Sunny Side Up

by Marion Roberts

  Boris was locked in the front room as part of his settling-in process. He is a pure black cat. They’re meant to bring bad luck if you happen to see one crossing your path, but in Boris’s case I think the bad luck had boomeranged. For a cat like Boris, who looked a lot like a rabbit, winding up sharing his life with a greyhound wasn’t exactly fortunate. He was definitely lined up to become a dog’s breakfast. Willow had taken up a full-time position outside Lyall and Saskia’s room with her snout squeezed under the door, making loud snorting sounds and shaking all over.

  We were all out in the shed kitchen waiting for Carl to come home. Mum was making a Vietnamese salad to go with barbequed fish. I was cutting potatoes into wedges and thinking about Willow and Boris, and bombe alaska, and about how my head was awfully itchy.

  ‘They’ll be fine,’ Mum said, peeling carrots. ‘They’ll get used to one another. It happens all the time with dogs and cats.’

  ‘Can I help peel?’ asked Saskia.

  ‘I want to help, too,’ said Lyall, who probably didn’t really want to help at all, but didn’t want to miss out on something Saskia got to do, even if it was as dull as peeling carrots. That’s what siblings do, you know. It’s a constant competition.

  ‘Lyall-luh! I asked first, and anyway there’s only one peeler!’ roared Saskia.

  ‘That’s unfair-ruh. You always get to peel-luh.’

  ‘Well, jeez, Lyall-luh, find your own job-buh.’

  ‘Mum,’ I said scratching my head, ‘I think I might have lice.’

  ‘Eeew, like, gross,’ said Lyall.

  ‘No it’s not. It’s not my fault. The whole school’s got them, Lyall. There’s an epidemic.’

  ‘Not at our school,’ said Saskia.

  And I said, ‘What? Catholics don’t get lice?’

  And Mum said, ‘Now come on, you lot.’ (Can you believe I get referred to now as you lot ? I used to have my own name.)

  ‘Can you check, Mum?’ I said leaning my head towards her. ‘Please?’

  ‘Sunny, it’s not really the right time, darling. Can’t it wait until after dinner? Lyall, how about lighting the barbeque. Do you think you can do that?’

  ‘I want to light the barbeque!’ said Saskia, throwing down the peeler and racing Lyall outside.

  ‘On second thoughts, you guys, maybe wait ’till your dad gets home!’ Mum shouted after them.

  ‘Mum, I can’t bear it! I need you to run through my hair with the lice comb. I can feel them multiplying!’

  ‘Sunny, for God’s sake! It’s not all about you right now, okay? I said I’d do it after dinner!’

  ‘Fine!’ I said, tossing the potato wedges into a baking tray. ‘Be like that then!’ And I went inside and played ‘Greensleeves’ as loud as I could on the piano, until Carl came home and asked me to stop because I was creating noise pollution.

  After dinner, Carl suggested we have a meeting, so that we could all communicate about issues, like doing the dishes and getting pocket money. Carl spoke first. He started off with light globes and how we need to change over to the sort that use less energy and produce less carbon dioxide, and how we should fight climate change by becoming a carbon-neutral household, and how we should think about ways to contribute to the community – like Claud’s family does when they do foster care. Then he got onto the kitchen roster and showed us how he’d re-ordered the utensil drawer.

  Mum and Carl divided the kitchen jobs into three sections: clearing the table, scraping plates and composting; washing and drying dishes (including putting away); and wiping down the benches and the stove. It was starting to feel like boot camp. Back in the good old days (last week) there were just a couple of plates the odd pot and a few pieces of cutlery to wash.

  Next we talked about the issue of fruit juice guzzling. Mum and Carl announced that we were each to be given a two-litre bottle of juice per week, which we were to mark with our names and keep in the fridge. A permanent marker would be attached to the fridge on a piece of string. Once your bottle of juice was gone, no more would be issued until the next supermarket shop, which was to take place every Monday.

  Mum gave me the eyebrow when I butted in with, ‘Jeez, Carl, what’s next? Six a.m. jogs? A whiteboard with coloured pens?’

  Lyall and Saskia both giggled, but Carl was all straight-faced and said, ‘Actually, Sunny, thank you, that’s not such a bad idea.’

