Screw Loose (4 page)

He started to chew fast.

‘Now you have to drink something.'

She escaped his arms, turned and ran down the hall to get him a glass of water. He followed her. She was torn by competing desires. She wanted to kiss him of course, mouth firmly closed, but this morning while her parents were out she also wanted to introduce house-wide infection control: starting with the shoelaces.

She turned on the tap and filled up a glass. He pressed into her back and put his arms around her, chewing in her ear. His desires, which always seemed to rise when he was in the cupboard, had risen to dangerous levels. He turned her around, grabbed the water and drank it all at once, then snuggled against her and suddenly moved into overdrive. His breath smelt like honey and his lips were sticky and wet.

She had to move him on. ‘Angelo, can I have your shoelaces now?' she whispered.

She'd read about infection control on
Careers.com
and had immediately switched her career path. Infection controllers had responsibility for entire hospitals. This morning she had decided that when her brother and parents were out she would try to disinfect the whole house while entertaining her boyfriend. This was called multi-tasking, and girls were famous for it. If she could eliminate every germ lurking inside their house and keep Angelo from breaking loose, she could handle infection control in a large hospital and have a happy married life.
Go, girl.

Her family, she was ashamed to admit, were just not clean enough, and lately she'd become aware that they never cleaned their shoelaces. This was a serious oversight.

‘Just pull out your shoelaces,' she said seductively – at least she hoped it sounded seductive.

He sighed deeply. ‘Zey, please no! I'm going.'

‘
No!
You can help,' she cried. She wasn't being seductive enough.

‘My shoelaces are not dirty!' He stood back. He sounded cross.

‘Hidden grime,' she shot back – but gently – and ran her hand down his T-shirt then poked the squawking cocky in the beak. ‘Cockatoo,' she whispered and smiled up at him. That was seductive. The best way to a man's heart was through his football team.

She felt his body relax. It had worked. Chelsea Dean would be proud of her – she was being a
femme fatale
.

‘Shoelaces,' she said, stepping away.

‘Okay,' he responded in a weak voice, kneeling. He was in her power now.

‘We need to boil,' she said quietly. ‘I'm getting all Mehmet's laces as well.'

He was sitting on the floor with his runners off, unthreading the laces. The big cocky face on his T-shirt was looking up at her. ‘No one does this, Zey!'

‘If they did, there would be less illness,' she answered and bent over to kiss him on the top of the head. ‘Trust me.'

He handed his laces up without a fuss, and she filled the saucepan with water and turned the gas onto high, then dropped them in. ‘Done!' she said as they swirled about like seaweed. ‘That was easy.' Angelo made a soft moan as he stood up.

‘Mehmet's and Dad's next,' she said and raced off. He followed her, shuffling now in his open runners. Mehmet's room was such a mess, but he'd banned her from cleaning it. She had, however, washed all his shoes and taken out the laces earlier. She scooped them up and, with Angelo still following, ran down the hall to her parents' room and scooped up her father's laces, too.

Back in the kitchen, she dropped them into the saucepan. There were quite a few laces and they filled the pot. Now she felt better.

People thought she was insane, but she was just very clean. And Angelo recognised this special quality. ‘You're crazy,' he said now, ‘but…' He understood her needs; his eyes were saying so. Their lips gently touched. The saucepan boiled.

She had just closed her eyes when she heard the taxi again.
No way!
She glanced out the window. ‘Back again! Quick, cupboard!'

‘No!' he protested angrily. ‘I'm sick of this. Your parents need to learn a few facts. Give my laces back, please.'

The shoelaces were boiling noisily as the kitchen door flew open.

‘Dad!' she exclaimed. ‘Hi, Mum.'

‘
Boy!
' her mother screamed. ‘You have a boy in kitchen.'

‘I'm just boiling his shoelaces.'

They all stood staring at one another.

‘It's for a school project.'

Her mother was looking at Angelo's feet. ‘You have tried to capture him. You have a screwed-up brain!'

‘No!'

Her father suddenly grabbed a piece of baklava from the plate on the bench and hurled it across the kitchen at Angelo. Just as quickly, Angelo caught it and hurled it back, hitting her father in the face! Then Angelo pulled off his runners and, pushing past her parents in his socks, charged out the door.

HOW GAY
IS ROWING?

J
OSHUA
Y
EATMAN SLID
down into a plastic chair in Room 29 of Vistaview Secondary College and rested his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands. The room had a funny smell. He watched the tops of the trees outside the window toss about in the cold wind. On the wall next to the window was a laminated poster warning students about drugs. It was wasted on him: he had never had marijuana because he was sometimes asthmatic; and he still didn't like the taste of alcohol after an episode one afternoon with the music up full volume and his dad's Glenfiddich whisky.

He leant back, stared at his hands and wondered where Angelo Tarano was. Angelo wasn't a member of the
SRC
, so he was probably out on the basketball court or in the gym, as usual. Joshua hadn't had a call from Angelo for over a week – not since the I-don't-want-to-drop-Zeynep episode.

Chelsea Dean burst in. She was president of the
SRC
. ‘Josh, thank heaven you're here. After the
SRC
has agreed to my proposals, you and I will need to see Mr Dunn as soon as we can.'

He was the secretary of the
SRC
and did what Chelsea told him to do. She slid into a chair and flipped open her folder with a bang. Her hair seemed particularly shiny this lunchtime and he wanted to ask her how she got it like that. Then, surprisingly for Chelsea, she groaned and covered her face with her hands.

