Pulling the Moves

by Margaret Clark

  I look at Steve’s van. Maybe …?

  He’s supposed to put it in the driveway but half the time he forgets. Maybe …?

  I try the rear doors. Unlocked. Steve’s usually so fussy, but in the pre-wedding madness he’s forgotten. Good one.

  I climb inside and curl up in the back on an old rug. At least it’s warm in here.

  I drift off …

  ‘Right. Get goin’. Give her the gun.’

  Huh?

  I blink. That’s the roof of a panel van. Where am I? That’s right, Steve’s panel van, I remember now. But what’s happening?

  The motor throbs. We’re moving. Backing down the driveway. Then tyres screech as we roar off up the street. I raise my head, twist, and peer at the driver’s seat.

  There’s a kid I’ve never seen before clutching the wheel, a kid about my age, with a major undercut and braids, wearing a leather jacket. Next to him is a blonde-haired girl, and another dude with long, reddish hair next to her.

  ‘Hey. What’s goin’ on?’ I say.

  They all jump, and the driver, who can hardly see over the steering wheel, shorter than me, turns his head.

  ‘Watch it!’ yells the girl.

  We’re heading straight for an electricity pole. The driver jerks on the wheel and we straighten with a screech of tyres. He’s got to be doing 90 k at least!

  ‘We’ve got a passenger,’ says the kid with the red hair.

  The driver swears and plants his foot. The old panel van groans as he crashes the gears and we bucket around the corner.

  ‘Hey,’ I go, hanging over the seat, getting angry. ‘Who said you could drive this car, mate? Who said …?’

  ‘Shut ya face,’ says the guy with the red hair, twisting round to glare at me.

  I decide to shut it.

  We squeal around another corner and I roll across to the other side, crashing against the panel work with a bone-jarring thump. The girl’s turned right round, leaning over into the back. Under the street lights as we zip round a bend I notice her face. Dead pale.

  ‘Hey,’ I yell. ‘Tell him to stop.’

  She blinks, once, twice.

  ‘Fix him, Zac,’ says the driver.

  The kid with the reddish hair leans over, reaching for me. He’s got two nose rings and the meanest dark brown eyes you ever saw on a kid. I twist away.

  ‘Another word and you’re out,’ he snarls, ‘and we ain’t stoppin’, either. Take ya choice.’

  I think about it. Being pushed out of a speeding van wasn’t how I’d planned to die. And I’m no hero. So I sink back onto the rug and try to get my brain cells to work. Maybe if I jump out when they come to a red light? I sit up again and try to figure where we are. The driver screams out of the side street and onto the highway. He’s burning rubber like there’s no tomorrow.

  ‘Got some grunt in her, eh, Macca,’ goes Zac.

  Should have. Steve dropped in a good reconditioned V8.

  The engine growls like a hungry lion as the driver nods. I catch his eyes in the rear vision mirror and I shudder. He’s on speed for sure, pupils like pinpoints. No reasoning with him if he’s out of his brain on speed. The other guy doesn’t seem so hyped, but Zac’s more … mean. The girl sighs as the panel van rockets down the road. Well, everyone reacts differently on goey, I’ve been told. It’d be better if the dude called Zac was driving, but. He’s still with it. As for Macca … he’s going for the chequered flag, thinks he’s in the Grand Prix. I get a look at the speedo—140 and increasing. I feel my guts tighten and I’m scared I’m going to throw up.

  ‘Handle,’ I tell myself. ‘They’re only kids my age joy-riding, high on drugs. You can outwit them. Stay cool.’

  Macca laughs, a high-pitched, out of control kind of whinny, like a freaked-out horse.

  ‘This is livin’, Cola,’ he goes to the girl.

  Cola? Weird name. And one to remember if I ever get outa this alive. One to tell Steve the Supercop. This is crazy. They’ve pinched a cop’s car!

  Where are we? Ah. There’s the KFC sign. I know where I am. And there’s a set of traffic lights coming up soon. Yessssss. I can see them. Orange. Going to … red. I get ready to bail. I tense as I cautiously crawl back, trying to keep my balance. I reach for the handle and …

  Macca pushes the accelerator flat to the boards and we roar through on the red!

  You know how they say when you’re about to die your whole life flashes before your eyes? Well, it’s true. From birth right up to now like a fast forward movie. Only we don’t all die in a mangled heap of metal. We miss two cars by centimetres and bore on down the highway. What are cars doing out this late? Or early? The clock on the dashboard shows 2:00.

