The Mag Hags (16 page)

Hoolio went off to get cleaning equipment and to escort a crying Kylie Mannigan off the premises forever as a cloud of doom descended over the booth.

‘It'll be okay,' said Maggie. ‘I've got lots of raw copy on my dad's computer.'

‘It's all the design and pictures that are the real problem,' said Wanda. ‘Do you know how long Belle and I have worked making everything look that good?'

‘Not to mention all the photos I took, and I spent days working on the future formal photos – putting in all those background pictures took an eternity,' said Belle, looking utterly dejected. ‘For what? For nothing!'

Hoolio came back with an old white towel and gently picked up Belle's computer and turned it upside down. The computer vomited up the Berry Berry shake onto the towel like a teenager vomiting up vile purple sick after too many alcopops in the local park. It wasn't a
pretty sight, but at least there were no carrots.

‘Girls, look, it may not be so bad,' said Hoolio. ‘Just leave your laptop with me until Sunday and I'll try to fix it.'

When the girls left Hoolio's, they felt like one of his cream donuts with a big empty hole in the middle. It was in the lap of the computer gods as to whether their hard work was going to be lost forever and there wasn't a damn thing they could do about it.

For Wanda, Black Friday continued when she got home. As soon as she had put her key in the front door, her father was on at her with the ‘little talk' routine again. Wanda knew exactly what this was about: she had failed to top the maths class again and the truth was, frankly, she didn't give a damn.

According to Mr Weinwitz who'd been in her father's ear again, her ranking had now dropped down to a lowly sixth in the form after the last maths test; hardly the sort of ranking for a girl with Wanda's talent for figures. While both men agreed it was sometimes the case that students had off weeks, Wanda had had an off term and at this critical juncture of her life, something had to be done to stop the rot.

‘Can you imagine the disappointment I had to see in Mr Weinwitz's face?' said Mr Hong, following Wanda down the hallway into the lounge room, his arms crossed against his chest. ‘He'd been counting on you to represent the school at the regional Maths Inn and now his plans are in ruins. Why? Because you can't be bothered studying.'

‘I'm so glad you're concerned about Mr Weinwitz's disappointment,' said Wanda, dropping her school bag, her school tunic showing the splashes of the Berry Berry shake Mannigan had sent flying. ‘What about mine? Have you any idea how I feel about this?'

‘I know you've got too many things on your mind other than your math's homework,' said Mr Hong, moving his hands to his hips. ‘Wanda, I've tried to be reasonable over and over again, but this time you're grounded. If you can't act like an adult then I will treat you like a child. First thing I want you to do is to give me your house keys.'

‘What?' said Wanda incredulously. Her mother had given her her own keys when she was thirteen as a sign of independence – it was the first time Wanda had actually felt grown-up.

‘You heard me!' said Mr Hong, holding out his hand. ‘I want the keys back. There will be no more of this coming and going like you own the place. You can report to my office after school instead of gallivanting around the town.'

‘Have your freaking keys back then,' said Wanda, throwing them full throttle at her father. The keys, which hung on a big silver W key ring, flew through the air as though in slow motion, turning and spinning with deadly accuracy, like a cruise missile finding its target. Unfortunately, Mr Hong didn't have time to duck and
the keys whacked him full on the forehead.

‘Ouch! Jesus! Ouch!' screamed Mr Hong, his voice booming out of the study at sonic force as he rubbed his head and looked at his fingertips, seeing a smidgeon of blood.

‘You're officially grounded until the start of the next school term, young lady! That means this school holidays you'll be at home studying, not sewing. You will not be seeing your friends. You will not be able to use your phone. You will not –'

‘Pass go and receive two hundred dollars? Breathe without your permission?' screamed Wanda, choking on a fur ball of emotion that had wedged itself in her throat. ‘I hate you, I hate you, I hate you! I have spent my whole life trying to be who you want me to be. I'm sick of numbers. They bore me senseless! But do you ever ask me what I want from my life? Who I really am? You just want me to be a carbon copy of you. Well I'm not, I'm me and no matter how hard I try, I can't be who you want me to be.'

Mr Hong stopped, taken aback, and peered at his usually well-behaved daughter. Her face was wet with tears, her nose dripping with snot. It was so unlike her to be so emotional, so angry. ‘Who do you want to be?' he asked gently, nursing his forehead, which was already sporting a small cut that had started to swell and bruise.

