Stagefright (5 page)

“It was written 400 years ago.” Velvet was pleased to be able to show off her literary knowledge.

“Yeah?”

“People spoke differently then.”

“You mean people actually went around saying stuff like ‘Good time of day unto your royal grace’ instead of ‘wassup’?”

“I don’t know, Drago. I suppose so.”

“Come on, guys, let’s concentrate on this.” Mr MacDonald started pacing around like a real teacher. “The first scene is called a soliloquy because Richard is talking to himself. He’s got an inferiority complex. He’s got a hunched back and a withered hand. Women think he’s creepy. He’s also got a popular hunk of a brother.”

“King Edward,” Velvet said.

“Right. Richard’s angry. He wishes the war wasn’t over. He was victorious in battle. A hero. He was happier fighting battles than going to polite social functions. So what does he do?”

“Talks to himself.”

“Yes, but what is he plotting while he’s talking to himself?”

“Ummm.”

“Velvet?”

“He wants to be king. But he’s the youngest so he has to get rid of his brothers first.”

Jesus peered at the play. “How’d you work that out?”

“Velvet’s right. He makes his brother Edward, the king, suspect that Clarence …”

“Who’s he?” Drago was having trouble understanding the play.

“The other brother,” Velvet explained.

“Richard fools King Edward into thinking that their brother Clarence wants to be king and is about to kill his young sons,” Mr MacDonald continued. “Why does Richard want to do that?”

The cultural studies students studied the photocopies with furrowed brows.

“’Cos he’s a creep?”

“’Cos he wants to be king himself?”

“You’re both right. He does want to be king, but it’s also partly to get his own back. No one likes him. ‘Since I cannot be a lover, I am determined to prove a villain.’”

“He’s misunderstood.”

“Yes. Because he’s ugly, people expect him to be mean. So he’s going to oblige them.”

Someone coughed.

Everyone looked up and realised that Mr Kislinski, true to his nickname, had crept into the room unnoticed. He looked disappointed. They were all studying the play. Even Drago.

“Coming along I see.”

No one spoke. Mr Kislinski smiled and edged back out of the door. The class returned its attention to the photocopies.

“I don’t see how we can write a song about this stuff.”

“No one asked you to write a song, Jesus.”

“Taleb? What do you reckon?”

“I dunno. Lots of songs are about guys saying that no one understands them.” He played a few sad-sounding notes on his guitar. “I’ll have a go.”

“Great, you can work on it over the holidays.”

When Velvet returned to school after the term break, there was a crowd outside the gym. Velvet knew the students at Yarrabank were keen on physical fitness, but surely they weren’t so eager they were queuing up to get into the gym on the first day of term? Then she saw Roula and Hailie in the crowd, and she knew that couldn’t be the reason. Her curiosity got the better of her. She pushed her way towards them.

“What’s going on?”

Hailie pointed to the gym wall. Someone had graffitied it over the holidays. Red letters a metre high proclaimed SLINKY STINKS.

“Bet you five bucks it was Drago,” Roula said.

“How do you know?”

“It’s just the sort of thing he’d do.”

Hailie’s ankle was out of plaster.

“You’re not wearing your snob-school uniform,” she observed.

Velvet’s looked down at the secondhand polyester dress and the purple polar fleece hoodie she was now forced to wear. Her mother had sold her St Theresa’s uniform during the holidays.

Normally, Velvet and her parents spent the first-term break at their holiday house in Port Douglas, but they’d sold that. She’d hoped to spend a lot of time with Rhiannon, Ashleigh and Clara-Louise, her friends from St Theresa’s. But Rhiannon and Clara-Louise went on music camp and Ashleigh had gone to Cambodia with her family. They’d only got together once.

