The Summer of Kicks Page 9

  Box Girl. I can imagine.

  ‘But you get over it eventually. Kind of grow into your name, you know?’ She doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t tell me her name, and I don’t ask. She hands me a Stryper LP – To Hell with the Devil.

  ‘Here,’ she says with a smile, more friendly than cynical. ‘Slot that where it goes. Alphabetically, I think you’ll find it should sit right behind Starrphyre.’

  The bike ride to Hemmo’s from my place is long and it seems I’ve made the rookie mistake of stopping for a drink. The water from the bubbler is surprisingly cool as it hits my mouth, and splashes small droplets onto my face. Kids are training for cricket on the oval and although they’re too far away to see properly, they’ll all be sporting beads of sweat on their brows and above their top lips as they stand there in their long whites under the December sun. It’s a little after four, but there’s still three or more hours of daylight, and the heat of the day hasn’t shown any signs of letting go.

  I look up.

  ‘Oh. Hey, Mikayla,’ I say. Honest to God, I don’t know how she keeps finding me. I run into Mikayla five times more often than anyone else I know. At the bus stop. The shopping centre. The movies. One time we were filling up with petrol somewhere on the south coast of New South Wales and guess who turned up? It’s like she’s inserted a tracking device into the back of my head. I bring a hand to my scalp and tentatively feel around. I know there’s nothing there, but it’s good to rule out any trace of suspicion.

  ‘I have some news!’ she squeals.

  Is she moving? Wanting to invite me to something else? Has her family lodged an official request with the international calendar committee to change the date of Christmas so that I can work around my plans and still be a part of the festivities at their house?

  ‘I’ve been thinking about our conversation a lot, you know, about you starting your band, and … well, I’m starting a band too! With my sister, Alina. Well, we’re going to be like a duo, mostly pop hits. Probably. Maybe some acoustic stuff, I don’t know, but anyway, I told my mum, and you know what she’s like.’

  I have no idea, but I nod.

  ‘Well, because she’s a rights and marketing executive, she talked on and on about the importance of copyright and branding, and ownership and all that, well, she understands it better than I do, but the bottom line is …’ and now she’s drawing breath. ‘We’ve officially registered our band name, and we have the name trademarked, and we’re setting up a website, and you know, all the usual Facebook, Twitter stuff. Oh, Starrphyre – it’s so exciting, and you know what? I wouldn’t have done it if it wasn’t for you. You’re such an inspiration. I wish I was half as awesome as you.’

  ‘Hey, that’s really cool, Mikayla,’ I say. I’m strapping my helmet back on and even though it’s only Mikayla, I sweep my hair across so that it sits a little more favourably. No point looking like a total dork.

  ‘So, where you off to?’ she asks.

  I don’t want to say band practice. ‘Just to Hemmo’s. Xbox. You know.’

  ‘Well, I guess I’ll see you around, then. School, I guess.’

  ‘Sure,’ I say, and spin my left pedal skyward, readying for takeoff.

  ‘Hey,’ she calls out, and I’m moving through the car park of the sports ground, dodging the hardened ridges of corrugated dirt, tiny mountain ranges formed during the last downpour. ‘You should look us up. Check out our Facebook page.’

  ‘Sure,’ I call back. ‘What are you guys called?’

  ‘We’re the Brittney Pigs.’

  Chapter 16

  Spinning the bingo cage

  I take off my helmet and lean my bike against the silver pole that bears a sixth of the weight of Hemmo’s carport. Bypassing the house, I unlatch the side gate, creak it forwards and head along the vegetation-heavy pathway to the dungeon. Running through my head are my top three band-related issues. The songs we’re hoping to play, the fact that on a good day we’ll be musically challenged at best, and our band name, which for now will have to revert back to Empire of Gandalf. Oh, and as far as Scene goes, we’ll have to try our best to keep our lack of skills out of sight for as long as we can. At least until we’ve actually practised a bit. Maybe from there we can fudge it. Learn a couple of really easy songs and stick to them for now. At least my shoes are looking a little more rock ’n’ roll. A black marker and a couple of band logos and, from the socks down at least, I could be mistaken for an actual lead singer in a band. I step inside, and although Bailey and Reece were always going to be a show – like they’d have anywhere else to be – I’m genuinely shocked to see Scene present, accounted for and taking up three cushions’ worth of lounge.

