Screw Loose (30 page)

‘You know this formal? Chelsea Dean's formal next weekend?' she asked.

‘Sure. Chelsea's made me a bouncer and I have to film it!'

‘Do you have a partner?' she asked. She was walking around the lounge looking at things as she spoke. She peeped into the kitchen. His bedroom door was closed.

‘Not really.'

‘Would you like to go with me?'

He'd been going to ask her, and she'd beaten him to it! Joy whizzed and sparked in his chest like a catherine-wheel. She didn't care about Pham and Bruno. She didn't mind about the flat. She wasn't suspicious.

‘Sure. Love to.'

‘Have those guys ever been in trouble with the cops?' she asked.

The interrogation.
Tell the truth.

She was standing in the middle of the living room now, looking so perfect. He wanted to kneel before her. This girl in his 'hood.

‘What guys?'

He'd see them tonight. Tell them his aunty found the things and threw them in the skip downstairs. It had been emptied only last night.
Really sorry. I have to go quiet for a while; my
aunty's onto me. Threatening to call the cops. Don't contact me.
If they tried to go him – at least he had Vo Vietnam.

‘Khiem?' Penny cocked her head to one side and smiled.

‘Come on. Truth or dare.'

‘They probably have … They have for sure.'

‘I thought so.' She sat on the couch. He sat on the chair opposite.

‘How old are you?' she asked.

‘I'm sixteen.'

She said nothing. She was looking at the carpet.

‘It was a dumb thing to do. The car ... I just wanted to see you.'

‘I don't think that's quite true.'

He felt so miserable. ‘It's true.'

‘Did Chelsea force you?'

‘No.'

Penny was a bit like a cop, but the sweetest possible cop.

‘What happened to your dad and mum?' she asked.

‘Mum got sick and dad was in an accident, but it was in Vietnam. What about your parents?' he asked quickly. ‘What does your mum do at the hospital? Is she a doctor or a nurse?'

‘A nurse.'

‘And what about your dad?'

She was silent. ‘Dad is…' She hesitated. ‘You probably wouldn't want to know.'

‘I would.' He got up and sat on the couch, then edged a little closer.

‘Dad's a cop, actually.'

His body jolted. ‘No kidding?' he said.

‘Detective Inspector Daniel O'Neill.'

‘Cool.' He didn't mean that at all.

‘Are you still into anything illegal yourself?'

He fell back against the sofa. It was time to tell her everything.

SUBTLY, EVERY
AEROPLANE IS
DIFFERENT

C
HELSEA
D
EAN LOOKED
at Zeynep sitting beside her in the plane. The engines were purring, but the plane hadn't begun to move. Zeynep's face was grey, and her eyes were staring blindly ahead. Without travel-sickness pills or Drambuie, she was not coping well.

It had been a wonderful time in Sydney, and Chelsea had almost forgotten the unforgivable manner in which her mother had spoken to her back in Kew. She'd shopped extravagantly, and her father had paid for everything. She had enjoyed the house, too – except for the way the Queen of Bling ordered her father around. Once she'd even had the gall to tell Chelsea to
shake a leg
!

Of course, to make up for the rude way she had treated her Melbourne guests, Lindy had bought Chelsea a quite nice pair of Manolo Blahnik shoes, and Zeynep a sweet little top, but Chelsea could see straight through these sad little bribes.

They were waiting for clearance to take off. Soon Sydney would be slipping away below them, and she would return to the slum conditions of her own house and life with the despicable Ryans. She sighed. If it wasn't for the formal, she might just have become a Sydneyite.

Zeynep was clutching the Phoenix Air sick bag and the safety instruction card, which she had homed in on as soon as she'd sat down. This flight was not going to be easy.

Zeynep had been quite a handful in Sydney. On the first day, mesmerised by the little plates circulating on the conveyor belt at a sushi-train restaurant, Zeynep had fallen off a stool and bruised herself. In the Centrepoint Tower revolving restaurant several nights later, she'd abandoned her meal to walk around the restaurant in the reverse direction to try to
unwind her
dizziness,
and the management had asked her to return to her table. She had also suffered endless unnecessary guilt and a constant desire to phone home. Finally Chelsea had simply confiscated her phone.

Now Zeynep was reading the Phoenix Air safety instructions obsessively.

‘Frequent fliers never read the safety instructions,' Chelsea explained to her. ‘If we start to crash, take off your shoes, get to the nearest exit, then go down their slide. There'll be cabin crew standing beside the exit to assist you with any concerns.'

She glanced at Zeynep's safety instruction card. It had the same smiling cabin crew as on most safety instruction cards, although the illustration suggested that the plane's tail was on fire.

‘What if there are too many morbidly obese passengers on board?' Zeynep whispered. ‘They weighed our luggage, but they didn't weigh us.' She unclipped her seatbelt and stood up, darting looks of concern up and down the cabin.

‘Sit down!'

She sat. ‘Chelsea, it says:
Subtly, every aeroplane is different.

Shouldn't they all be identical? Why are they all different?'

‘Get a grip, Zeynep,' Chelsea snapped.

‘There are only eighteen seconds of useful consciousness if the cabin loses pressure at forty thousand feet. Is this the cabin?'

‘Don't even read that thing.' Chelsea tried to snatch it away.

They were now beginning to taxi and Zeynep, still clutching the safety instruction card, closed her eyes.

Chelsea took the Phoenix Air in-flight magazine from the seat pocket and opened it to an article on Mildura's nightspots.

Zeynep had begun to wave a hand in the air, trying to attract one of the cabin crew.

Chelsea pushed it down. ‘What's wrong, Zeynep? Put your hand down. This isn't school.'

It was too late: a member of the cabin crew was approaching. He was rather handsome.

‘Is the plane going to fly over water?' Zeynep asked him.

