by Bell Davina
It’s full doggy chaos.
I look around to find Belle, who surely must have a plan, even for this kind of mayhem, and spot her climbing up onto the bulldozer, right onto its roof. She stands up and puts her fingers into her mouth and whistles – the longest, loudest wolf whistle I have ever heard. Everyone flings their hands up to their ears. The dogs stop dead still in their tracks.
‘ATTENTION!’ yells Belle. ‘ATTENTION! RETURN TO YOUR HOUSES! PAWS FOR THOUGHT IS OFFICIALLY CLOSED.’
‘I don’t get this,’ says Maisie later that afternoon. She and Belle are sitting on the stage doing two-variable equations while Lola and I paint the walls with the last of the undercoat. That’s a type of maths. The equations, not the undercoat. The undercoat is the type of paint you put on to get the walls ready for the proper paint colour, the top layer, which we’re still yet to choose. Mikie was supposed to be taking us to the Hard Hair Store tonight to decide. Judy was going to come around and help, too, and bring us pizza from Rita’s. But none of that’s happening now.
Maisie is gloomy about the maths and we’re all gloomy about the bulldozer that’s sitting outside, reminding us time’s a-ticking, and don’t even get me started on the whole money situation. It took the whole morning to clean up the mangled garden after the Paws For Thought fiasco and we had to give the money back, though people were really nice about it. Then we had to pay Mikie for the damage to the coffee cart – who knew wheel axles were so pricey? – and buy Olivia a new hoodie. And we could only do that because Lola sold her entire collection of earrings to Pepper Peters from the Cloud Town Cougars. She’s the captain, and even though you’re supposed to have short nails when you play netball, boy does she scratch. Watching Lola hand over the earrings in a shoebox was even more painful than watching Pepper hold her nose when she walked into the clubhouse. I guess it does smell kind of damp and mouldy but you get used to it pretty quickly.
With the money left over, we could only afford enough undercoat to do the bottom half of the walls, so now the bottom half looks sort of OK and the top half is still the colour of old teeth. It’s not the professional look we were going for.
‘What about the crowdfunding?’ Maisie asks Lola. ‘Aren’t we making money from that?’
‘The thing about crowdfunding is that people pay after you reach the goal,’ says Lola, who today has on this incredible dress she sewed from a flowery brown couch cushion cover that her grandma was going to throw away. She literally just made a hole in each end and tied it with a pearly-pink belt but it looks like something you’d see on a vlog. It’s weird seeing her with no earrings on. ‘You can do the maths on this, Killer. We need –’
‘Stop distracting her,’ Belle says grumpily. ‘If she doesn’t get to the Olympics, it’s going to be your fault.’
Maisie groans. ‘I am literally never going to get this. We may as well give up now.’
‘You will too get it,’ Belle tells her. ‘Remember, Mais: if you’re going through hell, keep going.’
‘Shakespeare?’ I ask as I run the roller up and down the walls.
‘Fake Winston Churchill again,’ says Belle. ‘So who knows?’
‘I’m so dumb I don’t even remember who that is,’ groans Maisie.
‘You’re not!’ we all say together.
‘Can you say it again?’ asks Lola.
‘I’m so dumb –’ Maisie begins.
‘Not that, Mais – the Churchy thing,’ says Lola.
‘Can you not Instagram that and just keep painting?’ snaps Belle.
‘No no,’ says Lola earnestly. ‘I’m not going to post it. I just want to know. For me.’
Since we started fixing up the clubhouse, Lola’s been making a time-lapse video. That means her phone’s been sitting in a corner filming everything, so she hasn’t been able to use it. Now she’s out of the habit, she doesn’t seem to care as much anymore.
‘It’s like, when I try to read the questions, the letters move around,’ says Maisie. ‘Is that weird?’
‘WHAT?’ says Belle. ‘You’ve never told me that. Maisie, that sounds like you have dyslexia.’
‘Dis-what-ia?’ asks Maisie.
‘I mean, I’m no expert. But I’ve read pretty much everything about it online. So I sort of am. The science behind it is actually quite fascinating. Neural pathways –’
There’s a knock at the still-broken door and a low voice. ‘Yello?’
‘Thank goodness,’ Lola mutters, and secretly I feel the same. Sometimes it’s hard to keep up with Belle’s brain.
