Ishmael and the Hoops of Steel (3 page)

‘All right, let's get moving, gentlemen. I want everyone up the front and seated – now. We've got a lot to cover this morning.'

We shuffled our way with the rest of the Year Elevens to the rows of seats set out at the front of the hall. Mr Barker was on the assembly stage.

‘Come on, you lot. Rise and shine. Holidays are over. I need you all seated and paying attention. Oh, and I'll also need two volunteers to join me up here. So let me see … Yes, could I have
you
come up, Mr Carlson-Steele … and could I also have …
you
, Mr Zorzotto? Between the two of you we are going to demonstrate the right and the wrong way to wear the Senior uniform.'

‘Gee whiz,' Razz whispered to us excitedly. ‘I wonder which one
I'm
going to be!'

In the end I'm sure Mr Barker regretted choosing Razza as the ‘wrong way' school uniform guy.

Gerard Carlson-Steele just stood in the middle of the stage like a clothes-store dummy and turned red while Mr Barker pointed out to us all the perfect features of his perfect uniform.

With Razza it was
slightly
different.

When Mr Barker called him forward Razz slipped right into supermodel mode, gliding across the stage and posing with his arms folded, glaring at the audience. Then he pranced to the edge of the platform, loosened his tie and slowly undid another button on his shirt before twirling around dramatically and slinking back across the stage with his hips thrusting wildly from side to side.

It was quite a performance, and at just on eight minutes into the new school year, it earnt Razz the distinction of receiving the fastest detention in St Daniel's history. It was probably all the cheering and wolf-whistling that finally pushed Mr Barker over the edge.

After the fun of Razza's catwalk capers died down, the real business of the day started. Our Principal, Brother Jerome, spoke to us first, followed by Mr Barker. They basically said the same kind of things: how this year was important; how they expected a lot more from us because now we were
Seniors and school leaders; how we needed to show maturity (glares from Mr Barker directed at Razz); how we needed to be thinking seriously about our future career (what future career?); how we should involve ourselves in all aspects of school life; and how it was crucial that we apply ourselves to our studies and stay totally focused at all times (supersized glares from Mr B at the Razzman). Mr Barker said this year was all about ‘making informed and mature choices'.

Beside me, Razz pushed out his bottom lip and nodded. Then he whispered out of the side of his mouth.

‘Speaking of choices, who would you choose – a good-looking chick with a not-so-hot bod or a not-so-good-looking chick who was really, really built?'

As much as I wanted to demonstrate my brand new Senior School maturity by totally ignoring Razz's question, I found myself giving it serious consideration. Eventually I was brought back to reality when Miss Tarango appeared at the side door of the gym and headed for the stage.

A murmur of approval ran through the Year Elevens. Miss Tarango had that effect on people. Even Brother Jerome and Mr Barker seemed to spark up when she joined them. It was hard not to. Miss T was so bright and full of energy she probably glowed in the dark. Up on stage Mr Barker and Miss Tarango spoke together for a bit before Mr Barker clicked the microphone back on.

‘Thank you. Quieten down, gentlemen. We've got a truckload of administration details to get through. But firstly I have an important announcement. As you know, our long-serving Senior coordinator, Mr Carver, retired last year so we've had to appoint a replacement, and I am very pleased to be able to tell you that Miss Tarango has generously agreed to step into that role.'

Cheers, clapping and a rumble of talk filled the gym. Miss Tarango gave us one of her best double-dimpled smiles and took over the mic.

‘Thank you, boys. I'm really looking forward to being your coordinator for the next two years. I appreciate your support and I'm certainly going to need it. I know I have very big shoes to fill.'

That comment earned Miss Tarango a big laugh. Mr Carver was an ex-international rugby front row forward. His nickname at school was ‘Andre the Giant'. Miss Tarango could probably have parked her little red and black Mini in one of his shoes.

