‘Man, you got nothing to worry about,’ I heard Razza say. ‘It’s cool. Leave it with me. I’m gonna come up with a wicked plan!’
I could feel the current tugging at my legs and the sand slipping from under my feet. I hoped the lifesavers were paying attention. I lifted my head off the desk and turned to Razza. He was tapping both temples rapidly with his fingers as if he was trying to stimulate his brain into action and his eyes were bouncing around like dodgem cars.
That’s when the awful reality hit me. I was about to let myself be swept away by Orazio Zorzotto, and there was no way in the world we were swimming between the flags.
11.
ME AND YOU AND SHAKY BILL
A couple of weeks went by and Razza hadn’t said any more about his ‘wicked plan’, so I was beginning to think that maybe the Human Rip was already dead in the water. The sea can fool you, though – just when everything appears calm, conditions can turn treacherous.
One day Miss Tarango bustled in, chirped out a cheery, ‘Morning all!’, laid her books on the teacher’s desk and moved to the front of the class where she waited for silence. Then she smiled and breathed in deeply. Her voice, when it came, was soft and slow like melted chocolate. ‘How do I love thee?’ she said, holding her arms wide. ‘Let me count the ways.’
A murmur washed around the room carrying with it stray comments and laughter.
Miss Tarango took no notice. ‘I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach.’
She looked to the back of the room where Barry Bagsley and his mates were sprawled.
‘I love thee to the level of every day’s most quiet need, by sun and candle light.’
She passed her eyes around the middle of the class where Scobie, Razza and I were seated. ‘I love thee freely as men strive for Right; I love thee purely as they turn from praise.’
She looked down at the boys in front of her, including Bill Kingsley and Ignatius Prindabel. ‘I love thee with the passion put to use in my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.’
Then her eyes swept all around the room and she smiled so that her dimples appeared like two tiny kisses on her cheeks. ‘I love thee,’ she said, as she crossed her hands over her heart, ‘with all the breath … smiles … tears … of all my life.’
For a moment I imagined Kelly Faulkner saying those words to me, and my insides felt like they were melting and dripping away like wax. When Miss finished, nobody spoke. I don’t think anyone really wanted her to stop.
‘Boys,’ she said finally, ‘today we are immersing ourselves in Love. What I have recited to you just now were some lines from a sonnet by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. This poem and others, including a selection of Shakespeare’s love sonnets, are on this handout.’
Sheets of paper dipped and dived about the room.
‘Now, let’s see,’ Miss Tarango said as her eyes glided around the class. ‘Ah … yes, the very man … Ignatius …’
At the mention of his name Prindabel, who’d been clutching his sheet and glaring at it as if it were a death threat, jerked back in horror.
‘You’ll be able to tell me, Ignatius. What do all the poems on the handout have in common?’
Prindabel stared back as if he’d been accused of murder. Slowly he turned to the sheet in his hands. He squinted at it like he was translating ancient hieroglyphics, scratched his pointy nose, then looked up gingerly and muttered, ‘Is it … that they all have … fourteen lines, Miss?’
Beside me Razza snorted loudly, slapped his forehead, rolled his eyes and let his head fall with a loud clunk on to the back of his chair.
‘Precisely Ignatius!’ Miss Tarango said.
Prindabel gaped at her as if he’d just escaped a firing squad but had no idea how.
At the same time, Razza catapulted himself forward on his chair. ‘You’re joking, Miss. You mean he was right?’
‘Absolutely Orazio. All sonnets have fourteen lines. Some, depending on their rhyming scheme, can be divided into a section of eight lines called an octave plus a section of six lines called a sestet. Other sonnets, like the Shakespearean ones, have three quatrains or four-line sections with a final rhyming couplet making up the fourteen. You should also be able to find five beats to each line, so I suppose you could say that there’s a fair bit of maths in these poems.’
Prindabel immediately snaffled up his pen and began ticking, counting, underlining and marking off sections of verse. As he did so, he chewed on his bottom lip and nodded deliberately. Finally a crooked smile cut across his face. For the first time in his life, poetry seemed to be speaking to Ignatius Prindabel.
