by Bell Davina
By lunchtime, everything’s sorted except the cash. We are seriously pumped and my heart is definitely full. It’s like last term never happened and we’ve seen each other every day forever. It’s like their friendship’s wrapped around me, bright and warm, like a lasso made of light. Standing on the verandah, we all look at each other and smile, and I know they feel it too.
‘I think it’s time for an inspirational quote,’ says Belle.
‘Oh brother,’ says Maisie.
‘Hit me,’ says Lola.
‘Kites rise highest against the wind, not with it.’ She pauses. ‘Lots of people think that’s by former British prime minister Winston Churchill but it’s actually not. Interestingly, lots of his quotes aren’t actually –’
‘The point?’ asks Lola.
‘What we’re trying to do might not be easy. We might fail. We might be publicly humiliated in front of hundreds of people,’ Belle says, and now she’s really getting into Public-Speaking Mode. ‘The place we cherish most in the world might be ripped from our hearts before our very eyes. We might –’
‘Sorry, didn’t you say this was going to be inspirational?’ demands Maisie. ‘This is just a downer.’
Belle stops. She shrugs. And then she grins and yells, ‘Stacks on!’ and tackles us to the ground in a big bunch, which is pretty wild and irresponsible in Belle’s world.
It’s warm at the bottom of the pile of our limbs. I can smell Maisie’s apple shampoo – the same one I used at her place when we were little enough to have baths together. Lola’s ribs are right up against my ear and I can hear her heartbeat, strong and bold, just like her.
‘I can’t breathe,’ I say eventually, laughing.
‘I know CPR,’ says Belle. ‘I’ve read about it. We’ll rescue you. We won’t let you down.’
‘I know,’ I say, as everyone climbs off me. ‘I’ve always known.’
‘So exactly when are we going to get to the decorating part?’ Lola asks. Lola and I are the first ones back from the break we just took to get lunch at home and change into work clothes. We’re taking Togsley for a quick spin around the park while we wait for the others to come back.
I’m excited about the decorating bit too. Mum’s never let me decorate my own room properly – at least, she never let me make every single choice. Once she let me and Gracie choose the paint colour, but then she said that meant she could decide on the bedspreads, and she chose really boring grey ones.
‘Well, I guess first we need to get the money together. And remember we have to do the cleaning and the fixing first. Hey – cool! You changed your earrings.’ She’s switched the peace signs for four tiny cut-out paper dolls holding hands. ‘How did you get them so small?’
Lola shrugs like it’s no big deal, but when she’s proud of herself she tries not to smile in a way that makes her dimple poke into her cheek, so I can tell. ‘All for one and one for all,’ she says.
Then neither of us says anything for a while. Sometimes, even though I’ve known her forever, I get a little intimidated by Lola. Lots of times over the years I’ve felt like I was too uncool to be her friend, and if she thought about it for three seconds, she’d realise that too, and go hang out with Maggie Mair instead. Maggie Mair makes her own movies, even though she’s only thirteen. One of them got shown at a short-film festival in America. The festival was on the edge of the desert and she actually got to go there. She made a short film about that, which was basically her skipping through sand dunes in bare feet and a denim pinafore. Maggie Mair is beautiful, too, in a blonde skateboarder way. She has so many followers on social that she is practically breaking the internet.
‘I like your overalls,’ I say to Lola. It’s probably a stupid thing to say. What I actually want to ask her is why she stopped doing those big murals, but I don’t quite know how.
‘They’re just Tally’s old ones,’ she says. ‘For dirty work.’
‘Oh. Right. Of course. I knew that.’ I cringe and change the subject. ‘Togsley is happy you guys are back. He’s missed you.’
‘Good old Togs,’ says Lola. ‘Smartest pooch on the planet. Remember when we did that online doggy IQ test?’
‘He is pretty smart,’ I say proudly. Togsley can actually ride a skateboard. Probably better than Maggie Mair. ‘Not as smart as Lemon Tart, though.’ It’s true. For a giant (actually giant) rabbit, Lemon Tart is basically Einstein. She would be great at Kumon.
‘I haven’t seen her for ages!’ Lola says. ‘Since, like – oh. Sorry, Soph. I didn’t mean to …’ She trails off, like she wants to finish the sentence but she can’t.
