Goldfish

by Nat Luurtsema

  I don’t remember much more of that night; it’s a blur of steamed-up windows, the rumble of tires, and the farty smell of old burger. I remember being helped out of the car and waking up just long enough to check that Hannah was all right. But my head was starting to throb and my aquarium bruises were aching. It was a relief to crawl into bed.

  chapter 33

  I wake up in a strange position on the edge of my bed. I can tell I haven’t had enough sleep, and there’s a dampness to the air that screams, IT’S TOO EARLY, GO BACK TO SLEEP!

  I turn my head slowly and … ARGH! I’m nose-to-nose with Hannah, her eyes shining in the dim light. I laugh silently and she smiles.

  “Sorry,” she mouths.

  I whisper slowly and carefully, “Are … you … less … crazy?”

  That does make her laugh. She catches herself before she makes a noise. “I feel much less crazy,” she says. “Those boys were cool.”

  “My boyfriend and my ex-boyfriend,” I explain.

  She grins.

  “I am offended,” I tell her, “that you didn’t believe that for a second.”

  Lav croaks from the other side of the room, “If you don’t shut up, I’m taking you both back to the nuthouse.”

  “Sorry, Lav.”

  “Sorry.”

  * * *

  Hours later, I wake up with a start. There’s movement in the house. I can hear people talking in hushed voices and moving around in the kitchen.

  “Want some breakfast?” I ask Hannah, and then wince. Bit tactless.

  “OK” she agrees, “but aren’t your tryouts today?”

  Yes, they are. Oh, that’s why we’re up so early! In fact, are the boys still here? I race downstairs to see what’s happening and bounce into the kitchen.

  Pete and Roman are leaning against the sink, dressed in my father’s clothes. It looks like they’re heading to a My Dad–themed fancy dress party. Gabriel is sitting at the kitchen table, busy on his phone. He must’ve just come over. Mom is loading the dishwasher and Dad is loading up the car. How weird. I had a sleepover with Roman and Pete, apparently.

  If you’d have told me last semester that this would be in my future, I would’ve given you a glass of water and made you lie down.

  Pete catches sight of me and stares, his jaw dropping. Well, I coiff my big hair demurely, and they are nice pajamas. Thanks for noticing, Pete.

  “Why are you not dressed and ready?!” he bellows at me.

  “What sort of a coach are you?” Ro joins in.

  “One who had four hours’ sleep!” I yell back, but I’m already racing up the stairs.

  I’m glad Mom and Dad saw that; after all their worrying about me hanging out with older boys, they can see I’ve just ended up with three bossy employers.

  I jump in the shower and spot Lav’s face wash. Maybe I’ll make a bit of effort today; we might get on TV! There’s a sudden banging on the door. I freeze, midlather.

  “Are you using my face products?” comes Lav’s voice from the hallway. It’s eerie. How does she know? What a useless psychic ability.

  “No-ooo,” I lie.

  She’s not fooled. “Avoid your eyes and pay particular attention to your jawline. I’ve noticed that’s where you get break-outs.” Charming. But I do what she says with careful, unfamiliar gestures.

  Showered, I sprint out of the bathroom and into my bedroom, yelling, “CLOSE YOUR EYES, CLOSE YOUR EYES!” as I whip off my towel, pull on my bathing suit, and go to grab some clothes from my drawer. But the drawer is empty.

  If Mom has washed the few items of clothes I own together, then I’m in my newest nightmare and going to BHT with nothing on.

  Hannah is lying in bed, watching me panic.

  “All my stuff is dirty, but you’re welcome to it.” She points at her bag. Creased clothes are spilling out of it as if the bag’s puking. That is my last resort.

  I run my eyes all over our messy room, vainly trying to find something I own before I have to beg Lav for help. She has been very nice lately, but I doubt she’ll lend me something to wear. The last time she did, everything got covered in blood and mud and was cut off me in the hospital.

  “Come on, Lou!” shouts Dad from downstairs. Well someone’s really getting into the spirit of things—only two weeks ago he was very lukewarm about my swim club.

  “INNA MINUTE!” I yell.

  “You’re not as muscle-y as you used to be,” Han says, watching me.

  “Good thing, bad thing?” I ask, because if now is the time for a heart-to-heart about body image, we have to do it fast.

