Star

by Ondine Sherman

‘What?’ Oliver looks between Lucy and me. ‘Your dad was invited hunting?’

  I try to keep my face neutral to hide my feelings. I hadn’t told Oliver about the hunting yet, and now he’s going to think I’m keeping secrets again. Things just seem to keep going wrong between us.

  ‘Is that how you got the idea for a kangaroo video?’ Oliver says. ‘You didn’t tell me.’

  Unsure how to respond, I try making light of it. ‘Yeah, it’s no biggie. My dad obviously isn’t going to go, so I just wanted to forget about it.’

  Oliver nods slowly and Lucy continues, breaking the awkward silence. ‘When Dad was in Brisbane last month, he went to a community screening of a documentary film called Kangaroo. Have you heard of it?’ I shake my head. ‘So, the film crew followed the shooters around and ...’ Lucy’s eyes widen. ‘Dad said a few times he even had to shut his eyes, which is not like him. He watches super gory movies.’

  I show her the letter to the editor that was in the paper and she gets busy reading.

  ‘What have you found online so far?’ Oliver asks. His voice doesn’t give any sign that he’s upset with me. Relieved, I give him a quick summary. ‘I guess we could ask Pete what goes on,’ he suggests after I finish. ‘Don’t you take the same bus as he does?’

  I try to imagine myself tapping Pete on the shoulder, him removing his earbuds, a frown on his face as I inquire about the ins and outs of kangaroo hunting. I don’t see it happening.

  ‘Maybe Malcolm could speak to him,’ Lucy says after a beat. ‘It’s holidays now, but I can see if he has his number.’

  We agree that sounds like a plan, and I return to my research task. Next, I read an article about kangaroo skins, exported and sold as k-leather.

  ‘Did you know it’s found in soccer shoes?’ I swivel my laptop to show them the series of campaigns and an advert with David Beckham. ‘We could do a video about how Beckham made a big fuss by refusing to wear them. It made all the news. Not original, I know. But it’s topical.’

  ‘Celebrity news always rakes in the likes,’ Lucy says.

  ‘How long ago did this happen?’ Oliver asks.

  I check the dates. ‘Oh, a while ago.’

  ‘So it’s old news.’

  I return to my task, not allowing myself to feel defeated. If he wants original content, I’ll find it. I read that kangaroo meat is sent to Europe and Asia. China nearly started importing it too, but a few activists stopped the plan in its tracks. That’s cool. But it happened ages ago too. Then I discover an article about the beginnings of the industry and how it was supposed to address overpopulation. But the journalist discovered plenty of disagreement between researchers about numbers and survey methods. It seems scientists have opposing opinions; some think kangaroo populations are going down, and others up. Weird.

  ‘Luce, I thought science was meant to be objective.’

  ‘Research is based on the scientific method,’ she says. ‘But Dad says personal bias is inevitable.’

  Oliver thinks surveys are too dry for a video. Argh.

  I get up from the bed to go and raid the kitchen for snacks. I return with a bag of chips, and we all change positions, moving our laptops and phones. Lucy lays on her tummy and Oliver moves to my desk. I do a downward dog, like Melody taught me, to stretch out my back. I wonder if she’s finding time to do yoga or meditate like she loves to do. Since we got back from Alaska, she’s been in Sydney working three jobs to save money for a flight back to the USA to see her girlfriend, Autumn, who she met there. They are going to travel the coast together. When I ran away from my father after I found out he was a hunter, Autumn was one of the women who saved me from nearly freezing. Her campervan was complete with forest-found tea-leaves, scented oils and even purple curtains.

  Bella licks my face and I lie down to join her on the floor.

  We each continue our tasks, sharing titbits of information we discover along the way. We’re like investigative reporters following the scent of a story.

  Lucy tells us that kangaroos are supposed to be killed humanely, but there are also different opinions on that. Because they’re shot at night and their heads are very small, it’s not easy for even the most professional shooters, let alone a recreational hunter like Pete’s dad, to get a clean shot, and many kangaroos are injured in the body or neck. This can mean they suffer for a long time before dying. And then there’s the issue of joeys. Oliver reads from a government website: ‘Shooters should avoid shooting female kangaroos and wallabies where it is obvious that they have pouch young or dependent young at foot.’ Another site says that shooting females and joeys, although discouraged, is still legal and common.

