‘My lips are sparkling clean. I haven’t had action for a while,’ Kristy giggles. ‘Just wait for the summer, though, it’s gonna be massive. My mouth will be full of boy germs.’
I make a mental note to up my makeup routine. And buy some better gloss. Pronto. I know these types from my last school; superficial, bitchy, but still … the appeal of popularity is pulling at me like a riptide. Who says this can’t be a new chapter in my social life? Girlfriends, boys … I can do it.
‘Hey, Oliver,’ Marissa calls out, flicking her hair again as she flutters her eyelashes.
It’s the green-eyed boy with maple-syrup hair. He turns and says ‘hey’ but doesn’t stop.
Jules notices me watching and whispers to Marissa. I quickly pretend to look for something in my bag.
‘The dorky new girl next to nerdie birdie?’ Marissa says, not whispering at all. ‘No way!’
What makes me so dorky so soon? I’m already rejected and haven’t said a single word. And calling Lucy a nerdie birdie? That’s mean. I swallow the embarrassment and follow them outside, keeping my distance. My eyes sting as I watch them claim the centre of the schoolyard.
Hundreds of blue pants and skirts pattern the grey asphalt like spots on a blue-ringed octopus. I look for Lucy among them; I’d take anyone now, even a nerd for a friend. I can’t see her. My stomach clenches but I refuse to hide in the toilet stalls like a scared little girl.
Zig-zagging between the groups with my head down low, I arrive at a towering fig tree where year twelves mingle. I force myself to eat lunch – all alone.
My phone beeps and I’m relieved to have a distraction. But it’s only Paula. ‘How’s your day, sweetie? I’ll pick you up and you can tell me all about it.’ she writes, ‘over a nice cup of tea.’
Hanging with Paula? I may have no friends and be a reject, but no thanks. I flick her one back, ‘Awesome. No need, I’ll find the bus.’ I don’t need another mother.
To make myself look busy, I open Franimals to check if anyone new has commented on my last blog.
Yes, someone has posted a smiley face. That makes four comments; not bad. I wrote about becoming nearly vegan. It’s hard to do it perfectly and you feel like a bit of a freak if you try. Australia is a tricky place, one of the highest meat-eating countries in the world. But I told them how I eat almonds and lentils, and quinoa was the superfood of the Incas and kale has more iron than beef. Pity, I hate kale. Mum and I tried a lot of dessert recipes before I picked one to recommend. We got hooked. Every Sunday was officially vegan pancakes.
I scan the pics. A post of a cute piglet catches my eye. Worldwide consumption of pork, beef, poultry and other livestock products expected to double by 2020. Next is a short clip of orphaned orangutans in Indonesia and then a pic of lion cubs in Africa. Is it too weird to message WildRider again so soon? I tag him anyway.
He messages back immediately, ‘Diane Fossey’s awesome, and did you watch Gorillas in the Mist? A must-see. There’s also Jane Goodall – check this out,’ he links me to a video.
I watch the clip and we message back and forth. I don’t tell him that I know and love Jane Goodall and have already seen it, like, a million times. She’s my idol. Dr Goodall discovered that chimps use tools and lived with them for years in the forest. How brave. Now she’s like a superstar animal activist, with an international organisation; she’s basically the Beyoncé of the environment. But getting back to the point, WildRider exists in real life, but I can’t imagine it. Or him. What does he look like? I’m thinking of asking where he lives so we can meet one day, but I don’t have the guts.
A few older girls stare at me like I’m in their territory. I put my phone in my pocket, stuff the rest of the sandwich in my mouth and take a walk. I pass the art room, sports field, and a large shed with woodwork equipment. Inside I glimpse the green-eyed boy bent over a piece of wood, screwdriver in hand.
‘Hey, get over here,’ someone calls out causing him to look up. Luckily he can’t see me. I spot, behind the shed, a boy signalling him and see a faint glow of a cigarette in his hand. Next to him are Marissa and Kristy. I continue exploring. Alongside is a clearing with a bunch of saplings in small plastic pots.
Back in class, I ask Lucy about the plants.
‘Landcare. It’s on at lunch, twice a week,’ she says, opening her geography book. ‘We pull out all the bad weeds and replant the trees that were here before. That way the birds have a place to roost. Want to join? I can show you where to sign up.’
