Miss Understood (7 page)

Most of the time, when Dad goes into the garage he doesn’t scream, and he doesn’t yell. But this time he did both. First there was a huge crash, then another smaller crash, then a scream, then a yell which included a whole heap of new words that I didn’t know.

A minute later I heard Dad slam the door that leads from our entryway into the garage. Then he walked into the dining room where I was working, and he just stood there.

I stopped doing my maths and looked up at him. He was staring at me, with his hands on his hips and a cranky expression on his face.

‘What’s wrong?’ I asked, since I’m not very good at reading people’s minds.

‘Where’s your mum?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said, because I didn’t. ‘Playing with Richie probably, or maybe changing his nappy. He was really smelly a minute ago.’

‘Hmm,’ Dad grunted. ‘Well, when she comes back, can you tell her that I’ve gone to the hardware shop?’

‘Why?’ I asked.

‘Because the whipper snipper keeps falling on my head,’ he answered. ‘Therefore I’ve decided that hooks are in order.’

‘What do you mean, “hooks are in order”? Like, little ones at one end, bigger ones at the other?’

Dad made his eyes all squinty. I think he was trying to work out if I was joking. I wasn’t – I really didn’t know what he meant, mainly because he wasn’t being very clear or making much sense.

‘What I’m saying is that I need to get some hooks. For the whipper snipper. Which keeps falling on my head.’

‘Oh,’ I answered. ‘So why didn’t you say that?’

He sighed. ‘Anyway, tell Mum where I’m going. I’ll be back in about twenty minutes.’

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Have fun.’

He was almost at the door when he stopped and turned back. ‘Hey, d’you want to come with me, Betty?’

‘To the hardware shop? Are you going anywhere else?’

Dad shrugged. ‘I was thinking we might be able to find the time for a quick visit to The Green Gecko.’

‘I’ll get my shoes and tell Mum I’m coming with you,’ I said.

So now I guess you’re wondering what The Green Gecko is. It’s only the coolest cafe in the world. Okay, I know I haven’t been to every single cafe in the world – there might only be three or four people who have – but I’m pretty sure that this one would be in the top ten at least. I especially like the green that they’ve painted the walls. It’s not an ordinary green – it’s kind of greyish-green. Once, me and Dad tried to think of what else might be the same colour. I thought it was the leaves on a gum tree, but Dad reckoned it was more like the colour of the waves at his favourite beach at Seal Rocks. I’ve never been to Seal Rocks, so I don’t know who’s right. Maybe we both are, since I could be thinking about a kind of gum tree that’s different from the kind of gum tree he’s thinking of. I mean, there are heaps of different kinds of gum tree, aren’t there? And a few different kinds of waves, too, I guess.

We also like the little booths they have at The Green Gecko. The seats are just wood, but they have all these bright cushions that you can sit on, or just slouch against. And the food is really good, too. Once Dad wrote a glowing review about it, and now Lou (he’s the owner) gives us special prices whenever we go there.

But first we had to visit the hardware shop and buy the hooks for the whipper snipper (as well as four folding camping chairs, a couple of those bamboo mozzie torch thingos, and a big bag stuffed with rags which Dad didn’t really need, but would definitely use at some stage).

When we got to The Green Gecko, Lou was behind the huge silver coffee machine, making it whoosh and hiss. ‘Hey, look who it is! Great to see you guys!’ he called out. ‘It’s been a couple of weeks, huh?’

‘About that,’ Dad said.

‘Welcome back. Sit anywhere you like – I’ll just finish this, and I’ll come over.’

We sat in our favourite booth, which is in the far corner. I like to sit with my back to the wall so I can see the other customers. I sit and watch everyone coming in and going out and sitting down and talking and playing with their phones and reading their books and playing chess and arguing and holding hands and breaking up. (I don’t actually
like
that last one, but I find it interesting.)

Lou came over before we’d even had a chance to look at the menus. That’s okay, though, because we usually know what we’re going to get even before we go in past the strings of wooden beads that hang in the doorway.

‘Afternoon, guys,’ Lou said. ‘What can I get you? Let’s start with the lady. Betty?’ (Lou’s the only person other than my dad who gets to call me Betty. I guess it’s because the first time I met him, Dad introduced me that way, and it just stuck. I don’t really mind, so long as it doesn’t take off. I really wouldn’t like it if everyone called me that.)