  ‘Nice of you to make it, Ernie,’ Scene says, staring down at his wrist. ‘Now can we get this fricking thing going? I’m bored with you nut-sacks already.’

  OK. Calm now. Picture youself in a forest. It’s quiet and tranquil and Candace is there with you, holding your hand. Deep breaths.

  ‘OK,’ says Reece. ‘Let it be decreed that this is the first official five-members-present band meeting of our glorious band …’

  And here it comes …

  ‘… Empire of Gandalf.’

  ‘Empire of Gandalf?’ says Scene.

  Three nods.

  ‘I don’t know what the hell kind of dork-ass band you three are in, but I thought we were the Brittney Pigs.’

  ‘The Brittney Pigs?’ Bailey says. Now four sets of eyes are on me.

  Inevitable hurdle number one. Only option is to tear it off like a band-aid on a hairy leg.

  ‘OK, so Scene,’ I say, ‘we can’t officially be the Brittney Pigs because I kind of stole the name and now it’s been taken back. And guys, as much as you love it we can’t be Empire of Gandalf either because …’ I look around the dungeon, then towards Scene.

  ‘Because it sucks turds,’ he says. ‘And if that’s the name of your band – Empire of Gandalf – then you’re still a four-piece and I’m walking. No one gets any action in a troll band. End of story.’

  ‘But dude, Gandalf’s not a …’ Hemmo begins, but Scene turns to him, eyes brooding, hair blacker than fear itself, and Hemmo’s sentence remains unfinished.

  ‘Look, screw the name,’ Scene says. ‘Let’s hear you play.’

  ‘Um, actually – we should probably … um … talk influences first,’ I say. ‘You know, who we’re into, where we see the band heading, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Cool. Hit me with a set list. Maybe we’ll cross over on a couple,’ Scene says.

  I’m putting out fires with bare feet.

  ‘See, actually … what this is, is kind of like a rebirth of the band,’ I say. ‘A new beginning. New member, new skills, let’s start from scratch. Led Zeppelin were made up of random bits of other bands and instead of rehashing their old stuff, they put their heads together and created a complete new sound.’

  ‘And it freaking rocked,’ Scene says. ‘I totally get where you’re coming from, Ernie.’

  ‘A bit of your band plus a bit of ours equals a whole new band, right?’ I say and Scene is nodding.

  ‘Yeah, this is just like a theoretical band meeting,’ Reece adds. ‘Just a get-to-know-the-guys kind of thing. We can get to playing and shredding and stuff later.’

  Way later.

  ‘Hey, I did a list,’ says Bailey. ‘Of songs we could do.’ He hands the list straight to Scene.

  ‘What the hell?’ Scene says, turning the list over, searching for more, but coming up with nothing. ‘Who said anything about electro-pop?’

  ‘OK,’ says Bailey. ‘Then maybe we could just do like normal pop. You know, radio stuff. A bunch of cool guys in a band, making cool music. Who are those guys – One Direction? We listen to Justin Timberlake in Mum’s car, too,’ he says. ‘He’s pretty good, right?’

  ‘Dude, you’re never allowed to fricki
ng speak again,’ Scene says. ‘If you so much as open your mouth I’m gonna take this guitar pedal and shove it up your hole.’ He holds the guitar pedal so that it’s in Bailey’s line of sight. It looks way too large to comfortably fit up anyone’s hole. ‘Are we clear?’

  Bailey nods.

  ‘One Direction?’ Scene says, shaking his head. ‘Jesus Christ.’

  ‘OK, first things first, we need a new name,’ I say. ‘One that everyone is cool with. Any suggestions?’

  But right off the bat there are none.

  ‘OK, how about existing band names that we like? Maybe they’ll kick off an idea.’

  ‘I was in a band once called the Flaming Retards,’ Scene says with a smile. ‘With my sister and my mum.’

  ‘And I think we have some work to do. Hemmo,’ I say. ‘That book over there, send it this way, will you?’

  The book is unceremoniously thrown across the room, and I tear out some pages and hand them around.

  ‘Right, now think of some adjectives.’

  ‘Ah … they’re describing words, Benji,’ says Reece.

