by R. A. Spratt
‘It’s already taken care of,’ said Loretta. ‘Ingrid has enrolled me at Currawong High.’
‘Urgh,’ groaned April. ‘That means we’ll see even more of you.’
‘Wonderful!’ said Fin.
Loretta did not officially start at Currawong High until the following Monday. She spent the intervening days getting her new school uniform, then having it couriered to her dressmaker in the city to have it tailored precisely to her measurements. If she was going to have to wear polyester at least it could be perfectly tailored polyester.
Early in the morning, on what would be Loretta’s first day, Joe, Fin, April and Loretta were sitting in the kitchen eating breakfast. Loretta was not at all nervous. She was looking forward to exploring a whole new social dynamic. For her, going to a public school was like Jane Goodall observing chimpanzees. Every mannerism and behaviour would be fascinating.
Dad and Ingrid walked in. Like most teenagers, the Peski kids struggled to be awake first thing in the morning. So added activities like talking were scarce. The only sound was that of munching and sipping as they consumed their food.
‘Ah . . . er . . .’ began Dad. He then stopped talking altogether, and scrunched his face up as he struggled the twin battles of figuring out what to say and resisting the urge to rush out to the garden where he could enjoy the silence of the plants.
Ingrid was not going to allow that to happen. She elbowed Dad in the arm.
‘Ow!’ said Dad, ‘Er, yes . . . quite right.’ He realised he deserved it. ‘I, I mean we have an announcement.’
‘Your first announcement as a couple,’ said Loretta, clapping her hands with delight. ‘Where’s my phone. We need a photo.’
‘No photos,’ snapped Ingrid.
‘Ingrid says, and I agree, that we have to go to the city for . . . um . . .’ Dad looked at Ingrid and she nodded. ‘For a couple of days. And the nights in-between. We will stay in the city.’
‘Good for you, Mr Peski,’ said Loretta. ‘A romantic getaway will be lovely.’
‘Gross,’ said April, pushing her half-eaten bowl of breakfast cereal away. ‘We’re trying to eat here.’
‘No no no,’ rushed Dad. ‘Not like that. It’s purely legal and procedural and paper-worky. We need to sort out her um . . . paperwork stuff.’
Ingrid nodded. ‘And also, the romance. So we become stronger as a couple.’
‘Ew,’ said April. ‘Loretta can you pass me a corkscrew? I want to gauge my ears out.’
‘So,’ continued Dad. ‘We’re leaving Joe in charge.’
‘What?!’ exclaimed Joe. It was bad enough that he was always unofficially in charge of his brother and sister, he didn’t want to be officially in charge of them.
‘Why him?’ exploded April.
‘Er . . . he’s the oldest?’ said Dad. He assumed Joe was the oldest. He was the biggest. And Dad had been there for his birth and it had been the first of his children. But Dad had become used to having even the most basic facts proven wrong, as it turned out they were all lies.
‘And Joe is the most responsible,’ said Ingrid.
‘Rubbish!’ protested April. ‘He’s the most boring. That’s the only reason you’ve picked him.’
‘Well they’re not going to leave you in charge, are they?’ said Fin.
‘Why not?’ demanded April. ‘I’m responsible.’
Everyone laughed.
‘I am!’ yelled April.
‘You can’t even control your own temper,’ Fin pointed out.
‘Well, if the house is attacked by terrorists,’ said April, ‘you don’t want someone even-tempered in charge. You want a total psycho to go ballistic on them.’
‘She’s got a point there,’ said Loretta.
‘Joe is in charge because he is the oldest,’ said Dad. ‘That’s the traditional way to do these things.’
‘He’s only physically the oldest,’ said April. ‘I’m pretty sure he has the mental age of a three-year-old.’
‘Hey,’ said Joe.
‘Joe is a deep thinker,’ said Loretta. ‘He’s a sophisticated intellectual trapped inside the inarticulate body of an Adonis.’
Joe wasn’t sure what this meant, but the fact that Loretta said it terrified him.
‘He’s no Adonis,’ said Fin. ‘The noun “Adonis” comes from Greek mythology. Adonis was an extremely handsome young man fought over by goddesses.’
‘Yeah, true,’ agreed April. ‘That can’t be Joe because his feet stink. No goddess would fight over someone whose feet smelled that bad.’
