by Paul Collins
Sam smiled. ‘They’ll blame a rower.’
‘Bingo.’
Katya looked down at her tulle skirt and ballet pumps. She looked more ballet than burglar. ‘Hang on a tick. I’ll just nick up to my room.’
‘Put on something dark,’ called Sam.
‘And tight,’ giggled Lilly.
Katya trawled through the contents of her ward robe. She put on a pair of cords that hung low on her hips and a loose top that sat nicely on her breasts. She covered it with her denim jacket, which she but toned all the way to the top and tied her hair back in a pony-tail. When Katya got downstairs again, the choir was in full force. Light shone from the windows of the chapel in red and orange and yellow. The sky was dusky and the edges of the Quad had smudged.
Sam stood at the bottom of the chapel wall near the cyclone fence. He had lifted the metal pole out of its plastic base.’Okay, let’s go. Stick to the side - this is the risky bit. Once we’re inside the scaffolding we should be hidden by the green mesh.’
They ran to the ladder, faster than kids coming-ready-or-not.
Sam started climbing. Katya put her head down and climbed behind him. The scaffolding was dusty but stable, and her sneakers squeaked on the rungs.
Sam looked down and winked. ‘Squealers,’ he whispered.
When they got to the top of the first storey Sam clambered out onto the platform. The boards shook. ‘Crap,’ he hissed. ‘They’re not nailed down.’ The crack of wood on metal reverberated around the courtyard. Sam thudded across to the next set of stairs like a walrus. Suddenly everything was lit, bright and white.
Jeeez.’ Katya stopped.
‘Crap. The security light.’
Katya squinted. The glare was so harsh she couldn’t see her hands.
‘Hang on, hang on. I didn’t think about that.’ Sam thundered further across the ledge. ‘Don’t move.’
Don’t move, thought Katya. Nothing was mov ing, not even vital organs like her heart. Katya was scared, really scared. The building site was so obvi ously banned that they had not even mentioned it in assembly. It was just assumed that Year Tens knew not to muck around on building sites on which there could be dangerous machinery, loose scaffolding and, well, buildery things that caused long and pain ful deaths - like cement and asbestos. Katya perched on a rung between the first and second storeys, hunched down. She heard a click and everything went dark again. As her eyes readjusted, she made out the school crest on Sam’s top, just above her. He put his finger to his lips in a shhhh. Below, the garden was still.
Sam crept back over to the ladder. ‘Disabled it. Sorry about that.’ He pulled Katya up onto the next landing. ‘You okay?’
Katya nodded and clutched his arm just longer than she needed. The climb was steep and her heart thumped. Sam pushed on.
They climbed another storey, and then another and another. They fell into a rhythm; there was no sound but their breath and the squeak of sneakers on iron - the latter somehow reminding Katya of the feel of soggy lettuce on her teeth.
When Sam reached the next storey he stopped. They were about half way up the enormous sand stone wall at the foot of the great windows. He crawled over the landing to the chapel; Katya fol lowed. They sat with their heads tipped against the wall, side by side in silence. The stone at their backs still held the afternoon’s warmth and Katya could feel vibrations from the music that roared up behind them.
Sam stood and motioned to Katya. They peered though the window, which started at waist height and shot up fifteen metres above - brighter than any epiphany. The glass was wonky - alive with tiny bubbles, perfect in its imperfection. Through the window, Katya could see their housemaster with his bent head swaying. She could see Ms Buchanan texting under the pew.
Sam looked down at her and smiled. ‘It’s amazing, isn’t it?’
And it was. It didn’t even need an answer. The choir swung, clapping, heads and hands raised and their song shot up, up, up, joyous and holy.
One of the men at the back of the chapel caught
Katya’s eye. He frowned, tugged at his cufflinks and looked confused. Sam ducked, pulling Katya down beneath the window.
‘Who was he?’ Katya giggled.
‘No idea. A pool-paying guest.’
‘Do you think he saw us?’
‘I doubt it. We’re quite far back. The windows will be black to them.’
‘So we’ll look like the devil?’
‘Or angels.’
