Star

by Ondine Sherman

  I click back to the Activists Unite group again and my finger hovers over the button to join. Should I?

  Yes.

  My heart beats faster as I hit the button. A page pops up asking me a series of questions about my background in activism.

  ‘What’s taking you so long?’ Oliver calls out.

  I put my phone away and return to my bedroom, taking a seat on the bed.

  Oliver perches next to me, sitting close so we both fit in the video frame. His thigh presses against mine. The camera’s facing us, bedroom light on and curtains closed to stop the backlight; a towel’s squished under my door to reduce unexpected noise. I’m wearing a new T-shirt featuring an elephant and the words Born to be Free, along with my usual cut-off shorts. Oliver’s in a grey singlet and his usual whale-tail necklace. His hair’s grown longer and is flipped to one side, surfy style.

  He nods. We count silently to three, smiling into the camera, and then I start.

  ‘News from the animal world! My name’s Sky and—’

  ‘I’m Oliver.’

  ‘This week we’ve discovered ... What have we discovered, Oliver?’

  We’re going for the ping-pong-dialogue effect.

  ‘Wait, hold on. You’re in the shadow.’ Oliver re-positions the bedside lamp. Meanwhile, Bella scratches the shag rug before curling up on it. We start again from the beginning.

  ‘What have we discovered, Oliver?’

  ‘Well, Sky ...’ He looks at me; his expression is so adorable. ‘We’ve found out ...’ I bite my lip, trying not to smile. Oh my god, I love him; I just can’t say it. If he doesn’t say it back, it will break my heart. So I have to wait. ‘We’ve found out all about crustaceans. Hold on.’ He jumps up and stops the camera. ‘Let’s do that take again.’

  He resets the camera and I kiss him quickly. ‘Ready?’

  ‘Actually, I’m dying of thirst,’ he says. ‘Can I grab some juice from the fridge?’

  ‘Sure.’

  While he’s gone, I see that Lucy has sent me her latest sketch asking what I think, and Jaxon’s band has just posted an interview about the making of their first music video. Their success has happened so quickly. When I last saw him at Anchorage airport, I was about to fly back to Australia and he was about to go to LA to meet the record label. They signed his band, and now the label’s PR machine is helping build their brand. That means blitzing all social media platforms with their new single, money for promotion, and daily updates from Jaxon and his friends in the band on their latest performances and behind-the-scenes pictures. It’s amazing, and after the struggles he’s faced with his father I feel happy for him.

  Oliver comes back with juice and gets the camera rolling again. I continue with the words I’ve now memorised, talking about how decapods—the group of crustaceans that includes lobsters and crabs—are not considered animals and have zero protection from anti-cruelty laws. We talk about new evidence that they feel pain, and the growing opinion that they should not be boiled alive. ‘We have even discovered a crayfish who gave up his own leg to save himself from a spot,’ I say.

  Oliver bumps his knee against mine and stifles a laugh.

  ‘A pot!’ I correct myself, feeling my face warm.

  The video ends with our usual, ‘Keep kind and remember to like and subscribe!’

  We sit for a moment with frozen smiles to give extra room for the cut, then relax.

  ‘Should we do another take?’ I ask, not getting up.

  ‘That was good,’ Oliver says as he walks to the camera.

  ‘But I stumbled a bit on the—’

  ‘I’ll fix it, you were great.’ He takes the camera off the tripod and starts packing away. Oliver always edits the videos, playing around with music, animation and other complicated stuff. Professional-looking videos should attract more subscribers, increasing his chances of being chosen for Viola Films.

  ‘Maybe we’ll attract lobster fans,’ I say with a smile. I want him to relax a little about the subscribers. We chose this subject because it’s unusual and quirky, trying a different tack to the more serious videos we’ve done previously.

  ‘Ah yes, the millions of crustacean lovers desperately waiting for a YouTube video just like this.’ Oliver gently pokes me in the ribs and I’m relieved to see his humour’s back.

  ‘Wait and see. There will be a thousand and one by the end of the day.’ I poke him back, a bit harder. ‘We’ll be stars.’

