by Bell Davina
‘Of course we like you,’ says Maisie. ‘You’d do anything to help anyone. Look what you did for the clubhouse. Look how you’re always trying to find ways to help a dumbass like me.’
‘You’re not dumb!’ I say. ‘Don’t say it. And Belle, you’re perfect how you are. Not that you have to be perfect,’ I add. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘I’m the dumb one,’ Lola and Belle say at EXACTLY the same time. ‘Jinx!’ they yell, also at the same time. ‘Shut up,’ they say at the same time. And then we all laugh and go in for a group hug – all except Maisie, who hangs back. I can see from the way she’s pursing her lips that she’s in real pain now. Eek.
When we’ve finished with the hugging, I offer them all a cupcake.
‘Soph!’ says Lola, looking down at the cupcake and back up at me.
‘They’re red –’ Belle begins, her eyes wide.
‘Yeah,’ I say, ducking my head and blushing a little. ‘I know.’
‘With cream-cheese icing,’ says Maisie. ‘I’m proud of you. Gracie would be, too.’
‘I know,’ I whisper. ‘She would.’
While we wait for someone to come and buy the last four sweet treats, we take turns to frisbee the burnt Anzacs into the bin. Maisie is the best, obviously. Belle is the worst. Then we count up the money. We have enough to buy the paint. But is there such a thing as paint that dries, like, instantly?
My mum is our final customer. She comes by after showing the house on Tea Cake Crescent to that couple again. She says they’re pretty close to buying and she wants to give them some cupcakes to sweeten the deal. She smiles at my friends – a real smile, not the fake one from her real-estate posters.
‘Belle, Maisie, Lola,’ she says as she pays. ‘Nice to see you all getting along.’ EMBARRASSING. Now they’ll know I told her about the fight! Thanks for nothing, Mum.
But if they care, they’re doing a good job not showing it.
‘Thanks, Mrs H,’ they say, and then they all say ‘Jinx!’ again. As we pull weird faces at each other, I know we’re all thinking the same thing: the second F in BFFs is actually for real.
‘A bunch of monkeys, you lot,’ says Mum, putting away her purse. ‘Come for a sleepover soon.’
‘Wait – Mum, is there such a thing as paint that dries super fast?’ I ask. This is exactly the kind of boring house-y question that my mum will know everything about. ‘Really quickly, I mean,’ I say, correcting my grammar. ‘Like, will be dry by the end of tomorrow.’
Her whole face lights up. ‘Internal or external paint? Walls or ceilings?’
‘Internal walls,’ says Belle enthusiastically. ‘I’ve read that it needs to go through both a drying and hardening phase.’
‘Exactly,’ says Mum. ‘Now, of the water-based paints, I’d recommend …’
This goes on between them for so long that Lola gets hungry and tries to nibble on one of the few remaining burnt Anzacs, which she has to spit out. ‘Oh!’ she says to me and Maisie. ‘There’s something I’ve been trying to remember since I woke up and it’s just popped into my mind.’
‘How long you have to wait till morning tea?’ Maisie asks.
‘How many boys you have a crush on?’ I ask.
‘No, stupid,’ says Lola, grabbing me in a headlock and ruffling my hair. ‘It’s a word we learned in Art History last term. Kintsugi. It’s a Japanese word. It’s when something has a crack and when it’s repaired, they paint that crack with gold, so that the broken bit becomes something beautiful.’
‘Kintsugi,’ I say. The broken bit becomes beautiful. I’m going to have to think some more about that.
‘Speaking of broken,’ says Maisie, looking kind of worried. ‘Um, guys …’ She winces. ‘I know I’m supposed to paint the high bits in the clubhouse and I don’t want to let you down, but … I kind of need to go home. To bed. This hurts so bad I’m gonna throw up.’
This is like hearing that Santa Claus is shaving off his beard – it’s just wrong. Maisie never complains about anything. Even my mum looks worried.
‘Sweetheart,’ she says to Maisie, ‘I think you might need a doctor. Let me take you home.’
On Sunday morning, Belle and Lola and I walk gloomily through the clubhouse, looking at all the things that still need to be done and wishing Maisie was with us. We only have one day left to cram in the rest of Steps 3, 4 and 5 – TODAY! Mikie took us to the Hard Hair Store yesterday afternoon and we got the rest of the undercoat, and the water-based quick-drying wall paint that Mum recommended. Because of the bake sale, we even had money for floor polish, and for black fabric for new stage curtains, and to get more flyers printed.