‘Coach Jack!’ says Maisie – in a shocked way, not an excited way. Which is weird. Coach Jack’s her favourite coach. There’s something else in her voice, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.
Coach Jack almost has to duck his head when he walks through the clubhouse door.
‘Aren’t you too tall to be a gymnast?’ Lola asks in her talking-to-a-boy voice.
‘Lucky I grew late. After the Olympics. Hey gang,’ says Coach Jack, and he glances around at the patchy walls, looking sort of confused. ‘Are you doing your own home make-over show in here?’
‘It doesn’t look that good because we can’t afford the paint yet,’ says Lola, and she does this thing where she dips her head and looks up through her eyelashes. She does have pretty great eyelashes, like a baby deer. ‘This is just the undercoat.’
‘Well, that explains where you’ve been, Killer. I had a hunch it might be here. You thought I wouldn’t notice you were gone, hey?’
‘What do you mean?’ Belle frowns.
‘This one’s skipped two days of Holiday Hell,’ he says to us, pointing at Maisie. ‘That’s our holiday intensive course for the elite squad. Actually, she’s skipped three days including today. Does your mum know about this?’ he asks Maisie. ‘We’ve got State Champs coming up in a few months …’
What?! We all turn to look at Mais, and BOY does she look guilty. I feel guilty, too, for getting her to stay these past couple of days. But I didn’t know about Holiday Hell. It sounds important. Also quite hard.
‘I just wanted to help,’ she says, all defensive. ‘And sometimes … I dunno.’ I love that I know Maisie so well I know what her ‘dunno’ means here. It means that sometimes she feels like she gives up so much stuff for gymnastics and she just wants to be a normal kid. But that SHE’S the one who’s always fighting to be allowed to be a gymnast, so she feels like she has to do her total best, all the time, to prove to her parents that it’s worth it – the time, the money, everything. Poor Maisie. It’s all kind of complicated.
‘Zhang Ai Mei!’ Belle says crossly. (That’s Maisie’s Chinese name.) ‘Why didn’t you say anything? We could have managed without you.’
‘But I love this place,’ she says, looking round. ‘It reminds me of being a kid and … I dunno. Being free.’
‘Well, enjoy it while you can,’ Belle sighs. ‘Because this time next week, it’s going to be a pile of planks.’
‘What do you mean?’ asks Coach Jack.
‘Didn’t you see Tally’s song on YouTube?’ Belle asks. ‘Lola, we clearly need to expand our marketing efforts. Our campaign message is obviously not being heard.’
Lola glares. ‘Um, I’ve been kind of busy? I did the flyers about the rally last night, didn’t I? Coach Jack, have you seen any flyers around town?’
‘Oh – actually, someone put something on my windscreen today, under the wipers. And all the other cars in town. Was that you guys?’
‘No,’ says Lola, ‘ours were just on the noticeboard at Buck’s and around the gazebo at Handkerchief Place.’
‘And the Eco Worriers wouldn’t have put them on people’s cars without asking,’ says Belle. She has them SUPER well-trained.
‘I think I chucked it on my front seat,’ says Coach Jack. ‘Let me grab it.’
He comes back with a really glossy flyer, printed on both sides. It’s definitely not one of ours. ‘Once in a lifetime opportunity,’ he reads from the huge lette
rs at the top. ‘SHARK TANK – MONDAY – 10AM. BIG PRIZE! Be there!’
‘WHAT!’ we yell.
‘What opportunity?’ demands Belle, ripping it out of Coach Jack’s hand. She reads the rest out to us. ‘One dish served on Monday between 10am and 11am will have a golden ticket underneath it entitling the lucky customer to a LIFETIME’s supply of pancakes at Ja-pancake Par-LA!. Be in it to win it. See you there!’ She crumples it up and throws it on the ground – throws it hard. Then she lets out a T-Rex-sized roar.
Coach Jack flinches, looking confused.
Lola starts taking these really deep breaths, like she’s Darth Vader from Star Wars.
I get it. I can’t stress to you enough how much people LOVE those pancakes. Heck, I love those pancakes. Come Monday, that’s where everyone’s going to be. Mayor Magnus wouldn’t be smart enough to plan this, but do you know who would?
‘Bart Strabonsky,’ whispers Maisie, shaking her head.
‘The dude with the eyeglass thingy? Killer, what are you talking about?’ says Coach Jack. ‘What is going on here?’
