Penguin Books Australia

Saturday, 6 March, 11.30 a.m. Our living room, Sydney, Australia

'Eat that, brother,' said Sal, waving a small black chess piece in my face. 'I got your Great Auntie Beryl with my Nanna Joan' she chuckled as she added my pawn to her collection of casualties.

We were playing 'Relative Chess'. It was the same as regular chess, except that we'd printed out a stack of family photos, cut out the faces and stuck one onto each of our sixteen pieces. Mum and Dad were the king and queen on both sides. Sally and I were the horses, and Jess and BRAD had their scary faces on the bishops. As for the rest, anyone we had a picture of could make it onto the board. There was Uncle Neil, Auntie Doreen and even our dodgy Pomeranian dog, Furball Sharkey. One of my castles was Britney Spears, and Sal's first pawn to go had the guy from the spaghetti sauce label on it.

I studied the board carefully. Sally's queen was my next target. I was hatching a plan to blast it from the board with my Sean Connery piece, when I heard a loud, heavy noise.

Thud, thump, thud. The forceful, pounding fist at the door sounded strong and masculine and I imagined an 8-foot high lumberjack on the other side, but the image shattered as soon as I heard the words, 'um. . . Hey, Missus . . . um . . . is Jess home?' It was the unmistakable teen-screech voice of BRAD Shatzburger, the weasel-faced love object of our big sister, Jess.

'BRAD! My shining knight!' Jess shrieked chessfully as she sprang from the flowery reclining chair that matched not only the rest of our living-room furniture, but the curtains as well.

'Oh, BRAD, this is such a love-filled surprise of the heart,' Jess dripped. She flung an arm around her boyfriend's tiny shoulders. 'I wasn't expecting you to be here until this afternoon, and yet here you are, standing at my door, in 3-D dimensions.'

'Um. . . yeah. I guess so,' said BRAD.

'Oh, Venus, goddess of love,' Jess continued, 'what deed have I doth done for you to bring forth my one true love so unexpectedly?' We were then treated to a clumsy embrace, followed by a nasty kiss-fest that looked painful in every way.

'Hey, I don't know about you,' I said to Sal, 'but I'm choking on all the love.'

'Yeah, it's like flyspray. It'll kill everything in its path,' Sal said, pointing to the kitchen. But as we abandoned our game and headed for the snack drawer, we were stopped in our tracks by what young Mr Shatzburger had to say next.

'You what?' Jess asked.

'I got signed, hey,' he guffed.

'Signed by what?' I asked.

'By this guy. Check it out.' BRAD handed a crumpled, printed email to Jess, and she slowly read aloud the words at the top of the page.

THE FONK AGENCY

Bink Fonk, Manager

'Bink Fonk?' she said, confused. 'What's Bink Fonk?'

'It's this guy. That's his name, hey. He's from America. Or Africa,' BRAD replied with skinny enthusiasm.

'Hang on a sec, BRADley. Bink Fonk? The guy's name is Bink Fonk?' I asked.

'Yeah, that's what he said, hey.'

I tossed the names around in my head. Shatzburger and Fonk. Fonk and Shatzburger. It sounded like a likely partnership to me.

'But I don't understand, my love-ness. Exactly who is this Fonk person?' Jess asked.

'He's my agent. Or manager. Or somethin',' BRAD explained. 'I found him on the internet. I signed up with him, and you'll never guess what, hey.'

'What? That you're not human after all, and you're really just a tall monkey?' Sal asked. I'd had my suspicions for some time too.

'Nah, get this – he's already booked me for a hot solo gig! How totally rockful is that?'

'Should I call the local garbage dump to ask what time your set begins?' Sal asked, pleased with her joke. Then the shock came.

'Hey, S-girl – it's not a local gig. Fink Bonk wants me to go to some place called 'Lost Vegas'. It's in America, hey. Or Africa,' BRAD said, scratching his woolly, mouse-coloured head.

'You're going to America?' Jess squeaked. 'Oh, BRAD. BRAD! I knew it would happen. My BRAD. Finally, you're a star.'

'Finally?' questioned Sal. 'What do you mean 'finally'? That hopeless band of his has never even played a gig.'

'Um. . . yeah we have,' BRAD shouted in protest. 'What about that one. . .'

'Oh, that's right. Your cousin's baby shower. How did that turn out again, dear?' Sal teased.

'We rocked, that's what. Rocked the whole thing. The audience too, they dug us, heaps,' BRAD said, nodding like a bass player.

'Rocked?' I queried. 'How can you say you rocked when you didn't even get through a whole song?'

'Hey yeah,' BRAD said, 'that was a full cack when Skunk breakdanced through his guitar solo and smashed a jug of punch over his amp. After it blew up and the rug caught fire the gig kinda went sour, but hey – right up until then we so totally went off! Let's hear it for smeLLraT – the greatest band in the world!'

Sal and I clapped loudly, laughing at the creature that could one day become a part of our family, and BRAD stood to accept the applause.

'Hey, I better get used to all that clappin' and cheerin', hey,' he said, grinning through his hair. He squeezed his eyes tight, punched the air and let out a terrifying screech 'Aaouuww!!' like the rock god he one day hoped to be.

'BRAD, my minstrel of love, where is it that you run to?' Jess asked, as BRAD leaped towards our front door.

'Hey, I've gotta go home so I can ring Lost Vegas and book into the hotel and stuff,' he said. 'Wow, BRAD. It sounds like a quality organisation you've signed with if you have to book everything yourself,' said Sal. 'Do they want you to fly the plane too?'

'Nah, check it out,' BRAD said, waving his printed email. 'Bink Fink said for me to book all the tickets and stuff now, cos he had to go off and do some big important thing. He's still payin' for it. There's no problems there, hey. He said he'd fix all that up when I get to AMERICA – Aaouuww!!' BRAD pumped the air again with his fist, ran through our open front doorway, and made his way across the road to Chateau Shatzburger.

Mum walked in to the living room with a half jug of cordial, four plastic cups and a towering plate of leftover mince rissoles.

'So, Mum, did you hear? BRAD's going to America! He's going to be a teen singing sensation!' said Jess.

'A what?' Mum asked.

'It's true. My BRAD's going to be a star. A big, gorgeous, huge STAR,' Jess said, handing Mum Mr Bink Fonk's printed email.

'Yeah, Mum,' I said. 'And I'm going to be the creative genius behind his tour campaign,' I said. 'It'll be called the 'Get Lost and Don't Come Back' tour. I've already started making posters.'

'Hey, creative genius – see if you can create something with this,' Jess said, as a handful of chess pieces disguised as family members and minor celebrities flew across the room and into my head.