Indigo Blue (7 page)

Miss McDougall has gone mad.

I mean, she
looks
quite normal (for her) and she sounds quite normal (a brisk tongue-lashing for Shane Taggart, who came to school wearing a red-spotted bandana tied gangsta-style round his head). But she’s
not
normal, because instead of launching into spelling tests, mental arithmetic or ten laps round the running track to ‘wake us up’, she marches us through to the TV room and we squish into giggly rows on the carpet, wondering what delights await us.

Will it be a thrilling play, all in French, on the theme of camping, shopping or cooking a meal? Ah,
bon
. Will it be a yawn-inducing story set in a castle, where we have to remember the word for a medieval toilet or that criss-crossy thing that goes behind the drawbridge? (Portcullis. We had that programme last month.) Or will it be something scary and scientific, with jolly presenters in bootleg jeans and spiky hair trying to get excited about solids, liquids and gases? Who knows – who cares?

We shift about, trying to get comfy, and the programme starts.

This is the amazing bit: it’s not French or history or science – it’s some old film I once saw on TV on a rainy Sunday afternoon, all singing, dancing and drama. It’s called
Oliver!
.

OK, it’s old. It’s probably not cool. It’s sad and scary and funny and weird, but I love it, and I think the others do too, because there’s no whispering, no shoving, no notes being passed. Shane Taggart doesn’t fall asleep like he did in the castle programme. We’re all watching, wide-eyed, because if nothing else, it has to be better than the literacy hour.

Way better.

By the time it’s finished, we’ve missed playtime, but nobody complains at all.

Miss McDougall quizzes us on the video to prove we weren’t asleep, but we’re covered, no problem. Everyone knows the plot.

Oliver’s this Victorian orphan boy who dares to ask for more gruel at the dingy workhouse where he lives. (Gruel is kind of like school dinner semolina, I think.) He gets chucked out for being cheeky and meets up with a whole bunch of pickpockets led by some old bearded guy called Fagin. He has loads of adventures, makes friends with Artful Dodger and Nancy and runs into trouble with Bill Sykes, Nancy’s no-good boyfriend. In the end, Bill kills Nancy (I saw Aisha wipe her eyes at this bit), Oliver gets reunited with his long-lost grandad and Fagin and Dodger just keep on picking pockets.

Oliver!
is one of those mad old films where everyone keeps bursting into song the whole time, but it’s not as cheesy as it sounds because the songs are either heart-tuggingly sad or really happy and fun.

Anyway, Miss McDougall asks if we’d like to learn some of the songs from the film, and everybody says they do. She has a stack of song sheets and a music tape, and next thing we know the whole class is belting out ‘You’ve Gotta Pick a Pocket or Two’ like our lives depend on it.

Miss McDougall gets Shane Taggart to be Dodger, Buzz Bielinski to be Fagin and Aisha Patel to be Oliver, with the rest of the class as the pickpocket gang. She produces a stash of brightly coloured silk squares for us to use as hankies and we launch into it again, this time with actions, a whole classfull of dodgy Victorian pickpockets, fleecing the rich of their multi-coloured hankies.

The bell goes for lunch, and there’s a low groan of disappointment, a sound never before heard from Miss McDougall’s class, at least not in living memory.

‘Miss!’ Shane Taggart calls out urgently.

‘Yes, Shane?’

‘Miss, why don’t we do a play? Why don’t we do a play of
Oliver!
for the whole school to see?’

The class erupts with squeaks of approval, suggestions of casting, volunteers to paint scenery, make costumes, sell tickets.

Miss McDougall stalks the aisles, gathering up silk squares and stuffing them into a bin bag. She reaches the front and faces us sternly.

‘Silence!’ she roars.

There’s silence, except for someone’s tummy rumbling in the row behind me.

