I love how easygoing he is. I text Dave again. Can you come to the school BBQ tomorrow?
He replies almost immediately. I’d love to but I have a job on, sorry. Adam’s meant to be going, right? Don’t tell me he’s bailed.
He’s going, I write back.
Great. I’ll see you later. Sorry again.
Dad looks at his watch. ‘You know what? Forget juice. Why don’t we take the kids to an early dinner at that fancy golf club restaurant? On me!’ He turns to Diana, who nods vigorously. Does she seem more enthusiastic than she should?
Chapter 3
‘Sky, would you like some more?’ My father holds out a plastic container of Diana’s cut vegetables, including her organic purple carrots.
It’s another scorching Sunday, summer’s last hurrah, and the sky overhead is a brilliant blue. We’re standing by a long table draped with several red-and-white gingham tablecloths. Platters of hot dogs, meat pies and sandwiches of white bread, butter and ham cover the surface. Flies circle, just like Marissa said.
‘No thanks.’ I’ve eaten enough carrots to give me X-ray vision.
Clustered in groups, high school kids play on their phones and compare plans for the school holidays. The parents are fretting about the above-average temperatures and never-ending drought that’s driving up the costs of animal feed, barley and hay. Australia is the driest continent on Earth, and this year, more than usual, we need the skies to open up. Dad joins in easily, a natural at bad-weather conversations given he’s a resident of one of the coldest places on Earth.
Today is the first time in twelve years of school barbecues that I can participate with my own father. When I told my grandmother last night during our catch-up call, my feelings overwhelmed me and my voice cracked. She got emotional too. We have a standing plan to talk every second Saturday night, which is Sunday morning in Chicago. I’m trying not to express how excited I am in front of Oliver; his dad hasn’t come to a single school event since the divorce, but I feel a warm glow inside where my happiness is radiating.
‘Look at all the soft drinks! So much for the clean-eating movement that’s meant to be sweeping the country.’ Diana gestures at the table of food. ‘I haven’t seen this much food colouring, salt and sugar since ...’
‘The late eighties,’ Oliver and Diana say in unison. ‘Jinx.’ They high five at their inside joke.
‘You should give the P&C some advice, Mum,’ Oliver says.
‘With all my free time, darling?’ Diana tilts her head, her big floppy sunhat threatening to fall. She looks really pretty today with a peach-coloured cotton shirt, tan shorts and her eyes highlighted by a rusty-brown liner. We all know how busy she is, raising Oliver and five-year-old Sabine alone while managing her health food store in town. Growing up with only my mum, I know how single mothers are underrated. ‘Anyway,’ she continues. ‘The mothers in the P&C are a force to be reckoned with. I learnt my lesson when you were in Year Seven, Oliver. Keep clear.’
‘Mum mafia?’ Dad smiles.
‘You said it, Adam, not me.’
I frown as I watch Dad chuckle.
‘Next round of burgers ready!’ a father shouts into the crowd from the barbecue to our left. ‘Come get it while it’s hot.’ The wind picks up and I step aside to avoid the blast of meaty smoke that comes in my direction.
Kids and parents slowly start to migrate towards the grill and a line takes shape. The sun’s frying my freckled skin and I can’t believe I forgot to wear sunscreen. I fan my back, billowing out my shirt, while Oliver eats a cheese sandwich. Even though my boyfriend’s veggie, I’m the only vegan I know of who lives in West Creek. Lucy tried going veggie for a while but, concerned about her low iron, her parents insisted she eat red meat on occasion. My dad told me he’s cutting back, which is great news. And I have my online friend, Issie, now; she’s always posting inspiring news and articles. I don’t expect everyone to eat like me, but sometimes it feels like I’m in a club for one. Paula isn’t a vegan but she used to be my ally, and last year we’d pore over recipe ideas at the kitchen table, finding dishes that would make even my carnivorous uncle Dave salivate. But ever since Paula was diagnosed with gestational diabetes our habits changed. Her swollen feet, tiredness, spaciness and lack of appetite mean we’re not sitting down together for dinner. Instead, Paula lies by the TV, subsisting on tomato soup, string cheese, and corn crackers with Vegemite, and Dave, who’s been busy with several large landscaping jobs, usually arrives home late, taking advantage of the still long autumn days before winter sets in. ‘Babies aren’t cheap,’ I’ve heard him say more than once. He often has take-away roast chicken in front of the TV, but at least it’s from the newly free-range part of Stevenson’s Family Farm. I eat early, often my favourite pasta with added veggies, pomodoro sauce splattering over my homework.
