Holy Crushamoly Read online

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Copyright Page

  Three minutes might not seem long, but it can be long enough to change everything.

  That’s all the time it took for me to get with the wrong guy and end up with the whole school whispering junk about me. Three useless minutes.

  But now we have to do public speeches in English, and I’m going to make my three minutes count. The whole class will be listening, so this is my chance to make an impression. A good one, this time.

  When I first started at McEwan College, I didn’t know a soul. People used to stare through me as if I didn’t exist, and when some of them did start to notice me it was only because they were gossiping about my crap taste in guys.

  I don’t know what I would have done without Briana. She just leant over in maths one day and asked what brand of conditioner I use. It may not sound like much but I could have kissed her, because Briana wasn’t just chatting about split ends. She was letting me know that I wasn’t stuck on my own forever. She was saving my butt, basically.

  Usually I’m not a stressed-about-homework sort of person; I’m more of a sit-back-and-flick-through-my-favemag sort of girl. But when Mr Mendes told us about the public speaking assessment, I actually stopped doodling to listen.

  ‘Speak for three to five minutes,’ he said. ‘And talk about something that’s important to you.’

  Maybe it was the way he paused before saying the word important, but straight away I knew my topic. Nothing else was even an option. My topic was something massive that hardly anyone knows about me. And if I could do a half-decent speech, maybe people would stop seeing me as the new girl who got with the wrong guy.

  When I got home after school, I didn’t flick through Glamour Girl once. Instead, I switched off my music, lay on my bed, and tried to work out how to put the most important thing in my life into a three- to five-minute speech.

  At first I just lay there thinking, pen in hand. Where to start? But once I pressed the nib to the page, it all flowed out. This is one topic I can talk about for ages. I ended up with paper spread across my bed like a huge pile of white autumn leaves.

  After dinner I collected the pages, reading through and crossing out bits here and there. Even after Steph came in to bed and I had to turn off the bedroom light, I kept working by the light of my lamp, writing key sentences onto cue cards to jog my memory.

  It’s late now, after eleven, but I think my speech is ready. It’s the best I can make it, anyway. So I leave the cue cards on my bedside table, switch off the lamp and pull the doona over my shoulder.

  But instead of falling asleep, I keep going over my speech in my head. Stuck in a three-minute repeat. But I don’t care; I’m not even tired.

  Mr Mendes wants to hear about something important to me. So that’s what he’s going to get.

  The next thing I know I’m jolting upright with a gasp, freaked out by a stupid dream.

  I was standing in front of the class, about to start my speech when I looked down and realised I’d forgotten to put on clothes. Even worse, I’d forgotten to shave. Ugh!

  I flop backwards on my pillow. Check the clock: 6.57 a.m.

  ‘Phoebs? You okay?’ Steph is beside me, her hand on my forehead. ‘Bad dream?’

  I lift the covers so she can slide in beside me. Her toes snuggle against my thigh.

  ‘Oh, man, that was awful,’ I groan, and snort out a laugh.

  ‘About Mum?’ There’s a pause as I shake my head, but she keeps going. ‘It’s okay. We don’t have to worry anymore. She’s okay now.’

  It’s sort of sweet and sort of sad, seeing her comfort me like this. Ever since Mum’s been sick, Steph’s been sleeping in my room. At first she slept in bed with me but once Mum was through the worst, Steph dragged in a fold-out mattress and announced that she was camping on the floor.

  For the past nine months, Steph’s been the one waking with a gasp every few nights, and it’s been me saying over and over, It’s all right. Everything will be all right.

  I prop myself up on my elbow, resting my head in my hand. ‘It was about my speech today,’ I say. ‘Not Mum.’

  ‘So you’re not worried about her? Really?’ I can see her searching my face for any hint that there’s still reason to stress, a clue that I might have hidden bad news from her.

  ‘Nope, she’s out of respite …’ I begin slowly. ‘She’s staying with Aunty Celia for two more weeks …’ I nod so that Steph joins in. ‘And then she’ll be home for good.’ We chant the words together softly, like a prayer. As if saying them seriously enough makes them certain to happen.

