CHAPTER 3
Ready for anything… except snot.
Alana cut through the back-streets of Marrickville to avoid as much traffic as possible. The morning rush hour was in full swing. The double-storey Victorian semi’s of Alana’s neighbourhood gave way to the terrace houses of Erskineville, and eventually the modern apartments characterising the new look of Redfern; a suburb famous for its history of poverty and violence. During the day, shops displayed their wares, but dusk brought with it shutters and padlocks. As Alana passed the shopping district, the street was a patchwork of grey metal and black bars.
Alana’s friend, Maddie, lived near an area known as The Block. She coasted down Eveleigh Street, carefully steering clear of stray dogs. Children playing in the street looked at her with curiosity. White girls on bikes didn’t visit this part of town often; Eurasian ones even less so. It was known as a Tough Area, an area driven by a cycle of poverty that kept people down. When Maddie was born, and her mum held her, no more than a babe herself – she’d struggled for a name that would carry her daughter as far from The Block as possible. Far away from its sense of fear and hopelessness. There was power in names, power in words. Madison Square Gardens, New York was what she came up with. The name ‘Madison’ also meant ‘mighty warrior’, according to an elderly German shopkeeper.
“Yep,” Maddie’s mum had warned the tiny bundle philosophically. “You got yourself a fight now, girl.”
Alana braked in front of a Victorian house of dark red brick. It was one of a dozen identical buildings in various states of disrepair. Refurbishment hadn’t reached this far yet. Some had broken windows. Others had no windows at all. Boards and bricks covered the gaps. Alana parked her bike before knocking. Slivers of peeling paint cascaded to the ground.
An Aboriginal woman in her late-twenties opened the door. She was an older, plumper version of Maddie, with the same dark curly hair, open smile, and eyes the colour of shallow, coral-reef water. Alana was enveloped in a hug that she returned with equal warmth.
“Oooh, you got big,” the woman said, looking Alana up and down.
“So did you,” Alana replied with a cheeky grin. The woman laughed out loud and slapped Alana’s back as she yelled over her shoulder.
“Ma-ddie! Alana’s here!”
The announcement provoked a thunder of footsteps. Two children clustered by Alana’s legs, clamouring for attention. Alana gave them both a cuddle.
“Green snot,” said Cassy, who was two and a half, holding up a finger full of evidence.
“Is not, it’s yellow,” said her brother, Troy, a year older.
“Green.”
“Yellow.”
“Green.”
The argument had Maddie’s mum shouting about keeping snotty noses away from nice young girls, as she dragged the children away. No sooner had she got rid of one, however, than the other would return, and the process would start again. This prompted her to yell for Maddie in even greater earnest.
“I’m coming, I’m coming – ” a girl’s voice rang out.
Maddie bounced into the room and tackled Alana from behind in a wrestling move that had them both giggling.
“You ready, then?” Maddie asked her friend with a meaningful look. It was hard to say exactly what she was referring to. Ready for what? School? New friends? Life? In the mood Alana was in, she felt ready for anything … except maybe algebra.
“Bring it on!” Alana said with a serious look, sparking another fit of laughter from the pair.
“That’s what I like to hear. Now you take off before these two notice,” Maddie’s mum said, jerking her head at the younger children eating breakfast. “And don’t forget this,” she said, passing her daughter a black violin case.
“Thanks, Mum. See you later.”
“Yeah, see you later, Mrs D.”
The bang of the door alerted Maddie’s younger brother and sister of their departure. Their scream of disappointment could be heard through the door.
CHAPTER 4
Sit. Roll over. Play dead.
Alana and Maddie made their way towards Redfern Railway Station on foot. Alana steered her bike with one hand. Maddie slung her bag on her shoulder and carried her violin on her back. The girls enjoyed a companionable silence. It was one of the things Alana liked about Maddie the most. Maddie didn’t need to fill spaces with idle chatter. She understood that silence has its own special place.
The façade of Redfern Railway Station was the same dark red brick of Maddie’s home. In the early morning sunlight, it revealed paler shades of apricot and orange under the billboard posters and graffiti tags that covered the surface.