‘Monday at ten is right when our rally is,’ I say in almost a whisper. ‘That’s when the clubhouse is going to be torn down.’
‘What?! What do you mean, “torn down”?’ says Coach Jack. ‘Wait – THAT’S what the bulldozer’s for?! But that’s crazy! There’s no Sunnystream without the clubhouse. I mean, I haven’t been here in ages, but still …’
As he says it, I realise there’s this weird disconnect between people loving the idea of the clubhouse and actually going there. It reminds me of something my dad always says. Said. ‘There is no love – there are only proofs of love.’ I think it means that unless you show you care, you’re not actually being caring. And the whole of Sunnystream has forgotten to care for the clubhouse. Even WE forgot to care for it before this whole thing happened.
‘And you know what?’ Coach Jack continues. ‘This is where my grandpa came every day when he got back from the war. It’s where they came to remember the dudes who didn’t make it. I think they taught classes here for the returned soldiers.’
‘That’s right. Woodcrafts and beekeeping,’ says Belle knowledgeably. ‘I read about it in Sunnystream: A History. Would you like to borrow the book? It’s an inspiring example of thoroughly researched local history.’
‘Er, sure,’ says Coach Jack. ‘Look, I really shouldn’t be doing this,’ he tells Maisie, ‘but take the rest of the week off – regular training too. Just don’t tell your mum. She’s paid for it but I’ll figure that out next term. Stupid Magnus. And make sure you keep up a bit of balance work in the meantime, OK? Nothing too tricky, though – no flip combos without a mat.’
‘Will you be here on Monday at ten?’ says Lola. ‘For our rally?’
‘Monday’s kind of a tricky day, isn’t it?’ asks Coach Jack. ‘I mean, I’ll try my best, but I’ll have to get out of my shift at the gym. It’s gonna be hard for people with jobs and businesses and all that.’
Oh. We hadn’t thought about that. You can almost hear the last sparks of our Big Idea fizzle out.
‘But you never know,’ Coach Jack continues, trying to sound enthusiastic, like he’s realised he’s crushed our dreams. ‘I’ll put it on Facebook. And hey, if you need a hand around the place, I’m great with a drill.’ He looks at the top half of the walls and frowns. And then tries to not frown. ‘See you, girls. Catch you, Killer.’
Maisie smiles, but it’s a stressed kind of smile. ‘Not if I catch you first.’
As Coach Jack is leaving, he stops and turns and looks at me – straight at me. ‘Soph,’ he says. ‘I’m really sorry about Gracie. You hang in there, OK?’
I can feel my face blazing. I swallow. ‘Thanks, Coach Jack.’ I want to say something else – I feel like I need to say it. The words are all there in my head, lined up: Gracie, she really liked you. She thought you were the best coach in any sport she ever had. She thought you were like a big, smart, handsome bear. Thank you for being in her life. It wasn’t a very long life, but you helped make it special.
But the words just won’t come out.
He nods and stands for a minute, gazing out the newly cleaned windows like he’s looking at something that isn’t there. ‘She was a good one,’ he says quietly. Then he leaves, and I have the wishing feeling again.
I can feel the others watching me and looking at each other, wincing like I’m causing them actual pain.
I walk outside, through the back door to the garden, and sit down against the Japanese maple. Its red leaves wave like little hands. Like tiny fluttering hearts. I can’t bear to think of it being flattened by that bulldozer, cracked through as if it had been split by lightning. I rest my head against the trunk and close my eyes. My throat hurts with all the words that are still jammed inside.
Someone comes over and rests their head next to mine. We stay like that for a while, me and whoever it is. ‘Want to sleep over tonight?’ Belle asks eventually. ‘Actually, do you all want to sleep over?’ she calls to the others.
To get how incredibly kind that is, you have to know that Belle doesn’t like having people over to her house. She’s never said it directly, but I think she’s embarrassed about where she lives.
‘Yes!’ says Maisie, and Lola sort of whoops. ‘Who’s got The Jar?’
‘I do,’ I say, though I haven’t thought about it in months. ‘I’ll get it when I fetch my sleeping bag from home.’
Belle checks her watch and squeezes my knee. ‘Come on. Let’s swing by town and see what’s happened to our flyers while we get supplies.’ She reaches over and wipes away the tears that are mid-way through their slip down my face. ‘I carry your heart,’ she whispers.
