Alana Oakley (20 page)

“Your basic punches are your jab – punching straight from the front hand – usually followed by a cross – which comes from one side of the body and finishes at the other. Next is your hook –”

“My hook,” Alana echoed blankly.

“Yes. Your hook is a rounded punch which is thrown in an arc. Like this,” Maddie said, demonstrating.

“Thrown in an arc,” Alana repeated.

“And the last punch…

“…is the uppercut, which starts here,” Flynn said, taking over from Maddie and pointing to Alana's belly, “and goes up towards Coach Kusmuk's chin.”

“Coach Kusmuk!” Alana's eyes popped. “It's Coach Kusmuk. It's Coach Kusmuk. It's Coach Kusmu-” She had not even registered that Flynn was here… and that he was holding her hand…

Khalilah threw a glass of water in Alana's face with too much enthusiasm and was rewarded with a yell. Alana shook her head and tried to refocus on Flynn, who was describing roundhouse kicks, front-heel kicks, front kicks, side kicks, rising-knee strikes, and hooking-knee strikes.

Ding! Ding! Ding!
The bell sounded again.

Coach Kusmuk gestured impatiently for Alana to enter the ring. She stumbled forward in a daze. The coach's slight form danced around Alana like she'd drunk too many cups of coffee. She demonstrated a few of her moves. A hook here. A kick there. Alana dodged the blows. Just.

“Come on, Oakley,” the blur that was Coach Kusmuk taunted, “give it your best shot.”

In the background, Alana was vaguely aware of raised voices: “
Two of you?!” –
then the murmur of an apology, but it was all Alana could do to avoid getting hit. That last swing had scraped her chin. Both of her t-shirts were drenched in sweat. She did her best to copy the figure in front of her, but was all too aware what a pathetic shadow she made – like a jerky puppet in slow motion. There was more shouting. This time about dentists and deception, double-crossings and dancing pecs. Alana couldn't afford to get distracted but she couldn't help it.

Emma rubbed her eyes as she saw double. “So you're not Dr Gray,” she said to Oliver.

“I am. Just not
this
Dr Gray,” said not-Oliver-but-Donald sheepishly, pointing a thumb at his mirror image, who appeared just as confused as Emma. The
real
Dr Oliver Gray was leaning against the Harley Davidson he had just wheeled out of the Second-Chancers' room. But for the pierced eyebrow and tattoo (not the wash-off kind), the two men were identical.
Identical twins
.

An extraordinary story unfurled. A story which contained two brothers. Oliver and Donald, were both doctors but in different fields. Donald confessed he'd decided to impersonate his brother and live his life because of Emma.

Oh, great, so it's my fault?

“Remember when I dropped in to visit Oliver? While he was on sabbatical? You were in his office reading his ‘critically-acclaimed, award-winning' book,” Donald said, rolling his eyes. “I met you and fell for you, but then I overheard you say you didn't want to go out with a dentist. I had no choice but to pretend to be him,” he explained, chucking a thumb at his brother.

Of course, Alana thought to herself, it was so obvious! How could she have missed the signs? It explained why Donald couldn't ride the Harley, was so knowledgeable about teeth and had absolutely no idea how to relate to her or her friends. Weren't Prita and Preyasi from the Gibson Gibbons impossible to tell apart? Dr Donald Gray wasn't suffering from a split personality. He wasn't on drugs. He was a
twin
.

“So you're not an author, you're a dentist.”

“Yes,” Donald said.

“And the other guy in the operating theatre…?”

“… is my partner. We share the dental practice.”

“But
you
operated on me.”

“Yes,” Donald tried hard to look sheepish, but failed. “And look at what a great job I did! You
say
you don't want to go out with a dentist,” Donald was saying, looking around for approval, “but you see, you really
do
.”

Alana could have kicked herself for not figuring the mystery out sooner, but Coach Kusmuk was doing a pretty good job of that, on her own. Alana dragged her attention back to the action in the ring. Flynn was saying something to her.

“Come on, Alana,” he urged. “You have to fight smarter than that.”

Alana's eyes were squeezed shut and she was jabbing blindly at the air. She felt a sharp slap on the back of her head. “Is that all you've got, Oakley?” the coach taunted. Alana tried hard to remember.
Roundhouse kicks, front-heel kicks, front kicks, side kicks, rising-knee strikes, hooking-knee strikes,
she repeated Flynn's advice to herself. Alana closed her eyes again and swung her leg around behind her in a powerful arc. Her foot connected with a
crack
. When she opened them, Coach Kusmuk was on the floor. Out cold.
Oh mother of all holy kapoonies!
Alana thought to herself.
C'est terrible.
This was another birthday fiasco she was sure to pay for once Coach Kusmuk woke up.

Nurse Cathy fought through the ring of students who had crowded around. “Right, somebody plug me in,” she said, as Flynn undid the tie at Nurse Cathy's back.

“No, I really don't,” Emma was telling Dr Gray and rubbing a fist which was now quite sore.

On the floor of the Police Boys' Club, somebody else was out cold.

Donald.

“You see,” Sofia said with satisfaction as she surveyed the pair of lifeless bodies, “
I told you
there'd be a hurricane.”

The End.

But what about Flynn… and his brother, Daniel… and… is there a Happy Ending???