Now I’m hungry. I check the salt-and-vinegar-chip bowl, but it’s empty save for some crumbs, which I collect with my pinkie. I search the table for another bag when I see a kid who must be a Year Nine. He’s holding a fresh bag of chips towards me. ‘Looking for these?’
I nod. ‘Thanks.’
‘You’re Chickengirl!’ He looks at me, eyes wide as though he’s seen a celebrity. ‘In real life.’
I frown. ‘Huh?’
‘Oh!’ The boy turns pink. ‘You don’t know?’
‘Know what?’
‘There’s a picture going around.’ He opens the bag of chips and takes a handful.
I feel my pulse quicken. ‘What picture?’
‘Just the one from the paper. Don’t worry, it’s actually kinda cute. Chickengirl—like Supergirl. It’s caught on with my class. Sorry.’ He grabs some more chips, then hands me the bag and returns to his group of friends. A few turn to look at me, but not in a mean way.
Well, that explains the gesture out the bus window yesterday and all the other mysterious whispers I’ve heard around school over the last few months. But my performance with Chirp at the school presentation day isn’t why I’ve become a minor school celeb—it’s because of the photograph that appeared on the front page of the local newspaper the following day that showed the exact moment Chirp escaped my grasp and flew straight into Marissa’s face.
‘Burger, burger, going once, going twice ...’ The barbecue dad is now roaming, platter in hand, trying to find homes for the last ones. He stops at my father. ‘Ah, the new dad about town. Heard about you. Adam, right? I’m Bruce Kelly.’
‘Good to meet you.’ Dad and Bruce put their cups and trays on the table, and Bruce wipes his hands on his jeans before shaking my dad’s hand. Diana nods a hello then wanders away to join some other parents.
One mother has a new baby, and I watch as she scoops her up from a pram and kisses her rosy-cheeked face all over. The baby is wearing a short white cotton onesie covered in pink stars. Diana tickles her tummy and the baby breaks into a toothless smile. Soon it will be Paula’s turn. I wonder what the little star will look like, and how much of Paula and how much of Dave will get mixed together—or maybe even some of me or Mum. I can’t wait to meet my new cousin.
‘Hey guys, get over here.’ Bruce waves two other fathers over and Adam greets them, shaking hands with Ray and Ant. He looks happy with the attention, even though he’s been getting nothing but since he arrived— everyone loved him from the moment he appeared at our local beer garden for lunch. And who wouldn’t? American accent straight out of Hollywood, easy smile and contagious laugh, he always says the right thing to the right people at the right time.
Bruce laments the drought for a while then he picks up a can of beer from beside the barbecue. ‘So, Alaska, hey?’ He takes a swig. ‘Those winters. I mean, what is it? Minus twenty or so?’
‘More like forty.’ My dad nods solemnly. It’s the usual question: nobody can get over how anyone could live in that ice-bucket of a place. I couldn’t believe it either until I saw the snow twinkle like diamond dust.
Bruce drinks the last of his beer and throws the empt
y can into the bin a metre away—bullseye. ‘How long are you around?’
‘A while longer; spending some long-overdue time with my girl.’ Dad puts his hand on my shoulder.
Bruce turns to me. ‘You’re in Pete’s class?’
‘The year below,’ I say.
‘He never mentioned such a pretty girl.’ He winks. Creepy.
I recognise his name now. When I moved to West Creek last year and started at the local high school in the middle of term, I was so busy trying to fit in that I hardly noticed any of the kids in other years. But I did see Pete Kelly because he takes my bus and gets off a stop before me. Hoodie up, he always sits in the third-back row on the left in front of me, unless he gets up to offer his seat to an elderly person or pregnant lady. He does that surprisingly often. Otherwise, his head is lowered, earphones on, and when I walk by I always notice his knee twitching.
