My School Musical and Other Punishments Read online

  To be fair, it was mainly fine, though some bits were worse than others. (Let’s just say I am definitely not a fan of Super Saver Value Spam fritters.) And my mum herself admitted that if you had to use two Super Saver Value tea bags per cup instead of one, it was a slightly flawed enterprise.

  Ryan was pretty devastated about the lack of KitKats under this regime. But now it sounds like all our favourite branded snacks are back! We can officially move up from Super Saver Value brand crisps to supermarket brand crisps. Result. We’ve gone up one whole social class. Next stop: Walkers; then onwards, to Buckingham Palace.

  “Congrats, Dad!” I say.

  “Yes,” says my dad, looking wistful. “Yes, it is good news,” he adds glumly. That kind of seems like an odd reaction.

  “Um… You don’t sound very excited,” I comment.

  “He is very excited,” asserts my mum.

  “He doesn’t completely sound … that happy,” I say.

  “Oh no, I am happy and excited,” insists my dad unconvincingly. “It’s good news, of course it’s good news. It will be a new, big challenge and … responsibility and…” He sighs.

  “And what?” I ask.

  “It’s just, um, lately I suppose I’ve been thinking about how I ended up in a job like this, when all I ever wanted to do was be like Horace King.”

  “Oh, not this again,” says my mum crossly.

  Last year as part of the class wildlife project, we had to write letters to environment-type people. I wrote to Horace King (my dad’s childhood hero and now doddery old environmentalist and bird enthusiast who is still sometimes on telly teaching people how to make the aforementioned bird feeders).

  Because Horace loved my letter, Nat, my dad and I got to meet him. My dad was over the moon at the time. But after the excitement faded, and he was back to normal daily life, he’s been… Well, I guess it kind of changed him a bit.

  “Come on, Bert,” says my mum kindly but firmly. “You know we can’t always get exactly what we want. I wanted to be a forensic scientist.” (Did she? Blimey.) “But you don’t hear me complaining.” (Well, we don’t hear her complaining about that, I think. Ha ha – amiright? High five.)

  My mum continues. “Sometimes you just have to take it on the chin, and work hard at the opportunities you do have. We just have to do better for our kids.”

  Then she addresses me. “Are you listening to this, too, Jessica? You can be anything you want to be. You can be a forensic scientist if you like. Don’t let Mrs Grimshaw or anyone put you off, if that’s what you want to be.”

  “Who’s Mrs Grimshaw?” I ask.

  “My school careers advisor,” replies my mum.

  “Oh,” I say. Then, “I think I want to be a cartoonist or an artist.”

  My mum purses her lips, as if she is trying not to react in an annoyed way. “Well, I think you might do better to think about being a forensic scientist.”

  “No, Jessica, seize the day,” interrupts my dad. “If you want to be an artist, move heaven and earth to become an artist. Life is short and it goes by very quickly. Before you know it, you’re my age with three kids to support.”

  Hmmm. I am not exactly convinced that this is an example of excellent parenting. It’s not really my fault my parents chose to burden themselves by procreating. On the other hand, I like that my dad wants me to become an artist.

  “Look, just focus on what you can do, Bert,” says my mum. “The energy-saving light bulbs are brilliant. We love them, don’t we, Jessica?”

  “Yes,” I say quickly, getting Mum’s vibe. “And the bird feeder has definitely attracted more birds to the garden.”

  My dad brightens. “It has, hasn’t it?” He beams, then falters. “But I just feel like I could be doing more to help the planet.”

  “Well, one step at a time,” replies my mum.

  One step at a time is surprisingly good advice from my mum. Normally she wants everything done yesterday. Especially my homework that was due in yesterday. (Ha ha, I am unstoppable.)

  “Ryan! Dinner!”

  So what has two thumbs, Super Saver Value macaroni cheese for dinner and two crazy parents obsessed with missed opportunities? This guy! I am pointing at myself with my thumbs but you knew that, right?

  “You can do it, Nat. Eye of the tiger,” I whisper. Amelia frowns at me like I’m weird.