But the door is still broken, the windows too. We haven’t figured out how to get the stage curtains down. The garden is full of weeds and leaves. Now we have the money, but we’re not going to have enough time to get it all done. Last night we tried to finish the top half of the undercoat, but without Maisie, we only got two walls done because we’re really scared to be up the ladder, and that slows us down. The other two walls are still dirty-tooth brown. The whole place looks …
‘Disgusting,’ says Belle gloomily as we lie down on the stage and look up at the tatty curtains. We should really keep painting, but it all just seems too hard. ‘And after everything we’ve done, too.’
‘A dump,’ Lola agrees. ‘Even if people show up for the rally, they’re gonna take one look at this and think we’re a joke. We’ll never get this finished by tomorrow. Not without, like, an army of robots.’
‘At some point in the near future, robots will probably do most of the jobs that humans do now,’ says Belle. ‘So most people won’t have jobs anymore and the main challenge is going to be …’
She gets even more intense when she’s feeling stressed and I can sense a real robot rant coming on, which is going to make Lola crazy. So as soon as she pauses for breath, I jump in and say, ‘At least Maisie’s OK.’
We FaceTimed her last night, and I don’t know how, but Belle was one hundred per cent right about Maisie’s injury. Mrs Zhang took Maisie to the doctor and it turns out she cracked two ribs when she slipped off the fence rail. One of them has a jaggedy edge and that’s what was giving her the weird pain. It could have punctured her lung.
‘The treatment for broken ribs is just to rest,’ she told us. ‘Boring.’
‘So you don’t get a cast?’ Lola asked. ‘I’ve always wanted a cast.’
‘What did your parents say?’ said Belle.
‘They, um, well,’ said Maisie, ‘they said they didn’t want me going to the clubhouse again. Like, ever.’
‘WHAT?!’ we yelled.
‘But hang on, hang on – it’s fine because Soph’s mum was really good with them.’
The Zhangs had wanted to know why Maisie was doing something so dangerous and why she hadn’t been attending training when they’d paid for it – paid heaps for it – which they said they’re never going to do again. No more gym – like, ever. (Eek.)
But then apparently my mum explained to them about the clubhouse and how we are actually trying to help. She said that we’re a group with a social conscience and strong core values and she even told them how good Maisie is at coding. Go Mum!
The FaceTime on Mum’s laptop froze after she told us that bit, so I missed the end of the conversation. ‘Did she say anything else?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, they’re gonna let her come over today if she’s feeling well enough, and if she promises to sit very still and do nothing,’ says Lola.
‘I literally cannot imagine Maisie sitting still,’ I say, watching the breeze from the broken window move through the curtains in a wave. ‘She’s such a fidget.’
‘Am not,’ comes a voice from the doorway.
We scramble up to see her standing there, grinning, holding a tray of waffles from Mr Green at Sookie La La that smell like HEAVEN. I feel relief slush through me like a caramel milkshake. As we run over, it’s so hard not to hug her to Tuesday and back, but you reall
y can’t hug someone with broken ribs.
‘Maisie,’ I say, as she hands out the waffles and we sit on the steps, ‘are you OK? About gym, I mean.’
‘You mean having to quit? Never going to happen. I’m going to wait till my ribs have healed, and then I’m going to talk to my parents about it again.’
Isn’t that totally incredible? If that was me, I’d be feeling super sorry for myself, moping. Not Maisie.
‘Shouldn’t you guys be painting instead of just lounging around?’ she asks in between mouthfuls.
We groan, and fill her in on everything we still have to do. Which is a lot.
‘That’s not technically possible,’ she points out. ‘I feel so bad that I can’t help. That was super dumb, what I did.’
‘It wasn’t,’ Lola says loyally. ‘But I guess we just … we just aimed a little too high. We’re only kids, after all.’
‘We’re so much more than that,’ says Belle. ‘But even if we work all night, this will never be done by tomorrow. What else can we do?’
