We start off with a hymn, ‘O Valiant Heart’, then the wreaths are laid while the bagpipes play. I used to think bagpipes were kind of silly, but here in the half-light, they seem beautiful and eerie. As the service continues, I peer into the crowd, trying to spot Mum. I wish she was here beside me.
As each moment passes, the dark gives way to light and a man raises his bugle and plays the Reveille, announcing the breaking of dawn. After the last note echoes around the stadium, it’s my turn. My heart is beating so fast it’s like a boom box. I reach into my pocket for the poem. By accident, I pull out Riley’s letter. It seems so out of place here in this hushed atmosphere, surrounded by a sea of candles. I stare at it for a moment then stuff it back in my pocket and take out the poem instead.
Up at the podium, I do what Maisie told me to do and take a moment to gather my wits. Unfortunately, my wits are behaving like grasshoppers and have no intention of being gathered. A kookaburra laughs, setting off a whole flock of them. (Even the wildlife is laughing at me.) Still, I have to begin – more than twenty thousand people are waiting. Mum’s out there, as is my class. Dad might even be watching on the net. The thought of Dad makes me straighten up to my full height and I begin.
‘In Flanders fields the poppies blow …’
‘You read beautifully,’ says Mum, coming up to me as soon as the service is over. ‘What a shame Rex couldn’t be here.’
‘And Dad,’ I add.
‘And Dad. He’s very proud of you, you know. He said so.’ For once, her lips don’t disappear as she’s talking about him. ‘So am I.’
Marshall shakes my hand, and Sebastian beams at me. ‘That was cool.’
Then my teacher comes over to tell me that I did a good job, while my classmates mob me like a rock star. ‘Awesome job,’ says one of the drama club kids. ‘You should be an actor!’
‘You were fantastic,’ adds another.
Praise from kids my own age is bizarre but nice. ‘Um, thanks,’ I reply, resisting the urge to bow.
While I’m basking in the afterglow, I spot Riley, Paige and Amal and remember my plan. This, as they say, is the moment I’ve been waiting for. But for some reason, I’m not nearly as fired up as I was an hour ago. Actually, I feel kind of mellow.
As Mum and Marshall get chatting with Ms Adamson, Amal comes over but Riley and Paige hang back. They can’t even bring themselves to congratulate me.
‘Romola, you were great!’ says Amal, smiling. ‘So professional.’
‘Thanks.’
A hand touches my arm. ‘Congratulations, young lady.’ It’s the newsreader who emceed the whole thing. His face is quite craggy up close but he’s got perfect newsreader hair. ‘Superbly read, Miss Metski. Good expression – well done!’ He gives me another pat on the arm and goes.
‘Did you hear that?’ says Amal, nudging me. ‘Hey, maybe you could be a TV journo! Or a war correspondent!’ She holds up her fist as if it’s a microphone. ‘This is Romola Metski reporting to you live from the front-line.’
Riley leans over to Paige and whispers something. Paige gives me a quick glance and laughs. And that’s all it takes – one behind-the-hand whispered remark too many and my temporary state of mellowness transforms into a tsunami of rage. ‘If you’ve got something to say to me, Riley Lewis,’ I spit, ‘at least have the decency to say it to my face!’
She stares at me, stunned.
‘Romola,’ cautions Sebastian.
I ignore him and stride over to where the girls are standing, barely aware he’s followed me. ‘Well, Riley?’
‘If you must know,’ says Riley, tilting up her chin, ‘I was just saying that you better watch out or you’ll get a big head.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Yeah, it is. And you of all people can’t afford any extra height now, can you? Although,’ she adds with a smirk, ‘if your head did get bigger, at least your feet would be in proportion to the rest of your body.’ Paige and Riley snigger.
‘You little …’ Trembling with fury, I thrust my hand into my pocket and grab the letter. In about ten seconds I’m going to get her so badly she won’t know what’s hit her. Forget fairytales and articles in dentists’ waiting rooms, I’ll expose her dirty little secret right now.
