by J. C. Jones
Matilda looked surprised. ‘Indigo. How did you know?’
‘I saw it sitting on your porch yesterday.’
‘She likes it out there. I think she knows everything that goes on in the street. Mum thinks she knows more than that, that’s how she got her name. Mum named her after indigo people, who have a kind of sixth sense. Dad calls her Bruce after the actor who was in that creepy movie The Sixth Sense – just to annoy Mum.’
‘Does she answer to both names?’ Pip asked.
Matilda giggled. ‘She doesn’t answer to any name or anyone! She thinks all humans are too far beneath her to bother with. Unless she’s hungry or wants to be petted.’ She glanced towards the gates where students were streaming in. ‘Come on or we’ll be late.’
Pip hung back. ‘I can’t go in,’ she said. ‘Not without my uniform.’
Matilda frowned. ‘But you have to. Look, I think I’ve got a white shirt in my locker that you can borrow. You’ll just have to make an excuse for why you’re wearing jeans.’
Pip moved away from the gates, conscious that she was attracting some attention from Spotty Spiro – who, for once and very inconveniently, was on time for school – and some of the others from their class, including Matilda’s best friend, Parminder.
‘You’d better go,’ Pip said urgently. ‘Look, Parminder’s waiting for you.’
‘But it’s spelling!’ Matilda looked aghast. ‘You can’t miss the test unless you have a really good excuse.’
‘It’s not the end of the world,’ Pip said stiffly. ‘I really can’t go in.’ Her eyes strayed to their classroom window, half screened from the street by a hibiscus bush with big orange flowers.
Matilda followed her gaze. ‘I have an idea! Look!’ She opened the leather satchel that she used for a schoolbag and pulled out a pencil and notepad. ‘When everyone goes inside, go and hide behind that bush. You should be able to hear Mr Blair call out the words. Write them on here with your name at the top. I sit right next to that open window, so when Mr Blair’s not looking, I’ll reach my hand out and you can give me the paper so it can be collected with all the others.’
She looked so excited by her idea that it was impossible to shoot it down, especially when Pip really did want to do the test. And, really, it would be almost impossible for anyone to see her from the street.
‘Okay,’ she said, taking the notepad and pencil.
They raced to join the stragglers through the school gates. With a wave, Matilda flew up the steps and inside.
Pip pretended to stop to do up a shoelace, keeping her head down. When everyone else was inside, she ducked to her left and behind the hibiscus. Her heart was racing when she came to a stop under the window of her classroom. From inside, she could hear the hum of voices and the scrape of chairs as Mr Blair took the attendance register.
There were thirty-one kids in the class, and twenty-nine answered their names when called. Apart from Pip, only Brittani Burt was absent, as she often was on test days. Mr Blair sighed so loudly when her name met with silence that even Pip could hear it, along with muffled giggles from the class.
When her own name was read out, she had to bite her lip not to answer. ‘Pip?’ Mr Blair said for a second time, sounding surprised, as she never missed school. ‘Has anyone seen Pip?’
There was silence for a second, then Spiro’s voice spoke. ‘She’s not sick. I saw her this morning. I reckon she was up to something.’
Pip flushed with anger. When she got a hold of him, she would give him a blood nose, the dobber!
‘Thank you, Spiro.’ Mr Blair sounded annoyed. ‘Okay, I hope everyone has been practising their spelling over the weekend. I’ve got the usual twenty and they’re toughies.’
The class groaned but Pip smiled. She sat cross-legged on the ground and wrote her name neatly at the top of the page.
‘The first word is “Accommodation”,’ Mr Blair said, and Pip wrote it down carefully with two c’s and two m’s.
‘Comma-what?’ Pip heard Sally Lynch whisper loudly to the person next to her.
‘Ssshhh! Next word: “Barramundi”.’
The words came at regular intervals and varying degrees of difficulty: Budget, Custodian, Dastardly, Gist, Helix, Ignorant, Jackal, Lightning, Municipal, Mutiny, Narcotics (that got a titter of laughter), Octogenarian, Precipice (‘Pressy-what?’ muttered Sally on cue), Qualify, Recalcitrant, Similar, Tyre.
