by James Roy
‘We’re comfortable with this plan,’ Mum said. ‘We haven’t been all that impressed with your grades anyway. So from tomorrow morning, I’ll be your teacher.’
‘Tomorrow? I don’t even get to say goodbye to my friends? Or Ms Richardson?’
‘Tomorrow morning.’
‘Usually they give you holidays between changing schools,’ I said, even though I knew that it was pointless.
‘Yeah, good luck with that,’ said Dad. I think he was smiling then.
‘Will I have to call you Mrs Adams?’ I asked Mum.
‘No, but you’ll be polite, just as you would be at school.’
‘Just as you should be at school,’ Dad muttered, and there it was. Misunderstood again. I was never cheeky to my teachers. Not ever.
I sighed. At least I wouldn’t have to lug a heavy bag of homework home every night.
No, because now everything would be homework.
My whole life was about to become stupid homework.
And that’s when I started to cry all over again.
On the way home, we picked up Richie up from Aunty Carol and Uncle Tony’s place, where Mum and Dad had dropped him off while they came to school to talk to Mr Hilder about me. My little brother was all grizzly, so I poked my tongue out at him, just to make myself feel better. It didn’t work. Not that he cared, because he was too busy picking his nose to even notice.
As we pulled into our driveway, Dad honked the horn, just a couple of little pips. ‘Out of the way, you clowns,’ he growled.
I looked up. A man and a woman were standing at the edge of our driveway, staring at us.
‘It’s not their fault, Marty,’ Mum said.
‘Would a display home have a newspaper in the driveway?’ Dad muttered as he turned off the engine and got out.
The man was now trying very hard to open our front door. I decided that while Mum was getting Richie out of the car, Dad could probably use my support, so I got out too, just to back him up.
‘Hi there,’ Dad was saying. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Oh, good,’ the man said, rattling the handle of the security screen like a gorilla in a cage. ‘Do you know if this one is open?’
‘Not yet,’ Dad replied.
‘Do you have a key?’ the man asked, sizing up our dusty red Toyota. I knew what he was thinking: that’s not really the kind of car someone from the display village would drive.
‘Of course I have a key,’ Dad said. ‘But you see, this house isn’t part of the display village.’
‘Yes, it is,’ the man said.
‘No, it isn’t,’ Dad replied.
‘Well, we were in the Greengrove 300 right next door.’ The man held up a shiny brochure. ‘Very impressive, if a little small for our needs. And only single-storey.’
Dad nodded at him. ‘Yes, well, the Greengrove 300 is a display home. This one, however, is not. This one is where we live.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Oh yes, I’m quite sure. We are a real family. We have been for years.’
The couple looked at one another. ‘I’m confused,’ the man said.
‘Clearly, but it’s actually not that complicated,’ Dad replied, after taking a deep breath. ‘The display village stops there, at the fence. That is all display village over there. All of it. No one lives in those houses yet. Whereas this –’ he swept his arm around to take in our front yard and our house – ‘is where we actually live. You know, like real people. Listen,’ he said. ‘Hear that dog barking in the backyard? That’s our dog. His name is Muppet, he’s a beagle, and he’s real. He’s our real dog, and he lives here because we do too.’
‘You live here?’ the man said.
Dad sighed. ‘We actually do. But if you want to have a look inside . . .’
‘Do you mind?’ the lady asked.
‘Yes, we do mind,’ said Mum, who was now standing there as well, with Richie wriggling around on her hip. ‘My husband was having a little joke.’ Then, under her breath, she added, ‘A bit like the little joke he was having when he convinced me to buy an ex-display home.’
‘Do we have to start with that . . .’ Dad began. But then he stopped speaking, got back in the car and pressed the garage door opener. As he drove in, I heard the man say to the lady, ‘That’s amazing! I can’t believe they actually put remote garage doors in display homes these days!’
Mum rolled her eyes. ‘Come on, Lizzie, inside – you’ve got school tomorrow.’
Oh, thanks Mum, I thought. Thanks for ruining the mood.