  Steph props herself up, copying my pose. ‘Then everything will go back to normal.’

  ‘Yeah.’ But I can’t look her in the eye. Normal? I’m not even sure what that means anymore.

  Steph trots off to get dressed while I hit the shower. Hair first. While the conditioner’s doing its stuff, I race the razor over my legs. Then I give my forearms a light shave, just to be safe.

  Mostly I’m happy having a Greek dad – it’s great having thick, dark hair and I like my dark eyes. The downside to having Greek genes, though, is turning into Gorilla Girl every night. If I didn’t know how to keep it all under control, I’d end up with black hair everywhere. Like, everywhere.

  I have the de-gorilla-fying routine down to a fine art, though. It’s sort of soothing: a way of making sure I have it together, ready to face the world. While I work, I go over my speech in my head. I’ll have the cue cards if I get stuck, but this ‘doing your homework’ thing isn’t so bad. As it turns out, I pretty much know my speech by heart.

  When I finish in the shower, I dry off, moisturise and then find my uniform draped over the back of a chair in my room. Sigh. Talk about an old-lady outfit. But there are things you can do to make the uniform look a little better. Keep your skirt short, for a start, and lose the blazer whenever you can. Way to look like a sack of potatoes. And if you tuck your jumper up a couple of times at least it shows some shape.

  No make-up. Yet. Dad would kill me if he knew about the magic bag of make-up tricks I sneak to school.

  He nods when I wander into the kitchen. ‘Pos kimithikes?’ he asks. ‘How did you sleep?’

  I shrug. ‘Yeah, fine.’ If I tell Dad I woke up stressing, he’ll think it was about Mum.

  ‘Lunches are done,’ Dad says, still in Greek. ‘And the washing machine’s on.’

  ‘Okay.’ I grab an Up&Go from the fridge. ‘I’ll do the dishwasher,’ I say and spike the straw into the silver hole.

  ‘Kala.’ Dad downs the rest of his coffee and checks his phone.

  It’s the routine we do every morning: Going Through The List. This is how it’s been ever since Mum got sick.

  We don’t exactly talk about it, but it’s as if we’ve dealt with it in the same way, me and Dad. The whole time Mum was seeing specialists and having operations, there was nothing we could do to help – we just had to trust the doctors, pray and wait. We’re probably the world-record holders in waiting.

  So much was out of our hands, but The List was something that we could control. We couldn’t fix Mum, but we could make sure that Steph got to school each day. We could keep the house clean.

  So that’s what we focused on. For Steph, and for each other.

  ‘I’ll take care of dinner too, okay?’ I say. Last item on The List.

  ‘Real food, though,’ says Dad. Which basically means Greek food.

  I think for a bit. ‘What about the pastitsio in the freezer? I
’ll do a salad too.’

  ‘Neh.’ Yes. He smiles, and the wrinkles around his eyes deepen. ‘All under control, eh?’

  ‘Always.’ I grin back as Dad checks his watch.

  ‘Time for me to go.’ He kisses me on the forehead. ‘Antio, koukla mou.’

  Dad heads over to the living area, lifts Steph up from the rug and swings her around until she screams, ‘Daaaaaaad! Oh! Noooooo!’

  He lowers her carefully to the floor, and then waits. I count down in my head: tria, thio, ena …

  Steph lifts both arms in the air. ‘Again! Again!’

  Dad spins her one more time while I suck down the rest of the Up&Go. As always, he’s wearing a tailor-made suit. He likes to keep fit so he looks pretty good. Well, pretty good for a businessman.

  I’d never say it to him, but I’m proud of my dad. When he was nineteen, he packed a couple of suitcases, hugged everyone goodbye and jumped on a plane to Australia.

  I can’t imagine how freaky that would be, moving to some strange place you’d never been – like catching a oneway rocket to Mars. But the way he talks, it’s as if it was no big deal. His English wasn’t good back then, so he picked a finance course at uni that he knew he’d understand. He says numbers are a universal language. Now he works in a stockbroking company, so we’re ‘reasonably well off ’ (as he puts it). But it means he works long hours, which isn’t so great.