A towering man stood outside the entrance. His shock of white hair showed up in sharp contrast to the earthy tones of the wall behind him. His wrinkled skin was the colour of mahogany, eyes yellow with age. His hair was so bushy and wiry that it looked like a bird’s nest. He leaned heavily on a crooked shopping trolley. It was as if all his worldly belongings were in that one metal cart. Flattened cardboard boxes were filed neatly on one side, to serve as bed and blanket in the evening. Maddie greeted him like an old friend.
“Hello, Uncle!”
Alana knew instinctively the man was not Maddie’s real uncle. Just like James, Katriona and Ling Ling weren’t her real relatives. Like her friend, Alana had been taught to address elders with respect. As a consequence, she had more ‘aunties’ and ‘uncles’ than was physically possible. The man responded with great animation, but made little sense.
“Thumbs and toes is all, I says. Seems plain to me, or any ordinary soldier.”
“Too right, Uncle. Not too much to ask at all.”
“Damned if I know what for,” the man continued, and then shouted enough expletives to floor a truck driver. His shower of spittle darkened the sidewalk a slate grey. Several commuters gave him an even wider berth than his bulky form and belongings already commanded.
Maddie nodded in sympathy, then gave his arm a squeeze before turning to go. The man’s eyes took on a sudden lucidity. He smiled, showing big gaps between his teeth. It was a mouth that suggested a game of quoits.
“Bless you!” he said to Maddie, before launching a second tirade involving “prissy politicians” and “extra forks.”
The girls made their way to the train on their platform. Sofia was already on, having come from Central Station. Her delicate hand waved them down to where they should get on. The carriage was already quite full. By the time Alana wheeled her bike in, there was little room left. Sofia moved her bag so Maddie and Alana could sit next to her.
Sofia was born with the kind of eyelashes Ling Ling would have killed for. Her dark eyes sparkled as she twisted strands of her waist-length hair, which was dyed varying shades of purple, around one long, slender finger. “Piano fingers,” Sofia’s father had predicted proudly, inspecting the long, spidery digits of his newborn daughter. “Drums?!” he’d cried, appalled, when Sofia chose her instrument years later. Because she was very superstitious, Sofia wore enough charms to knock out a vampire by sheer weight alone. Today an amulet of Ganesh – the Hindu god of happiness – as well as a Wu Lou pendant, for good health, hung around her neck. Her favourite charm was a magic eight-ball, which she consulted for even the simplest decision. The bright blue of her mood ring indicated she was feeling happy and sociable. It must be said, however, that Alana never saw it change colour.
Even before the train lurched into its journey, the girls launched into an animated conversation, three multi-coloured heads clumped together when the rattle and hum of the train got too loud. The seats were double-facing, bringing them face-to-face with a couple of hefty teens in Nike t-shirts and the latest high-top sneakers. The girls had a whole summer to catch up on, so it was easy to ignore the boys’ stares and whispers, until one of them leaned forward. His pimply face inches from theirs.
“Betcha she stole it.”
It was obvious the youth was talking about Maddie and her violin. The look on his fac
e dared her to contradict him. Her response shot out like gunfire.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He sat back looking Maddie up and down, aware that the colour had risen in Maddie’s cheeks, and that her friends were bristling with anger.
“People like you don’t normally own things like … violins, do they?” His friend snickered. They both thought the idea very funny.
If any adults noticed the exchange, they did not show it. People often ignore injustices for the sake of Not Getting Involved; too afraid of Making Matters Worse. Not realising matters are made far worse because of it.
Before Maddie or her friends could respond, a girl in the same school uniform as theirs pushed herself into view. She was a bit on the chubby side, and her black hair was woven neatly into a long, thick plait. A similar-looking case was slung over one shoulder, but hers had a Muslims Rock! sticker on it. With flashing eyes she pointed her own case at the boys, as if taking aim.
“Who said they were violins?”