CHAPTER 3
Dinner that night was a bit tense. I think that’s the right word – when everyone sits there looking at their plates rather than at each other, and people say things as if they have a wedge of lemon stuck around their teeth. That was why, as soon as I’d put my plate in the dishwasher, I headed upstairs to my room.
I like it in my room. It’s my space, you know? Just mine. And I can shut the door, and no one comes in without knocking. Well, most of the time they don’t, anyway. Actually, they do that all the time, but it’s still my space.
I hung out in there for a while, playing games on my phone and trying not to think about how much things were about to change. (One of those things was possibly going to be my phone. Now that I wouldn’t be catching the bus to and from school, would Mum and Dad tell me that I didn’t need a phone of my own any more? It was a scary idea.) Muppet lay on the end of my bed and watched me with his big, droopy eyes. At least he wasn’t changing.
Then, because I didn’t want to think about it any more, I decided that I should just have a shower and go to bed. At least if I was asleep I wouldn’t be thinking about the bad stuff.
As I walked down the hallway to the bathroom, I made a strange discovery, even though I didn’t really know it was a discovery yet.
I always thought my dad was a bit of a softie, but I never expected him to cry. Not about me being expelled. I mean, I had thought he’d be a bit cross, and he was. I’d known that he’d be disappointed, and he was that as well. But I never expected him to cry about it. Not my dad!
But that’s what he was doing. At least, I was pretty sure that’s what he was doing, because as I walked past his study, I heard him sniff. Now, there’s a whole bunch of things that might make someone sniff. The flu, for example, or a plain old cold, or hayfever, especially when the wattle blossoms come out every year. (Sometimes you never even find out the reason; a few years ago there was a kid in my class who used to sniff all the time. His name was Thomas Spiegelman, and he had pale skin and hair that looked like it had been dried in a microwave, all sticky-up and weird, and he used to make the air around him specky like a snow-dome every time he shook his head or touched his hair.)
But most of the time, if you hear someone sniffing, there’s a good chance that they’re having a bit of a cry about something. I’d already done plenty of sniffing that day because I’d done plenty of crying, so I do know what I’m talking about. That was why, as I walked past Dad’s study and heard a sniff, I stopped.
He was in his swivel office chair, with his back to the door, and as I peeked in, he sniffed again, almost as if he was making sure that I’d heard.
‘Dad?’ I said, but he didn’t turn around, even though turning around is probably the easiest thing you can do in a swivel office chair, except maybe just sitting.
‘Hi Betty,’ I heard him say. ‘I’m fine.’
I thought that this was a funny thing for him to say, since I hadn’t even asked him how he was. I was planning to, but I hadn’t done it yet.
‘Are you okay?’ I asked then, because that was what I’d been planning to say, and I hadn’t thought of anything new.
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ he replied, and his voice sounded a bit impatient. It also sounded like he was talking underwater.
‘Are you crying?’
‘What? No!’ he said, but he still didn’t turn around. ‘What? Seriously, why would I be crying?’
‘I don’t kn
ow. But are you?’
‘No, Betty, I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Hayfever.’
This made me pull my confused face, because me and Mum usually get hayfever pretty badly whenever the wattle comes out, but I couldn’t remember Dad ever getting it. So that seemed weird. Plus I hadn’t noticed any wattle in our garden.
‘Anyway, Betty, I’ve got to make a phone call,’ he said. ‘So . . .’
I thought about going in and giving Dad a hug but I don’t think that hugs do much to help someone with hayfever, and because that’s what he said it was, I had to believe him. Didn’t I?
As I reached the bathroom, I realised that I’d forgotten to take my dressing gown with me. I went back to my bedroom to get it, and as I passed Dad’s study, I looked in again. He wasn’t talking on the phone. He was still sitting in exactly the same spot with his back to the door, staring out the window.
Except he wasn’t really staring out the window at all, because the blinds were closed.
My phone rang while I was in my bedroom. It was Jenni, so I answered the call and flopped down on my bed, ready for one of those really long best-friend conversations. My shower could wait.
