Steal My Sunshine (8 page)

‘When are you going to tell me about being in Sydney with Mum and whoever did that painting?'

‘That's not the first part of the story.'

‘Well, when will I get to hear it?'

Essie had that same distracted look on her face from before. ‘Can you hear that?' she said.

‘The music?'

‘The baby crying.'

‘Yep. It's been doing that since I got here.'

Essie continued to stare into nothing. The ash of her cigarette was longer than what was left to smoke.

‘Essie?'

‘Sorry, darling, you must get to school. Look, it's late.' She stubbed out her cigarette and struggled to get up.

‘Maybe I don't have to go.'

‘No, thank you, I don't want to get into any more trouble with your mother.' She picked up my schoolbag and handed it to me. ‘You come back tomorrow and bring that nice friend of yours and we'll have a little party.'

‘What for? I mean, why don't I just come on my own?'

‘Are you ashamed of me?' Essie had one eyebrow raised. Her question seemed like a challenge.

‘Essie! Of course not!'

‘You'll come then.'

We reached the front door and she wrapped her arms around me. I couldn't remember her ever holding me that way before. She'd always seemed outspoken but I felt like there was more in that hug than she could try to say in words.

‘What's your first lesson?' she said, giving me a final strong squeeze before she let me stand up straight again.

‘Drama with an idiot teacher who thinks he's Chris Hemsworth.'

‘Who's that?'

‘A Hollywood actor, Essie.' I smiled.

‘Sounds more like an odd-job man.'

I giggled. ‘I guess so. Anyway, I hate this teacher. He's making us do
Oklahoma
and I'm Cowboy 3.'

‘Who?'

‘Exactly. It's not even a real part.'

‘Don't mind him. I bet he lives with his mother and has never had a girlfriend.'

‘Er, probably not, Ess.' Mr Inglewood probably had a skinny, tanned and blonde girlfriend. I'd bet my life on it.

‘Believe me, darling. And one day the poor mother dies after tripping over the toolbox he's left at the top of the stairs, and he chops her body into pieces and puts them in the freezer. But the police find it and he spends the rest of his life behind bars.'

‘Essie! That's awful.'

‘Why are you smiling then? It's how I always used to deal with people who rubbed me up the wrong way.'

‘What, you chopped them into little pieces?' As soon as I said the words, Sophie's face popped into my head and the fun of the moment vanished.

‘I mean I'd just imagine something unpleasant for them.' The mood had shifted. ‘You'd better be off.'

‘Okay, but we hardly talked about your stuff, Essie. I want to, you know I do, right?'

She said we would next time, and without thinking it through, I promised I'd bring Chloe.

 

The whole school was talking about Sophie. Tess Edwards said she knew someone who knew her. Of course it would be Tess; she was born for that role. Before first bell went, she had a steady stream of girls crowding around her to hear her give the same information over and over. No one cared how random it was and she strung it out like a pro.

Tess's cousin's friend had played in an amateur tennis competition against Sophie, and Sophie had won. She was an amazing athlete – fast and strong and really smart, too. Everyone seemed to feel better after hearing this. Tess glowed every time she told the story. She added more detail as the day went on – Sophie's tennis outfit, how she wore her hair or about a particular shot she'd pulled off. I wanted to scream at them.
This isn't
The Hunger Games
. She'll still be dead.
The more certain they all claimed to be that nothing bad had happened to her, the more any shadow of hope I'd had faded away.

We walked to the big hall where Drama lessons took place, clutching our scripts. My line was highlighted in neon green. I was in some of the songs, too, but only as background noise. While we filed in, I remembered that at the end of last year when Mr Inglewood had assigned our parts I'd still managed to work myself into a state about saying that single word on stage. The feeling was back now.

Mr Inglewood held the door open for us. His clothes didn't make sense – a shabby tweed jacket with a white t-shirt, black trackies, no socks and black slip-on shoes. And his hair looked even more messed up than usual. He must really have the hots for himself that he'd dress so badly on purpose. I tried to ignore him as I passed, but when my phone made a noise inside my bag, he said, ‘London calling.'

‘What's that?'

‘A song. Doesn't matter, carry on.' He waved me forward. I was dying to see who the message was from but there was no time because Mr Inglewood was suddenly at my side, calling everyone into the middle of the room.

‘Right, drama exercises today: voice projection, improv, and so on. Rehearsals next time. Any questions?' He looked at me and my face grew instantly hot. There was no hiding in this class and my insides were twisting up from nerves. So far my plan was to look at my shoes for the next fifty minutes.

Chloe sauntered in. She looked tired and moody, and stood next to me without saying a word.

‘I'll take you in small groups,' continued Mr Inglewood. ‘Unless I call your name, get on with reading through your lines or whatever job you've been assigned for the production.'

Chloe was on props, mainly as a punishment for saying the f-word on the first night of
Chicago
last year. Apparently they didn't buy it when she claimed it was said ‘in character'.

‘Okay, I'll take the cowboys first. Over this way.' He must have seen the look on my face because he shrugged a phony apology. It was weird, it felt like he was singling me out all of a sudden. I thought about telling Chloe but knew she'd say I was being paranoid.

‘I want you four to stand in a circle,' he said. ‘That's it, about an arm's length from each other.'

I was still a good few metres away from the group. Every moment longer that I could avoid the unholy embarrassment that was about to take place would be worth it.

‘Come on, Hannah Moon, we won't bite.'

The others laughed. Rachel, Maria and Justine – shy girls like me. We'd been friends in Year 7 but hardly spoke now. No doubt I was still in their bad books for thinking I could escape the layer of school society they inhabited – the quiet, unassuming group that didn't excel at anything or flunk anything either. It wasn't as if I'd never felt bad for drifting away from them, or that I thought I was more interesting than them. I just hoped I was.

