‘Stella! Miguel!’ A group sitting a few tables away waves them over. ‘You have to see this. Before the battery runs out.’ They’re holding out virtual reality goggles towards us.
Stella puts the pen back in her bag and takes out a business card. ‘Get back to me later with all Pete’s details, as well as those of the other boys who are regular hunters. I’ll see what I can dig up. The more info the better.’
She stands and dips the last piece of her sushi into soy sauce. ‘With my article and Miguel’s outreach, we’ll be able to reach millions and make a dent in the kangaroo industry. If this goes to plan, I want you both on stage in Los Angeles to present your video and talk about how it started a new movement to save kangaroos.’ She pops the sushi into her mouth and waits for my response.
My head is whirring. Oliver and I travelling to America together to stand on stage in front of hundreds of activists? That would be terrifying. But amazing. And it would get me a step closer to becoming an international journalist myself ... A dream come true.
‘What do you say, Sky? Could you get to LA? We may have some money in our budget to help you both with flights. We’d love to showcase the fresh faces of the movement, and ...’ she puts her hand to my cheek, ‘... a young, idealistic Australian activist like you is exactly what we need. Are you in?’
By now, I’m sure I’m flushed like a beetroot. I clutch her business card and hear myself say, ‘Yes.’
‘Wonderful!’ She beams. ‘Now, I’m going to go for a quick run. I’ll be back in time for the party. Running is my salvation; I take my running shoes wherever I go.’ She gives a wave and heads off across the courtyard.
Why Stella would need saving when she clearly has it all together, I have no idea.
Miguel takes Oliver’s shoulder. ‘This will take your channel to a new level.’
‘You serious?’ Oliver asks. ‘We could get over the thousand hurdle?’
‘A thousand is peanuts. Try ten thousand or a hundred. You are going to be stars, get ready. See you on the dance floor, bro. There’s some hip-shaking salsa happening soon.’ Miguel sways his hips in demonstration as he walks off after Stella.
As they disappear into the crowd, Oliver takes my hand, his eyes wide. ‘What have we just agreed to?’
I return a nervous smile. We are doing a campaign with Miguel and Stella; flying to LA; Oliver and I will be on stage ... ‘I’m starting to freak out. In a good way.’
How does everyone know these dance moves? I look around the dance floor at the moving people and try again to imitate them. I step my feet back and forth, swaying my hips and shimmying my shoulders. I feel like a wannabe seductress, something not lost on Oliver, who seems to have picked up on my vibe. He pulls me close and as we merge into the dancing crowd, I can’t help but loosen up, absorbing the warmth of the bodies around me who are twirling, spinning and twisting to the upbeat rhythm with energy and excitement.
With the conference officially over, the atmosphere has turned from empowerment to frivolity, with everyone enjoying a drink or three thanks to a makeshift bar and a large bowl of mojito. Even Oliver spooned some of the minty mixture into a cup and I took a few sips, which I can’t say I liked.
The church hall now looks like what I imagine a sultry nightclub to be, not that I’ve ever been to one. Four people are on stage, two singing in Spanish and the others on saxophone and classical guitar. The speakers are turned up and music fills the hall making it hard to hear but perfect for getting lost in the beat. Lanterns hang from the walls and groups of candles light up the dark corners illuminating the IAAD sign, which is still front and centre. I spot Stella talking to Ruth over to one side. She’s changed into a short playsuit that shows off her muscular legs.
I sent her a message before the party started, just to allay any fears. Are you sure exposing Pete’s name is okay?
She replied, I’m sure. If you can send all his details to me now, we’ll get going. Time is of the essence.
I went ahead and sent her everything I know about Pete; I even found his class photograph on our school website. A moment of doubt rises in me now, but I push it down. I remember the video clips of Stella on TV, her confidence and poise, and then seeing her on stage, respected by all. She obviously knows what she’s doing and I should feel lucky to be a part of it. Things have fallen into place. Keep Kind is a success, Pete will hopefully be held accountable for his cruel actions. And I know Stella will do that without getting my father or any of us in trouble.
I relax into Oliver’s arms. He smells of fresh lime laundry.
