Looking for Alibrandi

  “We’re not taking my car.”

  We exchanged looks.

  “What are you talking about, Sera? We discussed this yesterday,” Anna said patiently.

  “We’re getting a lift. All right?” she sniffed, walking down the street.

  “No way,” I shouted. “No way, Sera. I’m not getting into Angelo Pezzini’s car.”

  “Good, Josie. Walk to Martin Place,” she yelled back.

  “Sera, someone will see us,” I shouted. “The whole school will be down there.” She shrugged and walked on.

  You’d understand my reluctance if you’d met the guy.

  He picked us up at the top of Sera’s street. Remember when I mentioned that Sera’s never been more than a week without a boyfriend since she was fourteen? Well, her parents have never known about them. She’s never been picked up at home.

  Angelo Pezzini’s one of those guys who can’t drive a car without sharing his love of bad-taste music with the rest of the suburb he’s driving through. He sped through Randwick with the latest nightclub music blaring from a set of speakers best suited to a dance hall. Sera danced while seated in the front, and the three of us clutched on to each other in the backseat, ignoring filthy looks from passing motorists and pedestrians. Angelo Pezzini is a spray painter. The car is black and red with wheels that probably came from an eighteen-wheeler truck and an engine that is certainly eligible for a noise pollution fine.

  I had visions of being in a horrific road accident and our photos being on the front page of the local newspapers. “Four St. Martha’s schoolgirls found in Angelo Pezzini’s Valiant,” the headlines would scream.

  My mother would have to move to Perth. Mainly to get away from my grandmother’s hysteria. Nonna is convinced that Angelo Pezzini’s mother put the evil eye on her once.

  As he drove along Angelo turned around, grinning at us.

  The three of us in the back pointed to the road, begging him to turn around. Anna was grasping at her asthma inhaler for dear life.

  “Hey, my cousin said he’d like to go out with you, Jose. How about it, huh?”

  I’d been roped into going out with Sera, Angelo and his cousin Dino once before. We went to the cinema and watched a blood-and-guts violent movie where everyone shot each other dead at the end. Angelo and Dino managed to get into a fight with the people sitting in front of us. Later on at a café they fought with the waiter and we were eventually asked to leave. To top off the night they picked a fight with the driver of the car next to us and I found myself in a drag-racing competition all the way home.

  “Yeah, we’ll go to the movies,” Sera said.

  Anna took my hand in sympathy and squeezed it.

  “I’ll see,” I whispered quietly, knowing I couldn’t get out of it without having a fight with Sera.

  As we approached Martin Place he crossed three lanes of traffic and came to a heart-shattering stop behind a minibus. We heard shouts of abuse, honking of horns and explicit threats from all around.

  After five minutes of passion we managed to drag Sera out and she made kissing sounds to the back of his car as he drove away.

  “Isn’t he hot?”

  Lee looked at me, shaking her head sadly.

  “You are a dick, Sera,” she pointed out.

  Anna tapped me on the shoulder and turned me round.

  Sister Louise and Poison Ivy were striding toward us. I knew they had seen us getting out of the car. I hadn’t prepared any explanation for Angelo Pezzini or the fact that we were late. But I could tell by the look on her face that she would accept no excuse.

  “What time did I request you to be here, Josie?”

  Why is it that teachers ask questions they already know the answers to?

  “Nine o’clock, Sister.”

  “And what time is it now?”

  “Nine-thirty.”

  Then she said nothing. Just looked at me with ice-cold blue eyes and her head tilted back in disgust.

  I looked at Ivy, who had a “try getting out of this one” look.

  “Sister, I . . .”

  “I don’t want to hear it,” she snapped. “The Catholic Education Office has requested that one of our students make a speech. An oratory speech on any subject you prefer. Ivy will be having discussions with other school leaders. Josephine, you will make that speech.”

  “Have a Say Day” takes place every year at Martin Place, a walkway in the middle of the city where people sit and have lunch. It has a war memorial and an amphitheater and houses most of the major bank buildings as well as the General Post Office. It runs horizontally across three major streets.

