‘At least you’ll be away from him,’ I say. I know I shouldn’t be adding my voice to this conversation, but he’s shared so much. Private stuff.
‘I don’t care what he thinks anymore.’ Pete looks at his arm. ‘As I said, he’s no good.’
Although nothing ended up happening, with the campaign dead and the video erased, I feel responsible for what might have been. I was so close to ruining Pete’s life for nothing, over simply misreading a situation. I should have spoken to him at the start, treated him like a human with the same compassion and kindness I would want to give to an animal.
‘Do you get along with your mum?’ I ask.
Pete breaks into a smile. ‘She’s the best.’
‘I second that,’ Malcolm adds, his voice chirpy again. ‘She always makes the best pie at Christmas too.’
The school bell rings, signalling the end of lunch.
‘Will you do the video?’ Pete asks me.
I have no idea what kind of video we’d make anymore. Maybe one about naming and shaming. Maybe even one about online bullying. ‘Yeah. Maybe.’
‘Keep me posted, would ya? I’d like to see it.’
‘Sure.’ I smile. ‘Keep in touch.’
As I walk into class, a well of relief springs from deep within. I catch Oliver’s eye as I sit down and point to my phone. I can’t wait to tell him how we’d misjudged Pete. I text him to say that I spoke to Pete and I’ll tell him about it later. He sends a thumbs up and a stream of hearts. Then I see I have several other messages and notifications.
Our English teacher, Mr Peterson, hasn’t arrived yet, and everyone’s being noisy, so I quickly open the messages.
Issie has sent me a video of a kitten playing with twine. Hope you’re having a fun day, gorgeous, she writes.
Sorry I didn’t get back to you, I reply, remembering how I’d promised to explain what had happened.
No worries. I’m not a huge fan, actually.
Of what?
Those mean campaigns. Love is always the answer. She adds a series of hearts. Oh hey, I still want to chat about those video ideas btw. Let me know when you’re free. I’ve also added you to mine and Celeste’s new group—check it out.
In my notifications, I see an invitation to a group called Daily Inspiration and press accept. Celeste has already tagged me in a post about vegan cookies. My heart warms. They still like me, and I didn’t even have to explain myself.
Then I see I have a direct message from Stella, and my heart jumps into my throat.
‘Sky.’ I look up to see Mr Peterson looking at me. ‘Phone away, please.’ He turns to the whiteboard and begins to transcribe a passage in his usual wiggly handwriting.
I put my hand to my stomach, where a thousand butterfly wings flutter inside. Under my desk, I open the message.
Sky. My article on the kangaroo industry was published today. I thought you’d like to see it. I took out all mention of Pete, of course.
I quickly write back. I’m sorry I let you down. You’ve been nothing but amazing to me. I press send, then start writing another message, but she cuts me off before I can finish it.
Why do you think you’ve let me down?
I just thought because you didn’t reply to me that meant you were angry with me for cancelling the campaign.
Not at all. I’ve been mostly offline, just going through some personal things.
Oh. I didn’t expect that at all. But now that she mentions it, I haven’t seen a post from her in a while. I don’t want to pry, but I struggle to imagine what personal issues a Wonder Woman like Stella could have; too many awesome people asking to date her? An overflow of travel requests and too little time? I’m about to try to compose my next message when I see the dots moving, showing she’s writing. I wait, and a minute later, she responds.
I suffer from anxiety and depression and sometimes it gets the best of me. Even running doesn’t always help, although often it does. I’ve been in bed for a few days, and I’ve had to cancel a series of events. But I’m feeling better today—putting on my running shoes now, in fact.
I read the message twice and then again. Stella, the woman I thought was powerful, inspiring, accomplished, celebrated, fearless ... My mind tries to picture her lying in bed, feeling broken, but it seems wrong. I realise I’m being stupid. Everyone has their issues; everyone’s human. Just because Stella puts on a flawless facade doesn’t mean she doesn’t have problems.
Stella writes more. I just wish you’d come to me earlier with your misgivings, Sky. I do understand why someone would be reluctant to get involved with an Expose Them campaign and I would have respected your decision from the start.
