‘And this one?’ Lucy points to a brown cupcake with yellow icing as I breathe in the sweet smell of freshly baked cakes.
‘Carrot, I guess.’ He’s now staring into space.
‘I’ll have ...’ She pauses to scan the ten options again. ‘You don’t have anything vegan yet, do you?’
‘Vegan?’ He looks between us, confused.
‘It’s okay, Luce, you go ahead and get one,’ I say.
She looks at the choices one more time before deciding. ‘Raspberry chocolate, please.’
He passes her the cupcake on a tray and I order a fresh apple juice. I nudge Lucy and point to a small sign standing on the glass counter: Help Wanted. ‘You could do this job with your eyes closed.’
Lucy is one of the most responsible, mature people I know. She helps run her family’s bird sanctuary in her spare time, and gets high marks at school even after sleepless nights feeding babies who have been attacked by dogs or cats, hit by cars or just plain fallen out of their nests. She applied for Saturday work at the newsagency last month but didn’t get the position. I wanted to get a job this year too, have some extra money to spend, but Paula wasn’t keen. She says Year Eleven is hard enough on top of helping with the housework now she’s pregnant, and I didn’t argue—since Dad’s been here, he’s been spoiling me anyway.
‘If I worked here, I could convince them to add vegan ones for you,’ Lucy says as we make our way past the line of waiting customers. She puts her tray down on a table by the front window where two little girls, faces smeared with pink icing, are just leaving. ‘I do need the extra money.’
‘For the prints?’
‘Yep. They are way more expensive than I thought. And another person messaged me.’
‘On Insta? That’s unbelievable! What’s that, like four people who want to buy one?’
She nods, then furrows her brow. ‘So if each one costs me twenty bucks to make, and I sell them for fifty ...’
‘You could be making at least a few hundred dollars by the end of the year.’
‘That’s nowhere near enough. My mentor said I need to invest in advertising; it’s crucial for building a customer base and starting a business.’
Lucy went to a design course over the summer and now her teacher is helping her develop her skills and get her work out there.
She takes a bite of her cupcake. ‘I could do so much better than this!’
‘Birdwatching, baking, drawing, and now you’re a business woman,’ I say enthusiastically. I want her to know she’s awesome. But suddenly a wave of insecurity washes over me. ‘What skills do I have?’
She smirks. ‘You mean only dramatic gestures like releasing an innocent chicken into an unsuspecting audience at the town hall?’
‘Ha ha. Chirp was a trooper; she knew it was for the greater cause.’ I sip my juice.
‘And trying to sacrifice yourself for a dying moose?’
I pout. ‘I want to help animals; that’s my passion. I have been trying.’
Lucy pets my hand like I’m a sad dog. ‘I’m only joking. You’ve done lots of great things.’
I think of all my impulsive actions. ‘Yeah, but I’ve made a lot of mistakes along the way.’ If only I had someone to guide me—a mentor like Lucy has ... Someone like Stella, although that’s impossible; she’s way too important, too famous. I still can’t believe she’ll be in Australia next week.
‘So, Chirp laid another egg today,’ Lucy says. Even though Chirp is officially my chicken, she lives in Mark’s bird rehabilitation sanctuary. I visit her regularly, still enjoying our cuddles and games, but Lucy is really her primary caregiver.
‘I can’t believe that after everything that chicken’s gone through she’s started to lay,’ I say. ‘What are you doing with the eggs?’
‘Why? Do you want to give them to Paula and Dave?’
‘No, just wondering.’
‘Well, Dad says commercially bred hens secrete a lot of calcium because they lay more than usual, so we feed the eggs back to her.’
I almost spit out my juice. ‘Seriously? Gross!’
‘I know.’ Lucy snorts a laugh and we both start giggling. It feels like old times. It’s nice to have time to hang out together; since Oliver and I started our channel and Malcolm’s come on the scene, we’ve had almost no time together where it’s just us. But I can’t complain—I know I was the first one to couple up ... Jealousy isn’t a rational thing, I guess.
‘So, how’s it going with Malcolm?’ I ask. Judging by their kissing, it’s all good.
‘Um ...’ She puts her cupcake down.
