Alana Oakley Read online

  Alana gave an encouraging smile to Khalilah, who struggled to keep up. Every so often, students stopped to have their heart rate tested and recorded. They were relieved when the coach stopped to take a phone call, but not before asking Sofia for a demonstration of squat jumps, which the others had to count. By the time they hit the showers, many of them were complaining of aches and pains.

  Sofia was even more dismayed to discover her charm bracelet was gone!

  “Perhaps it dropped when you got changed?”

  “No. I was really careful to hide it in my uniform with the other stuff. See,” she said holding out the rest of her jewellry, “they’re still here.”

  Nothing could console Sofia, who valued the magic eight-ball more highly than any of the other charms. How would she decide things now?

  “Who could have taken it?”

  “Who would want to?”

  But they were running late for their next class. The mystery of the missing charm bracelet would have to wait.

  Alana put an arm around her friend. “Don’t worry, Sofia. I’ll find out who did this.”

  But Sofia didn’t care who had done it. She just wanted her magic eight-ball charm back.

  CHAPTER 6

  Digital challenge.

  Alana’s second class was Information, Communication and Technology, otherwise known as ICT. Their teacher, Mr Boyd, was a lean man with a thin face and a nose that turned up at the tip. His habit of stroking his beard, which was a bright ginger colour, lent him the air of a constantly grooming squirrel, which was reinforced by his scurried movements as he hopped from one desktop to another. Their first topic was social networks, he informed them. They would not only design and create one for use within the classroom, but also debate the pros and cons of social-networking sites. This would allow them to discuss cyber-bullying.

  The four girls, along with their classmates, attacked the subject matter with enthusiasm. Maddie used social-networking sites to connect with other musicians. They shared song ideas, wrote lyrics together and enjoyed jam sessions online. Some students described their experiences of gaming. They liked to role-play characters in fight games or quests, taking on identities very different to their own. Alana, a budding photographer, was a member of a social website for shared photos. She found the site inspirational as well as practical; members provided technical tips on how to use cameras, improve photo composition, and gave advice on manipulating images.

  At this point Khalilah jumped in. She had once been a victim of a practical joke: someone had changed her photo to make her look like a boy.

  For Sofia, this spelt Social Death. “What did you do?” she gasped.

  “I pretended the person in the photo was my twin brother, Abdul. ‘Abdul’ sent many embarrassing letters to the joker declaring his love. I was never bothered again.”

  “Do you have a twin?” Maddie asked.

  “Not at all!”

  The class laughed and gave Khalilah openly admiring looks. Maddie, Alana and Sofia gazed at their new friend with greater respect. This was a girl who was not afraid to speak her mind, or twist situations to her advantage.

  “That’s a very creative approach to dealing with the bully, Khalilah. Well done. But often cyber-bullying is anonymous. You don’t know who the bully is,” said Mr Boyd, squinting at the class.

  The conversation moved to ways in which bullying could be turned around when the identity of the bully was unknown – how the power could be shifted so the victim felt in control.

  “I’m looking forward to listening to your ideas and using them in the social-networking site we’ll be setting up,” Mr Boyd explained to the students as they made to leave. “And as a fun exercise, try digitally re-working a photo of yourself. We’ll put them up next week and play a game of ‘Guess Who’. Make sure you get to know each other well, so you’re not reliant on the image.”

  The students walked out, eagerly discussing their ideas. It seemed Sofia was the only one not looking forward to the task, until it was explained that she could digitally enhance her photo if she chose. The spring in Sofia’s step returned. Now she could see what difference a nose job would make before she saved up to get one.

  CHAPTER 7

  When Life hands you an Opportunity, put on your… rollerblades?

  While the girls were experiencing their first day at high school, Emma was ordered to the salon. Eyebrows, under-arms and legs needed waxing, and a haircut was long overdue. Although nail art would have been nice, a manicure and pedicure took priority, and as Ling Ling reminded her, they could not perform miracles.