‘It’s OK,’ I say.
‘Are you OK?’ she says. She stops and I stop and she turns to me.
I don’t know what to tell her. I haven’t talked about any of this stuff with her. Or with anyone. It’s all just sitting in my throat, pressing down, making my jaw ache – my head too, some days.
‘I mean really, though,’ she presses. ‘You’re so quiet these days. I feel like I want to be there for you but I don’t know how.’
I shake my head. Lola grabs my cheeks and presses our foreheads together.
‘I carry your heart,’ she whispers. ‘Got it?’
I nod. I get it. ‘I carry your heart’ is from a poem that we really love. Our year four teacher, Ms Sadlier, helped us memorise it. She said it was originally written from a guy to a girl, but it could also just be to someone – anyone – who made you feel like you had fireflies inside you. Ms Sadlier taught us a new poem every fortnight. Truly, she was the best teacher we ever had.
‘But seriously,’ says Lola as we start walking again, ‘have you had any more ideas about the money? I wondered about making earrings to sell, but they take so long and we don’t have enough time. Then I thought about stealing Tally’s stuff and selling it to all her lame internet fans, but she’d probably murder me. I asked Rishi if he’d put on a fundraising concert, but RexRoy still haven’t written all the songs for the new album and he thinks doing a live show will mess with their creative process. And that’s all I’ve got.’
‘Those are all great ideas,’ I say, impressed. ‘All I thought of was a photobooth where you can take selfies with Lemon Tart dressed in different costumes. Do you think anyone would pay for that?’
‘Maybe,’ says Lola loyally, but I can tell she doesn’t really mean it. And to be honest … I don’t think any of this is going to happen. We just don’t have long enough to get the money together. We’re going to lose Corner Park Clubhouse, and Sunnystream won’t ever be the same again.
Lola and Togsley and I walk along in gloomy silence until we hear someone dinging a bike bell. In the distance, we spy Belle cycling across the oval. A giant sandy-coloured Labradoodle, tied to her handlebars by his leash, is running along beside her.
‘Sergeant!’ we yell and run to meet him, scruffling his ears. I let Togs off the lead and he and Sergeant sniff each other like they’re old pals. Sergeant belongs to Mr and Mrs Green, the old couple who run Sookie La La. We’ve known him since he was just a little puppy in a basket in the corner of the cafe, when he smelled like toast and smiled like one of those clown machines at a fair. Sometimes, in return for free milkshakes, we’d walk him for Mr Green. He was so little he’d get tired walking even halfway around Corner Park and we’d have to take turns carrying him like a baby. Now he’s huge but he still has that same crazy smile and he bounds like his feet are too big for him, which they sort of still are. He’s the actual best.
‘So good to see you!’ Lola says, kissing his neck. ‘What are you doing here, buddy?’
‘Mr Green is paying me to walk him,’ says Belle. ‘So that’s some extra cash for the clubhouse.’
‘That’s a good idea,’ I say, marvelling for the squillionth time at how smart Belle is. ‘Better than any of the ones we’ve had so far.’
When we get back to the clubhouse, Maisie’s there to greet us, running backwards along the fence rail, and I am secretly super happy that she
hasn’t gone to training. ‘Sergeant!’ she cries, and does a front somersault dismount so she can run and pat him. They end up wrestling together on the ground, rolling over and over. Togsley looks at me disapprovingly, like he’s saying ‘look at those goons’, and then trots into the clubhouse garden. ‘Hey – come back!’ I call. But he ignores me and runs over to sniff at the trunk of the red Japanese maple. I can feel everyone turn to look at me as my eyes fill up with tears.