‘I don’t know anything about that,’ said Dad. He had not smelled Joe’s feet, nor was he well-read on the romantic subplots of Greek mythology. ‘I just know, that legally, in the eyes of the community it looks better if we leave the fifteen-year-old in charge. And it’s very important that we are above board and following all the proper rules right now.’
‘Hah,’ said April. ‘You’re sneaking off for a romantic dream date and we have to follow the rules.’
Dad just looked confused, ‘It’s not my idea of a dream. I’d rather stay and get my potatoes planted.’
‘You do not get to stay and work in the garden,’ Ingrid said firmly.
Dad sighed. ‘I know, I know. I know sometimes I have to leave. It’s just that I never want to.’
‘Few among us ever get what we want,’ said Ingrid.
‘I do all the time,’ said Loretta.
‘You just got expelled,’ said Fin.
‘Perhaps that’s what I wanted,’ said Loretta. She turned and smiled at Joe.
‘Urgh!’ exclaimed April, leaping to her feet and pointing at Loretta. ‘You got expelled on purpose so you could spend more time with Joe!’
‘What?!’ said Joe. Now he was terrified and horrified.
‘You’re supposed to be living here as our foster sister,’ said April. ‘You can’t chase Joe, that’s just gross.’
‘It is,’ agreed Joe. ‘My f-f-feet really do smell.’
‘Take your shoes off!’ ordered April. ‘Let her have a whiff.’
‘They don’t smell now,’ said Joe. ‘I just put clean socks on.’
‘That’s okay,’ said April. ‘Take them off at school instead. It would be better. You might put off Daisy Odinsdottir too.’
‘While Joe is in charge I expect you to respect his authority,’ said Dad.
‘No,’ said April. ‘I can’t do that. I don’t respect anyone’s authority.’
‘I know,’ agreed Dad. ‘But being in charge is horrible. There’s all the responsibility and worrying. Just don’t be mean to Joe. It will be awful enough for him as it is.’
Joe looked even more worried.
‘I’m looking forward to it,’ said Loretta. ‘I’ve had an au pair and a governess, a chauffeur and a Latin instructor, but I’ve never had a babysitter before. I’ll look forward to being tucked in at night.’
‘Bleurgh,’ groaned April. ‘Pass me a meat mallet. I want to club myself about the head so I get amnesia and erase this entire conversation from my memory.’
Joe was miserable. He was sitting in English class. Normally that would be bad enough, because English was Joe’s least favourite subject. It involved words and words were not his strength. But this lesson was extra painful because of who he was sitting next to – Loretta. And everyone was staring at her. Joe didn’t blame them. Loretta was stunningly good looking. He was pretty sure he stared at her when they first met. He still caught himself doing it sometimes. It was like seeing an eagle in the wild. She was so majestic, the pinnacle of natural beauty. It was only to be expected that life’s sloths, baboons and warthogs would gaze upon her in rapturous wonder.
‘And tell me, my dear,’ said Mr Sophocles, as he leant with one hand rested on Loretta’s desk. He had never called a student ‘my dear’ before. ‘What books have you been studying at your old school?’
‘Whichever ones I liked,’ said Loretta.
‘But surely there was a curriculu
m, set texts you had to follow?’ said Mr Sophocles.
‘I believe so,’ said Loretta. ‘But I didn’t worry too much about that. I’d read most of those books already, so Ms Dunbar was ever so kind about letting me sit in the back corner and read whatever I liked so long as I didn’t disrupt the class by pointing out how stupid all their answers were.’
‘Oh, I think I see,’ said Mr Sophocles. ‘Well we’re reading Huckleberry Finn.’
‘I love that one!’ exclaimed Loretta.
‘Oh good,’ said Mr Sophocles. ‘It is a classic.’
‘I love reading about poor people,’ said Loretta. ‘It’s fascinating. And Huckleberry Finn makes drifting on a raft seem so much fun, even though I’m sure it’s not because your clothes would be damp all the time and that is bound to lead to skin infections.’
‘Er . . . that is an interesting insight into the work,’ said Mr Sophocles.
‘No spoilers,’ snapped Daisy Odinsdottir. ‘We’re only up to page forty-one. We haven’t got to the bit about skin infections yet.’ While Loretta’s black eye had healed in just three days. Daisy’s head was still bandaged. She’d only needed three stitches but the wound had become infected. Daisy had put a homemade avocado moisturising mask on her face overnight, and it turns out that avocado is not good in an open wound. The rumour going around the playground was there was a great deal of puss.