‘For a few minutes. Most of the time we're over land,' he answered with a reassuring smile.

‘Shouldn't we have parachutes then?'

He smiled again; he had excellent teeth. ‘Phoenix Air has a perfect safety record.'

‘That wouldn't be hard,' Chelsea pointed out. ‘You've only been flying for eight months!'

He frowned.

‘We should fly over water all the way if we've got life jackets,'

Zeynep persisted. ‘Otherwise there should be parachutes.'

Chelsea slapped a hand over her friend's mouth and shook her head at the man. ‘She's a bit anxious about flying,' she explained, rolling her eyes at him. ‘This is only her second time on a plane. Do you have any tranquillisers?'

He ignored her. ‘I think you'd have to ask the captain about our flight plan,' he said to Zeynep. ‘It would prolong the flight time if we flew over water all the way.' He turned to go.

‘Do air pockets go right down to the ground?'

The steward was frowning again. He shook his head. ‘I've experienced many air pockets. You've been on a roller-coaster?

It's much like that. Quite exhilarating.'

Zeynep wasn't convinced. ‘I haven't been on a rollercoaster.'

‘Very strict parents,' Chelsea explained. ‘Zey, try to think of something pleasant. Think of Angelo. Read this magazine.

Look, a story about Adelaide's churches: very informative, even for a Muslim.' Chelsea waved the in-flight magazine in Zeynep's face.

There was an announcement and the steward left. He joined the other cabin crew a little further along the aisle to demonstrate the safety procedures. Chelsea returned to the magazine, but Zeynep went suddenly into a brace position, then reached up to fiddle with the panels above her head, trying to find the oxygen mask. At the demonstration's conclusion she seemed to be doing deep-breathing exercises.

The sound of the plane's engine changed as the pilot prepared for take-off. Chelsea's grabbed Zeynep's hand. It was damp with anxiety. ‘Think of Angelo holding you tenderly in his arms … think of his ball-handling skills … think—'

‘What if a pelican gets sucked into the engine?'

‘Look, relax. Everyone else is relaxed. There'll be something to watch soon.' Then Chelsea had a brainwave. ‘What if they let you clean this plane?'

Zeynep opened her eyes. ‘Now?'

‘No, hypothetically. Imagine cleaning it. That will keep you distracted.'

The plane was taxiing fast, and the engine noise had risen.

Zeynep's grip increased. Then the nose of the plane suddenly lifted, and they were off the tarmac and rising rapidly.

‘It's okay. We're up now. See, it's fun.'

Zeynep let go of Chelsea's hand, undid her seatbelt and leant forward to put her hands under her seat.

‘What are you doing?' Chelsea exclaimed. ‘You have to leave your seatbelt on!'

‘I bet the pilot has a parachute.'

‘Shhh! You don't know how to make a parachute jump anyway.'

‘Stop the plane!' Zeynep gasped. ‘I don't like this.'

‘It's not a bus. Wouldn't it be fun to vacuum this plane? What about vacuuming the whole Sydney terminal?'

‘Shut up!' Zeynep began groaning as the plane bulldozed into clouds then lurched, then rose, then sank. ‘I'm going to be sick.'

‘No. Put on your headphones.'

Zeynep gripped Chelsea's hand again and stared out the window in horror. Chelsea adjusted her friend's headset and clipped her back into the seat. Once she was lulled by the dialogue in
Everybody Loves Raymond
she'd be fine, although her head was now lolling against the headrest as though she was drunk.

Chelsea decided to ignore her and turned to an article on the wine regions of the Barossa Valley,
Shiraz Pizzazz
. Then an article about Tamsin Court-Cookson's mother – and there was Tamsin with her.

‘Look. Tamsin Court-Cookson. Ex-friend. That's her mother.

In Year 7, she turned up at my party in a yellow dress and her mother's earrings, then spent the afternoon wrestling with one of the help's daughters!
Quelle horreur!
I ran a survey, and she was unanimously voted the most inappropriately dressed girl in Year 7. She can't forgive. That's why she rescued me. It was just a failed attempt to humiliate me.'

Chelsea looked at Zeynep. It was useless; she was taking no notice. Chelsea returned to the magazine but was interrupted by the unpleasant sound of ripping velcro.

‘What are you doing now?'

‘Checking the life jacket.'

‘Leave it. You're not allowed to remove it.'

‘Really? So what if we crash? I want to see if it works.'

‘It works. Put it back!'

‘I'm going to the toilet.'

Zeynep stood up. She had a yellow package in her hand.

Chelsea let her go. Zeynep disappeared up the aisle. There were important things to think about. The formal was at the top of her list. She had organised the ticketing with Josh and his boyfriend; Khiem and Craig were in charge of all things film-related; and she had been assured by the Board that the unstable headmistress of Mary Magdalene had been safely sedated in a secure rest clinic. The security was being organised by the federal police because Tamsin Court-Cookson might attend.

The music, which she was a little concerned about, was being organised by the boys at St Ethelred's, who were notoriously slack, but she'd spoken to their head boy, Fraser Murray, and he'd assured her that not a note of the
Nutbush
,
Time
Warp
,
Hokey-Pokey
or
Bus Stop
would be heard. She had also organised Joshua Yeatman's brother's band as a backup and reminded them that they would be playing at an absolutely top school and weren't to take their shirts off or yell out things like
eat the rich
.

She had considered barring Matilda Grey, but it would be too much fun to see her there with Angelo Tarano, so she'd resisted that overwhelming temptation. All that was left for her to do was write her speech and look gorgeous.

She'd turned up the volume on her iPod, closed her eyes and begun to sing softly when there was a tap on her shoulder. She opened her eyes and looked up, hoping it was the gorgeous steward, but it was Zeynep. And she was wearing the life jacket.