Ishmael and the Hoops of Steel

  AAAAAAAAARRRRRGH!

  She was devouring my ear lobe! She wasn’t a vampire at all! She was a cannibal on a diet! She was having a lobe linguine! In science Mr Kalkhovnic made us compare our lobes with other students to illustrate personal differences. I have detached lobes. And now one of them felt like it was about to be detached permanently! It was in Cindy’s mouth being sucked and mauled and nibbled around the edges. Hey, actually, to tell you the truth, that nibbling was starting to feel pretty goo –

  AAAAAAAAARRRRRGH!

  A huge slug had begun burrowing into my ear canal! Ewwwwwwww! When was the last time I’d cleaned that canal? I couldn’t remember. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t hear! It was no wonder. There was a tsunami in my head! Cindy wrapped her arms more tightly around my neck and pulled herself higher. She was on her tippy toes. Her tongue was probing and poking its way deeper. Was she drilling for oil or what?

  Wait! The tiniest most delicate and fragile bones in the entire body were found in the inner ear. Isn’t that what Mr Kalkhovnic said? And they had these weird names. What were they called again? The hammer, the anvil and the shifting spanner? No wait, not spanner, stirrup. That’s it! The hammer, the anvil and the stirrup. They were all incredibly small and they balanced together in some amazing way so you could hear sound. And now mine were about to be slobbered on by the Godzilla of the tongue world! I twisted my head around and pulled away. SLUUUUURP! My de-tongued ear felt cold and clammy but at least for the moment my hammer, anvil and stirrup were safe.

  Cindy was grinning at me. She was saying something but my right ear was still making strange popping and crackling noises. Was someone munching breakfast cereal in my inner canal?

  ‘What? Sorry?’

  Cindy looked around, then repeated her words slowly with a crooked smile, ‘I said … would you like me to …’ SNAP! CRACKLE! POP!

  What did she say? What was the end of her question?

  Would you like me to:

  … jab my tongue with a tranquilliser dart?

  … suck out another pint of your blood?

  … reattach your lobe?

  … regurgitate your hammer, anvil and stirrup?

  I didn’t have a clue what Cindy had just asked, but at least for the moment I wasn’t being probed, sucked or eaten, so I just sort of smiled and half-nodded, half-shook my head at her.

  Cindy pushed out her lips and winked at me. Then she poked me in the stomach with her finger and gave it a twist before trailing it lower. I had no idea what was going on, so I just smiled back at her again. She wrinkled her nose up as she stepped closer and whispered something. All I heard was another round of full-volume cereal crunching – POP! POP! SNAP! POP! CRACKLE! SNAP! – as the grin on her face spread wider.

  Just then a light came flashing down the lane way. It bounced around the walls before landing on my face. Cindy leapt back and squealed. Almost immediately another squeal came from further down the alley. The light jumped from my face to Cindy’s. Then it shot past us and caught Razz and Sally just as they sprang apart.

  The light came from a torch.

  The torch was held by Mr Barker. His voice ground its way down to us like one of those tunnel borers eating its way through a rock wall.

  ‘Would you mind explaining exactly what you’re doing down there, Mr Leseur, when our opening ceremony is about to commence?’

  My mind went blank. But somehow I automatically came up with the perfect stock answer for an occasion like this.

  ‘Nothing, Mr Barker …’

  And of course that’s where I should have stopped. That’s where I should have shut my mouth and taken whatever Mr Barker was going to dish out. But did I do that? Oooooh, no! I had something more to say, didn’t I? Something brilliant. Something that would win me my very own entry in St Daniel’s folklore. Yes, that’s right, I had to add this:

  ‘We were just showing the girls our extensions.’

  10.

  DECEASED PIECE Of SOLID BODILY WASTE

  ‘But wait, wait, wait, wait, wait. I haven’t told you the best bit yet.’

  Monday morning Homeroom went quiet and the crowd of eager faces clustered around Razza huddled even closer.

  ‘The best bit is … he looks up at Barker and he says … he says, “Aw, sorry, sir, we were just showing the girls our extensions”!’