‘Luce?’
She pauses.
‘Oh no, is it bad?’ I reach my hand across the table, thinking they must have broken up.
‘What? No.’ Lucy shakes her head. ‘We’re totally fine. Actually, the other day, totally out of the blue ... I was admiring one of his stones; it’s shiny with this really pretty bluey purple colour.’ She takes out her phone and starts scrolling through pictures. ‘I think it’s called peacock ore or something. It was formed from this geological process that began—’
‘Lucy!’ This is not the time to talk rocks.
‘He told me he loves me,’ she blurts. Her expression looks pained.
‘That’s amazing! But what’s wrong?’
‘I mean, I think I do too, but ...’ She bites her lip. ‘Did you know when you first ... you know, with Oliver ...?’
I stare at her, confused.
She continues. ‘Did you know that you were good together, that you were ready to take things to the next level?’
If Lucy’s talking about what I think she is, she has the wrong idea. ‘Oh. We haven’t done that yet.’
‘Oh.’ She looks at me. ‘I just assumed ...’
‘I would tell you if I did,’ I say. She’s my best friend—I tell her everything; well, almost everything, and this would certainly be on the discussion list. ‘I want to. I love him a lot.’
I think of our first kiss. Huge moon hanging above us, glowing so bright it looked like a prop on a stage. Oliver’s grass-green eyes staring into mine. The freckle by his left eye I’d been longing to kiss for months. His maple-syrup skin soft as cream and hands rough from woodworking that even now make my heart beat fast.
But it’s not just physical. Oliver’s kind, thoughtful and creative, and he shares my love of animals ... I admire and respect him and am totally in love. But I know he wants to take it slow and hasn’t yet forgiven me for what happened with Jaxon, and the thing I don’t tell Lucy is: Everything was perfect until Alaska. Now our chemistry is frozen like an ice-blue glacier. It feels too much like a betrayal to Oliver to share all that with her.
‘I don’t think the time’s right for us yet,’ I say instead. ‘But maybe soon.’ I hope. Lucy stares at the remains of her cupcake, so I continue. ‘It can also take time for those feeling to come. I read this blog that said just because things don’t start with a big bang doesn’t mean they can’t go great later. You do like him, don’t you?’
‘Yeah, I do.’ She slowly moves cupcake crumbs around her plate like she’s playing chess. ‘It’s not really about the chemistry ...’
Out the window, something catches my eye: a figure across the road. Head down, earbuds in, he’s wearing a long-sleeved black hoodie, despite the hot day. It’s Pete Kelly.
‘I often see him wandering around alone,’ Lucy says, following my line of sight. ‘His dad’s always around town with his mates during the day; must work night shifts or something.’
We watch as Pete passes a woman with a small dog on a leash. He stops abruptly and crouches to scratch the dog under the chin. The dog wags his tail and tries to lick him, catching his calf, which makes Pete smile. Just as Pete nears the corner of the newsagency, I see my father appear, almost colliding with him. Dad says something and Pete takes out his earbuds and nods as my dad points behind him. Then Pete replaces his earbuds and continues his walk.
I wave frantically thro
ugh the window and my dad spots me, his eyes lighting up like the rising sun as he crosses the road between us. It’s moments like these I feel a war inside me, happy and sad battling for victory. My father’s here with me now, but who knows for how long?
The bell on the Bake House door jingles as he enters and makes his way to our table.
I pull out the third seat for him. ‘Sit with us.’
‘I bumped into Bruce earlier,’ he says as he takes a seat. ‘He insisted I join him and his mates at the pub. I’d just left there when I saw Pete across the road. I told him where his dad was—not that he seemed to care too much.’
‘Did you talk about anything interesting with Bruce?’ I ask, curious about what they have in common.
My dad rubs his neck. ‘Football.’
Okay, this is getting weird. ‘But how do you even understand what they’re talking about?’ The AFL is an obsession for many in West Creek, but I distinctly remember my dad telling Dave it doesn’t even exist in America.
He shrugs.
‘Come on, Dad. What’s the big secret?’
‘Let’s talk about it later.’ His eyes dart to Lucy.
‘Why can’t you just tell me now?’
