Will (6 page)

That’s what got me most about the Save Will Armstrong campaign. I was happy with the way things were. I’d been making a real effort to do nothing and the musical screwed with all of that.

It was Saturday morning. Early. Too early, but the time for the crime had already begun in Mum’s book.

Come on, Will, it’s time to go
.

She stood in my bedroom doorway dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. At least I could be grateful that she wasn’t wearing that kooky gardening outfit. I was still in my boxers, mucking around with a new tune that had been hanging around in my head.

No it’s not. The auditions don’t start till nine
.

Her hands were already on her hips: no chance for negotiation.

I don’t care. You’re going to get there early and you are going to offer any assistance that you can to the teachers, especially Mr. Andrews
.

That man was going to die.

Mum, I don’t need to get there this early!

I negotiated my way around her and made it to the bathroom. She followed close behind.

I don’t care
. Will. You’re going whether you like it or not. And more to the point, this is the last time I will be dropping you at school. You can ride your bike in future
.

Great. Most people were beginning to beg their way into taking their parents’ cars out and I had to ride my bike. Dad’s car sat in the garage waiting for someone to make it useful. But even if I could drive it I probably wouldn’t.

All right, Mum!

I closed the bathroom door and started to brush my teeth. A sense of dread filled my gut in anticipation of the day’s events. I tried to concentrate on the girl factor. I mean, what girl wouldn’t be interested in a sensitive, guitar-playing guy like me? I love to throw words around, and that’s what girls are meant to like, isn’t it, the fact that a bloke can talk to them? I can talk and play music … and I’m all right at football and soccer.

I’m not ugly either. I mean, I don’t look in the mirror and think,
Man, you should lock yourself up you are so damn ugly
. I reckon I’m pretty average. Lots of brown happening: brown hair, brown eyes, brown skin. I’ve had the really bad growth spurt that most blokes go through, all legs and arms and not much else. That really is when you’re ugly. When you can barely coordinate your feet with your legs, your arms with your torso, your head with your chin. No, I’ve definitely moved from the
my nose doesn’t fit my face
stage. Suppose I’m fairly tall, tall but not huge. Mum reckons I’ve got big dreamy brown eyes, but that’s what mums are like.

William!

Her voice came loud and clear through the wooden door.

You have exactly five minutes to get out of that bathroom, get changed and get yourself in the car!

I looked into the mirror. Who was I kidding? My mother was driving me to school on a Saturday morning so I could play music with a bunch of socially retarded geeks.

I may as well have
loser
printed on my T-shirt ’cause no girl was going to rate a guy like that.

Mum lightened up during the car ride to school. She was going off to have her hair cut in what she called a
funky
hairdressers and have lunch with “the girls.” She made the
you may actually enjoy it
speech, as anticipated, and drove off before I could deliver my comeback.

Which of course meant it went round and round my head as I made my way around from the school’s side entrance. Andrews had made a big deal of saying they would be the only gates open and if we didn’t make it on time we’d be locked out. Fine by me!

I walked up through the Years 8 and 9 yard, picked my way over the squashed banana and oranges that had probably been used as ammunition in some
You’re not the boss of me, wanker!
battle and made my way to the hall. St. Andrew’s Hall was like some kind of museum, full of old stuff and old smells. The walls were covered with ancient dusty photos and wooden boards that showed the names of school captains, sporting captains and guys who had fought and died in wars. The best thing about the photographs was the really bad haircuts and the size of the footy shorts.

Underneath the boards were rows of cabinets full of old trophies. Above the stage there was a giant banner proclaiming ST. ANDREW’S COLLEGE: RICH IN TRADITION FOR ONE HUNDRED YEARS. It was meant to inspire us, or that’s what Waddlehead told us at assemblies. I didn’t get what the big deal was. So the school’d been around
for one hundred years. It was old, that was all it meant; old, old-fashioned and dead boring.

There was the definite sound of strangled cats and elephants’ farts coming from the guts of the hall. I wasn’t the only one who’d arrived early, except this lot had probably begged their parents to get them here at this hour. I tried to think positively. Chris was right. I just had to concentrate on the girl factor. I moved into the hall to do a recce … 

Oh no! Seriously bad! Seriously, seriously bad. There were no girls anywhere.

I was completely surrounded by blokes! And not just any blokes but the singing, performing, dancing kind who were willing to give up their weekends for the sake of their art. I scanned the room, wanting one glimmer, one spark of hope.

Where were the girls, the babes, the chicks, the hotties?

Nowhere!

Wall-to-wall blokes.

I looked over at the band. Yep, just as I had predicted. Year 7, 8 and 9 try-hard geeks. Even worse, junior try-hard geeks who didn’t know they were responsible for the strangled cat and elephants’ fart sounds I’d heard five minutes earlier.

I was two seconds away from making a really fast exit. I knew Mum would freak but I’d talk her around. There was no way I could survive this! Just as I was about to leave I saw some of the band nudging one another. Chris was right: all these younger guys seemed to recognize me. They’d probably heard about my punishment before I did. There was no way I could bolt after being seen. It would get back to Andrews and he’d be straight on the phone to Waddlehead or worse … my mother.

What can you do but try to act casual and make it clear you’re pissed off with being there? That part wasn’t hard.

Hey!

I turned my head ever so slightly, enough to acknowledge the little geek’s existence, but nothing more than that.

Aren’t you the guy who mooned the Lakeside bus last week?

I raised my eyebrow in response.