As the envelope crackles between my fingers, something catches my eye: an old man who, with the help of his grandson, is bending down to lay a poppy at the Stone of Remembrance, a large rectangular block covered in wreaths and crosses. He places the poppy carefully at the base, then his grandson helps him back up and, together, they stand, heads bowed, remembering the fallen.
They’re not the only ones. Children as young as six are doing the same, as are current serving members, and old diggers, some crying as they recollect those who’ve passed. I’ve always liked that word: ‘re-collect’. It’s as if they’re travelling through their memories like archaeologists recollecting the treasures they’ve lost.
‘Hello, Earth to Romola,’ says Riley, glaring at me. ‘You were saying?’
I return my gaze to Riley and, for the first time, see her for what she is: a girl who’s so desperate to be popular, she’ll hurt anyone to keep her position. I could get her back, sure, but then what? She’d get me back then I’d get her back and we’d be forever at war.
‘Ha!’ sneers Paige. ‘She can’t think of a comeback.’
Amal stands there silently, looking troubled.
‘Well?’ asks Riley. ‘Are you done?’
‘Yes,’ I say, feeling strangely calm. ‘I am done.’
I take out the letter and the friendship band, but instead of showing it to everyone, I pass it directly to Riley. ‘I believe these are yours.’
Frowning, Riley takes them from me. When she sees the envelope, the colour drains from her face.
‘They’re nothing to do with me anymore,’ I say, and I turn to Sebastian. ‘I’m going to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Want to head, Seb?’
‘Sure,’ he replies, grinning at me proudly. ‘But I’ll meet you in there. I need to ask Marshall something first.’
As we start to walk away, Paige mutters, ‘Weeeeeeeeirdo.’
‘Drop it,’ says Riley sharply. ‘Let’s just go. Paige, Amal, come on, let’s find my mum.’
‘Actually,’ says Amal, ‘I might lay a poppy too. Romola, is it okay if I come with you?’
I turn back. Riley and Paige’s jaws drop in unison. My own is in danger of doing the same. ‘Yeah, sure,’ I reply, recovering myself.
‘Great,’ she says. ‘Then let’s go.’
‘Always forgive your enemies – nothing
annoys them so much.’
– Oscar Wilde
It doesn’t take long to find Marshall. He’s on the steps taking photos of the Memorial. Cass, waiting in line to go inside, waves to Romola and Amal, and they join her. I glance down at Rex’s medals pinned to my chest. The weight of them tugs at my lapel. I take a deep breath and go up to Marshall. ‘Are you going to lay a poppy at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier?’
Marshall lowers his camera and looks at me for the first time since my confession. In the half-light, I can’t make out his expression. ‘Do you want to?’ he asks evenly.
‘I promised Rex,’ I say. ‘But … will you come with me?’
He pauses for a moment, then nods his agreement and we walk together towards the entrance. After we each buy a poppy, we join the queue to get into the Memorial. From where we’re standing, you can see all the way down ANZAC Parade. The road stretches down the hill towards the lake like an orange runway. Over the water is Old Parliament House, then, further up the hill, New Parliament House, and beyond that, the Brindabella Mountains.
‘Marshall,’ I say, my mouth completely dry. ‘What I did … I’m sorry.’
He looks over at me. ‘I know you are, mate.’
I watch him through my fringe. ‘I can help you with the lost interviews – do some internet research or something. Only if you want,’ I add hastily.
‘That would be much appreciated.’
He doesn’t sound angry any more and my shoulders drop with relief. ‘I thought revenge was supposed to be sweet.’
Marshall laughs.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘Did you know that’s only the first half of the expression?’ he says. ‘The real quote goes something like: “Revenge is sweet, sweeter than life itself – so say fools”. In other words, revenge isn’t sweet, it’s –’
‘Bitter.’
Marshall looks at me for a moment then lets out a sigh. ‘I’m prepared to make allowances, Seb, but this can’t go on. Your mother and I are getting married. We’d love it – I’d love it – if you could find it in yourself to consider – just consider – the possibility that the four of us could be happy together.’
I stare at the ground, trying to picture Idgie, Mum, Marshall and me – but not Dad – at the dinner table being happy. It’s not easy.
