Outback Hero (9 page)

I knew then that something fishy was going
on. All I found out was that I'd lost my place in the team to a
five year old named Hamish (tell me, what sort of pageboy is named
Hamish?), who was Sophie's twenty-third cousin or something. But
why? Someone must've told her I wasn't cute enough. Who would've
said that?

As Sophie's mom told Mom all about Sophie's
Italian handmade beaded silk shoes, Nanna arrived. She wanted to
know the color of the bridesmaids' dresses. Mom thought they were
lilac and Sophie's mom thought they were lavender.

Aunt Evil (as Charlie and me call her)
turned up. She parked in the loading zone out the front of the
church, probably so everyone could check out her red Mercedes
sports car. She came over and Charlie and me stood back while
everyone kissed everyone else like they hadn't seen each other
since Christmas (and not two weeks ago at Nanna's place).

Charlie kicked a stone in my direction. Dad
spun round to see if we were doing anything we shouldn't be. I
stood on the stone and gave him a blank look. So far I'd made a
good impression. I'd been quiet and still, just like Dad had told
me to be. I wouldn't kick the stone back to Charlie. I'd let
Charlie suffer.

Everyone turned to look at me.

"I didn't do anything," I said.

Then Sophie's mom stepped back and wrapped
her arm round me, squeezing me like I was a plastic duck that
spurted water out its mouth. Geez, I'd only just met her! "Avril,"
she said, "I think he's lovely and he seems perfectly behaved."

Aunt Evil laughed nervously. "Trust me," she
replied, "he's programmed to make trouble."

"Oh, he's a good boy," said good old
Nanna.

I glared at my evil aunt. She looked guilty
and turned away. So it was Aunt Evil who told Sophie that I was too
naughty! My heart thumped like I'd just run a hundred-metre race. I
wanted revenge, but I wouldn't do anything yet. I'd wait. I'd wait
until the right moment. Then I'd get revenge on my evil aunt.

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M
y friends would be doing
math at this time of the day, but I wasn't because I was in Italy.
Sicily, to be exact. We were driving along a four-lane highway
where almost every car was speeding. Dad was biting his bottom lip,
because he was concentrating hard.

Charlie had stuck his head outside the car
window to record crazy drivers, so he could show his friends when
he got home. Cars whizzed past us so fast it felt like we weren't
moving. And the crazy drivers seemed to think no matter what they
did, everyone else would get out of their way.

Mom stopped reading her murder mystery and
stared out the front window at Mount Etna. Even though it was
March, the top of it was covered in snow. Mom loved mountains. That
was why we were in Sicily, because she'd always wanted to see Mount
Etna.

Charlie sat back, put his phone down and
leaned across the back seat of the car. Nudging me, he whispered,
"I bet you we're related to Mr. Mafia."

"Who?" I hated when Charlie did that. When
he says something as though I should know what he's talking about,
but I don't know, so I've got to ask him what he means and then I
sound dumb and he sounds smart.

"A mafia boss; an old guy who wears a black
suit and black sunglasses and who has bodyguards. He'd live in an
enormous house and be driven around in a big black car, and if
anyone does the wrong thing to his family, they'd better watch
out." Charlie gave me that smug look he gives when he's showing off
how much he knows.

I nodded as though I knew exactly what he
meant. And I sort of did. There were mafia guys at home. They were
bad; I knew that. A bit bad was okay, but I wouldn't want to be
related to anyone real bad.

Not that I believed Charlie. Mom wouldn't
have brought us to Sicily if we were related to a mafia boss. I
didn't think she would, anyway.

"It makes sense," whispered Charlie. "That's
why we've started this holiday in Sicily. To meet Mr. Mafia and the
rest of the family."

I swallowed. Real casual, I asked, "Mom, are
you related to a mafia boss?"

She took her eyes off Mount Etna to turn
round and glare at me. Then she glared at Charlie as if to say,
Don't scare your younger
brother!

He fiddled with his phone. "It seemed a
reasonable deduction since we've come to Italy to meet your
relatives and Sicily is the first place we've come to."

"We've come to Italy for a holiday, not just
to meet my relatives. And most Sicilians aren't in the mafia."

I nodded as though she'd convinced me. When
she turned round to the front, Charlie and me looked at each other.
We each knew what the other was thinking. She was lying. We could
tell because she didn't look into our eyes. That meant one thing.
Her relatives lived in Sicily. Did that mean her grandfather or
uncle or someone was Mr. Mafia? Maybe; maybe not.

Suddenly Tom Tom, our satellite navigator,
got real excited. In his robotic-newsreader voice, he said, "Bear
right, then go through the roundabout, second exit, then go
straight ahead for two hundred metres, stay in the right lane, then
turn right."

"WHAT?" yelled Dad. "That can't be
right!"

Charlie sniggered and Mom quickly opened her
book and began to read. I stated the obvious: "Tom Tom is always
right." We'd been using him for less than a week and it was already
like he was part of the family. He loved disagreeing with Dad.

Dad shook his head.

"Wow," yelled Charlie, "check out the
Ferrari!"