  The Beauty Bar had been converted from a dingy, dark nightclub to a light, airy space that offered complete make-overs. Katriona and Ling Ling’s two-bedroom flat sat above their make-over salon affording them views the length of King Street. Wedged between The Buff Barn – the bodybuilders’ hang – and The Cuppa – a café for serious coffee fiends – a visit to the salon always sent Emma’s nose into a headspin. Freshly ground beans duelled with the smell of sweat and fake tans. Up ahead, Emma spotted tendrils of smoke from the incense sticks of Inner Harmony wending its way towards her. With a quick wave to George and his long-time partner, William, who were taking their Boxer, Daisy, for a walk, Emma locked her car and rushed inside, bolting the door before the sickly sweet smell made her sick. It was always the same after holing up in her study for weeks on end with the computer. Emma responded to fresh air and sunlight with all the enthusiasm of a vampire.

  “So what can you tell me about Slam Guru?” Emma said, trying not to flinch as strips of wax were ripped from her body.

  “He’s 192 cm, has an in-cre-di-ble body, is 32, still single and …”

  “Katriona! This is work!”

  “I’m just saying he’s available. And you’re still young and not in bad shape … considering you do zero exercise. After two hours here, you’ll be looking gorgeous and …”

  “All work and no play makes Emma a dull girl,” Ling Ling interrupted with a knowing nod.

  Emma ignored the hint and tried to keep track of Katriona’s prattle about the rock star, but it was difficult. Somehow, Katriona knew what his regular take-out restaurant was, what day he was born, what weight he bench-pressed and his favourite colour, but Emma could use none of this information for the interview. The lecture became a blur. Slam Guru trivia merged with what Katriona was feeding her pet cat Jinx, who apparently was off his food.

  Emma came back to earth with a bump as the final rebellious hairs were yanked from her eyebrows.

  “Owww!”

  “Too long, Emma. I keep telling you. You leave it too long, it hurts more. Don’t wait so long.”

  It was obvious Ling Ling was referring to more than Emma’s erratic trips to the salon. A look of panic entered Emma’s eyes. For the past few months, her friends had hinted she should consider dating. But how could she? Years ago, Emma had met the love of her life and never looked back. Hugo had known her inside out, lived with every disgusting habit, seen her at her worst, and still loved her. He was her rock. He was her world. He was gone …

  “Da dah!” Ling Ling spun Emma around to reveal her new look. It included a short, chic haircut, sleek eyebrows and skin that glowed. Katriona and Ling Ling looked very proud.

  “Your clothes are over there, Em. Just pop them on, then we’ll do a final touch-up.”

  “Thank you!”

  With the new dress halfway over her head, Emma called for the time. Her question met a wall of silence – the kind of silence that comes when people hold their breath.

  “Ummm, don’t be mad, okay? But it’s 10:15.” “What?!”

  Emma shuffled out from behind the screen; the dress still twisted around her upper torso. “It can’t be 10:15. I’ve been watching your clock. Look. It only says 9:45.”

  “Oh, that’s the time in Adelaide. This is the time in Sydney,” Ling Ling said, showing Emma her bubble watch, which now read 10:16. There was no way she would make it to The Waterfro
nt Café by 10:30, especially with King Street’s notorious traffic.

  With a scream of frustration, Emma ranted about being late, being killed by James, and then being fined when she saw the wheel clamp on her ute, parked outside. She was close to tears when Katriona slammed a pair of roller blades onto the bench. A look of horror crossed Emma’s face. What was her friend suggesting?

  “Katriona, I haven’t done this since I was a kid. Plus, there’s no way I’ll be able to make it. I’ll call James to re-schedule or something.”

  “You are not cancelling on The Guru. Nobody cancels on The Guru. Or re-schedules. This is a Once-In-A-Lifetime-Opportunity, so suck it up, and get them on!”

  Emma whimpered as she squeezed her feet into the sparkly roller blades, half a size too small. Her memories of roller-blading were not good. She was sure it had involved a trip to the hospital, and at least one broken bone. Emma wobbled as she made it to her feet and clumped to the front door.

  “Bon voyage,” Katriona said, giving Emma a vigorous push to get her started. They listened to a strangled wail as Emma glided away down the road.

  “You know I always liked the back of that dress better than the front. That was a good idea to put it behind,” said Ling Ling, as she continued to wave.