‘I’m not trying to replace your dad. But I’d really like it if I could be someone in your life who looks out for you. Do you think you could cope with that?’
I shrug. Something’s still niggling at me. ‘Why did you tell Mum I was a heavy burden?’
‘When did I say that?’
‘On the phone, after I tried to go to Roxby.’
Marshall pauses for a moment, casting his mind back. ‘Oh, Seb, I didn’t mean you were a heavy burden. Your mum and I were talking about tracking down your dad. I said it would be a heavy burden for you to bear if he said you couldn’t live with him. I was worried about you, that’s all.’
I’m stunned. Marshall doesn’t want to get rid of me!
The crowd shuffles forward.
‘Looks like it’s our turn to go inside,’ he says, holding up his poppy. ‘Still want to do this?’
I pause for a moment. ‘I do.’
After the service is over, the four of us walk back to the car. We’re going to Aspen Island for a picnic brunch before the parade begins. It’s weird to think we’ve been up for hours and it’s only 8.30.
‘Is Amal not coming?’ asks Cass, looking around.
‘She had to go and meet her dad,’ says Romola, ‘but she’s invited me over to her place tomorrow to hang out after school. Is that okay?’
‘Are Riley and Paige going?’ asks Cass.
I recognise that tone of voice. My own mum uses it when she’s trying to act casual but is, in fact, deeply interested.
‘Just Amal,’ says Romola.
‘Well, I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time,’ says Cass, and I can see she’s trying to hide a smile.
We get in the car and drive along the lakeshore, where we find a park. After we’ve carried our picnic stuff across the walkway to the island, Marshall and Cass set up while Romola and I check out the Carillon.
‘That was cool what you did back at the Memorial,’ I say. ‘With Riley, I mean.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I’ll have to call you Saint Romola from now on.’
She laughs. ‘I’m not sure I’m that much of a saint. The whole time we were talking, a part of me was secretly gloating about the fact that she had a humungous cold sore on her lip.’
‘What goes around comes around.’
Romola runs her hand along the white wall of the bell tower. ‘So, you and Marshall have made up?’
I shrug. ‘Starting to.’
‘Think he’ll make an okay stepdad?’
‘Idgie’ll whip him into shape,’ I say, smiling. I put down my backpack and pick up a pebble, skimming it across the water one, two, three, four times. As it sinks into the water, I freeze. ‘Hang on, did you say Riley had a cold sore?’
‘Yeah. So?’
‘Aren’t cold sores sort of like miniature boils?’ I take my bag off my shoulder and pull out my book of myths.
‘Oh no, Seb, not more revenge!’
I shake my head. ‘You don’t understand. Look!’ I flick to the back of the book and point at one of Romola’s revenge entries: ‘Riley Lewis – boils on face.’
Romola stares at it, her eyes widening. ‘You don’t think …?’
‘Justice belongs to those who claim it, but
let the claimant beware lest he create new
injustice by his claim and thus
set the bloody pendulum of revenge
into its inexorable motion.’
– Frank Herbert,
The Dosadi Experiment
I stare at the entry then back at Sebastian, a cold chill travelling through my veins. ‘Didn’t you wish a plague of mozzies on Marshall?’
‘Um … maybe.’
‘It’s just that I saw him scratching his arm earlier.’
Sebastian runs his finger down the page, stopping at Marshall’s name. His face goes as pale as an eggshell. ‘You don’t think? Nah! It’s not possible.’ He begins to laugh in a weird high-pitched way and I join in with my seal-giving-birth/vuvuzela impression. ‘Cold sores and random scratching don’t prove anything.’
‘It’s obviously a coincidence,’ I say.
‘Obviously.’
‘Obviously.’
‘You already said that.’ We stare at the book a little longer. ‘Maybe we should get rid of it anyway – just to be on the safe side?’
‘Sounds good to me,’ I reply. ‘What do you suggest?’
‘Hm,’ says Sebastian. ‘If this were a fantasy novel, the characters would do something to neutralise it.’
I take the book and weigh it in my hands. ‘Burn it?’
‘Yeah, that’d do it.’
