Lula Does the Hula

by Samantha Mackintosh

  ‘Stop your fussin’, Bird,’ said Matilda McCabe. She was sitting right up front with her feet on the dashboard, her eyes closed. Her quads were all bulgy and she looked hardcore.

  ‘Frik,’ I said, and got in. The rest of the girls were up front too, just behind Matilda, and they were talking about stuff like bowside upsetting the balance, and ratings and pulse ratios and stuff I’d never ever understand.

  ‘Come sit up here with us,’ said Jessica Hartley.

  ‘Thanks, Jess, but I just need some space,’ I said, feeling stressed, and scooted to the back of the minibus.

  ‘You’re not going to get any space there,’ she said. ‘Believe me.’

  ‘Where do you guys row, anyway?’ I asked, though I really didn’t care.

  ‘Saddler’s Pond, up in the safari park.’

  ‘FRIK!’ I yelled. The other girls turned and looked at me curiously, except for Matilda, who looked like she was asleep. ‘There are wild animals in that park! It’s not safe for us to be out of a vehicle! I’m going home right now.’

  I hefted myself out of my seat just as Mr van der Merwe jumped behind the wheel and slammed his door. He took off at such a speed I fell back where I’d been sitting.

  ‘The boat is a vehicle,’ intoned Matilda. ‘And the lake in the park is the only stretch of water big enough in fifty miles.’

  The safari park. They’ve got to be joking, I thought. They have just got to be joking.

  But they weren’t joking. And Jessica hadn’t been joking about no space in the back either, because instead of heading out to the boathouse Mr VDM swung by Hambledon Boys’ High. I’d been slumped in denial in the back seat with my eyes closed, but when the door shunted open and nine smelly boys climbed in I nearly peed in my pants.

  Firstly, because they were mostly strangers, huge ones, who thought nothing of squashing in happily around me, burping and belching and making nasty odours.

  Secondly, because guess who was first on the bus? No, not Fat Angus. He was second.

  It was Arnold Trenchard.

  ‘What is going on?’ I yelped.

  ‘I know,’ sighed Jessica. ‘Thank goodness I’ve got Jason in my life. Since sharing our rowing sessions with these losers I’ve lost the will to flirt.’

  The boys erupted into manly assertions of their wondrous masculinity.

  ‘There’s no space back here!’ I yelled as I got rammed into the corner.

  ‘Told you,’ said Jessica, rolling her eyes and facing forward. ‘Wait till they start with the farting.’

  ‘Let me up front!’ I begged.

  ‘Too late, little lady,’ said a huge creature with an astonishing amount of chest hair, serious five o’clock shadow and a massive mop of dark curls. ‘What’s your name?’

  The bus fell silent, and the girls turned round. All of them were smiling, waiting for the moment.

  ‘Tallulah Bird,’ I said.

  He blinked once, then jerked away from me. ‘Don’t touch me!’ he yelped.

  ‘The feeling is soooo mutual,’ I drawled, and caught Arns’s eye. ‘How long have you rowed?’ I asked the friend I thought I knew.

  ‘Forever,’ said Jessica Hartley. ‘He’s the saddest of them all. Even after the makeover.’

  While everyone else had got the boats in the water, with a lot of banter and sparring, Mr VDM had me in the training tank, showing me how to move up and down the runners on my seat, and how to move the oar at the same time. After I’d been in the tank twenty minutes, both boats were in the water, their long narrow bodies resting gently either side of the jetty.

  The boys went off in theirs and did their own training, their cox Billy Diggle squeaking orders through a tiny microphone the whole time. Meanwhile, Mr VDM cruised alongside the girls’ boat yelling at me.

  ‘Sit up straight! Don’t race up the slide! Don’t lean out when you come in for the catch!’

  On and on it went. I didn’t understand anything he said.

  At last he stopped so we could have a rest. The blisters I’d got in the tank had burst and my hands were raw and bleeding.

  ‘Frik!’ I said. ‘This really sucks.’

  Hilary St John turned round in her seat. ‘You know what the slide is?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘That’s the runners under your seat. You got to match my rhythm exactly. You move when I move, got it?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, uncertain. ‘What’s the catch?’

  ‘That’s when your blade goes into the water.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Don’t call it an oar. You sound like a newbie if you call it an oar.’

  ‘Blade,’ I said. ‘Got it.’

  Hilary turned back round as Michelle Wong gave orders for us to get ready for another paddle.

  ‘You’re not bad, Tatty Bird,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘I think we’re all a little impressed.’

