Miss Understood (5 page)

The garbage truck was two doors along. The only problem was, it had already been down to the end of our cul-de-sac, turned around, passed our place and was now driving away. And since there are only display houses at that end of the street, it wasn’t even slowing down.

‘Argh!’ I said, panting hard. I might have said a few other words too, but mainly it was ‘Argh!’

For a couple of seconds I thought about running after the truck, but then I got sensible and did the only other thing I could do – I stamped my feet and said a few more of those other words.

‘That’s annoying.’ Miss Huntley was standing by her letterbox, checking inside. She had a basket looped over her arm. ‘I really hate forgetting that it’s bin night.’

‘It’s one of my only jobs and I missed it,’ I said. ‘Dad’s going to kill me.’

‘Oh, I seriously doubt that. We haven’t had a murder in this street for at least three or four years now.’

‘Really?’

‘Oh yes, there’s been none at all. Well, none that I know of.’

‘No, I mean, was there a murder in this street three years ago?’

‘Three
or four
years ago.’

‘Was there, though?’

She shrugged, closed the lid of the letterbox, and crossed the street (after checking both ways, of course). ‘Was there a murder? Who knows? All these houses, unoccupied for so long, or so it seemed, all those windows, all those garages, so many houses . . . So many houses . . .’

I swallowed hard. The cold morning breeze drifted around the neck of my pyjamas. ‘Are you kidding about the murders?’ I asked.

She leaned close. ‘
Totally
kidding,’ she whispered, before straightening up. ‘Now, we need to make sure that the first Henry Court murder doesn’t take place later this morning, when your father discovers that you were derelict in your duty as the bin-putter-outer. So I have a proposal. Would you like to hear it?’

I nodded. ‘Yes, please.’

She jutted her chin in the direction of her bin. ‘That’s empty, as of about five minutes ago. Yours, however, is still full. How do you feel about a swapsy?’

‘A swapsy? You mean the bins?’

‘Why not? Neither of them has any distinctive identifying marks, and I’m glad to see that your parents aren’t those obsessive, possessive types who feel the need to mark their council-supplied bins with their name and street number.’

I didn’t say anything, mostly because Mum had been nagging Dad to paint our name and number on the side of our bin for over a year.

‘Honestly, who worries about their bin getting stolen?’ Miss Huntley went on. ‘So, since the bins don’t seem to be marked, what say we just do a swap?’ She lifted the lid of our bin and peered in, wrinkling her nose slightly. ‘Yes, I’d say there’s room in there for my one little bag of weekly refuse. Your family composts, right?’

‘Uh huh,’ I said, nodding. ‘We’ve got a worm farm.’

‘Excellent. Then it’s a deal. Well, I’ll see you later,’ Miss Huntley said cheerfully as she hoisted the handle of her basket further up her arm and headed away along the street. Was she whistling? I didn’t think anyone whistled any more.

I decided that the right thing to do would be to put our half-full bin behind Miss Huntley’s house before I took her empty bin back to ours, so I grabbed the handle and dragged it across her damp front lawn and down the little stone path that led around to the side of her house.

As I parked our bin beside her back door, I heard a clinking noise, like bottles, coming from the direction of the street. And then, as I took the handle of Miss Huntley’s bin, I heard another sound from somewhere over the street, on our side. It was a small, rattly noise, like a gate closing, but when I looked up, I saw nothing out of the ordinary. Plus Muppet was barking like mad behind our side fence.

I didn’t think any more about it then – I just started to wheel the empty bin up our driveway. Except the bin wasn’t empty. It felt a bit too heavy to be empty. And when I checked inside, it wasn’t. There were four or five brown beer bottles and a couple of pizza boxes in the bottom.

That’s weird, I thought. Maybe the garbage truck had missed Miss Huntley’s bin for some reason. Besides, I’d always thought she’d be more into scones and tea than beer and pizza.

‘Come on, Muppet, quit your woofing,’ I said as I put the bin away and went inside, closing the door quietly so I wouldn’t wake anyone up.

‘You’re up early,’ Mum said as I walked softly into the kitchen. I hadn’t expected her to be out of bed yet, and I jumped in surprise when she spoke to me.

‘Hey, Mum. You scared me!’

‘Sorry about that. Um . . . Lizzie, why were you outside in your pyjamas?’

‘What?’ I said. I had actually heard her, but I was trying to come up with a good reason without much preparation time.

