Maeve’s hand lay firm and steady between Bianca’s and Steph’s, but secretly she felt worried. Was she making a promise her grandparents would never let her keep?
21
Seussmania
Maeve wished Steph had come to the audition as well. Bianca was making her nervous. She was so edgy, so keen to get a role in the show. Maeve wanted one too. She’d seen the older performers in rehearsal – they came from performing arts schools all over Sydney, from Strathmore TAFE, from Newtown. There was even a student from NIDA who was directing the show.
Maeve did some warm-ups, stretching her legs against the wall, making her muscles work until they stung. The pain felt good, distracting her from the fizzing inside her head.
A tall, lanky man with a red-and-white top hat under his arm walked past them, his cat’s tail swishing out behind him.
‘That’s the Cat in the Hat,’ squealed Bianca. ‘Did you see? That’s the Cat! I so want to be Sally. It would be so cool to be Sally.’
‘She’s probably already cast,’ said Maeve. ‘McCabe said it’s only extras that they’re looking for. We might wind up as a teapot and a spoon or something like that. They’re making all the furniture into people and throwing in a few spare Grinches.’
‘There’s no Grinch in The Cat in the Hat,’ said Bianca.
‘I don’t think it’s the straight story. Some weird mixed-up version of it. Like they’ve taken all the characters from all Seuss’s books and chucked them in together.’
Maeve was glad to see McCabe making his way towards them through the crowd of performers. Beside him was a man in another tall, striped top hat, the same guy who had sat in on her dance class.
‘Maeve, Bianca, this is my son Will. Will, these are two of my students from St Phil’s.’
‘Cool,’ said Will. ‘I’ll look forward to seeing what you can do. I’m director of the show, which I think Dad failed to mention.’ Will looked at his watch. ‘We’re running a little behind. Another twenty minutes, maybe?’ Maeve caught a glimpse of a bright tattoo on his wrist of the fish from The Cat in the Hat.
‘Did you have that done specially for the show?’ she asked.
McCabe winced. Will caught his dad’s expression and laughed. ‘I’ve been into Seuss for a long time. I’ve got Thing One and Thing Two tattooed on my shoulders, one each side.’
McCabe groaned and shook his head in mock disbelief. It was hard to believe they were father and son. The two men moved on and Bianca nudged Maeve in the ribs. Maeve knew exactly what she was thinking.
‘He’s too old for you,’ she whispered.
‘I can dream, can’t I?’
‘I didn’t know McCabe was married. He told me he used to be a priest and then he was a musician. Or it might have been the other way around.’
‘Maybe Will is why he had to stop being a priest,’ said Bianca. ‘Maybe he found out that Will was his long-lost son from some affair or something.’
Maeve looked at Will and McCabe as they sat in the middle of the stalls of the darkened theatre. Maybe that’s what McCabe had meant about secret lives. She wondered if her dad had guessed that she was alive. Perhaps he knew that she was out here, waiting for him. Perhaps he’d find her one day, as McCabe had found Will. Or maybe she’d have to go looking for him.
Bianca and Maeve were herded into a backstage area to wait their turn. The air was pungent with the odour of dust and sweat. A hushed excitement fell as the teenagers were sorted into groups and marched out on stage. A young woman with thick dark hair tied up in a topknot showed them the routine she wanted them to perform and they followed her through the movements.
‘Turn, three, four, step, turn, one, two . . .’ The instructions moved from Maeve’s mind into her body and she flowed through the routine effortlessly. When she turned around, she was surprised to see Bianca pulling a face, her forehead beaded with sweat.
The lines of dancers were rearranged and when Maeve was behind Bianca she realised what the problem was. Bianca was slightly out of sync with the other dancers. To make matters worse, there was a boy dancing beside her who moved so smoothly that Bianca looked even less on top of the routine. Maeve found herself staring at the boy’s back, wishing he’d make a mistake so that Bianca would look better.
When he turned around, Maeve had a weird sensation of having met him before. He stared at her with piercing green eyes and then, self-consciously, tried to pat down a cowlick of dark hair that stood up on one side of his head.
‘Hey,’ he said, smiling a lopsided smile that made his whole face light up.