Now I feel extra silly. I wanted to appear perfect like Stella, with no doubts or weaknesses, but in doing so, I showed no courage or character.
Mr Peterson is now scrawling a poem on the whiteboard, so I wait for more. My phone goes dark and lights up again with a new message.
Miguel’s style is certainly not for everyone. Sometimes even my iron-clad stomach can’t digest the vitriol. And there’s significant debate as to its benefits. Is shaming effective in changing social behaviour or is it, in fact, damaging our chances of fundamental reform?
I think of all the articles I’ve now read. She will have researched way more. But still, I would vote for shaming being damaging.
Sky, please know you can always talk to me as you’re continuing your journey in animal advocacy. I’m here for you, professionally and personally, if you so wish.
‘Sky!’ Mr Peterson glares in disbelief that I’ve ignored his previous berating. I’m usually an obedient student—well, minus the Chirp incident. He turns back and I quickly scan the rest of the message, shielding the light from my screen.
I do hope to see you in LA. There’s a panel on social media and animal advocacy, including naming and shaming tactics. Would you like to participate and share your views?
I stare blankly at Mr Peterson’s squiggles, trying to process. Stella is not angry with me, hasn’t cut me off, she’s even semi-officially offered to be my mentor. I never imagined that this could happen, that I could go against everyone, people I respect, and for them still to stand by me.
I’d love to be there, I write. I’m really honoured, thank you.
Wonderful. We’ll sort out the practicalities soon.
I gaze at my phone, beaming from ear to ear, until I feel my phone being pulled out of my hand. Mr Peterson places it on his desk, shaking his head, and returns to the blackboard. I spend the rest of the class smiling inside.
Chapter 23
‘What are we going to do about Keep Kind?’ Oliver stares at the computer screen, opened to our YouTube channel. Slowly, he scrolls up and down our eleven videos, inspecting each one.
We’re sitting on my bed, Oliver perched on the edge with his laptop. I’m leaning back against the wall, my legs stretched alongside Bella’s chest, which is rising gently up and down, her snout resting on my hip, emitting loud snores. My foot’s good as new, and this morning I went on a long walk with Bella through the fields, stopping halfway to sit in a grove of trees with my book. I’m learning to take care of myself, avoid fleeing from my emotions, and reading and walking have become my version of salvation, my thing. I think I understand more now why Stella runs.
It’s been weeks since I deleted the footage of Pete and the kangaroo, and since then our channel has been silent. Neither Oliver nor I have felt like making a new video lately. Oliver’s motivation has waned since he put in his application to Viola Films; he no longer has to ramp up our numbers, so he’s no longer obsessed with subscribers, likes and shares. My own interest has grown weary, and social media in general has proven way more hazardous than I’d imagined, the haters and trolls more vicious than I thought possible.
‘I don’t know ...’ I bite my lip, running my hand over Bella’s fur. The breeze ruffles my curtains. It’s been a quiet morning, apart from the familiar call of a flock of currawongs who must be f
eeding on the fuchsia fruits of the nearby lilly pilly tree.
Oliver touches my hand. ‘Well, whatever happens, we should decide together. Do you want to keep going?’
I take a beat to think. My stomach’s rumbling slightly; it’s nearly lunchtime. ‘There’s still a lot to cover: puppy mills, bull fighting, horse racing, greyhound racing, 1080 poison baits, rodeos.’ I count them off on my fingers. ‘Lucy said we also have to do something about land clearing and habitat fragmentation and its effect on bird species. And Issie suggested a few ideas when we messaged last week. She pointed out that a domestic cat has one set of laws, but if it becomes feral, that changes everything. One cat’s loved and the other is poisoned, trapped and despised.’
Oliver scrunches up his nose. ‘Saving feral cats is a thing?’
‘Hey, feral cats need some lovin’ too.’ For some reason, I say this in a weird accent, which makes Oliver laugh. ‘Oh, and there’s also the controversy with high-kill dog shelters.’ I’ve nearly run out of fingers.
‘So, you’re saying we should go through these key issues, one by one, and focus on presenting the facts.’
