Read Online Thirteen Pearls by Melaina Faranda - Free Book Online Page A

surveyed the towers of stacked skanky plates and knives crusted with stuff that had stuck like cement, the festering little mould farms in the bottoms of bowls, something that smelled nauseatingly like off milk, and the piece de resistance – a drowned mouse in a frying pan partly filled with water that shimmered with oily globules.
    The greatest thing about music is that even the most dire situations can be rendered cool and manageable, if the right track accompanies it. When I was younger I could barely listen to music because it all sounded like white noise. Then something happened and music turned into lyrics with big, symphonic swells of emotion. Something I could get lost in. I’d found Edie Brickell and the New Bohemians’ Shooting Rubber Bands at the Stars (Dad said she was big when he was a teenager) on iTunes, and as a bonus I could even make out her lyrics!
    When my favourite track came on I swung my hips and grabbed a couple of plates to shake as tambourines. In my mind, I pictured the spoons kicking out in a chorus line, Disney-style, while brown-ringed mugs howled the low part. I spun around, waggling the plates in the air and . . . crashed into Leon, donking his head with a tambourine plate.
    â€˜Sheezers!’ He grabbed the side of his head.
    I stared, less concerned about hitting him than I was at being busted pulling such cheesy dance moves. I held up the offending plate. ‘Um . . . air-tambourine. Only more solid.’
    â€˜Right.’ He was still clutching his left temple.
    â€˜It’s actually quite complex,’ I continued. ‘Needs a 5/4 rhythm to really shine. Trying to invisibly convey the tinkling of those jingly bits takes real skill.’
    Leon winced again. ‘You don’t know anything about music, do you?’
    I shook my head, ashamed. My lack of musicality could be directly attributed to my mother, who could neither dance nor sing nor keep time to save herself.
    â€˜It’s called a time signature, not a rhythm. Myself, I prefer to play air-organ. I can show you if you like.’ Leon mimed rolling back the cuffs of his non-existent sleeves (in the process, drawing my attention to his perfect arms) and gave a curt, tight-lipped bow. Then – he went for it, tousled hair flying as he glared and pounded against the invisible keys like Mozart on amphetamines. At the end he bowed in every direction, one hand tucked behind his ripped jeans, and sweat gleaming on his forehead.
    I plunged my tambourine plates back into the sink and applauded fiercely. ‘Bravo! Bravo! Encore!’
    Leon shook his mane, dismissing my praise as if I were an amateur beneath contempt. ‘I stuffed up the third movement.’
    â€˜I would never have noticed if you hadn’t pointed it out.’
    â€˜There’s never enough time to practise up here, and the sea air makes the organ pipes rust.’
    Uncle Red’s voice boomed through the open door in an incomprehensible rumble.
    Leon rolled his eyes. ‘Boss sent me to get another spigot. Reckons he left it under the sink.’ He bravely ferreted in the dark recesses of the sink cupboard (where clearly no man had gone before) and dragged out a worn, blue metal wheel attached to a tap fitting.
    Leon turned at the doorway and gave the thumbs up. ‘Good to see you’re going troppo so soon. Second day too.’
    â€˜When did it happen to you?’ I asked.
    â€˜Years ago, mate, years ago.’
    â€˜So you’ve lived up here for a while then?’
    He shrugged. ‘Come from a family of cane-growers down at Tully. Left school in Year 10, did some professional pig-shooting for a while until I got sick of losing my dogs, and did my fitter and turner apprenticeship instead. But I got bored with that too and lived on a hippie commune and ate coconuts and sanded didgeridoos. Made a killing doing that, but then I met a Danish babe, fixed up a Kombi and we hit the road.’
    I flicked