‘You’re never up this early, so why today?’

‘I couldn’t sleep,’ I said, which was kind of true, since I hadn’t been able to sleep at all after I was woken by the garbage truck driving past.

‘So you went outside?’

‘Yup,’ I said. ‘Went outside. For a walk.’

‘For a
walk
? At this hour?’

‘Uh huh.’

‘Why?’

‘Trying to get fit,’ I said, and then, just to prove it, I did a couple of star jumps and blew out a few big breaths. ‘I don’t feel very fit at the moment. So I’m trying to get fit.’ (You’re saying ‘fit’ a lot, I thought to myself – try to say ‘fit’ a bit less.)

Mum frowned at me. I knew that look really well – it meant that she didn’t believe me. ‘Lizzie, are you all right?’

‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘Why?’

‘You just look . . . strange.’

‘It’s the exercise,’ I said. ‘I’m so puffed, because I jogged for . . . I don’t know. Ages.’

‘Did you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Truly?’

‘Yes!’

‘I thought you said it was a walk.’

‘I walked for a while, then I jogged, then I walked some more. You know, a bit of one, then the –’

‘In bare feet?’

‘I left my running shoes at the back door,’ I said. (I was pretty impressed with how quickly I came up with that one.)

‘You left your shoes at the back door, did you? Along with your running shorts and your running shirt?’ she asked.

‘Oh,’ I said, looking down. ‘My pyjamas.’

‘Yes, your pyjamas. Lizzie, I really don’t appreciate it when you lie to me.’

‘Sorry, Mum.’

‘Thank you. Now, the truth, please. Where were you?’

I took a deep breath. ‘I forgot the bins. I heard the truck, and I woke up and went, “Oh no, the bins! It’s the only job I have apart from unloading the dishwasher and matching up the socks, so I can’t mess this one up!” and I jumped out of bed and ran downstairs.’

‘So why the big story about jogging?’

I looked at the floor, which I think makes parents feel sorry for you when you have to admit something. ‘Because Dad told me not to forget, and then I almost did.’

‘Did you get to the truck in time?’

I hesitated. The bin was pretty much empty, but I hadn’t got to the truck in time. Then I realised that the way I’d hesitated would make it sound like I was lying again, so I had to pretend I’d been distracted and hadn’t heard her. That was why I started gazing out the window, as though something really exciting was happening in the backyard. But the whole time I was trying to think of the right answer to her question. Or if not the right answer, the
best
answer.

‘Lizzie?’

‘Huh? Sorry, I was thinking about something else.’

‘Did you get to the truck in time?’

Then the best answer came to me, in a kind of rush. ‘Mum, I am happy to report that the bin was full when I took it out there, and it’s empty now.’

Mum shrugged. ‘Okay then,’ she said. ‘Wash your hands and get your breakfast – you’ve got school in . . .’

‘An hour and a half,’ I said. ‘Can’t I go back to bed for a while?’

‘Sure, I guess so. I’ll wake you in a little while if you like.’

‘I like.’

As I climbed the stairs, I met Dad coming down.

‘Hey, Dad,’ I said.

‘So, you forgot the bin, huh?’

‘Um . . .’

‘It’s okay – I heard what you told Mum,’ he said. Then he squeezed my shoulder. ‘Don’t stress about it, Lizzie. As long as the bin is empty, what do I care?’

As I climbed back into bed and pulled my doona up to my chin, I thought again about Miss Huntley. Pizza and beer? She was free to eat and drink anything she wanted, but something about that combination felt wrong or weird or unusual. Yes, that was the best word I could think of –
unusual
.

By the time Mum woke me up about an hour later, I’d forgotten all about it.

For now.

T
hat morning, after recess, Mum asked me if I’d thought any more about who I’d like to interview for my project.

‘Not really,’ I said.

‘That’s okay. What kind of person interests you?’

‘My friends, who I miss,’ I said, maybe sounding a bit crankier than I meant to.

Mum ignored this. I think she probably thought that after a while I’d forget to be cross about the situation, but I had no plans to forget just yet.

‘Seriously, though, who would you like to do it on?’

‘What sort of things am I supposed to ask them?’ I opened my exercise book and picked up my pencil. ‘If you tell me, I’ll write them down.’

‘Well, it’s not really about reading out a whole list of questions. I think it’s more about getting to know them.’

‘So someone old?’