‘What happened to you today?’ Jenni asked, before I even had a chance to say hi. ‘You got called to Mr Hilder’s office, and then you never came back. And then when Ms Richardson let us out, your bag wasn’t on your hook, and I was, like, huh?’
This was great; now she was going to make me cry all over again, and I was kind of sick of blowing my nose, which was getting quite sore. Plus my eyes had gone even redder and puffier.
‘Lizzie? What happened?’ she asked me again. ‘It was about the fire, wasn’t it?’
‘Uh huh,’ I said.
‘I told you that it was a stupid idea.’
‘I know,’ I said.
‘So what did he say?’
I sucked in a big, fluttery breath and began to tell the whole story. I had to stop a couple of times to pull myself together, but eventually I got through it all – being expelled, and the homeschooling idea, everything.
‘That’s so unfair,’ Jenni said when I’d finished. ‘Who will I hang out with now? And eat my lunch with? And sit next to in class?’
‘I don’t know what you’re complaining about,’ I said, sniffing like a big baby. ‘At least you’ll have other people to choose from. I’m going to be all by myself, with my mum as a teacher. My mum! Can you imagine?’
‘I heard that,’ Mum called from her bedroom, where she was putting away the clean clothes. ‘Careful, or I’ll put you on detention.’
‘She says she’s going to put me on detention,’ I told Jenni.
‘I hope she’s joking.’
‘I guess we’ll find out tomorrow.’
To be honest, I think I just assumed that I’d wake up when I’d had enough sleep, and while Mum was dressing and feeding Richie, I’d eat some breakfast and watch some cartoons in my pyjamas. And the more I thought about it (especially while I was taking a shower and brushing my teeth, since I reckon most of the best thinking is done when you’re in the shower or brushing your teeth) the better this homeschool thing began to look. I mean, Mum couldn’t sit there teaching me for every minute of the day. Could she? She’d have to go and change Richie’s nappy some time, and make lunch, and go food-shopping, and do all the other stuff she usually did while I was at school. Wouldn’t she?
All this thinking meant that by the time I finally climbed into bed and turned off the light, I’d decided that homeschool was probably going to be okay. In fact, it was going to be even better than okay – it was going to be like a stroll in the park, but with a late start. Which would be awesome.
Have you ever been really, really wrong about something?
I have.
CHAPTER 4
To begin with, there was no late start. As usual, Mum woke me by standing at my bedroom door (which she’d opened without knocking) and saying, ‘Come on, Lizzie, up you get. It’s time to get ready for school.’
I groaned, rolled over and looked at my clock. It was seven-thirty, the same time I usually woke up! And what did she mean by ‘time to get ready for school’? This gave me some hope. Maybe she and Dad had forgotten about what had happened the day before. Or maybe Mr Hilder had called them after I’d gone to bed and told them that he’d had a big think about things and changed his mind, or that I was only suspended. Or that ‘expelled’ didn’t mean what Mum and Dad thought it meant.
These were promising thoughts. I threw back my covers, and Muppet plopped down off the bed, ready for some breakfast. (He’s always hungry.) I looked around. Ordinarily my school dress would be hanging over the back of my chair, ready for me to pull it on. But not today. Still, no one’s perfect, I thought. Maybe while Mum was busy forgetting that I was going to be homeschooled from now on, she’d also forgotten to put out my uniform.
‘Mum, I don’t have a school dress,’ I called.
‘You don’t need one,’ she called back. ‘You’re doing school here from now on, remember? You get to wear mufti every day.’
I groaned again. So Mr Hilder hadn’t called.
‘But you need to grab some breakfast soon, because we’re going to start at half past eight, just like normal,’ she called.
Was it totally necessary to do everything the same way we did it at school, I wondered. Was she going to mark the roll as well, and make me put my hand up if I had a question?
As I walked into the kitchen in my T-shirt and jeans, I saw that Mum obviously thought it was necessary to do things the same way, because she was wrapping a sandwich in wax paper and putting it into my plastic lunch box next to a muesli bar, one of those tiny packets of chips that has about three chips in it, and a green apple.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked.