  Katriona looked in dismay at the mistake. The dress was on the wrong way! She thought of yelling a warning, but what was the point? They would only get into trouble again. If they were lucky, Slam Guru would be so distracted by Emma’s gorgeous hair that he wouldn’t notice.

  The wheels in Katriona’s mind continued to turn as she drew a second conclusion. Emma, her best friend, was off to meet Slam Guru, her favourite rock star Of All Time.

  In.

  The.

  Flesh.

  What was she waiting here for?

  Katriona exchanged her own shoes for a pair of roller blades. Then she threw another pair of blades at Ling Ling, urging her to do the same. They were going to follow Emma to her interview so Slam Guru could meet the woman of his dreams … Katriona!

  CHAPTER 8

  S.O.S. … Skating, Old men and Stalkers.

  It was a typical Monday morning and Newtown was as busy as ever – cafés that opened for breakfast served ‘coffees-to-go’, young families walked to daycare, while buskers made use of summer’s last days to try their luck with commuters. Those that sang had to compete with the deafening sounds of planes flying above, the thundering arterial traffic on Newtown’s main road, King Street, and the constant rumble of trains below. Emma clung to the pedestrian-crossing sign for balance. The roller blades were pinching her toes, and her thigh muscles were already protesting. That said, even though the roads were bumper to bumper with cars, she was halfway to her destination and only five minutes had passed. It looked like she was going to make it after all … as long as she didn’t trip.

  The light turned green. Emma pushed off and lurched forward. She passed the University of Sydney with its impressive gates and sandstone walls, hoping her bizarre combination of roller blades and LBD (Little Black Dress) did not look too out of place. She took comfort in the fact that many people these days (especially students) were cycling, skateboarding and roller-blading, to be more environmentally-friendly. Emma turned her gaze from the imposing buildings just in time to narrowly miss a mother and her pram, and a couple of young professionals running for the bus.

  Emma shifted the strap of her bag to help regain her balance. She hugged it close to her side as the wind whipped at her hair. There was no way she was going to lose this bag. It was too important. She’d seen it while shopping at Glebe Markets with Ling Ling and it had been love at first sight. Each section of fabric looked like it had been lovingly chosen before being pieced together into the perfect combination. Glass beads and tiny circles of mirror were sewn into the fabric, in turn reflecting fringe trims and catching the light. Plus the bag was huge. Emma liked a bag that could fit in all the stuff she packed for emergencies.

  The canny stall-holder had noticed the glaze over Emma’s eyes. “Feel how soft it is.” Emma obediently stroked the bag as if it were a Persian cat. “You won’t find any bag the same. The fabrics are hand-dyed. Some of them vintage. Each one is unique.” Emma eyed the colours appreciatively. “And look,” he said, holding the bag open, “you could fit my mother-in-law in there and never find her again.” He laughed. “On second thoughts, I think I’ll keep it for myself.”

  Emma reached for the bag in a panic as he pretended to put it under the table, but Ling Ling held out a warning hand.

  “How much?” Ling Ling demanded.

  “In the shops, this sells for $450, but,” he tapped fingertip to nose, leaned in so close they could smell the coffee on his breath, “for today only, I’m selling it for $300.”

  “Why so expensive one? Cannot be, lah,” Ling Ling scoffed. “Don’t cheat me, ‘kay? Fifty, lah. I give you fifty.” Ling Ling said, slipping into Singapore slang as she engaged in her second favourite past-time – shopping! Her favourite past-time was eating … of course.

  “$50? Oh no, no, no. $50 is a ridiculous price. I could come down to $280. That’s it.”

  Ling Ling shooed the man’s offer away like an annoying fly. “Eh Uncle, I no tourist one. I know you up the price three times. Okay, last price – $70!”

  The stall-holder grabbed his heart as if in sudden pain. “Stop it! You’re killing me. $250. That’s my final offer.”

  Ling Ling remained unsatisfied. “Don’t con me, lah, Uncle! This price I can get hundred of this in China.” Ling Ling tossed the bag onto the table with disdain.