  “Good thing,” she says, sitting up and pinning back her hair. “You actually look like a gii-iirl.” Eurgh! I make a joke-disgusted face and she makes it back. When we were in swim club, the worst thing to happen to a swimmer’s times were boobs and hips.

  Which reminds me.

  “I got my period,” I tell her.

  “Oooh.” She looks intrigued. “Was it … OK?”

  I pause, thinking about the aquarium, the hospital, and the police. It’s probably a story for another time. I’m sure most periods are less dramatic.

  “Are you coming to BHT?” I ask. “We’ll line up for about a hundred hours, so I can tell you then.”

  “My life.” She rolls her eyes. “I get to choose between lining up in the rain talking about periods or seeing my parents.”

  “Good luck with your parents.”

  She makes a jokey grim face and tells me she’ll come and meet us afterward. Then she grabs a towel, and heads for the bathroom, walking past Lav, who’s standing in the doorway with a pile of clothes in her arms.

  “OK,” Lav begins, looking uncharacteristically nervous, “don’t yell at me. I kept the receipts, but … I-took-your-money-out-of-your-shoe-box-and-bought-you-new-clothes. Are you angry?”

  “No way, I hate shopping! Gimme!”

  “How can anyone hate shopping?” Lav wonders, as if I’m a constant mystery to her.

  I start searching through the clothes. “You haven’t got me anything in pink or a dress?”

  She’s shaking her head scornfully. Sure, she’s not an idiot.

  I put on a pale green shirt; it’s crisp and smells like a shop. Then I try to pull on some jeans. Oh, Lav. Skinny jeans?

  “You have to lie down and pull yourself into them,” she explains. I give her a hard look, lie down, and haul myself into the jeans. I bet there are bank vaults easier to get into.

  “They’ll look nice,” she reassures me as I squirm on the floor. “You have a good body.”

  “You say that like I found it in a ditch,” I grumble, but finally I’m in my denim prison and racing for the door when Lav slams it shut and positions herself in front of it.

  “Two minutes,” she commands, and I’m too surprised to argue. She comes at me with her hands up like a cartoon bear and runs that oil stuff through my hair again. Then she holds me hard by the chin, and a mascara wand is suddenly darting at my eyes.

  “La-av,” I whine, “I have to swim.”

  “It’s waterproof,” she sighs, and finally releases me to race down the stairs.

  Mom, Dad, and the boys are waiting impatiently in the hallway.

  “Pete’s so jittery he’s spilled two cups of tea,” Dad says. “So I’m driving.”

  “And I’m coming too.” Lav appears behind me. “For support,” she twinkles innocently, and darts a look at Ro. Hmmm.

  Mom waves us off, probably desperate for some peace and quiet, and we all wedge ourselves in Dad’s car again. He delegates a separate responsibility to each of us to look behind, left, and right, since he doesn’t have side mirrors anymore.

  We drive to the conference center with only a couple of near misses (when Dad is changing lanes and the human side mirrors are checking Twitter).

  The line looks even longer than last time. I dread to think how smelly the people are at the front of this one.

  I feel the mood in the car sink a bit, so I give a littl
e chirp on my whistle.

  “Come on, team,” I say cheerily, “third time lucky.” We carefully unfold ourselves from the car, Roman and Lav with some reluctance. Honestly, between Mom and Dad and Lav and Roman, it is one big sex party around here.

  We walk toward the entrance to the conference center, wondering if we have to line up again.

  “Nah. They invited us,” says Roman in reasonable tones. “Who invites a guest and then makes them line up at the front door?”

  We hesitate a moment, then hear, “Hey! Guys?” from behind us—it’s the security man from last time, the one who talked to his wrists. He was surly last time; this time he’s practically beaming. Is he drunk? Does he think we’re someone else?

  “Morning, morning, morning!” He bounces up to us.

  “Hiiiii?” we reply doubtfully.

  “We love the video here,” Wrists tells us. “Such big fans.”

  “Thanks!” I beam. Lav looks amused. Well, she’s used to people sucking up to her. (I’m not, and it’s lovely.)

  “Have you seen all the remixes?” Wrists goes on. “I adore the track that Belgian DJ added to it. Is he a friend of yours?”