  I shut my eyes and focus on the home front. Has Mum checked to see if her fourteen-year-old son has come home? No way. They’ll think I’m in my room sulking, listening to “Killing Strokes” on my cassette, headphoned so they don’t get woken by the loud music. Or sound asleep in my bed.

  The van bucks and groans as Macca stuffs a gear change. Just as well Steve isn’t here to hear it. He’d turn Cop Blue in the face for sure.

  I’ve had an ordinary life so far, I think, as Macca gets back control. I’m too young to die, yet. I haven’t done anything. Haven’t had sex with a girl. Haven’t bungee jumped, haven’t been snow skiing, been overseas, haven’t even been to Ayers Rock. Haven’t got the top score on “Robocopter” on the video game at Bruisers.

  Haven’t even finished school. Sometimes school’s one big yawn, but it sure beats bashing around in the inside of this van!

  I’ve still got a lot of living to do. I’m s’posed to get a job, dah, dah, di dah dah, get married, have two point three kids and live happily ever after.

  ‘Hey. Slow down, will ya?’ I scream at them. ‘You’re gonna kill us all.’

  But Macca just plants his foot. We’re going 150, a tonne and a half. He must be spinning out of his brain.

  ‘Scared?’ says Cola, turning her head to look at me. She’s got these dark eyes. She looks kind of frail and delicate, and I wonder what she’s doing with these two hoons.

  ‘No.’ My voice breaks. It often does that. She’s right onto it.

  ‘You’re packin’ death,’ she says.

  ‘Am not.’

  ‘Are so. Scared outa ya brain.’

  ‘Dream on,’ I go. ‘You’re the one who’s scared.’

  She blinks, then turns and stares straight ahead.

  ‘Cool it, creep,’ goes Zac, swinging round to stare at me.

  Then he grins. His teeth are brown and broken. He’s got these weird pointy ears. He looks like a rat. ‘Hey, what’s ya name, creep?’

  ‘Sam.’

  ‘Yeah, right. Sam. Now, if ya don’t want ya face rearranged, keep ya mouth shut.’

  ‘But … where are we goin’?’ I say.

  ‘Dunno. Where we goin’, Macca?’

  Macca shrugs.

  ‘Wherever this highway takes us, man.’

  ‘Portland,’ I sigh.

  ‘Where, man?’

  ‘Portland. It’s the furthest city in Victoria, population …’

  ‘Hey. Did I ask for a geography lesson? Did I?’

  Zac’s hand shoots out and grabs the front of my T-shirt, yanking me forward so hard that my nose hits the back of his seat. I see stars. I see his fist raised and now I know I’m going to die!

  ‘Cops,’ goes Cola suddenly.

  I hear the wailing of the siren. Good. Steve’s mates to the rescue. I straighten up.

  ‘Pull over,’ I say to Macca. ‘You can’t outrun the cops.’

  ‘Yeah? Watch me.’

  I can’t believe it. This hoon actually thinks he can outdrive the cops? We’re nearly hitting 180 ks. I didn’t think this shit box Holden could do it, even with the V8. It’s a wonder the wheels haven’t fallen off. The motor’s going to blow up for sure. The engine’s screaming. I can see the blue flashing light coming up fast. The cops are closing in, better car, better dri
ver. This Macca kid’s lost the plot. We’re nearly airborne.

  ‘She’s got real grunt,’ yells Macca, as we zoom off, leaving the cops for dead. No, not dead. That word’s too near the truth. The wailing gets fainter, the flashing blue light fades into the distance as we roar on through the night.

  ‘Yay, that’ll teach ya, pigs,’ goes Zac, as the van bounces and Macca fights to hold onto the wheel. ‘You’ve lost ’em, Macca. They’re ratshit. Let’s go.’

  The cops have given up? But they can’t. They’re supposed to be ace drivers. What’s going on? I sit up just as we rip through another set of red lights.

  ‘Are you colour blind?’ I yell, panic making my voice go squeaky. ‘Don’t you know red means stop? You’ll kill us all. You’re a maniac. And this unit belongs to a cop, and all his mates are going to be after you lot. And tomorrow I have to be at a wedding and …’

  The van lurches and I hit the panel with a thump.