‘Have you got any of that yummy apple crumble?’ I asked him. ‘Because I’d like some of that, and an iced chocolate, please.’

Dad cleared his throat and looked a bit embarrassed. ‘You know, we might not eat anything today, Betty. Maybe just the iced chocolate.’

Lou waved his hand at Dad. ‘Don’t worry about it, Marty. It’s all good, my friend.’ Then he looked at me again. ‘Cream with your crumble?’

I glanced at Dad, and he just kind of shrugged and nodded that it was fine.

‘Yes please, Lou, cream would be nice,’ I said.

‘And ice-cream?’

‘Of course.’

‘Of course, indeed,’ Lou said. ‘And Marty – the usual for you?’

‘Indeed. Thanks, mate . . .’

‘Coming right up.’

When Lou had gone to the kitchen (stopping at two other tables on the way), Dad sat back and sighed. ‘So, how about all the different hooks in that hardware place, huh?’

‘There were heaps,’ I said.

‘There were, as you say, “heaps”.’ He paused, then cleared his throat. ‘Betty, I wanted to ask you something. How do you feel the homeschooling is coming along?’

‘Why don’t you ask my teacher?’ I said.

‘I’m asking you.’

‘It’s okay,’ I said.

‘Just okay?

‘Mum’s a pretty good teacher, but I miss my friends.’

‘Betty, what would you really like to do? About school, I mean.’

‘If I could do anything? I’d like to go back to Sacred Wimple. That’s where all my friends are. Why? Can I?’ I asked, getting tingles of excitement at the idea.

Dad scratched the side of his face. I could hear his whiskers against the tips of his fingers. ‘I’d love to say yes,’ he said.

I could hear a ‘but’ coming, sending the excitement-tingles away just as quickly as they’d arrived. ‘But you can’t?’

He shook his head. ‘Not just yet.’

‘Do you think I’ll ever be able to go back?’

‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Your mum and I have been thinking.’

‘About?’

‘About finding a way to get you back into Sacred Wimple.’

‘But you wanted me to leave,’ I said. ‘You wanted me to do homeschooling.’

Dad shook his head. ‘No, that’s not true at all. We saw homeschooling as the best option but . . . well, it’s probably not going to turn out to be ideal.’

‘Why not?’

‘Look, there are several reasons which I don’t want to get into with you right now. Put it this way, Betty, we’d have to talk to Mr Hilder again –’

‘So do it!’ I said.

‘Let me finish. I think before he’d let you back into the school he’d like to see you showing a bit more maturity,’ Dad said. Then he lifted his hand as I opened my mouth to interrupt him again. ‘I know that the events at school weren’t entirely your fault, and that you weren’t trying to cause trouble. But if we’re serious about getting you back in there, we’re going to need to work on Mr Hilder.’

‘So what can I do?’ I asked. ‘Because I’ll do anything!’

‘Well, I think you should spend the rest of this term working really hard.’

‘I will! Of course I will! What else?’

‘Remember how Mr Hilder talked about maturity and responsibility? Well, I think that you should show him how responsible you can be. Your mum and I reckon that you should think about doing some community work.’

I made my confused face at him. ‘Community work? Isn’t that what judges tell footballers they have to do when they misbehave? For, like, a hundred hours or something?’

‘Well, that is a slightly different thing,’ he said, smiling. ‘What we mean is that you could do a few hours of volunteer work, maybe a couple of mornings a week. Then you could write a letter to Mr Hilder telling him what you’ve been doing, and what you’ve learnt about responsibility. We really think that would help. Does that sound like a good idea to you?’

This sounded like a completely dodgy idea to me. ‘What sort of volunteer work?’ I asked.

‘Well, you could go to the local pre-school and read to the kids – I’m sure Mum would be able to clear it with her friend Kelly.’

I shook my head slowly. ‘I get enough of little kids at home with Richie. Boy, he stinks! You should have smelt the –’

Dad coughed and held up one hand to stop me. ‘All right, another option is to go and spend some time with the old people at Redgrange, helping the staff hand out meals, or making cups of tea or something like that.’

This was an even worse suggestion. I remembered going to the nursing home where Grandpa was living, just before he died, and all it did was make me sad. Plus it smelled a bit funny, sort of like gravy and Dettol. Also, there was one old lady there who shouted at me because her favourite TV show wasn’t on, even though Mum told me later that it hadn’t been on telly for almost twenty years.