  I click through to a food safety report that says sampled meat from supermarkets contained E. coli and salmonella, but the report is packed with scientific jargon and way too hard to read let alone translate into an interesting video.

  I read about the huge numbers of kangaroos killed on roads and the people who rescue their joeys—just like Lucy’s family does with birds. This leads me to the YouTube channel of a kangaroo carer, full of videos of rescued joeys hanging in homemade pouches and drinking from bottles and being, well, adorable. I subscribe immediately and return to my research until the articles eventually repeat themselves.

  ‘We could do a cuteness mash-up,’ I say, showing the orphaned joeys to Oliver and Lucy.

  ‘We can’t keep going down the cute road,’ Oliver says. ‘But what if we do something like ...’ He turns back to his laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard, his mouth twisting into his thinking face.

  Lucy holds up her phone. ‘Have you seen this Facebook post from this week?’

  ‘Who’s it from?’ Oliver asks.

  She squints. ‘Someone called—’

  The doorbell rings.

  ‘That’s Malcolm,’ Lucy sings, jumping up from the bed.

  When she returns, she’s holding his hand and smiling. Malcolm hands me a bag of snacks he’s brought from home and sits on the floor across from Oliver.

  ‘Cool T-shirt,’ I say to Malcolm. He looks down, apparently forgetting he’s wearing a shirt with the slogan Geology Rocks, surrounded by pictures of, yes, rocks.

  ‘Thanks.’ He runs his large hand through his hair and squeezes Lucy close so they can sit spoon-hugging. His back is resting against my cupboard, extra-long legs bent, his knobbly knees sticking out.

  Oliver repositions himself beside me on the bed and we lie side by side on our stomachs, hip bones brushing. He gives me a sideways smile, cute as all hell, and for the first time in ages I feel the energy flowing between us, the same electricity I felt the first time we touched, by accident, at school. I want to tell him how I feel, how much I love him.

  Oliver rolls over and sits up on the bed. ‘Read out that Facebook post,’ he reminds Lucy.

  ‘Okay, here it is.’ She clears her throat. ‘Who’s ready to make a noise? The kangaroo industry is the largest for-profit, wholesale slaughter of wildlife around the globe. And it’s government sanctioned. These native Australian marsupials are deemed a pest. The industry claims to be humane and sustainable. Is this true? A number of questions come to mind. Firstly, how much can we trust information sourced from parties with vested interests? The facts are difficult to glean because the industry operates in physical and metaphorical darkness, its proponents largely unaccountable.’

  This language sounds familiar. Malcolm pulls Lucy closer as she continues to read.

  ‘But I have spoken to whistleblowers who speak of horrors in the field. They report a high frequency of non-fatal shots, and describe the challenges of identifying males from females at long range. They tell of the young-at-foot who flee from the scene and inevitably die of hypothermia and starvation, orphaned without their mothers. These people are frightened to reveal their identities lest they are met with violence ...’

  ‘Melodramatic or what?’ Malcolm looks between us. That wouldn’t be the word I’d use.

  Lucy reads on.

&nb
sp; ‘Not us. We won’t be silenced, afraid, or hide. All who live in the shadows will be revealed. Speciesism will be abolished. Join the fight for justice in Melbourne for International Animal Action Day (IAAD). Next weekend. Experienced activists only.’

  Malcolm chuckles. ‘Shadows? Who is this person?’

  I furrow my brows. It’s not funny.

  Lucy holds up her phone. ‘She’s got, like, twenty thousand likes on that post.’

  ‘What?’ Oliver jumps up to look. ‘There are hundreds of comments and shares.’

  ‘You’re kidding me,’ Malcolm says.

  ‘Can I see?’ I ask.

  Lucy hands me the phone and I check out the profile. Just as I suspected, Stella looks back at me from her profile picture. My eyes linger on her face, her dark complexion, full lips painted ruby red and short black ringlets of hair. Her left wrist is covered in bracelets, similar to the ones my mum wore, but rather than Indian-style they are thick plates of gold like Wonder Woman’s. She looks worldly, different and seriously beautiful. A princess of an exotic island—one I’d love to live on.