  Steph’s back on the floor now, standing all wonky and going ‘woooaaah’ as if the world’s a merry-go-round.

  ‘I’ll be home around seven,’ Dad says in Greek, and grabs his briefcase. Then he turns back to me. ‘Kali tychi me tin thialexis sou.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad.’ He just wished me good luck with my speech.

  At school, I duck into the girls’ toilets and pull out my magic bag. Mascara, eyeliner and just a light tint for my lips. Without a bit of help, I’m totally plain and boring. When I walk out, my back is a little straighter. Ready to face the day.

  I’ve just rounded the corner when I see Mr Chiu and do an immediate 180-degree turn.

  Most teachers at McEwan turn a blind eye to a bit of eyeliner. They’re the ones who are here to teach. Then there are the others who turn up desperate for their daily power trip. Like Mr Chiu.

  Every morning Mr Chiu does a circuit of the school grounds, his arms swinging and his back straight as a robot’s as he marches from one end of the school to the other, trying to catch anyone who makes the mistake of standing out as an individual. He’s made me wipe off my make-up twice and I’ve had detention, too.

  Not today. Sticking close to the wall, I slip the long way round B block and safely reach our meeting spot. Made it one more time.

  Briana and Erin are busy talking as I walk up to the bench. I raise one hand in a wave. ‘Hey!’

  Two heads turn my way and Briana shoots me the best grin in the world. ‘Phoebs, you’re here!’

  I’m about to slip in next to Bri when I change my mind and sit on the other side of Erin instead. It’s safer this way.

  ‘Hey, Phoebs,’ Erin says with this half-smile as I settle in. She and Briana have been best friends since the beginning of time, so I’ve become a bit of an expert in not coming between them.

  Briana kicks her feet under the bench nervously. ‘So, ready for your speech?’

  ‘Yeah, think so. I worked on it all last night.’

  ‘Really?’ They both do a double-take that cracks me up. Usually, I’m scribbling down homework at the last minute.

  I flick a hand to make it seem like no big deal. ‘I just didn’t want to stand up there with my mouth gaping open like a fish for three minutes.’

  ‘I wonder if Hamish is all right. He’s really stressed about it,’ Briana says.

  Erin and I exchange a look. Briana is totally obsessed with Hamish, but she tries not to show it. ‘You can go and talk to him if you want,’ says Erin.

  ‘Nah.’ Briana swings her legs under the bench seat as if they’re itching to get moving. ‘I’ll catch him in homeroom.’ But two seconds later, she shifts in her seat. ‘Actually, I’m going to check on Hamish. Then I’ll come back, okay?’

  ‘Off you go,’ Erin says with a smile.

  Briana springs out of her seat, but she’s only made it a few paces when she stops and swivels. ‘Sure?’

  ‘Yes!’

  We both laugh as Briana swivels again and this time makes it all the way to the end of A block.

  For a while we just hang. Saying nothing. I search around for a topic to break the silence. Talk about needle-in-a-haystack territory. Erin likes computer games, sci-fi and fantasy, and she’s really smart. She always vagues out if I bring up clothes or make-up. And that leaves boys.

  ‘So, how are things with George?’ I ask.

  This topic, at least, I know she’s into. Erin got together with a guy on her bus soon after Bri and Hamish hooked up. It’s weird how life turns upside down. Not long ago, I was the only one in our group who’d even got with a guy, even if kissing Nelson was a huge mistake. But now I’m the only one who’s single. It’s okay, I guess. I mean, I’m not jealous or anything, but still. I wouldn’t exactly complain if there was a guy in my life.

  Erin smiles a little to herself. ‘Yeah, he’s okay. He’s all worked up about this science camp he’s going on next week.’

  ‘Oh … right …’ Then I go quiet. What do I know about science camp?

  Erin leans back and crosses her ankles in front of her. If you look carefully, you can just see the hairs on her legs. Faint little dainty hairs. She doesn’t even shave.

  And me beside her, the Gorilla Girl. Not half jealous.