If I want popularity, I can’t be seen hanging with Lucy. Mum always said social status wasn’t important. But she didn’t understand how excruciating it is being an outcast. Like when my best friend Lizzy left me for Alison.
But getting accepted may take a while. And I can’t spend the rest of the year eating lunch alone under a tree. Landcare could be a good time-filler.
‘I’ll find the board later,’ I smile.
‘Phones off,’ Mr Peterson enters, ‘and listen up. Our new girl, Sky, is going to tell us a little about herself and life in the big city, right?’ he looks at me eagerly.
My cheeks grow hot; a sure sign my face has turned into a beetroot. Quickly I smooth the frizzy hair at my temples and make sure my skirt hasn’t hiked up my bum. I can hear Marissa and Kristy whispering. I make my way between the tables to the front. Time feels like it’s slowed and I will my legs to walk normally.
Suddenly I see myself from above. I’m a Hollywood actress and this is my turning point, my moment. Standing bravely in front of a crowd, looking beautiful and telling my truth. Applause, hugs and tears. Green-eyed boy falls in love.
An elastic band hits me on the ear and I’m back. Laughter erupts from the three girls as a boy calls out ‘Hey, Birdie!’ flicking another one at Lucy. I recognise him as the boy smoking behind the shed.
‘That’s warning number two, Andrew,’ Mr Peterson says, ‘Shhh.’ He nods for me to begin.
‘I lived in Sydney,’ I start, ‘a population of about 4.6 million. My suburb was pretty high density, but in a great spot on the train line and about half an hour’s bus ride to the beach and CBD.’
This is going well so far. Green-eyes is watching intently.
‘… And multicultural. Mostly people live in apartments but there’s a lot of outdoor public space, like parks and skateboard parks and great markets for fresh food.’
I’m on a roll.
‘Actually,’ my eyes brighten, ‘there’s this amazing South American food truck I used to go to every Saturday, with the best vegan tacos and …’
‘Tree hugger!’ the rubber-band boy says triggering some laughs.
Oh no. Wrong crowd. These kids probably come from farms and the last thing they would be impressed about is veggie food. Will I have to give up being vegan to fit in here?
Change the subject, quick. ‘Anyway. My school was all concrete, not like this,’ I sweep my hand around to show up West Creek’s pretty grounds.
‘And much bigger. We had three classes in every year, each with about thirty-five kids.’
I stop to look at Mr Peterson; can I finish now?
‘And why did you move to our humble town of West Creek, Sky, does your dad work in the agricultural sector?’ he prompts.
‘Oh, he’s not around.’ Despite the awkwardness, I’m used to that question and hoping he’ll stop there.
‘Sorry,’ he says, ‘your mum and you moved here and …’ he leaves the sentence hanging.
‘Ummm,’ I stare at him, like a wallaby in headlights. How can I get out of this one?
‘Like …’ I wrack my brain, ‘my mum worked,’ I freeze. ‘I mean, she works at a bakery.’ I stop.
He misses the change in tense. ‘And she found work at our very own “Bake House”?’ he asks, looking at me and then at the class, trying his best to help me along. But it’s all wrong.
‘No,’ I say. Another brain freeze.
He lowers his eyebrows, confused. More giggles from the back.
‘Sky?’ he says. I can’t think of a single thing to say to get me out of this.
I look at him and croak, ‘She died.’ It feels like there are stones in my throat.
I imagine myself launching on a rocket into space.
‘I’m so sorry, Sky,’ Mr Peterson says. ‘I feel terrible, absolutely horrible, yes … the file,’ he pauses, ‘… and I … Oh dear. I am sorry.’
The pain travels from my throat to my stomach, which hurts like it’s been punched.
The class is eerily silent.
‘We’re here to support you, right everyone?’
Everything blurs after that and I find myself back in my seat, Mr Peterson whispering, ‘I should never have put you in front of everyone without checking first.’
I excuse myself to go to the toilet. Sitting in a stall, I scrunch my eyes shut. I can’t cry, not for Mum, not for me.
I run through my current status: new girl, friendless, alone. Any chance of fitting in, ruined.
I do the calculations – probability of popularity. Percentage of success? A big fat zero.
