Miss Understood

by James Roy

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  Lizzie has a history of misunderstandings, but the latest one is bad enough to get her expelled from Our Lady of the Sacred Wimple College. So now she’s going to be homeschooled.

  That’s right – from now on her mum will be her teacher. No friends, no playground, nothing but homework. What will Lizzie have to do to prove that she’s mature enough to be allowed back to Sacred Wimple? She’s prepared to give almost anything a go, but will it end up the same way it usually does – with her being misunderstood all over again?

  Miss Understood is a warm, funny and moving story by award-winning author James Roy.

  For Mekdes

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 01

  Chapter 02

  Chapter 03

  Chapter 04

  Chapter 05

  Chapter 06

  Chapter 07

  Chapter 08

  Chapter 09

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Resources

  About the Author

  Also By

  Copyright Notice

  More at Random House Australia

  READ THIS BIT FIRST

  This is my story. (Not this bit, though – everything that comes after this.) But like I said, this is my story. Me, Lizzie Adams. It’s a story about some stuff that happened to me, and to some of the people I know, and it’s completely true. All of it. Because I don’t lie, honest. And if I do ever happen to tell a lie or do something ‘silly’, it’s always an accident. Never on purpose.

  Well, almost never.

  So listen carefully while I tell you what happened. There won’t be a test at the end or anything like that, but you will need to pay attention.

  CHAPTER 1

  Mr Hilder wasn’t happy. He called me into his office, stood there and held the door, then closed it behind me with a scary clunk. I think my first mistake was sitting down.

  ‘Stand up!’ he said, all snappy. ‘I didn’t say you could sit.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. I mean, there were three chairs in the room, and he could only use one, so I’d figured I could probably use one of the other ones.

  Then, as if he was trying to make a point, he plopped down in his big leather chair and flapped his hand at me to let me know that I could sit down. I sat right on the edge, and I waited. Surely he’d say something soon. Wouldn’t he? Or were we going to sit and look at one another for the rest of the day?

  Finally he reached forward and straightened the name plate on his desk: MR BARRY HILDER – PRINCIPAL. Then he pulled a face that made him look like he’d hurt his back, and cleared his throat. ‘Now, Lizzie, I’m rather curious to know: what have you to say for yourself?’

  This sounded like a very complicated way to ask a really simple question. I swallowed hard, and thought about correcting him. But I knew how bad this looked already. I also remembered the ‘last straw’ thing he’d warned me about after I saved all those kids from drowning at the swimming carnival, and I didn’t want that last straw to be me telling him that his question made no sense.

  ‘Well?’ he asked.

  I looked up at the wall behind him. On it was a picture of the Pope. He didn’t look all that pleased. And on the top of the filing cabinet in the corner was a statue of St Mary, with a towel over her head and a sad expression on her face. And above the window was Jesus, looking very thoughtful. So many people I’d let down, and I’d never even meant to.

  ‘I’m waiting, Lizzie,’ Mr Hilder said, drumming his fingers on the desk. ‘Is there anything you want to say?

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I said –’

  ‘No, I mean, I’m sorry about what happened.’

  Mr Hilder shook his head and frowned. ‘Keep trying,’ he said. He really wasn’t making this very easy for me.

  ‘It wasn’t my fault?’

  He shook his head again.

  ‘It was an accident?’

  He shook his head again. My heart sank, which is a real feeling, and very weird when it happens. By saying that it was an accident, I’d basically admitted that I was responsible, even though I hadn’t meant to cause any trouble. But I was pretty sure that this really was my last chance, which is why I said it.

  Mr Hilder’s face softened, just a little bit. Then he sighed, and shook his head once more. He shook his head an awful lot, I decided.

  ‘Lizzie, Lizzie, Lizzie. How did it happen, Lizzie?’ he asked. ‘Tell me.’

  I stared at the floor. How could I explain it? How could I make it sound better than it was? I couldn’t. Besides, I had to tell the truth, especially since Jesus and Mary and the Pope were all watching and listening, and waiting for my answer.

