Stagefright, Page 3

  “Yeah,” Roula said. “What would you know? This is … it’s … European!”

  Everyone was shouting. It even woke up Mr MacDonald. Roula had a hockey stick raised over Velvet’s head, Jesus had Drago in a headlock, Hailie was throwing Drago’s sculpture against the wall, Taleb had scrambled onto a desk with his arms wrapped protectively around his guitar.

  The door swung open. It was Mr Kislinski.

  “What is going on here?” he said in his best headmaster’s voice. “Where is your teacher?”

  They all turned to Mr MacDonald, who was reading the paper with clumps of red tapestry wool stuffed in his ears.

  Once sporting equipment had been laid down, clay and wool returned to appropriate containers, and everyone was sitting down again, Mr Kislinski gave a speech about how fortunate they were, what great resources the school had and how they’d Let the School Down. He went on for ten minutes. Drago stared at Mr Kislinski, his eyes glazed, his chin resting in his hand.

  “MacDonald, I think it’s time the cultural studies class did something for the school in return,” Mr Kislinski said.

  Dig a big hole in the oval and bury themselves in it? Velvet couldn’t imagine what he had in mind. Emigrate to Greenland?

  “As you know this is the school’s diamond jubilee year.” Velvet didn’t know. “There will be a week of festivities in November for parents of prospective students.”

  Drago’s elbow slid off the desk as he pretended to fall asleep.

  “Pay attention, Domitrovic. We’re planning a sports cavalcade to show off Yarrabank’s fine athletes. What we need is something artistic in between the gymnastics demonstration and the track and field finals, while visitors are having afternoon tea.”

  “Art-is-tic, sir?” Jesus pronounced the word as if it was a foreign term he’d never heard before.

  “I want you people to put on a performance.”

  “I thought we just did that.”

  Mr Kislinski ignored Roula’s comment and scowled at Mr MacDonald.

  “I’m talking about something cultural. Prospective parents are looking for an all-round education these days. A flute ensemble or a string quartet. Or perhaps a short play.”

  Mr Kislinski was staring at the water-stained ceiling, searching for inspiration.

  “Shakespeare. Now that’s the thing to impress the arty parents. A Shakespeare play. MacDonald, I’d like you to organise something. I shall look in from time to time to see how things are progressing.”

  Mr Kislinski left T6 and jogged back across the oval.

  CHAPTER 6

  The next week Velvet heard Mr MacDonald speak for the first time.

  “Okay. We have to choose a play to perform.”

  The cultural studies students were busy with their usual tasks.

  “Come on, Mr Mac,” Hailie said. “Slinky didn’t mean it.”

  Peter looked up from his current game. “He was just acting tough. He’ll have forgotten about it by now.”

  “Yeah, he wouldn’t let us loose in front of next year’s parents. Would he?” Drago said.

  “He means it.” Mr MacDonald was thumbing through an Education Department book called Shakespeare Adapted for Junior English Students. The book looked like it was at least fifty years old. “It doesn’t have to be great, just as long as you do something. How about Much Ado About Nothing?”

  “My Mum’s got that movie,” Hailie said. “It’s dumb.”

  “Okay. How about Julius Caesar?”

  Everyone groaned.

  “I’m not wearing a toga,” Peter said.

  “So what’s he going to do if we don’t come up with a play?” Roula asked. “Expel us?”

  “Yes.”

  “Big deal,” Drago said. “I got expelled twice last year.”

  “I’m not worried about you, Domitrovic,” Mr MacDonald said. “It’s me I’m concerned about.”

  “They don’t expel teachers.”

  “I’m on a twelve-month contract. If I don’t produce a performance for the jubilee, I could lose my job. I’d have to look for a position in another school.”

  “Great. Can we come too?”

  “There are worse schools than this.”

  There was a murmur of disbelief.

  “I might have to move to the country. There are Victorian schools that are practically in South Australia.”

  Mr MacDonald sat down and tossed the book of Shakespeare’s plays to one side. “I have this recurring nightmare that I’m teaching in a place called Gundiwallop North.” He sighed. “Okay. Not a play, a musical ensemble. I can tell Mr Kislinski that’s a better idea. Taleb can play the guitar. How many other musicians do we have?”