Anyway, after telling us what she hoped we could all achieve in the year ahead, Miss got down to tackling some of the ‘truckload of administration details' that Mr Barker had warned us about. First up, we found out that the good news about Miss T being our coordinator was balanced by the bad news that therefore she wouldn't be taking one of the Homeroom groups. We also found out that last year's groups had been totally reorganised. We all knew what that meant. There was virtually no chance Razz, Scobie, Bill, Ignatius and me would all end up in the same group again. And it got worse. Apparently the Homeroom groups were also going to double as English classes, which meant we wouldn't be together there either. I mentally added another couple of ‘bummers' to my rapidly expanding collection.

If we weren't all together in Homeroom or English it meant we wouldn't be together much at all. This was because of our different subject choices. According to Razz's definitions, Scobie was doing the ‘Future World Dictator' course because he'd chosen subjects like Legal Studies and Economics, Ignatius had taken the ‘Extreme Nerd' course because he'd picked heaps of Science subjects as well as ‘Mega-Brain' Maths, Bill and I were down for the ‘Mixed Grill' course because we had a bit of everything, and Razz had himself enrolled in ‘Senior for Dummies' because he'd taken Film and TV, Health and Physical Education and ‘McHappy' Maths.

Up on stage Miss Tarango began to read out the four
English classes. She started with hers. The names were in alphabetical order. We all held our breaths, waiting and hoping as Miss worked her way through the list. None of us was on it. We all slumped a little lower than normal in our seats. Beside me, Razza slumped so low he almost disappeared.

Then Miss read out the second list – Ms Verity's class. None of us was in that one either. There were only two classes left. Mr Slattery's and Mr Krueger's. Miss Tarango started on Mr Slattery's group. She was about halfway through when Bill's name came up. Then a few names later mine was read out. Then Prindabel's. Then Scobie's. It was unbelievable!

We all looked at Razz, who had pulled himself forward and was perched on the edge of his seat drumming his fingers nervously on the chair in front of him. There was still a chance. We knew ‘Zorzotto' would be right at the end – if it was there at all. Miss read out three more names.

‘Jared Wilson. Matthew Wozniaki. Melvin Yip.'

Then she placed the sheet of paper she was reading on the table. Razz stopped drumming his fingers and thumped his head down on them. He let out a low moan. Miss poured herself a glass of water and took a couple of sips. She cleared her throat.

‘Sorry, boys – not used to all this talking. Now, where was I?' She picked up the class lists again. ‘I think we've finished with Mr Slattery's class, haven't we? No, wait. Sorry. One name to go … and that would be … let's see … Oh, Orazio Zorzotto.'

Razz let out a wild whoop and shoved the chair in front so hard that Ryan Babic was sent sprawling to the gym floor. Brother Jerome and Mr Barker glowered at Razz in stereo. Miss Tarango glanced up as Ryan Babic climbed back to his seat, cursing Razz not quite under his breath. I could swear Miss was fighting to keep her dimples under control.

After the meeting we all headed straight to the Senior noticeboard to check the class lists to make sure it was true.
We couldn't believe our luck. But there it was in black and white – all of us were together in Mr Slattery's English class and, not only that, we'd scored Mr Guthrie as our Homeroom teacher.

‘Hope you're not too disappointed with your new class, boys.'

We spun round to see Miss Tarango standing in a patch of sunlight. Her short jaggy blonde hair was glowing and her teeth and her eyes looked backlit. If it was a movie you'd swear someone had gone a bit overboard with the airbrush and special effects. She looked like she'd swallowed summer.

‘Nah, it's awesome, Miss!' Razz said. ‘We're all in the same Homeroom. What are the chances of that?'

Prindabel's face lit up.

‘Well, if you wanted to calculate the exact probability, you'd have to consider that there are four separate class groups so therefore the chances of any one of us being in a particular group is one in four, but then because there are five of us you'd have to multiply the …'

Ignatius found Razz's hand wrapped around his mouth. ‘Don't worry about him, miss. Some of his sound cards are playing up.'

Miss Tarango laughed. Then she stepped a little closer. She looked like summer but she smelt like spring. Dangling from her lobes were gold earrings in the shape of tiny books.

‘Well, just between you and me, boys,
chance
didn't play much of a role. You see, the Senior Coordinator gets to draw up the class lists – in consultation with her colleagues of course – and I thought it made perfect sense for me to keep my Year Eleven debating team together. Easier to arrange meetings and maybe use some Homeroom or English time for last-minute preparation.'