  On “Have a Say Day,” schools from all over Sydney come together and do just that. Have a say. It’s something that was organized about ten years ago by some students from a school out west. They came to Martin Place and stood up at the amphitheater and griped about the state of their school due to lack of government funding.

  Because it gets too packed with people, only the Year 12 students can attend from our school, so this year was our year.

  “But, Sister, I don’t have anything prepared,” I whined.

  “Josephine, you are so wonderful at making up stories, I’m sure you can handle it. Now come along all of you, and Seraphina, take off that ridiculous bolero. You are not going to a fashion parade.”

  She stalked off with Poison Ivy in tow and I groaned in dismay.

  “She’s just jealous because she can’t wear trendy clothes,” Sera sneered, making rude signs at Sister’s back.

  Anna grabbed Sera’s hands, giggling.

  It was stiflingly hot sitting on the stage of the amphitheater. I managed to make a fan for myself out of the program and tried, at one stage, to take off my blazer. However, Sister Louise saw me, and the look in her eyes clearly said, “Leave it on.”

  I looked out at the crowd, which was mostly made up of students in uniform. There were a lot of businesspeople as well who had stopped to take a look, but most of them were rushing off to work. Everyone seemed to be having a fun time. I saw my friends talking to some gorgeous guys from St. Anthony’s and cursed Sister Louise over and over again.

  So I sat there next to a Jewish hunk, wishing he believed in Jesus so we could get married, and behind a girl resembling Poison Ivy who belonged to a Presbyterian school. Seated on my other side was Jacob Coote from Cook High.

  Cook High is a public school in the city area. Because it’s the closest school to us, we don’t get on well with them. We think we’re better than them. They think we’re the biggest nerds in the world.

  When we were young, they would throw things out of their bus windows at us and in Year Ten, on the last day of school, Jacob Coote and about ten of his friends, male and female, blocked both entrances of a lane we cut through to get to our bus stop. Twelve of us were bombarded with eggs, rotten fruit and vegetables. Everyone said that one day we would look back on the occasion and laugh.

  Very unlikely.

  “What are you going to talk about?” he whispered in my ear.

  I moved away, hoping nobody had seen him speaking to me. My friends think he’s gorgeous. His hair is brown, shoulder-length, not cut into any particular style, and his eyes are green and they always seem to be laughing at you.

  He grinned, and by the way his lips were twitching he looked like he was trying to control a laugh. I knew he recognized me from the lane.

  “Didn’t I once squash two eggs against your glasses?” he asked.

  “I’m flattered you remember. I tripped over a rubbish can, you know, and cut my hand on some broken glass.”

  “Oh, come on. We were suspended for that. We didn’t go to school for six weeks.”

  “Very funny. We had six weeks’ holiday after that.”

  He tapped the Presbyterian girl in front of us and asked her what she was going to speak about.

  “University careers.” She smiled, flirting before turning around.

  “Great choice,” he said, looking at me and
making a face at her back.

  Some people spoke about the government’s school cuts, others about careers. The environment was spoken about, as well as the homeless.

  I decided to speak about sex education in our schools due to the AIDS issue. I had used it as an oratory speech before and had won, so I knew I couldn’t go wrong.

  I spoke for five minutes and accepted the Jewish hunk’s hand when he offered it to me, and the nod of approval from the Presbyterian girl when I sat down. Jacob Coote nudged me, almost sending me sprawling over my neighbor.

  “Great speech. Only the seniors have AIDS talks at our school, which is a waste because by that stage most of us have had sex for years.”

  I nodded vaguely in agreement, embarrassed that he had divulged that information to me.

  “What are you going to talk about?”

  He dug into his pocket and pulled out a condom.

  “I’m going to show these people how to put one on,” he said seriously, standing up.