  And this time I really see stars. And planets.

  I wake up. Something’s wrong, that is apart from my aching head. We’ve stopped. I’m groping towards the rear door handle. I’m outa here. But my head’s whirling and I sink back onto the rug and gaze out the window.

  They’re arguing.

  ‘This unit sucks too much juice,’ Macca’s saying.

  In the half light I can see that he’s real skinny. The goey does that to you if you have too much. His leather jacket hangs off him like a tent and he’s got thin legs in tight black jeans poking out underneath, with high-top runners stuck on like two bookends. His face is pale and pinched-looking, with thick eyebrows, a scar across one cheek, a slightly hooked nose, and a thin mouth. I notice his hands begin to shake. Yeah. Coming down. And he’s starting to feel it.

  Zac’s a bigger build, more muscly, with surprisingly brown skin against the red hair, and dark, angry eyes. He’s got a grey army great coat on over blue jeans, and jackboots. I wouldn’t like to get a kick from those. I see tattoos on his hands as he holds them up. He’s got an arrow through a pig’s head, a pro job, and a home-made “ZAC” done with a series of dots.

  They keep arguing.

  ‘Well, ya don’t need this unit, man,’ says Zac.

  ‘Yeah. But I like it.’

  ‘Junk this heap, get that Ford over there.’

  ‘Nah. We’ll milk another car. Come on.’

  I finally figure it. We’re out of juice. The V8’s greedy: sucks it like a thirsty man in a desert. I should know. Steve’s always complaining about the cost of petrol.

  Zac turns and starts walking towards the van. I slide down and lie flat on the rug.

  ‘Hey, Cola,’ says Zac.

  He leans into the car and picks up the steering lock. ‘If Sammy moves, hit him with this. Hard. We’re gettin’ some juice.’

  Great. I really need my brains splattered all over the van. Plus Steve won’t like mess on his panel work. I lie still. Very still.

  Macca and Zac bail. Cola hums tunelessly under her breath, the latest Jam and Spoon number, “I’m Going to Die on the Highway”. Couldn’t she choose something else?

  ‘So. What’s your story?’ she says suddenly.

  I shrug.

  ‘Got into the van for a few zeds. What’s it to you?’

  ‘Nothin’.’

  She whacks the steering lock against the seat. ‘What’s your name?’ she goes.

  ‘You know already. Sam.’

  ‘Sam what?’

  ‘Sam Studley. What’s yours?’

  ‘Cola. Short for Ficola Vanetti.’

  ‘Vacola Finetti? What sorta name’s that?’

  I deliberately stuff it up to annoy her.

  ‘Better’n Sam Studley.’

  She drawls it out. I decide to act friendly. Plus I don’t want my head pulped, although I’ve noticed that her hand’s wobbling. She probably couldn’t hit a fly. She’s not the type to bash someone’s head in: too unsure of herself.

  ‘So, Cola. What’s happening?’

  She shrugs.

  ‘What’s it look like? We’re on the run.’

  She pauses and looks at me.

  ‘How old are you, anyway?’

  ‘Nearly fifteen,’ I lie.

  ‘Yeah? I’m fifteen.’

  ‘You don’t look it.’

  That gets up her nose. She raises the steering lock. Ooops. Maybe I’ve misjudged her.

  Then I hear brmmm, brmmm brmmm. They’ve hot-wired another car. They bring it alongside and I can hear them messing about, probably with a length of hosepipe. I hear liquid gurgling into the tank as I lie on my back staring at Cola staring back at me. She turns away, moves out of my vision.

  ‘We need a full tank,’ says Macca. ‘Grab another car, will ya?’

  More engine noises. Where are we? I raise my head just a bit. Cola’s got her feet up on the dash. She senses my movement and lifts the steering lock menacingly. I sink back, but I’ve caught a glance at where we are: a car yard. Cars full of juice for the taking, like overripe grapes on a vine. The chain around the yard hasn’t stopped this lot. No way.

  ‘Would’ve been easier to swap cars,’ grumbles Zac, who seems to be doing most of the work. ‘Plus the cops’ll be lookin’ for this car, man.’

  ‘Told ya. I like this unit.’