  “I play clarinet and piano,” Velvet said, “but I don’t have a clarinet any more. Or a piano.”

  “I used to play the violin,” said Roula. “I was really good.”

  “You did not.”

  “I did so. I learned when I was four. I played in a children’s orchestra that performed all over Europe. Seriously. In front of important people – kings and politicians and stuff.”

  “You can play violin, Roula?” Mr MacDonald was prepared to clutch at any straw.

  “Yeah.”

  Taleb stopped playing his guitar. “Prove it.”

  “I had an accident and hit my head. When I woke up I couldn’t remember how to play.”

  “Roula … you’re … full of it,” Jesus said, in between sit-ups.

  “That’s very sad, Roula. But are there any instruments you can remember how to play?”

  “I learned the recorder in primary school.”

  “Terrific.” Mr MacDonald sank back into his chair. “Anybody else?”

  “I’ve had three saxophone lessons,” Hailie said. “But Mum gave my saxophone to her boyfriend.”

  There was a kid at the back of the room with a patch over one eye who could play Chariots of Fire on the recorder.

  “Okay, we’ll forget about the musical recital. Back to the play. Anybody done any drama? Velvet?”

  “I had a part in The Mikado at St Theresa’s.”

  Mr MacDonald looked hopeful. “Anybody else?”

  Silence.

  Peter was looking through the book of plays. “We can’t do a Shakespeare play. No one can understand this stuff.”

  “Drago can hardly read,” Hailie said.

  “We’re all in this together, Hailie,” said Mr MacDonald.

  “Well, he can’t. He’s a dummy.”

  “Shut up.”

  “That’s enough, you two.”

  Drago pushed his chair back noisily and stood up.

  “I’d just like to say, I’m not sexist or nothing … but girls suck.” He walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him so that piles of sports equipment swayed precariously. No one took any notice.

  “Can’t we do something more modern,” Velvet said. “A musical. Like … Wicked?”

  “I saw that,” Hailie said. “It was dumb.”

  “What about We Will Rock You?” Roula suggested.

  Velvet sighed. “That’s not a proper musical. It’s just a string of pop songs.”

  “It’s got to be Shakespeare. That’s what Mr Kislinski wants,” Mr MacDonald said. “No one will expect it to be any good. You just have to learn the lines.”

  “All of them?”

  “We could just do extracts. Something funny like Twelfth Night.”

  “Has anybody ever read any Shakespeare?” Peter asked. “Apart from Velvet, of course.”

  Not a hand went up.

  “I saw a movie with Mel Gibson where he went crazy,” Jesus said. “That was Shakespeare wasn’t it?”

  Mr MacDonald sank back into his chair. “Gundiwallop North here I come.”

  Velvet had an idea. It took her a minute or two to decide whether she’d even mention it, since all they did was groan whenever she said anything. But Velvet wasn’t the sort of girl who kept her opinions to herself.

  “Why don’t
we do a modern version of a Shakespeare play, with music? You know, like an Andrew Lloyd Webber musical.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “The guy who wrote The Phantom of the Opera.”

  Everyone groaned again.

  Velvet didn’t tell them that she was a big fan of musical theatre. Three-quarters of her iTunes collection consisted of songs from musicals.

  Taleb hadn’t said a word up till then, but he put his guitar aside. “I refuse to play anything by Andrew Lloyd Webber.”

  “Not by him, just like that sort of thing.”

  “No way. I’d rather stick my head down the toilet.”

  Velvet was annoyed. “What do you know about Andrew Lloyd Webber?”

  Taleb didn’t answer. As far as he was concerned the subject was closed.

  “That’s not such a bad idea.”

  They all turned round to see who had said this. It was Drago. He was standing by the door.

  “Sticking my head down the toilet?” Taleb said.

  “No, making our own musical.”

  “Are you kidding?” Taleb said. “What do you know about music?”

  “Nothing,” said Drago. “But you do, and I reckon I could act a bit.”