  ‘Like moron?’ Hemmo suggests. ‘That describes you quite nicely.’

  ‘Well, technically moron is a noun,’ Reece explains. ‘As in, That Hemmo guy is a total moron. Or it could be a proper noun, if your parents had had some forethought and just straight-out called you Moron Hemmerling, which would have saved us a whole lot of effort.’ He continues. ‘The only real time that it could be an adjective is if we said something like, Hey Hemmo, next time we want your moron point of view, we’ll ask for it. See how it works?’

  ‘Back on track. We need a pile of words if we’re going to name this band. Start with adjectives,’ I say. ‘Then we’ll do nouns and verbs.’

  ‘Ok, what about happy?’ says Bailey.

  ‘No,’ Scene says. ‘We’re not going to be the Happy anything. Next.’

  ‘Suicidal?’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Strained?’

  ‘Sure. Why not.’

  Now it’s Bailey’s turn. ‘Outrageous,’ he says. ‘Delicate. Whimsical …’

  ‘What, are you writing an article for Oestrogen Overload Magazine?’ Scene says. ‘Get your frickin’ man on, Bailey. Rancid. Filthy. Mean. Evil. Razor. Hole. Death.’

  And now come the nouns. Monkey. Tightrope. Paintball. Toilet. Chest hair. Briefcase. Rack. Pickle.

  After ten or fifteen minutes, we’ve powered through nouns, both proper and common, verbs and even pronouns.

  ‘OK, so now give me all your words,’ I say. ‘We tear them up and stick them into …’ I look around. As chance would have it, Hemmo’s dad owns a rotating bingo cage.

  ‘If we spin this thing around with the cage door open, every time a couple of words fall out, we’ll put them together and see what we think. Sound cool?’

  Scene, Bailey, Reece and Hemmo tear their pages so that one word appears on each piece. With the collection of words inside the cage, I turn the handle and one after the other, instant band names start spitting out onto the floor. Tetanus Rack. Razor Monkey. Deathfire Pickle. Filthy Tall School Girls. Appendage Kings. Shit-faced Possums. Dirt Burger. Foreign Trumpet Hair. Rubber Junkie. Fight Hole. Bingo Death Cage.

  All solid contenders, but not one of them has scored higher than three votes out of five. Hemmo goes to the bathroom to do whatever it is he does in the bathroom and one final spin of the cage is all we need. Even without Hemmo, the majority has called it. We officially have a band name.

  Infinite Nipples.

  ‘Mum, did you move Dad’s records?’

  The aroma of spices is really thick in the kitchen. It’s familiar, but I can’t quite place it. Is it curry? Satay sauce? Mum’s getting knifey at the chopping board, stripping capsicums and cucumbers, and Rue’s lifting the lid on the rice, checking its progress, while stirring a pot with her other hand. I look over her shoulder and once I see the sauce, the smell of peanuts is ridiculously obvious.

  ‘I wanted to sort through them again. Get them into piles so that I can start converting them. Did I mention that I’d like a turntable for Christmas?’

  ‘Sorry, darling,’ Mum says, completely tuned out to my gift request. ‘I haven’t seen your dad’s records since you took them off to your room. Maybe your nan put them somewhere. The shed maybe? The woman’s always moving things, God love her. She likes to shuffle things around to suit herself. Drives me up the wall, but it keeps her amused, I s’pose, so what are you gonna do?’

  Even more neglected than the crappy bricked-off pile of weeds that Mum still calls ‘the veggie garden’ is our back shed. The door is unwilling to budge first go – too many years of neglect – and I have to force it to slide right on its runner. Inside it smells of wet hair and mouldy towels. Dirt that hasn’t seen the light of day in years. There are boxes piled face-high, filled with countless bits and pieces from when we moved here seven or eight years ago. There are a couple of half bikes, some discarded craft projects, old clothes that Mum deemed ‘too good to throw away’. It’s like useless crap threw a party and invited all its friends. I half-heartedly begin to look by shifting a small pile or two of boxes. If the records were here, it stands to reason they’d be in full sight. Unless Nanna hired a bobcat, drove it in, removed all the stuff, put the records deep at the back of the shed and piled all the stuff back in front of them, I’m pretty confident that they’re not here.

  Hey Starrph. All the Beatles albums in UK release order. Careful, now.