I have three hours before I have to meet Lucy for our overnight bus home. This time I can happily daydream during the trip, surrender to the bumps and turns, with no more apprehension about what’s awaiting me at the conference.
Miguel is dancing with a tall redhead close to us. He’s teaching her some moves and she’s laughing. I allow myself to surrender to the beat, the heat of my body slowly rising.
‘Sky!’ A girl taps me on the shoulder. It’s Issie, my Facebook friend and cat-fosterer. She has pinned her blonde hair high with a red barrette and she’s dancing with Devon, the British guy who was on stage.
‘Hey!’ I say.
‘You’re awesome, girl. I just wanted to tell you that.’ Her words are loose. ‘Wish I’d been so cool when I was your age.’ She turns to him. ‘Don’t you think she’s cool, Devon?’
Devon nods absent-mindedly, focusing on his feet.
‘I’ve never been called cool in my life!’ I say with a laugh.
‘What?’ She scrunches up her nose and leans closer.
I repeat it, raising my voice over the saxophonist, who’s doing a solo.
She laughs. ‘You gotta come hang with us after the vigil on Saturday.’
‘I don’t live here,’ I say.
‘Huh?’
‘I live ages away.’
She pouts dramatically. ‘You should move to Melbourne. You’re one of us, Cutie-Pie Sky, one of our flock now. Right, Devon?’
The music changes, Devon swings her around clumsily and she trips, squealing with laughter, then they’re gone, lost in the crowd.
My flock. I think Lucy would like that word.
I inhale the good vibes. The beat slows and I rest my head on Oliver’s shoulder. Dancing together reminds me of the gala, when we first got together. But tonight I have found my place as part of this awesome group of activists sharing the same beliefs in creating a more compassionate world, and my boyfriend is by my side.
Oliver leans in to kiss me and it feels like a kiss from long ago, from before Alaska, when we were perfect. His lips are soft and tender and I linger there for longer than I should.
We are okay.
‘Cutie-Pie-Sky,’ Oliver says with a grin. ‘I think you’ve made some new friends.’
‘I have, haven’t I?’ I kiss my all-time favourite spot, the freckle by his left eye. ‘Everyone here is so nice.’
‘I think you’re more than cute.’
Warmth spreads through my body and I kiss him again, this time in the crook of his neck.
‘Sorry about last night,’ Oliver says. ‘And, sorry I’ve been a bit stressed lately. You know I love you.’
I take a moment to let his words sink in. I’ve waited to hear them again for so long. And this is the perfect moment.
‘I know,’ I say, brushing a lock of hair off his forehead. ‘I love you too.’
Chapter 15
I message Lucy. Any news?
The sun slowly descends on an unusually warm Saturday. It’s the end of our school holidays and nearly a week since I got home from the conference. My bedroom is tinged pink, the floor fan is on rotation mode and I’m lying belly-down on my bed, a pillow lodged under my chest so I can text easily. The air from the fan tickles my cheek, moving my hair this way and that. Bella lies curled up by my feet, and I scratch her back with my foot, her soft fur wedged between my toes. It makes me feel a little better.
Mark mus
t have found something by now. I mean, he’s got a doctorate. But then I remember what Lucy told me: he’s not looking for any old position; Mark wants the perfect job and his search spans across the globe. A lump forms in my throat. Losing her is feeling more and more real.
About what? Lucy replies.
Did your dad get the leaflet I sent? I’m about to hit send, but then I delete my text and remind myself not to be too pushy. I sent her the organisation brochure from the conference, but I can’t keep asking her about Mark’s work. I should wait until she’s ready to tell me.
Seeing Malcolm today? I write instead.
Yep. Seeing Oliver?
We’re meeting in the dog park later.
She sends me two doggie emojis surrounded by hearts. Cute.
A Facebook notification pops up. Piglet heaven. Check it out @Sky.
Issie has tagged me in a video of two rescued piglets at an animal sanctuary chasing each other gleefully. One of them runs so fast she topples over. I giggle. In a second, the piglet is up and going at it again.