  “I have no idea,” I reply. About anything you just said, I want to add.

  “Do you have representation?” he asks.

  We look at each other, baffled.

  “An agent? Or a manager?” he presses.

  “Um, no, because what we do is we just sort of dance underwater in a community pool,” says Gabe carefully.

  “Should the kids go inside or speak to anyone?” asks Dad, making us sound like we’ve just turned up for a ten-year-old’s party. Show biz!

  Wrists leads us into the aircraft hangar. Immediately there’s a camera in my face and a microphone even closer.

  “Louise Brown, the Aquarium Boys’ coach!” says a man I don’t recognize. “We hear there was some police trouble after your video was shot. What was that all about?” he asks with a mischievous smile.

  “Ah, well.” I hesitate, sifting through all the insane details of that week and rejecting most of them as Too Harrowing for Chitchat.

  Pete pulls me away by the arm and Dad, Lav, the Aquarium Boys, and I keep following Wrists. He leads us onto the stage. Lav and Dad hang back as we step in front of bright lights that blind us. We all blink and bump into each other. Wrists gives us a thumbs-up, then abandons us.

  “Hello, guys!” comes a voice from the darkness out front.

  “Hello…?” we shout back doubtfully, shielding our eyes to see a table with three chairs behind it and a woman with an earpiece and a clipboard waving exaggeratedly at us.

  “OK, guys, real quick,” she says, ticking things off with her fingers as she goes through a list: “You’ll be prepped at the side of stage.” (What’s prepping? Will it hurt?) “You’ll come on, do your routine, wait for the judges to give you their feedback, then off. Quick off. It’ll be loud in here with the audience—be prepared for that, and do not swear on camera.”

  “’Scuse me,” I mumble. My mouth is dry and my tongue has gone big. “Audienthe?” I ask, but she’s gone.

  We all look at each other for a second until—“Clear the stage, please!” a voice booms from nowhere. Sorry, sorry, sorry.

  We walk off, stand in the shadows with Dad and Laverne, and have a small nervous breakdown.

  “This is not another public tryout,” Pete says.

  We all shake our heads silently.

  “What?” says Lav.

  “This is the televised audition,” Ro says.

  We nod. Lav’s and Dad’s eyes go big.

  “That line,” I say. They all look at me. “That line. It didn’t have any ferrets in hats in it.”

  “Are you feeling all right, Lou?” Dad asks, feeling my forehead.

  “You’re right…” Gabe says faintly.

  That gigantic line, snaking halfway around town, is not contestants but audience members.

  chapter 34

  Lou! We heard you guys are off to BHT today, that’s beyond cool. Hook us up with some tickets? Ten should be fine. I’m having a party this weekend, sorry babes, forgot to invite you earlier, aargh, ditz! See you at BHT!

  Imogen (Laverne’s friend) xxxx

  I know who Imogen is; she’s acknowledged my existence once in six years. Twice now. I read her text and turn my phone off. I have more important things to worry about. We now have to wait three hours, which is really useful time in which to feel sick and pace around a lot. Roman nearly twists his ankle tripping on camera cables, so we force him to sit down. He can’t get hurt. We’re all out of substitutes now.

  The term dressing room is too grand, but we definitely have a small room with no windows to ourselves. Plus there’s a sign on the door that says The Aquarium Boys, and it’s surrounded by stars. Gabe gets out his pen and changes it to Lou Brown and the Aquarium Boys.

  Lav calls Mom to tell her “things have got a bit out of hand,” which is one way of putting it. Mom and Hannah race along to join us, and Wrists brings them up to our room to wait with us. Roman and Gabe’s parents are at work, and I think Pete is a little embarrassed about telling his dad. He just says, “Let’s see how the day goes.”

  The mood in this room is like a shaken-up can of Coke. I try to calm them down. Coach to the rescue.

  “Come on, guys, do some stretches, stay limber.” The boys look at me, Gabe with a half smile, and I remember—I’m swimming too.

  It’s like someone just added Mentos to this can of Coke.

  I step outside to use the bathroom, but really I just need a moment by myself to calm down. As I’m returning, I pass doors with signs like ours. Pete is loitering in the corridor. I realize he’s waiting for me. He nods his head at one of the doors.