That was nineteen, Pip thought, and waited with bated breath for the last one, which was often tricky.
‘Xenophobia,’ said Mr Blair.
Spiro groaned. ‘Mr Blair! That’s too hard.’
‘Well, we’ll see, won’t we, Spiro? To help you remember it, tomorrow you will explain to the class what “Xenophobia” means and give us a recent example from the news.’
Spiro groaned again and the class laughed.
Pip wrote the last word, then checked it and all the previous ones.
‘Okay, that’s enough. Put your pencils down now and fold the page so no one can see your spellings. I’ll—’ Mr Blair stopped at a knock on the door. ‘Oh, Ms Mooney. Yes, yes, of course. Ah, Parminder, please collect everyone’s spelling tests and put them on my desk. I’ll just be a minute with the principal. I expect everyone to behave! And that includes you, Spiro.’
Pip heard the classroom door close and a second later Matilda’s hand snuck out the window. Quickly Pip folded her page, cautiously stood up and pushed it into her hand. Then she sat down, back to the wall, and took a deep breath. They’d done it! It was often a few days before they got the results and by then hopefully she’d be back at school and Mr Blair would have forgotten she’d been absent today.
Just as she was thinking of leaving, she heard the door open again and Mr Blair said, sounding upset, ‘Spiro, please go to Ms Mooney’s office.’
‘But, sir! I haven’t done anything!’ Spiro protested.
‘I didn’t say you had,’ Mr Blair answered. ‘You’re not in any trouble. Ms Mooney needs your help with something.’
Pip heard the scuff of a chair and Spiro’s muffled mutters of annoyance.
‘Okay, thank you, Parminder. Now, I’m sure you’re all desperate to get the results, so I’ll try to mark them before . . .’ Mr Blair’s voice tailed off and Pip could hear him shuffling papers. ‘Pip Sullivan,’ he murmured. ‘How the devil . . .?’
Brisk footsteps came across the floor towards the window and in a panic Pip flattened herself against the wall beneath the window ledge. She closed her eyes and held her breath. She knew he was above her. She could hear him breathing.
Then he said quietly, ‘Is there something you want to tell me, Matilda?’
‘No,’ Matilda squeaked, although it came out as a question rather than an answer.
Mr Blair was quiet for a moment. Then he said, ‘All right, class. Get out your copies of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and we’ll discuss Chapter Five.’
Pip could hear the rustle of bags and books. She would have got her library book from her bag, but he was still close to the window as he spoke and she didn’t dare move.
A second later she heard the scratching of a pen. A piece of paper floated to the ground beside her.
Mr Blair’s footsteps retreated across the room and she picked up the sheet of paper. In one part of her mind, she could hear her teacher asking Niall Donoghue to summarise Chapter Five. She had to take her chance and go now! Mr Blair was her favourite teacher but she knew he would have no choice but to call in the welfare if he knew she was on the run.
Taking a deep breath, Pip slid the pad and pencil inside her bag, and peered out from beneath the window ledge. She scanned the playground. Class wouldn’t break for nearly an hour and no one was in sight. Taking her time, she walked calmly along the path towards the gates and slipped through them. Then she took the first right and second left. No one stopped her. No one even looked at her.
At an empty bus stop, she sat on the bench and unfolded the piece of paper. It was her
spelling test.
On it, Mr Blair had written: ‘20/20. Excellent work as usual, Pip. If you want to talk, I will be at The Bean Café on Little High Street at 5 p.m. today. Take care. Mr Blair.’
Peeing and Other Problems
Being a vagrant meant having to think differently about things you took for granted when you had a home and school to go to, as Pip was starting to realise. Even something as simple as peeing had to be planned in advance.
After yesterday, she didn’t dare go to Fast Eddie’s. In the end, because she was busting and it was the nearest place she could think of, she snuck into the town hall. Or at least she tried to sneak in.
An older lady with tightly curled hair spotted her as she passed the desk. ‘Shouldn’t you be in school, young man?’
Pip opened her mouth to tell the busybody she was a girl and then changed her mind. If anyone came looking for a runaway girl, the woman wouldn’t connect her with a scruffy-looking boy.