‘What's up?' he asked with concern.

She looked at him through her fingers with miserable eyes. ‘I can tell you, I guess,' she said, ‘but don't tell anyone else.'

Joshua nodded.

‘My mother is seeing Craig Ryan's father behind my father's back.'

He was about to laugh but checked himself when a tear trickled onto her hand.

‘I caught them doing the
Nutbush
.' She covered her face again and her voice was muffled. ‘Craig's father has a ponytail! Can you imagine?' A tear hit the table.

He got up to hug her, but at that moment some other students crashed in, including Zeynep, who instantly began to straighten the tables.

He took advantage of the interruption to open a few windows and clear the air.

‘Stop that, Zey!' he said. ‘Come and sit next to me.'

Zeynep used to be Joshua's girlfriend, but now she was Angelo's. They were still good friends, though – all three of them.

Chelsea blew her nose.

‘Fight it, Zey! You have to fight it,' he whispered. ‘The world is always going to be messy. You can't win.'

‘I'm seeing the counsellor,' she told him, then she noticed Chelsea. ‘What's the matter, Chels?' She went over and put an arm around her.

Chelsea wiped her eyes. ‘Just some personal matters, Zeynep. I'm coping,' she sniffed.

‘Do you want to go outside to debrief?' Zeynep asked.

Chelsea shook her head vigorously and looked brave. There was a silence in the room.

‘How's Angelo?' Joshua quietly asked Zeynep when she sat back down.

‘My dad threw baklava at him, then he threw it back.'

‘How come?'

‘I was boiling his shoelaces and my parents arrived home unexpectedly and found him in the kitchen with me.'

There were a number of questions he needed to ask.

‘Was he injured?'

‘He said his hand got scratched.'

‘On a cake?'

‘Mum's baklava has sharp edges.'

Joshua remembered that it could be rather solid.

‘I've got his shoelaces in my bag. I ironed them.'

He nodded. ‘He'll be rapt.'

The room was filling. Chelsea was now frowning. There were supposed to be twenty-eight students in the
SRC
, but not everyone had turned up.

Zeynep looked around. ‘Georgia's away again,' she said and sighed.

‘All right
SRC
, we're starting.' Chelsea's voice rose above the noise. Her nose sounded a little congested.

The room fell silent. Someone threw a Twistie.

‘As you are no doubt aware, before I came to Vistaview I attended a very prestigious private girls' school not far from here, Mary Magdalene, so I am able to make comparisons between this school and my old one.'

There were a few sniggers.

‘While this school is so much better in many ways, it does have a few failings, and my dream is to turn this place into a school much like the one I once attended.'

‘Why'd they chuck you out, Chelsea?' one of the boys up the back asked.

‘That's a long story, Mark. Just let's say they didn't have a sense of humour. But I want to talk about this school. I think this place is badly in need of a rowing team!'

She looked about the room, smiling brightly and assessing support.

‘Why?' someone asked.

‘Because if this school had a rowing team it would be more prestigious. And that helps you get better jobs and meet prestigious people.'

‘Crap!'

‘Prestigious people like you?'

‘What are you on, Chelsea?'

She disregarded them all and went on. ‘I am able to get a couple of second-hand boats from my father's old school. He has contacts.'

‘How gay is rowing?' asked a Year 9 boy.

Joshua had learnt not to show any reaction, but Chelsea shot a glance at him then turned aggressively to the boy.

‘Rowing is
not
gay. That is so totally not appropriate. Perhaps you're gay yourself?' She stared him into embarrassment and went on: ‘So I'll need to recruit eight very fit senior boys.'

Another mumbled voice from the back: ‘Fit
gay
boys.'

Her eyes fired piercing beams of contempt towards the back of the room and her tone changed. She started to speak very slowly and precisely. ‘I'd like to select them as soon as possible. And we are going to have to train three nights a week if we want to win the Head of the River. I'm not prepared to drive myself into the ground if people aren't going to commit themselves.'

When Chelsea spoke her head was always lifted a little high, her chin tilted forward. She reminded Joshua of a dog defending a gate.

‘I've spent some time observing rowing teams from my balcony,' she continued.

Joshua had seen Chelsea's telescope strategically aimed at the river winding below her enormous house.

‘Great idea,' a boy sitting near him murmured.

‘The river's polluted,' a girl interrupted.

‘We are talking about social prestige!' Chelsea snapped. ‘If St Ethelred's can have rowing teams, and even my ghastly old school has them, so can we!'

‘Marry me, Chelsea!' someone called out.

Chelsea went on. ‘All those in favour of the school having a rowing team?' She looked around. Three-quarters of the hands went up, but someone called out, ‘It's still a crap idea.'

‘Good. It's done. I will see Mr Dunn after the meeting. Next item: social occasions between my old school and this one. The girls at my old school are looking for a broader social life, and some of the boys at St Ethelred's would love to meet girls at this school. So it is my opinion that the three schools should get together for social activities.'

Cheers and table-banging. There was always a belief that students at other schools were more attractive than the ones at Vistaview. But that wasn't true, in Joshua's opinion: Angelo Tarano went to Vistaview.

‘I'd like to speak to Mr Dunn about this too, but I need your support.'

Very loud cheering and rhythmic desk-hammering broke out.

‘Silence, please! There's a desperate need for better manners and better
grooming
among some of the riffraff at this school. Before we meet any private school students, some of you are going to have to lift your game!'

The laughter drained off into silence. There was one loud sigh.