  We talked about the issue of bedtime, the issue of computer usage, the issue of wet towels not drying in a heap on the floor, and the issue of appropriate bathroom usage. We talked about laundry days, television usage, pet integration, dog walking, spare keys, homework, school lunches and pocket money deductions if chores weren’t done properly. I felt a bit worried for Mum – if that was the stuff she and Carl spent all their time talking about, they couldn’t have much else going on. Maybe they needed a hobby? Bingo might be good.

  ‘Well then,’ said Carl. ‘Any questions?’

  ‘Have you got a strategy for lice epidemics, Carl?’ I said.

  Mum gave me the double eyebrow.

  That got me thinking about the Transylvanian Compatibility Booth, and how Mum and Carl could sure use one. The Theys invented the Compatibility Booth for affairs of the heart. Everyone should have one. It’s sort of like how satellite navigation devices in posh cars tell you you’re going in the wrong direction. The Transylvanian Compatibility Booth ensures you’re dealing with the sort of love affair that will actually last and not the sort that looks all fine and dandy at the start, but ends up like sour cream, ’cos you’re with the wrong person and have wasted a whole heap of time getting married and divorced and having kids who have to grow up in two houses. If Mum and Dad had bothered to step inside a Transylvanian Compatibility Booth they would have set off the siren of absolute incompatibility, for sure. They would have had nothing at all lighting up in the Soul Mates panel and everything lighting up in the Seriously Consider Breaking Up section, as well as one very bright flashing button saying Do Not Marry, No Matter What. But then again, if Mum and Dad had used the compatibility booth I wouldn’t be here at all, so maybe scrap that whole idea. Maybe I’m just a little bit old fashioned.

  When Mum tucked me into bed that night (after removing fifteen lice and buckets of nits from my hair), I asked her whether she thought Carl might possibly be a control freak. But she said he just liked to be organised, and that we’d live more harmoniously with his well-thought-out systems in place. I thought about Granny Carmelene and her peaceful world, which didn’t resemble a boot camp at all. I could even imagine myself living there if I was forced to run away.

  At least my bedroom was the same as it ever was, even if it did smell of lice shampoo.

  ‘’Night, Sunny,’ said Mum, kissing my forehead. ‘Everything’s all right, you know, we’re just going through a big transition. We’ll all be really happy. You’ll see.’

  ‘Even Willow?’

  ‘Of course, even Willow and Boris. You’ll see.’

  ‘Promise you won’t smoke any more then, if you’re so happy.’

  ‘Oh, that’s right, I forgot to tell you. I’m off the waiting list for hypnosis. I’ve got an appointment!’

  ‘Finally! ’Night Mum,’ I said, giving her a hug and knowing that she’d be sneaking straight out to cram in some more cigarettes before the hypnosis removed the urge to smoke from her hard drive. If she did quit, though, I could think about resigning from Children Living With Hypocritical Parents Who Smoke, which, I must admit, was a bit of a shame ’cos I’d secretly been looking forward to hosting a demonstration.

  13 .

  Buster wasn’t at school for the third day in a row.

  ‘What’s with that?’ I asked Claud, after Mr Pratt finished calling the role.

  ‘Don’t know,’ said Claud, looking away. I noticed she had gone red.

  ‘Have you seen him anywhere?’ I asked.

  ‘Nup,’ said Claud. But it felt like she was lying because blushing is often a sign, and I’m very good a
t sensing things.

  ‘Have you decided what you’re going to do for your design project?’ asked Claud, changing the subject.

  ‘I thought I’d design a grand, old-fashioned mansion, with a drawing room and a turret, and a library full of books. How ’bout you?’

  ‘Mine’s a future house,’ said Claud. ‘With circular rooms, and ceilings that open up so you can sleep under the stars. You’ll never guess what Buster’s designing though – a dog hotel,’ Claud laughed.

  ‘I thought you said you hadn’t seen him.’

  ‘I haven’t,’ she said, blushing again. ‘He . . . um . . . told me on MSN.’

  The best part about Mrs Hasslebrack’s maths class was that it was the last class before the weekend. She wrote BODMAS across the board in red and then a whole lot of equations that we had to solve using the BODMAS rule. I like BODMAS because it gives you an order in which to go about things that are usually confusing, like maths. And how if you follow the BODMAS rule everyone came up with the same answer, unless you totally make a mistake.

