‘I have of course made back-ups,’ Malcolm warned. ‘So don’t try anything stupid.’
Mr Ramsay stopped, hesitated and then retreated to his desk.
‘All right Malcolm, what do you want?’
‘No so much. Just let me enter the Science Fair. And maybe you could let me have an interview too.’
‘You realise blackmail is a serious crime?’ Mr Ramsay tried.
‘So how long have you been shagging your secretary then?’ Malcolm replied.
‘Malcolm, I’m warning you, you can only push me so far.’
‘All right then. I suppose an interview would be a bit much. You’re actually a bit disappointing on film anyway. But just so there’s absolutely no misunderstanding, I have here the official entry form, so if you could just sign it here, where it says Principal…’
He placed the piece of paper on the desk and watched as the principal laboured his name, as if every letter was written in his own blood.
‘Thank you ever so much. I will of course do you proud.’
The Cutting Room
Malcolm felt sure Juliet would be proud too, but her reaction was disappointing. She wasn’t convinced it was a good idea to drop the television angle and put all their energy back into the Science Fair. Malcolm pointed out to her that the first prize was worth $1000 and he’d be happy to let her have it, because all he wanted was the ego-feed of victory, but she brightened only slightly at the offer. Malcolm understood her unease. So much would still be left to chance. There was always the risk of the unknown competitor, or the unbalanced judge.
But Malcolm was confident nevertheless. He knew things Juliet couldn’t know, and felt things Juliet couldn’t possibly feel. He had caught one of life’s great waves, he could feel the surge of it beneath him, and he wasn’t going to get off until he felt the grind of sand beneath his board. So many things were coming together, and the excitement of it was making sleep difficult.
Things like the unexpected victory over Mr Ramsay, which had been handed to him. And the film itself, now that he was deep into the editing stage. It was better than he’d dared hope. The clarity, the composition, the content and the continuity, combined to form a record of endeavour he would always be proud of. Finally, and if he was honest with himself, most importantly, there was Charlotte.
It was awkward of course, ringing her after his hurried departure from the caravan, but ring her he did, because he knew he might never catch another wave like this again. He rang, she answered. He apologised, she listened quietly. Then he listened while she apologised back, although he couldn’t quite work out what for. Then he asked her to help with the editing of the film, because it was easier than asking her to go back to the caravan, and she said yes. She asked how long it would take and he told her quite a while, because it seemed silly not to make the most of the opportunity. Every evening this week, he told her, just the two of them, in the dark confines of the converted library storeroom which the school prospectus called its Editing Suite.
And she didn’t seem to mind at all. She didn’t mention the caravan, and how she’d said she loved him, and Malcolm didn’t explain how he was beginning to think he might love her too, because a wave is still only a wave, and there’s nothing worse than getting too fancy and falling off halfway through the ride.
They spent the next four evenings together, pressed close about the mac’s wide screen, and those four evenings were undoubtedly the happiest times of Malcolm’s short life. The smell of her deodorant, the sound of her voice, softening with familiarity, the curve of her finger on the mouse, these things swamped his imagination. And the thought of the coming day of triumph, standing there on the Civic Centre stage, accepting first prize, with Charlotte looking on, well that was almost more than his poor body could take.
From the first night it was clear there was more to Charlotte than Malcolm could ever have hoped for. Her mind was sharp, her concentration unbreakable and she possessed a knowledge of the film-making process which bordered upon the unnatural. Each evening Malcolm looked for a moment where he could divert the focus from cut and paste to matters hormonal, but each evening he found excuses not to. So the emotion was transferred to the screen, the shaping of their little baby, and some nights the unspoken passion was so palpable the painted walls of the makeshift studio turned red with embarrassment.
Malcolm took to walking the long way home each night, trying to find relief in the cool evening air, but he would still arrive back in his bedroom with a headful of unseasonable heat. Sleep was impossible. It was in those small disturbed hours that he made himself a promise. After the competition, he said to himself, once the prize is mine, then I will tell her how I feel.