‘OK, boys, let’s start off with Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18 – “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” Now listen carefully as I read it through, and then go over it yourselves a few times before we discuss it.’
We listened again to Miss Tarango’s warm and silky voice before turning reluctantly to the tangle of cold, dark words on the page. After a while Miss said, ‘Right, now. Let’s have a look at the first quatrain and see what we can make of it:
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.
Any takers?’
James Scobie stretched his mouth to the left and to the right, then raised his hand. Miss Tarango waited to see if there would be other volunteers. Suddenly Razza sat bolt upright beside me.
‘Wick-ed!’ he said, grinning madly. ‘I get it, Miss. I get it. Man, I can dig this Shakespeare dude!’
‘Well, that’s wonderful, Orazio,’ Miss said, raising her eyebrows. ‘Let’s hear it then.’
‘Well, he’s obviously writing about some chick, see … and he’s saying how she’s like a summer’s day only better. Well … summer’s hot, right? So I reckon old Shakey’s trying to win on to some chick by telling her how hot she is. So like, they’re probably at a party or something and I think there’s a big storm or whatever – that’s the bit about the rough winds shaking the buds – and anyway, the chick’s had enough and wants to go home early but Shakey’s hanging out for some more action, right-see that’s when he whinges about it being all too short a date, ’cause he wants her to stick around a bit longer so he can maybe score another date with her. Yeah, so that’s basically it – it’s just all about trying to win on to some hot chick. Am I right or am I right, Miss?’
Miss Tarango seemed to have gone a little pale. ‘Orazio,’ she said, shaking her head, ‘you never cease to amaze me. We might have to look just a little more closely at some of those ideas, but you are certainly on the right track when you say that Shakespeare is expressing his love and admiration towards the subject of the poem. Love sonnets were an extremely popular form back then.’
‘Yeah, but chicks in Shakespeare’s day didn’t really go for this schmaltzy stuff did they, Miss?’
‘Well, if you are asking me, Orazio, if I think young women in Shakespeare’s time would have appreciated being complimented and praised with such grace, beauty and eloquence – then I’d have to say I’m sure they did; as I’m equally certain would many young women today.’
Razza’s eyes expanded alarmingly. ‘Really, Miss? You mean you reckon chi … young women today would be stoked if guys wrote them poetry?’
‘Well, I can’t speak for all the sisters, Orazio, but I’d be surprised if there were very many young women today who didn’t think that receiving a poem as a form of admiration wouldn’t beat the hell out of being whistled, shouted, ogled or grunted at.’
The colour certainly seemed to have come back to Miss Tarango’s cheeks. She glanced quickly around the room. ‘Well … anyway … We seem to have digressed a little. Let’s get back to Sonnet 18, shall we?’
I don’t really remember that much about the rest of the lesson, I’m afraid. I do, however, recall Razza turning to me with some kind of madness danci
ng in his eyes and whispering, ‘Chicks are hot for poetry … Awesome!’
When the bell finally sounded and the class began to pour from the room, Razza grabbed my arm. ‘We’re in, dude! We are so sweet!’
‘Razz, what are you talking about now?’
‘Weren’t you paying attention? Didn’t you hear what Miss T said? Chicks dig poetry-so that’s it!’
‘That’s what?’
Razza pulled at his hair. ‘You know, sometimes I wonder why I bother. That’s the plan, dude. That’s how you and Kelly Faulkner are going to get together. You write her a love poem, dude, just like the Shaky man!’
The bottom fell away beneath my feet and the beach became a distant memory. I tried not to struggle too much. I just wanted to keep my head above water.
‘Razz, you know … I’m thinking … maybe that’s not such a great idea.’
‘What do you mean? It rocks. Miss is right. Chicks go for that sloppy stuff.’
‘Yeah … but I just can’t … You know … send Kelly Faulkner a poem out of the blue.’