Obviously, Bruce didn’t attend last year’s assembly at Town Hall otherwise he’d know me, like the all the other parents do, by reputation or, apparently, as Chickengirl. How embarrassing.
‘You must be a natural in the bush, Adam.’ Ray rubs his bulbous nose, burnt to a crisp from a lifetime in the sun. ‘You have plenty of wilderness in Alaska. Got survival skills? Can you navigate by the stars or something?’
Dad laughs. ‘Can’t live without my monster truck and survival kit. Take them everywhere I go; never know when I’ll get snowed in.’
‘Right on. Always be prepared.’ Ant slaps him on the back.
‘But seriously,’ Dad continues. ‘There’s nothing I love more than getting out into nature, into the wilderness. In fact, Sky and I went camping a few weekends ago.’
‘Did you, Sky?’ Bruce looks to me and I nod. He opens a new beer. ‘So, you love getting out into the bush, do ya?’ He looks between Dad and the two other fathers. ‘Y’know what? We should show you what goes on ’round here. Right, mates?’ There’s a general grunt of approval. ‘Come join us one night.’
‘Camping?’ Dad’s eyes widen. I can see he’s up for it.
The men look between themselves again and Ray jerks his chin towards Oliver and me. ‘Let’s get the other sixpack.’
Dad catches my eye and grins as he follows the guys to the other end of the table, where they dig around in the esky and hand out the new cans, then begin talking about their plans.
I squeeze Oliver’s hand and point to Lucy and her dad, Mark, who are on the small hill where we planted saplings for Landcare last year. They’re kneeling next to one of the trees inspecting new shoots. Malcolm and his father are with them too.
We leave my dad to it and walk over to join them. The saplings’ leaves feel like braille and Mark thinks it may be an infestation of insects. He looks at his phone trying to identify who the culprit is as I start inspecting the branches for invertebrates. He’s usually quite upbeat, but today he’s quiet.
The sound of a kookaburra reaches us from a nearby eucalyptus grove. ‘Hear that?’ Lucy catches my eye through the branches of the tree. I nod; a kookaburra’s laugh is truly a remarkable call.
Lucy gets to her feet and she and Malcolm meander over to the grove of trees to see if they can spot the kookaburra. But I notice they’re not looking up into the branches. Instead, behind one of the trees, out of sight of the rest of our group, I see them stop to kiss.
Oliver comes over and helps me up, then we take a seat on the dry grass under a gum tree. My body begins to cool in the dappled light. I rest my head on Oliver’s shoulder, trying to send him a sign that I want to be in his arms. I want to return to that closeness we had in my bedroom, when he was focused only on me, affectionate and loving. He takes his phone out of his shorts pocket; it’s lit with a notification. ‘Look, another like.’
I sit up and run my hands over the prickly earth. ‘You know, you can turn those notifications off.’
‘You can talk,’ he replies. ‘You’re always on your phone.’
‘With good reasons—I’m texting people and reading news articles, not obsessing over numbers.’
‘We have to keep track.’ He frowns, clicking through to our page. ‘This video only has three more likes than the last one did. And that was dismal.’
I sigh, trying not to let my frustration spoil our togetherness. While Oliver’s fixated on our likes and subscribers, I check my own notifications. I guess we’re obsessed in different ways.
Last night I filled out the long questionnaire on Facebook for the Activists Unite group, which included a description of my activism experience and aims and interests. I wrote and rewrote my answers trying to make myself appear as impressive as possible and highlighting my experience saving Chirp’s life. But I still haven’t been accepted.
I see there’s a new post from Stella: Remember: Join the fight for justice this International Animal Activist Day (IAAD).
The Activist Day is in two weeks. I keep reading. The event is in Melbourne. Our Melbourne? As in, Melbourne, Australia? That can’t be right. Stella will be in Australia these school holidays? There’s a note at the bottom of the post: Due to previous experience with industry infiltrators, this event is only open to experienced activists. Membership of Activists Unite required.
Melbourne is only a short flight away, or a day on the bus. And Oliver will be there anyway, visiting his dad. Then my heart sinks. There’s no point getting excited; only members of the group can go.