According to competition rules Malcolm was allowed to invite five people to the official dinner and prize-giving ceremony. He asked Charlotte, of course, his parents, Juliet, and lastly, Kevin, who seemed in need of cheering up these days. It turned out that Juliet had already received an invitation in the mail, something to do with her father probably; so Malcolm invited Mr Ramsay. Predictably, the good principal declined the opportunity to view first hand the work of a fellow pervert.
Although the prizes would not be announced until after dinner, the reception opened at 4 p.m., giving the guests a chance to wander through the exhibits of the fifty national Finalists. As a place-getter last year, Malcolm had his entry accepted straight into the Finals, so it would also be the film’s first screening. Malcolm spent all morning getting ready: washing, combing, shaving and practising his acceptance speech. He even filmed it, so he could view and refine his performance. He wore a tuxedo his mother had rented especially for the big occasion. It was a bit over-the-top, but if you couldn’t get down and geeky at a National Science Fair Final, well there was something quite wrong with the world.
Judgment Day
There was something quite wrong with the world, Juliet decided, when the quality of her future could be decided here, in a competition she hadn’t even entered. She was sick with worry, and lack of food, and too little sleep. She wandered through the exhibits, trying to see the displays as the judges would see them, looking for the spark of imagination, the taper of talent, that could incinerate Malcolm’s greatest day.
On first appearances there didn’t seem to be much to worry about. Natural disasters were popular again this year: two earthquakes studies, three on floods, and another on the Forces of Nature in general. There was the usual worthy attempt to convert waste products into fuel and a psychological experiment involving lights which she didn’t quite understand.
Juliet was also captured for a moment by exhibit number seventeen, which consisted of nothing more than a wall-mounted camera that had somehow been programmed to focus on onlookers such as herself and then project their distorted images onto a blank screen. A superimposed WE’RE WATCHING YOU pulsed over the top. It was all a little creepy, under the circumstances, but without any sort of explanatory legend it was difficult to see how it had made the Finals.
The sight of a growing crowd around Malcolm’s exhibit lifted Juliet’s spirits. Maybe he was right. Maybe his product was simply too good not to win. She looked around but she couldn’t see him anywhere so she hung there with the other viewers and watched the thirty-minute presentation right through. She’d seen most of it before, but not in its finished state. Going by the reactions of those around her it was making its mark. They chuckled at Malcolm’s commentaries, gasped at Kevin’s flesh, laughed out loud at Brian and turned away in embarrassment at some of the more explicit scenes.
Juliet was surprised to see almost all of her interview included, and felt awkward standing there as it aired. One old dear, thick make-up plastered over the cracks, leaned towards her and whispered, ‘good on you’ which made Juliet smile. By the time Malcolm arrived, Charlotte on his arm, Juliet was feeling almost optimistic.
‘You two, come here.’ They looked good together, happy in a way that is hard to fake. Juliet hugged them both. ‘It looks wonde
rful, and everybody loves it. You must feel good.’
‘I’ll feel better when I’ve got that prize,’ Malcolm replied. ‘Have you had a look around yet?’
‘Briefly.’
‘Quite a low standard this year don’t you think?’ But he didn’t sound confident.
‘You’ll be fine,’ Juliet assured him. ‘Have you two planned your celebrations yet?’
‘Um, not really.’ Juliet noticed Malcolm’s ears turn red.
‘Something appropriate I hope,’ she teased. Charlotte and Malcolm looked at one another but neither spoke. Kevin arrived just in time.
‘Kevin, how’s it going?’
‘I’ve heard seven different people refer to me as “The Naked Guy” already,’ he told them, looking none too happy with the score.
‘Tell me about it,’ Charlotte said. ‘A guy invited me to look at his yacht.’
‘There’s one guy who keeps following me around,’ Kevin told them. ‘See, over there.’