‘I don’t like the sound of that one,’ I said. ‘What else have you got?’

‘Um . . .’

‘I could go and work at the local pool,’ I suggested.

Now it was Dad’s turn to shake his head. ‘No, I don’t think so. But I’m sure we can come up with something that fits the bill. What do you think?’

What did I think? That it would be a lot easier if Mr Hilder just let me back in, because this volunteer thing sounded like a lot of hard work – that was what I thought.

‘Sounds okay,’ I said. ‘Can I think about it?’

‘Of course. But don’t take too long. We need to make a decision,’ he added, his voice kind of trailing off.

‘Why?’ I asked.

‘Hmm? Oh, because . . . because we just want to give you the best possible chance for high school in the medium-term, and your other learning needs in the short- and long-term.’

Even though I didn’t really understand what that meant, it sounded quite a bit like when Dad wrote that a new restaurant served ‘bold combinations’, when what he actually meant was, ‘the food was really weird’.

T
hat Friday afternoon, after me and Dad got back from The Green Gecko, Mum and I took Richie to the park while Dad swore at his hooks and his electric screwdriver. The park is just around the corner, sort of tucked in behind the display village, and only about a ten-minute walk from our place. It was quite late when we went, and because the afternoons were starting to get colder, Mum had Richie all rugged up in a puffy hoody-jacket that made him look like a Teletubbie.

While Mum pushed Richie on one swing, I sat on the other. I wasn’t swinging hard – just back and forth gently. I think that no matter how old I get, I’ll always enjoy being on a swing.

‘So, Lizzie,’ Mum said, ‘it’s the end of the week. Have you decided who you’re going to interview for your HSIE project?’

I wasn’t ready for her to ask that question, especially since I’d thought that school was over for the week.

‘Do you have to know today?’ I asked. ‘Like, right now?’

‘No, but I did say I wanted you to have a bit of an idea by Friday.’

‘I can’t think of anyone,’ I said. ‘I don’t know anyone interesting.’

‘No one at all?’

‘Everyone I know is boring.’

‘Boring!’ said Richie, which made Mum show me her not-happy-with-Lizzie face.

‘First, I don’t think that’s true, and second, I’m not going to accept that as a reason for not doing it. Think about it over the weekend, and we’ll talk about it on Monday. But definitely Monday, okay?’

‘Fine,’ I said. Then, mostly to change the subject, I said, ‘Dad said I could go back to Sacred Wimple.’

She frowned at me, all confused. ‘What? Are you sure?’

‘Yeah, he told me this afternoon.’

Mum shook her head. ‘I don’t think . . . He was going to talk to Mr Hilder, wasn’t he?’

‘Yeah, but I know he’ll say yes.’

‘I suppose we’ll see.’

‘Has Dad even talked to Mr Hilder yet?’

‘I’m not sure,’ she answered. ‘Maybe.’

‘I wish he would.’

‘He will, Lizzie.’

‘Do you want me to go back to Sacred Wimple?’ I asked.

Mum didn’t answer straight away. Then she said, ‘We just want what’s best for you, Lizzie. And if that means getting you back into your old school, then we’ll do whatever we can to make that happen.’

We left the park a little while after that, partly because it was getting even colder, but mostly because Richie was going all ratty and hungry. The walk back home took us through the middle of the display village, and that was when, near the tiny roundabout at the end of our street, I saw a man standing on the corner. It looked to me like he was waiting for something. Or maybe for someone. But definitely waiting. People who aren’t waiting don’t stand on a street corner in the middle of a display village with their hands in their pockets. Not usually, anyway.

We walked straight past him. His hair was quite short and greying at the sides, and he had a moustache, which I think is always a bad look unless you’re a bank robber or a pirate. He wasn’t wearing any of the other things that a bank robber or a pirate would wear, though – he was wearing a white shirt and a gold tie, and a black leather jacket. Mum nodded to him and said hi, and he said hi back, but as he said it, he pulled the front of his jacket over to the side a little bit. It looked to me like he was covering something up, maybe a name tag. But there was definitely something that he didn’t want us to see.

‘Did you see that?’ I asked Mum once we were far enough away that he wouldn’t hear. ‘He pulled his jacket over like this.’ And with my jacket, I showed her what he’d done.