  I turn to Oliver. ‘It’s in Melbourne. Imagine if we could go together.’ A change of scenery might be exactly what we need to reboot our relationship.

  ‘I don’t know if Dad would be up for it.’ Oliver frowns. ‘My girlfriend staying over? He’s kind of old school.’

  I deflate. Usually I get a tingle when he says girlfriend, but now it doesn’t feel like enough.

  ‘Whereabouts is it in Melbourne?’ Oliver asks.

  Lucy peers at the screen. ‘All it says is more info coming soon.’

  The post from Stella has reminded me about Pete and his dad. I catch Lucy’s eye and nod towards Malcolm, mouthing the words, Ask him.

  She understands immediately and turns her head to look at Malcolm. ‘Hey, you know Pete, right?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Pete. The kid in your class.’

  ‘Sure do, he’s my cousin.’ Malcolm runs his hand through his hair.

  ‘Oh really? You never told me that,’ Lucy says in surprise.

  ‘We’re not best mates or anything.’

  ‘Do you know if he and his dad go kangaroo hunting?’ Lucy asks.

  ‘Wouldn’t be surprised. A bunch of guys in my year go with their dads during the breaks.’

  ‘Just guys?’ she asks.

  He lifts his eyebrows.

  She huffs. ‘Sexist, much.’

  He kisses her on the cheek from behind, and she can’t help but smile. Oliver hasn’t done anything so tender for ages.

  ‘But you’ve never gone, have you?’ Lucy says, turning to look at him again.

  Malcolm snorts. ‘I hate blood; can’t even handle having my own taken. And I stick to slightly more important issues, like the formation of the Earth’s crust.’

  ‘Right.’ Lucy shakes her head. ‘Well, we were wondering if you could ask Pete what goes on out there.’

  ‘How come?’ Malcolm asks.

  I jump in. ‘Research for our YouTube channel, Keep Kind. We want to do a piece on kangaroos and—’

  ‘Show both sides of the story,’ Oliver finishes.

  ‘So it’s balanced,’ I agree.

  Malcolm nods. ‘No worries. I’ll ask him.’ He goes back to hugging Lucy closer.

  He seems to really love her, and he’s probably as cut-up as I am about the possibility of her leaving. Maybe this is a chance for us all to rally around her.

  ‘Maybe your family knows of someone looking for a biologist,’ I say. Lucy told me Malcolm’s dad’s a mechanic in town and his mum’s been working at West Creek Hair Design for the last twenty years. But there’s always a chance.

  ‘They’re not in that field.’ He scrunches up his nose.

  ‘But you never know. It’s all about connections, isn’t it?’ I turn to Oliver. ‘You could ask your mum too.’

  Malcolm looks uncertainly at Lucy, who shrugs. I take that as a yes. She’s not used to asking for help, but if there’s a way I can do something, anything, I will. I can’t stand the thought of her having to leave her home, her birds and her life. She’s putting on a brave face, but she must be devastated inside.

  Malcolm puts his chin on Lucy’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry. He’ll find a job.’

  It’s close to midnight by the time everyone leaves. Malcolm’s got his P-plates so he drops Oliver and Lucy home.

  I try to sleep, but thoughts whiz in my head like race cars around a track. Why was Oliver so quick to reject my suggestion about Melbourne, and why hasn’t Stella accepted me into Activists Unite? If only I could go to International Animal Action Day, feel the vibe, admire Stella from afar, and see all the amazing people nominated for Young Activist of the Year.

  If only I could meet Oliver there. It could be romance, like an old black-and-white film set in Paris, get us back to what we were—in a close, trusting relationship—and even take us where we need to go. To the next level, as Lucy called it. My toes tingle at the thought.

  Chapter 7

  ‘Did you get some good photos of the dirt bike trials?’ I ask Dad.

  We’re sitting with Oliver and Dave under a large umbrella in the beer garden of our local pub. Paula’s especially tired today, so we’ve promised to bring soup home for her.

  ‘Sure did,’ Dad replies, ‘although it took me a while to clean my camera afterwards from all the dust. I’m heading to the RSL later; we’re discussing next weekend’s Country Music Festival Awards. I still can’t believe they’re trusting me to photograph it!’

  I hold up my hand for a high five.