He pointed to a boy about their age, with long, red tousled hair and the beginnings of a beard. The hairy one turned away as soon as they looked.
‘Hey, he’s that guy from the restaurant. Our waiter,’ Juliet told him. ‘He will have just recognised you from that. Oh no, he’s looking again. Yes, there’s definitely something going on there. Might be your lucky night.’
‘What? Malcolm, you promised you wouldn’t tell!’
‘Tell what?’ Juliet faked, but her grin gave her away.
‘I’d already told her, before I promised,’ Malcolm explained.
‘And I haven’t told a soul. Hey, it’s almost creepy. Look at him. We could call security.’ He was staring quite openly this time. ‘Or we could go over and reintroduce ourselves.’
‘No,’ Kevin assured them. ‘I’m a one man guy. It’s just the way I am.’
Before Juliet could take it further Malcolm’s parents hurried over, looking even more excited than usual.
‘Hello Juliet dear,’ Malcolm’s mother said. ‘Isn’t this all just wonderful? Have people been recognising you from the film?’
‘A few.’
‘They’ve recognised me,’ Kevin told her.
‘Well I hope you’re making the very most of it then.’
‘I’m spoken for.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t let that worry you,’ she answered, producing a much scribbled upon page from a notebook. ‘Look at this. I’ve already collected eleven phone numbers.’
‘And how do you feel about this, Frank?’ Juliet asked Malcolm’s father.
‘Oh you know,’ he smiled.
And Charlotte, who hadn’t met Malcolm’s parents before, blushed.
‘Um, I think it’s time to eat,’ Kevin said. Juliet looked over to where people had begun circling the long tables, looking for their place names.
The dinner was a mistake on a number of fronts. To begin with the exhibit hall was the wrong place for food, with the sounds of their eating echoing in the high rafters and the many smells of scientific endeavour filling the air. Then there was the food itself, chosen as it was by the Royal Society of Scientists’ organising committee. Careful, balanced, tasteless fare. All around her Juliet watched people chewing with joyless purpose.
The biggest problem though was the timing of the thing. Nobody present was particularly interested in eating right then. They just wanted to hear who had won what. They wanted to witness the glory being apportioned, and the money. In Juliet’s case, there was definitely the money.
So the meal slowed time to a painful crawl, but in deference to the principles of Science, it could not stop completely. Eventually the moment arrived. The convener of the judging panel, an expert on molluscs, walked to the stage, followed by the city’s mayor, who would be called upon to shake the winners’ hands. The judge stood before the microphone, cleared her throat and, sensing a captive audience, proceeded to speak for a full ten minutes, with much conviction but little fluency, on the joys of Science.
The longer she spoke the more nervous Malcolm became. Charlotte watched him twitching with the pressure and loved him all the more. Juliet worked one more time through the exact words she would use to confess her academic deception to her father. And Kevin tried to avoid the gaze of his hirsute admirer, who was by some twist of fate sitting exactly opposite him.
‘And now it is my happy privilege to announce the winners of this year’s National Science Fair.’
Malcolm stiffened, then shook with tiny spasms of anticipation and fear.
‘Sit still dear,’ his mother whispered. ‘It makes you look simple.’
‘…and in third place, from Wanganui, Melissa Stocking and her entry Moons, tides and the Maori fishing calendar.’ Culturally safe applause rippled through the room while Melissa stood, trying to clear her face of the harsh truth. Third place wasn’t even first among losers. She stepped forward and received her handshake, certificate and cheque for $100.
‘Marvellous, Melissa,’ the convener oozed. ‘You’ve taught us all a great deal about a fascinating subject. And speaking of fascinating subjects, this year’s second placed entry certainly captured your attention, if the crowds around the exhibit this afternoon were anything to go by. Second place, for the second year in a row, and on the second day of the month I might add…’
She stretched the joke even further but Malcolm didn’t hear it, any more than he heard his name being called, or felt the pats of congratulation and condolence from friends and family. All he could hear was the sound of his world slipping off its foundations. All he could feel was the cold touch of failure, penetrating his bones, settling in for another year. And when he looked up all he could see was the devastation on Juliet’s face.