  Mrs Hasslebrack wore a girdle (Mum told me), that pulled her tummy and her bottom in at the same time and made them look really hard and flat, and exactly the same shape as one another. It made me want to poke her, just to see if the girdle-tummy was actually as hard as it looked. She also looked orange because she wore too much fake tan. She handed out some sheets for homework, pausing at Buster’s empty desk.

  ‘Will anybody be seeing Buster over the weekend?’

  Claud’s hand shot up. ‘I will Mrs Hasslebrack. I’ll see him at basketball tomorrow,’ she blurted out, then looked at me as if she’d seen a ghost and slid the maths sheets into her folder.

  ‘What?’ I exclaimed, almost so loud the whole class could hear.

  ‘I told you,’ said Claud defensively, ‘Buster’s going to try out for the team.’

  ‘You did not tell me, Claud! How could you?’

  ‘Sunny Hathaway, would you please stop talking!’ scolded Mrs Hasslebrack. ‘Not another word!’

  Boy, did seat 44K feel good for the rest of maths. I peered down at the shambled world far below, until fairy-floss clouds floated across my view. The fact that my best friend had officially fallen to the dark side didn’t bother me at all. I ate a chicken sandwich with homemade mayonnaise and chives. Then I cranked back my chair and fell asleep. When I awoke, Claud was sitting next to me in 44J. She was screwing up Buster’s maths sheets and talking about how much spit she was storing up for his Hawaiian that night at Pizza-A-Go-Girl.

  Claud and I argued all the way through our deli shopping.

  ‘You could have at least asked me, Claud,’ I said, ticking red capsicum off the list and putting it in the buggy.

  ‘What’s the point, Sunny? You weren’t going to agree. Besides, it’s a community team. Buster has every right to join. You should feel sorry for him, anyway. How would you like it if your dad was in jail and your mum had disappeared?’

  Claud took a fifty dollar note from the profit jar, ready to pay.

  ‘Yeah, like how I feel sorry for Osama Bin Laden. Get a grip, Claud!’

  Claud’s phone beeped. She pulled it out of her pocket to look at the text message. Can you believe it? Her whole screen was lit up with a photo of Buster. What’s more, in the photo he’d had his mohawk cut off, which made me dead suspicious. It had still been there last time he was at school – solid evidence that Claud had seen him. Not only had she seen him, but she’d taken a photo of him, saved it on her phone and linked it to his number. My God!

  So, even though I’m not a big fan of silent angry, I did it the whole way home. I just couldn’t help it, and neither could Claud. That’s why it was such a relief to find Mum and Carl out in the shed with Lyall and Saskia. Claud and I could ignore each other without it being so obvious.

  The oven was already lit and there were dead Christmas tree needles all over the floor.

  ‘We helped get the fire going,’ said Lyall, and Mum looked sheepish ’cos she knew I didn’t want Lyall and Saskia thinking they could weasel their way into Pizza-A-Go-Girl. She knew that!

  ‘Did you see the surprise in the lounge room, Sunny?’ asked Carl, winking at Mum who was doing the crossword and making it really obvious she didn’t want to look at me.

  ‘No, what?’ I asked getting the juice marked ‘Sunny’ out of the fridge. I didn’t want to offer any to Claud, but I knew Mum would pick me up on it, so I had to do fake manners so as not to cause a scene. ‘You want some, Claud?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Claud. I saw her do the eyebrow to herself when she noticed the names on the juice bottles.

  ‘So what is it Carl, a plasma screen?’ I said. ‘You beauty!’

  ‘Well, no, but it is big and flat and hangs on the wall. Go see for yourself.’

  I ran to the lounge room. Willow was still sitting outside Lyall and Saskia’s room, drinking up the smell of Boris that was wafting under the door. She didn’t even run to greet me.

  There are no prizes for guessing that Carl’s surprise wasn’t a plasma screen but was of the whiteboard variety, with the dishes roster already drawn up. What next? I thought. A mini-van? Claud followed me into the lounge, saw the whiteboard, and looked at me blankly with an Is he freakin’ serious? look on her silently angry face. I take back everything I said about thinking Carl was cool. I was obviously deluded. Or maybe that was the old Carl – the Carl who just used to visit a few times a week and tell jokes and make Mum happy, even if he was also a tragic smoker.