  “Eye of the tiger,” Nat repeats quietly to herself. Amelia doesn’t comment.

  “You’ll be brilliant. We practised all lunch, you definitely know it,” I add.

  “Yeah,” whispers Nat.

  It’s school-musical audition day. Tension is in the air. For Year Six at Hillfern Juniors, the morning lessons seemed like an inconvenience to be got through as fast as possible before auditions could take place this afternoon.

  Well, not for me. We have double Art on Tuesday mornings, which I love. Also I hate acting and I’m not interested in being in the musical. But, I’ve been told I can be quite heavily involved in set design which I am excited about.

  Plus, while we’re all sitting here cross-legged in the Hall, we’re not in double science. (Although actually I don’t really mind science.)

  “Yeah, I definitely know it.” Natalie repeats my words, sounding as though she’s trying to convince herself.

  Nat really has her eyes on the prize. She’s after the role of Dorothy, the lead. I’ve not seen her this determined since she believed a rumour that the American pop star, Megan Flyer, was going to open the new shoe shop in our local mall and made us get there at eight o’clock on a Saturday morning, and then made us wait all day for no reason. Still (as my Auntie Joan would say) it’s a story. Just not a very good one.

  Our school musical this year is The Wizard of Oz, and our teachers have cunningly worked out that girls are a lot more interested in drama at our age than boys, so they’ve reworked loads of the parts originally written for boys as “unisex” and a lot of my friends are going for them. I hope they get them.

  “I definitely know it.” Nat repeats my words again, kind of like she’s in a trance. I think I’m obviously pretty great at encouragement.

  “I definitely know it,” Nat says again, in a slightly creepy whisper.

  Hmmm. Is this a normal part of audition nerves? I exchange a look of slight concern with Amelia, who clearly thinks it’s my fault that Nat has become a broken record or – as my generation should probably call it – a skipping iPod. Hmm. That’s pretty good. Maybe I should patent that? Skipping iPod ™ Jessica Morris 2014.

  “Yes, yes, you know it, already.” Amelia frowns.

  “I definitely know it,” Nat does that sinister whisper again.

  Amelia shoots me another this-is-on-you-I-hope-you’re-happy evil, which is really quite an impressive sentiment to get across in just one look.

  Part of me still sees Amelia as the mean, snooty bully who joined our school at the start of Year 6 and took my best friend away (temporarily) while spreading vicious rumours about my lack of coolness around school. (I mean to be fair, I am not cool. But no one really minded until Amelia pointed it out.)

  “Maybe you should try and think about something else, something calming,” whispers Amelia gently to Nat. Sometimes I wonder why I still see Amelia as that mean girl.

  “What you need is a distraction,” she continues. “Like … like, Jessica’s hair. Why is it all over to one side like that? Do you think she slept on it funny or did she mean it to be that way? It’s been distracting me all morning, anyway.”

  Then I remember. That’s why. That right there. I still see Amelia as that girl because, well, she is still that girl, and she did do those things. And it’s totally in her to do them again, I reckon. Also, she is a self-proclaimed daftie.

  But I am supposed to be forgiving and forgetting, and being the bigger person now. And I am. Mainly. In fact, I am Robert Wadlow when it comes to Amelia. (He was the tallest man in the world, fact fans.)

  “Natalie Baker!” calls Mrs Cole.

&
nbsp; Natalie jumps.

  “Break a leg!” I whisper-shout as Nat scrambles to her feet and heads over to the stage.

  “I thought she was your friend?” whispers Tanya.

  Part of me still can’t quite believe that Tanya Harris is my friend now. Sometimes I feel it’s like I know the Incredible Hulk in real life, and it turns out he’s really good at business stuff and helping to run a secret comic that’s cheeky about the school.

  “It means good luck,” I explain. “Actor people think it’s bad luck to say good luck, so they say other stuff instead.” I grin. “Nuts, right?”

  “OI! Break a leg, Nat!” Tanya suddenly shouts, making me jump. “Oi! Joshua! Break a leg, innit! Hey Shantair––”

  “Quiet, please!” Mrs Cole cuts short Tanya’s scattergun pep talk.