  ‘You are? Seriously?’

  ‘Stop talking.’ Hilary was already gliding forward, following Michelle’s orders, and I copied her carefully. ‘Here come the boys, so for God’s sake don’t mess up now.’

  I didn’t dare look out of the boat to where the smack-whoosh-thwack rhythm came ever closer over the water. The sound of VD’s voice came blaring through his loudhailer: ‘Yes! Really good, guys! Good pace, Ivor, and, Boris, you’re gonna be worth the money, my man. You’ve taken thirty seconds off the thousand-metre time! Unbelievable!’

  I caught a flash of movement in my peripheral vision as nine boys in sodden shirts shunted past in perfect rhythm. Their faces were focused, intense, and they moved as one creature with eight legs, Billy Diggle at the stern bent over, rasping into the cox’s mike, sounding a world older than his twelve years.

  Then they were gone.

  Michelle’s voice crackled from the speaker next to Hilary. ‘Whoa, Tilda. Did you see Ivor?’ She squeaked something incomprehensible, then Matilda’s voice replied, and Michelle cleared her throat. ‘Sorry, lovers, didn’t realise the mike was on. Okay, last piece of the day, yeah? Holding it steady at twenty-five, this will be a ten-minute piece, then we’re going in.’

  I understood the ten-minute bit, and I really didn’t think my hands were gonna make that grand plan, but . . . ‘Twenty-five?’ I gasped to Hilary. ‘What the hell is twenty-five?’

  ‘The rating – how many strokes we take in a minute. Focus, VD’s on his way over.’

  As she said that, I heard VD’s boat engine coming towards us and gripped the handle of my blade as hard as I could. Last time he’d roared up like that, the wake of his boat had slapped across us and I’d nearly lost my grip. If you lose control of your blade and it starts flailing around, it’s called ‘catching crabs’ and I sure as hell didn’t want to be doing that.

  I flinched as the motorboat drew up alongside me.

  ‘Tallulah!’ yelled VD.

  Was I supposed to answer him? Presumably I just kept going? Isn’t it rude to ignore someone like this? Oh, man, what was he going to say?

  The loudhailer crackled and shrieked, then VD’s voice boomed out again. ‘Tallulah! This is magnificent! Fantastic!’

  Frik! Had I just heard right? Was he talking to me?

  ‘Good rhythm, wonderful, wonderful, perfect timing! Just try a little more power at the catch, yes? Remember, bunch and driiiive, bunch and driiiive . . .’

  He moved on to examine Hilary’s stroke, commenting on the size of her puddle, whatever that meant – weren’t we on a billion-cubic-litre puddle, all of us together? – but I wasn’t really listening. I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face, and even though my hands hurt like hell I felt really, really good. Wow. Who would have thought.

  The boys had got back to the jetty before us, so we pulled up on the other side of it and I paid close attention to how they got the boat out of the water. Before I’d seen it for myself I’d have said probably Boris did it single-handedly, but it was definitely a teamwork thing, involving leaning out dangerously far and putting strain on bits I didn’t kn
ow I had.

  ‘Frik!’ I said to Kelly Sheridan as we marched up the incline with a sixty-two-foot boat on our shoulders. ‘I can’t believe we plucked this beast from the water like that!’

  ‘Yeah, we’re awesome,’ droned Kelly. She threw me a look over her free shoulder. ‘Something you should know.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘If you thought the boys stank before, you’d better brace your nostrils for the trip back. The trip home is the hardest test of all, and you don’t want to be ruining VD’s good impression of you.’

  Half an hour later pretty much everyone was confirming that I’d just failed this test.

  ‘Tallulah!’ yelled VD from the driver’s seat, where he was obviously doing his best to ramp my nausea levels with some crazy driving. ‘You’re brave in the boat, now be brave in the bus!’

  ‘I can’t!’ I wailed, my eyes watering. ‘Zac just spat out the window and the phlegm has stuck to the glass! And I can’t breathe! I –’ and then, to my shame, I retched AGAIN.

  ‘Stop the bus, please, sir!’ wailed Boris. ‘She’s gonna be sick on me!’

  ‘It’s you, you know, Boris,’ remarked Arns. ‘You smell worse than any of us. It’s all that garlic sausage you keep bingeing on.’

  ‘He sweats it out of his pores,’ added Fat Angus. ‘Even I can smell it, and I reckon I’m pretty ripe myself.’ He lifted an arm and took a deep appreciative breath from his hairy armpit.