Chapter 5
‘On the way to the shops can we stop by at that farm, the one that smells bad?’ I ask Paula as we walk out the front door towards the car. ‘I’m doing an assignment and want to check it out.’
I’ve been thinking of how to make my project extraordinary and that means not relying on info from the internet, but seeing things with my own eyes.
The last few days at school have been lonely and awkward. I’ve gotten to know the library and made friends with the sprawling fig tree in the yard, but at least no one has mentioned my horrible speech or flicked an elastic band at me. Yet. They’ve mostly avoided me. I’m like a bad smell. So I’m focusing on my work until the winds change. I just have to be patient; that’s what I’m trying to tell myself anyway.
‘Nobody’s allowed in,’ Paula says, ‘There’s a huge sign and a barbed wire fence. Biosecurity or something.’
‘Mum would have found a way in,’ I say, adding, ‘Melody does stuff like this all the time.’
Paula winces a little at the sound of Melody’s name. And I wonder – what she has against her anyway?
I think of Mum and Melody and how they once joined a sit-in; a peaceful protest where you sit down and don’t move, Gandhi style. They guarded a hundred-year-old tree against loggers with chainsaws. Mum said the men screamed at them and swore, but they didn’t budge until the police came. Now that’s brave. I wonder when Melody’s going to visit like she promised?
Paula’s face falls, she pauses and sighs, ‘Sorry, sweetie.’
‘But can’t we stop for a sec to see the chickens?’ I ask. Nothing is going my way this week – an understatement. I have to get my driver’s licence. Maybe David can give me lessons. And I need money for a car. Or maybe a motorbike, cheaper. Hah! A tattoo and motorbike; that will piss Paula off.
‘It’s on the way to town. We’ll drive past,’ Paula says, ending the conversation. Paula is clearly not like Mum. And that makes me even angrier.
‘Do you have your shopping list?’ she asks.
I pull out a piece of paper, ‘Art smock, A2 sketchpad, long white socks, ten lined exercise books, four-ringed folders, contact plastic …’ I read on.
‘Let’s get going then,’ Paula says, looking me up and down, adding, ‘But I think you should get changed first.’ She raises one eyebrow and touches the gaping hole in my sleeve.
I’m wearing tatty jeans and Mum’s long-sleeved T-shirt. Again.
‘No way,’ I touch the soft cotton. ‘I like this top.’
‘We may be in the country,’ Paula says curtly, ‘but people have manners and dress appropriately. Sky, please change.’
‘Whatever, fine.’ I can’t be bothered fighting. I slam my bedroom door, even though she probably can’t hear, and change into a flowery singlet and cardigan. My hair’s out of control so I sweep it into a high ponytail, like that girl Marissa, and smooth it down with some warm water. Need hair gel, new mascara and a brighter gloss. But not today. I dab extra powder on my pimple.
In the car, I put on my earphones but Paula says, ‘Why don’t we have a chat instead?’ I take out my earphones, despite her nagging questions and keep my answers to yes, I guess, no, maybe, whatever. Two words or less.
A few minutes later she points at a gravel road, and a sign that reads, ‘Restricted area, no trespassing’. ‘Don’t ever wander in there by yourself,’ she tells me.
‘I won’t, but why?’
‘It could get us in trouble with the owners; I know them,’ she says. ‘Come to think of it, the daughter … Shit!’
The next thing I know Paula’s arm is across my chest and the car is swerving.
The woman is crazy and seriously needs driving lessons.
‘Are you okay?’ she asks, pulling to the side of the road and turning the engine off.
‘What happened?’ I ask. Paula points to the middle of the road where a brown dog is standing.
‘One lucky dog,’ Paula says opening the door. ‘Saw it at the last second.’
I jump out of the car and run towards it. Paula is shouting out, ‘Careful!’ behind me.
The dog is shivering, tail between her legs, but with some gentle talking and beckoning, I bring her to the side of the road. I sit down beside the dog, thorny grass pricking my bum, and gently stroke the dog’s head. She looks at me, her eyes all sad and pleading. Paula tells me to check the dog’s neck for identification. It is a female dog and she doesn’t have a collar, let alone a tag.
‘Looks abandoned,’ Paula points at her bony ribs and dirt-encrusted fur. ‘She’s some kind of kelpie and staffy cross. They’re a dime a dozen round these parts.’