  He wrestles me onto the bed, tickling the sensitive spot under my ribs, making me squeal with laughter. I press my lips against his, and our bodies wrap around each other, every available surface touching. A tsunami of relief hits me. This is the moment. He’s finally forgiven me and he will tell me he loves me again.

  His fingers are wrapped in my hair and when he nibbles at my ear, I giggle. The noises rouse Bella, who barks with excitement before jumping onto the bed and licking my face. If that didn’t spoil the mood, the sound of my uncle Dave’s car does; it fills the room, the crunching gravel announcing his arrival in the driveway. Oliver and I disentangle ourselves and we get up to go help him with the shopping.

  As I put the grocery bags in the kitchen and start to unpack, my mind wanders back to Activists Unite. How will I answer the questions to join the group? Will Stella accept me?

  For some reason, belonging to this group suddenly feels like everything.

  Chapter 2

  Long sheets of bark fall from the gum tree as though it’s tired of its own skin.

  Oliver and I sit on the curb outside school, side by side, our backs against the tree’s broad trunk. I tear off a small piece of bark and run my fingers over the layers of soft white paper.

  It’s the last day of school before the holidays, so we’re out of class early. The buses are due to arrive soon, and kids trail out of the gate. Hunched under backpacks like snails, they check their phones as cars linger for pick-ups.

  ‘Did you hear back from your father about buying the editing program?’ I ask Oliver.

  ‘He tried calling earlier when I was in class.’ He brushes his hair off his face. Our legs are stretched out and I inch mine closer so it’s touching his. ‘It’s probably not a good sign. He’s such a lawyer, whenever he wants to tell me something bad he calls me rather than messaging, like he doesn’t want it on his record.’

  ‘Are you going to call him back?’

  Oliver sighs. ‘Yeah, I’ve just been working myself up to it.’ He takes out his phone, crossing his legs so our contact in broken. ‘Right. Here goes nothing.’ He presses the phone to his ear, and I roll the bark between my fingers and study his face as I listen to his side of the conversation.

  ‘But Dad ...’ Oliver’s voice is tight. ‘I did use the woodworking tools you bought me ... No, I’m not going to give up filmmaking, this is different ... But ... Okay. See you in Melbourne.’ He hangs up, shaking his head.

  ‘What happened?’ I loop my arm around Oliver’s shoulders and lean into him. He doesn’t respond, focused on scraping his heel on the pavement.

  ‘I should never have asked him for the money,’ he says after a long pause. There’s a hint of reproach in his voice.

  I sit back. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Just that I’m a loser ...’

  ‘He said that?’

  ‘Not in those words, but I could tell he thought it.’

  ‘You are not.’ I try to squeeze him close again but he shrugs me off.

  ‘He’s still pissed I didn’t use all the expensive tools he bought me for my birthday last year. It’s not my fault that I found something else I love doing, but it’s like he’s punishing me for it.’

  I point to the highest branch in the tree where a possum box is attached. ‘They appreciate what you did.’

  Oliver made the box back when he was woodworking. The school trees are filled with wooden boxes in various shapes and sizes to suit the native birds and animals, a project we did with Landcare last year. But Oliver doesn’t lift his eyes.r />
  I try again. ‘Show your dad how committed you are to film, and he’ll understand.’

  A bus pulls up on the other side of the street and kids pile into it. The doors of the bus close, and there’s a loud honk as the driver warns the jaywalking kids to get out of the way before she pulls out from the curb. I see two faces in the back window staring at me. Boys from Year Seven. One points at me and the other laughs, then they both start waving with their elbows before the bus drives off.

  ‘Did you see that?’ I ask Oliver. But he’s busy scuffing his shoes on the pavement again, not listening. Over the last few months, I’ve caught moments of whispering and noticed kids pointing at me in the corridor, like those boys on the bus. I have no idea why, and Oliver and Lucy never seem to notice.

  I’m distracted by a familiar giggle and spot Lucy and her boyfriend, Malcolm, loitering by the school fence, partly hidden. They’re kissing. Malcolm is long and lanky and almost as tall as Lucy when he’s sitting and she’s standing. He has pumpkin-orange hair, pale skin and twice as many freckles as I do. He’s in his last year at school, Year Twelve, and they met at the Landcare group where they shared a passion for tree planting. He asked her to dance at the end-of-year gala, the same night Oliver and I first kissed.