  ‘I was playing with fire,’ I said, and Mr Hilder’s eyebrows wiggled with surprise. I don’t think he expected me to be so honest.

  ‘Playing with fire, you say?’

  ‘Yes. The thing is, Mr Hilder, I’ve got this project coming up, and it’s about pirates, and I wanted to make a map. You know, like a buried treasure map, with an island, and a jungle, and caves . . .’ (At this point I thought hard about making myself cry, which I can totally do, but then I decided I might need to use that trick later on, so I didn’t.) ‘Anyway, I wanted to make the edges kind of old and burned, like a proper map. You know the kind I mean, don’t you, Mr Hilder?’

  ‘Mmm,’ he said, nodding slowly. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, I had this nearly empty lighter in my bag.’

  ‘A lighter?’ he said sternly.

  ‘Yeah. Me and Jenni found it at the bus stop last week.’

  ‘Jenni and I found the lighter at the bus stop last week,’ Mr Hilder said.

  I shook my head. ‘No, it was definitely me and Jenni. I don’t think you were there, Mr Hilder.’

  He sighed. ‘Go on,’ he said in a tired, bored voice, as if I was the tenth kid that day who’d been in his office talking about bringing lighters to school.

  Just then the phone on his desk rang, and he raised one finger to me before picking up the receiver. ‘Yes? Oh, they’re here? Good. Thank you,’ he said. Then, after he’d put the receiver back, he looked at me again. ‘You were saying, Lizzie?’

  ‘Well, after I got the lighter I was telling you about, I got this exercise book as well, and I was burning the edge of one of the pages. You know, experimenting. I could have shown you the exercise book, except it caught on fire and started burning with all these big flames . . .’

  ‘That’s okay, I get the picture,’ Mr Hilder said.

  ‘And the trouble was, the more I flapped the exercise book around, the bigger the flames got, and next thing my fingers were getting burned. So I kind of . . . threw the book, and it landed right near that big cardboard principal the third graders were making for the Education Week parade. And you see, Mr Hilder, cardboard burns. Not quite as good as paper, but still pretty good –’

  ‘I’m perfectly aware of how well cardboard burns,’ Mr Hilder interrupted.

  ‘Yeah, it burns heaps good once the flames get going,’ I said.

  ‘It burns heaps well.’


  ‘Yeah, I know, right? And hot! Like, really hot –’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know the rest of the story, particularly the part where you were jumping up and down on my burning effigy.’ He stood up and went to the window. ‘I know all about it because I saw the whole alarming scene from this very window. Right now I’m looking at the black burn marks on the wall of the bike shed, plus the dead brown patch where the fire extinguisher killed all the grass.’ He turned around. ‘You do realise, Lizzie, that I’ll have to charge your parents the full cost of repainting that wall, plus the cost of getting the extinguisher refilled?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Hilder,’ I said, seeing my pocket money for the rest of the year disappearing like steam through an open window.

  ‘And I’ll be talking to your parents. In fact, they’re waiting outside right now.’

  That was a shock. I think he might have been trying to surprise me, but not in a good way, and it had definitely worked. ‘They’re here? Right now?’

  ‘Right now. Just outside that door.’

  ‘Oh. Are you going to kick me out of school?’ I asked, now trying very hard not to cry.

  ‘Lizzie, I needn’t remind you that this is the latest in a very long line of wild events that you’ve either caused, encouraged or been suspiciously close to. How are you going to make it up to all those third grade children who’ve worked so hard on my effigy . . . I mean, on my likeness?’

  ‘Are you going to expel me?’ I asked again. I didn’t need to make myself cry any more – now tears were streaming down my cheeks all by themselves.

  Mr Hilder didn’t reply. Instead, he walked to the door and opened it. ‘Mr and Mrs Adams, would you like to come in? Lizzie, I’ll get you to wait outside, please.’