‘More of a journalistic style; informative, not cute.’ I emphasise this last point. More like Stella, I don’t say. The crackle of cockatoos squawks from the gum tree down the driveway as if in agreement. I wonder if King, finally released from Lucy’s sanctuary, is one of them. ‘We should focus on quality, not quantity,’ I say.
‘But it would be awesome if ...’ Oliver hovers the mouse over the number, ‘... we could increase our subscribers. We are ridiculously close to a thousand.’
‘No!’ I mock punch him. ‘No more obsessing about numbers.’
‘I know, I know.’ He laughs, rubbing his arm. ‘But think, if we could just get over the hump and—’
‘Oliver!’
He sighs. ‘You’re right, as always.’
I wriggle away from Bella, trying not to wake her, and manoeuvre myself behind Oliver, wrapping my legs around his waist and nestling my chin into the crook of his neck. ‘And you’re smart, for knowing I’m always right.’
Oliver rests his head against mine and runs his hand down my leg. It gives me tingles.
‘There’s something else I’ve been thinking about,’ he says. ‘You know how Sabine has her dance recital this weekend? Well, Mum’s one of the chaperones and they’ll be away all weekend while I look after the shop. So ...’ His word lingers and I wait, our faces still touching. ‘So, we’ll have the place to ourselves.’
My inhale makes my rib cage expand and I hear my breath flow in and out. Oliver’s warm exhale tickles my cheek. This is what I wanted. Ever since our talk on the park bench, I’ve been waiting to hear this. But now ...
‘I do want to ...’ I say quietly. ‘But it’s been a crazy couple of months for me, and I feel like there’s no rush. But I’ll still help you out in the shop,’ I say, trying to brighten the mood. ‘It’ll be fun.’
Oliver kisses me on the cheek and I wriggle around to face him, returning his kiss with a proper one. After a long while, he pulls away to look into my eyes. ‘I’m happy to wait as long as you want. I love you.’
‘I love you too.’ I smile at him. ‘And let’s keep going,’ I say. ‘With Keep Kind. Firstly, it’s fun doing it together, and secondly, I get to learn all about what’s happening to animals and sharpen my advocacy skills. And in conclusion,’ I put on an authoritative voice, ‘Stella is a fan, and if she thinks it’s worthwhile, then—’
‘It’s worthwhile,’ he finishes my sentence.
‘I don’t just do everything she says, you know,’ I say with a pout.
‘Don’t I know it!’ Oliver laughs.
‘Ha ha,’ I pretend laugh. Ever since Stella messaged me, we’ve been in regular contact. I told her all about my interaction with Pete at school and, along with me, Oliver, Dad, Dave and Paula, she was beyond relieved we didn’t go through with exposing him.
Pete, meanwhile, arrived in Western Australia and started an Instagram page. He posted a video of himself at an endless, white-sand beach, learning how to surf. I sent it to Stella and now she’s following him too.
Stella even told me some top-secret news that after a long run and time to think, she’s reconsidering her collaborations with Miguel, increasingly convinced that these shaming campaigns do more damage than good and aren’t in the true spirit of veganism, kindness and compassion. Her last message—Sky, perhaps we’re mentoring each other—made me tear up.
I return to the subject. ‘And you can practise your video animations.’
‘Hey, I care about animals too.’ Now it’s Oliver’s turn to pout. ‘I’ve given up dairy, haven’t I?’
‘After Miguel shamed you,’ I add. ‘That was so uncool, by the way. I never liked him.’
I don’t mention gawking at his looks during the conference. I mean, he is seriously good looking. And that accent ... But it’s weird; I don’t think of him as attractive anymore. It’s like I’m looking into binoculars, slowly adjusting the focus and suddenly the picture has become sharp. The beauty isn’t there anymore. I unfollowed Miguel after his latest barbed comments about us and unliked Expose Them.
‘What I meant is you can also practise your video editing skills.’
Oliver pauses. ‘Dad said he was proud of me, that I seemed really committed.’
I tread cautiously. ‘That’s nice of him.’
‘It is, isn’t it?’ Oliver nods slowly. Ever since Melbourne, he and his dad seem to have turned a corner in their relationship, and they’re now speaking regularly and making plans to see each other.
Oliver suddenly sniffs dramatically. ‘Is that what I think it is?’