I reply to Issie with a gif of a beating heart. We’ve been communicating on Activists Unite constantly since I returned from Melbourne
As well as being enveloped in the world of vegans and animal activists, I’ve been studying hard. Year Eleven is no joke, and I’ve had to put my head down and tail up to focus on English, Maths, Science. There are exams to study for and projects to complete. I’ve only been taking short breaks for walks with Bella, to share meals with Dad and to help out with the laundry and cooking. And, of course, for social media. Some may say too much, but I’d disagree. It’s for a good cause after all.
A new friend request pops up from a young woman in Brazil. She has For the Animals tattooed on her forearm. I quickly scroll through her profile, checking out the groups she belongs to and her list of friends. We have Issie in common, so I press accept.
Since being allowed into Activist Unite, and brought on stage at the conference, I’ve had friend requests from around the globe and all my comments are quickly liked and replied to by other activists. Keep Kind, to Oliver’s never-ending delight, is growing in subscribers every day as our kangaroo video continues to be shared. Oliver can’t wait for it to go higher once Miguel’s platform, Expose Them, shares it with millions of followers. It will be the perfect timing for his Viola Films internship application. As soon as our followers bursts into the four digits, Oliver’s going to make a ‘We’ve hit 1000!’ thank you video to our fans.
Two days ago, Stella created a private group on Facebook messenger called Kangaroo Justice including only her, Miguel, Oliver and me. She wrote: Things in progress, stay tuned.
I replied with a happy face, and Oliver sent a thumbs up. I’m still not quite sure what’s going on, but it makes my heart happy that someone as important as Stella hasn’t forgotten about us.
Oliver spent the next few days after the conference with his father in Melbourne, working hard on his application with the help of the features in his new editing program. We reunited yesterday. I was a little worried about whether the connection we’d felt on the dance floor would remain, but I was not disappointed. When he returned, he was affectionate and loving, so I’ve tried to put aside any lingering doubts about that night at the hotel.
School goes back on Monday, which means the possibility of seeing Pete around the yard or on the bus. Knowing that we gave Stella all of his information combined with him kicking the joey ... Well, I don’t know. It makes me feel a bit uneasy. I haven’t told my dad anything about what Stella is planning, but he never checks his Facebook, YouTube or any media, really, so there’s no chance he’ll come across anything. And Oliver assures me we haven’t done anything wrong. It’s Pete who made that poor kangaroo suffer so he deserves the consequences.
I’m just about to share the piglet video on my feed when—
‘Sky!’ Paula shouts.
‘Paula?’ I jump up, accidentally bumping Bella. I charge out of my bedroom and into the living room and kitchen. There’s no sign of her. Is she in her bedroom?
‘Sky!’ she shrieks again. Her voice is coming from the bathroom.
I open the door a crack and peer in. ‘Paula? Are you okay?’
She’s sitting on the toilet with her Mickey Mouse pyjamas pooled at her feet, her eyes panic-stricken. ‘There’s all this stuff.’ She looks down at the bathroom floor, where there’s a trail of liquid. ‘It’s too early, way too early.’ Her voice cracks and she puts her head in her hands. I hear her mumbling through her tears. ‘And my baby shower isn’t until next week.’
Dave’s working extra hours so it’s just me and my aunt in the house. I run back to my bedroom and grab my phone. Fingers shaking, I dial triple zero and repeat what Paula tells me: her waters have broken.
Then I bring fresh underwear and pants to Paula as she waddles out of the bathroom, her face greyer than a rain cloud. I support her under her arms as she makes her way to the couch, lying down like the operator told us. I call Dave and pass her the phone. Paula’s voice is weak as she tells him to meet her at the hospital quickly, and gives me instructions as I run between the bathroom and her bedroom collecting toiletries and clothes for her hospital bag.
In less than ten minutes, the ambulance pulls into our gravel driveway and the paramedics help Paula onto a stretcher. I follow the stretcher to the van, and sit beside Paula as the ambulance wails down the country roads into town and veers onto the highway, past the motel, towards the regional hospital.
Paula can’t lose this baby, I repeat to myself. She just can’t. I feel a surge of protectiveness over this unborn child, over this little star, and I realise that it’s not only Paula who’s in love with him or her; I am too.
