I walk down the steps and up to the flag, searching for a clue.
It’s made, not surprisingly, of a familiar red paper, thick and shiny. I examine it closely, but there’s no writing or instructions of any kind, just a blank pennant taped to what I now see is a broom handle. The amphitheatre sits parallel to the Visual and Performing Arts Centre, the shadowy building directly in the distance behind the flag.
Something crackles in the atmosphere. I pivot in place, the red flag fluttering behind me.
A sharp screech echoes through the yard.
And then music, grand and pompous, fills the air. It’s all crashing cymbals and horns and brass. I frantically scan the East Lawn, but I can’t see anyone. I turn back to the Arts building, bracing a hand unconsciously on the flagpole, and I’m immediately blinded by what feels like the blaze of a thousand supernovas.
I reel backwards as the East Lawn is flooded with light. I throw up a hand to shield my face, the grandiose music increasing in tempo. In the distance, I can just about make out the Arts building, lit inexplicably from the outside.
I can’t be sure – what with the eye trauma and the mild panic that at any moment a crowd is going to lunge out at me like some deranged surprise party – but I could swear the ground beneath me seems to roll just a fraction.
I close my eyes and grip the flagpole, heart hammering and eyes on fire.
And then, just as quickly as it began, the lights and the music die.
Spots dance beneath my eyelids. My ears are ringing in the now-resolute quiet.
I open my eyes again, still clutching at the flagpole. In front of me is the wide expanse of lawn, a row of identical pine trees standing peacefully along the fence.
A soft ring of lights, like the landing circle for an alien spacecraft, flickers to life. Slowly, the light intensifies, way out in front of me.
And the St Augustine’s Visual and Performing Arts Centre is gone.
I blink, and blink again.
I rub my eyes. I must look like one of those cartoon characters, eyes popping out of my head, doing a comically exaggerated head-clearing shake.
I clock the row of trees, still, ostensibly, on the edge of the grounds. I see the overgrown grass, gently moving in the breeze, and the tall fence that marks our school boundary.
But the Arts building persists in its absence.
I take a single step forward, but that almost imperceptible rumble shifts beneath me again. I feel kind of dizzy.
There is a crackle and hiss, and the music resumes. The empty circle of light intensifies, till that blinding glow floods the East Lawn again. Despite my best efforts, I can’t keep my eyes open. I squeeze them closed as a spotlight hits me directly in the eyeball.
And all of a sudden, it is dark behind my eyelids again; only flickering entopic remnants remain. I open my eyes. The lights have gone. The music has stopped.
And the Arts building is standing exactly where it should be.
My feet carry me backwards until the backs of my knees hit the lowest edge of the amphitheatre steps. I sit down heavily.
The grass on the stage floor is slightly trampled. The flagpole is a tad askew. The ringing in my ears from the music muffles any other sounds. I look, dazedly, around me, but, though I have the strangest instinct that I am not alone, there is no-one here that I can see.
I stare at the Arts building, my brain spinning.
And I burst out laughing.
The sound rings though the schoolyard, unhinged and insane. I can’t seem to stop.
‘You’re brilliant!’ I yell. I stand and applaud, the sound of my clapping reverberating through the empty grounds. There’s no reply, aside from my echo. I didn’t really expect there would be.
The school is silent. The Arts building remains.
Just me and my nemesis, alone in the dark.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The duality principle
I never did find Joshua that night. I don’t think I was supposed to. I am almost certain that that was not the point. I want to tell him I understand. I want to tell him that I always believed, that I knew he had the potential to be epic. But the mental space I may have had for dealing with the Joshua conundrum is soon occupied by a somewhat more pressing matter.
I have actually put some time into practising. I have read, and studied, and researched. I have even rehearsed my monologue in front of an unwilling audience of one, Toby looking all sorts of pained as he sits in a dining chair and is subjected to my thespianing. He refuses to offer any constructive criticism or advice. But it is the most I have heard my brother laugh since Dad accidentally backed his car over the neighbours’ inflatable Santa.
It’s mild today, so mild that I shrug out of my blazer as I head through the main school gates. It’s the strangest feeling, this winding-up time. I recognise some of my classmates hanging around in odd configurations, either desperately engaging in last-minute cramming or conducting feverish post-mortems of exams just completed.
The Arts building hasn’t gone anywhere. It stands, still a brick-and-mortar monstrosity, carrying the weight of everything I fear within its fungus-encrusted walls. My heart has been pounding all morning, my skin almost feverishly slick with sweat. There’s no point pretending otherwise; I know that my control over my anxiety is tenuous at best. There is every likelihood that I will end this morning curled in a ball on the smelly brown carpet, or being carted out on a stretcher, still dressed in my Salvation Army costume and wig.
I square my shoulders, adjust my outfit, and march into the building with my head held high. I ignore the dust. I ignore the liquid sensation behind my kneecaps. I ignore the table of examiners, and Ms Heller, and their various looks that I think are supposed to convey compassion and support. I ignore the thumping of my heart, the fight-or-flight response that is screaming for flight. I take the stage stairs. I am ready. I will do this.
And I do.
And – I suck.