  That last word barely blurted out of Razz’s mouth before he collapsed forward choking with laughter and banging his fist on the desk. Around him the crowd erupted in a mixed chorus of groaning, hooting and guffawing. And then rare gems of observation and wit were showered down upon me.

  ‘Good one, Ishmael.’

  ‘Legend Leseur … NOT!’

  ‘What a (take your pick, folks):

  (a) dork!

  (b) clown!

  (c) idiot!

  (d) dag!

  (e) deceased piece of solid bodily waste! (or words to that effect)

  (f) All of the above.’

  ‘Wouldn’t need a building permit for your extension, Leseur.’

  ‘Microscope might help.’

  ‘I didn’t even know Leseur had a dick.’

  That last one was Aldo ‘Boggo’ Bogola’s contribution. The subtlety and brilliance of the razor-sharp witticisms tapered off somewhat after that. Only the appearance of Mr Guthrie saved me.

  ‘All right, come on. Grab a seat and quieten down. I need to see anyone who hasn’t returned those excursion forms.’

  I grudgingly sat down beside Razz.

  ‘Thanks a lot … mate,’ I told him. ‘Now I know who to go to if I need someone to keep a secret.’

  Razz was sprawled back in his chair still recovering from his laughing fit. He was sucking in air and patting his chest as if he was trying to get his heart to slow down. After a minute or two his head flopped sideways and he looked at me.

  ‘Sorry, man. But there’s just too much pain and misery in the world not to share gold like that. “Just showing the girls our extensions”. Totally rigid, dude!’ Then he threw back his head and shook with silent laughter for quite a while before wiping his eyes with the back of his hands and lurching forward on to his desk.

  ‘But anyway, man, what about Cindy? Didn’t I tell you? She’s awesome, eh? What about we all go to the pictures or something this weekend?’

  ‘I don’t know, Razz.’

  ‘Don’t know what?’

  ‘About Cindy and me and everything.’

  I knew that Razz would be gawking at me like my head had just sprouted spaghetti so I just kept staring at the school diary on my desk.

  ‘Whataya mean, you don’t know about you and Cindy? What’s not to know, man? You guys got on great.’

  ‘Yeah … sort of.’

  ‘Sort of! Sort of! I hook you up with a smokin’ chick, you do an advanced tongue tango together and then she’s all over you like Prindabel with a new motherboard. Dude, if that’s your idea of “sort of” getting on, I can’t wait to see what happens when you really hit it off with someone.’

  ‘I just don’t think she’s my type.’

  ‘Not your type! What is wrong with you, man?’

  I stopped studying my diary and studied Razz instead. ‘What do you mean, what’s wrong with me? Nothing’s wrong with me, OK? Why do you think there’s something wrong with me?’

  ‘Well, let me put this as delicately as I can. You know how Miss Tarango reckons guys need to get in touch with their feminine sides? Well, dude, I think you might have jumped the fence and set up camp there.’

  ‘What! What are you getting at?’

  ‘Settle down, Ishmael. No need to throw a tissy-fit. I wouldn’t want you smearing your mascara now.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a riot, Razz. Look, there’s nothing wrong with me, OK? Cindy’s great, but she’s just … I don’t know … she’s just …’

  ‘… not Kelly Faulkner?’

  ‘No, it’s not just that. We’re different, that’s all. Cindy’s too … she’s too … she’s just too ??
? much … for me anyway.’

  ‘Too much? Geez, sorry, dude. Next time would you like me to fix you up with some weird-looking chick who thinks you’re a total drop kick? Would that be more fun for you?’

  ‘That’s not what I mean and you know it.’

  ‘What I know, man, is that every guy in this room would chew through a brick wall to go out with Cindy, ‘specially after your extension story.’

  Those last words stuck in my head but I didn’t reply. I was through arguing. Beside me Razz rocked back on his chair.

  ‘All right, man, all right,’ he said, closing his eyes and shaking his head. ‘Back to the drawing board, I guess. Just hope Cindy doesn’t take it too hard.’

  I was wondering about that when Mr Guthrie called for attention.