When we get to the maternity wing, Paula is in a serious panic, her breathing shallow like I’ve never heard before. I dig around in her purse and find her doctor’s name then help answer all the nurse’s questions as well as responding to Dave’s frantic messages.
By the time she’s admitted, Dave has arrived. He’s wearing boots caked in mud and a sweat-stained shirt. He looks like he’s been working in a swamp or something.
Several nurses surround Paula, who’s now wearing a white hospital gown. I stand back in the corner of the room, my heart racing as machines are wheeled in and gloves are applied. Paula’s belly is exposed and electric wires are attached to the large bulge.
‘Is there anything I can do?’ I ask meekly, but nobody answers.
I step back as the curtains around her are closed and I’m shut out.
Dave murmurs something from behind the screen, then Paula lets out a sob and my eyes fill.
What’s happening?
The curtains are pulled back and I see Paula’s eyes are bloodshot and her cheeks are streaked with tears. ‘My baby’s okay?’ she asks the nurse through another sob. ‘Are you sure? Because I lost—’
‘I don’t see any signs of trauma, but we’ll wait for the doctor,’ the nurse says.
‘How long will she be?’ Dave asks.
‘Not too long. The little moppet sure is in a hurry. Boy or girl?’
Dave says, ‘We don’t know yet.’
‘A surprise. How lovely. Your first child?’ the nurse asks calmly.
Paula nods. My heart squeezes for her, knowing how hard that question is, how she’s lost babies before.
The nurses step out and we wait with Paula, hardly talking, until the doctor finally arrives and confirms that yes, Paula’s baby is indeed on its way and all is well, but it may take many more hours.
I hear myself exhale. The baby is okay, Paula is okay. My world has not exploded again.
They begin talking about Paula’s birth plan, recapping the process of epidurals and other pain management options. The nurse instructs her to relax and continue her breathing practice.
I step out for a moment and go in search of a coffee for Dave, then I settle into a seat in the waiting room next door. I feel exhausted.
‘Aargh!�
�� I hear Paula scream. I jump to my feet and run back to her room.
Paula is grimacing and her hands grab at the sheets. I think she’s having a contraction.
Dave wobbles slightly on his feet. ‘Is it painful, babe?’ he asks.
She glares at him. ‘What do you think?’
Dave looks stricken as he drags the corner chair over to sit beside her.
‘You don’t need to stay, Sky,’ Paula says once her breathing returns to normal. I deflate. My first thought is I’m not wanted, but I know that’s not true. Paula loves me.
‘Get her some ice, would you?’ Dave says to me. ‘I read that sucking on ice may help.’ He has beads of sweat on his forehead.
I power-walk down the rabbit warren of hallways, U-turning at dead ends, passing steel trolleys of surgical instruments that smell of disinfectant, machines with black chords wound around their stands, and a congregation of empty wheelchairs. No signs of an ice-machine. Does ice come in a machine? I don’t even know what I’m looking for. Hospitals make my stomach gurgle. Too many bad memories: Mum’s room packed with beeping machines; racing through the hospital halls to see Dad after his car accident, fearing the worst.
I linger by a stack of clean towels, looking around for signs of ice but too shy to ask the nurses who are clustered around a nearby computer screen. A doctor passes me, but he looks too preoccupied and important for such a minor question.
I find myself at the lifts and press the silver button to L1—the front entrance. I can ask at the information desk; I’m sure I saw one when we came in.
I step out of the lift and I’m walking quickly towards the sliding doors when a familiar silhouette passes on the other side of the glass. Without thinking, I follow the figure out onto the pavement, the same spot the ambulance pulled up.
I rub my bare arms against the cool air. The warm day has receded into a chilly night, and the sky is now black. Bright lights illuminate the curved driveway alongside the emergency entry.
Bruce is holding the door of his beat-up ute open for Pete. Pete’s left arm is in a white cast. Bruce pushes his son’s back roughly as Pete gets inside and then he bangs the passenger door shut, swearing under his breath. He walks to the hood of his car and lights a cigarette.
Star Page 14