‘Yes, thank you, Daisy,’ said Mr Sophocles. ‘Today we’ll be reading pages forty-two to sixty quietly on our own. Then we will discuss what we’ve read.’
The class groaned. They got out their battered school copies of the novel, flicked to page forty-two and started reading.
‘We’re going to spend class time just reading?’ asked Loretta.
Joe nodded. ‘We d-d-don’t get to take the b-books home,’ he explained. ‘People never bring them back. Too many of them get eaten by dogs.’
‘Dogs?’ asked Loretta.
Joe nodded. ‘Some k-kids smear mince on their books then feed them to their dogs.’
‘Really?’ said Loretta. ‘That surprises me, because there is no better way to escape your inescapable reality than to read a book. Sure, we’re all too young to leave Currawong physically. But through literature we can travel anywhere in the world. Anywhere in time, having adventures with heroes and heroines all through the ages.’
‘This is Currawong,’ snapped Daisy Odinsdottir. ‘The kids here don’t have time for time travel. We’re too busy focusing on what’s important, lawn bowls practice.’
‘I see,’ said Loretta. She turned to Mr Sophocles. ‘Is it all right if I just read my own book?’
‘Yes, dear,’ said Mr Sophocles. ‘Please do. I wish I could.’ He’d been longing to escape his own inescapable reality. But the reality is when you’re a fifty-six-year-old high school English teacher there is nowhere with cheaper house prices than Currawong. Mr Sophocles would never be able to afford a five-bedroom two-storey house anywhere else in the country, and he needed all that space to house his extensive collection of Ian Fleming novels.
The school’s PA system whistled with feedback and Mr Lang’s agitated voice boomed out of the speakers. ‘Joe Peski, please report to the front office immediately!’
Everyone stared at Joe now. He turned bright red. Except for his ears, they went beyond red and turned purple. He hated it when people looked at him. He liked to think that no one thought about his existence at all, but here he was in class with two beautiful girls sniping over him and getting a public summons to see the guidance counsellor. It was his worst nightmare. Well . . . perhaps not his worst nightmare, but certainly in the top ten. Joe started scrambling to gather his pencil case while avoiding eye contact with everyone. He heard the chair scrape back next to him. He looked up to see Loretta collecting her things too.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Joe.
‘Going with you,’ said Loretta.
‘You just want to get out of English,’ accused Daisy.
‘On the contrary,’ said Loretta. ‘I love English. And I am already impressed with Mr Sophocles’ teaching approach.’
Mr Sophocles blushed now. Although he really shouldn’t have. Telling a student they can do whatever they like isn’t exactly A-grade teaching.
‘But Joe is my brother,’ said Loretta with pride. ‘And if my family is in trouble, I will be there.’
‘You know I’m not really your b-brother, right?’ whispered Joe.
‘Reality is what you make it to be,’ said Loretta, as she swept up her bag and led Joe from the room.
When Joe and Loretta arrived at the front office, April was sitting outside holding an icepack to the bridge of her nose, with a bloodstained tissue stuffed up each nostril. Fin was alongside her holding Pumpkin. Joe knew something was dreadfully wrong. Pumpkin never let Fin touch him, let alone hold him. Pumpkin whimpered softly, while gazing at his injured mistresses.
‘W-w-what happened?’ asked Joe.
April opened her eyes. There were already blueish bruises forming under them. She had that glassy look of someone in considerable pain. ‘I tripped and fell face first on a box of Kleenex,’ she said sarcastically. ‘What do you think happened?’
‘She got in a fight,’ explained Fin. He knew his brother wasn’t great at picking up on sarcasm.
‘N-n-not again,’ said Joe. ‘You’re supposed to be behaving yourself.’
‘I behaved like an angel,’ said April. She didn’t sound like an angel. She sounded very nasal with the Kleenex shoved up her nose. ‘I wasn’t the one who started it.’
‘You know, most g-g-girls go all the way through school without ever getting in a fight,’ said Joe.
‘Most girls never stand up for themselves,’ said April. ‘I don’t care about being ladylike.’