‘All right, but you’re not going to like it, Sky.’ Dad rubs his chin and looks between Lucy and me. ‘Don’t freak out, okay? Lucy,’ he turns to her, ‘don’t let Sky freak out.’
‘Okay,’ Lucy says tentatively.
‘And?’ I ask.
‘I wanted to tell you about it at the barbecue when the guys first mentioned it, but it didn’t seem worth upsetting you.’
I raise my eyebrows. ‘Tell me about what?’
He sighs. ‘Hunting.’
‘Hunting?’ I feel my heart rate quicken. ‘You’re not going to—’
‘No, Sky.’ He touches my arm. ‘No way.’
I exhale. I couldn’t handle another drama like we had in Alaska. Not when scenes of my father’s hunt still replay in my mind before I sleep, scenes I wish I could forget.
‘They go out hunting?’ Lucy’s voice is higher than usual. ‘What, wild pigs, foxes, rabbits—?’
‘Did you tell them?’ I interrupt. My father’s hunting history was meant to be kept under wraps. Nobody but our inner circle—Paula, Dave, Oliver, Diana, Lucy and her parents—knows he was a professional hunting guide in Alaska. We didn’t even tell Oliver’s sister because she’s little and, although she’s super cute, she’s a bit of a blabber-mouth.
‘No, I didn’t say a word. Anyway,’ he looks over at the glass display, ‘what’s your favourite here? The local special—lamingtons, is it?’
‘Are they hunting kangaroos then?’ Lucy persists.
Dad turns back and catches the look on my face. He sighs and reaches over the table to touch my elbow. ‘Sky, I’m in West Creek to be with you. Let’s drop the subject, okay?’
‘Okay,’ I mumble.
Lucy eventually breaks the awkward silence. ‘Fun fact: girl kangaroos are always pregnant.’ She pushes her glasses up.
‘Is that right?’ My dad says. ‘But how—?’
‘They freeze their embryos until their other baby is ready to leave the pouch. When they’re born they’re, like, the size of a grain of rice.’ She demonstrates the size with her fingers.
‘Incredible.’ Dad raises his eyebrows. ‘Did you know that, Sky?’
I shrug distractedly, and Lucy continues. ‘The joeys pee and poo in the mum’s pouch, and she kicks them out so she can clean up the mess. Unless they’re too little, of course, then she just cleans around them.’
Despite Lucy’s gargantuan effort to lighten the mood, I still feel flat; the fear that my father will abandon me and return to hunting is like an old wound that’s been reopened. But I know this situation isn’t his fault, so I try to pick myself up.
‘Now, how about a box of those lamingtons to eat later? My treat,’ Dad asks.
He’s forgotten that they’re full of cream and I can’t eat them.
‘No thanks,’ I say.
He looks towards the glass display and back at me, his expression confused.
In the past, I may not have clarified, not explained as I climbed onto my high horse of being misunderstood. But now I smile at him. ‘They’re not vegan, but thanks anyway. You get one if you want to; I’ve heard they’re the best in town.’
Dad smiles back at me as we begin to pack up our things. We’re all good.
Outside the bakery, we say goodbye. Lucy takes the bus west, and my dad heads to the post office—we’re sending cards and gifts to my grandmother in time for her birthday. I get on a bus in the other direction, towards home.
I find my seat and put on my earphones. Just as we’re about to leave, Pete gets on. He sits in his usual spot in the row ahead of me. I wonder if he’s ever been out hunting with his father, and if anyone in my class goes. I suppose I’m still a city girl at heart, and don’t get the country ways.
Despite the music and gentle rumbling of the engine as the bus drives along, I can’t seem to settle. My phone bings. It’s Lucy.
U okay? U went all pale.
Yeah, I text back. I just don’t understand how people can kill kangaroos.
She sends a sad-face emoji. Lucy’s an animal lover just like me, but we express it in different ways. Hers is expressed in her dedication, waking every few hours to feed tiny birds with a syringe knowing they will likely die. I admire her for that; it can’t be easy.
