by Wendy Harmer
'I'm not keen on her working,' says Dad sternly. 'Not at her age and without a phone, catching buses all over the place. I'm not happy with that. Maybe for her birthday.'
I gasp at this. My birthday? That's months away! I clamp my hand over my mouth to stop from screaming.
'For Christmas. We'll give her one for Christmas. I should get some cash in by then. I've got a couple of big weddings on . . .'
'Yeah, OK, for Christmas. Although she's not going to be happy.'
'She's got to learn the lesson, Rick. But it's going to be a damned pain, she's hard enough to track down as it is.'
'She'll just have to do things the old-fashioned way and come home when she's told. Bloody hell, when I was her age there were no such things as mobile . . .'
I turn away and trudge back up the hall. I've already heard Parts I and II of that particular speech and I'm not keen for Part III.
Looking at my calendar now I see that today is the ninth of October and there are seventy-seven days until Christmas. That's seventy-seven whole days – a quick calculation comes up with more than 100,000 minutes! This means I will be uncontactable for the end of school, the beginning of the holidays, the start of summer and all the Christmas parties. (How will Santa find me? Hah!)
But more than that, the Oldcastle High combined Years Eight, Nine and Ten dance is coming up in about ten days. How am I supposed to get myself organised without a mobile?
Hasn't anyone remembered (hello?) that we don't have a home phone! Dad got rid of the landline earlier this year when he looked at the mobile bills coming in and said we couldn't afford the landline as well.
Maybe I should start burning a fire here on the roof of the Palace so I can send smoke signals to my friends? Train a flock of carrier pigeons? Spell out: Meet you at 10 at the mall in rocks on the front lawn?
I eye2eye Carmelita and tell her the whole, sad story. She writes back: OMG! What are you going to do about the pics? I reply that I have no idea.
I google 'unauthorised use of photos on the net' and come up with 3,120,000 mentions.
There's no easy way to stop Jai!
I go to a legal aid website and discover that because Bianca took the photos, she owns the copyright and can basically do what she likes with them. How can this be right?
There are apparently four ways I can stop Jai:
1. Get legal advice for defamation action.
I have to prove that by publishing the photos, Jai is exposing me to 'hatred, contempt or ridicule' and causing me 'to be shunned or avoided'. Well, I should have a pretty good case – except that around Oldcastle High most people will be thrilled that Jai's won free pizzas and think the pics are funny! Also legal advice costs mega $$$.
2. Investigate Trade Practices Act.
Unfortunately I have to prove that the use of my image will 'mislead or deceive consumers'. Forget this one.
3. Get legal advice for 'passing off'.
This is going to be hard too. I have to prove that the pics will damage my business reputation – a reputation which I, of course, do not have. I note that it says this law is 'of limited use' to the 'average person in the street'. That, sadly, is me. Again, no use. (Also, see above re: $$$.)
4. Check out 'invasion of privacy'.
'There is no general right of privacy in Australia.' Whaaa . . .? I'll have to wait until I'm eighteen and run for Parliament and get the laws changed. In the meantime it looks like, legally, I just have to suck it up.
So, all this leaves me with no option but to insist that Bianca tell Jai to take the pics down, or else!
Or else . . .?
And, thinking about what this 'or else' could be, I go to bed and try to get some sleep.
Monday. 2 am. PM.
I wake up with a list of 'or elses', including: Jai's murder, Bianca's assassination, or sweet, sweet revenge. I still have my camera, after all, and getting totally embarrassing photos of Jai shouldn't be that hard. (Given that if he's awake and breathing, he's embarrassing.) Then I can put them up on my FacePlace mirror and invite the world to have a look! I stash my camera in my schoolbag and go back to bed, kiss my stuffed pink pig and dream of Will.
Monday morning.
Two days PM.
I got to school late because I usually set the alarm on my phone. I forgot I didn't have it, totally slept in and missed the bus.
I look across the maths classroom now and one of Jai's stupid mates sticks his tongue out at me and goes, 'Ow ow ow, hot, hot', impersonating me with a chilli prawn on my tongue. Right! That does it! If one more person mimes me singing into a hairbrush or with my hair over my face and growling like a Yeti or 'smoking' a pen, I am going to lose it! It seems like the whole of Year Nine has checked out Jai's FacePlace.
This sucks, big-time!
I'm staring across at Bianca and trying to give her the evil eye. But this is impossible because today her hair is sort of weirdly teased up at the back like a pot scourer, and the front is hanging down, parted in the middle like a yellow shower curtain and I can't see her eyes. She must know that I am still furious with her. The last time we spoke I slammed Nan's phone down in her ear. She turns, parts her hair a bit and smiles at me. I glare back. By rights, I should never speak to her again.