‘Nowhere,’ she replied. ‘I’m making your lunch. What would you like in your lunch box for recess? Is a lamington okay?’
It felt to me as if she was taking this way too far. ‘Recess? Really, Mum?’
She nodded. ‘Between maths and writing skills.’ Then she might have smiled, just a tiny bit. It was quite possible that she was actually enjoying this.
‘Are you serious?’ I asked.
‘Absolutely. Lizzie, could you get Richie down out of his highchair for me? I think he’s had enough.’
It turned out that she was completely serious. At exactly half past eight, when Mum called me into the dining room, I stood frozen at the door with my mouth half-open. I was in bigger trouble than I’d ever imagined. She’d set the room up just like a miniature classroom, with my pencil case and books ready and waiting at one end of the table, her books and folders at the other end, and my old chalkboard easel standing there all proud and obvious, with WELCOME LIZZIE written across it in yellow and pink chalk.
‘Have we got a new girl starting today, Miss?’ I asked, once I managed to find my voice.
Mum ignored that. ‘Good morning, Lizzie,’ she said. ‘Take your seat, please.’
‘Are you going to mark the roll?’ I asked.
She didn’t seem to find this very amusing, either. ‘Don’t forget your manners,’ she said as she set Richie up on the floor with some toys. ‘Now, I’d like you to take out your spelling book.’
‘We never do spelling first . . . Okay,’ I agreed when I saw her eyes going all squinty. ‘I’d love to do some spelling.’
‘Without the sarcasm,’ she said.
‘Sorry, Mrs Adams . . . I mean, Mum.’
I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that it was a really miserable morning for me, and because of that it was a really miserable morning for Mum as well. And if that’s what you’re thinking, then you’re wrong, because it wasn’t very long before I had to admit that Mum wasn’t a bad teacher. In fact, she was a very good teacher. Not as good as my third grade teacher Mr Norman, but he could turn his eyelids inside out and talk like Donald Duck, which was always going to be hard to beat. I also heard that he ended up living in a t
ent in the bush somewhere near Byron Bay, and wasn’t allowed to teach any more, but that’s a different story, and not really mine.
Still, even though she didn’t try to do any wacky voices, Mum was pretty good, and by the time ten o’clock rolled around, I’d already learnt a new way to remember the difference between their, there and they’re, and had started to understand how to do long division without getting a headache. Plus I got to do it all with Muppet at my feet, which never happened at Sacred Wimple (except for the time I smuggled him into school in my bag when he was a tiny pup. Maybe I’ll tell you that story another time.).
‘All right, Lizzie, it’s ten o’clock,’ Mum said, standing up and stretching. ‘That means recess for you, and a cup of tea for me.’
‘And me,’ I said. ‘I like tea.’
‘You do? Oh, okay, a cup of tea for you as well. Could you run upstairs and see if your dad wants one?’
‘What do I do after that?’ I asked.
She shrugged. ‘What would you normally do?’
‘I’d play,’ I said, a little crossly, mainly because I was a little cross. ‘I’d play with all my friends. But guess what? I can’t, because –’
‘You could play with Richie.’
‘I’d rather play with proper people.’
Mum sighed. ‘Lizzie, go and ask your dad if he wants a cuppa, then get something to eat from your lunch box and find something to do. It’s recess. Free time. I’ll call you back in half an hour.’
‘Are you going to ring the bell? Sorry, Mum,’ I said when she gave me a scowly look. ‘I’m going now.’
Dad was working hard. He had his little notepad open on his desk, with all the notes he writes about the restaurants he reviews, and he was typing fast. I didn’t want to interrupt him if his thought-train was going, so I just coughed.
He spun straight around in his swivelly office chair. ‘Betty!’ he said. ‘How’s things?’
‘Good.’
‘How’s school?’
‘Good, I guess.’
‘Is your teacher pretty? I’ve heard she’s really pretty!’
‘She’s okay. Are you writing a review?’