She smiled politely, trying not to cross her legs. ‘My civics teacher has told us to use our initiative to find out about local government.’ It was true, although Mrs Ricci hadn’t said they were allowed to wag school in order to do their research.
The lady’s fierce expression melted in an instant. ‘What a good idea!’ she beamed. ‘Most students aren’t interested enough to come and visit us personally. They just look on the interweb.’
‘Internet,’ Pip said politely.
The woman looked exasperated. ‘Internet. They keep telling me I have to learn how to use it but I’ve told them you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.’ She huffed. ‘I’ve worked here for thirty-eight years and now they say there are new policies and procedures I have to follow. Ridiculous! When I ask them where these new policies and procedures are, do you know what they say?’
Pip shook her head. She was nearly dancing now with the urge to pee.
‘On the web! What good is that to me?’
‘It isn’t very helpful,’ Pip agreed. She glanced around and spotted the toilets. ‘Um, I’ll be back in a minute.’
When she came out, the woman was gone, replaced by a young guy with red hair gelled into a spike and a ring through his nose.
‘Yeah?’ he said, nodding his head rhythmically. He had ear buds in and Pip could hear the tinny beat of his music.
‘I’m looking for the lady who was here a minute ago?’
‘What?’ said the man, detaching the ear plug from his right ear.
‘I’d like to speak to the lady who was here before you, please.’
His bored look turned into a scowl. ‘Whatcha want her for?’
‘My civics project,’ Pip said. As she was here, she might as well make use of her time.
‘I can help you. Why would you think I can’t help you?’
‘Um, well—’
‘Everyone wants Mrs Helen Bloody Gordon.’ Putting on a fake voice, he said, ‘“But she’s soooo good with customers! ” Well, I’d be good with customers if someone showed me, wouldn’t I?’
Pip nodded. ‘It’s very hard to do something when you don’t know how.’ A brainwave struck as she watched him deftly change the track on his iPod. ‘You know, I think Mrs Gordon would be very happy to show you how to help customers if you could help her learn how to use the internet.’
He frowned at the next track and chose another. ‘Everybody knows how to use the internet, man!’
‘Mrs Gordon doesn’t. Well, not properly. She needs someone to help her find things.’
‘Yeah?’ This time he looked up.
Pip nodded.
The scowl lifted. ‘Can’t believe there’s any dinosaurs left who aren’t web-savvy, but I’ll ask her when she takes over here at lunchtime. If she bites my head off, I’ll blame you, man.’
‘No problem,’ Pip said. ‘Um, now about my project . . .’
‘Right,’ the guy said enthusiastically. ‘We’ve got a brochure here about what the council does. Stuff like garbage collection, road repairs, parking meters, planning permits and the rest. And you can find more info at the library or online.’
‘Thanks.’ Pip took the brochure and flicked through it. ‘What about other stuff?’
‘Like what?’
‘Like . . .’ Pip scrambled mentally for something that might actually be useful. ‘What happens to kids who haven’t got anywhere to live?’
‘Oh well, that’s the state government, not local. Community Services. Hang on.’ He tapped a few keys on his computer and a printer on the desk spewed out a page. He handed it to Pip. ‘That’s the department you need to talk to, with their phone number.’
Pip took it. In big bold letters at the top it said CHILD PROTECTION.
‘Thank you.’ She managed a small smile and put the information in her bag.
‘Wait!’ said the man, brandishing a piece of fabric. ‘Your bag’s about to split. Here’s one with the council number. You can call me anytime between eight-thirty and five. Ask for Smurf.’
Pip fingered the small supply of cash in her pocket. She couldn’t really afford a fancy new bag. ‘Does it cost a lot?’
‘It’s free!’
‘Wow! Thanks, Smurf.’ Pip took it and tipped all her stuff in as she walked to the exit. At the doors, she turned and said, ‘You know, you’re already very good with customers. With Mrs Gordon’s help, you’ll be ace.’
She waved goodbye and hopped down the steps, swinging her smart new bag. Then she hugged it close. She’d never had a brand-new bag of her own.