Last Christmas Eve, I wheeled Gracie over here. It was the last time she ever left the house. She didn’t feel well, said she couldn’t see properly, but she still wanted to come. Mum didn’t think she should but Dad squeezed Mum’s hand and said, ‘Let her go.’ The sun had only just gone down so the sky was hazy and orange and bright. Stringy bits of eucalyptus bark crackled under her wheelchair as we crossed the park. The kids had done their nativity play here earlier, so there were bits of hay all over the ground. Pony Soprano had been the donkey that Mary had ridden on – he does it every year. He’s got great dramatic timing. ‘Text Patrick,’ Gracie croaked as we came through the gate. Patrick was Gracie’s best friend. He was the kind of kid who always had a zillion things in his pockets: coins, a USB, a key ring with a laser on it, a mouse called Cheeks. He always had a pocketknife, and that’s what Gracie wanted. I wheeled her over to the red Japanese maple – right up to the trunk. You’re not meant to cut things into trees – it’s sort of bad, like graffiti – but I don’t think anyone minded what Gracie carved. It’s a love heart, big and lopsided. Inside the heart there’s writing – uneven, like the person who did it couldn’t see very well. But you can still read it. It says, ‘Gracie was here.’
‘It’s not just a clubhouse,’ says Belle gently, as we stand there watching Togsley. ‘We get that, Soph.’
‘Don’t worry about the money,’ Lola adds. ‘We’ll think of something.’
I don’t say anything – the words get stuck in my throat. But my heart yells THANK YOU. I just hope they can hear it.
We get going on Step 1: Clearing Out. The dust over everything gives me asthma twice. Luckily I always have my inhaler in my pocket. We drag the stuff out onto the grass – all the old mashed-up costumes and some mismatched armchairs and a cricket bat and three broken kettles and half the head of a giant sphinx, and a lot of office stuff from the council building that Mayor Magnus must have had moved here, including two filing cabinets that Belle thinks might contain top-secret documents. Also thirteen old mops and a lot of actual rubbish.
But some of it’s really heavy, like a bed with a marble frame, and a giant Converse sneaker that’s also a sofa, and a fan the size of an aeroplane engine. Even Maisie can’t lift the sneaker.
‘We need to call every strong man we know,’ Lola says.
‘Or woman,’ says Belle. ‘Let’s be inclusive. But seriously, how do we get rid of this stuff?’
‘We could pay someone to take it away, I guess, but that seems stupid when we’re trying to make money.’ I shrug.
‘So … light bulb! People pay us to take it away!’ says Lola. ‘I’m putting this on Insta: GARAGE SALE TODAY. Rare one-off pieces of furniture! Yours if you can lift them.’
This is total genius, and Maisie and I quickly try to arrange everything on the grass so it looks like a garage sale and not a rubbish pile. Within fifteen minutes, people are showing up.
Rishi’s band arrives and ends up taking the Converse sofa to put in the Powells’ basement. Miss Claudine comes over from Cloud Town and nabs the marble bed for her ballet studio. Rishi and the band boys help load it onto Mikie’s truck so he can drive it there for her. I hope Judy doesn’t get jealous. Punk Sherman shows up and takes all the mops. ‘Great collection you’ve got here,’ he says, sounding impressed. Belle looks pained and goes off to Skype her boyfriend. I sneakily follow and listen in, and I kid you not, they spend most of the convo counting backwards from one hundred to one in Mandarin to try to keep their brains sharp. It’s not really what I imagined dating to be.
By four o’clock, all the stuff is gone except for a baby grand piano with a hole through the middle. We have enough money for the cement to fix the steps, plus a bit left over! It’s only a tiny thing, but it feels big.
By four-thirty, Belle has booked a rubbish and recycling dumpster. Turns out the guy who delivers it restores pianos so he takes the baby grand in return for a major discount. (Who knew bins cost so much? There goes the leftover money.)
By five-thirty, we’re sitting on the grass outside the clubhouse, so tired we can’t even talk. Even Maisie looks exhausted. And now that it’s empty, it’s easy to see just how much we still have to do. The walls are that weird crusty brown. Lots of the floorboards are broken. There’s a layer of grime on the floor that you can make patterns in with your finger, it’s that thick. I’ve loved Corner Park Clubhouse since I was born, but right now it is kind of gross, and who’s going to care about saving a dump? This is going to be way harder than I realised. I can tell the others are thinking the same thing: is it stupid to think that a bunch of kids can do anything?
‘Think about Malala,’ says Belle. ‘Think about Anne Frank and that boy who became a doctor when he was nine – not the one on TV, the actual real-life one. And see you tomorrow morning at seven.’
Nobody says anything. We don’t have the energy to think about Malala. We don’t even have the energy for goodbyes. One day down, four to go, and we’re still basically broke. Can we really make this happen?
