DEDICATION
For my KHS and UC favourites,
thank you for all the adventures
And for Mum and Dad,
who couldn’t sleep for the seventeen days
I was at Schoolies
A note from the author
The final year of school is often filled with the highest highs and lowest lows, and, for many students, can feel like a pressure cooker.
It did for me.
Can’t Say it Went to Plan is a love letter to those who make mistakes and dream big, even though it feels like nothing is going to plan and their inner monologue is raging at them to give up.
Keep going.
School’s out.
No parents.
No curfews.
No rules.
CONTENTS
Dedication
A Note From the Author
Day 1
Zoë Day 1: 7.13am
Samira Day 1: 8.49am
Dahlia Day 1: 12.38pm
Samira Day 1: 4.09pm
Zoë Day 1: 4.39pm
Dahlia Day 1: 5.04pm
Samira Day 1: 7.01pm
Day 2
Dahlia Day 2: 8.13am
Samira Day 2: 12.03pm
Zoë Day 2: 1.06pm
Dahlia Day 2: 1.59pm
Samira Day 2: 3.22pm
Zoë Day 2: 4.03pm
Samira Day 2: 4.46pm
Zoë Day 2: 10.17pm
Day 3
Samira Day 3: 12.10am
Dahlia Day 3: 2.31am
Zoë Day 3: 3.11am
Samira Day 3: 4.09am
Zoë Day 3: 9.38am
Samira Day 3: 11.24am
Zoë Day 3: 5.57pm
Dahlia Day 3: 6.29pm
Day 4
Samira Day 4: 2.03pm
Dahlia Day 4: 4.07pm
Zoë Day 4: 4.48pm
Samira Day 4: 6.39pm
Zoë Day 4: 8.13pm
Dahlia Day 4: 9.41pm
Samira Day 4: 11.01pm
Day 5
Zoë Day 5: 12.06am
Samira Day 5: 7.56am
Zoë Day 5: 5.20pm
Dahlia Day 5: 6.01pm
Samira Day 5: 6.18pm
Zoë Day 5: 7.01pm
Samira Day 5: 7.17pm
Dahlia Day 5: 9.09pm
Day 6
Dahlia Day 6: 9.01am
Zoë Day 6: 1.03pm
Samira Day 6: 6.11pm
Dahlia Day 6: 7.02pm
Zoë Day 6: 8.12pm
Samira Day 6: 10.13pm
Day 7
Samira Day 7: 12.11am
Zoë Day 7: 6.13am
Dahlia Day 7: 7.49am
Samira Day 7: 8.11am
Zoë Day 7: 8.20am
Dahlia Day 7: 8.35am
Samira Day 7: 8.59am
Zoë Day 7: 9.21am
Dahlia Day 7: 10.07am
Samira Day 7: 12.23pm
Dahlia Day 7: 4.21pm
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Gabrielle Tozer
Praise
Copyright
Day 1
Zoë
Day 1: 7.13am
Zoë is still haunted by the final exam. Sweaty palms. Ticking clock. The extra page she didn’t see until there was only three minutes to go. She remembers her frozen brain, like she was stuck on pause while everyone else was on fast-forward, and the page filled with nothing but abstract doodling in the top-right corner. How the other students in her biology class exhaled with relief when they put down their pens, but she ran out and sobbed in a bathroom stall.
She takes a deep breath, shaking off the memory. ‘I’m heading off,’ she calls into the belly of the house. ‘First stop Luca’s, next stop paradise!’
‘Zoë Russo, wait, please!’
She turns, suitcase in hand, to see her father leaning against the living room doorframe. ‘That’s Dr Zoë Russo to you,’ she says with a smile.
‘Not yet.’ He grins back. ‘Only a million years of studying medicine to complete first. Any early acceptance news yet, Chickpea?’
‘Maybe this week,’ she says, tired eyes blinking behind her cat-eye prescription glasses.
Her father pats her gently on the shoulder. ‘You’ll hear soon enough. Now, Mum wants to see you. It’s important so I’ll fix you some breakfast.’