‘It’s n-n-not just unladylike,’ said Joe. ‘It’s ungentlemanly. It’s uncivilised. You should r-r-resolve your differences through dialogue.’
‘Loretta got expelled from Saint Poshy Pants School for the Super Posh because she was fighting,’ April reminded him.
‘That was a one off,’ said Joe.
‘Yes, I usually punish my enemies with psychological torture,’ agreed Loretta. ‘It’s less messy. For me anyway.’
‘It looks like you c-c-came off worse,’ said Joe.
April smirked, which was painful with a mangled nose but she did it anyway. ‘Actually, I didn’t,’ she said with pride.
BAM! The front double doors of the school burst open. A burly middle-aged man strode in, his wife was close on his heels. They were both upset. The man slapped his hand on the front desk to get the school secretary’s attention, ‘What is going on?’ he demanded.
Mrs Pilsbury slowly rotated on her swivel chair to face him. ‘Right now, the only thing going on is that you are being rude to me, Hayden Wurtz.’ Having been school secretary at Currawong High for thirty years, Mrs Pilsbury knew everyone in town under the age of fifty-eight.
Mr Wurtz lost some of his bluster. ‘Sorry, Mrs Pilsbury, but what’s happening about my boy. We got a phone call saying he was injured in a fight.’
‘Please don’t say it’s his face,’ wailed Mrs Wurtz. ‘He’s such a good looking boy.’
April made a gagging gesture. She would have rolled her eyes if her eyes didn’t hurt so much.
Sick bay was alongside the secretary’s office. Mr Lang emerged from that door. He had spatters of blood on his shirt.
‘You!’ cried Mr Wurtz. ‘I’m holding you responsible for this. Jason was headed for state rep. If this has jeopardised his chances, you’re going to have a lot of questions to answer.’
‘Okay, calm down, Mr Wurtz,’ said Mr Lang. ‘Jason is going to be all right. Dr Singh is with him now. He’s just about to reset the shoulder.’
A horrific bloodcurdling scream shook the building, barely muffled by the thin weatherboard walls of sick bay.
‘My baby!’ wailed Mrs Wurtz, before collapsing distraught in her husband’s arms. Mr Wurtz had gon
e white as a sheet himself. If he hadn’t had to hold up his wife, he looked like he might faint as well.
Dr Singh emerged from sick bay, closing the door quietly behind him. Dr Singh was incredibly old. It was amazing that someone who looked that old was still alive and able to walk, let alone practise medicine. He didn’t exactly inspire confidence. ‘Jason will be fine,’ said Dr Singh. ‘The shoulder has popped back into place. I’ve given him some painkillers and gas, so he is resting now.’
‘Who did this to my boy?’ demanded Mr Wurtz. ‘I’m going to kill him. He thinks he’s a big tough bully. Well he can try taking on a real man.’
‘The school will handle this,’ said Mr Lang, ‘It’s not appropriate for you to get directly involved.’
‘Don’t give me that!’ spat Mr Wurtz. ‘This is a small town. Every man, woman and dog will know who did it by tea time. Just tell me now!’
‘I can’t,’ said Mr Lang. ‘Confidentiality procedures prevent me . . .’
Unfortunately as Mr Lang was saying this his eyes flickered ever so briefly in the direction of the bench where the Peski kids were sitting and Mr Wurtz picked up on that. He spun around and spotted the four children sitting there.
‘You!’ he accused. ‘You’ll pay for this!’ Mr Wurtz lunged forward and grabbed Joe by the collar, hoisting him to his feet. Mrs Wurtz gathered herself and started whaling in to Joe with her handbag too.
‘Ow!’ said Joe. ‘I d-d-d-d-didn’t do anything.’
‘Stop!’ cried Mr Lang, grabbing hold of Mr Wurtz by the arm, but a school counsellor who spent most of his day sitting at his desk eating cream biscuits was going to be no match for a farmer who spent all day lugging about hay bales and sheep. Mr Wurtz barely noticed him pulling on his arm.
‘How dare you hurt my boy,’ accused Mr Wurtz.
‘Euunngh,’ gurgled Joe. He wasn’t good at talking at the best of times, but it was particularly hard when he couldn’t breathe.
‘It wasn’t him,’ cried Mr Lang.
‘Don’t make excuses,’ accused Mr Wurtz.
‘No really, it wasn’t him,’ pleaded Mr Lang.