  – Dad.

  As I walk back inside, my fingers tap against the screen of my phone and I’m almost done. Revolver, Sgt. Pepper’s and I’m onto the good ones now. Sure, the early Beatles albums were groundbreaking, but it’s the ones from Rubber Soul onwards that really count – except for Yellow Submarine. Why they let Ringo anywhere near a microphone is beyond me.

  I send my response, pretty sure that I’ve stuffed up the order of A Hard Day’s Night, Beatles for Sale and Help!. I add a challenge of my own.

  Seventeen songs by that crappy eighties wannabe band Waxxonn. No googling, Dad, haha.

  Dad’s band recorded only seventeen songs in their entire existence. This should test his memory. Dinner’s simmering happily away on the stove, and Mum’s sitting with her clunky old laptop, cords swirling out of its every orifice, hooked up to printers and modems and God knows what else. She has no idea that wireless connection exists. If I didn’t know better, judging by the image on the screen, I’d think she was some kind of depraved housewife searching for thrills. But it’s just more research for her radio sex-talk show.

  ‘Anything new I should know about?’ I ask with a smile.

  ‘Actually, there’s research by the Dutch that suggests that genital piercing …’

  ‘Lalalalalalalala …’ My fingers are in my ears again, and although I can’t hear her, I can see that Mum’s laughing hard.

  ‘I’m sorry, darling. Couldn’t resist. So, did you find them?’ she asks. ‘Your dad’s records?’

  I shake my head. ‘Nah,’ I say. ‘I’m guessing Nanna must have eaten them.’

  ‘Well, you can ask her when she gets back from bingo. She just got the bus with Carol and Barb and the new woman. What’s her name?’

  I have no idea.

  ‘You know, the one with the hip?’

  ‘Don’t all Nan’s friends have hips?’

  ‘Short, fat woman,’ Mum explains. ‘Oh, what is it? Strange name. Not an attractive name at all.’

  ‘Poor woman,’ I say. ‘I feel her pain.’

  ‘It’s not Elvira, is it?’ Mum ponders. ‘Ellmeda? Ah,’ she says dismissively. ‘Whatever it is, it’s an appalling name.’

  ‘An appalling name, you say? Maybe it’s Starrphyre,’ I suggest.

  Then Mum does something I’ve never seen her do.

  She flips me the bird.


  Chapter 17

  A canine miracle

  ‘So Polar Fleece tells me he’s writing a song for you,’ Hemmo says, chomping through a crusty wad of bread smeared with some form of deep red jam. On second glance, maybe it’s tomato paste. Either way, it’s disturbing. Even here under the awning of the English block, the only stretch of shade in this whole area, it’s still easily thirty-eight or forty degrees. The heat is unrelenting and we’re sweating like guilty pigs before a jury.

  ‘I think he said it was a love song,’ says Hemmo.

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Hemmo says. ‘That’s what it’ll be. He said it was modern country meets Beastie Boys or something. He wants you to check out his lyrics.’

  But today I don’t have time for Reece’s country-thrash-rap lyrics.

  ‘Tell him I’ll read it later,’ I say. ‘I have to go.’ I shove the unfinished portion of my lunch back into my bag and head towards the hall. It’s our second and only remaining practice for Grease – full dress rehearsal, and I’m not going to miss a moment of it. I’ll head inside, find Candace and we’ll get straight to work. Make up for lost time. We’ll perfect our lines, exchange witty banter, practise the kissing scenes – oops, sorry, Miss Kellaway, can I try that part again? You really want to make sure that you nail the kissing scene – and really make the next six hours count.

  As I follow the path flanked by desperately dehydrated garden beds towards the huge brick building, what I hear is not the sound of electric screwdrivers driving screws into crudely painted sheets of plywood or teenage band members butchering the songs of Jim Jacobs and Warren Casey, but silence. At the end of the breezeway, I don’t see a school hall teeming with greasers and bobby socks and ponytails and pom poms. I see the big blue double doors – closed. I see dozens of kids standing around in a clump, some with hands on their heads, some pushing past others to read a note that’s attached to one of the blue doors. The sun is burning at my eyes, and from here I can’t quite focus on what’s written on it, so I walk the ten or so metres towards the hall to check it out for myself.