Miss Understood (2 page)

There are tons of other examples I could give you. Like on that excursion to the power station, when I got stuck in the control room. They said that if I’d accidentally pressed the wrong button, I could have brought the entire state to its knees. Okay, first of all, a state doesn’t have knees or feet or even legs, and second, what made them think I was going to start pressing buttons? I’m no random button pusher! I was only in there because I thought it was the way to the toilets. Seriously. I went in, and while I was in there (so my best friend Jenni tells me) the tour guide turned around, saw the door closing, and said, ‘Well,
that
shouldn’t be unlocked!’ Then he locked it, which meant I was stuck in there with all these people looking at computer screens and about a million flashing lights all over one wall.

So when I went up to one of the men and tapped him on the arm and said, ‘Excuse me, how do I get out?’ he totally flipped, and started shouting, ‘How did you get in here? Did you press anything? You’d better not have pressed anything! The grid! The grid!’ And he kept going on about the stupid grid and the state’s knees and wouldn’t tell me how to get out, so I started crying. As it turned out, it was probably a good thing that I did cry, because Mr Hilder said that crying showed remorse, which is what saved me from getting kicked out of school that time. I told him it was just a misunderstanding, but he just sighed and said, ‘Yes, Lizzie, you seem to be involved in a few of those, don’t you?’

See what I mean?

‘I
don’t get it,’ I said, as soon as we got into the car. ‘Why do I have to leave Sacred Wimple?’

‘Because of this,’ Mum said crossly, waving a piece of paper in the air. Luckily it wasn’t on fire, because as Mr Hilder and I both knew, things burn
heaps
well when you flap them around like that.

‘Are you listening to me?’ Mum was saying. ‘Two hundred and eighty-four dollars –’

‘And forty-five cents,’ Dad added, starting the car.

‘Right,’ said Mum. ‘And for what? To repaint the wall of that shed, and to refill that fire extinguisher!’

‘Which was used to put out a fire
that you started
, Betty – don’t forget that,’ Dad chimed in.

‘Right, which you started,’ Mum went on. ‘Can you give us one good reason why you
shouldn’t
have been expelled?’

‘Because all my friends are here,’ I said, starting to cry all over again, which made it really hard to finish my sentence without my voice going all stringy.

‘Maybe your friends are a part of the problem,’ Dad said.

‘It’s got nothing to do with them! It was just a –’

‘An accident?’ Mum finished for me in a tired voice.

‘Yeah! An accident.’

‘Was it?
Was
it, indeed?’ Dad replied. ‘Well, I’m sorry to say it, Betty, but I think Mr Hilder might be right – it’s not fair on the other students. So for their sake, mostly, they’ve asked you to leave Sacred Wimple.’

‘For good?’

‘Yes, for good.’

‘So where will I go to school?’ I asked.

‘At home for now,’ Mum replied. ‘I’m going to look into the possibility of homeschooling you.’

‘But what about your relief teaching?’ I asked. ‘You won’t be able to do that if I’m at home with you. I mean, you can’t take me with you relief teaching, can you?’

‘But we won’t have to find the fees for Sacred Wimple, either,’ she replied. ‘So it’ll probably be about even.’

When she said that, Dad made a funny little noise in his throat. I think it meant ‘I’m not so sure about that.’

I frowned. This was getting scary, and it was getting scary way too fast. Somehow I’d gone from being put on detention, to being suspended, to being expelled, to being taught
by my own mother
, and all in one day! How much worse could it get?

‘You’re really going to be my teacher?’ I said as the realisation began to sink in properly. ‘That’s . . .’

‘It’s a great idea, is what it is,’ Dad said. ‘The best solution to a bad situation. And look on the positive side – from now on we’ll all be working at home!’

This was not good. Not everyone working at home – that bit would probably be fine – but sometimes, when I was having trouble with my homework, I’d get a glimpse of what being a kid in Mum’s class must be like. It wasn’t always a cheerful picture. She could be pretty tough when she was in the mood.

‘Do we have to?’ I asked. ‘There has to be another way. Can’t I go to the public school?’

‘No,’ Dad said. ‘Not our local. I know the principal there, and he’s a complete . . . No, not there. They’ve had a lot of problems at that school.’

‘Then how about Ellsdale?’ I suggested. ‘That’s a good school, isn’t it? Even though their uniform is horrible. That hat . . .’