Katya turned to Sam. They had jumbled on land ing, and were closer than before. She was pressed against Sam’s side; he didn’t move. She left her arm where it was, aware of the warmth of his. Light from the window fell down across the dusty platform in pretty lolly-coloured streaks. Sam stared at her. His eyes were shiny in the glow, his lips full. He pushed his fingers through his hair which sat back on his head, moulded by the cap. Then he smiled and leant across, slowly.
Katya’s heart was pushing blood. Everything was bold, exaggerated. Her stomach fluttered and she pressed a hand to her tummy to stop the butter flies. Sam took a breath and just as she looked up, he reached in under the light and kissed her. Just a small kiss, but it sat on her lips, tiny and buzzing. He reached in again and kissed her slowly again on the top of her lip. He ran his finger over her eyebrows, tracing them.
‘You have lovely eyebrows, too,’ she blurted and felt like an idiot. An arrogant idiot because he’d never even mentioned hers and it was possible he thought them too thick, too woggy.
Sam laughed. ‘Urn, thanks.’
Katya could smell Sam’s deodorant, and sweet milk from the evening’s ice-cream faintly on his breath. She could see the flutter of their hearts in his neck. Sam kissed her again. They sat under the light, hugging against the warm wall of the chapel as the music arched above them.
‘I like you, Katya Solovyov,’ whispered Sam and kissed her forehead.
Katya felt his name roll in her mouth like a plum pip. She liked him too much to say it back. But there was no need. She trembled. In the thick spring air, embraced in song, there was no need to say anything at all.
‘Dora the Explorer or Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs?’ I ask myself, peering into the bottom of my little sister’s underwear drawer. It’s a choice no self-respecting thirteen-year-old wants to make. But ever since Mum started her own business, the options for clean underwear on a Friday morning have been basically non-existent. Today, of all days, when my insides are so knotted I want to vomit and my head is so dizzy I feel like fainting, I could do with some comfortable, cartoon-free underwear, but sadly that’s not going to happen.
‘Ellie, you’re just about to miss your bus!’ Mum shouts from the kitchen.
I squeeze into the Disney undies, throw on my uniform, grab my bag and run for the front door. Late again.
‘Relax. Just be yourself,’ my mother says, giving me a kiss as I rush out. ‘And don’t play with your undies, it looks like you’ve got worms.’
I groan. As if any of that’s possible. How can I leave my undies alone when they’re designed for a six-year-old? How can I be myself when I’ve got a special session with the boys’ school today? And as for relaxing - I haven’t been able to do that since the start of term. That’s when I accidentally caught the wrong bus home. And because I didn’t know the route, I wasn’t holding on when the driver took a sharp right turn. And when I lost my balance, I grabbed the only thing available - a guy with floppy blond hair.
As he turned to see who was swinging off the back of his shirt, the bus pulled up. I released my grip and for a moment we stood facing each other - his brown eyes, wide with surprise at first, suddenly got intense. I should have looked down at that point. That’s what I normally do when I see a cute guy. But this time I couldn’t. I was trapped. And I didn’t want to escape.
I don’t know
what happened next, and maybe it was nothing, but it felt like something passed between us. And I think I saw ... a possibility.
Then he looked away and swung his school bag over his shoulder. As he headed towards the back door, I saw the name on a book that was hanging out of his bag. Gabe Cartwright. I haven’t stopped thinking about that name ever since and I can’t help dreaming about the possibility.
Today I’m not just going to meet him, we’re going to spend the whole morning together. We’ve been assigned to the same group for our inter-school bridge-building session. I’m so nervous about it my palms are sweating. The sight of Steph Mason, standing beside my locker, makes me feel even worse. Of all the girls in my class, why do I have to share Gabe with her? It’s not that I hate Steph, it’s just that I know - when we’re side by side, Gabe will definitely prefer her.
‘Excited to be finally meeting Gabe?’ Steph says, opening her locker and taking out a tube of lipgloss.
I shrug, wondering why I ever told Steph about Gabe. But a smell coming from my locker distracts me - in fact it’s so bad, it almost knocks me out. Has someone rerouted the sewer in there?