  After a few moments of stunned silence, the idea began to catch on.

  “It could work,” Peter said.

  “Can we wear gothic dresses?” asked Roula.

  “Will there be battle scenes?” Jesus wanted to know.

  Apart from Taleb, who seemed to be ideologically opposed to anything even vaguely connected with Andrew Lloyd Webber, Mr MacDonald was the only one who wasn’t won over by Velvet’s idea.

  “A Shakespearean musical?” he said dubiously.

  “It could be good, sir,” Peter said.

  Mr MacDonald liked it when they called him sir. “But which play would we do?”

  “Stuffed if I know,” Drago said.

  The cultural studies class was silent again.

  CHAPTER 7

  The following Thursday, Mr MacDonald brought in The Complete Works of Shakespeare. It was a very fat book. A total lack of knowledge of Shakespearean plays didn’t stop anyone voicing a loud opinion on which one they should choose.

  “Let’s do Romeo and Juliet. Everyone’s heard of that.”

  “Nah, it’s got kissing in it,” Peter said. “I’m not kissing any girls on stage.”

  “Would you prefer to kiss a boy, Pete?” Drago asked.

  Peter ignored him.

  “It’s got to be one with lots of sword fights.”

  “Who asked you, Jesus?”

  “It has to have plenty of girls’ parts,” Roula said, “not all battles and war.”

  “There’s King Lear,” Mr MacDonald said. “He’s got three daughters.”

  “Does anyone die?”

  “Of course. People always die.”

  “Let’s do a funny one,” Hailie said.

  “How about A Midsummer Night’s Dream?” Mr MacDonald suggested.

  “What’s that about?” Roula asked.

  “Fairies.”

  Jesus was unimpressed. “No chance.”

  Mr MacDonald held up his hand to stop the arguing. He started scribbling on a piece of paper.

  “I’m writing down the names of every Shakespeare play.”

  “How many are there?” Jesus asked.

  “About forty.”

  When he’d finished, Mr MacDonald used a ruler to rip the paper into strips. He whipped Peter’s baseball cap off his head and put the pieces of paper in it.

  “Hailie, pick one. Don’t look!”

  She reached in, picked out a strip and squinted at the writing.

  “Richard the Third.”

  They all turned to Mr MacDonald. His smile faded.

  “Is it a good one?” Drago asked.

  “Not exactly the one that springs to mind when you think of snappy musical numbers.”

  “What’s it about?” Peter asked.

  “It’s about a hunchback duke who kills his brother and two nephews so that he can become king.”

  “Sounds awful,” Hailie said.

  “There’s a battle.”

  Jesus was pleased.

  Mr MacDonald sent the girls to photocopy the play. When they returned, everyone stared at their photocopies as if they were written in Klingon. Even Velvet.

  “I can’t understand any of this,” Hailie complained.

  “You just have to pick out the key scenes. The exciting bits.”

  “There aren’t any,” Peter grumbled.

  Jesus threw his photocopy aside. “Why isn’t it written in normal words? It sounds weird.”

  “It was written 400 years ago.” Velvet was pleased to be able to show off her literary knowledge.

  “Yeah?”

  “People spoke differently then.”

  “You mean people actually went around saying stuff like ‘Good time of day unto your royal grace’ instead of ‘wassup’?”

  “I don’t know, Drago. I suppose so.”

  “Come on, guys, let’s concentrate on this.” Mr MacDonald started pacing around like a real teacher. “The first scene is called a soliloquy because Richard is talking to himself. He’s got an inferiority complex. He’s got a hunched back and a withered hand. Women think he’s creepy. He’s also got a popular hunk of a brother.”

  “King Edward,” Velvet said.

  “Right. Richard’s angry. He wishes the war wasn’t over. He was victorious in battle. A hero. He was happier fighting battles than going to polite social functions. So what does he do?”

  “Talks to himself.”

  “Yes, but what is he plotting while he’s talking to himself?”

  “Ummm.”

  “Velvet?”

  “He wants to be king. But he’s the youngest so he has to get rid of his brothers first.”