‘Class, I don’t think you realize the amount of work involved in putting on a musical play. The singing practice, lines to learn, rehearsals. That’s not to mention scenery, props, costumes, publicity… to try something this ambitious in less than four months…’

She shakes her head. ‘I know it’s your last year at Calder’s Lane. It would be wonderful to go out with a bang, stage something special, but
Oliver!
… It’s a very, very challenging piece. Are you prepared for the hard work and effort it would take?’

‘Yes!’

We’re all in it together, a great roar of agreement, a tidal wave of pleading and promise.

Miss McDougall holds her hand up and we subside into silence.

‘In that case,’ she says, ‘I’m delighted. Let’s do it!’

We’re late, so it looks like we’re getting the crusty bits from round the edges of the big, empty lasagne dishes, plus wilted salad and soggy tomatoes because the chips and veg are all gone. Miss McDougall sails to the head of the queue and smiles her sweet, friendly, no-nonsense smile. The dinner lady sighs and hauls out a vast, bubbling, brand-new dish of lasagne. Miss McDougall waits, holding her dish out, and eventually a tray of chips and a dish of green beans are produced.

The whole queue is grinning, saved from plates of cold, crusty leftovers.

Another stern look from Miss McD., and a new dish of treacle sponge with a jug of creamy yellow custard, strangely lump-free, appear.

‘Bet they were saving that for themselves,’ Jo whispers.

If Miss McDougall had been around a hundred years ago, there’d never have been all that trouble about the gruel.

We crowd in at one of the few free tables, and for once I don’t mind that Aisha Patel’s squished in with us, because I can choose my moment and drop a few comments about Jo coming over if she tries to get too pally.

It’s not a problem, though, because Shane, Buzz and Iqbal flop down in the three empty seats and all anyone can talk about is the play, Shane taking full credit for the fact that it’s happening at all.

I have a sneaky idea Miss McDougall had it all planned out the whole time, but I don’t want to spoil his moment of glory.

‘I’m going to audition for Nancy,’ Jo says, flicking her hair back and looking at Shane from underneath her eyelashes. ‘It’s the only really good girl’s part, isn’t it?’

‘Bet you get it,’ Aisha gushes. ‘You’re so pretty and confident. I mean, I’d be happy just to help behind the scenes…’

‘Nah,’ says Shane. ‘You’ll get a part, Aisha. You can sing, can’t you? You have to be able to sing for a musical, it stands to reason.’

Jo looks faintly irritated, ‘
I
can sing,’ she says.

Shane shrugs and dips a chip in his lasagne.

‘You should audition for the star part, Shane,’ Jo pushes. ‘You’d make a great Oliver.’

‘Nah, too wimpy. I’d rather be the Artful Dodger. That’d be a right laugh! Or Fagin. How about you, Indie?’

I pull a face and pretend I’m not that bothered, but the truth is I’d try out for any part, because I love drama. I spend my school days being told off for daydreaming, but being an actor… isn’t that like daydreaming for a living? Trying on other people’s lives to see how they fit?

Suddenly I can feel Shane looking at me, his green eyes searching my face, and my cheeks flame pink. He starts laughing and nicks a couple of my chips, but I know I didn’t imagine it because Jo is staring at me, stony-faced, and Buzz and Iqbal are nudging each other and making leery ‘way-hey-hey’ noises.

‘I’m not really interested,’ I say to Jo helplessly. I mean the flirty looks, not the play, and I hope they all get the message. Jo still looks furious, though.

She offers Shane her chips, but Buzz and Iqbal scoff them instead, and by the time we get to the treacle pudding Shane has switched the conversation to skateboarding and they’re rattling on about half pipes, ollies and grinders.

Jo makes one last attempt to get Shane’s attention. ‘You’re great on that skateboard,’ she says. ‘I’d love to have a try, but it just looks
so
difficult…’

This is the girl who can do a handstand on the balance beam and follow it off with a somersault before landing in the splits. She’s been doing gymnastics since she was
four
.