‘Hey,’ replied Maeve. She could feel a warm blush moving from her chest to her face and she turned away quickly.
Will came on stage and started talking to the dance instructor while they all stood around, stretching, waiting for the next set of instructions. Bianca sidled over to Maeve. ‘I so messed that up,’ she grumbled. ‘It was that kid next to me. He really put me off my stride.’
‘He’s so annoying,’ said Maeve. ‘I know I’ve seen him somewhere before but I can’t figure where.’
‘He’s Jackson. That kid I was telling you about from Newtown. He’s all yours if you want him. Definitely too young for me.’
‘You’re kidding?’ said Maeve. ‘He’s Dancing Man?’
Bianca nodded but before Maeve could find out more, the boy crossed the stage to where they stood.
‘Will wants you and me to do the routine together. Just the two of us.’
‘Who? Me?’ said Maeve, looking over her shoulder.
‘Yeah, you,’ said the boy. ‘You’re Maeve, aren’t you? I’m Jackson,’ he said, tipping his head on one side, as if he were doing some sort of secret calculation. ‘You’re Warrior Princess, aren’t you? Let’s see if you really can kick arse.’
The other dancers sat or stood around the edge of the stage. Maeve looked at Jackson for a split second before turning all her attention to Will and the dance instructor.
‘I hear you’re a bit of a gymnast,’ said Will.
‘Not any more,’ said Maeve, alarmed. ‘My mum made me stop. She thought it was bad for my body.’
‘But you can still remember some of the moves? I can tell, watching you, that some of that gymnastics training is still with you. Your kinaesthetic memory looks to be pretty sharp.’
‘Kines-what?’ asked Maeve.
‘Kinaesthetic memory – it’s the way we recall movement. Some people talk about it as kinaesthetic intelligence. Kinaesthesia is the way your body, your muscles, sense movement and weight and position.’
‘I guess I’m okay at that. I can still do a few things. Like handsprings and backward walkovers.’
‘Okay, great,’ said Will. ‘I want you two to work through the same routine as before, but I want you to finish with a handspring and then into splits. Is that asking too much?’
‘No, easy-peasey,’ said Maeve, looking at Jackson. ‘Is that okay with you?’
‘Don’t worry about Jackson,’ said Will, cuffing the boy over the head. ‘He can turn himself into a pretzel if he wants.’
The music started and Maeve fell into the routine as if it was one she’d performed every day of her life. When the dance instructor called ‘Now!’, she and Jackson threw themselves forward and bounced into handsprings, then slid smoothly into the splits. Maeve had never seen a boy who could do the splits with such ease. At dance class, all the guys winced as they eased themselves down to the floor but Jackson acted as if his muscles and joints were made of rubber.
Later, as they milled around in the backstage area along with the rest of the cast, Jackson came up and stood with Bianca. ‘You were good, you know, Bianca, even if your timing was a little out.’
‘She knows she’s good,’ said Maeve. Bianca and Jackson both looked at her, surprised at the ferocity in her voice. Even Maeve was surprised at herself. Sometimes when she stood next to Bianca she felt completely invisible, but usually she didn’t care. Why did she want Jackson to notice her anyway
?
‘Well, thanks,’ said Bianca. ‘You were amazing. I mean, you so are going to have a serious part. You and Maeve. God, I’ll be glad if they let me be a teapot. I know I stuffed up majorly.’
Maeve had never felt jealous of Bianca before but suddenly she wanted to be the one talking to Jackson. Why did she feel so tongue-tied? Why did it annoy her that Jackson was smiling at Bianca? What did it matter?
‘Will is my sort-of cousin so it’s kind of nepotistic. I mean, he knows what I can do and that I’d be totally pissed if he didn’t give me a good part.’
‘Are you related to McCabe too?’ asked Bianca.
‘Sort of. He’s kind of my uncle.’
‘What do you mean “kind of”?’
‘Well, my granny adopted him when he was a teenager. My mum is his little sister. He’s like my godfather. It’s kind of complicated but he’s a cool guy, even if he is a teacher.’
The lists went up on the board as they talked and a crowd of teenagers surged forward to see who’d been cast.
‘I told you I’d be a teapot,’ said Bianca gloomily as she stood on her tiptoes reading the names over the heads of the others. Maeve elbowed her way forward, until she was right in front of the list.
