Miss Understood (4 page)

‘Nothing, really.’

‘Of course not. But seriously, what did you do?’

‘I set fire to the principal.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Who hasn’t? Weren’t you at the Catholic school? The one with the funny name?’

‘Our Lady of the Sacred Wimple.’ I said. It felt strange, hearing someone talking about my school, but knowing that it wasn’t my school any more. It was kind of sad.

‘Well, I think recess is almost over,’ I said, standing up. ‘Time for writing, I think.’

She clicked her secateurs. ‘Have fun doing that, while I continue my never-ending battle with this garden.’

Now, I’m not a garden expert, but I think Miss Huntley’s front yard looks pretty good. Lots of flowers, colourful shrubs, thick green bushes that are magically covered with tiny pink blossoms every spring, and all these delicate ferns along the wall under the front window. She also had a small pebbly garden beside the letterbox, with lots of little cacti scattered through it.

‘I don’t know much about plants and trees and stuff, but I think it already looks great,’ I said.

Miss Huntley smiled. ‘This garden is like my face, Lizzie – it takes a lot of hard work to get it to look this good.’

Mum heard me come back inside while she was in my little brother’s room. She called out, ‘Okay, recess is over, Lizzie. Can you please keep going with what we were doing before – I’m just changing Richie’s nappy, then I’m going to put him down for a sleep.’

As I walked into the dining room I saw this written on the chalkboard:
HSIE
. And under that, she’d written:
Practical Project.

I frowned at the words. A project for HSIE? A project, on my first day at my new school? It usually took teachers at least a week to get around to giving out that kind of big, serious homework. And here was my newest teacher giving me a project on Day One!

‘Did you know about this?’ I asked Muppet, who was lying on the floor near my chair. If he did know he wasn’t telling. He just looked up at me, yawned and went back to sleep.

I was ready for Mum. ‘What’s
that
mean?’ I demanded the moment she walked in, before she’d even had a chance to sit down.

Her eyes followed my finger. ‘It means exactly what it says – it’s a project.’

‘What kind of project? And I thought we were going to do reading after recess.’

‘Don’t be rude. We were going to talk about the project after lunch, but if you like, we can do that now.’

‘Yes, please,’ I said. I wanted to get this bit over with. I’m not a big fan of projects, especially since my pirate one had, thanks to the burning of the cardboard principal, ended up getting me expelled from my school.

‘All right.’ Mum laid her big, fat copy of
Henry Lawson’s Collected Works
on the table. ‘HSIE – it stands for Human Society and its Environment.’

‘I know that much – we do it at my other school. At my
old
school. We
did
it at my old school.’

‘So we’re going to do a practical project,’ she went on. ‘And of course, when I say “we”, I actually mean “you”.’

‘Why?’

She blinked, as if it should have been the most obvious thing in the world. ‘Because it’ll be more interesting than sitting around here doing exercises out of workbooks,’ she said.

‘So what will I have to do?’

‘I want you to talk to someone interesting, then write a story about them.’

‘A story? Don’t you just make stories up?’

‘Not always,’ said Mum. ‘In this case, when I say story, I suppose I mean article. This will be a bit like being a journalist.’

‘But I don’t want to be a journalist,’ I said, because I don’t.

‘Doesn’t matter – this is what we’re doing,’ she said.

‘Don’t you mean what
I’m
doing?’

‘Right. So who do you think you could talk to?’

‘Can’t I just write a story about the time I went to the beach or something like that?’

‘You’re not in second grade, Lizzie,’ she replied. ‘And stop sulking. Besides, this project needs to be about a real person.’

‘I’m a real person,’ I said.

Mum sighed. ‘Lizzie, you know what I mean. Anyway, you don’t have to decide now, but have a bit of a think and let me know when you’ve come up with an idea. Then we’ll talk about how we can arrange an interview.’

‘I really wish Grandpa wasn’t dead,’ I said. ‘He had heaps of good stories.’

Mum nodded. ‘I know, he would have been perfect to talk to. Anyway, back to what I was planning to do now; have you ever read
The Loaded Dog
?’

I groaned, and it’s possible that I might have rolled my eyes. ‘Only about three million times,’ I said.