For a brief moment, the boys exchanged that look of panic all bullies wear when someone calls their bluff. They watched movies – they had seen bad guys pull a machine gun out from where a guitar should have been. They could easily imagine a weapon lurking in the smaller cases – especially when the girl wielded hers as if armed. Maddie joined in the pretence, jerking the tip of her violin case upwards.
“Bang!” she mouthed.
To their credit, Alana and Sofia kept a straight face while the boys scrambled over each other to escape, not even bothering to retrieve a shoe when one fell off.
“See? Mine’s a flute!” the fourth girl called out to the boys’ fast-retreating backs.
It wasn’t until the train was at Newtown Station that the four students could stop laughing long enough to introduce themselves.
“Assalamualaikum. I’m Alana. And these are my friends, Maddie and Sofia.”
The girl looked taken aback as she shook Alana’s hand.
“Mualaikum salam, Alana. I’m Khalilah. Nice to meet you Maddie, Sofia,” but her curious gaze never left Alana for long, still surprised by the Muslim greeting of peace. Alana smiled and offered an explanation.
“I travelled around Malaysia for a year when I was little. I don’t remember much. Just the food.”
“Did you like the food?”
“Definitely!”
“Then you should come to my place one day. My dad cooks a mean rendang curry.”
“Fantastique!” said Alana, who was learning a new French word every day, for when she visited France to discover her ‘roots’… and other things related to her father.
There are some situations which bind people together forever. The death of a loved one. The birth of a child. A shared triumph. This was one of those times. The four girls smiled at each other, happy to have made friends even before they’d arrived at school.
CHAPTER 5
School loses its charm.
Gibson High lay nestled between Newtown’s converted warehouses and the Police Boys’ Club, a popular base for youth programs aimed at troubled teens. The school building itself used to be an old factory. Its design was made even more unusual by the inclusion of many original fixtures and features. The school’s philosophy – that it should be a school for the community, by the community – began with the first brick that was laid. Builders and labourers ‘between jobs’ worked alongside apprentices who needed experience, while interior furnishings and decorations were sourced locally from artists and community groups.
The school’s alternative approach to education meant students had a chance to work part-time at the school cafeteria and bakery, selling products like muffins and bread rolls to the public. In addition to regular teachers, visiting artists, designers and musicians ran workshops and gave demonstrations. Students themselves went on exchange to other countries. Gibson High didn’t feel like a typical school, and it was for this reason Alana had chosen it. The school’s board prided itself on its unconventional approach, but their desire to be at the forefront of change also led to some questionable decision-making. The school’s librarian, for example, distrusted the Dewey System of classification, used in libraries the world over. She knew where every book was, however, and had an almost supernatural ability to detect when a book was out of place. In this way, Mrs Heller made herself indispensable to the school … since she was the only one who knew where anything was. She was also very good at saying, ‘Shhhh!’
Alana and her friends were welcomed by the school’s Deputy Principal, Mr Turner – the Head Principal being strangely unavailable for the first day of term. “Gibson High’s school motto,” the moustached man intoned, “is ‘A posse ad esse’, which, for the Latin scholars among you, means, ‘From possibility to actuality’. This is what we at the school wish for you all. May the gamut of experiences you have over the next six years with us exploit your potential to the full.” Mr Turner beamed – a rotund, Santa-like figure with rosy cheeks and a twinkle in his eye. Even the scattering of dandruff on his shoulders lent an illusion of snow. “So, Year Seven,” he commanded, “explore, experiment and enjoy!”
Maddie, Sofia, Alana and Khalilah exchanged delighted glances. “Exciting!” Sofia chirped.
Alana’s first class for the day was Physical Education. Students used the gym, basketball court and boxing ring of the Police Boys’ Club next door. An evaluation exercise would assess their fitness levels and sport aptitude. Alana, Sofia, Maddie and Khalilah followed the other girls to change into their P.E. kit.
“I’m looking forward to kickboxing,” said Maddie. “My cousins say it’s a lot of fun.”
“I hope we get to play soccer,” said Alana.