That’s exactly what I asked Judy at the gazebo yesterday. I think back to what she said to me. And you know what? It makes sense. ‘I know we like to do things ourselves. I know that we’re strong, entrepreneurial businesswomen,’ I say, glancing at Belle, who nods approvingly. ‘But maybe … maybe it’s time to ask for help. Loles?’ I ask. ‘Could I borrow your phone?’
I take it and walk towards the red Japanese maple, punching in the number. It was the very first number Gracie and I learned by heart. ‘Good work,’ my dad told us that day. ‘Now, if there’s ever an emergency, you get someone to call me, OK?’
We’re about to lose Corner Park Clubhouse and that’s definitely an emergency. I take a deep breath.
I make the call.
Turns out Judy was right. Sometimes you’ve just got to ask.
Punk Sherman is here because Belle was brave enough to ask him to come, even though she has a rule not to let her mum’s boyfriends into her life. He’s up his long ladder, fixing the holes in the roof, and Francine is up another ladder, painting the tricky high bits. The Eco Worriers are doing the low bits. Belle called them too, and you can tell they feel super important to be involved. It’s really cute. Because of the super-duper fast-drying paint, it looks like maybe, just maybe, we’re going to get it all done in time.
Lola asked her whole family, though she made Tally promise to look after Gwynnie and Pop so they don’t wreck anything. They’re all out working in the garden now with Mrs Powell. Mr Powell has brought over a sewing machine and he and Lola’s Aunt Claire are making the new curtains. Lola was giving them a hand for a while but she keeps disappearing right when I want to ask her things. Rishi brought the whole of RexRoy with him, and they’re investigating how to fix the windows.
Even though Maisie really didn’t want to, she called Coach Jack and asked him to bring over his drill and fix the door. And just like she predicted, he was furious that she was doing those flips on the fence rail with no safety mat. He took her outside and gave her a lecture about trust that went for ages (eek). But now he’s helping Judy and me to put the bottom hinge back on the door and sand the side so it actually shuts. Coach Jack and Judy work so well as a team that Mikie starts looking jealous. Maybe that’s why he walks into Punk Sherman’s ladder and cuts his head. When the blood’s gushing out, it gets in his eyes and he accidentally kicks the last tin of paint all over the floor. It takes me and Belle the rest of the morning to clean it up.
In case you’re wondering, my dad’s phone went straight to voicemail. Maybe he was on the plane to Los Angeles or something, but it was so nice to hear his voice again. It’s deep and warm and clear. Like a newsreader’s voice, Gracie always used to say. Like a handsome weatherman.
I was going to call Mum, but then I remembered that on Sunday mornings she’s at Ice-Cycle, which is an indoor cycling class that’s held in a giant fridge. It’s for people who hate sweating, which is totally my mum.
So I called Mikie and Judy and Patrick instead.
‘Are the posters finished?’ asks Maisie when we stop for an iced tea, which Mrs Powell brought in a giant thermos.
‘Lola’s got them,’ says Belle. ‘Where is she? We’re getting the Eco Worriers to put them around town at six tomorrow morning.’
Yesterday afternoon, Lola took a picture of Togsley on the clubhouse stairs looking really pleading and made it into a poster. It says, ‘If you give a pug about Sunnystream, be at the Corner Park Clubhouse at 10am MONDAY.’ She’s put the picture all over social media. Rishi and his band put it all over theirs, and wrote a song that they’re going to play at the rally.
Speaking of songs, earlier today Tally sang Somewhere Over the Rainbow on the ukulele in a final plea to get her followers to sign her online petition. A famous actress shared it on her Facebook account and it went viral. That famous actress was one of Matilda’s mums.
‘Mayor Magnus is going down,’ says Belle with glee before she gulps the last of her iced tea.
I think about Mayor Magnus as we get back to work. I think about why he might be like he is. ‘A bully was often bullied,’ my dad used to say. Did someone bully Mayor Magnus when he was a kid? I wonder if he ever came to Corner Park Clubhouse. If he played here with his friends. If he even had friends. If he was lonely, like I was last term. If he felt sore in his heart, and ashamed.
And then, even though I try not to, I start thinking about not seeing my friends every day when school is back. I think about that as Coach Jack drives me and Maisie to the Hard Hair Store in his ute so we can hire a floor polisher, listening to RexRoy’s last album with the windows down.