‘Brilliant, miss, thanks,' Scobie said. ‘That'll be a big help. We seem to have a bit of trouble getting everyone together.
Some
of us are a little unreliable.'

‘Hey, what are you looking at me for?' Razz said. Then
his forehead creased into a frown and he looked back at Miss Tarango. ‘But miss, if you made up all the lists, how come you didn't put us in your English class?'

‘Well, Orazio, tempted as I was, I thought it might be prudent to wait a while before totally abusing my newfound power and getting the other English teachers off side by hogging all the star pupils.'

Razz nodded in agreement. ‘Yeah, I get it, miss. I guess they were all hoping to score me in their English class, hey? Even if it meant putting up with the rest of these losers.'

Miss Tarango smiled sweetly. ‘No comment, Orazio.'

‘I understand, miss – don't want to hurt these guys' feelings, right?'

Scobie gave an exaggerated clearing of his throat then twisted his mouth to one side and back again. ‘Congratulations on the year level coordinator appointment, miss.'

‘Thank you, James. I think they thought I was the only one mad enough to take it on. It's a big responsibility, especially following a St Daniel's legend like Mr Carver. And I've taken over his old position of Charlton House Patron as well.'

‘Charlton House Patron? You'll be awesome, miss, but you'd better practise up on your
There's no shame in coming last
speeches.'

‘Well, I'm hoping to turn that around, Orazio, so I'll be really relying on you guys to help me out, OK?'

We all nodded eagerly. Hell, we'd coat ourselves in honey and dance in front of a pack of bears if Miss Tarango asked us to.

‘Great. Thanks, boys. I knew I could count on the Fab Five to watch my back.'

Then Miss Tarango flashed some bright orange fingernails at us in a quick wave before twirling round and walking briskly back up the path.

We were watching her back already.

Well, sort of.

There was no way you could mistake our new Homeroom. It had Mr Guthrie written all over it. Not literally, of course. Teachers weren't allowed to write all over classrooms. That's the students' job.

Just joking. All I'm saying is, you could tell Mr Guthrie lived there because every centimetre of wall and noticeboard space was plastered with posters and articles covering every issue, concern and injustice known to humankind. There was stuff on climate change, recycling, homelessness, refugees, anti-whaling, political prisoners, deforestation, binge drinking, pollution, poverty, nuclear waste, third world debt, child labour, endangered species, carbon footprints, renewable energy, land rights, women's rights, gay rights, workers' rights and animal rights. Then on the
next
wall there was … Well, you get the picture.

Our sports master, Mr Hardcastle, liked to call Mr Guthrie ‘St Daniel's resident tree-hugging hippy'. That's when he wasn't calling him ‘Mr Cheesecloth' or ‘Mr Tie-dye'. Brother Jerome's description was better. He said Mr Guthrie was ‘St Daniel's Patron Saint of Lost Causes'. It seemed just about everyone had their own name for Mr Guthrie. In Year Nine Razz and I nicknamed him ‘Pele' after he scored a truly freaky winning goal for the Charlton Chiefs in the big inter-house
soccer competition. Then we found out later that most of the other teachers called him ‘Woody'. I thought it was because he wore a bracelet with wooden beads on it. But one day I heard Dad talking about some famous old singer called Woody Guthrie, so I figured that's where the name came from.

Mr Guthrie did actually have a proper name. It was Emerson. Emerson Guthrie. Not exactly catchy. But I guess it was different; a bit like Mr Guthrie himself. With his mop of short, springy dreadlocks and his wispy beard he looked like a tall, thin, elf. And then there were his clothes. Mr Guthrie wasn't really into designer labels unless they turned up in op shops or they were marked
Fair Trade.

It was in Mr Guthrie's Homeroom that I finally got to find out what Razz's solution to my ‘chick-drooling' prayers actually was. It began with him sliding into the seat beside me and grinning madly.

‘Ishmael, my man. Awesome news! It's all done and dusted, dude.'

‘What's all done and dusted?'

‘The thing we talked about at your house.'

‘Oh right, that would be the “answer to all my chick-drooling prayers”.'