  “It means good luck, Miss,” says Tanya happily, seemingly pleased with this new piece of information.

  “Yes, well, save your lungs for your own audition, please.”

  “Sorry, Miss. As you were.” Tanya waves amicably at Mrs Cole as if she’s giving her permission to continue.

  “OK, then. When you’re ready.” Mrs Cole addresses Mrs Miller, the music teacher, who starts playing the intro bars on the piano.

  My heart is in my throat as Natalie starts singing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”. I feel nervous for her and I really don’t want her to mess up, but I needn’t have worried – she’s really good! I always knew she had an amazing voice, but it sounds fantastic all amplified in the big hall like this.

  Seriously. I’m not just saying that because we’ve been best friends since we first heard tell that the enterprising Black Sheep was doing a roaring trade selling wool to his key demographics of master, dame and the little boy who lived down the lane. (I wonder whatever happened to him? I hope the advent of online shopping didn’t destroy his business model.)

  Natalie is a real natural. And she can dance, too. She’s like the full package. We all erupt into applause when she finishes. “That was amazing!” I whisper to her gleefully as she sits back down. “You can’t not be Dorothy.”

  “Thanks!” She squeezes my hand, grinning. “And thanks for believing in me, babes.” (Babes?) “You saw something in me right from the start and I’m truly blessed to have you in my life.” (Blessed?)

  Since when did Natalie talk like that? There’s something vaguely unsettling in the way that it sounded like half an Oscar acceptance speech. I really hope this isn’t a sign that Natalie is going to become one of those Crazy Actress types. I’m sure it’s not and she’s just excited. Yeah, that’ll be it.

  The rest of the auditions pass by quite uneventfully. Everyone is pretty much as good or bad as I would have expected them to be. The only real surprise is Joshua.

  Joshua is auditioning for the part of the Scarecrow and so he sings, “If I Only Had a Brain”. But not only that. He (a) sings it really well – I had no idea he could sing; and (b) he does this sort of comedy dance to it as well, where he keeps nearly falling over. He gets some really good laughs throughout his performance.

  “Wow, Joshua is brilliant,” Nat whispers to me, when he’s finished.

  “I know!” I whisper back, shocked.

  “He’s certainly gone up in my estimation,” whispers Amelia, grudgingly. Typical of Amelia to be snide about it.

  She’s still annoyed because she thinks it’s cool to be friends with boys (especially “cool” boys from the basketball team). But hanging out with Joshua didn’t exactly lead to the access-all-areas cool-boy-party I think Amelia had hoped it might. Instead it led to Lewis making us watch the original Star Wars films from the 70s and 80s. I at least enjoyed them.

  “So, so good,” whispers Nat, still in awe.

  I had no idea Joshua was so talented at slapstick. Or the whole performing arena, in fact. How could I not know this about him? I mean, I know he has a good sense of humour because we make each other laugh all the time, but still.

  All the way home, I keep thinking about it. I’m only half listening to my parents over dinner talking about their new shopping budget and trying to negotiate with Ryan the merits of Tracker Bars over Wagon Wheels. (KitKats are non-negotiable.)

  And later still, when I’m playing pirate Lego with Ryan and Lady (Ryan pretty much insists she’s everywhere he is) I can’t shake off this feeling that I don’t know Joshua as well as I thought I did.

  Part of me wants to text or call him and say congrats, but I feel weirdly shy. Like he would have told me about the whole singing-and-dancing thing already if he wanted to.

  Ha. I mean, you think you know someone.

  Natalie got the part! She’s going to be Dorothy. I knew she would. I might be psychic. (I even know what you’re thinking right now. You’re thinking: Jessica is not psychic. See? Ha! Of course I’m not psychic. Or am I? Um, no. No, I’m not. Or am – we could be here all day.)

  “Oh my God! Like, totally congratulations,” gushes Amelia on Wednesday morning as we crowd around the list of names up on the noticeboard.