By the time we get back, it’s late afternoon. Judy has to go to her shop to get ready for the after-dinner crowd. Gwynnie and Pop are getting cranky and the Powells take them home. RexRoy have to rehearse their rally song.
Patrick needs to be back home in time for dinner. ‘Thanks for inviting me,’ he says. His cheeks are apple-pink and he looks cheerful, just like his old self. ‘Will you get it all done, do you reckon?’ He looks at the patchy floors, which we haven’t started polishing yet, and the one wall that still needs another coat of paint.
‘We’ll do it,’ I say confidently. ‘Even if it takes us all night, we’ll do it. See you tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow,’ he says.
I can’t believe it – tomorrow! I’m so nervous I want to do cartwheels. I can’t imagine what Maisie must be feeling, having to sit there so still. But Judy brought us over a badge machine, and now Maisie’s thinking that maybe we can make badges for people to wear at the rally. At first we don’t know what to put on them.
‘Togsley again?’ she suggests.
‘I don’t want to saturate our brand with just one image,’ says Lola, appearing from nowhere with black paint up her arm. ‘I want people to think we have a constant stream of fresh ideas.’
Belle looks very impressed with this logic. ‘You’re a mean marketing unit, Powell,’ she says happily. ‘Anyone got any other ideas?’
And I do.
‘Are you sure?’ Maisie says quietly when I finish explaining. ‘You’re OK with this?’
‘Oh, it’s so good,’ Lola says, bouncing on her toes.
‘If you’re ready,’ says Belle, ‘that would be awesome. No pressure.’
I’m definitely ready. ‘We need yellow fairy floss and fishing line. Can one of you guys get those? Buck’s will have them.’
I run home, which is empty, of course. On Sunday evenings Mum has her Yoga in a Toga class. I ruffle Togsley’s ears and apologise for leaving him alone so long. I feed him quickly, and then I run into Mum and Dad’s bedroom. It feels kind of naughty to be there – kind of weird. I go over to the wardrobe on Dad’s side, expecting it to be empty. I thought all his stuff would be in the city apartment now. But it’s full. Suits and shirts and jeans. A jacket he bought with patches on the elbows that Mum thought was too shabby. It smells like him – aftershave and drycleaning. And there,
hanging over a coathanger, are approximately eighty-three shiny ties. I know because Gracie and I counted them once on a boring rainy afternoon, peeling them off one by one and throwing them in a big pile.
I weave my fingers through their soft, silky tongues, looking for the one I remember him wearing at our year six graduation party. There’s a photo of him and me that night. He got it printed at Officeworks to put in a frame for his office, he liked it so much. I see the tie with the tiny shooting stars that he wore to Gracie’s baseball presentation night because her team was called the Comets. I see the one he bought in London when he took us away with him for Aunty Katie’s wedding and we left Mum behind to do a big auction. We helped him choose the pattern – little red double-decker buses being driven by mice.
Just when I start to feel like I can’t breathe, there it is. I grab it and slam the door and sprint back to the park. And there she is. Lemon Tart. Maisie holds her leash out to me. I take it and bend down to pick up Gracie’s rabbit. She’s so warm and familiar in my hands, like I’m holding a packet of heated-up love.
Ten minutes later, Lola has chopped the sparkly purple tie down the middle and opened it up so it fits round Lemon Tart’s neck like a cape. It’s a little small, but it will have to do. Belle has bought the fairy floss from Buck’s and figured out how to tie it on to the top of Lemon Tart’s head with the fishing line to look like clown wig hair. I fold a little origami cap and Lola copies the Mega Mayor logo onto it exactly. We sit Lemon Tart up on her hind legs so her tummy pokes out.
‘She is ridiculously patient,’ Lola says, marvelling at how Lemon Tart just sits there and lets you do whatever.
‘You’re telling me. Once me and …’ But Gracie’s name catches in my throat. I shake my head. Maisie squeezes my arm.
Lola winks at me. ‘Lights, camera, action,’ she says.
An hour later, Maisie’s dad has picked up Lemon Tart and Tally has done our printing, and we have two hundred badges of that sweet, fat rabbit looking amazingly like Mayor Magnus. The words SOMETIMES BIGGER ISN’T BETTER circle the edge. We pin them on each other and just stand there, tired but determined, smiling like idiots.