Everyone in Year 7 thinks you’re so cool. Not that many of them talk to me, but even on Friday …

I turned to face motormouth straight on. A bit of hero worship was OK, but if I didn’t find the off button soon I figured I’d blow the role model thing within two seconds of being in the hall. I located the sound at just above waist height. It was the geek from the bus stop. Staring at me with exactly the same eyes and exactly the same trusting expression. I checked out the rest of him. He could have been the poster boy for geek, minus the heavy brown glasses with milk-bottle lenses. He had a deadset bowl cut, what could only be Kmart jeans that fell to his ankles and school socks worn with ugly white sneakers. The kid was lost in a time zone all his own. No one would dress like that for real.

I turned away but he’d attached himself to my right elbow.

So you’re going to be in the band then?

Looks like it
.

That’s great. There aren’t a lot of seniors. Actually, there aren’t any, apart from you
.

I looked out beyond the orchestra pit and into the hall. Yep, the kid was right, I was surrounded.

It’s mostly just Year Sevens, Eights and Nines in the band. But we sound good. Brother Pat always says so. He thinks we
sound as good as the band he plays in and he’s been playing for years
.

He drew his first breath in thirty seconds, then hit me with:
You can hang out with me if you don’t know anyone else
.

The comment drew my head toward the kid like a magnet. I stared at him, looking for any trace of irony. There was none.

I think I’ll be right, mate, thanks
.

He stared straight back. There was definitely something about this kid’s eyes … like they belonged to someone ancient. He wasn’t going anywhere.

I play the trombone. What instrument do you play?

I lifted up the case I held in my left hand.
The guitar, mate
.

My dad plays the guitar. My dad’s cool. He’s really cool
.

I felt my head go down instantly. Winded like one of those destructo balls had slammed me in the gut. This type of stuff just comes up sometimes and grabs you by the balls. You never know when it’s going to happen and how to protect yourself. My silence must have had some sort of impact on the motormouth midget ’cause he actually shut up for three seconds. Just as the little guy was going to start up again I grabbed my guitar and looked around for Andrews. I knew I had to check in with him before he made a big deal of me being late.

I nodded in the little guy’s direction and he moved into a huge wave in return. I hoped for his sake his father was as cool as he said he was, because the kid was definitely going to need some help.

Well, well, Mr. Armstrong, I see you made it
.

Andrews was grinning like he had won the lotto and the woman who presents it on telly. I was beginning to look at him in a very different light. He was enjoying every millisecond of this.

All right, sir, I’m here so let’s not make a big deal of it
.

On the contrary, Mr. Armstrong, it is a big deal. Here you are on a Saturday at our hallowed and revered school, reinforcing its good name as an educational institution that produces outstanding and accomplished young men such as yourself
.

English teachers speak such crap!

Give it up, sir
.

No, no, I think we should all give recognition where it is due and celebrate the fact that you are indeed here, regardless of the reason why
.

Sarcastic bastard. I looked around to find we had an audience. The teachers were loving every minute. Even some of those little geeks were smiling, but my snarl quickly whipped the smirks off their faces. Fortunately I was saved by the unlikeliest of heroes, Brother Pat.

Brother Pat had been kicking around St. Andrew’s since Chris’s dad had gone there. Which was a long time ago. He’d been principal for years and was now retired. After he’d hung out in Ireland for a
year, he came back to St. Andrew’s to help out. Music was his thing. He was a bit like a musical Santa Claus: old, fat and great with kids. He could play any musical instrument he picked up and his singing practices were a St. Andrew’s institution.

Hello, young Will. It is wonderful to see such enthusiasm from one of our most high-profile senior students. This will be an excellent example to the younger students
.

Yes, he’s good at setting examples, Brother Pat
.

I threw Andrews a look, and turned to Brother Pat for more praise. Well, why not, it had been a little scarce over the past week.

You’re an accomplished musician, so I have been hearing, William. Guitar, isn’t it?

Yes, Brother
.

A fine instrument. Perhaps not as well regarded in classical circles but still an excellent instrument. Fancy yourself the next Paul McCartney, eh?

Probably more of a Daniel Johns, Brother
, offered Mr. Andrews.

Daniel Johns
, Brother puzzled.
Isn’t he a football player?

Not this one, Brother
.

Anyway, son, I’m proud of you. Giving up your time to be here on a Saturday so as to help with the auditions. You know, Will, I’m going to be relying on your help over the next couple of months. This is a great opportunity for you. We can’t have your mate Christopher Holden thinking he’s the only one with leadership ability
.

First Danielli and now Brother Pat. What was it with this leadership crap? But he was wrong about Chris. He didn’t rate himself. I reckon that was why all the rest of the boys did—because he didn’t.

Right, well … 
Brother scanned the geeks.
We’ll have you set up next to that young chap who plays the trombone
.

Yes, Brother
.

I walked over and started to remove my one prized possession from its place of residence. At least I could still retreat into its world when it all became too much.

Cool, they’ve put you right next to me!

I looked up to see the geek grinning at me. I grimaced back. Could this possibly get any worse?

Andrews called us to attention.

All right, everybody, let’s meet in five minutes to give a running order for the day. I’ll then hand over to Brother Pat to announce the choice of musical for this year! There has been a great deal of debate and the final decision was quite contentious
.

The teachers really needed to get a life!

Many of us thought we should be looking at more contemporary musicals, more up-to-date, but Brother Patrick was insistent that the oldies are always the best. And I have to say I think I agree with him
.

Come on, sir, what’s it called?

This came from one of the midgets with a clarinet hanging out of his mouth. The kid couldn’t be serious!

Brother Pat and Andrews exchanged smiles. It was becoming pretty clear to me that everyone in the hall seriously wanted to know. Brother Pat moved forward.

All right then
. He raised his hands and the hall stilled.

It’s called
The Boy Friend
.
It was written in 1954 and is set in 1920s France in a girls’ finishing school. It is what we call in the business a pastiche…. But that will do for now
.