‘No, wait,’ I reply. ‘There’s a fire ban on.’
‘Bury it?’
I think of my imaginary cemetery and the ‘Closed for Business’ sign I’ve erected at its gates. ‘Nah, things have a habit of unearthing themselves when you least expect it.’
Sebastian gazes out over the lake. ‘How about we throw it in there?’
We consider the wind-ruffled surface as a potential future home for a book that has caused us so much trouble. I nod. ‘But are you absolutely certain? It is your dad’s. Sure you don’t want to keep it for when he finally sends for you?’
‘That’s not going to happen,’ Sebastian says quietly, his eyes on the water.
‘So you want to forget him?’
‘No, he’s still my dad, but I don’t need a book to remember him by.’
Without speaking, we each take hold of an end of The Encyclopedia of Myths and Legends.
‘I feel like we need to say something profound,’ I suggest.
‘Send it off in style, you mean?’
‘Yeah. Hey, how about I perform a yodelling lament?’
Sebastian turns to me, alarmed.
‘No? Then how about a nose recorder recital?’
He raises an eyebrow.
‘Some other time, perhaps.’
‘Let’s just chuck it in,’ says Sebastian. ‘You ready? On the count of three. One …’ We swing the book. ‘Two …’
‘Three!’ we shout together and fling it into the lake. The book hits the water with a smack, floats for a second, then lists to the side and sinks out of sight. Lost in our own private thoughts, we don’t say anything for a while.
It’s me who breaks the silence. ‘So remember yesterday, you said you did something bad to Marshall? Are you ever going to tell me what it was?’
Sebastian’s cheeks turn red. ‘Can’t,’ he says, dropping his eyes and staring at the ground. ‘It’s too awful.’ He pauses for a moment, then looks up at me. ‘Anyway, it wasn’t just Marshall I did something to …’
‘Who else?’ I ask. ‘And what did you do?’
‘An eye for an eye only ends up
making the whole world blind.’
– Mahatma Gandhi
After I tell Romola about the wedding dress, she stares at me for so long, I begin to wonder if she’ll ever move again. When she comes out of it, she whacks me on the arm. ‘Seb, you idiot! What’d you do that for?’
> ‘Ow! I don’t know, I wasn’t thinking.’
‘You’ve got to get that dress out of the bin!’
‘I know that.’
‘Well, when’s the garbo coming?’
‘Not till one o’clock tomorrow. Don’t worry, we’re leaving first thing in the morning so we’ll be back in plenty of time. Lucky it’s a public holiday today – the garbo normally comes on a Monday.’
Romola stares at me. ‘Seb,’ she says, grabbing my arms, ‘garbos don’t take public holidays.’
‘What?’
‘Didn’t you know that? They still pick up the rubbish same as usual.’
‘What?!’
Romola looks at her watch, then back at me. ‘By my calculations, you’ve got less than four hours.’
‘Hi, this is Sebastian. Could I please speak to Idgie?’
I jig on my toes while Romola stands with her back to the Carillon, nervously drumming her fingers on the wall.
‘Oh, hello, dear,’ says our neighbour, Mrs Lam. ‘Yes, she’s just here. Imogen, sweetheart! It’s your brother on the phone.’
The seconds creep by as I wait for her to answer. I’m so tense, I could scream.
‘Hi, Seb,’ says Idgie. ‘Did you get me a present from the Institute of Sport?’
‘What? No, listen, I need you to do something for me.’
‘Awww, but I wanted you to get me an autograph so I can take it to school. Someone from the Olympic gymnastics team’d be good.’
‘I’ll get you one later,’ I say, ‘but right now, I need you to focus.’
‘Why are you being so bossy?’
‘Listen, Idge, the bins are being collected today.’
‘Yeah, I know. I’m not dumb, I’m putting them out.’
‘I know you’re not dumb. You’re very smart, Idgie, and that’s why I need you to listen carefully.’
‘I am.’
Romola starts pacing back and forth. She peers around the Carillon and turns back, her eyes wide. ‘Marshall’s coming!’ she hisses.
The Beginner's Guide to Revenge Page 9