Don't Call Me Ishmael (14 page)

Two weeks later we were locked in a classroom at Churchill Grammar. I looked out the window. It was three floors down to a hard concrete playground. I'd almost convinced myself that I could survive the jump when the door clicked open.

One of the adjudicators stood in the doorway holding a folded slip of paper. As I was closest, I took it from him and brought it to the table where the others were waiting. Prindabel was pale. Bill Kingsley was disturbingly calm. Orazio was as jumpy and as pumped as the Energiser Rabbit.

‘Here goes nothing,' I said opening the paper, half-expecting to see the words
Death by Lethal Injection.

‘Well? What is it? What's the topic?' they all chorused.

‘The topic is,
That science-fiction and fantasy films have little relevance to the problems facing today's world.'

After a few seconds of silence and quickly exchanged glances, Prindabel was the first to speak. ‘Well that's not
too
bad,' he said slowly with a flicker of hope in his eye. ‘You
know, when you think of actual problems in the world … stuff like AIDS, pollution, global warming … drugs … well, what do movies like
Spiderman
or
Lord of the Rings
or
Harry Potter
or
Star Wars
have to say about those?'

Prindabel's eyes began to flash madly about as if he were seeing ideas leap around inside his head. ‘Yeah … Hey, I know … we can even argue that science-fiction and fantasy movies are just escapes … you know, that they just
distract
us from facing
real
problems … Hey, that could be part of our theme!' Prindabel snatched up a pen and began writing feverishly. ‘Look … we can do this … those movies are totally irrelevant to world problems … here, these could be our three main arguments … first we could say that …'

‘Ignatius. We're
Negative.
We have to argue that science-fiction and fantasy films
are
relevant.'

Prindabel's flurry of writing ground to a halt. Then he turned over his sheet of paper, printed something calmly on the other side and held it up. It said in big capital letters, ‘We're stuffed'.

No one said anything as we each struggled to find a way to rebut the persuasiveness of Prindabel's last point.

‘I reckon science-fiction and fantasy films
are
relevant. You know a lot of them show what could happen in the future if we don't deal with the problems we have today. Bit like a warning. Like, have you ever seen
Gattaca
? … Well, it's about the dangers of cloning and genetic engineering-
Jurassic Park
does that too … and
Terminator
sort of shows the danger of relying too much on machines and computers … Oh, and
Ignatius … you mentioned
Lord of the Rings …
Well, it's about standing up to evil and forgetting about differences and helping each other and about war, and that stuff's relevant today, isn't it? … and even
Spiderman …
couldn't you say it shows how scientific experiments can go wrong and how we have to be careful about …?'

Bill Kingsley stopped, not because he had run out of things to say, but because there were three faces gawking at him as if he had just stepped out of the mother ship.

‘What? What's the matter?'

Razza leant in for a closer look. ‘Who
are
you and what have you done to Bill Kingsley?'

It wasn't just the shock of hearing Bill speak or the fact that he was almost animated that had stunned us–it was more the realisation that what he was saying actually seemed to be making some sense.

‘Bill, what about the other fantasy-type stuff like
Harry Potter?
Do you think that's relevant to … what was it … the problems facing today's world?' I asked, reading from the topic sheet.

‘Well, I guess you could say that part of it's about how power can be used in a good way or a bad way and you could tie that to things like the power that big companies or politicians or dictators have today, I suppose. And Harry himself faces a lot of problems that I reckon would be relevant to a lot of people–you know, like coping with death and trying to fit in when you're different … and bullying. And Ignatius, you said movies like that distract us from facing up to real problems,
but maybe it's good to escape those problems-at least for a while–'cause it might help people cope with them.'

Bill Kingsley blinked and looked from Razza to Prindabel, who stared back at him as if he had just made an elephant appear in the room and they were trying to figure out how he did it.

I wasn't staring, though. I was frantically trying to write down every word Bill Kingsley was saying. ‘Ignatius, Razza, don't just sit there. Ask Bill some more questions about the topic. Argue with him. Just keep him talking.'

‘OK … what about all those superhero dudes with all their special powers?' Razza ventured. ‘What's that got to do with normal people and their problems?'

‘But just about all of the superheroes are normal people most of the time and, like I said, it's how they use those powers that's the thing. And we have powers today that are pretty special and amazing, you know, with all the scientific discoveries going on, so maybe they're relevant because just like them, we have to choose how we're going to use our powers … I guess a bit like choosing between being superheroes or super villains.'

‘All right then,' Prindabel joined in, ‘you said a lot of these movies act as a warning to us today–give us some other examples?'