‘It doesn’t have to be someone old – that was just an idea. It could be anyone. So let’s think . . . How about the lady who runs the bakery? She’s Vietnamese.’

‘So?’

‘So, her story might be a bit different. Or maybe the African man who works at the public library – he could have a really interesting story.’

‘Why, because his skin is a different colour?’

Mum glared at me as if I’d just said a really disgusting word. ‘Excuse me, Lizzie, but I’m not as shallow as that. I just happen to know that Majok came here from Sudan a few years ago, and because of that he’d probably have a great story to tell. And I bet he’s overcome some obstacles.’

‘Yeah, maybe I could talk to him,’ I said, but I thought she might have forgotten that there was a Sudanese boy at my old school, and he’d done a talk for the whole grade, so I already knew pretty much everything there was to know about that stuff.

‘Okay, how about a firefighter, or someone from the bushfire brigade, or an ambulance officer, or someone in the police force?’ Mum suggested. She seemed pretty excited about these ideas. ‘Or the editor from the local paper, maybe?’

‘When do want me to make up my mind?’ I asked her.

‘I don’t know. Maybe by the end of the week? Then we can start organising things.’

‘I’ll think about it,’ I said. ‘I might have a couple of ideas.’

But really, I had no ideas at all.

At lunchtime, I went to the front lawn once more, and as our screen door slammed shut behind me, Miss Huntley poked her head up over her rose bushes and waved. Her pink gardening gloves were so cute, almost as cute as her sunhat.

‘Good afternoon, Elizabeth,’ she called in her funny little old-lady voice. ‘No pyjamas?’

‘No, I’m dressed this time,’ I called back. Then, after checking in both directions (even though our cul-de-sac is probably the least trafficky road in the world, at least during the week) I crossed the street. ‘Hey, thanks for this morning, with the bins and that.’

‘Oh, please, that was no problem. Were your parents all right?’

‘Yeah, they were fine,’ I said. ‘I thought it might be a bit tricky, but in the end I think we got away with it.’

‘That is excellent news,’ she said. ‘So our brilliant plan worked.’

‘I think so. Why were you leaving so early this morning? Where were you going?’

‘Going?’

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Is that rude?’

‘Not at all. I was going to the bus stop,’ she answered.

‘Why?’

‘To catch a bus, that’s why. What do
you
usually do at a bus stop?’

I made a big sigh. ‘I
used to
catch the bus to school,’ I said. ‘Now I have school at home, so I’ll probably lose my phone.’

‘Why would you lose your phone?’ she asked. ‘Just don’t put it down anywhere.’

‘No, I mean my mum and dad will take it away.’

‘Oh, I see. Why would they do that?’

I sighed again and said, ‘It’s a long story,’ which is something grown-ups seem to say when they can’t be bothered to talk about something.

‘Well, I hope you get to keep your phone. How is school-at-home going, anyway?’

‘Not bad, I guess.’

‘It’s good to be able to work from home. It’s like your father, really, isn’t it? Is he still writing the food reviews for the newspaper?’

‘Mostly,’ I said. ‘Some are for the newspaper and magazines, and some are online.’

She blinked and looked confused.

‘The internet,’ I said.

‘Ah, that thing.’

‘Yeah. So he writes the reviews at home, but he has to go out and eat in the restaurants. He hasn’t been going out to a lot of restaurants lately, though,’ I added.

‘Is work slow?’

‘I think so.’

‘Still, what a job,’ she sighed. ‘Imagine eating for a living! What a great career! I’d have loved a job like that.’

‘Mum told me you used to be a nurse,’ I said, because that was exactly what Mum had told me.

‘I was indeed.’

‘Did you like it?’ I asked her.

‘Eh,’ she said with a shrug. ‘In the beginning it was just a job and nothing more, but then it became a career. Almost fifty years I did that. I was a matron at the end.’

‘What’s a matron?’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. The head sister. The head nurse. It’s so different now, you know. I don’t think they care as much as they used to.’

‘Don’t they?’

‘Oh, no. Very different now. There’s no time. All rushed, they are. Oh!’ she said, putting one of her pink-gloved hands over her mouth. ‘Listen to me! I sound like that Yogo chap!’

‘Yogo?’

‘Yes, you know – “A dead-eye you will be”. From the movie with the man with the unfortunate face and the motorcycle helmet?’

‘
Star Wars
?’