Drop (11 page)

A hand shakes my shoulder.

“Huh?” I say, pulled back to reality.

Even though the lesson is almost over, my pen has yet to touch my Biology book. Lately my brain seems stuck on a Finn Masterson loop. I glance at the board: The Role of Micro-organisms in Recycling Chemical Elements in Ecosystems. I catch Miss Tillsman’s eye, then frantically scribble, anything, so she thinks I’m working.

“I asked if you wanted to come with us to see the Lovettes on Friday night?” Lauren says.

I really should start paying attention. “Oh, yeah, sure. Who are the Lovettes?”

“They’re a Motown revival band. Like the Supremes,” Sienna chips in, “but don’t let that put you off. It’ll be good. The organizers do up the hall like a sixties dance and there’s even a tin-can diner outside. Everyone dresses up. I’ve got a black and white polka-dot dress and three red petticoats to go under it. It’s going to be like, skinny, skinny, skinny,” Sienna runs her hands down her torso, “and then BAM, out at the waist in a skirt explosion.”

“Isn’t that more fifties?” Lauren asks.

“It’s more awesome, is what it is. Carla, you have to come.”

“Hmm,” I nod.

“And Gabriel Grayson is going to be there. Naked.”

“Sounds cool,” I say, drawing butterflies in my Biology book.

“Carla! Are you even listening?”

“Sorry. I, um, yeah, the Lovettes. Sixties dance. Friday.”

“Yeah. Seven o’clock. Do you want to come by my house first to get ready? Say, five?”

“You need two hours to get ready?” Lauren raises an eyebrow.

“I’ll have you know I don’t just wake up looking like this. Like some people. You look like you only need two minutes to get ready.”

“Ten minutes, actually. Four minutes of teeth-cleaning, two minutes of face-washing, one minute doing my hair, three minutes to eat breakfast.”

“How very regimented. I bet you have a timer. Carla, I can do your hair in a beehive.”

“Not a chance. But I will come.”

Miss Tillsman returns this week’s test. I shove it in my bag without even looking at the mark. The bell rings for the end of the day.

I’m just turning into the park after school on Tuesday when POW, here he is, breathless from running. That’s sweet. He was trying to catch up with
me.

“Carla, there’s a big party on Friday at Fat Mike’s house. You know the hefty guy that looks like he’ll burst out of his shirt like the Hulk?” I know who he means. “Um, yeah, so you should come.” Finn swings around so he’s in front of me, walking backwards.

“Yeah, I guess, maybe…”

Friday night. Damn it. FRIDAY night. The dance.

“Come!”

I need to stall.

“I’ll have to ask my p—” And then I stop. Am I actually going to say:
I’ll have to ask my parents
?!

Can’t say no, though, can I? I’ll find a way to be there. I’ll find a way if it means picking up the house, transferring it next door to Mike’s and climbing undetected through the attic space. “I’ll be there,” I say, in my best nonchalant voice.

“I knew you wouldn’t take much convincing, tiger. Got to go, majorly late.”

“Late for what? Off somewhere interesting?”

Finn shrugs, winks, spins around again and bounces off down the road.

What am I going to tell Lauren and Sienna?

Sugar. Flour. Eggs. Milk. Butter. I’m weighing out ingredients for a “please let me go out on Friday night” cake, but I’m undecided which event I’ll be attending.

No-brainer: I agreed to the dance before I got the invitation from Finn. So the dance it is.

No-brainer: I’ve been personally invited to Fat Mike’s party. I have my foot in the door; it could open to reveal a whole new me.

I scan the recipe, our family iPad propped against a jar of coffee granules. Equal quantities of butter, flour and sugar, it says.

Our retro scales are more for decoration than cooking. They have a cream-coloured base and a white dial with a red hand that swings across its black digits. I fill its silver bowl with flour, stirring up a white cloud. Let’s think about the pros:

I guess it all boils down to this:

I
said
I’d go vs I
want
to go.

I pour the flour into the mixing bowl, replace the silver bowl on the scales and set about weighing the sugar.

Intelligent
and
popular. In equal measure.

I think about what it would be like to dance with Finn, to have him swing me around, graze my hips with his hands. To lean in and … and…

The sugar cascades over the rim of the bowl. Am I a terrible person for wanting this?

“You’re not going.” Mum sinks a ship in my gut.

“Come on, I’m old enough to stay out. On a Friday.”

“Carla, be sensible. You hardly know these people. They could be up to anything.”

“I know, if only I could get to know them better through some kind of social gathering, like a party, on a Friday night…”

“What’s got into you?” She glares at me with these bulgy, fiery eyes. “You have coursework. And exams.” Her face goes all birdlike and scary for a second, then relaxes.

“I got an
A
in my Biology test.” Three in a row. Opened it when I got home.

“Fine. Ask your dad.”

That’s practically a yes. Carla 1. Mum 0.

I’ve got an Art assignment due in on Monday, but Dad doesn’t have to know that. Besides there’s the whole of Saturday and Sunday to work.