‘You’re not a teapot – you’re a . . . ohhhh . . . an umbrella stand,’ she said, her voice trailing off. She traced her finger down the list of chorus dancers but couldn’t see her own name. ‘I didn’t get a part,’ she said, disbelieving.
Suddenly, Jackson was standing beside her. ‘Look up here,’ he said, pointing. ‘You and me. We’re Thing One and Thing Two.’
22
WPKA
Maeve had never spent so much time with a boy before, except for Ned. And that definitely didn’t count. Working with Jackson made her feel like a different person. Two evenings a week and nearly all day Sunday, she and Jackson twirled and bounced their way across the stage during the rehearsals of Seussmania. As the opening night of the show drew closer, Maeve began to feel as though she and Jackson really were Thing One and Thing Two, two crazy creatures that could conjure mischief and mayhem with a flick of their wrists. Jackson was always in motion. Maeve couldn’t imagine him being still for more than five seconds. Even when he was standing around waiting for his call, Jackson would be doing something with his hands. Whether he was juggling, doing card tricks or practising a weird version of Tai Chi in front of a mirror, Jackson was always in motion.
‘You are so vain,’ said Maeve teasingly. ‘I reckon you just do that Tai Chi so you can have an excuse to stare at yourself.’
Jackson laughed. ‘It’s not Tai Chi, dummy. It’s a martial art called Wing Chun. I’m practising my form.’
‘So you bore people to death by forcing them to watch you make all those little gestures.’
‘It’s a type of kung fu. Will does it too. So should you. You shouldn’t count on me being around to protect you forever.’
‘Funny ha ha,’ said Maeve, drawing herself up to her full height and trying to look down on Jackson. Tactfully, he ignored her.
As they stood side by side, she studied their reflections in the mirror. They were both dressed in bright red costumes like baby jumpsuits, and blue wigs. They looked so much like little kids, it made Maeve want to laugh.
‘I’m actually three centimetres taller than you, you know,’ she said. Jackson stopped practising and turned to look at her.
‘No way. Bianca!’ he called. ‘Grab a book or something. This chick reckons she’s taller than me.’
They took off their wigs and turned back to back, their heels touching, their backs flush against each other. Maeve could feel the sharpness of Jackson’s bones, the warmth of his body against her own.
Bianca laid the spine of her maths book across the top of their heads. ‘Sorry, Jackson,’ she said. ‘Maeve is definitely taller than you.’
‘Crap,’ said Jackson, turning around and standing on tiptoes, stretching so his chin was higher than Maeve’s. ‘Just give me time. One day, Maeve Kwong, you are going to get a crick in your neck looking up at me.’
Maeve laughed. ‘Maybe I’d better come along to that martial arts class before you catch up with me.’ When Maeve phoned Por Por to ask permission to attend the martial arts class, Por Por wasn’t impressed.
‘But it’s a Chinese martial art,’ said Maeve.
‘Between dance classes and this play, you never sit still! When will you have time to study?’
The summer with her grandparents had been like living in a cocoon and Maeve was desperate to spread her wings. But she couldn’t tell Por Por that’s how she felt, nor could she tell her about Jackson. There were so many small secrets that she had to keep from her grandmother. It took another ten minutes of pleading, but eventually she talked Por Por around.
The house mother wasn’t happy either. She gave Maeve a long lecture about the number of outside school activities she was already involved with. Maeve hung her head and let the words wash over her, but she didn’t give up. She hated spending her evenings in the common room, arguing with Gina and Viv about whose turn it was to use the remote. Eventually, McCabe smoothed the way, finalising the permission slips and even arranging for Will and his girlfriend to pick her up from school.
On Wednesday night, Maeve stood waiting in the school foyer for Will to arrive. A stream of parents filed into the multi-purpose room. Maeve stood by the open door and watched as Ms Donahue screened a video of last year’s drama club trip. Senior girls stood with their arms linked in front of ancient stone cottages, hiked across deep green fields and posed in front of theatre posters. The tour ran for nearly three weeks, with half that time spent in England and the other half in Ireland.