‘Can we keep her?’ I ask. If Paula really cared about me, she’d say yes.
‘Sweetie, dogs are expensive,’ she shakes her head. ‘And I was bitten years ago and I’m a bit nervous of dogs.’
‘But she’ll die out here,’ I say, appealing to her compassion. ‘Please?’ I say, sweet as a lollipop. ‘We can’t leave her alone.’
Paula sighs. ‘We’ll take her to the vet for a check-up, some water and food, and then if she has no microchip, the clinic can put up a sign for adoption.’
Paula finds an old towel and puts it on the back seat and the dog jumps in. I take a quick pic and post it to my Instagram with the comment ‘how could anyone abandon such a cutie? She needs a home, wish I could keep her.’ Then I hashtag #adoptdontshop, and moments later WildRider comments with an ‘awesome’. At least I have one friend, even if it’s virtual.
The town centre isn’t bad. It’s paved with tiles, lined with potted red grevilleas, dotted with benches and starts with a fish and chip shop and ends with the compulsory corner pub and beer garden.
We make our way towards the vet. The dog is leashed with a piece of frayed rope Paula found next to a carpark garbage bin. She pulls, sniffs at every tree, pees at least ten times and then suddenly lurches forward so hard I let go.
She zooms towards a woman holding a small dog dressed in what looks like a ballet tutu.
‘Over here,’ I shout to Paula as I grab the dog's rope and try to pull her back to my side.
But she’s tricky and with one mastermind move, she wriggles her neck out of the rope and jumps, with her big dirty paws, onto the woman’s pristine white pants.
‘Get off!’ shrieks the woman. ‘Marissa, help me!’
It’s the girl with the high ponytail who didn’t want to know me at school. She’s wearing a glam silver crop top. Perfect boobs. Flat stomach. Forget Kim Kardashian, this is her hot model sister Kylie, just blonde. She turns, flicking her long hair, which streams down her back. The movement scares the dog, who runs back towards me, cowering with her tail between her legs.
Uh oh.
Chapter 6
‘Hello, Paula,’ says Marissa’s mother, handing the small tutu-wearing dog to Marissa while attempting to brush the dirt off her pants. She’s a lean, p
etite woman with perfect posture and streaked, straight blonde hair that is cut along the sharp line of her jaw.
‘Lorraine,’ Paula says as I get the dog back onto the leash. ‘So sorry about that. It’s lovely to see you.’
‘It’s been a while. And this must be …?’ Lorraine looks at me questioningly.
‘Sky Lawson,’ I say, and Lorraine raises her over-plucked brows to study me.
‘Lawson. You’re the new girl in Marissa’s class.’ she says with unmasked pity. ‘I read all about your tragic loss,’ she shakes her head briskly as if to rid herself of cobwebs.
Had Marissa talked about me? How embarrassing.
‘In Mr Peterson's email this week. I had no idea she was yours, Paula, it—’
‘What email?’ Paula and I interrupt at the same time.
‘Just a notification for the class parents about Sky’s … situation,’ she pulls her phone out of a tan leather clutch bag with large gold buckles and starts searching for the email. ‘Here it is. I assured Mr Peterson, in my role as president of the P&C that I would take personal responsibility to ensure Sky is welcomed into our school. So, a new teenage daughter? That’s a handful. Don’t worry, I have plenty of advice to share, starting with—’
‘We’re doing just fine, thanks,’ Paula looks at me, frowning. ‘Aren’t we?’
I nod enthusiastically, feeling like we’re on the same team for the first time, Paula and me. We are no one’s business.
‘Yes, of course you are. You’re welcome on the P&C, Paula, now you’re in the club. There’s always a glass of chardonnay to keep us going, really; it’s like a support group for mothers of these big monsters,’ she looks at Marissa, pursing her lips. ‘I’ll send you the details. Oh, Sydney, what a treat,’ Lorraine continues, ‘I was there regularly when Marissa was at boarding school and now we go regularly for Marissa’s shoots, don’t we, darling?’ she turns sweetly to Marissa.
Shoots? Boarding school? So, Marissa’s lived in Sydney too. Wonder which school. Must have been a posh one on the hill. Acres of green lawns and harbour views. Maybe Marissa will think I’m cooler now, us both having lived in the big city.
Sky Page 3