  I hadn’t completely believed that Mum and Dad would be outside Mr Hilder’s office, but there they were in the waiting area. Dad didn’t look too thrilled about being there, and I wondered if it brought back memories of all the time he spent outside the principal’s office when he was a kid. Mum just looked as if she was about to die of embarrassment.

  ‘What have you done this time?’ she hissed as we passed each other.

  ‘He’ll tell you,’ I muttered. ‘He’ll tell you everything.’

  I guess he did tell them everything, because they talked for ages, long enough for me to count the 132 boys, 159 girls, eight men and fifteen ladies in the huge photo of Our Lady of the Sacred Wimple College that hangs on the wall next to Mr Hilder’s office door. It was also long enough for me to find all of my friends in that photo, and to realise that it was quite likely that I would soon have to say goodbye to them forever. This made me pretty sad and got me crying all over again, which meant that when Mr Hilder came to his door to call me back in, I already had a nice red nose and puffy eyes. Which was good, I thought, and could only help.

  Mum and Dad were sitting on the near side of Mr Hilder’s desk, and he went around to his own side and sank back into his leather chair. There were no spare seats, so I had to stay standing. I felt a bit weird being the only one standing up. It was like I was in court or something.

  Mr Hilder adjusted the cards in his wooden business card holder, then lined up his pen with the edge of the leather pad that took up a large chunk of his desk. Finally he cleared his throat. ‘Now then, Lizzie,’ he began, ‘your parents and I have had a little chat, and here’s what we’ve decided.’

  *

  Okay, listen – before we go any further, you mustn’t think I’m a bad girl. Because I’m not. I’m just misunderstood. I know a lot of kids get called ‘misunderstood’, but this usually means they’re bad. Naughty. That they misbehave all the time, enjoy causing trouble, are uncontrollable or unruly.

  That’s not me. I very rarely misbehave, I try not to cause any kind of trouble at all, I am totally controllable, and I’m normally very ruly. I really am just misunderstood.

  Can I give you one example? Last year’s swimming carnival, which I think I mentioned earlier. I don’t know about you, but when I see some first grader (in pyjamas) flailing about in the deep end, I jump in and rescue him. And when there’s a first grader in every one of the eight lanes, I think it’s important to think quickly, so you can save the first one, then get on with saving the rest. How was I supposed to know it was an actual race? Who races in their pyjamas, anyway? Was it my fault that I was at the kiosk buying lollies while Ms Reddick was announcing the novelty races, or that I hadn’t read the newsletter that told all the juniors to bring their pyjamas?

  There are tons of other examples I could give you. Like on that excursion to the power station, when I got stuck in the control room. They said that if I’d accidentally pressed the wrong button, I could have brought the entire state to its knees. Okay, first of all, a state doesn’t have knees or feet or even legs, and second, what made them think I was going to start pressing buttons? I’m no random button pusher! I was only in there because I thought it was the way to the toilets. Seriously. I went in, and while I was in there (so my best friend Jenni tells me) the tour guide turned around, saw the door closing, and said, ‘Well, that shouldn’t be unlocked!’ Then he locked it, which meant I was stuck in there with all these people looking at computer screens and about a million flashing lights all over one wall.

  So when I went up to one of the men and tapped him on the arm and said, ‘Excuse me, how do I get out?’ he totally flipped, and started shouting, ‘How did you get in here? Did you press anything? You’d better not have pressed anything! The grid! The grid!’ And he kept going on about the stupid grid and the state’s knees and wouldn’t tell me how to get out, so I started crying. As it turned out, it was probably a good thing that I did cry, because Mr Hilder said that crying showed remorse, which is what saved me from getting kicked out of school that time. I told him it was just a misunderstanding, but he just sighed and said, ‘Yes, Lizzie, you seem to be involved in a few of those, don’t you?’

  See what I mean?

  CHAPTER 2

  ‘I don’t get it,’ I said, as soon as we got into the car. ‘Why do I have to leave Sacred Wimple?’