‘Sure you can. Why not? Look, you weren’t there, but the other night, when I was rapping with our mate Brad and crapping on to him about school and having to do Shakespeare, he reckoned he was glad it was me and not him, but Kelly said she loved that kind of stuff. Don’tcha see? This is it. This is your competitive edge. It’s like you’re one of the X-men and your special mutant power is poetry. This is how you beat your evil nemesis Brad the Bad.’
‘Razz, how can poetry be my “special mutant power” when I’ve never even written a poem before?’
‘A mere technicality,’ Razz said, waving me away with his hand. ‘The thing is, you can write – remember how Miss went ga-ga over that journal thing you put together last year? And poetry’s easy as. Just chuck in a few thees and thous, a couple of rhymes, a few beating hearts and some “my love is this, my love is that” bull and Kelly Faulkner will be salivating all over you like you were a double quarter pounder with the works.’
‘I doubt if it’s that simple.’
‘Course it is. Man, between the three of us, it’ll be sweet!’
‘Three of us? What three of us?’
‘Me and you and Shaky Bill. Awesome! Dude, it’s the Dream Team. How can we fail?’
At that, Razza leapt up and stuffed his books into his desk. ‘Gotta bolt – soccer meeting.’ He disappeared out the door and left me alone in a sea of empty desks.
How could we fail? I asked myself, sensing dark shapes circling around me.
Let me count the ways.
Track 3:
Each and every line
I’m not much at talking
But I’ll tell you what I’ll do
I’ll lock myself away till I
Can find the words for you
Chorus
Stay still so I can catch you
Stay close I’ll make you mine
Say yes and I will weave you
Into each and every line.
From The Dugongs: Returned & Remastered
Music & lyrics: R. Leseur
12.
THE INAUGURAL ST DANIEL’S COLLEGE CRAP–A–THON
For the next few days Razz hassled me non-stop about the poem, wanting to know if I’d started on it, how it was coming along and when it’d be finished. I tried to fob him off by saying vague things like, ‘not too bad’, ‘it’s getting there’, ‘pretty soon’, and ‘I’m working on it’. But as far as I was concerned, my special mutant superpower was never going to see the light of day.
Things were looking good, too. By the end of the first term the human rip appeared to have run out of steam. The interrogations about the poem had dwindled to nothing, and as the holidays arrived I imagined myself catching a wave all the way back to the safety of the beach.
Pity about those dumpers, though.
Everything started to go pear-shaped soon after the break, when Scobie called a surprise debating meeting. The season didn’t officially start until second semester, but he was eager to get things rolling early. I guess he wanted to improve on last year’s effort, when thanks mainly to his brilliance and a lucky topic about sci-fi, which just happened to be Bill’s special subject, we made it all the way to the second round of the finals.
As for my part in our success … Well, thankfully I’ve managed to suppress most of those memories, so if you’re curious you will have to borrow last year’s journal. Be warned though, it contains graphic descriptions of Ishmael Leseur’s Syndrome that might offend some readers.
On the day of the meeting, Bill Kingsley, Ignatius Prindabel, James Scobie and I sat around a small cluster of desks that we’d pushed together in Homeroom. Scobie threw another look at the clock on the wall and then at me. ‘He knew the meeting was for lunchtime, didn’t he?’
‘Yeah. He was all revved up about it; reckoned he had something “wicked” to show us.’
Scobie’s face performed a few of the usual contortions. It seemed to do that a lot when the conversation involved Razza.
Just then the man himself bounded into the room. ‘Scobes, maaate, sorry about that. Man, old Hackworth’s really got it in for me. Kept me back after the bell. Went ballistic ’cause he reckons I wasn’t paying attention in class when he was raving on about … well … whatever it was he was raving on about. Man, I’m being victimised.’
‘Well, you’re here now, Orazio, so let’s get started.’
‘No, wait up, Scobes. I got something to show you all. Dudes,’ Razz said, holding up his hands like a ringmaster, ‘prepare to be blown away.’ With that, he pulled out a sheet of paper from his pocket and began to unfold it.