  I was horrified. I knew he wasn’t a debater and that he probably didn’t have a speech prepared. I was also worried that by sitting behind him I wouldn’t see anything and was ashamed of myself for thinking it. Until he stood in front of the microphone and spoke.

  “I’m speaking about the vote today,” he said, digging his fingers into his pockets.

  I sighed in relief but was disappointed by his boring topic.

  “I think that all political parties are the same,” he began, sounding a bit stilted. He had taken his fingers out of his pockets by then and was kneading his neck with one hand. His white sleeves were rolled up to his elbow and I could see that he was tanned. Not a beach tan, though. More like a working, outdoor tan.

  “These politicians, they make the same promises. They tell the same lies, and frankly, I can’t understand why normal voters get influenced by a political campaign. We all know that what they’re gonna say is what we wanna hear.”

  I could feel my Jewish neighbor cringing at the “gonna” and “wanna.”

  “I used to think that when it came time for me to vote,” he said, knocking his fist to his chest, “I’d put no effort into it. Maybe I would put in a dummy vote. Maybe I wouldn’t even bother registering at all.

  “Probably because until recently I wondered what the big deal was. What’s great about our political system here? Why do we call ourselves the lucky country when half of us can’t afford housing payments?”

  He was pointing his finger now and I could feel my neighbor sitting up and taking notice.

  Jacob Coote shrugged. “You know, I didn’t know what to talk about today, because I was only told an hour ago that I had to say something. I was gonna speak about the freedom you feel when you ride a motorbike, but that has nothing to do with having a say. When my neighbor up here was talking about ignorance when it came to sex education, I was worried. I couldn’t think of anything to say that was as worthwhile as her speech. Until I looked out and saw everyone.”

  He shook his head and gave a little laugh.

  “And I felt lucky. Because we have a choice, and I think that we vote, not to get the best party in, but to keep the worst party out. Because we can stand here and protest. We can get all riled up about the Premier’s ideas. We can say he’s a dickhead even. We can call the Prime Minister and the Leader of the Opposition one as well.

  “We can scream and shout and protest and even burn our flag if we want to. Because we’re free to do whatever we want to do, and if we break the law we get a fair trial.

  “But in some countries, people can’t do that. They can’t go out into places like Martin Place and protest. In some countries people our age can’t concentrate on their schoolwork or their lives because of the sound of gunfire.

  “In some countries they have one-party systems and they have things called the People’s Army and when the people come out and have a say like we’re doing today—scream and shout and voice their opinion—the People’s Army shoots the people. Young people like us,” he added in almost a whisper.

  “So, great. Let’s be apathetic. Let’s not vote. Let’s let anyone run this country. Let’s all be ignorant and let’s all be proud of that ignorance. And maybe we’ll have a People’s Army one day too.”

  He sat down next to me and everyone in our row leaned forward to stare at him before they clapped. I could sense where his friends were standing because of the shouting and whistling that was coming from their direction.

  I was stunned. Not about what he’d said, but the way he’d said it. I would never have thought that Jacob Coote would be passionate like that.

  The Jewish guy leaned across me and clasped Jacob Coote’s wrist in a brothers-in-arms grip.

  “I’m impressed,” I whispered.

  “You didn’t think I watched the news, did you?” he laughed.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Well, I used to watch the pundit shows, anyway.”

  “You’re kidding me? My mother always says that if any current affairs team came to our door she’d slam it shut even though we have nothing to hide. She reckons they’d find something.”

  “Yeah, every time I get drunk I wake up the next morning afraid, because I’ve had a nightmare that I was on the ‘Shame’ file.”

  I laughed and shook my head.

  “How come you got picked for this?”

  “One-party voting system. If they didn’t vote me school captain, I was going to break all their legs.”

  “You’re school captain?”

  “Unfortunately. You?”

  “Vice.”

  “Too bad. It could have been beautiful between us.”

  I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out. I wondered if he meant it. As we sat back to listen to the next speech, I couldn’t help being aware of his rolled-up sleeves and tanned arms.