  ‘Because of this,’ Mum said crossly, waving a piece of paper in the air. Luckily it wasn’t on fire, because as Mr Hilder and I both knew, things burn heaps well when you flap them around like that.

  ‘Are you listening to me?’ Mum was saying. ‘Two hundred and eighty-four dollars –’

  ‘And forty-five cents,’ Dad added, starting the car.

  ‘Right,’ said Mum. ‘And for what? To repaint the wall of that shed, and to refill that fire extinguisher!’

  ‘Which was used to put out a fire that you started, Betty – don’t forget that,’ Dad chimed in.

  ‘Right, which you started,’ Mum went on. ‘Can you give us one good reason why you shouldn’t have been expelled?’

  ‘Because all my friends are here,’ I said, starting to cry all over again, which made it really hard to finish my sentence without my voice going all stringy.

  ‘Maybe your friends are a part of the problem,’ Dad said.

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with them! It was just a –’

  ‘An accident?’ Mum finished for me in a tired voice.

  ‘Yeah! An accident.’

  ‘Was it? Was it, indeed?’ Dad replied. ‘Well, I’m sorry to say it, Betty, but I think Mr Hilder might be right – it’s not fair on the other students. So for their sake, mostly, they’ve asked you to leave Sacred Wimple.’

  ‘For good?’

  ‘Yes, for good.’

  ‘So where will I go to school?’ I asked.

  ‘At home for now,’ Mum replied. ‘I’m going to look into the possibility of homeschooling you.’

  ‘But what about your relief teaching?’ I asked. ‘You won’t be able to do that if I’m at home with you. I mean, you can’t take me with you relief teaching, can you?’

  ‘But we won’t have to find the fees for Sacred Wimple, either,’ she replied. ‘So it’ll probably be about even.’

  Whe
n she said that, Dad made a funny little noise in his throat. I think it meant ‘I’m not so sure about that.’

  I frowned. This was getting scary, and it was getting scary way too fast. Somehow I’d gone from being put on detention, to being suspended, to being expelled, to being taught by my own mother, and all in one day! How much worse could it get?

  ‘You’re really going to be my teacher?’ I said as the realisation began to sink in properly. ‘That’s . . .’

  ‘It’s a great idea, is what it is,’ Dad said. ‘The best solution to a bad situation. And look on the positive side – from now on we’ll all be working at home!’

  This was not good. Not everyone working at home – that bit would probably be fine – but sometimes, when I was having trouble with my homework, I’d get a glimpse of what being a kid in Mum’s class must be like. It wasn’t always a cheerful picture. She could be pretty tough when she was in the mood.

  ‘Do we have to?’ I asked. ‘There has to be another way. Can’t I go to the public school?’

  ‘No,’ Dad said. ‘Not our local. I know the principal there, and he’s a complete . . . No, not there. They’ve had a lot of problems at that school.’

  ‘Then how about Ellsdale?’ I suggested. ‘That’s a good school, isn’t it? Even though their uniform is horrible. That hat . . .’

  ‘Ellsdale?’ Dad snorted. ‘As if we could afford Ellsdale!’

  ‘That’s right, Lizzie. Your father’s a food writer, not a book writer,’ Mum said. ‘Do you have any idea how much food reviewers earn?’

  ‘Hey, steady on,’ Dad said, looking all cut. ‘You don’t have to bring that up all over . . . But no, Betty, we really can’t afford Ellsdale.’

  ‘So leave me where I am,’ I suggested, just trying to be helpful. ‘I’ll try extra hard not to be misunderstood any more.’

  Mum shook her head. ‘We can’t, Lizzie. That decision isn’t up to us. I’m sorry, but you, my girl, have been expelled. So, circumstances being what they are, we’re happy with this plan.’

  ‘I wouldn’t really say “happy”,’ Dad corrected her. ‘More “comfortable”. Just.’