  The man’s eyes turned steely. “$200. Take it. Or leave it.”

  Emma reached for her wallet, but was stopped by Ling Ling a second time. “Okay, neh-mind. Bye,” and with a jaunty wave, Ling Ling dragged Emma to another stall, furtively whispering, “Pretend you’re looking at something else. Any minute now he’ll come chasing us with an offer of a hundred.”

  But the stall-holder did not come chasing. When they returned – casually, of course – he took great satisfaction in telling them it had been sold. Nothing Ling Ling said could console Emma. That same afternoon, Emma’s mother – who lived an hour away – dropped by and handed her daughter a bag. The bag. It was even more beautiful than she’d remembered.

  “I found this at the markets,” Emma’s mother said, hands on hips. “After I told him I’d come all the way from Campbelltown I got the man down from $300 to $50!” she crowed, securing Ling Ling’s unswerving devotion and veneration forever.

  Emma was brought back from her pleasant daydream with a jerk. She looked down and realised the strap of her precious bag was caught. She couldn’t imagine how it had happened. One minute she was rollerblading with her bag held securely to her side, the next minute her bag was snagged on the handle of an old person’s electric wheelchair. At first Emma pretended it was a coincidence that she was rollerblading next to him – all the while trying to untangle her bag. Even when she knew her persistent presence and nearness was making the elderly man nervous, she smiled and held on. But every attempt to unhook the strap failed. The bag refused to budge. The first time he glanced over his shoulder at Emma, he gave her a slight smile full of curiosity. The second time was less friendly, and by the third, he was convinced she had evil intentions.

  “Help!” he cried, clutching his plastic bag of adult diapers. “This woman is trying to rob me. Help me, somebody!”

  “No. No, I’m not. Please. I’m sorry. Terribly sorry. My bag …” Emma tried to explain, but passersby were quick to come to the old man’s defence, heedless of her excuses.

  The man’s wheelchair surged forward in an effort to shake Emma off. Well-meaning citizens jogged alongside to pry Emma’s grip from her bag. Emma’s legs criss-crossed and wobbled as she was dragged onwards, under attack. They looked like a massive conga line, zig zagging all over the pavement. Suddenly, a wet stream of pigeon poo fell from the sky which the old man reacted to with surprising speed. W
ith a sharp turn and screech of wheels, Emma’s bag became unhooked. She was free at last. The old man spun round and shook an angry fist, yelling “Hooligan!” before disappearing in a cloud of dust.

  The substantial crowd, likewise, tutted and wagged their fingers with disapproval.

  “You should be ashamed of yourself,” she heard them mutter as they went their separate ways.

  A city clock gave a short chime to indicate the half-hour. Ten thirty. James was going to kill her!

  Emma put her head down, secured her bag for a second time and pumped her arms like a speed skater. She refused to miss this career opportunity because of a paranoid pensioner. The gentle slope gave her the boost she needed. The breeze rippled her dress. Chinatown was up ahead. If she squinted, she could almost see the glint of water that was Darling Harbour. If she had been a real-estate agent, she most definitely would have.

  Emma arrived at the entrance of The Waterfront Café in a cloud of burnt rubber. Beads of sweat lined her forehead, and her arms and neck glowed. James was pacing out the front. He looked ready to explode. He cut Emma’s explanation short and told her the best news of the whole morning: Slam Guru had sent his apologies. He was running late and would be there as soon as he could. The extra time allowed Emma not only to catch her breath, but also to read the biography James had prepared for the interview … just in case.

  “I figured Katriona’s information may not be very helpful. Nice haircut, by the way.” James’s teeth flashed as he began to relax. He did a double-take of her outfit, began to say something, but changed his mind with a dismissive wave of his hand. There was no time for Emma to change and the dress didn’t look that odd, back-to-front. He motioned her to hurry and get started on the research.

  By the time Slam Guru arrived, looking suave and powerful in a casual t-shirt and jeans, Emma was feeling equally cool and collected. The only thing making her feel uncomfortable was the fit of her dress, which sat awkwardly on her shoulders. Emma shoved her concerns aside. She was the first to admit she was clueless about fashion.