I try to remember what her beloved teen mags say, and decide Jo’s got hormone trouble. Growing up is a very scary thing. I hope it never happens to me.

Shane smiles, and tells her he’d be happy to give her lessons, any time.

‘And you two, of course,’ he adds, with a flash of grin to Aisha and me. Then he’s away, Buzz and Iqbal following in his wake, and Jo’s glaring at me.

‘Did you
have
to keep butting in?’ she explodes. ‘That was a private conversation. It’s
me
he likes, Indie, so why do you have to get in on the act? You’re just so
childish…’

‘But I didn’t…’

Jo’s eyes flare. ‘You
did
. Aisha saw, didn’t you, Aish? Why can’t you just back off?’

‘But… Look, Jo, I’m sorry,’ I manage. ‘I didn’t mean anything. I just didn’t think…’

‘Don’t get all wound up,’ Aisha pleads. ‘He did say he’d give you lessons on the skateboard. He must like you. And we don’t want to fall out over a lad…’

We?

But Jo softens. ‘D’you think he really does fancy me?’ she demands.

‘Er, well, probably…’ Aisha says.

‘Definitely,’ I add, wondering when I got to be such a good liar.

We finish our treacle sponge and listen to Jo telling us how she’s been crazy about Shane Taggart since Year Two. I frown. Since last week, more like, but I’m not about to argue.

‘I’m definitely trying out for the part of Nancy,’ she says. ‘Shane’s bound to get a good part, and we’d be rehearsing together the whole time. He’ll definitely notice me then.’

‘Bound to,’ Aisha echoes.

‘Will you two help me learn my lines for the auditions?’ Jo asks, giving us both her poor-lost-little-kitten look.

‘No problem,’ Aisha nods, and somehow that’s the last straw. Shane makes me blush, Jo’s hacked off with me and now Aisha’s moving in on my best mate.

‘We could run lines at my place one night after school,’ I suggest, looking straight at Jo. ‘I asked Mum and she said any night this week would be fine. What day suits you, Jo?’

Jo reels off her social diary. Swimming on Mondays, gymnastics tonight and Thursday, violin Friday… we decide on tomorrow, as long as Jo’s mum agrees.

‘We can listen to CDs and read mags and go through your lines for the audition…’

I’m keeping my eyes on Jo so I don’t have to face Aisha. I don’t want to see her disappointment, don’t want to see her sad brown eyes or her trembly lips.

But Jo hasn’t forgiven me, not quite.

‘Is Wednesday OK for you too, Aisha?’ she says. And she’s smiling, because she wants to see if I have the guts to tell Aisha she can’t come. She wants to see me squirm.

My face burns for the second time in half an hour, and I drag my rotten, lousy eyes up from the tabletop to meet Aisha’s.

‘I – I’m not sure – my mum didn’t say about you, Aisha…’

I’m a liar, a worm, a coward.

‘You see, we’ve only just moved in…’

Aisha looks like she’s sorry for me, like I’m something to be pitied: a small, slimy slug that crawled in from the rain.

‘I can’t do Wednesday, anyhow,’ she says. ‘I’m busy.’

‘Oh, well, that’s a shame,’ Jo gushes. ‘Never mind, though, another time, hey?
I’ll
definitely be there, Indie. I’m looking forward to it.’

Great. That makes one of us, then.

‘Sorry, Aisha,’ I say yet again as Jo and I get our stuff together to walk home on Wednesday. ‘Maybe another time?’

‘Maybe.’

How come I feel so guilty? Possibly because Jo’s been stirring it every chance she can get, till I’m almost wishing it
was
Aisha, not her, coming round for tea.

‘You can come over to mine any time you like, Aisha,’ Jo puts in, ever generous. ‘
My
mum’s not funny about visitors.’

I have to bite my lip to stop the tears prickling at the back of my eyes. What is it with Jo? Is this all because Shane Taggart nicked my chips?