‘There's heaps. What about
I Robot
and the dangers of artificial intelligence or …'

‘Yeah, that's right,' Razza interrupted, still staring at Bill Kingsley in disbelief, ‘and what about that one where New
York freezes over … you know, the
Morning After
or something …'

‘The Day After Tomorrow?'

‘Yeah, that's it … that's about global warming, isn't it? Cool!'

And that's the way it went for the next twenty minutes. Razza and Prindabel fired in questions and arguments, Bill Kingsley fired back answers and counter-arguments and I wrote it all down. When we didn't seem to be covering new ground I said, ‘I think we've got enough. There's a heap of rebuttal ideas, and I can divide Bill's main points up between the first and second speakers.'

‘Who
are
the first and second speakers?' Razza asked. ‘And who's taking Scobie's place?'

Prindabel shook his head. ‘Look, I'll go first speaker if you want me to, I will, but this isn't really my sort of topic. I mean it–I'd be better on the opposition's side. I really think Ishmael should be first speaker. He knows the team case-he's the one who's put it all together. Orazio, you should go second, and that leaves … Bill at third.'

‘Kingsley taking Scobie's place? No way, man. Have you forgotten that he can't rebut? And you want to put him in third speaker where that's exactly what he'll have to do–for just about his entire speech? No offence, Kingsley, but I don't think saying, “That's quite a good point, actually,” is going to be enough to blow Preston's case out of the water. You're mad, Prindabel. Tell him, Ishmael.'

‘I think Ignatius is right.'

Razza threw up his hands as if the world had turned insane.

‘Look, we can't waste time on this,' I said. ‘I should be first speaker because I know the overview of our case. Razza, you've been second speaker in three debates, so you should stick with that. That leaves third speaker. Ignatius has done his bit by helping us predict the opposition's arguments and giving us all the scientific stuff, but if it wasn't for Bill here we really would be stuffed. And you're wrong, Razza, he
can
rebut-maybe he hasn't ever done it before, but he's just spent the last twenty minutes rebutting everything you threw at him. He should be third speaker. This is his debate. And … I think he should be captain tonight, as well.'

‘Fine by me.'

That was the easy part. Prindabel would agree with anything if it meant he didn't have to debate. All our eyes were now on Razza. He looked at me and then at Prindabel before turning patronisingly to Bill Kingsley.

‘Billy Boy, you do appreciate the
seriousness
of the situation don't you–third speaker against Preston College …
Preston?
Remember what Prindabel said about drowning in our own offal? Well, that could be you. Do you understand how that would be a
bad
thing?'

Bill Kingsley glanced up at Razza. ‘Sure … even someone who had their brain removed by aliens and replaced with sludge could see that.'

Razza frowned. ‘It could be very ugly out there.'

Bill nodded. ‘It could be offal.'

Had Bill Kingsley made a joke? Nah, we must have misheard.

‘Don't you care?' Razza asked in exasperation. ‘This isn't some movie, you know. We're not part of some whacky fellowship on some stupid quest. This is real. Aren't you just a teensy weensy bit … concerned? … worried? … nervous? … apprehensive? … scared shitless?'

‘Of course,' Bill said. ‘Look, I'll do whatever you want. If you just want me to be chair, that's fine. If you want me to go third speaker, that's fine too. I can't do what Scobie does … but I'll give it a go. Oh, and Orazio … I know we're not headed for Mount Doom or anything, but we
are
on a bit of a quest, aren't we? Maybe we're even some sort of a fellowship.'

Razza sprawled back in his seat and shook his head slowly from side to side as if nothing made sense to him any more. Finally he stood up, leant over the table and placed his hand on Bill's shoulder.

I held my breath. I had a terrible feeling that Orazio Zorzotto's razor-sharp wit was about to slice Bill Kingsley in two.

‘A quest, you reckon? … And a fellowship?'

Bill shrugged and nodded slightly.

Razza fixed his eyes on the large form before him. ‘Then I will follow you,' he said solemnly, ‘my brother … my
captain …
my … Kingsley.'

At seven twenty–five we entered the debating room and took our seats. For the last half-hour we had frantically written up palm cards and tried to get the key arguments in our minds. Now the horrible reality of what was about to happen hit home. The room was full. As well as an army of Preston supporters and the three adjudicators, St Daniel's was represented by my parents and Prue, along with Mr and Mrs Prindabel, Prindabel's sister, Mrs Zorzotto, Mr Kingsley, Miss Tarango, Brother Jerome and one of the school prefects.

I checked out the Preston team. Two girls and a boy sat opposite in dark coats and ties, staring at us like undertakers. It wasn't hard to work out whose funeral it was going to be.