  Apart from Uncle Quinny, who had ordered the same pizzas as last week, all our other regular customers had left the decision making up to us. The only thing we had to remember was that the Larkins are vegetarians.

  ‘So,’ I said, looking over our list of orders. ‘We’ve got Uncle Quinny’s three hot salamis, Buster’s Hawaiian, pizza verde for the Larkins, pizza with artichokes for Reverand Ferdinand and pizza Sant’Agata for Mrs Wolverine. I’ll start washing the herbs.’

  ‘You sure about the Conroy’s order?’ asked Claud sheepishly. ‘I mean, did Uncle Quinny actually put an order in?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked. ‘He told us last week that he wanted the same again. Remember? And then he left a message on Monday to confirm.’

  ‘Well, it’s just that I heard he might be going away for the weekend, that’s all,’ said Claud, getting the scales down to weigh out the flour. ‘Forget about it, I’ll get the dough started.’

  Just then Claud’s phone beeped again with another text message. I was leaning over the sink, so I couldn’t see whether it was the sort of text message that was attached to a photo of Buster’s dumb head.

  ‘Ah—I gotta go,’ Claud said, looking guilty and putting her phone back in her bag.

  ‘In your dreams, Claud. We’ve only just starting prepping,’ I said, soaking the herbs in a shallow sink of water.

  ‘Is everything all right, Claud?’ Mum asked.

  ‘Um, I think so, but Mum just wants me home right away.’

  ‘Claud! What about our orders?’ I said, banging a metal bowl down on the sink. ‘It can’t be that important!’ ‘Sorry, Sunny, I’ve just gotta go.’

  And that was that. Claud jumped on her bike and left me holding the baby (as They say), or in this case, holding an entire pizza delivery business. I take back what I said about Claud making the perfect business partner. That was the old Claud.

  And I also take back what I said about not wanting any help from Lyall and Saskia, because, to be honest, they saved the day, even if it was a night. Lyall ran the Larkins’ order over the road while I got going on Reverend Ferdinand’s. He was back in time to deliver Mrs Wolverine’s while I got Uncle Quinny’s order under way.

  Saskia cut the pizzas and packed them in their boxes, as well as slicing up all the mozzarella while I made sure the oven was okay. Mum and Carl pretty much stayed out of it, because apart from being stuck on the crossword (Mum must have forgotten to call Crossword Solutions), you could tell that they
were hoping Lyall and Saskia and I were bonding, which sort of made me cringe. But I did start to think that having precooked siblings might end up being a good thing, for business I mean. If Pizza-A-Go-Girl did take off, Lyall and Saskia could be employees, only I wouldn’t have to pay them much because they’d be family, which also meant they wouldn’t be able to abandon me right in the middle of our orders.

  Mum didn’t want any of us going to the Conroy’s on our own, and to be honest I didn’t fancy it either. (It was the first thing we’d agreed on in days.) So Carl offered to drive me there in Mum’s car, and act like a delivery guy and a bodyguard.

  ‘Hey,’ said Carl in the car on the way to the Conroys. ‘Do you want to know what I think the best name for a pizza business is?’

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  ‘Eureka Pizza . . . Get it? You reek of pizza!’ which really did make me laugh, but not as much as Carl, who sometimes enjoys his own jokes more than anyone.

  ‘I just made that up!’ he said, which for some reason made me feel a little easier about the whiteboard and him being a control freak, ’cos at least he could still tell the odd joke.

  Carl buzzed on the security door. I was really hoping we wouldn’t have to go upstairs this time, and that Quinny could just bring the money down and take the pizzas. There was no answer, so we buzzed again. Still no answer.

  ‘Are you sure they were expecting pizzas, Sunny?’ Carl asked. ‘Maybe they did go away for the weekend.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, adjusting the four pizza boxes so that my hands weren’t so hot from holding them underneath. ‘Quinny never said anything to us about going away. Ask Mum.’

  Carl buzzed again, for about seven seconds (I just happened to count while I was waiting). But there was still no answer.

  ‘Probably got the TV up loud,’ I said.

  A man came out of the main door to the flats and saw us waiting to get in. He had fake blond bits in his hair and wore a T-shirt that was way too small.