  ‘Can I check it out?’ Dave gestures to my dad’s camera case.

  ‘Go for it.’ Dad places the black case carefully on the table. He’s sitting to my left, Oliver to my right, and Dave’s across from us, his bare feet extended along the wooden bench.

  It’s my last weekend with Oliver—on Friday he’s taking the bus to Melbourne. We filmed our weekly YouTube video this morning: a report on a campaign to stop dog fights. There’s a whole new set of hashtags we can use for this video, so we’re hopeful we’ll reach different audiences. Oliver’s going to edit it later. He seemed in a good mood this morning, and was slightly more affectionate than he has been the last few days. Here’s hoping.

  Dave turns the camera this way and that like it’s some relic unearthed from a time capsule. The camera is a large, heavy, complicated-looking chunk of equipment. Dad explains the various features, demonstrating how to focus manually, adjust the aperture and shutter speed, and how to zoom in to frame a picture.

  I’ve heard the spiel many times, so I pick up my phone. There’s a message from Lucy.

  There’s a job going in Russia. Dad’s applying.

  What? Russia? I’ll have to ramp up my job-search efforts.

  No! I write, but then delete it. It’s not Lucy’s fault this is happening. Instead I send a bear emoji with hearts around it. Are you okay?

  I’m okay. Malcolm is pumped. Says there’s an unbelievable mineral collection in a museum near Siberia.

  He’s talking rocks at a time like this?

  Your dad will find something here. He has to!

  I hope so. On the bright side, I’ll get to see bears in the winter.

  Dad and Dave are still talking cameras, so I open Facebook to check if Stella has accepted me into Activists Unite yet. Nothing. They must have decided I’m not experienced enough. Checking for updates on the International Animal Activist Day event page, I see a new series of posts: a collage of faces. The finalists for Young Activist of the Year. Each person already has scores of supportive comments. I read how the winner will be announced at the event, receive a cash prize and a bundle of clothes and other vegan goodies.

  ‘What does this do?’ Dave points to a setting on one of the top dials on the camera.

  ‘It’s for shooting in the dark,’ Dad answers. ‘Sky, you’re always on your phone.’ He tuts.

  I was just about to share the latest post from
Expose Them—about a guy who drowned a kitten—but I put down my phone and look around. A toddler runs past us. Is that a chip up his nose? His mother, who was eating a piece of fried fish, runs to catch him. It’s hard to believe there’ll soon be a little kid like that running around our house. Will my cousin be a good kid or cheeky like this boy? I guess all kids have their naughty days ... Mum told me I was as wilful as a camel and stubbornly refused bath time. It will be awesome having a baby cousin to call my own, but will Paula become frustrated and frazzled all the time? I hope our relationship will be okay, and we will be as close as ever.

  ‘You can take photos at night?’ Oliver asks Dad.

  ‘Sure can, bud.’ Dad stuffs a few chips in his mouth from a bowl the guys are sharing. Since the waitress can’t say for sure there’s no animal fat in the oil, I don’t indulge, instead inhaling their delicious smell. ‘I mean, they’re not clear images like you’d get in good light, but you can get decent shots. Grainy but good.’

  Oliver looks at me, eyebrows raised.

  ‘What?’ I ask him, taking a sip of my apple juice.

  ‘Kangaroos are nocturnal animals. Adam has a camera that shoots in the dark. Bruce invited him hunting. What if—?’

  ‘Oliver!’ I butt in. There’s no way my dad’s going out hunting. What is he thinking?

  ‘Sorry.’ Oliver gives me a pained expression. ‘But we just saw that post by that woman—’

  ‘Stella.’ I’ve only mentioned her name a thousand times.

  ‘Yeah. You love her, right? You’re always sharing her stuff,’ Oliver continues. ‘And Keep Kind is screwed.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ I put my glass down, my voice higher.

  ‘I’m just saying: kangaroos, hunting, professional camera, original footage. Boom!’ Oliver makes an explosive motion with his hands. ‘This is just the controversy we need to spike our numbers. My application with Viola Films might actually have a chance.’

  Dad turns to Oliver. ‘You’re saying I should photograph the hunt?’

  ‘Exactamundo!’ Oliver beams brighter than I’ve seen for days. ‘But video is way better at going viral. You can do video, right, Adam?’