‘Ellsdale?’ Dad snorted. ‘As if we could afford Ellsdale!’

‘That’s right, Lizzie. Your father’s a food writer, not a book writer,’ Mum said. ‘Do you have any idea how much food reviewers earn?’

‘Hey, steady on,’ Dad said, looking all cut. ‘You don’t have to bring that up all over . . . But no, Betty, we really can’t afford Ellsdale.’

‘So leave me where I am,’ I suggested, just trying to be helpful. ‘I’ll try extra hard not to be misunderstood any more.’

Mum shook her head. ‘We can’t, Lizzie. That decision isn’t up to us. I’m sorry, but you, my girl, have been expelled. So, circumstances being what they are, we’re happy with this plan.’

‘I wouldn’t really say “happy”,’ Dad corrected her. ‘More “comfortable”. Just.’

‘We’re
comfortable
with this plan,’ Mum said. ‘We haven’t been all that impressed with your grades anyway. So from tomorrow morning, I’ll be your teacher.’

‘Tomorrow? I don’t even get to say goodbye to my friends? Or Ms Richardson?’

‘Tomorrow morning.’

‘Usually they give you holidays between changing schools,’ I said, even though I knew that it was pointless.

‘Yeah, good luck with that,’ said Dad. I
think
he was smiling then.

‘Will I have to call you Mrs Adams?’ I asked Mum.

‘No, but you’ll be polite, just as you would be at school.’

‘Just as you
should
be at school,’ Dad muttered, and there it was. Misunderstood again. I was never cheeky to my teachers. Not ever.

I sighed. At least I wouldn’t have to lug a heavy bag of homework home every night.

No, because now
everything
would be homework.

My
whole life
was about to become stupid homework.

And that’s when I started to cry all over again.

On the way home, we picked up Richie up from Aunty Carol and Uncle Tony’s place, where Mum and Dad had dropped him off while they came to school to talk to Mr Hilder about me. My little brother was all grizzly, so I poked my tongue out at him, just to make myself feel better. It didn’t work. Not that he cared, because he was too busy picking his nose to even notice.

As we pulled into our driveway, Dad honked the horn, just a couple of little pips. ‘Out of the way, you clowns,’ he growled.

I looked up. A man and a woman were standing at the edge of our driveway, staring at us.

‘It’s not their fault, Marty,’ Mum said.

‘Would a display home have a newspaper in the driveway?’ Dad muttered as he turned off the engine and got out.

The man was now trying very hard to open our front door. I decided that while Mum was getting Richie out of the car, Dad could probably use my support, so I got out too, just to back him up.

‘Hi there,’ Dad was saying. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Oh, good,’ the man said, rattling the handle of the security screen like a gorilla in a cage. ‘Do you know if this one is open?’

‘Not yet,’ Dad replied.

‘Do you have a key?’ the man asked, sizing up our dusty red Toyota. I knew what he was thinking: that’s not really the kind of car someone from the display village would drive.

‘Of course I have a key,’ Dad said. ‘But you see, this house isn’t part of the display village.’

‘Yes, it is,’ the man said.

‘No, it isn’t,’ Dad replied.

‘Well, we were in the Greengrove 300 right next door.’ The man held up a shiny brochure. ‘Very impressive, if a little small for our needs. And only single-storey.’

Dad nodded at him. ‘Yes, well, the Greengrove 300
is
a display home. This one, however, is not.
This
one is where
we
live.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Oh yes, I’m quite sure. We are a real family. We have been for years.’

The couple looked at one another. ‘I’m confused,’ the man said.

‘Clearly, but it’s actually not that complicated,’ Dad replied, after taking a deep breath. ‘The display village stops there, at the fence. That is all display village over there. All of it. No one lives in those houses yet. Whereas this –’ he swept his arm around to take in our front yard and our house – ‘is where we actually live. You know, like real people. Listen,’ he said. ‘Hear that dog barking in the backyard? That’s our dog. His name is Muppet, he’s a beagle, and he’s real. He’s our real dog, and he lives here because we do too.’

‘You live
here
?’ the man said.

Dad sighed. ‘We actually do. But if you want to have a look inside . . .’

‘Do you mind?’ the lady asked.

‘Yes, we do mind,’ said Mum, who was now standing there as well, with Richie wriggling around on her hip. ‘My husband was having a little joke.’ Then, under her breath, she added, ‘A bit like the little joke he was having when he convinced me to buy an ex-display home.’