The walk to the stage was the walk to a place of execution. The mayor shook his hand and estimated his weight. The noose was tightened around his neck as a photographer asked him to smile. He staggered back down to his seat, his eyes glazed over, and he awaited the final insult: the announcement of the undeserving minnow who had forced him into second.
‘And now,’ the shellfish specialist continued, ‘the moment you have all been waiting for. This year’s winner.’
Malcolm could feel the feeble energy of forty-eight undeserving minds focus on the stage.
‘But first the judging panel feels we owe you a small explanation. For, in what is a first for this competition, this year’s winning entry has not been exhibited. The entrant felt the project needed to be revealed rather than displayed and in the circumstances we agreed with him. So, without further ado, I call upon this year’s winner, Simon Cash, to come forward and explain.’
There was an uncertain round of applause and the hairy waiter across from Kevin stood. His smile told a tale every Scientist would understand. He had his audience exactly where he wanted them. Maybe he didn’t have their respect, or indeed their approval, but he had something much much better. He had their curiosity. Even as he despised him, Malcolm had to give him that much. This moment, which Simon Cash had somehow manufactured, was supremely scientific.
Simon walked slowly to the stage, shook the hand, received the prize and then turned to face the audience, his audience. He spoke slowly, the smile still there, his voice thick with satisfaction.
‘I decided,’ he told them, ‘to conduct a sociological experiment. It was not entirely original, some of you will already be familiar with the premise. I began by choosing thirty teenagers from up and down the country. A selection of my peers, if you will. My only criteria for selection was that I had access to their name, age, gender and postal address, and that I did not know them or have any knowledge of their private lives. And, as some of you will be just realising, many of them are currently in this room. Next, I cleared my proposal with the police, set up a post office box and then I sent each of my subjects the following letter…’
He read straight from the paper in front of him but Juliet didn’t need to listen. She knew every word by heart. It was him. Simon was her blackmailer.
‘…Of course, as far as I knew, none of these people had anything to hide, which is what makes my results so staggering. Of the thirty people, twenty-four filled in an intention-to-pay form, and ten went so far as to send cheques straight away, which I am happy to tell you will be returned to you unbanked. So, as you sit there now, amongst your families and friends, the people you think you know so well, consider this: most of them have secrets that you will never know, that they would pay good money to keep from you. Interesting, isn’t it?’
Simon bowed low to the deserved applause. All around the room Juliet could see her fellow victims responding. Some sighed with relief, others boiled with anger, most tried to hide their reactions altogether.
She could see no reason for such reticence. She was free, and if freedom wasn’t worth celebrating, what was? Relief swelled beneath her and carried her to her feet. Without a thought she rushed towards the stage, arms outstretched.
‘You’re beautiful,’ Juliet shouted at the startled prize-winner, ‘and I’m going to kiss you.’
‘Well actually,’ Simon replied, leaning into the microphone to drown out the very unscientific shouts of encouragement, ‘nothing personal, but I’d rather kiss someone else.’
Silence fell as all eyes followed Simon down from the stage, around the officials’ table and halfway along the next row until he reached Kevin. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t even know your name.’
‘Kevin.’
‘I’m Simon. To hell with secrets.’ And he leaned down to plant a long, cool kiss on the confused lips of a bewildered Kevin. Again, sounds of approval filled the room.
‘Sorry,’ Simon apologised when he had finally finished. ‘I got carried away.’
‘That’s okay,’ Kevin replied, standing and kissing him again. The applause grew louder.
‘Oh Malcolm, stop looking so sad. You’re a hero too, you know.’ Juliet bounded down to his side, pulled him from his seat and planted a slobbery kiss on his sulking mouth. She then turned him so he was facing Charlotte. ‘Go on, you know you want to.’
Malcolm and Juliet Page 10