Except I am reminded of a saying my dad always quotes: 'Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.' Some old Chinese warrior said it, apparently. (Although what use this is in Dad's work at Ascot Couriers is a mystery. Shouldn't he be quoting Winston Churchill: 'We shall fight on the beaches'? Dad's always coming home with his trousers torn by this huge cross-breed dog in a house at Gummy Beach.)
So the line from the old Chinese guy means that I should pretend nothing's happened and be really friendly with Bianca. This will put me in a better position to get some truly hideous pics of Jai. I reach down and pat my school bag. The camera's still there, charged and ready to go.
As I'm thinking about all this, I see a pile of golden curls bob past the window on its way to the sports ground. It's Will, heading for the oval with his mob from Year Ten.
I'll catch him under the jacaranda tree near the back fence at lunch. That's where he goes to chill. Maybe he'll have some ideas for incriminating photographs. If I could possibly get a shot of Jai renting the Mamma Mia! DVD his reputation would be toast.
The bell rings and I head for the door. Bianca's peering at me through her hair curtain and shuffling closer. She's looking a bit guilty, which is a start, I suppose. If she was a BF worthy of the title, she would have demanded Jai take down the photos straight away. I am just about to tell her this when I remember the line about keeping your enemies closer.
I give her a kiss and compliment her on her hair. (Liar!)
'Hey, Jell . . . er . . . I mean, Elly. Love your plaits,' Bianca beams.
I've worn plaits today because I have decided to mount a one-woman campaign to make them fashionable again. With my tanned skin and long brown hair, I look a bit Native American, which is pretty 'on trend' I reckon.
I can't help noticing that Bianca's hair has a slight greenish tinge. She's been spending too much time in her swimming pool again. Her dad's a maniac with the chlorine. He doesn't get the leaves and gunk out, just pours more and more stuff in it till you can taste it. On a hot day it feels like you're swimming in tom yum soup. The chlorine makes the peroxide streaks in Bianca's hair turn sort of mouldy. Erk!
I don't say anything about this, of course, and then, just as I am following Bianca down the stairs, Jai jumps in between us.
'We're all going to Palatial Pizzas for our first freebie, you wanna come, Bianca?' he asks. His beady eyes are like two black olive pips. Up close I can see his flaky skin and yellow pimples. He's got a face like a barbecue special, with extra cheese. But then, Bianca must be a meat-lover, 'cos she just nods and giggles.
'So, um, you want to come, Elly?' Bianca asks. 'After all, it's 'cos of you that we . . . er . . .'
Bianca runs out of things to say here. After all, what
can she say? It's 'cos of your humiliation that we can all go and stuff our faces? A free thin-and-crispy crust means more to me than our entire friendship?
I make some pathetic excuse about having to meet Tilly and then just walk away. I could go and try to get some ugly shots of Jai feeding his face, but now's not the time. He'd know what I was up to. Besides, I don't think I could manage to swallow one bite if I had to look at him. (BTW, up close he smells like an anchovy. Eeeyew!)
'So, I'll save you a piece!' Bianca calls after me.
Yeah, Bianca! Like a piece of cold pizza will somehow make up for all the mortification your jerk boyfriend has caused me! I can feel tears coming and I escape into the toilets so no-one can see. I'm looking in the mirror and wiping my eyes with a scrap of paper towel when one of the girls from Year Ten starts scoping me out.
'Hey, Pickering! Didn't recognise you without that shower cap on your head,' says the blob with mouse-brown frizz on top.
I am just about to have a complete nervous breakdown when I hear a cubicle door open behind me.
'Rack off, you freak!' yells Tilly.
'You're a pair of pickled . . . losers!' Furball replies and then makes fast escape.
So lame! Pickled onion, pickled herring, pick-yourri-ng . . . I've heard it all before.
Then Tilly turns to me, bottom lip stuck out, her face a perfect portrait of sympathy.
'Hey, Elly,' she says. 'I've heard what's been happening. It's so not fair.'
And it's like the dam breaks and I am in Tilly's arms, crying really hard. I hear a few people stick their head in the door and say Uh-oh! and then leave again. Now the word will get round that Jai has made me cry. That's the last thing I wanted that low-life to know and I cry even harder.
'You know what, Els? I've got a good idea,' says Tilly.
And I can hear from the tone of her voice that it is a good idea. I hope it's one of Tilly's award-winning good ideas.
Tilly is one clever gal. She's brilliant at maths and science. She's a champion swimmer and plays the flute. Not only that, she is quite beautiful. (This happened only recently when she suddenly grew these amazing long legs and had her braces removed.) She has white skin, but perfectly straight chocolate brown hair and greenish eyes, like me. Only her eyes are an elegant almond shape, where mine are round, like walnuts. With all this you'd think she would be utterly graceful and kind to all, but she does have an evil streak in her. Sometimes she uses her dark arts on me, but mostly we're cool.