D
ad likes to sing. He’s not very good, but he doesn’t care. Once, at Uncle Tony’s fiftieth birthday, he broke a karaoke machine. He reckoned it wasn’t his fault, but these are the facts: it was about his sixth song, he was singing loudly (and badly) when the speakers suddenly went
pop
and
bang
, a whole bunch of blue sparks flew out of the back of the machine, and there was a smoky smell in the room that was quite different from the smoky smell of Uncle Tony’s barbecue. Everyone thought this was pretty funny, and one person even fell off his chair from laughing too hard, but Dad didn’t look even slightly embarrassed, not even when someone pointed out that he was singing ‘Smoke on the Water’. Dad just shrugged and said, ‘So what? That’s not what I was singing anyway.’ And then he started singing all over again, without the microphone or any backing music at all this time: ‘Slow-motion Walter, fire engine guy . . .’

He does get song words wrong quite often. He reckons he honestly doesn’t know that they’re wrong, but I’m pretty sure he’s not always telling the truth. I mean, how could you get a song as wrong as he did tonight as he came down to the kitchen for dinner?

This is what he was singing: ‘The ants are my friends, they’re blowin’ in the wind, the ants are all blowin’ in the wind . . .’

‘Um . . . no,’ Mum said. ‘I’m sure that’s not right.’

‘Yeah, you know – the Bob Dylan song,’ he answered. ‘“The Ants are Blowin’ in the Wind”.’

‘I heard what you sang, but it’s wrong,’ Mum said.

Dad shrugged. ‘We’ll just have to agree to disagree. So, how was your day, Lizzie? Make any new friends?’

I scowled at him. ‘No. Did you?’

‘Well, as a matter of fact, I . . . Well, no, I didn’t,’ he admitted. ‘Did make an enemy, though.’

‘Another poorly received review?’ Mum asked, putting the salt and pepper on the table, then moving them out of reach of Richie’s grabby little fingers.

Dad chuckled, but his eyes looked kind of dark at the same time. ‘Well, put it this way: I don’t think we’ll be getting an invitation to the
Feine Wurst
staff Christmas party.’

‘
Feine Wurst?
’ asked Mum as we sat down and started eating. ‘That’s the name of the restaurant? As in, “Fine Sausage”?’

‘
Das ist korrekt
,’ Dad replied.

‘And was it?’

‘No. It should actually have been called “Yuck-wurst”. Which is pretty much what I said in my review.’

‘Yuck-wurst!’ chirped Richie.

‘I don’t think this country is quite ready for Austrian modern cuisine,’ Dad said.

‘Yuck-wurst!’ Richie said again.

‘Back to me,’ I said, which made Dad smirk. ‘I didn’t make any friends, but I did learn to do long division.’

Dad raised his eyebrows at Mum. This seemed to impress him. (I guess he’s fairly easy to impress.) ‘Long division?’

‘You wouldn’t understand,’ she said. ‘Not something you’ve ever needed to use in your job.’

‘Speaking of which, this is good ragout, Denise,’ he said, chewing slowly.

‘Ragout? It’s a
casserole
, Marty,’ Mum said. ‘Not everything has to have a foreign name. Oh, no,’ she sighed, as she saw me catch Dad’s eye.

‘Do it,’ I said.

He didn’t need a second invitation. He laid down his knife and fork, dabbed at the corners of his mouth with an imaginary napkin, and cleared his throat. ‘The servings of the
cazuela de pollo
were generous, if slightly uneven in size when compared with those of some of my fellow diners.’ (He nodded towards Richie’s little bowl, which my brother had pretty much emptied all over the tray of his highchair.) ‘Nevertheless, the presentation was homey and honest, and the flavour of the free-range chicken was beautifully complemented by robust rosemary tones and velvety shiraz notes.’

‘It wasn’t shiraz,’ Mum said, spooning up some of the casserole from Richie’s tray and trying to feed it to him.

Dad raised his hand, which made Mum roll her eyes. (This happens quite a bit in our house.) ‘All in all, an interesting dish from a new and promising arrival on the Henry Court dining scene. This is definitely one to watch. How about you, Betty?’

I sat back in my chair and put the tips of my fingers together under my chin. ‘To be honest, Marty, I thought the runny stuff went really well with the chunks. You know, a bit to slurp, a bit to chew. It’s no good if you have to use a spoon, and it’s no good if it’s too dry.’

‘Very true. And the flavour?’

‘Strong chicken flavours, with a bit of tomatoey-ness around the edge.’

‘Nice review. How many stars, Betty?’

‘Five solid stars,’ I replied. ‘How many from you, Marty?’

I saw him glance across the table at Mum. Even though our review game is all in good fun, Dad doesn’t like to hurt her feelings by giving her cooking low or even medium scores, especially when he’s such a bad cook himself. That’s why he says the same thing every time.

