Six Impossible Things (15 page)

None of us wants the job.

Jayzo spends the first meeting trying to get Estelle to go with him to the social. He’s too thick to realise it’s not going to happen. I finally can’t take it any more. ‘She said no, just leave her alone and ask someone else.’

Instead of being grateful, Estelle rounds on me. ‘Who asked you to speak for me?’

‘Yeah, just leave her alone,’ Jayzo says with moronic delight.

I’ve had enough of both of them.

‘Pittney said we have to put something on paper before we leave. And I’ve got to get to work. What’s our theme? Anyone got any bright ideas?’ I say.

Estelle flips through a book Pittney has left for us, and reads out some lame suggestions: Then and Now, Circus, Happily Ever After, Freaks and Geeks . . .

Jayzo likes Rubik’s Cube, because it involves people taking their clothes off.

We end up settling on the most obvious idea: Black Tie. So we’ll be having a formal social, which sounds stupid. Perfect. Because it will be. I write it on a bit of paper and we leave.

On the way out, Jayzo stops me, blocking my path. ‘Cake boy, how’d you like some squashed eyeballs spread on maggoty scabs?’ He then does an excellent impression of someone about to vomit. I’m unprepared, and it works. The familiar lightheaded feeling washes over me. I feel cold then really hot. Just before I black out, Estelle shoves me into a chair and pushes my head in the direction of the floor.

‘Leave the wuss alone, you thug,’ she says.

Jayzo leaves, smirking.

‘Who asked you to speak for me?’ I can’t resist saying.

‘If I hadn’t you would’ve fainted again. Then I’d just waste more time looking for a teacher.’

Fair point.

Janie and Uyen are outside waiting for Estelle. Again I relegate myself to the other side of the road as they walk towards the shops, yakking their heads off, occasionally looking over towards me. Are they hoping I’ll go away? Are they worried I can overhear? I go into the op-shop and see Estelle heading up to the Arts Project space.

Mrs Nelson doesn’t look exactly thrilled to see me. But then, she never does. I try not to feel sensitive about it. I haven’t broken anything since that first day.

She asks me to tidy the magazines. This is the same job I did last time, and the time before that. It’s not that they aren’t messy, they are, but do they really need me here? The book and magazine corner is like a library to some of our customers. We sell furniture as well as clothes and house junk, and people often just settle on a sofa, a kitchen chair or a stool, and hunker down for an hour or so of browsing. Sometimes Mrs Nelson makes cups of tea for everyone and they all rave on about celebrity news. The magazines are old and shuffled, and although the lack of chronology causes some confused arguments, it doesn’t spoil anyone’s fun; it just adds to the sense of celebrities living in their own mad world.

It’s way past time to bite the bullet. ‘Do you need me here, Mrs Nelson?’

‘We value your contribution, Dan. There’s no question of that.’

‘But do you really
need
me?’

‘I want you to know you are always needed here. You’re reliable and generous with your time, and we certainly appreciate you.’

I try another tack. ‘If I could get more paid work, would it be a problem if I couldn’t come here any more?’

She beams, finally getting my drift.

‘Not at all! Not in the slightest. I’ve got more volunteers than I can poke a stick at.’

She might have let on a bit earlier.

I go straight over the road to Phrenology. Ali says he can give me one more after-school shift, but he’s in one of his moods so I head for the kitchen to get out of his way.

Anne is in there, looking grim. She cuts fiercely into a slab of still-warm poppyseed slice, handing me a piece. A vat of soup that smells like tomato and cumin is bubbling away. She nods at the pot. ‘Give that a stir will you, Dan? Make sure the lentils aren’t sticking.’ I pick up a big wooden spoon and stir.

‘What’s up?’

‘I just reminded Ali that I’m going on my holiday with Irena. I told him a hundred times we’re going, but he never believed it.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘A gourmet tour of Southeast Asia with Tony Tan. A tour of Loire region chateaux, and then on to Florence, to stay with Irena’s sister.’

‘When?’

‘Next week.’

‘How long are you away?’

‘Eight weeks. I told him months ago. Has he planned for it? No!’

I go out the back way. No point getting in the line of fire.

Mrs Da Silva has a bag of scraps for Howard when I drop in on the way home. I tell her the Phrenology news.

‘What will you do with your extra money?’

‘Take Howard to the vet. His limp isn’t getting any better.’

‘No surprise there. All those long runs, Dan. He’s a very old dog.’

‘He never used to limp.’

‘And I never used to have bunions. Mind the shop for a minute?’

I stand behind the counter and she disappears out the back into the house. I imagine Phrenology without Anne. Who’s going to do all the cooking? What if they get someone who’s no good? And they lose customers. And the business goes down the gurgler. And my job disappears. A brilliant idea strikes as I sell a kid some clinkers. My mother’s a fantastic cook. God knows she’s got time on her hands. Why shouldn’t she fill in for Anne? She needs to get out more, spend less time alone with Thom Yorke . . . Perfect.

