Screw Loose (17 page)

‘How did you guess?' asked Georgia.

‘Just sniffed it out. You'd make a great centurion, you know.'

‘Really?'

‘Of course.'

Georgia looked at Tamsin and decided to plunge in, too.

‘Are
you
a lemon as well?'

‘Of course!' Tamsin laughed. ‘But you must be quiet about it.

My mother, you know.'

Georgia nodded. ‘I'm discreet.'

‘I thought you might be lemonish as soon as I saw you standing there in Defarge's office,' Tamsin whispered.

‘Same with me,' said Georgia.

‘Call me Tam – or between you, me and this oak tree, call me Tim!'

Georgia smiled and felt a slow, deep glow inside.
At last!
She looked into Tim's twinkling grey eyes and grabbed her hand.

‘Call me George!' she said.

HIS IMMACULATE
HANDBALLING
SKILLS

A
NGELO WAS IN
his living room trying to work out how to handle the Matilda Grey issue. He had the house to himself and had pumped up the music; he was doing push-ups to the beat and thinking about Zeynep.

When he was playing footy he thought of Zeynep constantly, hoping she was following the play and admiring his fast twists, his clever short passes, his courageous tackles. He couldn't give her up – not those eyes, not that voice. He couldn't let some other guy get her. But she would dump him for sure if he agreed to go out with Matilda. They wanted to make an announcement in the
Herald Sun
. Zeynep would flip. Any girl would.

Today in homeroom he'd arranged all the pencils in her case so that they faced the same way after she'd spilt them on the floor. But he knew that wouldn't save him. What right did Matilda's mother have to make deals with Cockatoos management anyway? He stopped the push-ups and collapsed on the carpet, feeling the pulsing ache in his arms and shoulders.

He loved Zeynep. He needed Zeynep. He loved footy. He needed footy. He grabbed his phone and rang Joshua.

‘Josh, mate!'

‘Angelo?' Josh sounded a bit sad.

‘Man. I'm stuffed. They told me I have to give up Zeynep.

Guess who they've lined me up with? Matilda Grey.'

‘No way! What does Craig Ryan think about that?'

‘They got permission from her mother. Don't know about Craig.'

‘That is so crap.'

‘You're telling me. What do I do?'

‘Ignore it. Angelo, I have a problem, too.'

‘I want to play footy. I want them both – and I don't want Matilda.'

‘Well, don't take some guy's girlfriend. That's dirty. Angelo, can I—'

‘True. But I took yours.'

Josh didn't speak for a moment. ‘That was different. I let you. It was a win-win-win situation.'

‘You're right.'

‘Can't you go out with Zeynep secretly? Just don't tell them.

You hide your relationship from her parents anyway, don't you? It would be easy enough to hide it from those Cockatoo losers, too. Disguise her.'

‘Disguise her? No way. I hate disguises. You know they make me hyperventilate.'

‘Angelo, I've got this big problem, too.'

‘Bigger than mine?'

There was another pause. ‘No, not really.'

Josh did sound a bit stressed. But he was the Supportive Friend – so he should do his duty.

‘So help me,' said Angelo. ‘What do I do?'

‘What if she dresses like a guy? You like girls dressed up like guys.'

‘What? Hey!'

‘That's a bit of a turn-on, you said. I remember.'

That was true. He thought for a bit. ‘Maybe.'

If she said yes, he could handle it like that. Go out with Matilda for show; go out with Zeynep in secret.
Cool
. Would Zeynep handle that? He'd have to be on his best behaviour – put no pressure on her; be happy in the laundry; get into the cupboard without complaint. But it was the solution!

‘Ah, Josh, you're the man. I wish I could think like a gay guy.'

‘It's not exactly…'

‘Josh, man. I owe you big time. Anything.' He felt good again. This was a great idea. ‘See you.' He hung up and lay back on the carpet and smiled.

It was crazy, but it might work – if Zeynep would agree. She could wear her brother's clothes. She could wear his?
Too big.

But hey…
He punched Josh's number again.

‘Josh, do you have any clothes she could wear? You're about the same size.'

‘Yeah, maybe. Listen, how about you—'

‘Cool. Lend her some, will you? See ya.'

He got up. He would go to see good old Zey now. He grabbed a calendar. He looked okay in the photo. Good even. It showed a spotlight shining on him in a darkened room. The fishing tackle was in shadow, thankfully. They'd airbrushed out the little finger.
Angelo Tarano displays his immaculate handballing
skills
. He would take her the calendar to bribe her into dressing up. She'd be rapt to get a picture of her boyfriend handballing. What girl wouldn't?

RULES
FOR HARMONIOUS LIVING

‘I
CAN'T CIVILISE THEM
. Who's got the time?' Chelsea had moaned to Queen Elizabeth I Barbie, a recent and rather domineering purchase. It was Sunday, the day she'd been dreading: Craig and his father were set to move in that very afternoon.

‘I know thou hast the heart of a weak and feeble schoolgirl, yet thou dost have the stomach of an ox!' boomed Queen Elizabeth I Barbie. ‘Go forth and draw up a list of rules.'

So that's what she had done: drawn up her rules for harmonious living. In ten minutes she'd done it.
Rules for
Harmonious Living
, she'd called it. She read it to the Barbies. It received their unanimous support.

Chelsea rolled her rules up like a proclamation and searched for a ribbon. Steppin' Out Barbie offered hers, but it was too small. No matter. She marched downstairs, clutching the document.

Her mother was reclining on a sofa with one of her work folders propped open on her knees. ‘Mother, if Mr Ryan and his son have to live with us—'

Her mother, looking up over her glasses, interrupted: ‘Why don't you call him Tony, Chelsea?' She went back to reading her folder.