  Marissa, Kristy and Jules—the girl gang I used to be friends with—walk by, Marissa chatting away loudly. Last year I was the proud winner of the Celebrating Australian Agriculture competition, and surprised everyone by unveiling my rescue chicken Chirp on stage. I then proceeded to educate the audience on the cruelty of factory farming, using Stevenson’s Family Farm, which is run by Marissa’s dad, as an example. Chirp escaped my arms and flew into the audience, unfortunately landing straight on Marissa’s head. Who knew that would be enough to end our friendship? Jokes aside, I wasn’t too worried about losing her and Kristy, who aren’t the nicest girls, but I was sad to lose Jules.

  Jules spots me now and gives a little wave as Marissa continues talking. ‘Are your parents all coming to the barbecue tomorrow? Dad’s got some stupid mayor duties going on as always, and I told Mum she’d hate it.’ She swats the air around her face. ‘Too many flies.’ They walk off, Marissa’s voice fading away.

  I turn back to Oliver. ‘Is your mum going to be at the barbecue tomorrow?’

  ‘Yep, she’s bringing her famous organic purple carrots. Which one of your dads is coming?’

  ‘My real one.’

  ‘Your real one may have to leave soon,’ Oliver reminds me. ‘And don’t forget about Dave.’

  ‘Do you think I should I ask him as well?’

  ‘Yeah, maybe.’

  In the past, these sorts of family days were often fraught with tension for me as I anticipated the shame of my absent father. Now I have two father figures to juggle.

  Ever since I moved to West Creek, my uncle Dave has done his best to be a substitute father. At first, I didn’t appreciate it—even felt defensive—like when he turned up to last year’s father–daughter day at school unannounced and I almost sent him away. But his persistence and humour finally demolished my walls and I started seeing him as an uncle–slash–father. On the other hand, my real dad, Adam, has only been in my life for a short time, although we’ve packed a lot in since then. Snow camping under Alaska’s Northern Lights was a very different experience to our sweaty bush camping a few weeks ago. Lucy lent me her binoculars, and Dad and I drove a couple of hours to set up tents by a river. The flies were rampant, but in the evening we hung out by the fire roasting bananas with melted vegan chocolate. We got up at dawn for a bushwalk. Kangaroos are most active at that time, and Dad was super keen to see one in the wild. We weren’t so lucky, but we did spot a lace monitor – a type of goanna – that must have been nearly two metres long, and hundreds of birds, which I could mostly and proudly name thanks to Lucy’s teaching. Dad and I have been to almost every restaurant around West Creek, giving us plenty of time to chat over meals. I’ve learnt way more about his life and he, mine. We’ve talked about Mum a lot, and I feel as though there’s a harmony inside me that I’ve never had before; like the missing puzzle pieces of my past have been put into place.

  Oliver’s voice breaks into my thoughts. ‘Wish I had a choice like you do.’

  ‘You have your mum,’ I say. ‘And she’s amazing.’

  ‘You’re right. Sorry.’ He wraps his arm around me, knowing how much I miss my own mum, her death still painful, like an infected wound that may never fully heal.

  Another honk of a horn, this time higher in pitch. I look up to see my father’s head sticking out of the passenger-side window of a red car. He grins and waves at us. Oliver’s mum is driving.

  ‘Kind of cute how our parents are BFFs,’ I say as Oliver jumps up and pulls me to my feet.

  Diana and my dad have been getting along well, which is good news given he’s been living in the studio above her health food store. Dad checked out the rooms above the pub, but just as he’d been warned, they smelled of spilled beer and bad body odour. The motel at the corner of the highway, meanwhile, was being sprayed for cockroaches. But he ended up finding the perfect spot. Diana had just cleaned out her small, unused studio and was about to look for a renter when my dad appeared with a single canvas duffel bag and camera bag almost as big.