A Powerpoint presentation showed highlights of Dublin: famous streets, green parks and crowds of people standing outside the Abbey Theatre. Maeve found herself wondering if one of those faces in the crowd could be her father. Maybe he was captured for a split second in one of those frames. She leant forward, frowning. He probably wasn’t there. He was probably still somewhere in Nepal, completely out of reach.
Maeve tried not to stare at Will as she sat in the back of his beaten-up old station wagon. In profile, he looked a lot like his father. But there were things about him that were nothing like McCabe. Maeve couldn’t stop thinking about Bianca’s suggestion that Will was a long-lost son. If it was true, then how had he and his father found each other? She wriggled uncomfortably in her seat, trying to think of a way to ask him. Will’s girlfriend, Lauren, politely tried to include Maeve in their conversation but there was only one thing Maeve wanted to talk about. Finally she blurted out a question that she hoped would lead somewhere.
‘Is your mum going to come to the show when it opens?’ she asked.
Lauren fell silent and Maeve knew she’d said something wrong. Will glanced over his shoulder quickly and then turned back to concentrate on the road. ‘My mum died of cancer when I was sixteen, but my brothers will probably turn up. And of course, Dad will be there. I don’t think he’s missed a single show I’ve ever been part of, from the kindergarten nativity play upwards.’
Maeve squirmed with embarrassment.
‘Sorry about your mum,’ she said.
‘Hey, it’s okay. I know you lost your mother too. That first year is tough. Everything changes so fast. Just hang in there, Maeve.’
‘I’m trying,’ she said. ‘But sorry, I know this is weird, and none of my business . . . but I thought your dad said he’d been a priest.’
‘He was for a while. He left the priesthood to marry Mum. It must have been so bad for him when she died and he was on his own with me and my brothers. We all went berserk for a while, but Dad pulled us through.’
Light and shadow flickered across Will’s face and for a moment Maeve could see that he was remembering his mother. She knew that feeling, when all the hurt came rushing to the surface and then somehow you managed to push it back down. How could people who’d had bad things happen to them look so nor
mal most of the time? She looked down at her own body, amazed at how much hurt, how many painful things she could keep inside it and never show the world.
The Wing Chun class was held in an old building in Leichhardt, above a coffee shop. As they climbed the stairs to the second floor, the sharp, rich scent of ground coffee made Maeve feel awake and alert. It seemed to have permeated the walls of the building. Two sides of the studio upstairs were lined with mirrors. Rows of men and women in white stood practising a series of hand gestures in front of their reflections.
‘I thought this was a martial arts class,’ said Maeve. ‘Doesn’t anyone fight?’
‘Wing Chun is different to other martial arts,’ said Lauren. ‘It’s not about brute strength, it’s about neutralising your enemy. It’s the only martial art that was invented by a woman, so it’s very precise.’
Maeve smiled. ‘That’s cool. But does that mean I won’t get to hit Jackson?’
Will laughed. ‘They say that Ng Mui, the Shaolin nun who developed it, came up with the idea after watching a rat fight with a crane. That’s why Jackson digs it. I’ve got to concentrate to keep ahead of him!’
Lauren shook her head. ‘Will’s being modest. He’s already a Si-Hing, which means he’s a senior student, and soon he’ll be a trainee instructor.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Will. ‘Jackson’s pretty good. He’s got a big advantage being fourteen. He’ll slaughter me in a couple of years time.’
‘I’m fourteen next month,’ said Maeve.
‘That’s a good age. Wing Chun was only fifteen when she became Ng Mui’s student,’ said Lauren. ‘She was really beautiful but was bullied by this guy who tried to force her to marry him. So Ng Mui taught her to fight and then she challenged the bully to a fight and beat the shit out of him. The technique was named after her.’
‘That’s why Lauren comes along,’ joked Will. ‘Trying to keep me from bullying her.’ Lauren punched him playfully on the shoulder and then went to join her sparring partner.
Will led Maeve to the end of the room and introduced her to the instructor. When the students had finished practising, Maeve was paired with Jackson, who showed her the Wing Chun stance and the basic position for fighting. Then they practised a move where Jackson had to grab her from behind and the instructor showed her how to free herself from his grip.
The Secret Life of Maeve Lee Kwong Page 12