‘Just me,' Wanda said quietly. ‘I just want to be me. To discover what I can do, make my own mistakes and do the things I love without the pressure of knowing that one day I will have to be the boss of Accent Accounting.'

‘I'm only trying to help you set up your future,' said Mr Hong who, being a self-made man, hadn't had anybody to help him become a success. ‘I want to give you the best shot at life that I can. I don't want you to go through what I did, to make the same mistakes.'

‘Dad, I know you know nothing about fashion,' said Wanda, looking at her father's particularly unattractive grey knit jumper. ‘But everybody says my designs are fantastic. Believe it or not, I'm a really creative person.'

‘I know you are, Wanda. I don't know where you get it from,' said Mr Hong. ‘It is just a seamstress isn't the career I had in mind for you.'

‘Dad! Don't you get it? I want to be a fashion designer. I want to work in Paris, own my own company, have catwalk shows with my name in lights, see people wearing what I've created. It's my dream. If there's one thing you've taught me it's that I should have ambition.'

‘You know that to have your own company you have to be good at figures?' said Mr Hong, by way of an acknowledgement that, for the first time, he had really heard her.

‘Isn't that why people employ accountants?' said Wanda with half a smile. ‘But what you have taught me will help me to be a great business woman.'

‘I know, sweetie,' said Mr Hong. ‘I know you should be your own person. It's just I guess I think I know what's best, and because I love you so much, I get –'

‘I know, Dad,' said Wanda, looking at the lump that was rising like porridge on a hot stove on her father's head. Then she burst into another bout of tears, but this time in shame rather than in anger. ‘Sorry for the gash on your head,' she hiccupped.

Mr Hong took Wanda in his arms as she sobbed her heart out. ‘Am I still grounded for life?' asked Wanda tentatively, wiping the tears from her eyes.

‘No, you're not, baby,' said Mr Hong, smiling. ‘As long as you don't throw your house keys at me again.'

Wanda looked at him guiltily. ‘And can I have my sewing machine back?' she asked knowing she may be pushing her luck.

‘Maybe you can make your square old dad an outfit?' said Mr Hong. ‘Make me look cool again, like when I used to do the moonwalk.'

Mr Hong then moonwalked across the carpet with the dexterity of Michael Jackson back in his
Thriller
days, which, as any break-dancer will tell you, is quite a feat, before doing a little hip-hop body pop.

‘I love you, Dad,' said Wanda laughing, clasping her
chest and screwing up her nose, just like she used to do when she was a little girl.

‘I love you too babe,' said Mr Hong, placing his hand on his heart.

 

That night Mand was having dad dramas of her own. Cat had called to say Nightshade, the band that were supposed to be playing the school formal had just cancelled – they'd been offered to support some big international band in the city, so suddenly the Baywood High formal gig was way down their priority list.

‘Do you reckon you could ask your dad?' said Cat. ‘God, it would be so cool to have Slinky Joe's Roadshow playing.'

‘Are you serious?' said Mand, desperately trying to think of an excuse to put Cat off. ‘They're pretty retro, you know. I'm not sure the kids would dig them.'

‘Mand, the eighties are huge! Please ask him! Maybe you could do a song with him too?'

‘Cat, I've seen my dad once in three years. I can't see him doing me any favours, let alone getting the whole band to come to Baywood to play at our formal.'

‘Will you at least ask him?' Cat was desperate to pull off saving the formal so she could be a legend again. ‘Think of it as doing it for the whole of Year 10.'

‘What has Year 10 ever done for me?'

‘Come on, Mand! Do you know how great this could be?'

‘Okay,' she said, reluctantly. ‘I'll call him.'

Later Mand picked up her mobile at least fifteen times to ring her dad, but put it down again each time. It shouldn't have been that difficult; after all, it was just her dad, right? But the gulf between them was like a huge ocean, and the little dip in the pool at his gig had done nothing to alleviate the anger she felt because her father couldn't be bothered with her.

She practised her speech in her head over and over.
Keep it cool and casual
, she thought as she finally steeled herself. She scrolled through her address book down to D for Dad, and hit the call button.

‘Hello?'

‘Hello, Dad. It's Mand.'