  “I knew you’d get it,” I say, excitedly. I don’t bother to tell them I might be psychic. I’ll give them a chance to sense it first.

  “Oh my God, I’m the Cowardly Lion!” gasps Shantair delightedly, finding her name on the list.

  “Hey, congrats!” I tell her, pleased. Shantair, being one of my chess-club friends, is a bit shy so has been trying to do more drama to overcome it. A lion looking for courage seems like an apt role for her in some ways.

  “Joshua is the scarecrow,” says Amelia, as we get slightly jostled to the side by other people crowding round the list. (Would it kill my school to stick up more than one list?)

  “Budge over,” comes a friendly but firm instruction from Tanya Harris, arriving at the chaos.

  “Yes! Get in!” she shouts then, punching the air and nearly injuring several people. “I’m the Bad Witch! Mwahah haha haha!” She does her witchy cackle, then saunters off singing, “Ding Dong, the Witch is Dead.”

  Hmmm. Shantair is shy and gets to be the Cowardly Lion, Tanya is … well, Tanya … and gets to be the Bad Witch. I’m not saying my school is typecasting its pupils but – no wait, I am. My school is totally typecasting its pupils.

  Oh no, wait, Amelia is the Good Witch, so that’s that theory blown out of the water. Ha ha.

  “Is this the final list?” I hear an aggrieved and disappointed voice ask. A voice that is not used to disappointment.

  The crowd starts to disperse and Harriet VanDerk is left staring dejectedly at the noticeboard, scanning and re-scanning it for her name. I almost feel sorry for her. Almost.

  “It looks like it says here I’m the understudy’s understudy,” explains Harriet, “and that can’t be right, can it?”

  Poor Harriet, maybe I do feel a tiny bit sorry for––

  “I mean, I’m better than all of you,” she finishes scornfully.

  Nah, scrub that, I don’t feel sorry for her at all.

  Harriet VanDerk is very competitive. Her family live next door to mine and they are also very competitive. I think it must get passed on genetically.

  The downside for me is that the VanDerks bring out the competitive side in my parents and then my parents wonder why I don’t win spelling bees or come top of the class in things that aren’t Art. This can be quite a nuisance if you just want to relax and watch TV instead of bettering yourself all the time.

  Personally, I think Harriet VanDerk didn’t get a better part because her acting was very wooden at the auditions. She’s the best at everything that isn’t arty because she’s so regimented in her approach.

  Surely most people would be delighted they were best at nearly everything, but not Harriet. She can’t live and let live, or abide having anyone beat her. She wants world domination and all the prizes for herself.

  Obviously it would be rude to tell her this, though. So, like an EastEnders’ character, I was going to have to leave it out. “I think it is the final list, yeah,” I say awkwar
dly.

  “Well, we’ll just see about that,” says Harriet, and storms off down the corridor.

  I, on the other hand, am delighted to have officially bagged the “part” of set design. I sigh with contentment later in double English, as I think about how much fun it’s going to be. I think I’m going to be awesome at it. I’m totally an artist now.

  Last term, when we had to do the wildlife project, I drew a really good (and big) picture of a badger, and the lady that came to judge our work (a real lady, not my new dog) said basically that I am an artist. So don’t just take my word for it.

  Obviously, it hasn’t changed me. Or made me in any way pretentious. Weirdly, if anything, it’s calmed me down a bit. (I got a bit obsessed with our comic last term.) But now that I’ve had what my sister Tammy calls “outside validation” I feel more relaxed about needing to show off. I can’t wait to throw myself into the set design and do the best job I can.

  I’ll be truly creative, hanging around in the background, building and painting things, but I’ll still get to hang out with all my friends in the musical. It’s almost too perfect.

  Whoa.

  Don’t think that, Jessica, I warn myself. That’s what someone says in a sitcom right before they cut to the comic disaster that upends their plans.

  “Yeah, easily,” I hear Amelia say to Natalie as the bell goes and we start packing up our books for break time. “I’m really good at stuff like this, and I like getting the extra credit. Plus my part is quite small anyway.”