  ‘Thanks, boys. Look, before we run out of time I just wanted to say well done to all of you for helping out at the Arts Fair on the weekend. Top effort. I’ve only heard glowing reports, particularly about our Year Eleven tour guides.’

  ‘Aaaah, sir? I heard one complaint.’

  Everyone turned around to Danny Wallace who had his hand up at the back of the class.

  ‘Really, Danny? I’m very surprised by that.’

  ‘Yeah, sir, me too, but apparently someone wasn’t very happy with Ishmael.’

  Mr Guthrie threw a worried look at me.

  ‘Ishmael?’

  ‘Yeah, well, she was complaining that his personal extension tour … was way too short.’

  The rest of the Homeroom cracked up. I sat there with a ‘yes, yes, very funny – I don’t think’ sort of smile smeared on my face. Mr Guthrie gazed around at us like we’d all gone mad.

  When I left Homeroom that day something was playing on my mind and it wasn’t Danny Wallace’s joke. It was that bit Razz said about how all the other guys in the class would chew through a brick wall for the chance to go out with Cindy. If that was true, then why was I different? Was it just because of Kelly Faulkner? Or was there some other explanation?

  Like maybe there really was something wrong with me.

  11.

  SHOW ME THE SUNSCREEN!

  Following our painful break-up, Cindy somehow managed to pull herself together and struggle on with her life. Just two days after the Arts Fair she met a guy at a mall and they became what Mum likes to call ‘an item’. Or, as Razz put it, ‘She was all over him like melted cheese on a hot beef patty.’

  Back at school, I didn’t really have time to think about Cindy or Kelly or anyone else for that matter. Year Eleven was Year Ten on steroids. It was all homework, assignments, tests and study – then repeat the dose. And just to add to the fun, the start of the debating season was only two weeks away.

  As soon as Mr Fitler lifted Razz’s library ban for ‘destroying school property’ and ‘behaving like a savage’, Scobie booked the discussion room again for another meeting. Mr Fitler still didn’t seem that sure about it. Every few minutes he’d wander past the door and peer in at us. Razz had too much other stuff on his mind to even notice.

  ‘Man, what was the Wreckin’ Ball thinking? I mean, is she crazy or what?’

  The Wreckin’ Ball Razz was going on about was actually Ms Heckenvaal, our Modern History teacher. She wasn’t called the Wreckin’ Ball just because it sort of rhymed with her name. Ms Heckenvaal was slightly on the ‘biggish’ and ‘roundish’ side, a bit like a top-heavy barrel with legs. She was also one of the best teachers in the school.

  ‘I mean, I get all the World Wars stuff we did last term. Some of that was pretty cool. But the History of Feminism? Is she nuts? What do we need that for? I mean, can you see any chicks around here?’ Razz said, spreading out his arms wide and looking around crazily. ‘Can you? She does realise this is an all-guys school, doesn’t she?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Scobie said, peeking over the top of his little round glasses, ‘that’s the point.’

  ‘Point? What point?’

  ‘Well, because we are an all-boys school, it could be that Ms Heckenvaal feels it might be a good thing for us to have some understanding and empathy for the struggles and challenges of the other half of the population.’

  Prindabel immediately held up his official ‘objection’ finger.

  ‘Correction. The other 50.2 per cent of the population, to be precise – at least according to the most recent census. You see, the life expectancy of women is approximately – ‘

  ‘Yes, thank you, Mr Google. Can I just stop you there?’ Razz interrupted. ‘Maybe you could rest your search engines for a while before you give us all a boredom overload, OK?’

  Razz turned slowly back to Scobie, pulling his eyes off Ignatius only at the last second.

  ‘Yeah, well, that’s all fine and dandy, Scobes, but how come we always have to learn about chick stuff when they never have to learn about guy stuff? What about our struggles and our challenges?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well … stuff like how if a guy says that a chick’s got a hot bod, some chicks love it but then some chicks think that guy’s a sexist pig or something and they want to scratch his eyes out. How do you know what you’re supposed to say? What about that challenge? I mean, if chicks don’t want us perving at them, man, how come they wear stuff that gives us so much to perve at in the first place? Where’s the study unit on that?’