'That Jai is a serial pest,' says Tilly, her eyes narrowing.
She pauses and I can almost hear her thinking.
'What we need are some classic pics of him to use for our own evil purposes.'
I stop sniffling. That's exactly what I was thinking!
'We are sisters after all, El. Let's face it, you can't go through life with a chronic name like Pickering and not develop a few revenge strategies. When we get home tonight we'll get down to business. Until then, just stay clear of him. And by the way, you have snot coming out your nose.'
Tilly leans in to the mirror and applies balm to her pretty lips (she's addicted to the stuff) while I mop up my watery snot. Then she smacks a kiss at me and leaves. I head off to find sanctuary with Will under the jacaranda tree.
I find Will alone, kicking back, lying on the grass and looking at the sky through the branches. I resist the urge to ask him: What are you thinking? I've asked him this before and usually his reply doesn't make much sense: Nothing. Everything. Just random disconnected stuff. That's where you find the truth. (Huh?)
As I suspected, he hasn't seen the pics. Will hardly ever goes on FacePlace. They've only got one laptop at his house and his mum Jasmine uses it most of the time. The Phillips family live right on the beach at Hammerhead. I love their house. It's an old wooden shack, jammed full of Jasmine's water colours and pottery. There are surfboards stacked in every corner and more still are piled up on the roof beams with the Tibetan prayer flags, driftwood and crusty old lanterns covered in shells and dried barnacles.
His dad Took (that's his nickname, I think his real name's Greg) is a full-on old surf rat greenie. He's always ranting about how much he hates computers and mobile phones – all the 'techno-horrors', he calls them.
'They make the world move too fast,' says Took. 'They're like a rope around your freakin' neck. People reckon they can ring you any time they like or send you some dopey email or message and tell you what's on their mind. If they just sat and thought about it for a minute, they wouldn't be spouting such nonstop bullshit!
'Those bogans out in West Britannia use their technology to get these tiny pictures of the surf sent to 'em on their mobile phones. Pictures big as a postage stamp! What's that about? And then, if there are any waves, they come in droves down here and hassle the locals. There's no respect for the surf life any more. I live here on the beach where I can smell and see and hear the ocean, be part of it all. That's what it's about.'
When he gets on one of his raves, it can go on for hours . . .
'There are three million computers sold in this country every year. The greedy leeches suck down fossil fuels and most of 'em end up in landfill where all the filthy chemicals inside all that shiny new metal and plastic – mercury, barium, flame retardants, lead, chromium and cadmium – get into the waterways and kill fish and birds. I'd ban computers. And mobile phones. Every last one of 'em.
'When I was a kid . . .'
Sometimes, though, Will gets to go on his mum's computer and check out the surf sites. He has got a mobile, but I don't think Took even knows the number.
I sit on the grass next to Will and tell the whole story about what's on the net and he stands up and tears at his tie. He paces the grass. I can see that he's mad and I'm grateful.
'Why do you even look at this stuff, Elly?' Will says. 'Dad's right. It's all bogus! You want me to pay out on that redneck?' he asks fiercely.
I just smile like a cat and tell Will that I already have a payback in mind for Jai and he grins back at me.
'Sweet! I knew you would. That's what I like about you, Elly, you're strong and independent. Most chicks would go into total meltdown over something like this. And what you have to remember is that anything that's said about you in cyberspace isn't really real. It's like, in another universe.'
There's one thing in this speech that makes me take notice: That's what I like about you. Why didn't Will say: That's what I LOVE about you. Still, anything Will says makes my insides melt and go gooey until I'm a soft-centre caramel. He could read from the Oldcastle Yellow Pages and I would be standing there looking at him like that dopey Puss in Boots from Shrek.
And then he leans in and kisses me and I see the golden light shifting through the golden branches above and it occurs to me that as long as Will wants to kiss me, it doesn't matter what the world says. And then I think of Jai again and it's like a nasty orc is peering at me from behind a tree in Lothlórien.
'Hey, where's your ring?' says Will, noticing the bare finger on the hand I place on his warm chest.
The magic spell is broken. I have to admit that I've lost the friendship ring he gave me – the darling silver one with the tiny blue stones.
'Elly!' he moans. 'That ring cost me heaps! I had to work at the surf shop for six Saturday mornings straight to get the money for that ring! You should have been more careful if you knew you were gunna just lose it.'
I can't believe he's sounding just like my mother and father! OK, so I lost my mobile. I lost my handbag. I lost the ring. But it's as if they're more important than me in person. It's only 'stuff' after all. Stuff's always getting lost. Why doesn't anyone ever think about all the stuff they've found? Sometimes it seems like people value stuff more than actual, breathing human beings.