  The sign says Pretty in Sync. I don’t get it. He smirks and opens his mouth. Then the door opens and Nicole appears in the doorway.

  “Oh!” She’s surprised to see Pete, and I think I am literally invisible to her. “Pete Denners?” she says loudly, clearly meaning for everyone in the room to hear. “Are you waiting for Cammie?”

  “Nope,” he says honestly. “Bye, then!” He grabs me by the arm and rushes me back to our dressing room.

  “But I thought she was sweet?” I tease him.

  “Sweet like a snake!” he says. And maybe it’s bitchy, but I’m glad the message got back to him.

  Someone knocks on the door and we shuffle aside to let them in. Our visitors are three very pretty girls—who are very orange.

  “Guys,” one of them says, smiling, “we’re here to give you a little makeup for the cameras.” Her eyes roam over everyone in the room, resting hopefully on Lav.

  “It’s those three,” says Gabe, pointing us out. The makeup artists hide their disappointment and set to work on our tired faces.

  It’s a strange feeling having little brushes dot and stroke my face. After about ten minutes my makeup artist steps back, satisfied, and I peek around her at the mirror. For the first time ever, I look like I might be related to Laverne.

  My new vanity deflates with a farty sound as I notice that Roman and Pete are wearing more makeup than me and they look like supermodels. Sigh. This is the most beautiful I have ever looked, but still the boys are prettier.

  Hannah catches my eye in the mirror. “You look amazing!” she mouths at me.

  “You could look less surprised,” I tell her sternly.

  There’s a sudden thundering of loud music from down the corridor.

  “They’re getting ready to begin,” says my makeup artist, giving me a “Be brave” look. I give her a “Step Back Because I Might Be Sick on You” one in return. She steps back.

  My face feels stiff with makeup. “Ank oo” is all I manage as the three girls wish us luck and leave.

  I can tell I look scared, because Pete’s being nice to me.

  “We’re going to be on in about an hour,” he says gently, like I’m a dog waiting at the vet. “Do you want to watch the first part
of the show from the side of the stage?”

  We pad along the corridor, barefoot and wrapped in towels, with Gabe, Hannah, and my family in tow. I was sure I had mastered walking some years ago, but now my legs are all rubbery and they feel about eight feet long. We reach the backstage area, and the guys with earpieces wave us through. They seem to know who we are, which makes me feel a little better, because right now I don’t think I can remember my surname. I haven’t felt this nervous since the time trials.

  Unhelpful memory. Shush shush shush, Lou.

  And, unlike at the time trials, this time I have Mom, Dad, and Lav with me. The earpiece guys make way for us and point at a two-foot gap in the curtain where we can peek through and watch the show. We all step carefully, trying to not trip on all the stage equipment on the floor.

  I bend down to put my face beneath Pete’s; he moves the curtain so I can see. (Stop being nice, it’s freaking me out.) There is a lady onstage who looks like someone’s mom dancing around with a ribbon on a stick. I can’t see the audience, but I can hear them openly laughing at her. I reel back slightly. What is wrong with people?

  I hang back and find I’m next to Dad, who puts his arm around my shoulders and whispers in my ear, “You don’t have to do this.”

  “I kind of do, though, don’t I?” I whisper back.

  “Well, yes,” he admits, “but if you want to make a run for it, I’ll go get the car.”

  We nod at each other. Deal.

  The judges give their verdict on the woman and her ribbon, and they are brutal, saying the worst sort of YouTube comments, but to her face! I have a sudden urge to shower.

  Next up, a father and son dressed as cows play pop songs on cowbells. Gabriel whispers in my ear, “Suddenly dancing underwater feels normal.” I smile at him, or I try to, but whatever they sprayed on my face has left it rock hard and I wince and hold my cheek while he stifles a laugh. I haven’t been this close to him since we were in Pete’s Mini, and I wonder if he’s thought about that since. I totally haven’t. Nu-uh.

  The act finishes and the father and son disappear off the other side of the stage. Now a huge tank is being lowered down in six pieces. The moment the first piece touches the floor, an army of people surge forward with tools to fit it all together. I watch them drag a hose onto the stage and start filling up the tank while they walk around checking all the joins and edges.