‘Do we have to start with that . . .’ Dad began. But then he stopped speaking, got back in the car and pressed the garage door opener. As he drove in, I heard the man say to the lady, ‘That’s amazing! I can’t believe they actually put remote garage doors in display homes these days!’

Mum rolled her eyes. ‘Come on, Lizzie, inside – you’ve got school tomorrow.’

Oh, thanks Mum, I thought. Thanks for ruining the mood.

D
inner that night was a bit tense. I think that’s the right word – when everyone sits there looking at their plates rather than at each other, and people say things as if they have a wedge of lemon stuck around their teeth. That was why, as soon as I’d put my plate in the dishwasher, I headed upstairs to my room.

I like it in my room. It’s
my
space, you know? Just mine. And I can shut the door, and no one comes in without knocking. Well, most of the time they don’t, anyway. Actually, they do that all the time, but it’s still my space.

I hung out in there for a while, playing games on my phone and trying not to think about how much things were about to change. (One of those things was possibly going to be my phone. Now that I wouldn’t be catching the bus to and from school, would Mum and Dad tell me that I didn’t need a phone of my own any more? It was a scary idea.) Muppet lay on the end of my bed and watched me with his big, droopy eyes. At least
he
wasn’t changing.

Then, because I didn’t want to think about it any more, I decided that I should just have a shower and go to bed. At least if I was asleep I wouldn’t be thinking about the bad stuff.

As I walked down the hallway to the bathroom, I made a strange discovery, even though I didn’t really know it was a discovery yet.

I always thought my dad was a bit of a softie, but I never expected him to cry. Not about me being expelled. I mean, I had thought he’d be a bit cross, and he was. I’d known that he’d be disappointed, and he was that as well. But I never expected him to
cry
about it. Not my dad!

But that’s what he was doing. At least, I was pretty sure that’s what he was doing, because as I walked past his study, I heard him sniff. Now, there’s a whole bunch of things that might make someone sniff. The flu, for example, or a plain old cold, or hayfever, especially when the wattle blossoms come out every year. (Sometimes you never even find out the reason; a few years ago there was a kid in my class who used to sniff all the time. His name was Thomas Spiegelman, and he had pale skin and hair that looked like it had been dried in a microwave, all sticky-up and weird, and he used to make the air around him specky like a snow-dome every time he shook his head or touched his hair.)

But most of the time, if you hear someone sniffing, there’s a good chance that they’re having a bit of a cry about something. I’d already done plenty of sniffing that day because I’d done plenty of crying, so I do know what I’m talking about. That was why, as I walked past Dad’s study and heard a sniff, I stopped.

He was in his swivel office chair, with his back to the door, and as I peeked in, he sniffed again, almost as if he was making sure that I’d heard.

‘Dad?’ I said, but he didn’t turn around, even though turning around is probably the easiest thing you can do in a swivel office chair, except maybe just sitting.

‘Hi Betty,’ I heard him say. ‘I’m fine.’

I thought that this was a funny thing for him to say, since I hadn’t even asked him how he was. I was planning to, but I hadn’t done it yet.

‘Are you okay?’ I asked then, because that was what I’d been planning to say, and I hadn’t thought of anything new.

‘Yes, I’m fine,’ he replied, and his voice sounded a bit impatient. It also sounded like he was talking underwater.

‘Are you crying?’

‘What? No!’ he said, but he still didn’t turn around. ‘What? Seriously, why would I be crying?’

‘I don’t know. But are you?’

‘No, Betty, I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Hayfever.’

This made me pull my confused face, because me and Mum usually get hayfever pretty badly whenever the wattle comes out, but I couldn’t remember Dad ever getting it. So that seemed weird. Plus I hadn’t noticed any wattle in our garden.

‘Anyway, Betty, I’ve got to make a phone call,’ he said. ‘So . . .’

I thought about going in and giving Dad a hug but I don’t think that hugs do much to help someone with hayfever, and because that’s what he said it was, I had to believe him. Didn’t I?

As I reached the bathroom, I realised that I’d forgotten to take my dressing gown with me. I went back to my bedroom to get it, and as I passed Dad’s study, I looked in again. He wasn’t talking on the phone. He was still sitting in exactly the same spot with his back to the door, staring out the window.