  That’s when all the great comeback lines to what he had said came to mind. But like always with comeback lines, it’s too late.

  There were a few more speeches after that. Great speeches made by the best orators in our schools, but nothing compared to his. Ours were all polished. We didn’t say ours with passion. We had lost that passion after winning our first few debates. It was all so clinical for us now.

  But his speech was said brashly and from the heart.

  “I’m in love,” Lee stated matter-of-factly when I stood down. “How could you have sat next to him without throwing yourself on him? He even spoke to you.”

  “He’s not my type.”

  “Why?” she shouted incredulously.

  I shrugged.

  “Because . . . I don’t know.”

  “Because he’s not Italian, he’s not going to be a solicitor and he goes to a public school, right?”

  “I’m not a snob,” I shouted.

  “You are so. You might have one hundred hang-ups, but you still think you’re better than the average person.”

  “He cracked two eggs on my glasses once.”

  “Out of twelve girls in that alley, he picked you to do that to. I think he likes you.”

  I laughed, grabbing her hand and pulling her toward the TV cameras.

  We weren’t on the news that night. Poison Ivy was, because she was in the group that threw questions at the Premier. As usual she was there in Technicolor, sitting on top of the world. No matter how much I hate Poison Ivy, I want to belong to her world. The world of sleek haircuts and upper-class privileges. People who know famous people and lead educated lives. A world where I can be accepted.

  Please, God, let me be accepted by someone other than the underdog.

  Three

  RITUALS. THEY COME and they go, but the ritual of having to see my grandmother every afternoon drives me absolutely insane. So I dawdle, because I know it gets on her nerves and my main objective in life at the moment is to get on my grandmother’s nerves. I swear to God that if there is something I am going to escape in this life of rules and regulations it will be my dreaded rituals.
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  It’s almost the end of February and instead of getting cooler the weather gets more humid as the days go by. Because of the heat, the only thing I was looking forward to at Nonna’s place was the swimming pool. I crossed the road as soon as I reached her street to try to avoid old Mr. Catanzaro who lives on the corner. As much as I love him, he has this habit of grabbing me by the skin under my chin and pinching me affectionately. It’s very hard to smile when tears of pain are welling up in my eyes.

  He tends to live in his garden. I’ve never seen him anywhere else. Whenever we go to Nonna’s place, whether it’s seven in the morning or seven in the evening, Mr. Catanzaro is in his garden. His lawn is usually covered with bread because he loves to feed the birds.

  That day, though, I managed to escape with a wave and raced into Nonna’s house. I was force-fed when I arrived. Force-fed like every afternoon of my life.

  “Eat, Jozzie, eat. Oh, Jozzie, Jozzie. Look at your hair. Why, Jozzie? Why can you not look tidy?”

  My grandmother says that to me every afternoon. She says it with a painful cry in her voice as if she is dying. I’m not sure if anyone has ever died of the fact that their granddaughter looks untidy, but I’m sure my grandmother will one day because she’ll strain her voice so much she’ll choke.

  “It’s the fashion.”

  I say that to her every afternoon because I know it gets on her nerves.

  On Wednesday, she was wearing a woolen jumper. It was eighty-six degrees outside and the woman was wearing wool on her skin.

  Nonna tends to believe that the more you suffer on earth, the better the reward is in heaven. Wearing wool in summer must be one of the suffering requisites. It gets on my nerves that she won’t let me sit in the good living room where the air conditioner is. That room is reserved for visitors she hates but wants to impress with her good Italian furniture. The granddaughter she supposedly loves gets to sit in the boiling hot TV room on a torn sofa.

  I walked into the kitchen to see if she had any junk food, trying to block out her rambling about how she wants us to live with her.

  Nonna has tried, unsuccessfully, to convince us to move in with her. She can’t understand why my mother says no every single time. She tends to forget that all she does to Mama when they’re together is nag her about the way she’s bringing me up or how she’s disrespectful by not visiting our relatives. She tends to forget that most of her relatives gave my mother a bad time when she had me.