‘Now, I want you to say your names – your full names – into the circle, one after another,' Mr Inglewood said.

‘What for?' said Maria.

‘It's an exercise. Trust me.'

I was just about in the circle now and my heart was thudding.

‘We'll go round once and I want you to speak loudly and clearly. Just your names, right? Then we'll vary it a bit – accents, volume, emotion. Clear?' Mr Inglewood took off his jacket and chucked it to the side of the room. The others didn't look bothered about his instructions but to me it was a nightmare. I couldn't explain why, I just felt consumed by it. It was huge. And it didn't matter that I knew how ridiculous it was to get worked up about a meaningless drama exercise; the rest of me was treating this as everything. Why did we all have to go through things like this, as if we were all cut out for the exact same life? And why the hell had I let Chloe persuade me to take Drama?

Mr Inglewood pointed at Rachel.

‘Rachel Bennett!' she said and giggled, as did the others. The rest of the class had started to close in, spectating, sniggering. Mr Inglewood half-heartedly flapped them away but they paid no attention. Some of the bitchy girls crossed their arms and stared straight at me. Chloe looked on from the stage, standing with her hands on her hips. She could do this in a heartbeat; I should have been the one on props.

‘Maria Sartori.'

Blood pulsed in my ears. I was trapped. They had names you could say out loud. I rehearsed mine in my head: Hannah Moon, Hannah Moon, Hannah Moon. He pointed again.

‘Justine Hamidou.'

Then he pointed at me.

‘Hannah Moon.' My voice slid out, softly. But I'd done it. Mr Inglewood looked at me for too many seconds and I had that paranoid feeling again. This was fun for him – humiliating us. I hated him, stupid show-off guy thinking the whole school was in love with him.

‘Now take three giant strides out,' he said, ‘and say your name much louder.' He looked my way again. ‘I mean really belt it out. Be strong.'

The four of us stepped back and I glanced at the clock. I swear it was stuck.

‘Joe Inglewood!' His voice came from deep within his chest, the girls twittering predictably. The volume of his voice had made my cheeks burn. I willed Rachel or Maria to take a stand against this pointless game but they all seemed willing.

And too quickly it came around to me again. This time I stayed quiet. I didn't have a plan; I just didn't have a voice. Nothing would come out. For the first time in my life I started to walk out of class. I didn't hear a word of what was said as I left, I was so focused on getting out of there, breaking into a run as the door slammed behind me, my ears blocked from the laughter and calls of ‘What's she making such a big deal for?'.

I knew it was pathetic; I didn't need them to tell me that.

I walked outside and, without thinking, went straight onto the tennis courts. Great, a dead end. I stopped at a corner where the fence separated the school from a patch of scrubland, holding the scrub nettles back as they tried to reach through the diamond spaces. This was hopeless – I should have walked right out of school, pleaded temporary insanity because of ‘problems at home' like everyone else did. Or I should have just said my name – really belted it out – and not been such a wuss. Why had that seemed so hard? It was my
name
.

‘Hannah?'

I turned round and looped a finger into the fence for something to hold on to.

‘At least come to the net,' he said. I couldn't look at him but I walked forward slowly. I focused on his hands, gripping the top of the net. He had a thick vein on each one, surfer's skin with tiny blond hairs on his fingers.

Enough time had passed for me to realise he was waiting for me to speak, and from somewhere unknown came a surge of annoyance that cancelled out how shy I usually felt when I was in front of a teacher. ‘I just can't do things like that and I don't see the point.'

‘Sorry, Hannah, but I don't believe you.'

On impulse I looked up. ‘You don't believe me? I don't really care. I'm telling you it's true. I can't do it. And, yes, there is such a thing as can't.'

‘How did you know that was going to be my next point?' He smiled.

‘It's not funny.' But the side of my mouth was twitching. I bit the inside of it to stop a smile from coming. I wanted to stay angry. ‘Some people just can't do certain things. Like, my dad can't cook – I'm serious, he's hopeless.' I wished I hadn't mentioned Dad; now I felt even more vulnerable. I kept going. ‘I can't fly or hang-glide either, so I don't, right? I mean, what's the big deal?'

‘You could learn.'

‘To hang-glide? I don't want to. I bet you hang-glide. I'm right, aren't I?' This felt more like talking to Sam than a teacher. I couldn't help enjoying how confident I felt all of a sudden.

‘You reckon?'

‘Yep. You're one of those extreme sport junkies. Which is the bigger kick – jumping off a building or humiliating us on a Friday morning?' I blushed, feeling like I'd gone too far.

He looked surprised, stammered a bit and said, ‘Hannah, I'm honestly not trying to humiliate you. I'm sorry you think that. I just think there's a lot more in there than you let everyone see. I mean, look at you now. You're quite scary, to be honest.'

My smile escaped before I could stop it. I couldn't believe Chloe and everyone else had missed this conversation, but then again that was probably why I'd felt this way. That and something in him that made me feel alert and self-conscious. He was a guy called Joe as well as a teacher called Mr Inglewood; a hybrid and a puzzle. And he thought I was something.

‘If you think I'm so wonderful, why did you make me Cowboy 3?' I felt childish but a barrier had started to come down between us.

‘You didn't put up your hand.' He shrugged. My eyes rested on the curve of his neck and a dark mole that appeared and disappeared into his white t-shirt as he moved his shoulders. ‘You try to hide. I wanted to show you what happens when you're not honest about who you want to be.' His face was full of concern, but I felt a surge of anger again. What a load of bull. He wasn't the expert on me.