Okayokayokay.

So, Flynn …

Flynn's father – Major Tucker – was Making An Effort, which was not easy because Tucker's Law had ruled the Tucker household for as long as any of them could remember. But a fire had been lit under his bum, so to speak, and now he was All Ears.

It was a lot to take in.

It was like a flood.

A flood of words.

His elder son wanted one of those Perfect Dads on TV that played cricket with The Kids and had poster-white teeth, and he wanted him to talk less and listen more, and would it kill him to
ask
every now and then rather than order? And while he was at it, he wanted him to take off that thick overcoat he never took off.
What coat?
The one that didn't let feelings in. Or out. The one he had put on after their mum Walked Out. And didn't come back.
Oh… That one.

So with an arm around Daniel – tentative at first, because this was All New to him, and he would much rather demand his son drop down and give him twenty – Major Tucker glanced over at his younger son, who was grinning and crying at the same time. A
waterfall smile,
he would have said if he'd had the words.

“And you,” he said instead, “you want to go poncing around in a tutu?”

“Yes, please,” said Flynn.

EPILOGUE

The rich interior of the theatre – red velvet curtains and golden filigree fretwork – glowed in the warm, pre-performance lights. The stage was set for the end-of-year Dance Showcase for the Pettigrew School of Dance. Near the front of the stage, two people were already seated: a man and his son. The older man, in crisp army fatigues, sat upright like a coiled wire of energy. The large youth next to him shifted uncomfortably. A warning bell sounded. People made their way to their seats, shuffling past and apologising as they knocked knees with patrons already seated.

Four girls had to get past the man and his son to reach their seats. The first girl had long, purple dreadlocks past her waist, the curliest lashes and a wide smile. Layers of jewellery made her jangle as she walked. The large youth gazed after the trail of her long, flowing skirt. The second girl was lean, with long wavy hair and eyes like the ocean on a summer's day. The boy felt a sudden urge to go swimming. The third girl squeezed past with a shy giggle, and he had to fight the impulse to share the joke. She ducked her head into the interior of her hoodie and whispered to her friend, who laughed melodically. Her friend, the last girl to go past, had dark, wavy hair with a streak of rebellious plum and adorable dimples, he thought admiringly, until he looked into her eyes, which were as hard as stone. He dropped his gaze as if he'd been shot. The girls' conversation drifted over and, without knowing why, sucked him in.

“I can't wait to see him perform,” said Dreads. “Is he any good?”

“Of course he's good,” Giggles said with confidence. “He's good at everything.”

“You're the only one who's seen him,” Ocean Eyes said to Dimples – who had been invited, under the flag of
Truce
, to watch him rehearse. “What's he really like?”

Dimples shrugged and then admitted grudgingly, “I hate to say it, but he
is
amazing.”

Giggles gave a squeal of delight while Dreads groaned. “I still can't believe it. He's like the perfect guy – athletic, he can dance –”

“– he can cook – ” Giggles added.

“– he plays sax – ” Ocean Eyes sighed.

“– and he's loyal – ” Dimples said with a quick glance at the boy next to her, who was hanging on their every word.

The boy couldn't resist the impulse to interrupt. “Sorry,” he said, “but you can't mean to say you think ballet boys are …” he pointed to the stage with a disbelieving snort.

“Hot.”

“Wicked.”

“The ultimate.”

“But definitely…” said Dreads.

“…in the Friend-zone!” Ocean Eyes and Giggles sighed.

“Yep,” admitted Dreads with a shudder, “kissing him would be like kissing one of my brothers.”

“
Eww,
” two of the girls squealed in sympathy. They felt exactly the same way. The boy took a closer look at the fourth girl and took in her
Dead Dogs Rotting
t-shirt, black tutu, ripped tights and Seriously Studded Boots. She met his gaze steadily. Fate was here again, and she was quick to grasp the opportunity.

“Somebody once said that a man must be big enough to admit his mistakes, smart enough to profit from them, and strong enough to correct them. A
real man,
in other words, doesn't have to hide behind a kid brother,” she said in a quiet voice, quickly placing a heavy boot over his shoe as he made to move away. “And if he looks good in a pair of tights, well,” she said, so only he could hear, “even better.”

The boy squirmed and looked down at his hands. Hands that had played with fire – and Dimples seemed to know it. “Do girls really think guys are hot, doing all that prancing and stuff?” he asked her.

Dimples looked at the boy – a larger, beefier, ill-tempered version of his brother – his father, and then at her friends, riveted in their seats, as Flynn took a flying leap into the future.

“What's hot,” she said with a sudden realisation, “is someone who loves so deeply that they'd do anything for the ones they love.”

The End.
Really
.

BIOGRAPHY

Poppy Inkwell writes a lot of different things. Stories…

Website content…

Mandalas…

But not Christmas cards … or not very often.

When she's not at her desk writing, you will find her ferreting in car boot sales, experimenting with food gastronomy, or playing with her camera. Born in the Philippines, she now lives by the beach in Australia with one husband, two of her children and four pets (May They Rest In Peace).

See
www.poppyinkwell.com
for happenings, the truth behind
The Shakespeare Rap
by William Brien and exciting news about Book 3:
Bloodlust and Blunders
!