‘Mandy baby!' Her father was obviously somewhere with his band, judging by the wailing synths and guitars in the background. ‘Great to hear from you, kid. I was just talking to a producer mate of mine about how cool your songs are.'

‘Really? Actually, music is the reason I was calling you. I was wondering if you could come and play at our formal. The original band dropped out, and this girl Cat reckons the eighties are huge and your band –'

‘Sure, I'd love to, baby, but we're probably already booked. I'm at sound check right now. Why don't you give my manager a call on Monday, try to tee something up. I don't have time right –'

‘You don't have time,' exploded Mand. ‘I call you for the first time in three years, and you don't have time to speak to me? You disappear for years, don't phone, don't text, don't email, don't even send me any presents for Christmas or birthdays. And you call me Mandy! I haven't been called Mandy since I was thirteen, you moron! My name is Mand, Mand. Did you hear that, Dad, or has all that eighties pop made you deaf?'

‘Mandy. I mean, Mand, come on, baby, I know things have been strained –'

‘Strained! Dad, you're the master of the understatement.'

‘What do you want from me?'

‘Some attention perhaps? To take some interest in my life?'

‘Look, Mand, I can be a selfish bastard sometimes, I know it, your mum certainly knows it, but after I saw you the other day, I said to myself, “Hospock, you need to sort yourself out man, get it together with your kids again.” And I intend on doing that. Look, whatever gig we're playing on the night of your formal, I'll cancel it. You and I can even do a song together. Whether it's the whole band or just me with a kazoo, I'll be there, love.'

When Mand got off the phone she fell into a heap on her bed crying, and reached down for her plush puppies for some comfort. Her whole body contorted as waves of pain and resentment swept over her. Her howls sounded like a wounded animal caught in a trap.

‘God, Mand, what's happened?' cried Mel, running into the bedroom and scooping Mand into her arms.

But Mand couldn't speak. A flood of emotion that had been trapped for three years came pouring out of her.

‘What is it, honey?' said Mel gently rocking her daughter in her arms, just like she used to when she was a little girl and had scraped her knee or fallen off her bike.

‘I. Just. Spoke. To. Dad. He's. Going. To. Play. Our. School. Formal,' she said through each body-rocking hyperventilation. ‘And he wants me to sing with him.'

‘That's great. Isn't it?' said Mel, a little confused.

‘I went off at him but he deserved it,' explained Mand, her tears easing. ‘Mum, why is Dad so selfish?'

‘He's always been selfish, right from the moment I met him. The first time he took me out for a drink, he went to the bar and forgot to get my drink! It's just the way he is. It doesn't mean he loves you any less.'

‘Maybe you should have dumped him then and there,' said Mand.

‘Then we wouldn't have you and Lottie.'

Mand was quiet for a moment, then said in a small voice, ‘I always thought it was me. First Dad goes, then Lottie goes … She never even calls any more …' And she started sobbing again.

‘No darling, it's not you.' Mel stroked Mand's hair out of her eyes, which looked shiny and blue with the tears.
‘Lottie's just exploring her own life. She'll come back around.'

Mand rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand wiping away the last remnants of her tears and sat up straight. ‘Mum, sorry I've been such a bitch to you.'

‘Nah, it's okay, you're just a teenager!'

‘It's not that, Mum,' said Mand. ‘I just hate it how the whole town knows everything about our family. You've got to stop gossiping about your own life.'

‘Why?'

‘It's embarrassing having all the kids know that your mum is dating a stripper who's ten years younger than her. I actually care what people think.'

‘Then don't. You've always been such a rebel, Mand, I didn't think you'd be upset about something trivial like that. But now I know, I'll try not to embarrass you. But I won't stop being who I am, just as I wouldn't want you to.'

‘I know, Mum,' said Mand, feeling a little guilty. Her mum was right. What was the point in worrying about what people said? She could hardly call herself a nonconformist if she worried about people disapproving of her mother's love life.

‘Now, what are you going to play at the formal?' said Mel, picking up Mand's guitar and handing it to her.

‘Maybe. He said we could sing together,' said Mand. ‘But I'd feel really nervous about performing in front of the entire form.'

‘Mand, you'll be fine,' said Mel reassuringly. ‘No, you'll be great. You are great! Why don't you play some songs for me now? I usually only get to hear them from the lounge room.'