I turned round to see a bright yellow
Ferrari flash past us. A second later a car horn let out a long,
loud, scary sound. Then brakes screeched. Dad, who had been
following Tom Tom's instructions, yelled out something I'm not
allowed to say before he did a massive swerve. Charlie and me got
flung sideways. A moment later we realized we'd nearly been hit by
a car coming toward us.

For a minute nobody said anything. I reckon
it was still sinking in that some crazy Italian driver had nearly
killed us.

Charlie patted his phone. "Got the whole
thing on video. Absolute proof all Italians are crazy."

Mom turned round and gave Charlie one of her
looks. "That was one bad driver. Don't generalize."

Charlie nodded to her and then nudged me.
"Yeah, and all Italians are saints too. Lucky we're
half-Italian."

"Do you really think we're related to a
mafia boss?"

"It'd be cool." He lowered his voice and
added, "Except I read on the internet there's two mafia families in
Sicily who are killing each other. One family reckons the other
family is invading its territory."

"What?"

"Shh," whispered Charlie, but it was too
late because Mom had already turned round.

"That's enough," she said, looking from me
to Charlie and back to me. "I don't want to hear another word about
the mafia or my relatives. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Mom," we answered like a pair of
robots.

When she turned her back to us again, we
glanced at each other. We must be related to Mr. Mafia!

Suddenly I felt sick. It all made sense. Why
Mom never mentioned exactly where her relatives lived or what they
did. She was ashamed of them. She probably hadn't wanted to bring
us here. I bet they ordered her to because the big mafia boss
wanted to meet Charlie and me.

Maybe our whole lives were about to change.
Maybe we'd be expected to leave school and learn the business. Far
out, I didn't even know what they did. A cold shiver went up my
spine. All of a sudden I didn't want to be in Italy; I wanted to be
home.

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'W
oodlands' was vintage red
brick with big windows and lots of stained glass. The comfy chairs
on the front veranda and the garden full of flowers made the house
seem more friendly than grand. None of us spoke; we just stared out
the car windows as Dad parked out the front. I reckon we still
couldn't believe how our lives had changed. Mom's
childless-super-rich-computer-software-whiz uncle had died in a
plane crash and Mom inherited his whole fortune. For the first time
I was happy we didn't have many relatives.

We'd only ever lived in a shoebox stuck in
between two other shoeboxes, surrounded by asphalt, with barely a
tree in sight. Now we were moving into the home from heaven. Lucky
I knew who my friends were; I wouldn't want kids being my friend
just so they could swim in my twenty-metre pool, soak in the spa,
play tennis and hang out in the games room. I couldn't wait to
invite my friends over. They'd probably want to move into one of
the spare bedrooms.

Caesar barked when the removals truck beeped
as it reversed into our driveway. I opened the car door and turned
to Emily. Her pale blue eyes were wide open and she bounced on her
seat. Usually she only got this excited the night before Christmas.
'Ready?'

She clung on to her favorite doll and
followed me and Caesar to the front door. Emily liked our old
shoebox and hadn't wanted to move at first. When she announced at
dinner one night that she wasn't moving, Mom looked horrified. So I
saved the day by telling her that living in a house with a big
backyard would be better when she had her own dog. After that she
couldn't wait to move. Problem solved, except Mom didn't want
another dog. Mom wasn't impressed.

Dad unlocked the front door and Emily
squealed. We raced down the wide hallway to our bedrooms. We'd
chosen our rooms, the first time we got to see inside. When I saw
it was a choice between unreal and unreal, I let Emily choose. All
my clothes would fit into a quarter of the closet space and all my
books would take up about ten per cent of the bookcase. I'd have to
spread everything out. The desk went the whole way along one wall -
who needed a desk that long?

Caesar began to bark like crazy in a room at
the front of the house.

Mom called out from the kitchen, 'Adam, find
out what's bothering Caesar.'

As soon as I'd sprinted back up the hallway
to the study, I could see what was bothering Caesar. I patted him
and whispered, 'It's okay.' He stopped barking and began to sniff
around the room.

'Hello,' I said to the boy sitting on the
bay window seat. He looked about the same age as me.

The boy looked round as if I were talking to
someone else. Then, he said, 'Are you talking to me?'

'Who else would I be talking to?' I said
telepathically. I communicate with ghosts by thinking the words,
instead of saying them aloud. When I was little, I assumed everyone
saw and talked to ghosts. Luckily, I worked out before I started
school that 'normal' people couldn't see them.

The boy raised his eyebrows and I wondered
whether he'd had a conversation with a living person since he died.
He whispered, 'Can you see me?'

I nodded. 'My family won't be able to see
you. Only me and my Grandpa George see ghosts.' His aura turned
orange, which meant I'd irritated him. I see the auras of ghosts
too. That's the energy surrounding the ghost, which changes color
depending on the ghost's mood. Even my Grandpa George can't see
auras; it's pretty unusual. He reckons for every one hundred people
who can see and talk to ghosts, only one of them can see their
auras. Grandpa George helped me to work out what the colors meant.
What I couldn't work out with this ghost was what I'd said to
irritate him.