I find Dad in the lounge, reading the paper.

“I have to go, I
have
to go.” I push down the newspaper and practically shove a slice of Victoria sponge in his face. I’m being cheeky, but he doesn’t mind. “Eat the cake. It’s special, ‘please let me go out on Friday night’ cake.” He melts like butter. Not like I’m manipulating or taking advantage; he just understands. “How else am I supposed to fit in and make friends?”

“What did Mum say?”

“She did her crazy fire eyes and played the schoolwork card. Then she said to ask you.”

“She’s stressed, love, with the new job and everything. And she wants you to do well. So do I. But…” He does his zero-gravity eyebrow trick. The little brown tufts reach the summit of Mount Dad. He puts down the paper and takes the cake. Sighs. He takes a bite of yellow sponge. “You
will
be sensible, won’t you?”

“Course. Aside from the alcohol abuse, drug-taking and casual sex, I’ll be a regular little Virgin Mary.” I love joking with Dad. He’s like the anti-Mum. He knows I’m messing around. He
knows
I’m being sarky.

“Be good, Carla.”

“I will.” He does the eyebrows thing again, questioning me. “I
will
, Dad,” I say.

I’M GOING TO THE PARTY!

This is possibly the best day of my life so far. I’m not only going to the party, but Finn’s picking me up and we’re going together. I mean, I don’t know if it’s a date or anything. We have to go with his brother, Isaac, who’s driving, and I think we’re taking Slinky, too. But Finn asked me to go with them and he seemed pretty fired up, and oh, I can’t wait! Butterflies, butterflies, butterflies, flying around in my stomach…

On our way to Fat Mike’s place, Finn passes me a beer. I down it. I guess I’m nervous about going with him, meeting new people, fitting in, et cetera, but mostly I’m excited.

“Got any more?” I ask Finn.

“Plenty more where that came from.” He chucks me another.

In the rear-view mirror, I catch Isaac’s eyes on me. They flick away instantly.
He’s a cautious driver, looking out the back window, right?

The bass from Mike’s place is pounding, his house a huge sound dock, a giant, thumping street-speaker.

I knock on the door. Mike answers.

“Hey, guys.” He nods at Finn, Isaac and Slinky. “Mastersons. Mr Slink. Get in here. Miss Carla. Welcome, one and all.”

We’re hit by a wall of sound. Wonderful noise. Liquid music. A flowing stream of happiness. Outside was heavy with vibrations, but inside, inside it’s melodic bliss. You know what? I’ve never felt this way about music before. Actually I’ve never really been into music. Sure, I listen to the radio, when I’m revising or whatever, but if anyone asks me what type of music I’m into, “Uh, all sorts, I guess,” is my standard response. Not any more.

The bass is making the whole place hum and I’m humming with it. Like all of us here are connected by an electric charge that keeps sparking, beat after beat, pulse after pulse. I feel the music running through me like a current. The beat repeats, building to a crescendo until I think it can’t get any more intense, then, BOOM, a new mix of other-worldly sounds drops, pulsating my ears with pleasure.

I’ve heard this type of music before but never really “got” it. It was just a load of electronic white noise, but now it seems so much more. Maybe it’s the beer or the masses of people or the fact that I’m at a party at all, but some cosmic alignment has come into play and the music finally makes sense. I feel joy in my core. I’m pumped. It’s like I’ve been trying to pick a lock with a matchstick. The pins weren’t aligned. I didn’t understand the mechanism. I didn’t have the tools. But now Finn has given me the key to a whole new world.

In the front room, Finn grabs me around the waist and tries to rape my ear with his tongue.

“Get off!” I shout, fake pissed off. But it’s actually kind of funny.

Isaac throws me another look.

Nothing’s really happened between me and Finn yet. Maybe Isaac’s scoping me out to make sure I’m good enough for his baby brother. What does he make of me?

For that matter, what does Finn make of me? Does
he
think it’s a date?

The answer is beer. Ninety per cent of what people joke about when intoxicated is an expression of their true feelings. Beer will produce clarity. Questions to answer during an alcohol-induced confidence boost:

1. Is this a date?

2. Why is Isaac glaring at me?

3.
Is this a date?

“I’ll get us some drinks,” Finn says, his hands on my hips, his face close to mine. He lets go and starts to duck and weave through the crowd. I wish he’d take my hand and lead me, protect me, but he doesn’t. He forges ahead into the mass of people, but the feel of his hands on me still lingers.
Mmmm
, warm, weird and
aaahhh
… the combination of the beat, beer and hands makes me tingle. I feel a little high. I want more.

I want Finn.

It’s a big house with big rooms and a big crowd. I swing around in the mix of moving bodies, and feel like I’m being sucked into a hot vortex. The music jumps. A body knocks my bag off my shoulder and I sink to the ground to find it. Sweat forms on my neck. Legs tower around like I’m in the undergrowth of a living, dancing rainforest.