‘Dad, she’s already lectured me about reapplying sunscreen every few hours. Message received. Besides, I’m eating at Luca’s. Aunty Elena always serves an out-of-this-world feast, even better than Aunty Caro’s, so I better go before Violet eats all the pastries.’
‘Come on,’ her father says, and guides her into the living room where her mother is perched on the couch watching the morning news. She’s nibbling her thumbnail and curled in on herself.
‘Sit, please, Zoë.’ She doesn’t stop staring at the television.
Zoë follows her gaze. The news segment has Teens gone wild running along the banner at the bottom of the screen, paired with footage of young people with fiery red sunburn wearing skimpy bikinis and board shorts. They’re in nightclubs, at beaches, in enormous resort pools, at glowstick-packed raves. They’re kissing, they’re poking out their tongues at the camera, they’re licking salt out of bellybuttons before dunking shots. It’s obvious they’re drunk and there’s nothing Zoë can say to disguise it.
‘This is the week you and your cousins want to attend?’ her mother mutters. ‘This?’
‘Yes, technically,’ Zoë says, cringing as a group of boys moon the TV camera. ‘Luca, Violet and I will stick together, and Prakash and Akito from school are staying at the same resort.’
‘Why would a good boy like Prakash want to attend this?’ Mrs Russo asks. ‘The Patels would never allow it.’
‘Not everyone is as strict as the Russos,’ Zoë blurts out.
Mr Russo scoffs. ‘We’re not strict.’
‘I’ll never look at the Patels the same way,’ Mrs Russo says, shaking her head. ‘Outrageous.’
Zoë steps forward. ‘Don’t judge them. Prakash has worked hard all year — all his life! We all have.’ She sighs. ‘He’s already got early acceptance into media studies in the city.’
‘And you haven’t heard anything yet,’ Mrs Russo reminds her. ‘Nothing is certain. Who knows what you’ll do or where you’ll be?’
Zoë’s jaw hardens. Her first university preference — nicknamed Number One — is all the way across the country and its faraway location is a sore point with her family. But it boasts some of the highest-performing graduates among its alumni, which makes it Zoë’s coveted top spot. Number Two and Number Three are also prestigious institutions but their campuses are closer to home with slightly more modest reputations.
‘Mum, I’ll hear soon. What else do you want from me? I did my best.’
‘That’s why I cannot believe you want to flush your life away on partying and public nudity,’ Mrs Russo snaps.
‘What? Why would you even think we’d be naked?’ Zoë asks, then glances at the television. A group of girls are baring their pixelated chests to the camera.
Mrs Russo purses her lips. ‘No. No. That’s it. Not happening.’
Zoë’s grip tightens on her suitcase handle. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I was uncomfortable when I thought it was a small trip away with your cousins — but this . . . No. Your aunties might be okay with it, but I won’t let you.’
Zoë and her two cousins were born within four months of each other, making them as close as siblings, but their parents’ views on the world have differed since day one.
‘Everything’s booked, it has been for ages,’ Zoë says, standing her ground. ‘You said I could go.’
Mrs Russo sighs. ‘It may have been what we discussed but—’
‘No, it’s what we agreed on! I’ve paid for everything — it’s non-refundable.’ Zoë’s eyes well up. ‘Dad? Say something!’
‘I’m sorry, Chickpea. You heard your mum.’
Zoë’s ponytail whips behind her as she storms over to the display cabinet crammed with her and her older sister Greta’s trophies and certificates. Greta hasn’t lived at home for five years — she’s away completing a degree in advanced astronomy and astrophysics — but her awards still have pride of place.
Zoë pulls out her chemistry trophy from the back of the cabinet. ‘I topped that class!’ she says. ‘And that one, and that one, and that one,’ as she tosses more awards onto the couch next to her mother. ‘I was school captain, on the football team, in the musical . . . and I got the highest marks! Maybe even in the state. Sure, I didn’t get into the Gifted and Talented Program like your beloved Greta, but I—’
‘Your sister has nothing to do with this,’ Mr Russo says. ‘Calm down.’