Over the holidays, Velvet had had one small success. She had begged her parents to let her have a private music tutor outside school hours, but they’d said they couldn’t afford it. Mr MacDonald, Velvet had discovered, used to be Yarrabank’s music teacher before the music program had been axed so that funds could be diverted to the gym refurbishment. He still took instrument lessons at lunchtime. She had managed to talk her parents into forking out for a term of lunchtime piano tuition.

Only a handful of Yarrabank students took the extra-curricular music classes, so there were plenty of free sessions on Mr MacDonald’s timetable.

When Velvet arrived in T6 for her first lesson, she was surprised to find Taleb there.

“I wouldn’t have thought you needed music lessons.”

“I don’t.”

“So what are you doing here?”

“I’m taking this class.”

“You mean you’re teaching it?”

Velvet looked around. She was the only student who had turned up. “Where’s Mr Mac?”

“He’s got a dental appointment.”

Taleb indicated a dusty upright piano. “How good are you?”

“I’ve passed my Grade 7 Exam.”

“That means nothing to me. Play something.”

For some reason, Velvet was nervous playing in front of Taleb. She’d brought some sheet music with her –
Easy Piano: Andrew Lloyd Webber
. She played a bit of “Memory” from
Cats
.

Taleb looked like he’d just swallowed something unpleasant.

“I’m a bit rusty because we had to sell our piano,” Velvet said.

Taleb rummaged through a pile of sheet music.

“Clarinet is my first instrument.” Velvet didn’t know why she felt the need to explain herself to Taleb.

“Try this. This is probably your sort of thing, since you don’t know any music from this century.”

He handed her some sheet music. It was
The Best of Simon and Garfunkel
. Velvet opened it to the first song, “The Sound of Silence” and struggled through a few bars.

“I can’t play something just like that, without practising.”

“So practise. Do it again.”

She started again.

“Your fingers are too stiff,” Taleb said. “Loosen them up.”

Velvet stopped in the middle of a bar.

“Don’t talk to me while I’m playing! I can’t play and listen to you at the same time.”

Mr MacDonald returned from the dentist with a swollen jaw. He collapsed onto a chair, moaning.

Taleb picked up his guitar and started playing “The Sound of Silence”. He played it perfectly. He swapped to a country and western version, then a heavy metal version and finally a syncopated jazz version. He was a talented guitarist, but that didn’t mean he was any good at teaching piano.

“I don’t think I’ll take lunchtime music after all.”

“You need all the practice you can get,” Taleb said.

“Yeah, well we can’t all be musical geniuses.” Velvet stuffed her Andrew Lloyd Webber book in her bag. “If I was a great pianist, I wouldn’t need lessons.”

She stomped out of the room, thinking how pleased her mother would be that she was saving her the thirty dollars a week it would have cost for piano class.

Mr MacDonald’s enthusiasm for the performance had worn off over the holidays. He came into the cultural studies class with the employment section of the newspaper under his arm, and asked Peter to show him where to look up jobs on the internet.

“Aren’t you going to help us with the play, sir?” Jesus asked.

“I’ve started you off. You can carry on by yourselves.”

“But we need someone to tell us what to do,” Roula said.

“Yeah, like in the movies,” Jesus said.

“We need a director!”

“I need coffee,” Mr MacDonald said. “Can someone get me one from the staffroom?”

No one volunteered.

“Velvet, you’ve done drama.” Mr MacDonald put down his newspaper and went to the door. “You can be the director.”

“I played a non-speaking schoolgirl in
The Mikado
!”

“Come on, Mr Mac.” Even Peter failed to persuade him.

Mr MacDonald shut the door behind him.

Velvet wasn’t about to let everything fall in a heap. “We can do it by ourselves.”

“You just want to be in charge,” Drago said.

“Someone’s got to get organised.” Velvet took a folder from her bag. “Over the holidays, I listened to some music to get inspiration and …” She opened the folder. Her copy of the play was inside. “I made some notes.”

“You would.”

“Seriously. You’re such a try-hard, Velvet.”

Velvet had had plenty of time to think about the school play over the holidays. “Are we going to do it or not?”