I rummage through my books with one hand over my nose, trying to uncover the source of the foul odour. Unfortunately I feel it before I see it - my fingers sink deep into a squishy mess that’s wedged in the middle of my history book.
‘Gross!’ I say, wiping my sticky fingers on my skirt and inspecting the contents of my textbook from a safe distance. ‘It looks like it used to be an egg sandwich.’
I turn to Steph. ‘Know anything about this?’
‘I didn’t put it there!’ she shrieks, stepping away from the smell and stifling what looks a lot like a guilty smirk. ‘I don’t even like egg!’
‘Exactly,’ I grumble, flinging the sandwich out of my book.
‘Come on,’ Steph says, stepping around the sand wich. ‘You don’t want to keep Gabe waiting.’
But by the time I’ve cleaned the egg out of my locker and we’ve made a trip to the toilets to check our hair, returned to our lockers to get breath mints, then gone back to check our teeth in the bathroom mirror, our whole class along with a group from the boys’ school are waiting for us. Everyone is already seated as Steph and I file into the classroom. I try to keep my eyes down, but I can’t help noticing Gabe, sitting beside an empty seat. He leans back in his chair and I see him glance at me from under his long fringe. My heart thumps as I walk towards him, wondering if he remembers me, wondering what to say. I snatch another look at his face. His eyes are totally dreamy, but they’re not on me anymore, he’s staring straight at Steph. She’s dancing more than walking and laughing loudly, even though there’s nothing even remotely funny about walking into an art room. And it’s not just Gabe that has his eyes on her - pretty much every guy in the room is looking at her. I have slipped into the classroom under the radar. As usual.
‘He’s pretty hot,’ Steph whispers - not to me, more as a note to herself.
That’s when I feel my chances with Gabe being suffocated - by Steph’s freshly glossed lips, her per fect skin, her shiny black hair. And I know I have to act. I have two hours to build a bridge to Gabe Cartwright and if I want to get there before Steph does, I need to change. I need to get noticed and I need to do it now.
I casually (but very quickly) make for the chair beside Gabe. But Steph has the same idea and for several ugly moments we scramble over the chair while trying to look like we are both just holding it (really tightly). And right when I think I’m about to win, Gabe starts waving his hand across his face.
‘Can anyone smell rotten eggs?’
The chair war ends right there. I back away, try ing to flick the egg off my skirt, and pull out a seat on the opposite side of the bench. I watch as Steph sits down next to Gabe, giving him a shy smile (even though she’s not shy at all) and shrugging at me (as if it’s some complete accident that she’s sitting beside the guy that I like). I look away, sucking up my disap pointment. And I wait for my chance to get even.
My opportunity comes a short time later when Mrs Garfunkel explains the basics of bridge design and cracks a joke. I’m not really listening so I don’t know what the joke is, I just hear Steph giggle. She gets a predictable reaction from every guy in the room.
And that’s when I strike. I take a page right out of the Steph Mason How to Get Attention manual and laugh - not just a little, girly snigger, but a loud, belly rumbling roar. I toss my head back so that everyone looks my way -even Gabe, which is a shame, because it’s just as I have Gabe’s attention that a fly buzzes past and, finding my mouth open, decides to go in.
I stop laughing and start choking. Steph gives me a slap on the back (about twice as hard as she needs to) and with a violent hack the fly is dislodged from my throat. It soars out of my mouth and lands right in the middle of Gabe’s desk. Gabe stops looking at me and stares at the dead fly.
‘Sorry,’ I splutter, getting to my feet.
I’m coughing so much I’m about to wet my pants. I rush off in the direction of the toilets. My bridge building plan is looking a bit shaky at this point, but I’m not beaten. Yet.
I admit that many girls would take a long hard look in the mirror after coughing up a fly in front of a super-hot guy, accept defeat and go back to a life under the radar (or off it completely). But something is pushing me on and I know it sounds insane, but I think it’s Snow White. I feel strangely driven by a girl in a red headband. By the time I leave the toilets, my undies are feeling more uncomfortable than ever, but I’m certain they’re bringing me luck. Instead of giving up on Gabe, I’m even more determined to impress him.