‘What’s this?’
‘This, Ishmael, is your passport to paradise. Man, I got sick of waiting for you, didn’t I, so I did it myself. Yeah, that’s right – I wrote a wicked love poem for you to send to Kelly Faulkner.’
Bill, Prindabel and Scobie turned to me with an impressive display of synchronised eyebrow raising.
‘Hey, don’t look at me. This isn’t my idea. I know nothing about this, OK? Razz, maybe we can do this later – in private. We haven’t got time now – Scobie wants to get the meeting started and Bill and Ignatius don’t want to listen to some stupid love poem.’
‘I wouldn’t mind,’ Bill said.
‘It could be very educational,’ Ignatius added.
That just left Scobie.
‘Never let it be said that I’m not a supporter of the arts.’
‘Cool!’ Razza said. ‘Well, pin your ears back and get a load of this. It’s called “Hot or what!”.’
‘Can’t you decide on a title?’ Prindabel asked.
‘Huh?’
‘Can’t you decide if you want to call it “Hot” or “What”?’
‘It’s not “Hot” or “What”, Prindabel. It’s “Hot or what!’“
‘Hot or what, what?’
‘What?’
‘What?’
‘Maybe you should just start, Orazio,’ Scobie suggested.
‘Yeah, right. OK. Here we go. “Hot or what!” ‘ Razz said cautiously, with a glare at Prindabel.
‘Like a microwave on high-you’re hot!
Some chicks think they are – they’re not!
They haven’t got the bod you’ve got.
Man! Are you a total babe or what?
Your bod is hot but you are cool
You’re deeper than a swimming pool
Man, you’re the hottest chick in school
You fully rock and fully rule!
You’re a smokin’ babe – a “sweet as” chick
You’re hot to trot and fully sick
I’d give Kirsten Dunst the flick
Of all the chicks you’d be my pick!
You fry my brain, you turn me on
You light my fuse, ’cause YOU DA BOMB!’
When Razz finished, he slammed the poem proudly on the desk and folded his arms, ready to bask in the warmth of our praise. What he
got was a chilly silence.
Scobie just stared at the paper on the desk with his mouth frozen mid-twist. Bill seemed to be in the process of undergoing an alien mind probe that as yet had failed to find anything of significance. I was trying to think of something to say, but somehow Razza’s poem seemed to have sucked up my brain cells.
That left Prindabel. Throughout the reading he had sat glowering at Razza like a hawk. Now he looked from Bill to Scobie and from Scobie to me, pushed back his hair on his high forehead and frowned. Since it was obvious that no one else was going to speak, Ignatius Prindabel decided to give us his considered opinion.
‘Well, that’s just crap.’
Razza’s eyes widened and his jaw flopped open as if it had dislocated. ‘What?’
‘That poem – it’s just crap.’
‘Wh-what are you talking about, Prindabel?’ Razza said, looking around for support. ‘It rocks-it’s a wicked sonnet, man, just like the ones Shakespeare wrote – it’s got fourteen lines and everything.’
‘Yes it has,’ Ignatius agreed. ‘Fourteen lines of crap.’
‘What would you know about poetry, anyway? It’s got all the stuff Miss talked about – it’s got your rhyme, your quatrains, your repetition, your imagery … man, it’s even got similarities and a rhyming cufflink.’
‘Well, Orazio, I admit that I may not be an expert on poetry, but I know crap when I hear it. Oh, by the way, I think you might mean “similes”, not “similarities” … and about your rhyming couplet, explain this to me: if she’s the bomb like you say in the poem, then shouldn’t you be lighting her fuse rather than the other way around, or was that just an example of your mixed metaphor?’
Razza threw up his hands in disgust. ‘Man, have you been tongue-kissing the USB ports on your computer again, Prindabel? Haven’t you ever heard of “poetic licence”?’
‘What’s that? A licence to kill poetry?’
Ishmael and the Return of the Dungongs Page 5