Mrs Da Silva comes out a couple of minutes later with some plastic food containers. Full.

‘I made curries this morning. Take some home.’

‘Thanks. What do you think about my mum filling in for Anne?’

She smiles. ‘You’re not just a pretty face.’

C
OMING THROUGH THE BACK
gate, I almost run into Oliver.

‘Score,’ he says, when he sees the food.

‘Come and eat with us? There’s heaps.’

‘Great. I need to talk to you about something, too. Seven-ish?’

When I open the kitchen door my mother is singing along with Thom. I hate to intrude, but I try to sell her on the idea of running the Phrenology kitchen while I help with the rice and dhal and a salad. ‘It’s a couple of cakes and biscuits each day, and stuff like soup, some pides, and frittata for the lunches, and that’s it. No dinners. You could do it with your eyes shut.’

‘Who’s going to look after my business?’

‘Let the answering machine worry about it. If you get an order, you can fit it in. I’ll help. It’s not like you’re batting clients off with a stick.’

Privately I’m thinking that’s exactly what it’s like, just not in the commonly understood meaning of the phrase.

Oliver brings over hot, garlicky naan from the takeaway and some cold beer, and tries to help me persuade my mother to go for the Phrenology job. ‘You’re alone too much. It’s bad for your brain-health,’ he says. Let’s hope this sinks in.

The thing he wants to talk to me about is work-related, too. He’s going to London for a couple of weeks for work then coming back with his girlfriend, and he wants me to look after his place.

Am I interested in the job? Only utterly and absolutely. A world where I get paid to sit around in the best place I know, switch lights and music on and off (so it looks inhabited), and collect the mail seems too good to be true.

Back at school, Pittney’s starting to crack it about the social arrangements. He tells us part of our task is ‘canvassing the views’ of our ‘classmates’. Does he have even half a clue about the impossible contradictions this throws up?

‘Socials are stupid, I’m not coming.’

‘Get my brother’s band or I’m not coming.’

‘I’m not coming if I have to wear a suit.’

‘I’m not coming unless people are totally dressing up.’

‘It has to be dance music or no one will dance.’

‘If it’s just dance music I’m not coming.’

‘There better be good food for twenty bucks or it’s a total rip-off.’

‘There better not be food or it’ll just turn into a food fight.’

‘There better be no teachers inside or I’m not coming.’

‘You need security and door checks or people are just going to get trashed, and if anyone munts on my new dress, they are dead.’

‘What kind of loser would spend a Friday night at a lame school dance?’

All the canvassing does is make us realise that no matter what we decide some people are going to hate the social and probably hate us, too. Once we cover the event insurance and security, and throw around a bit of decoration there’s not going to be much money left over for food and music. We don’t know how much exactly until we start selling tickets, so we put that job on the top of the list.

‘We’d better book Vile Bodies, too,’ Estelle says.

Jayzo nods.

‘Who?’ I ask.

‘The band, jerk-off.’

‘I don’t even know them.’

‘It’s mostly some Year Twelves. Now, food . . .’ Estelle’s acting like this is a done deal.

‘Wait up, what kind of music do they do?’

‘They’re good. They do their own stuff and okay covers.’

‘What about all the people who only want dance music?’ I say.

‘Tough,’ says Jayzo.

‘But why don’t we get a DJ? Then they can play different music and cover a few more bases.’

‘Let’s vote,’ says Estelle, getting annoyed. ‘Two against one. Now can we move on?’

I’m getting annoyed too. ‘That’s a completely half-arsed way to figure this out,’ I persist.

‘What have you got against democracy?’ she wants to know.

‘Nothing, but you’re not exactly representing your constituents, if you want to get technical.’ I look at my list of ‘canvassed’ opinions. ‘At least half want electronic dance stuff.’

‘The band is available, reliable, affordable and good,’ she says. She’s not budging and Jayzo’s on her side. So why do I care? I’m not even planning to go. I’ve got an overdeveloped sense of trying to do the job we’ve been given. I shelve it. Who cares?

‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Let’s have pathetic Muse covers and no one dancing all night. It’ll be great.’

‘Fine! We’ll play Daft Punk in the break. Happy?’

‘Ecstatic.’

Estelle and I head to reading group.

‘You got here five minute ago,’ she says. ‘Why do you think you’ve got a clue?’

‘I didn’t ask for this job,’ I remind her.

‘Me neither. And it’s your fault I’ve got it!’

That’s rich. She really did grab that book after I picked it up.

‘Try your fault.’

‘Huh! Typical!’

‘You wouldn’t know what’s typical for me.’

‘I know all I need to know.’ She says it as though she’s written me off.

‘You don’t know anything about me.’

‘I know you had me under surveillance. Then coincidentally you turn up in my attic.’

‘It
was
a coincidence.’ I sound so plausibly indignant. ‘And it was mean to say what you said to Janie. I didn’t blab to her about your attic room.’

‘Keep up the good work and you’ll be human one of these days.’