‘Four-and-a-half stars.’

‘Still leaving room for the perfect meal, Marty?’ Mum asked.

‘Of course. It’s like being an Olympic figure skating judge – I’ve got to give myself somewhere to go.’

‘You could go to Yuck Sausage.’

‘You know what I mean,’ Dad said.

‘Yes, I do. And one day we’ll get there,’ Mum sighed. ‘One day.’

While we ate, I kept sneaking glances across the table at Dad. The night before he’d been in his study sniffing like a crazy thing. I hadn’t seen his eyes then, mainly because he hadn’t even turned around in his swivel chair, but I did know from having had hayfever myself that his eyes would have been very red at the time, and even a bit puffy. Now, almost twenty-four hours later, his eyes looked completely normal. But my hayfever never goes away in less than a day, so either he’d got better extra quick, or he’d never had it in the first place.

But my dad’s not a liar, so it had to be the first thing.

‘Dad,’ I said. ‘How’s the hayfever?’

‘The what? Oh, the hayfever! Yes, it’s fine now. Thanks.’

Mum was looking back and forth between us. ‘Hayfever?’ she said. ‘You had hayfever, Marty? You never get hayfever.’

‘I know. Weird, huh?’ Then, as if he was making a point, he sniffed, before turning back to me. ‘Anyway, Betty, tell me about your day.’

‘I just did.’

*

I don’t think anyone anywhere should have to go a whole day without talking to their best friend in the whole world, so before getting ready for bed I called Jenni.

‘How was your first day?’ she asked me.

I had to think before I answered. I’d been all ready to say, ‘It was terrible! The work was boring, I was lonely, and my new teacher is really horrible.’ That would have made Jenni feel better, which would have made me feel better as well, but I couldn’t say it. I really couldn’t, because it wasn’t true.

That’s why I said, ‘Don’t tell Mum I said this, but it was actually pretty good. How was yours?’

‘It was terrible,’ Jenni said. ‘Boring. Plus I was lonely. And Ms Richardson was in a horrible mood.’

‘That’s a shame,’ I said.

‘Hey, Lizzie, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go,’ Jenni said, right out of the blue.

‘Already? I just called you!’

‘I haven’t finished my homework yet. Man, I hate maths! Do you have homework?’

I wondered if I should tell her that I did, just so she wouldn’t feel too jealous.

But she wasn’t going to let me get away with not answering her. ‘Lizzie?’

‘I didn’t get any,’ I said. ‘Mum doesn’t believe in it. Besides, all my schoolwork is homework now, isn’t it?’

Jenni sighed. ‘You’re so lucky,’ she said.

Just then, Dad came to my doorway and stood there, waiting for me to notice him. This is something he does. He says it’s because it’s rude to talk over someone’s phone conversation, but I reckon it’s more rude to stand there listening in.

‘Jenni, can you wait for a second?’ I said. ‘Yes, Dad?’

‘It’s getting late, Lizzie, and you’ve got school in the morning.’

‘Is that meant to be funny?’ I asked.

He sighed. ‘Sorry, I mean . . . Anyway, it’s late, so you should get to bed. Oh, and it’s bin night, remember?’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘I’ll do it when I’ve finished talking to Jenni.’

‘Okay. Well, I’m going to bed now, so don’t forget.’

The thing is, I never forget. In my family, chores are very important. (At least, they are when they’re
my
chores.) But there he was, practically accusing me of forgetting!

‘Sorry about that,’ I said to Jenni. ‘Just my dad being annoying.’

‘I heard that!’ Dad called. ‘Do the bins!’

I
woke up to a loud meeping sound, right outside my window. For a moment I couldn’t figure out what it was. A car alarm, perhaps, or a really annoying bird? Maybe something in a dream? But then I heard the growl of a truck’s engine, and in an instant I was completely awake.

‘Oh, no! The bins!’

I didn’t even stop to grab my dressing gown – I just ran. I went down the steps three at a time, bounded through the kitchen without even stopping to see if the inside bin needed emptying, burst through the back door, ran around the end of the house and grabbed the big green bin, making sure I didn’t trip over the worm farm that we keep out there. (In case you don’t know what a worm farm is, you should just look it up on the internet. It’s not really what it sounds like.) The growling sound was coming over the fence, taunting me as I wrestled with the latch on the gate. Then I was through, charging down the driveway with the bin getting the speed-wobbles behind me. I reached the bottom of the driveway, parked the bin in position, and looked up, panting like I’d just run a cross-country race.