The clock tower chimed eleven. It was a bit early for lunch but with only an orange for breakfast, Pip was starving. Food – that was her next problem. All the burger, fried chicken and pizza places were risky for her because they were where the older kids hung out and she wanted to avoid any more hassle. But anywhere else, she’d stand out.
After giving it some thought, Pip decided on the food hall at the local mall. Mid-morning it would be reasonably busy, so it was unlikely anyone would pay her any attention. Then, as soon as she had fed her belly, she had to find a phone so she could ring the hospital and find out how Sully was today. After that, she needed to decide what to do about Mr Blair and read up on the horses racing tomorrow. It was going to be a very full afternoon. Anyone who thought homeless people were idle had to be kidding!
By mid-afternoon, Pip had accomplished pretty much everything she had planned to do. She had lunched on pasta salad, which had been marked down, and orange juice. She had even bought soup for dinner tonight, which she could heat up easily in the microwave at Elliott Street.
When she had phoned the hospital from a phone booth in the mall, Pip had spoken to three different people before learning that Sully was awake and grumpy and having some problems moving his left arm.
‘Is it broken?’ she had asked, thinking of Felix.
‘Why no,’ the nurse had said. ‘It’s paralysed. Very common in stroke patients.’
‘Is he going to die?’ she blurted.
‘Oh well. It’s early days.’ The nurse had sounded flustered. ‘He’s not very strong. If he does recover he will probably need to go to rehab for a few days when he leaves hospital. The doctor can go through that with you when you next visit. Sorry, but I have to go now.’
Pip had put the receiver down slowly. Rehab! She was pretty sure that was where famous people went, which meant it was probably very expensive. The twenty-nine dollars and change left in her pocket would not be anywhere near enough, she was dead certain of that, and Sully always claimed he ‘never had a brass razoo’, which meant he was poor.
Now, as she walked down the street, all she could think about was where on earth they were going to get the money from.
As she passed a shop selling fruit and vegetables, she noticed an advertisement in the window that said ‘HELP WANTED. GOOD PAY. ENQUIRE INSIDE’. But she reckoned they would want a grown-up, and in any case Sully would not approve of anything to do with broccoli.
She had heard that some kids delivered
newspapers. Maybe she could do that. But when she asked at the newsagency, a man said they didn’t take kids under fourteen. She didn’t think Sully could wait four years for rehab.
Disappointed, Pip was about to turn away when she noticed the scratchie cards at the counter.
‘I’ll have one,’ she said to the newsagent.
When she’d paid for it, she held it tightly as she walked out of the shop.
‘Please, please, let me win,’ she muttered to herself as she found a fifty-cent coin in her pocket and began to rub at the card. She needed three of the same picture to win, and when she saw she had two monkeys, she thought it was going to be her lucky day.
But then the last picture turned out to be a giraffe, and she hadn’t won anything at all. Worse! She was now two dollars poorer!
Annoyed with herself, Pip started the walk back to Elliott Street. There was nothing clever about scratchies, she thought. Not like horse racing.
The races! If she couldn’t make money for Sully’s rehab any other way, maybe she would have to go to the racetrack, although she’d never been on her own before. Tall Poppy was racing mid-week at Rosehill Gardens. Trouble was, without Sully there was no way Pip would be allowed inside to watch the race, let alone place a bet. She needed to figure out a way to get in.
She’d bought a paper in the supermarket and spent the afternoon reading the racing pages and deciding on the horses to back. Getting to the racecourse meant taking public transport, so she’d have little more than twenty dollars left for betting. She was going to have to be very, very smart.
Now it was a quarter to five and if she was going to meet Mr Blair, she would have to make a move. Pip got up from the spot on the grassy lawn of the park where she’d spent the afternoon, and brushed herself down. She didn’t want to be late. Mr Blair frowned on unpunctuality.
Suddenly it struck her that she didn’t have to go. At school, Mr Blair was the boss, no doubt about it. But this wasn’t school. This was . . . what?
Pip thought about it as she slowly picked up her bag. This was real life – not school life, controlled by timetables and bells and rules. It was about having no regular place to pee, avoiding hassle from older kids and finding money for Sully’s rehab. It was about trying to work stuff out as she went along, and hoping she made the right choices.