postal.

  Patrick eyes me. ‘Dude, I need you warm.’

  ‘I’m ready.’

  ‘No you’re not. You’ve been bludging all morning.’

  I roll my eyes, and stand up marginally straighter.

  ‘Okay, we’re going to break down pirouettes a la seconde.’

  Patrick moves around the class as we dance.

  ‘Focus on keeping that supporting leg strong so that it anchors your working leg, locking it at the same height.’

  I don’t even hear what he’s saying, I just go through the motions. I have that lead feeling in my stomach, but my moves are clean.

  ‘Christian, you’re turning in.’ He just can’t get off my case. I know my moves are fine.

  He moves in to correct my stance. When he touches me, I jerk away.

  ‘Are you right there?’ I snap.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ he asks.

  ‘Yeah. You. This class is a waste of time.’

  ‘Does anyone else think it’s a waste of time?’

  Everywhere I go someone’s in my face. Someone’s telling me what to do, or not to do. Someone’s making a mess. All I want is space, all I want is to be left alone.

  So I leave.

  As if to prove my point, Kat stalks me after class, coming to find me down by the harbour.

  ‘Are you homophobic or what?’ she calls.

  She breaks my concentration and my skateboard skitters out from under my feet.

  ‘Whoops! Must have touched a raw nerve.’

  Hardly. I grab my board, looking for some sanctuary.

  Kat chases me. ‘Dude, seriously, you need to chill out … Patrick’s one of the few all right people working here.’

  ‘He got in my face. I don’t like people getting in my face.’

  ‘He was correcting you!’

  ‘I don’t like people touching me either.’

  ‘Must make you a fun date,’ she teases.

  ‘You’ll never get to find out.’

  ‘Can I have that in writing?’ She crams herself deep into my personal space. ‘This too close?’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘People pay their shrinks thousands of dollars for aversion therapy, I’m prepared to do it for free. In ten words or less describe how me touching your arm makes you feel?’

  ‘It makes my skin crawl.’

  She smiles her smile, and moves her pa
lm onto my chest. My heart beats against her hand.

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Same.’

  She places her palm softly on my face. I think of my mother’s hands.

  ‘What about that?’ she asks.

  I don’t say anything. I take her hand gently and place it by her side.

  ‘I’ve changed my diagnosis. You’re not homophobic. You’re people phobic.’ She grins. ‘It’s okay. I don’t think it’s incurable.’

  I watch her go, and feel a smile twist the corners of my lips. Along with Tara, she’s one of the most annoying people I’ve ever met. And yet she’s almost impossible to hate.

  One conversation with Kat doesn’t change anything. I might need the Academy to keep me out of prison, but I don’t need the Academy to teach me how to dance. I’m not one of these desperate ballet slaves, who thinks Patrick is some kind of god. Kat might think he’s all right, but as far as I’m concerned he’s just another person lining up to tell me what to do.

  ‘Mr Reed? You look bored,’ he says, restrained. ‘I asked if anyone would like to demonstrate.’

  I shrug. Sure.

  ‘When you’re ready.’

  I start to turn, knowing I have the class’s attention. That dead weight in my stomach is there, but anger fuels me. I whip around, throwing in double turns for good measure, and the room dissolves into a blur. I can’t help the flare of triumph as I slow down.

  Patrick lets me have my moment. Then he cuts me down. ‘Not a bad turn, for a first year. But you let yourself down with that wavering working leg. You were fast but technically sloppy. This time I want just one single turn, nice and slow, controlled with perfect technique.’ His voice is even, but I can hear the challenge. ‘In your own time.’

  I try it, slow and strong, but I lose my balance.

  Patrick addresses the class. ‘There is a reason we do the boring exercises.’

  He starts turning, slowly. He builds in power. Even I can see his technique is perfect. And I have to admit to myself, it looks amazing. He stops, barely registering the applause. It’s me he’s looking at.

  Well, if he’s waiting for a high five, it’s not going to happen.

  I head back to my room. I’m like a rat in a maze, shuffling from one place to another, while the evil scientists conduct their experiments. Even my room is no escape, with Sammy messing everything up. It’s no wonder his own life is such a mess, with his dad wanting him to quit dancing and focus on academic studies.