Razza nudged my arm and passed a note. It said,
If you're thinking of going the grope again–the hot blonde is mine!
I gave him my best pained smile and looked down at Bill Kingsley. He was rocking back and forth and frowning. I didn't know if that was good or bad.

‘Ladies and gendemen …'

I jumped as Prindabel's voice cut across the room like a laser and the card Razza had just given me nicked from my hands, leapt into the air and sailed back over my head. I picked up my notes and drilled my eyes into them while my cheeks sizzled with embarrassment. The nightmare of the last debate came flooding back as I felt the whole room leaning in on me. I didn't really take in another word Prindabel said until he called on the first speaker for Preston, Razza's hot blonde, to start the debate.

It was obvious after about ten seconds that she was going to be way better than me. But the thing was, she wasn't perfect. She even looked a little nervous, and a couple of times she got a bit tangled up. I guess the short preparation ordeal was nerve-racking even for Preston kids. I listened to her team outline and her main arguments and, thanks to Bill Kingsley, I knew I had a number of rebuttal points.

‘… and that is why science-fiction and fantasy films have little relevance to the problems facing today's world.'

She sat down. A cement mixer had started up and was sloshing and churning away in my stomach. I waited as the adjudicators scribbled down notes and filled in their cards. Finally they exchanged glances and one of them nodded at Prindabel. This was it. The doors of the plane had burst open and I was looking down at the patchwork of land far below, wondering if I had remembered to pack my parachute.

‘… first speaker for the Negative, Ishmael Leseur.'

I stood up and walked to the front of the room. I forced
myself to make eye contact with the audience. Mum stared, white-faced, as if I were about to perform open-heart surgery on myself with a blunt axe. Dad desperately tried to master the it's-no-big-deal-you'll-be-fine kind of expression but ended up looking as if he was having some kind of spasm. Prue suddenly seemed intensely interested in her fingers. Miss Tarango wrinkled her nose and nodded, and then turned the dimples on high beam.

I looked down at my first palm card. This time I had written out the topic word for word so there would be no repeat of the last debacle. Then I noticed that something was scribbled below it. It said,
You da man, Ishmael! (Did you check your pants? Is Elvis in the undies?)

I smiled, took a deep breath and began …

And would you believe it, when I'd finished, the entire audience stood and cheered and showered me with streamers and rose petals, and then the opposition team wept and conceded defeat and the adjudicators hoisted me on their shoulders and paraded me triumphantly around the room while I blew kisses, and on the front page of the paper the next day they wrote that I had made Martin Luther King's ‘I have a dream' speech sound like a kindergarten recital and then the prime minister rang and begged me to be his PR man and the Pope …

No, I guess you wouldn't believe that, would you? You're right. To tell the truth, I was pretty ordinary. But I did manage somehow to mumble and stumble my way through, and I even succeeded in tearing my eyes from my palm cards and
flashing them at the audience a few times. Not only that, I made it past the three-minute warning bell (though when it rang I got such a fright my voice cracked like a strangled chook's and all the atoms in my body leapt apart for a nanosecond before clashing back together). Maybe I wasn't that brilliant, but on the positive side, I
had
remained conscious the entire time, I hadn't sexually assaulted a member of the opposition, and none of the world's most influential people had made a grand entrance via my shorts. Yeah, all in all, I was pretty stoked.

I sat down with the last of the applause still clattering around me. Razza punched my shoulder and gave me some sort of weird handshake. Bill Kingsley patted me firmly on the back. I looked around the room. All the St Daniel's supporters were smiling and nodding at me like those little dogs in the back of cars. My parachute had finally exploded open and was yanking me into the clear blue sky.

It was only after the second speakers had completed their speeches that a startling thought began to take shape in my mind. We were actually doing all right. We weren't winning, of course, but we weren't getting thrashed, either. The way I saw it, the opposition were better speakers than us, but thanks to Bill, I thought we had a stronger case and better rebuttal. Amazingly, their second speaker didn't quite make the three-minute bell.

Even Razza seemed to sense something was happening and tried to put a lid on the jokes and smart comments. Only once did he stray, when he was making a point about how fantasies
help people cope with real-life problems. ‘Everyone needs fantasy. “We all fantasise some time. I know
I'll
be fantasising tonight,' he said, leering at a certain Preston girl. I think ‘mortified' is the word my mum would have used to describe her expression. But, apart from that little indiscretion, Razza stuck to the script and poured on the charm and flashed that winning smile as only the Big Z could.