I screenshot Stella’s post, just in case I lose it, then look through my feed again and decide to share the latest from Expose Them. Today they’re featuring an American woman videoed wearing a long fur jacket.
I put my phone back in my pocket and look over at the group of fathers. My dad’s still talking, his back turned to me. A game of footy has erupted in the playground and already the dads are shouting and taking it too seriously. Amid the cloud of dust, I see Diana in the mix. Usually it’s been the dads’ game, or so I’ve heard, but today a few of the mums, including Diana, said, ‘Stuff that.’ There’s a small revolution taking place in West Creek.
I see my dad’s shoulders move up and down as they all laugh again, and a flush of happiness washes through me that he is here today. I return my head to Oliver’s shoulder as I watch the game. I feel the heat from his body, the gentle brush of the breeze on my neck, and time slows to a heartbeat. Relaxed and dreamy, I’m not even bothered that he’s still scrolling on his phone. Instead, I wonder if he’s sad about his father not being here, or if he’s nervous about visiting him in Melbourne. I turn to kiss his cheek and Oliver returns a sweet smile.
Dad finally turns around and breaks away from the group. He walks over to us and sits down next to me on the grass. ‘One too many.’ He frowns at the can and puts it down.
‘What were you talking about?’ I ask him, watching as Bruce stamps his can flat and attempts to kick it into the bushes next to him. He keeps missing and his mates start howling with laughter, so loudly that a few of the footy dads turn to look.
‘Not much.’
Diana joins us, taking off her hat and wiping her brow, now smeared with dry earth. She’s carrying a plateful of what she usually calls ‘poison’. She notices our looks and shrugs. ‘Couldn’t help myself. Starving.’
I turn to Dad. ‘So, are you going camping with them?’
Diana smirks. ‘Yes, Adam, what were you discussing with those delightful men?’
‘Not much,’ he repeats. His eyes flick to me. ‘And nope, no camping.’
‘Secret men’s business, hey?’ Diana says, sitting down next to Oliver.
My dad winks. ‘What happens in Vegas, stays in ... West Creek High School’s Sunday Barbecue.’
Diana laughs. ‘Sport, I bet.’
‘The weather,’ Oliver says, not looking up from his phone. ‘That’s literally all anyone talks about.’
‘Women always assume sport,’ Dad says to Diana. ‘Like that’s all we think about. I happen to have very intellectual pastimes I’ll have you know.’
‘Go on th
en, give me an example.’
‘Have I mentioned my love of literature? Did you tell her, Sky?’ My dad gives me a grin. ‘I even got my buddy Jaxon into Dostoevsky, and I swear you can hear the influence in some of his latest lyrics. Are you into reading, Oliver?’
‘A little,’ Oliver says. I can tell from his voice he’s pissed at having to hear about Jaxon yet again. Dad’s oblivious, of course.
‘You wanted to study literature, right, Dad?’ I say, turning the conversation back to him.
‘Sure did. That was after biology. Then I ended up in law and dropped out of that. Don’t use me as a career example.’ He waves his finger at us with mock authority.
Diana looks at him curiously. No one would ever guess this side of my dad given his mountain-man persona.
‘Five bucks if you can name a single female writer in the last ten years.’ Diana finishes her chips and licks the salt off her fingers.
‘Let’s make it ten.’
They continue their banter, needling and laughing. I watch for a while, then return my head to Oliver’s shoulder. It feels higher than usual, taught and stressed, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s because of me and what happened with Jaxon.
The shadows have elongated and the sun paints the sky orange as it starts its slow descent. The game of footy is finished and Bruce is back at the barbecue stand, scraping off the burnt meat.
‘So, what was it then, Dad? What were you really talking about with Bruce?’
Magpies have started fluting their songs by the time he answers. ‘Diana was right: just football, Australian rules—or “footy” as you Aussies call it.’
That’s weird. Dave tried to talk to him about it last week and it was clear as today’s cloudless sky that my dad knows absolutely nothing about football.
Chapter 4
‘Is that banana coconut?’ Lucy asks the guy behind the counter. We’re in our local bakery in town, Bake House, and because of the school holidays the place is packed.
‘Something like that,’ he says, looking at the line behind us.
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