  A minute later, Briana bounces back and announces that Hamish is in borderline meltdown about standing up in front of everyone.

  Then first bell goes, and it’s as if a switch has suddenly flicked inside me. My heart quickens and energy spreads through every cell in my body.

  Just first period, recess and then it will be time for my speech.

  By the start of second period, everyone’s on edge. Briana gets even bouncier than usual, which is saying something. I’m getting seasick just looking at her. Erin stays calm, but every now and then she clears her throat as if checking that her voice still works.

  First up is Jagath. He always has to explain to people that his name’s pronounced with a ‘d’ sound at the end. Jagad, I say to myself. No-one else seems to have noticed, but underneath that serious expression he’s a total hottie. I’ve hardly spoken to him, but I’ve had a secret crush on him for months now.

  The thing is, kissing Nelson last term ruined my life. It’s taken me ages to feel okay about liking any guys again or telling anyone about it. But Jagath is the complete opposite to Nelson; he seems really nice.

  He’s got gorgeous dark, wavy hair and these amazing eyes with eyelashes most girls would kill for. He’s Indian, I think. You can tell he’s fit, but he’s not a football type. He seems really smart and is always being called up at assembly for some award or other.

  His speech is really passionate, all about the plight of orangutans in Borneo, and I even begin to imagine that he’s saying it all to me. Like, we’re the only two in the room. Sigh … But about halfway through, the daydream freezes. Reality catches up with the fantasy.

  All I know about primates is that I could potentially be mistaken for one if I didn’t shave every day.

  After Jagath’s orangutans comes a boring speech on some famous footballer. Snore. Erin’s talk is on Hero Quest, this online game she plays all the time. I’ve never played it, but I like what she says about the cool female characters. I wish I could escape to a world like that, sometimes.

  Me next.

  As soon as Mr Mendes calls my name, my heart kicks into a gallop. Clutching my cue cards, I step to the front of the class and scan the faces staring at me. My hand lifts to smooth my hair and I’m hit with a wave of second thoughts. My mouth opens, but no words come. All the other topics so far have been about people’s hobbies a
nd interests. But this is really personal. This is about someone I love.

  ‘Whenever you’re ready, Phoebe,’ says Mr Mendes.

  For something to do, I check my cue card for the first line. My breath gets this nervous wobble as I inhale and then slowly exhale. Now or never.

  ‘On November the sixth last year, I came home to find an ambulance in front of our house.’

  As soon as I say my first words, a hush comes over the room. Even the guys up the back stop drawing dumb pictures and listen.

  I’m not nervous anymore. Now that I’ve actually begun, my words flow smoothly. I know the topic inside out; it’s something I’ve thought about almost constantly for nearly a year.

  I don’t want to make people feel sorry for me, so I stick with the facts. But they’re enough to make Erin’s eyes widen, and Mr Mendes frowns.

  Some personal stuff comes out too. The way Mum seemed to shrink in the hospital bed. Watching Dad break off in the middle of a sentence to blink away tears. And trying to be there for Steph when the person she really needed was Mum. What to tell her when even the doctors didn’t seem to know what to say.

  As I talk, I can sense the focus of the whole class on me. It’s the strangest feeling. I hold on to their attention like a piece of string, pulling it tight and then, near the end, relaxing and letting it slacken.

  For three minutes, I’ve taken them right inside my life.

  When I finish the whole class claps, just as they’ve been doing for everyone. Maybe it’s my imagination, but it seems louder this time. From the expressions on their faces, I get the sense that their applause is because of the happy ending: Mum’s almost home now.

  I float back to my seat, feeling lighter. Not just because I got through my speech, but because telling everyone means Mum’s illness is coming to an end. I couldn’t speak about it while she was sick – it was too scary. But now I can talk about it, so that must mean it’s over.

  The clapping dies as I take my seat. Briana leans close, putting a firm hand on my arm.

  I worry for a moment. It was a relief to talk about it at last, but I hope people aren’t going to treat me like some sob story now. I definitely don’t want any fresh whispering to start.