‘Cookies!’ I squeal, jumping off the bed. Bella startles, looking between me and Oliver like she’s seen a ghost.
‘Oh my God, finally,’ Oliver says. ‘I hadn’t realised how much I’d missed them. I mean, it’s half the reason I used to come around.’
I roll my eyes and open my bedroom door, Oliver and Bella following me out. ‘Dad should be here in a minute; he loves a good baked good. But I don’t know how Paula has the energy; Lior was up all through the night.’
‘Mum says Paula looks like she’s had life force put back it into her, not drained out of her, like it usually is with a newborn.’
True words. We step into the kitchen and I see Paula wiping her forehead with the back of her oven mitt as she places the tray on the counter. Her face is glowing with happiness, like a sunrise. Bella settles next to Lior, who’s snoozing in his baby hammock and wearing his Plant Powered top over his onesie. It’s way too big for him.
The doorbell rings and I answer it and embrace my dad, then Oliver and Dad do their blokey handshake before we all spring into action. Dave serves out the takeaway pasta salad, fresh from the delicatessen, and my father brings out glasses and juice. Paula drizzles dressing onto fresh vegetables from our garden and Oliver and I set the table.
There’s a nip in the air, and I put a light cardigan over my new T-shirt—a gift from Lucy featuring one of her illustrations of Nell, the magpie. She’s trying out the T-shirts to see if they’ll sell online. This one has Malcolm’s cheesy touch and the caption reads, Just wing it. I love it.
Lucy’s leaving soon, but they’re still together, stronger and cuddlier than ever. Malcolm’s already bought a ticket to Africa to see her at the end of the year, as soon as he finishes his exams. He sold his most expensive opal on eBay to pay for the ticket; it was the size of an apricot! That’s loyalty. I wonder how I could get myself there too. Maybe a safari with my grandparents one day?
We all sit down at the outside table. A breeze lifts the edges of the washing that I’d pegged on the line this morning and I see my powder-blue singlet dance. The frangipani tree is now bare of leaves and flowers, and it frames the pale-blue sky like a living sculpture.
‘One moment.’ Paula rushes into the garden with a pair of pruning scissors. She snips off a bouquet of lavender and arra
nges the stems in two vases; one, she puts on the table, the other, she hands to me. ‘For your bedroom, sweetie.’
This makes me illogically happy and I race to put them in my room. When I come back outside, I see Dave passing Dad a form. ‘I called the school yesterday. You can fill this out.’
I sit down next to Dad to peer at the form. He furrows his eyebrows. ‘Dave, does this mean—?’
‘You can now officially sign all Sky’s school forms,’ Dave says. ‘If you want to, of course.’
‘Dude.’ My dad looks at Dave. ‘Thank you.’ He rubs his chin where his beard is growing back slowly. ‘But we can all be listed as guardians, can’t we?’
Dave grins. ‘Mate, that’d be perfect.’
Nearly a year ago, after Mum died, I had no parents. It’s hard to believe that today I have three.
Once our bellies are full, we rearrange ourselves in the lounge room and I bring out the bowl of cookies. Paula’s made my favourite vegan recipe, with peanut butter, coconut oil and dark chocolate chips. We put the kettle on and get some coffee brewing for Dad.
‘Did you see Jaxon’s news?’ My dad holds his phone up, his expression excited.
‘What is the latest with Jaxon?’ Oliver asks, his voice bright.
‘He’s doing a big show in Chicago. It’s a huge deal. Unbelievable.’
I bring up Jaxon’s latest Instagram story. He’s standing at the front of the venue smiling like he’s won the lottery, pressed cheek to cheek with a girl. She’s gorgeous, with a top-knot and light blonde hair trailing down her neck, teeth gleaming and clear aqua eyes. I check myself—nope, not an ounce of jealousy. I’m happy he’s found someone and excited he’s becoming such a star.
‘It’s not surprising,’ Oliver says. ‘His single rocks. I’ve pre-ordered the whole album.’
Dad nods. If he’s surprised by Oliver’s turnaround, he’s showing no sign of it.
I watch Oliver as he suddenly becomes intensely focused on his phone, mesmerised by something. His finger scrolls up and down, and up and down again.
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