  Scobie twisted his mouth back and forth for a moment. ‘Maybe you should raise those points with Ms Heckenvaal. I’d be very interested to hear her response.’

  Bill, Ignatius and I smiled. Razz spat out a laugh.

  ‘Do I look like the kind of guy who would volunteer for a suicide mission?’ Then he turned to the rest of us. ‘You guys agree with me about all this feminism stuff, don’t you?’

  Ignatius and I worked up enough enthusiasm to shrug. Bill mumbled out a few words.

  ‘I think some of it’s pretty interesting.’

  Razz gave him a patronising smile and patted him on the back.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course you do, Hoop Boy, and we all know why that is, don’t we?’

  Bill opened his mouth to respond but Razz had already moved on.

  ‘And another thing, what about that crap song she keeps torturing us with? I’m telling you, it’s unnatural cruelty, man. I bet there’s something in that Geneva Connection thing about it.’

  ‘Correction – Convention, not Connection,’ Ignatius threw in with another raised digit.

  ‘Correction, Prindababble – who cares!’ Razz threw straight back at him with a slightly different raised digit.

  The ‘crap song’ Razz was referring to was ‘I am woman’ by someone called Helen Reddy. I guess it was fair enough having to hear it once, because according to Ms Heckenvaal, it was the ‘call to arms’ and the ‘anthem’ of the women’s movement in the 1970s. But recently she’d started to use it more as a weapon against us.

  It was probably just revenge for all the groaning and laughing and smart comments that went on the first time she tried to play it. Now whenever the class gets a bit noisy or isn’t working hard enough Ms Heckenvaal just says, ‘Sounds like we’re in the mood for a sing-song, boys!’ and she belts out the opening lines, all about her being a woman and roaring in numbers too huge to ignore or whatever it is, and everyone starts working furiously so she’ll stop.

  (Of course the real lyrics shouldn’t be confused with the ones that Danny Wallace wrote, which went more like, ‘I’m a woman in the raw, my bum is too big to ignore/When I eat too much it goes on my rear end.’)

  Back in the discussion room Scobie tried to get the meeting back on track.

  ‘Well, we’re only doing feminism for this term, so maybe you’ll like the next topic more. Now about our first debate …’

  But Ms Heckenvaal wasn’t Razz’s only problem.

  ‘And what about Film and TV? Mr Nelson gave us this big assignment on the first day of term and it’s due in a few weeks and there’s heaps of work to do. An assignment for Film and TV! What’s going on? I thought we’d
just be watching movies and stuff. What a rip-off!’

  ‘What’s the assignment about?’ I asked, although Scobie didn’t look too pleased with my enquiry.

  ‘Gotta make a community service advertisement thing for TV. Bill and me are doing it together. Ours is on sun safety. We’ve got to film it and write a report and everything. Sal and one of her friends are supposed to be in it except they reckon I have to change my script otherwise they won’t do it.’

  ‘You wrote the script?’

  ‘Yes, Prindabella, I did. And it’s pretty rigid even if I do say so myself. It’s epic.’

  ‘If it’s so epic, then how come the girls don’t like it?’

  ‘Haven’t got a clue. Who knows what goes on in chicks’ heads? When I asked Sal what was wrong with it she wouldn’t tell me. She just said, “If you don’t know, there’s no hope for you.” What am I supposed to do with that? I can’t read minds. I’m not cyclic.’

  Prindabel’s finger went up but Razz had already disappeared under the table and he missed it. When he resurfaced he held up a folder with a fringe of loose sheets desperately trying to escape from it.

  ‘Got it right here,’ Razz said, extracting some crumpled A4 paper. ‘This is the bit they’re going on about.’

  Razz flattened the script out on the table and began reading.

  Scene: Outside. Beside a swimming pool. A girl (Britney Parker) is sitting on a towel. She is wearing a bikini. A second girl (Amber Jackson) joins her.

  ‘Britney and Amber?’ Ignatius said with a smirk.

  ‘Yes, Prindabelly. They’re chick names. You remember chicks? They’re those ones who run away screaming whenever you turn up.’