  Paula and Dave did invite him to stay with us as long as he’s here, but since their spare room is now mine, he didn’t want to intrude by continuing to sleep on the couch. Or perhaps he felt the threat of Paula’s mama-bear claws. I get that. When I first met my father, I had my nails out too. His past wrongdoings preceded him, and I had a sour soup of angry, sad, undigested emotions gurgling inside my stomach. I’ve tried to tell Paula she should give him a chance, but she hasn’t forgiven him for a long list of reasons including: leaving my mum when she was still pregnant with me; the 5835 days that went by without him contacting me; him cheating on my mum with her best friend Melody before I was born; and, a few months ago in Alaska, for his part in the hitchhiking drama where I could have been murdered and nearly froze to death. That last one wasn’t really Dad’s fault. And I haven’t even told her about how I nearly got shot when I threw myself between a hunter and a moose.

  I know my aunt is just trying to keep me safe. She’s worried Adam will disappear again, that he hasn’t grown up at all. But she didn’t have the three weeks in Alaska with Dad like I did, which, despite the gargantuan dramas, in the end allowed me to get to know him. And forgive him too.

  Now he’s been living here for nearly three months, so hopefully it won’t be much longer before Paula’s glare fades and her smile becomes genuine.

  I don’t know how long Dad will be here for. He only has a couple of weeks left on his current visa, and even though he’s applied for an extension, he hasn’t decided if he’s going to stay longer or go back to Alaska. I wish he’d decide. I feel like a ship without an anchor: adrift, unmoored.

  ‘Let’s hope they’re just friends,’ Oliver says, raising an eyebrow at my dad and his mum.

  ‘What are you saying?’ I look at Oliver for further explanation as we get closer to the car, but before he has time to answer, Dad calls out.

  ‘Sky! Oliver!’ His face is now clean-shaven, the scar from the car accident in Alaska and his bruised ribs healed. Oliver and Dad do their weird blokey handshake, and Oliver grins wider than he’s done with me all day. I was nervous about them meeting, but they got along really well from the first moment. ‘We’re just back from the electronics store out of town,’ Dad says. ‘Diana helped me find the camera lens I needed for the Country Music Festival. Want to get a cold drink at Juice Bar?’

  We nod and hop in the back seats. I’m in the middle next to Oliver’s little sister, Sabine. She’s wearing her usual pink tutu, faded and worn from almost everyday use. Too cute.

  Diana pulls the car out and begins chatting to my father as she drives. I study them for a moment, wondering what Oliver meant. Diana smells of cinnamon and has shoulder-length blonde hair that she a
lways clips back messily. She stocks a line of organic make-up in her store and has eyeliners in every colour. I’ve seen her lining her eyes while squinting in the small mirror above the shop’s bathroom sink. Today she’s put on the olive-green and her cotton shirt is patterned with leaves in the same shade.

  My phone chimes and I release Sabine’s hand; she’s a chronic hand-holder.

  It’s Dave. On my way to pick you up, just finished a job nearby. Hope you haven’t got your bus already? Nearly there.

  Oh no. I hurriedly text him back: Just got into the car with Dad and Diana. Sorry!

  He sends a thumbs up and I relax. Trying to do well by both Dad and Dave has been tricky over the last few months. I think back to the moment we arrived from the airport to our home in West Creek. Despite the fact that Dad had his own luggage, he insisted on carrying mine inside as well. Dave tried twice to help. Then once we’d settled inside, the reverse happened: every time Dave put the kettle on or prepared food, my father offered to assist but Dave wouldn’t hear of it.

  Dad swivels around in the front seat to face us. ‘Did you see how many views Jaxon’s video got?’

  ‘Who’s Jaxon?’ Sabine sings.

  ‘No one,’ I say quickly. I wish Dad would stop bringing Jaxon up all the time. I didn’t tell him what happened between me and Jaxon partly because it’s not exactly a good look for me, but partly because Jaxon is like my dad’s surrogate son, and I didn’t want to embarrass either of them. So Dad doesn’t know how it affected my relationship with Oliver either.

  ‘He’s a buddy of mine, and Sky’s too,’ Dad announces. ‘He’s also a really cool musician.’

  To my dismay, Dad gets out his phone and shows Sabine Jaxon’s music video, and by the end, Sabine’s singing along. I can feel Oliver seething.

  ‘Hey, Dad,’ I say as soon as the song’s finished. ‘I was thinking Dave could come along to the barbecue too. What do you think?’

  ‘Sounds like a fine idea.’