Clearly her mother was being deliberately nasty. Chelsea felt like hurling the folder through the plate-glass window – that would get her attention.

‘Mother. I have something to read to you.'

Her mother looked up again.

‘If they have to live with us, I want them to obey these rules.'

Chelsea's mother closed her folder and cocked her head to one side. Chelsea began:

Rules for Harmonious Living
by
Chelsea Dean

1 Chelsea Dean's clothes are never to be washed with the clothes of Annette Dean's current de facto or the de facto's son.

2 No expectorating in bathrooms or on the front lawn.

3 Chelsea Dean's personal assistant has permission to drive the Mercedes in a dire emergency.

4 The Nutbush, the Hokey-Pokey, the Time Warp and all Elvis Presley songs are prohibited, as is dancing to any of them.

5 Tradesmen's vans are not to be parked in front of the house. Nor is the garage to be used for panel beating.

6 Chelsea Dean is to take her meals in her bedroom, on the balcony or in the study.

7 The expression 'yabba dabba doo' is banned.

8 No whistling.

After reading her list, Chelsea raised her eyebrows for a response. Her mother's face showed no emotion, but she asked for the list and read it silently to herself.

‘Remove the words
current de facto
, please. And no, the pool boy cannot drive the car under any circumstances.' She handed it back.

Chelsea was silent. In any negotiation it was wise to concede a point or two in order to get the rest. Besides, it was easy to concede the last point because her father had been distracted on the day he left and she had been able to borrow his car keys.

‘All right,' Chelsea sighed eventually. ‘So long as the rest applies.'

Her mother smiled slyly. ‘I'll think about it,' she said. ‘Have you done your homework?'

Chelsea controlled her desire to push over the drinks table and returned to her room.

‘Death can be quick and painless,' Defence Attorney Barbie reminded her. ‘Allow Ryan Senior to use the spa, then throw in the blow heater.'

‘A dead de facto's the best de facto,' Police Officer Barbie announced.

‘Lock him in the sauna and turn it up to forty degrees,' suggested Titanic Barbie. ‘They never survive.'

‘Chels, the list should be on the fridge door,' Rapunzel Barbie pointed out.

Absolutely. She wasn't going to lie down and accept the situation. The Ryans would have to learn to fit in or they'd have to leave. Chelsea grabbed the list and marched back down the stairs. She could hear her mother on the phone in the study.

She crept closer and listened.

‘…I know, he's been wonderful …very handy…'

It was one of the girlfriends.

‘Yes, his name's Craig
...well they don't get on she's become a right little vixen lately … Vistaview …well, it's given her a chance to lord over a new bunch … no fees to speak of… she's much cheaper to run now.' Her mother laughed. ‘Absolutely. She probably should be hogtied … yes, well you'd need to use a tranquillising dart to stop her…'

That was it! Chelsea stormed into the study and pulled the phone jack out of the wall.

‘CHEAP! VIXEN! HOGTIED! TRANQUILLISING DART
!
' she screamed. ‘You hate me! I'm gone. You'll never see me again! EVER
!
'

ON THE
STREETS

T
HE FIRST DOOR CHIME
was followed by an urgent knock. Grasping Juliet's toothbrush, Zeynep Yarkan hurried to the door. She hoped it was Angelo come to tell her he had resigned from those horrible Hobart Cockatoos. But when she opened the door she found Chelsea Dean, and Chelsea's eyes were red and brimming.

‘Chelsea! What's wrong?'

‘I'm on the streets. My mother is going to hogtie me and shoot me with a tranquillising dart.' She burst into tears. ‘Can I stay here?'

Gripping a Gucci overnight bag with a British Airways sticker and wearing a tracksuit and CK sunglasses, Chelsea looked both tragic and stylish. Zeynep stood back as her friend charged inside. A taxi drew away from the house – fortunately it wasn't her father's.

Except for Angelo, very few school friends had ever visited Zeynep, and she had never encouraged it. Her parents didn't seem to like anyone her own age.

‘Come to the laundry?' Zeynep said as gently as she could and touched poor Chelsea on the shoulder.

‘May I have a tissue, please? Two tissues if you can spare them.'

Zeynep was embarrassed. Her mother never bought tissues.

‘We only have handkerchiefs, Chels.'

Chelsea rolled her damp eyes. ‘Well, I'll have one of your handkerchiefs, I suppose. Is there nowhere else to talk?'

‘The laundry belongs to me now,' said Zeynep. ‘And it's clean.'

Chelsea sighed and Zeynep led the way.

‘Craig and his father' – Chelsea spat the words
his father
as if they were poison – ‘are moving in as we speak. I can't possibly live with them – just imagine the stench of testosterone.'

Zeynep stroked Chelsea's arm and wondered what testosterone smelt like.

Chelsea moaned. ‘I have nowhere to live.' She began to cry again. Zeynep handed over her own handkerchief. Chelsea examined it and blew her nose.

‘Where are your parents?'

‘At my cousins' place.'

Chelsea sat down on Zeynep's homework chair. ‘Zeynep, you're my best friend at Vistaview, so I'm turning to you in my evening of need. Could I have one of those strong Turkish coffees – and something sweet, too. Do you have ice-cream?

I'd like a bowl of toffee ice-cream. I need a sugar hit. It's good for stress.' She looked down at the toothbrush Zeynep still had in her hand. ‘Did I stop you brushing your teeth?'

‘I was brushing Juliet's.'

‘Fur or teeth?'

‘Teeth.'

Chelsea looked away and sighed even more loudly. ‘Well, spit spot with the coffee and ice-cream. I'll be here in your laundry: the perfect place for a guest, I don't think.' She dabbed her eyes.

‘Those coffees are actually for men, Chelsea.'