On the second day of saving the clubhouse, aka Step 2: Cleaning Up, I park my scooter outside the clubhouse alongside Belle’s bike, which is already locked against a tap. It’s only five to seven, but the others are already sitting on their steps. I can’t help smiling when I see them there. Just like old times. Maisie has Sergeant on her lap and Lola has a really pretty Dalmatian on hers. I wish I’d brought Togsley, but I didn’t want him to get in the way.
‘Who’s this?’ I ask.
‘That’s Clover,’ Belle replies. ‘She’s beautiful but very stupid. No offence, Clover. Did you get today’s updated to-do list on your email?’ she asks.
Lola rolls her eyes. ‘Yes, everyone got your zillion emails. And before you ask, no, I haven’t had any more ideas about the money.’
‘Me neither,’ I add sadly. Unless you count my daydream about paying to kiss Rishi at a kissing booth, but I’m not going to share that.
‘Me three-ther,’ says Maisie.
‘Well, we’ve still got until tomorrow to pay for the paint and stuff, I guess,’ says Belle, ‘so let’s get going on the inside cleaning. We need to clean before we can paint. And that floor grime is disgusting.’
‘Should we walk Sergeant first? And Clover too? Who does she belong to?’ I ask, stroking her silky black ears. She really is beautiful. 101 Dalmatians was one of my favourite movies when I was little. Gracie preferred Charlotte’s Web, but that was too sad for me.
‘My neighbour. We’re getting paid to look after her all day,’ says Belle. ‘Like doggy daycare.’
‘Could … could that be an idea?’ asks Maisie. ‘Could we make, like, an actual doggy daycare business? A professional one? I could make us a website for people to book in and whatever.’
We look at each other, grinning like idiots. This isn’t just Thinking Fire. This is like a Thinking Volcano. And you know what? It could actually work.
In half an hour, we’ve got the whole thing sorted – even the name, which is (drumroll please) Paws For Thought. (Get it?!) If it’s a success, we’ll have enough money at the end of each day to get the supplies we’ll need for the next day’s work. It doesn’t take us long to decide who takes which role. Belle’s the Company President, which means she’s in charge of ‘overseeing operations’, which I secretly think just means bossing people.
Lola is Head of Marketing, which means she’ll design our logo and flyers. She’s already made us an Instagram account and posted four times to tell people that Paws For Thought is open for business and we’re
raising money to save Corner Park Clubhouse. It’s so nice seeing her sketch out the possible logos in Belle’s notebook. It sounds cheesy, but I reckon Lola was born to do art.
Maisie is Head of Technology. In about three seconds, she’s made us a website on her iPad where clients can contact us.
‘A stupid person couldn’t do that,’ I whisper, and she smiles. ‘Hey – you’re still here! You didn’t go to gym!’
Maisie winks at me. ‘Yup.’
‘We’re using your phone number,’ Belle says to Lola. ‘Obviously.’
‘Sure,’ says Lola, smiling to herself. ‘I think I’ll finish this at home with my paints.’
I’m Chief Financial Officer, which means I’ll deal with the money. I’m not sure that’s a great idea, but I’ll try.
We draw up some business rules. We’ll start taking bookings today, and open for business tomorrow. Any PFT team members who show up late will be on Poop Duty. For an extra fee, we’ll offer a styling service, which basically just means putting in ribbons and giving the pups mohawks.
‘But hang on … if we’re busy looking after lots of dogs, how will we have time to fix the clubhouse?’ asks Maisie.
Oh. We hadn’t thought of that. Hmm.
‘I could always ask the Eco Worriers to help out,’ says Belle.
‘I know it’s been said by every single person in Sunnystream,’ says Lola, ‘but you are an actual genius. That is the most brilliant –’
‘LOLA,’ screams someone across the park. ‘ARE YOU WEARING MY MOON SHORTS?’ That’s got to be Tally.
We all look over at Lola. She’s totally wearing the moon shorts, plus a black-and-white checked top and silver half-moon earrings. Uh-oh.
‘I AM LITERALLY GOING TO KILL YOU.’ Tally’s sprinting over now. Tally’s an even faster runner than Lola. She’s two years older, I guess.
‘Jeepers,’ says Lola, scrambling to her feet, but she’s too late.