“Yeah, we’re going to do it, ’cos we have to,” Peter said, “but we don’t have to be enthusiastic about it.”

“Did everybody read the play?” Velvet asked.

Silence.

Velvet’s photocopy had bits highlighted in magenta. “Did
anybody
read the play?”

“I don’t do schoolwork in the holidays,” Hailie said. “Ever.”

“What’s the point? I give up.”

“Come on, Corduroy, don’t sulk. What else have you got in your fancy folder?” Drago snatched it out of her hand.

“Give it back.”

Drago peered at Velvet’s notes and then handed the folder to Peter to read.

“Overture, chorus. Scene one, Richard’s song. Scene two, murder of Clarence. Murderers sing funny song.”

“Give it back!”

“Let’s see what music she’s been listening to.” Taleb picked up Velvet’s phone and opened iTunes. “
Phantom of the Opera
!”

“I was just listening to it to get ideas. What’s wrong with that?”

“It’s sickly rubbish.”

“It’s famous.”

“It’s crap!”

Velvet had seen the stage production three times, and lost count of how many times she’d watched the DVD.

“I suppose the fact that millions of people went to see it means nothing?”

Velvet and Taleb were facing each other – Velvet with her hands on her hips, Taleb with his arms folded.

“Just because you can play a couple of classical pieces on the piano doesn’t make you a musician.”

“So you’re a musical maestro, are you? You don’t need to learn anything.”

The others sat mesmerised, as if they were watching a play. Mr MacDonald came back with a mug of coffee, ignored the noise and sat down at his favourite desk at the back of the room.

“I know I’m not a proper musician,” Velvet said. “But I passed my Grade 7 piano exam, and I was runner up in the Theodora Craddock Award for musical achievement at St Theresa’s last year!”

“That means you know how to copy other people’s music.” One of the little fluorescent-pink rubber bands that hooked Taleb’s top braces to his bottom braces pinged off and hit Velvet on the cheek. “You don’t know anything about creating music.”

“Those awful noises you make with your guitar aren’t music. Anybody could do that!” Velvet snatched back her phone. “If you’re so clever let’s hear what you’ve done over the holidays.”

Taleb picked up his guitar. Instead of the purple electric one, he had an acoustic guitar. He sat on a desk and tuned it. Velvet glared at Mr MacDonald, who hadn’t done anything to support her. Taleb played an opening melody and then started to sing.

“
Now winter turns to summer and the sun begins to shine
.

Every face you see is smiling, every face that is but mine
.

For I am not a pretty boy
.

My face is not my pride
.

When I smile at a woman
,

She turns her head aside
.”

Taleb didn’t have a great voice but it was a catchy melody and he sang in tune.

“
Now the gruelling war is over, I should celebrate the peace
.

But I can’t stop from wishing that the fighting didn’t cease
.

For I am not a pretty boy
.

My face is not my pride
.

When I smile at a woman
,

She turns her head aside
.”

After the second verse he gained confidence and his voice seemed to brighten the dingy classroom.

“
In the war I was a hero, everybody called my name
.

But the battle cry has faded and with it went my fame
.”

He sang the chorus again and finished with a plaintive guitar melody.

Everyone sat in silence. Now that his anger had disappeared, Taleb was too uncomfortable to look at them.

Mr MacDonald was paying attention again. “I think we have our musical director.”

“That was beautiful, Taleb,” Hailie said.

“Yeah,” Roula said, “like a proper song.”

“I have to work on the riff a bit.” He twiddled the tuning pegs.

Jesus punched him in the arm. “I didn’t know you could sing.”

Taleb shrugged and tucked a wayward strand of hair behind his ear.

“We’ve made a start.” Mr MacDonald sounded surprised.

Everyone nodded.

At home time the others were all out of the door before the bell had finished ringing, except for Taleb who was putting his guitar into its case. Velvet took her time collecting up her folder and pen.