“Me too,” agreed Khalilah, a big soccer fan. “Will we get to play soccer?” Sofia asked, consulting her magic eight-ball. “Hmm, it says Probably.”
“How about kickboxing?” asked Maddie, peering over Sofia’s shoulder while others looked on.
The magic eight-ball was adamant.
Absolutely not.
The small knot of students laughed.
Suddenly, a voice rang out, causing them to scatter, “Right, girls, you were supposed to be out of here three minutes ago. What’s taking you so long?”
What the girls saw was a boy no taller than themselves. A sports cap shadowed a face of delicate features. Although he had a whistle and stopwatch around his neck, he looked far too young to be their teacher. Whoever he was, he was not happy to be kept waiting. Sofia, herself angry to be interrupted in a state of undress, exclaimed, “What the hell, bird-brain! You shouldn’t even be in here,” as she struggled to cover up. Sofia felt her privacy was always being invaded: her brothers at home often opened doors without knocking, and laughed at her attempts at modesty.
“We’ve seen you in your undies before,” they scoffed, or “As if we’d want to look anyway.”
The boy removed his sunglasses, taking in Sofia’s purple hair, good luck charms and Hello Kitty boypants. It was obvious he was less than impressed with what he saw. He looked around at the group.
“Thanks to your friend, here,” he announced with a nod in Sofia’s direction, “you have sixty seconds to get out for a warm-up lap around the gym. For every minute you’re late, the number of laps doubles. I’m assuming you know how to count. Oh, and make sure all your jewellry is left in the changing room,” he said with a sharp glance at Sofia. “You’re not here to impress the boys.”
That was their P.E. teacher?!
This was not fantastique, said Alana silently to herself. Not fantastique at all.
Everybody scrambled to finish dressing. Feet got tangled in neck holes, and t-shirts remained stubbornly inside out. The girls whooshed out of the changing room in a state of confusion. Nobody wanted to do extra laps if they could help it. Several of them shot Sofia a dark look before they left. Sofia looked for a locker, but there was nothing but benches and pigeon holes. She hid her charm bracelet, necklaces and mood ring in her uniform, b
ut not before asking her magic eight-ball a final question:
“Am I going to hate P.E.?”
Highly likely, it said before she rushed out to join the others.
Ten minutes later, the teacher addressed the students, most of who were puffing and wheezing from the extra laps. “Welcome to Gibson High School and the Police Boys’ Club. My name is Ms Kusmuk.” The Ms buzzed like a swarm of angry bees. “You can call me Coach.”
The students shifted uncomfortably. Sofia was not the only one to assume their teacher was a male and a student, but she had a sneaky feeling she was the only one in the history of Gibson High to ever call the coach a bird-brain.
“Ms Coach Kusmuk, will we get to play soccer?” asked a boy Alana didn’t know. His voice broke midway, starting out high, and then cracking into wobbly, deeper tone at the end, like a slippery dip. Some students gave a nervous giggle.
“Yes, at some point you will be. And it’s ‘Coach’ or ‘Ms Kusmuk’, not both,” she said, correcting him.
The boy’s face, already flaming from his sing-song voice, turned an even brighter red.
“How about kickboxing?” came another question, this time from the back of the group.
“Definitely not. That’s strictly for the Police Boys’ Club and their teenage delinquents. Sorry,” she smirked, not looking at all contrite, “the politically-correct term is, ‘Second-Chancers’, I believe. Although, who knows,” she said, her gaze finding Sofia’s, “you could find yourselves part of their program.”
When the coach finally shifted her gaze elsewhere, Sofia said to Alana in an undertone others could still hear, “See, I told you. The magic eight-ball never lies.”
The next hour was harsh. They discovered muscles they didn’t know they had, and learned to dread the sound of the whistle. Peep peep it would shrill as Coach Kusmuk bawled at them from the sidelines of the obstacle course. With a Hup, hup, hup and a Come on, you can lift your legs high-er, she pushed them harder than a drill sergeant. One girl even rushed to the change rooms to be sick.
Alana Oakley Page 2