  I gagged and retched, my hand clamped firmly over my mouth, while Mr VD screeched to a halt on the side of the dirt road.

  ‘Out!’ he yelled.

  I didn’t give the wild animals even a passing thought. Not a one. I elbowed my way out past nine smelly boys to the door and fell out on the road where I staggered to a halt on the grassy verge and retched some more before throwing up the McCoy’s and Maltesers combo I’d had for a 3 p.m. snack.

  ‘Nice,’ I heard from the bus window behind me, but I couldn’t even whirl round and point my witchy finger threateningly.

  Oh, why hadn’t I staggered into the bushes for a bit of privacy?

  Another heave assaulted me.

  ‘Do you think we worked her too hard?’ Matilda’s voice floated out from the passenger window. ‘She is actually being sick now.’

  ‘Maybe,’ came VD’s reply, ‘but she’ll man up, no problem. She’s a natural, that one.’

  Another heave threatened, but I forced it down, my face flushed with the shame of all this. There was the rattle of trainers on gravel, and my eyes slid past my own red-Conversed feet to see some familiar black-Conversed feet.

  Arns came no closer, but held out a handipack of Kleenex. ‘Here,’ he said. I would have thanked him gratefully, but then he added, ‘not so much for your runny nose, more for the post-puke drool,’ and laughed. After I’d pulled out a tissue with shaking hands and cleaned my sorry self up I followed him back to the bus and, just as he was climbing back in, I kicked him in the ass. Hard.

  Dinner at home – for once we’re eating it instead of feeding Boodle under the table

  ‘Thankoo, Daddy,’ said Bluebird. ‘Yumyum in my tum.’ And she swirled her spaghetti vigorously.

  I sighed heavily. Holding a fork hurt. I wondered if anyone would mind if I just kind of slurped it up with my lips and teeth.

  ‘Oh, Lula-lu!’ said Mum. ‘I’m so sorry your hands are sore. How’s your back feeling?’

  ‘Will you stop pandering to her pathetic whimpering and moaning!’ Pen had fixed her eyes on me and they were all narrow and cross-looking. She pointed her fork at Mum. ‘She got herself into this mess. Everyone knows you have to warm up before you go running. It’s Tallulah’s own fault.’

  ‘You’re just miffed because you’re getting no attention,’ I said.

  ‘Giiirls.’

  We both ignored Mum’s warning tone.

  ‘I don’t need attention,’ said Pen. ‘You’re the attention-seeker. Helen Cluny was saying that to Matilda McCabe today when Tilda told her about your public vomiting.’

  My cheeks flamed and I had no response to that.

  ‘Well, really!’ exclaimed Mum. ‘That’s not very kind!’

  ‘No, hollible ’len ’luny,’ said Blue, and she shoved her chair closer to mine. ‘You are lovely, Luli, and I’m sowwy your hands hurt.’

  ‘Well, exactly, Bluebird,’ said Mum. ‘That’s very mean of Helen . . . Maybe I should tell you . . .’

  ‘What?’ said Pen, stabbing her creamy prawn pasta viciously. ‘What’s there to tell? She’s only saying what everyone’s thinking. I mean . . . vomiting in public?’ Her face was pure scorn. ‘There’s always some drama with Tallulah.’

  ‘And thank heavens for that!’ exclaimed Mum. ‘Otherwise we’d all die of boredom in this village. Eat your pasta, Penelope.’ She got up from the table and cleared some plates. Dad raised his eyebrows at me and winked. I tried to smile, but the lump in my throat was all big and spiky and I could hardly swallow. Blue passed me a square of kitchen roll and I swiped at my nose while pretending to dab at pasta sauce on my mouth.

  ‘You should know, and this goes no further, mind, the Clunys are under a lot of pressure,’ continued Mum. ‘They’ve had some financial tangles, and there’s nothing like money stress to bring out the worst in a person. Try not to take it personally, Tallulah.’

  She put a bowl of Ben&Jerry’s Phish Food ice cream in front of me and took away my plate. Blue jumped up and came back with a hot handful of Maltesers, which she tipped on top, and Dad reached over and squeezed my shoulder.

  ‘Your hands look bloody awful,’ he said. ‘I’ll get you some Micropore tape to protect them next time you go out, okay?’

  I nodded and bit my lip, staring fixedly at the ice cream. No way on this earth was Pen going to see me cry.

  ‘Oh, FINE!’ yelled Pen suddenly. ‘Sorry, okay? Sorry, sorry, SORREEEE! Helen is a cow and I did actually stand up for you, you know, and money pressure is no excuse for being a bitch.’