‘Don’t tell me to calm down!’ Zoë rages. ‘You have no idea what I’ve been through this year! I did everything you expected. I studied so hard that my eyes felt like they were going to fall out of my head. I even did extra shifts at the supermarket to pay for this trip so it doesn’t add any strain on you. And I didn’t complain once! Aunty Elena and Aunty Caro have covered every cent for Luca and Violet, did you know that?’
Mrs Russo switches off the news. ‘What your father’s sisters choose to do with their children has no standing in this house. My word is final. I’m sorry if you’re upset, Zoë.’
Zoë’s cheeks burn with anger. ‘This was my one thing. Dad!’
‘Why don’t we arrange a night away with the younger cousins to the lake this week?’ Mr Russo suggests. ‘That might be fun.’
Zoë groans. ‘They’re seven and nine. Yes, Dad, while my best friends go on a holiday without me, babysitting the kids by a puddle of brown water sounds like heaven.’
Mrs Russo’s lips are pursed into a thin line. ‘Unpack your bag and let’s have some breakfast,’ she says quietly. ‘There’ll be more opportunities to see everyone.’
‘Dad?’ Zoë tries again. ‘Dad . . . please?’
He lowers his head, unable to make eye contact.
‘I hate you!’
Zoë storms into her bedroom, slamming the door behind her. She hurls her suitcase into the corner, swipes her textbooks off the desk and climbs into bed without taking off her ballet flats. She burrows down into the soft mattress, dragging pillows beneath the doona to curl her body around, and tries to shut out the sound of her parents arguing.
She opens up the group chat. It’s got the five of them through exams, and long stretches of holidays stuck with the family, and sick days, and mind-numbing history lessons, and Saturday nights at home with nothing to do.
The messages flood in.
WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU’RE NOT COMING????
Aunty Rosette has lost her mind!
r u serious?!
i’ll send mum over to talk to your dad. This is not ok
It won’t work, Luca — he’s on her side
Are you trying to prank us?
No, P, I wish, RIP social life
i’ll smuggle you to the beach in my suitcase k?
thanks Akito
(Might take you up on that actually)
Zo, this can’t be happening
I KNOW
We love you
Love you too x
* * *
Five minutes later, Zoë’s mother leads her out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. She places a bowl of muesli, fresh fruit and yoghurt in front of Zoë, who just stares at it.
‘It’s better this way,’ Mrs Russo says. ‘You’ll understand when you have children of your own.’
‘When I . . . Mum!’ Zoë rolls her eyes. ‘I don’t want kids. What I want is to go away with my friends.’
‘We can’t always get what we want,’ Mr Russo says. ‘And look, your mother and I have work today but maybe we can take a few days off later in the week. Have a fun time as a family. You’ll see, Chickpea, you’ll forget all about this.’
Zoë sits at the table until breakfast is finished, cringing at her father’s loud chewing and her mother’s scraping of her spoon against the ceramic bowl. Once it’s over, she returns to her bedroom. Too upset to do anything else, she curls up under the sheet and falls into a restless sleep.
When she wakes up, the house is still. She checks her phone. Her parents would’ve already left for work.
She turns over to lie on her back, her side, her front. She tries the warm side of the pillow, then the cool side. Nothing feels right, so she gets out of bed and massages the kinks in her neck and the tightness in her arms.
As she rests her leg across the desk to stretch her hamstrings, like a ballerina at the barre, she spots her luggage in the corner. Her chest tightens at the thought of unpacking it. She’ll be folding her sundresses back into drawers while her cousins argue over which music playlist to listen to in the car.
Zoë swears under her breath, even though her parents aren’t even at home. Her mind jumps a week into the future when everyone will be returning from the trip, relaxed, recharged and even more bronzed.
She reaches for her phone.
Left yet, Luca?
She traces over the frames of her glasses as she wills him to reply. But there’s nothing. Not even the teasing three dots.
She swears again, louder this time. Then, body surging with adrenaline, she grabs her suitcase and strides through the house.