The third speaker for Preston was confident, efficient and clinical. She was a definite future PM. Razza and I exchanged an oh-well-we-were-in-it-for-a-moment sort of look. Bill Kingsley was too busy to notice. He was listening intently. Every so often he would frown, shake his head vigorously as if he had taken some comment by the opposition as nothing less than a personal affront, and busily write on his palm cards in incredibly small print. By the time the third speaker had finished, Bill had become so agitated that he stood up and went straight to the front of the room before she had even made it back to her seat. There he remained, tapping his palm cards and staring impatiently at the adjudicators. Finally they gave the signal.

‘To conclude the debate I would like to call …'

But Prindabel got no further. Bill Kingsley launched himself into his speech like a downhill skier. ‘How can the Affirmative team say that science-fiction and fantasy films have little relevance to the problems facing today's world? Look at the arguments my team has presented …'

For the next four minutes Bill Kingsley argued and persuaded as if he had been waiting all his life just to make this
speech. First he piled our main points one on top of the other until they seemed like a stone fortress, and then he cut through the opposition's case like a light sabre through butter. About two minutes in, he dumped his palm cards on the chair's desk in frustration and continued without missing a beat. Soon the three-minute bell came and went and then the final four-minute bell rang twice. Just when it looked as if Bill Kingsley was as unstoppable as a runaway truck, Razza sneezed with all the force of an air-to-ground missile, ‘Aaaaaats-ennuuuufffff!'

Brother Jerome glared. The adjudicators raised their eyebrows.

Razza searched innocently for his handkerchief.

But it worked. Bill Kingsley stopped mid-sentence and looked around at the audience. ‘In conclusion … science-fiction and fantasy are not just
relevant
to today's world, my team has shown tonight that they are
crucial.
In fact, it could be argued that once we
stop
imagining the future or stop fantasising about worlds different from the one we have today … that's when our real problems will
start.'

Bill Kingsley nodded earnestly, as if he was satisfied he had said his piece, and turned to go. Then the room erupted and the applause thundered on as he sat down. It was led by Razza, who was on his feet, whistling and whooping. I'm pretty sure this was a breach in debating etiquette, but the adjudicators were sharing a sly smile, so I hoped it would be overlooked.

There was nothing to do now but wait. A quiet murmur slid around the room while the adjudicators tallied their marks and conferred. The Preston team looked a little rattled. They
were whispering together, shaking their heads at times and shrugging their shoulders.

Razza nudged me in the ribs and jerked his head towards Bill Kingsley, who was gazing into space beside him. I knew what Razza was getting at. Bill looked different somehow. It must have been the smile on his face.

And the decision? Well, sorry, no Mighty Ducks' ending here. We lost the debate by one point. Two judges gave it to Preston by a point and one judge awarded a one-point victory to us. It was as close as that.

The thing was, though, none of us really cared. Honestly. We'd fronted up and given it our best shot. We hadn't drowned in our own offal. In fact, we had almost pulled off the impossible. We were happy with that. I think we all knew Preston were the better team and deserved to be in the final. We just got lucky with the topic.

I still think about that night all the time–I remember how everyone was smiling and congratulating us and saying how proud they were, just as if we had won. Brother Jerome even called us ‘true St Daniel's men'. And I remember how the Preston team came up and told us that they thought they had lost and we joked and talked together for a while and promised we would come and support them in the final. It was strange, but underneath all their coats and ties and braid and badges and stuff, they didn't seem that much different from us. And I remember, too, how Razza spent most of the time with his arm draped around Bill Kingsley's shoulder telling anyone who would listen, ‘I taught him everything he knows,' until
Brother Jerome said in his sternest voice, ‘Just as long as you didn't teach him how to sneeze, Mr Zorzotto.' That broke everyone up.

But my favourite bit? My very favourite bit was when Miss Tarango came up to us and said, ‘You guys rock, you know that? You're my absolute heroes,' and gave us each a hug. Razza winked at me and whispered, ‘She wants me,' and laughed because even he didn't believe it. And then Miss Tarango stood right in front of Bill Kingsley and shook her head and said, ‘Billy, what can I say? Outstanding. You are my Jedi knight in shining armour,' and Bill Kingsley seemed to swell up so much it looked as if he might explode.

I thought that night was going to be a disaster, but it ended up as one of the best nights of my life. The only way it could have been better was if Scobie could have been there to share it with us. I wondered about him later on as I lay in bed, too hyped up for sleep. What was he up to? Why hadn't he come back at the start of the term and what was he doing in Sydney with his father?

I just wished I knew what was going on.

The next day a letter arrived for me addressed in big, backward-sloping loopy writing. I guess sometimes you really should be careful what you wish for.