  Macca sounds tired. Starting to come down off the goey. Zac’s already on a downer and sounding testy. I know everyone reacts differently to speed. Some get edgy, some get tired. I wouldn’t like to cross Zac when he’s out there. He’s the sort of guy who’s likely to chuck a psycho. I’ve got to get outa here. I wriggle slowly towards the door. If I wait till they both get back in the van, I can do a quick exit, run like hell, hide amongst the parked cars, raise the alarm …

  I slide carefully down towards the rear till I’m just about …

  Wham!

  The steering lock misses me by centimetres. I freeze.

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ says Cola, as more petrol gurgles into the tank.

  Where the hell is Steve? Where’re the other cops? Haven’t they radioed ahead? Where’s the helicopter? Where’re the roadblocks? We rumble out of the car park and back onto the highway.

  ‘Better take a back road for a while,’ says Zac. ‘Pigs’ll be on the alert, eh. Here, Macca, turn off. We’ll hit the highway later.’

  ‘Where we goin’?’ says Cola.

  ‘I’ve decided. Adelaide.’

  Adelaide? As in the capital of South Australia? I don’t want to go to Adelaide. I’ve got to go to a wedding!

  LEANNE

  I don’t want to get ready for the wedding yet. I think about sleeping in, then look at my bedside clock. 8:00. All right, all right, I’m getting up. I grab my walkman.

  ‘Right, Sam, hit the deck,’ I yell as I walk past his room. I want to bags the bathroom first: I’ve got major defuzz work to do on my armpits and legs. Then Mum and I have to hit the hairdresser’s.

  That’s weird. Sam usually gives this peculiar sort of pig-grunt when he gets woken up. I turn and poke my head into his room. His bed’s empty. Well, maybe he got up early and got his boy-bones organised for a change.

  I get in the bathroom and do my stuff as the Melonballs are singing “All Loved Out”. I wonder what I’d be like as a rock singer? You don’t need to be able to actually sing, just belt out words with a raspy voice. The Divynyls belt out their latest number. I give it a go while I’m under the shower, singing along with Chrissie Amphlett. There’s a pounding on the bathroom door.

  ‘Vaporise, germ,’ I yell to Sam.

  ‘Leanne! Stop mucking around and get out of that bathroom. You’ve been in there for an hour,’ says Mum.

  ‘So? Didn’t know I was on a time clock.’

  ‘Just get out!’

  ‘Okay, okay, don’t get your tits in a tangle.’

  ‘LEANNE!’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘Don’t use that tone of voice with me, young lady. I’ve got enough problems.’

  �
�This is your mother’s special day,’ says Steve’s voice.

  What am I, some sort of emotional waste disposal unit? And what’s he doing here? I thought it was unlucky for the bridegroom to see the bride. Don’t tell me he’s slept over. How gross. I storm out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel.

  ‘Don’t strut around the house naked,’ screams Mum.

  ‘This is naked!’

  I drop the towel and Steve goggles.

  ‘Leanne!’

  I wiggle off to my room and slam the door while Mum screeches about the state of the bathroom. I drag on some gear then stroll out to have breakfast. Mum and Steve are sitting at the table holding hands over their cornflakes. I pretend not to notice. I hope they’re not going to carry on like this after the wedding or I really will do a runner!

  ‘Where’s Sam?’ says Mum.

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Strange. He doesn’t seem to be here. When did you last see him, Leanne?’

  ‘Come on, Mum, when did you last see your brother?’

  ‘When did you!’

  ‘Last night.’

  ‘Leanne, this is important. Sam’s bed doesn’t look like it’s been slept in at all,’ says Steve the Supercop, Detective Supreme.

  ‘Yeah. Right.’ I shove some bread in the toaster.

  ‘Did Sam tell you where he was going?’

  ‘Reality check. Sam doesn’t tell me what he’s doing or where he’s going. He’s my brother, remember?’

  ‘You don’t know where he is?’ says Steve.

  ‘No. I told you already. The kid’s nearly fifteen, he can go where he likes for all I care. I’m not his keeper.’

  ‘So he didn’t say anything?’

  ‘He’s going to consult me?’

  ‘LEANNE!’

  ‘I friggin’ don’t know where the frig he is, right? Stop going on, will ya?’

  ‘LE … ANNE!’

  ‘All right, all right,’ says Steve. ‘This squabbling isn’t getting us anywhere.’

  ‘She started it,’ I go, pointing at Mum.

  ‘And I’m finishing it. If you don’t know where Sam is, that’s fine. Just eat your breakfast,’ says Steve.