She pauses in the hallway to look at the framed photos on the wall. There’s a shot from when the family visited Zoë’s great-uncle in Cefalù, Sicily: she’s a baby strapped to her mother’s chest, her dark tufts of hair poking out the top of the carrier, while a young Greta plays in the golden sand with their father, and fishing boats bob in the nearby port. Beside it is a snap from Greta’s high school graduation five years earlier. Mrs Russo is beaming and her hand rests on Greta’s shoulder. Their shiny brown hair and glittering eyes are mirror images of each other.
‘Sorry,’ Zoë mutters, before slipping out the side door.
Nothing matters except the sound of her feet and suitcase thumping against the uneven footpath. Nothing matters except getting to Luca’s in time.
Samira
Day 1: 8.49am
Magic is in the air. It hits Samira the second she walks into the train station. Groups of students hang out on every platform, their laughter and singing echoing around the concourse. She strides on, dragging her father’s old suitcase with one hand while keeping her oversized handbag pressed to her hip with the other. Her mum and grandmother struggle to keep up behind her.
Samira checks her itinerary for the fourth time since leaving the car. It’s colour-coded with a daily theme and matching stickers. Horse-riding, ziplining, snorkelling, manicures, island-hopping, clubbing, foam parties, beach parties. Parties, parties, parties.
She turns on her heel to rush back and embrace her grandmother’s shoulders. ‘This is going to be amazing, my Teta! I told you about the horse-riding, didn’t I? I haven’t done it since I was a kid.’
‘Your great-grandmother Nafisa broke both her legs riding a horse,’ her mum chimes in. ‘That’s all I’ll say.’
‘Bones everywhere,’ Teta adds.
‘That is gross and . . . wait!’ Samira swears. Her mum purses her lips in disapproval. ‘The party passes! Where are they?’ She rifles through her handbag. ‘They’re not here!’
She drops to her knees, sweeping her long mahogany waves over one shoulder as she tips out the contents of her handbag. Cocktail umbrellas, a small portable speaker, three types of chips, an eye mask and a paper printout confirming a hotel booking for her birthday spill onto the tiles.
‘What’s wrong, my girl?’ Teta asks.
Samira doesn’t need a mirror to know h
er cheeks are stained red. ‘The party passes! Where are they?’
‘Breathe, Sammy,’ her mum says.
Samira leaps to her feet. ‘But the passes are the key to this week being perfect.’
‘Saint Anthony, Saint Anthony, please look around,’ Teta murmurs. ‘Samira’s passes are lost and they cannot be found.’
Her mum sighs. ‘Spare us the dramatics, you two. Sammy, by “passes” do you mean these?’ She flicks the laminated cards swinging from lanyards around Samira’s neck.
Samira beams. ‘Thank you! These passes are like gold.’ She waves the itinerary in her mother’s face. ‘Anoush wanted a snorkelling trip so we’re going on a snorkelling trip. Zain wanted a foam party so we’re going to a foam party.’
‘How I wish you were this enthusiastic about your studies and future,’ her mum says. She does an amusingly accurate impersonation: ‘I’m Sammy Makhlouf and I’ve spent months planning every detail! It’s always friends, and Zain, and parties. What about school? What about work?’
Samira rolls her eyes. ‘Mum, you and the bakery will have my undivided attention when this week is over. You can give me all the shifts.’
Her mother manages a little Lebanese bakery nestled on a leafy green street off the main drag. Business has picked up since they moved to the city eleven months earlier, so Samira helps out on weekend mornings and after school, cleaning and prepping the bakery for the following day’s trade.
‘I know,’ her mother says. ‘And I do want you to have a good time this week, I do. I just . . .’
‘Wish I was having a good time here with you?’ Samira finishes.
That gets a smile. ‘Exactly.’ Her mother sighs. ‘And I barely know these new friends. They could be serial killers.’
‘You love Anoush.’
Her mother sniffs. ‘I like her.’
‘Mum.’
Anoush had been assigned to show Samira around the school campus when she’d transferred at the start of the year. Since then, Samira has been glued to Anoush and absorbed into her circle of friends. Anoush was moving away to study industrial design after school, but Samira knew they’d talk every day.
Her mum clears her throat, jolting Samira back to the present. ‘Speaking of love . . . you’ve been with Zain for nine months and I still haven’t met his mother.’
Can't Say it Went to Plan Page 1