  Jesus peered at the play. “How’d you work that out?”

  “Velvet’s right. He makes his brother Edward, the king, suspect that Clarence …”

  “Who’s he?” Drago was having trouble understanding the play.

  “The other brother,” Velvet explained.

  “Richard fools King Edward into thinking that their brother Clarence wants to be king and is about to kill his young sons,” Mr MacDonald continued. “Why does Richard want to do that?”

  The cultural studies students studied the photocopies with furrowed brows.

  “’Cos he’s a creep?”

  “’Cos he wants to be king himself?”

  “You’re both right. He does want to be king, but it’s also partly to get his own back. No one likes him. ‘Since I cannot be a lover, I am determined to prove a villain.’”

  “He’s misunderstood.”

  “Yes. Because he’s ugly, people expect him to be mean. So he’s going to oblige them.”

  Someone coughed.

  Everyone looked up and realised that Mr Kislinski, true to his nickname, had crept into the room unnoticed. He looked disappointed. They were all studying the play. Even Drago.

  “Coming along I see.”

  No one spoke. Mr Kislinski smiled and edged back out of the door. The class returned its attention to the photocopies.

  “I don’t see how we can write a song about this stuff.”

  “No one asked you to write a song, Jesus.”

  “Taleb? What do you reckon?”

  “I dunno. Lots of songs are about guys saying that no one understands them.” He played a few sad-sounding notes on his guitar. “I’ll have a go.”

  “Great, you can work on it over the holidays.”

  CHAPTER 8

  When Velvet returned to school after the term break, there was a crowd outside the gym. Velvet knew the students at Yarrabank were keen on physical fitness, but surely they weren’t so eager they were queuing up to get into the gym on the first day of term? Then she saw Roula and Hailie in the crowd, and she knew that couldn’t be the reason. Her curiosity got the better of her. She pushed
her way towards them.

  “What’s going on?”

  Hailie pointed to the gym wall. Someone had graffitied it over the holidays. Red letters a metre high proclaimed SLINKY STINKS.

  “Bet you five bucks it was Drago,” Roula said.

  “How do you know?”

  “It’s just the sort of thing he’d do.”

  Hailie’s ankle was out of plaster.

  “You’re not wearing your snob-school uniform,” she observed.

  Velvet’s looked down at the secondhand polyester dress and the purple polar fleece hoodie she was now forced to wear. Her mother had sold her St Theresa’s uniform during the holidays.

  Normally, Velvet and her parents spent the first-term break at their holiday house in Port Douglas, but they’d sold that. She’d hoped to spend a lot of time with Rhiannon, Ashleigh and Clara-Louise, her friends from St Theresa’s. But Rhiannon and Clara-Louise went on music camp and Ashleigh had gone to Cambodia with her family. They’d only got together once.

  Over the holidays, Velvet had had one small success. She had begged her parents to let her have a private music tutor outside school hours, but they’d said they couldn’t afford it. Mr MacDonald, Velvet had discovered, used to be Yarrabank’s music teacher before the music program had been axed so that funds could be diverted to the gym refurbishment. He still took instrument lessons at lunchtime. She had managed to talk her parents into forking out for a term of lunchtime piano tuition.

  Only a handful of Yarrabank students took the extra-curricular music classes, so there were plenty of free sessions on Mr MacDonald’s timetable.

  When Velvet arrived in T6 for her first lesson, she was surprised to find Taleb there.

  “I wouldn’t have thought you needed music lessons.”

  “I don’t.”

  “So what are you doing here?”

  “I’m taking this class.”

  “You mean you’re teaching it?”

  Velvet looked around. She was the only student who had turned up. “Where’s Mr Mac?”

  “He’s got a dental appointment.”

  Taleb indicated a dusty upright piano. “How good are you?”

  “I’ve passed my Grade 7 Exam.”

  “That means nothing to me. Play something.”

  For some reason, Velvet was nervous playing in front of Taleb. She’d brought some sheet music with her – Easy Piano: Andrew Lloyd Webber. She played a bit of “Memory” from Cats.