As I walk into the classroom, I realise I have returned just in time.
‘Do I have a volunteer to sketch a bridge on the white board?’ Mrs Garfunkel asks.
I don’t hesitate. I don’t wait to be asked, I just march straight up to the board to accept the job. Mrs Garfunkel, apparently too stunned to argue, hands me a pen. At last - my chance to show Gabe my talents.
Within seconds I’ve drawn the Sydney Harbour Bridge - and it’s a pretty good likeness, even if I do say so myself. I’m not surprised that girls are whispering behind my back - I expect they’re just as impressed as I am. And I’m not even worried when the class starts sniggering, because under the bridge I’ve drawn a ferry being chased by a shark and it does look pretty funny. The shark is standing on its tail, snapping at the boat.
But it’s only when I glance over my shoulder to see if Gabe is paying attention that I notice his eyes aren’t on my picture - they’re on my bottom. I look down, hoping I’ve just got some sticky tape on my uniform - but, no, it’s much worse than that. The back of my skirt is tucked into my undies. Snow White and her seven dumpy mates are waving at the class. A few of the guys are waving back, then someone who looks a lot like Dopey starts whistling. Heigh ho, heigh ho, it’s qff to work we go.
Suddenly, the bridge that was looking so sturdy just seconds ago collapses in a pile of burning rubble and a ball of fire starts working its way up my body until I feel my face being licked by the flames. Snow White hasn’t helped me get to Gabe - she’s burned down the bridge and basically ruined my life.
I wrench my skirt free and slink back to my seat, hoping for some sort of minor natural disaster - anything to distract Gabe from what he’s just witnessed. It doesn’t have to be an earthquake, a nasty thunderstorm would do, even a swarm of bees would probably be enough.
But nothing comes to save me. Not even a fly.
‘Shame about your choice of knickers,’ Steph says, not helping at all.
I don’t even try a comeback line. I just open my art book, put my head down and shut my mouth. For the rest of the session I let Steph do all the talking and the giggling. While she and Gabe work on their bridge design, and then a paddle-pop-stick construction, I disappear into a drawing - creating a
mythical forest inhabited by owls, wolves and a one-eyed dragon, then I put Snow White right in the middle of it. I know it sounds cruel, but I think she deserves it.
And even when the bell rings, finally bringing an end to the bridge-building session and the most humiliating episode of my life, I don’t even look up from my art book. It’s only when the room goes quiet and Mrs Garfunkel insists that I leave, that I close my book, wondering why I ever thought I had a chance with Gabe Cartwright.
But when I get to the door someone is waiting for me. And all I can do is stand and stare.
‘Can I see what you’ve drawn?’ Gabe says, break- ing the impasse.
I shake my head, unable to say anything.
‘Please ...’ Gabe insists.
I flash the page at Gabe and then close the book.
‘Please ...’ Gabe repeats, his hand outstretched. Further down the hall I can hear some girls laugh ing. I can tell without looking that Steph is one of them, but Gabe doesn’t seem to notice - his eyes are focused on my book.
‘Okay.’ I shrug.
Gabe takes my art book like I’ve just handed him a folder of Van Gogh’s long-lost sketches. Slowly, he thumbs through the pages, taking everything in, pausing to ‘ahhh’, stopping to ‘ohhh’, until finally he meets Snow White’s terrified eyes.
‘Awesome,’ Gabe whispers, studying the picture.
‘You think so?’ I say. ‘Kind of freaky, really.’
‘I wish I could draw like that.’
I take the book from Gabe and tear out the picture of Snow White, then hand it over. ‘It’s yours.’
‘Thanks,’ Gabe says, staring at Snow White.
‘Thanks, Ellie.’
His eyes flick up to mine, and that’s when things start falling apart again - I feel my pulse pounding in my ears, my face is on fire and my brain goes on lunch break. I’d like to respond to Gabe. ‘You’re welcome,’ would be a good start, but apparently my tongue and vocal chords are no longer on speaking terms. Gabe’s eyes are paralysing me.