  ‘Pen!’ squawked Mum. ‘Blue is sitting right here!’

  ‘Bitch,’ said Blue clearly.

  ‘OH!’ shouted Mum. ‘Now look –’

  ‘Who’s a bitch?’ asked Great-aunt Phoebe appearing in the doorway.

  ‘OH! OH!’ Mum flapped her tea towel at all of us, and we started to laugh. ‘Don’t say that word!’ said Mum to Blue, and she turned back to the dishwasher.

  ‘Hi, Aunt Phoebe,’ said Dad, trying not to laugh as he waved a warning fork at Pen and Blue. ‘Where’ve you been? Pasta’s getting cold.’

  ‘I’ll bung it in the microwave for you, Phoebe,’ said Mum. ‘It’s delicious. Lula is a genius.’

  ‘I’ve been consulting recipes too,’ said Great-aunt Phoebe, throwing me a conspiratorial wink. She sat down and handed Dad a bottle of something clear and fizzy. ‘Your mother’s remedy for stress, Spenser.’

  Pen perked up. ‘Did you get that from her spell book?’

  Great-aunt Phoebe sighed. ‘For the last time, it’s not a spell book. It’s natural remedies, Penelope. I thought your father might be under a lot of stress with the luau coming up and we’d like him to hit this bottle, if at all, rather than any other.’ She threw him a pointed look.

  ‘Yes, yes . . .’ muttered Dad. ‘I’m off the booze, I promise.’

  ‘Are you that stressed about performing at the regatta luau, Spenser?’ asked Mum, handing Great-aunt Phoebe a plate of piping-hot pasta. ‘I thought you were looking forward to it.’

  ‘I am, I am . . .’ said Dad hastily. He pulled the anti-stress bottle closer and scrutinised the label.

  ‘Well, I don’t know why you should be looking forward to it,’ said Pen baldly, ‘with Lula up on stage alongside you, hula hularing in a bikini for all to see.’

  The tissue in my hand clenched instantly into a ball, and the lump in my throat vanished. A bikini? ‘WHAT?’

  ‘Yeah,’ continued Pen. ‘If ever there was going to be anything to make a person drink heavily, it’s got to be Lula ha
lf naked in public.’

  ‘Penelope!’ scolded Mum. ‘Stop that!’ She turned to me. ‘Don’t worry, Lula. You’re going to look lovely. You’re perfectly proportioned.’

  ‘Yes,’ I wailed. ‘Big butt, big stomach –’

  ‘Oh, you have not,’ snapped Great-aunt Phoebe. ‘Just stop it now, girls.’

  ‘– big knockers,’ added Pen, and I let out a squeal of outrage.

  ‘What’s knockers?’ asked Blue.

  ‘NOW,’ said Dad, waving the bottle around with a dramatic expression of anguish, ‘now I’m feeling stressed! Stressed and thirsty!’

  ‘We help you be unthirstly,’ said Blue, slurping up a wiggly spaghetti, then licking the sauce off her chin. She looked round at us all like an old and wise woman, a person we could trust in our darkest hour. ‘I am Daddy’s favouwitest water spwite and I get him fizzy water allatime.’

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Thursday afternoon, dance class

  ‘Stop moaning,’ hissed Alex. ‘Moan, moan, whine, whine! These steps are not hard! This dance is frikking easy! I can’t wait to take Gavin salsifying.’

  ‘My hands hurt,’ I bleated. ‘No one told me rowing is a contact sport!’

  ‘What’s the problem back there?’ shouted Mrs Baldacci.

  I flinched. ‘Er . . . my hands,’ I admitted. ‘I can’t even wave them.’

  Mrs Baldacci threw her own beautifully manicured pair in the air. ‘You! You cannot even wave now?’ She muttered something darkly and I flushed. ‘Concentrate, girls! We must perfect our steps before the boys get here. And I think we must have some music that is live. We cannot just have the recordings, no?’

  ‘Yes, just the recordings,’ I begged under my breath. ‘Don’t make us play instruments too. And no, no boys!’

  ‘Back in a minute!’ proclaimed Mrs Baldacci, and she hurried out of the hall.

  ‘Oh, thank frik,’ I exclaimed, falling to my knees. ‘A break!’

  But a break it was not. It couldn’t be, with Alex haranguing me, and especially not when Mrs B returned with not only a sorry-assed troop of dewy-eyed boys, but ALSO, my FATHER.