The bus stops outside the RSL and about twenty silver-haired ladies board. The bus is already quite full, and they make their way down the aisle looking for seats. One walks towards the back. She seems spry enough to stand, but Pete immediately gets up, moving aside for her to sit. She thanks him but indicates no, she can stand. I watch as he takes hold of the hand bar, continuing to leave the seat vacant. After a few minutes, she gives up and sits down with a relieved sigh.
I return to my thoughts. Oliver cares a lot about animals too, of course, but in a more logical, sensible way, and he’s not vegan, which sometimes feels like a barrier between us.
I guess I’m just overly sensitive, and what bothers me profoundly doesn’t seem to make a mark on others. It’s a lonely feeling. At least I know Stella shares my thoughts.
My phone bings again.
We’ve lost two subscribers, Oliver writes, adding a frustrated-emoji face. Down to sixty-two. Quirky crustaceans weren’t a hit. Argh.
I text back: Don’t worry, we’ll get them back with our big and brilliant burger news next week. One of the large fast-food companies has created a new plant-based burger, and it’s big news in the USA. Hopefully our video will be a hit.
My phone starts to ring.
‘I don’t know, Sky,’ Oliver says sadly. ‘We’ve been trying to get to a hundred followers for months. Maybe we should just stop. Viola Films is a fantasy, it’ll never happen. Trying to build Keep Kind isn’t working ...’ He groans.
‘You know it takes longer than that,’ I say. ‘I read that every minute, four hundred hours of footage are posted on YouTube. Four hundred!’
He doesn’t seem to hear me. ‘We could just delete the whole thing. If I apply with a loser channel it will look even more pathetic.’
I feel a prickle of annoyance; it’s my channel too and I actually believe what we’re doing is important. I take a deep breath to calm myself and try to reassure him yet again. ‘But you’re doing such an awesome job with all the post-production stuff.’
‘And it’s still a total failure.’
‘No, it’s not. Maybe we haven’t promoted our stuff enough.’
He sighs. ‘I’ve spent ages doing all the SEO stuff, optimising our content for searches, making sure we’re using the right terms, tags ...’
Nothing I say or do seems to help. ‘Maybe we should start a Keep Kind Facebook page too,’ I suggest. ‘Lucy’s mentor told her it’s really helpful for reaching audiences.’
‘Okay, maybe,’ he says. That’s something. A crumb I can work
with. ‘Thanks for trying to make me feel better, anyway.’
‘I’ll create a page tonight.’ But where and how we find new audiences in time for his application deadline is another question.
The bus bumps and rumbles along, and I chew my fingernails as I consider this.
Chapter 5
It’s Saturday, and Paula, Dave, my dad and I are lazing around the garden table, the brunch spread that Dave and I prepared mostly finished. We’re celebrating Paula’s birthday. She’s finally out of her pyjamas and wearing camel maternity pants and a blue linen blouse. She’s put on a smidge of mascara and a dab of lipstick, and she looks lovely.
The day’s warm enough to warrant Dave putting up the outside umbrella, and nearby, our large frangipani tree drops its final summer flower. The breeze, heavy with fragrance, brushes over my neck.
I sit forward and tap the newspaper that sits in front of my dad. ‘Have you shown them yet?’ I ask him.
He nods at the paper. ‘Go ahead.’
I open the newspaper and find the spot, then swivel it around to show Paula and Dave. ‘Here.’ I point to the photographs on page four.
The newspaper heading reads: West Creek in a new light. Dave and Paula squint to read the credit beneath the three pictures: Photography: Adam Black.
During his time in Australia, Dad’s been taking photos of local sites and events for a new West Creek Tourism website. One of the pictures shows the pedestrian mall on a Saturday morning. He did a time lapse so the shoppers are artistically blurred like they’re in an impressionist painting. Another shows the town hall from a very low angle, like the people are ants looking up at the spire. The third was taken at sunset, three multicoloured parakeets perched on the glowing ‘Welcome to West Creek’ sign.
Paula inspects the images closely, her hand on her belly. ‘Well done, Adam.’ She sounds sincere. ‘Is this your first time being published?’
‘Sure is.’
‘May mean a future career for you in West Creek.’ She says it casually, but I can feel the undercurrent. I know she wants him to stay longer, because it means so much to me. I hold my breath for a moment.
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