And I whisper back, ‘I carry it in my heart.’
The main street is plastered with the pancake flyers – they’re covering literally every surface. Not a single one of Lola’s is anywhere. And here’s the worst part. Well, one of the many bad parts. We didn’t read the other side of the one Coach Jack had, but on the reverse is a picture of the clubhouse with a giant red cross through it. DANGER, it says. CONDEMNED! STAY AWAY!
‘What’s “condemned”?’ asks Maisie.
‘That means it’s not safe to go near,’ says Belle.
‘But Mr Morrison said it was fine!’ says Lola. ‘They’re just trying to stop people coming to the protest. The competition’s one thing, but this is just lies!’
Grey Dare walks past, holding a flyer. He waves it at us and says, ‘Hey. You girls going to enter the pancake comp? I freaking love that wasabi mayonnaise, hey.’
‘Um, NO!’ says Belle, kind of hysterically. ‘Haven’t you heard about the clubhouse?’
‘How it’s haunted?’ he asks. ‘Crazy, isn’t it! Who’d have thunk?’
‘What do you mean, haunted?’ asks Maisie. ‘Who told you that?’
Grey Dare looks confused, maybe about how intense we’re all acting. ‘Um, the band boys, maybe? Apparently Pony Soprano won’t go near there because he can see ghosts.’
‘WHAT?’ we all yell together.
‘Oh yeah – that’s why Mayor Magnus is moving the clubhouse to a nice farm out of town. Thank goodness. I thought that guy was a bit of an idiot, but he sure must love Pony Soprano.’
We just stare at each other, gobsmacked, as Grey Dare slinks away looking kind of terrified.
My old ballet teacher, Miss Claudine, walks past, trying to juggle her fruit and vegetables without a bag. She sees us all holding the flyers. ‘Oh!’ she says in her lovely gentle voice. I miss that voice. ‘I heard that part of the clubhouse roof fell on Mikie’s coffee cart and broke it in half. Poor thing.’
‘That’s NOT what happened!’ yells Lola, and Miss Claudine jumps backwards in shock, dropping a bunch of kale and some mandarins. As if on cue, the Eco Worriers appear and pick them all up for her.
‘Good job you’re here,’ Belle barks at them. ‘We’re taking down every single one of these pancake flyers. And then we’re burnin
g them in a massive bonfire. Starting NOW.’
‘Shouldn’t we recycle them?’ asks Olivia, and they all look kind of worried.
‘Isn’t burning printed paper going to release toxic fumes?’ asks Hattie.
‘Just go fetch them,’ growls Belle.
‘Isobelle, those kids are not dogs,’ says Lola. ‘Have some respect.’
‘We need to start a major education campaign,’ fumes Belle. ‘We need to visit every shop and business and give them the facts. We can’t let them fall for this treasonous propaganda.’
‘Trees and us ... what?’ asks Maisie.
‘Miss Claudine,’ I say to Miss Claudine. ‘Let me tell you the truth about what’s happening to Corner Park Clubhouse.’
‘OMG, Francine, I LOVE that!’ says Lola as we all traipse in to Belle’s house late in the afternoon. ‘Can I take a photo?’
There is literally nothing in the tiny, tiny living room except a chair, paints and canvases, buckets and brushes, and the picture that Belle’s mum, Francine, is painting. It’s of fluoro-pink horses galloping through a supermarket. I can see why Lola loves it. It’s bright and wild, sort of like her. All of Francine’s pictures have colourful horses in interesting places, like space and a bowling alley.
‘Sure, doll face,’ says Francine. ‘Snap away. Are you guys here for some of Punk’s famous pulled pork?’
Doll face. Where have I heard that before?
‘For the zillionth time, I’m a gosh-darn vegetarian,’ says Belle. ‘And we’ve brought our own supplies, seeing as I knew there’d be nothing here.’ Her eyebrows are so close together that they’re almost joined. When she’s really mad, they almost cross.
Belle and her mum are sort of … really different. They fight all the time. It reminds me of lightsabers clashing into each other, like in Star Wars. Belle’s mum doesn’t buy groceries very often – or anything, really, like furniture or clothes. She doesn’t tidy up. Gracie once said that’s why Belle’s a total control freak – because her mum is chaotic. I think it’s got something to do with Belle’s dad, who we’ve never met and who she never, ever talks about.
