‘But wombats aren’t vermin. They’re adorable,’ I said, thinking of Miss Pearl’s whiskery face.
Aunt Evie’s voice grew flat. ‘Well, to us maybe. But Mrs Campbell’s a farmer and, from what I can gather, farmers around here aren’t too keen on wombats. She wanted Miss Pearl removed, immediately.’
‘Oh, poor Miss Pearl!’ I murmured.
‘I know! I was in complete shock. I wasn’t sure what to do so I raced her back to the vet, explained everything and asked them if they could find somewhere else for her to go. But they didn’t have anywhere else. No one in the area was interested in caring for a wombat, not with the drought and feed so scarce, so I … well …’ Aunt Evie looked at me, her eyes wide.
‘You brought her back to the cottage, hoping no one would ever find out?’
Aunt Evie nodded.
‘But what if Mrs Campbell sees Miss Pearl?’
Three deep lines furrowed Aunt Evie’s forehead. And then, instead of telling me more about Mrs Campbell, she spent the rest of the drive talking about how much trouble her clients were having feeding their cows in the drought.
I hardly listened. My nerves were growing jumpier by the minute. If only I had Miss Pearl’s warm body beside me to cuddle. By the time we passed a road sign flashing, ‘Go slow, students crossing’, and a lady with a traffic lollipop, I thought I was going to be sick.
‘Come on now, chin up,’ said Aunt Evie once we’d parked. ‘I’m sure the kids will all be super friendly.’
We watched students in navy blue tracksuits run in through the school gate, shouting and laughing with their friends. Then, instead of taking my hand and leading me inside like Mum might have, Aunt Evie turned to me with a bright smile and said, ‘Off you trot, then. Best toe forward!’
I gulped, gripping the straps of my bag.
‘Mouse, honey, I really need to get going,’ said Aunt Evie, leaning over and planting a warm kiss on my cheek. ‘Don’t worry. Everything’s already been organised. See you this afternoon.’
I waited until Aunt Evie’s car was completely out of sight before slipping through the school gates and creeping past students to the building marked ‘Administration’. A plaque on the door declared ‘Built in 1856’. Made of large sandstone bricks, the building seemed more like a house than a school office. I dipped my head, imagining everyone was staring as I opened the door.
‘You must be our new girl?’ asked the lady behind the desk, her apricot lipstick glimmering under the fluoro lights. ‘Here, take a seat. I’ll ring your teacher, Mr Wilco, and tell him you’re here. All the way from Brisbane, hey?’
‘Um, yes,’ I murmured as I shrank into the nearby couch. I wished I was at least wearing a navy blue tracksuit like everybody else. White leggings, a pink-corduroy daisy dress and matching jumper suddenly seemed the worst possible choice.
‘Can’t get hold of Mr Wilco,’ said the administration lady as a boy with a grazed knee hobbled in. ‘I’ll just see to Timmy and then I’ll try again.’
Within minutes she’d fixed up the boy’s knee, and she’d begun dialling again when a familiar blond boy burst through the door.
He smiled as he passed me. ‘Morning, Mrs B. Nice weekend?’ he said. ‘Just need the key for the sports hall, thanks.’
Handing him a bunch of keys, Mrs B glanced at me. ‘Harry, could you do me a favour? You’re in Grade Four-Five-Six W, aren’t you? Could you show our new girl to your class? Her name’s—’
‘It’s okay. We’ve met.’
Mrs B smiled. ‘Oh, good. Well, in that case I’ll leave you to it.’
My mouth was so dry I could hardly move my tongue to speak. ‘Well, um … we … we … um … haven’t actually met,’ I stammered, wishing my voice was less squeaky.
‘Yeah, we did. Up at the house. This morning, remember?’
‘Oh, but …’ I was trying to remind him that I was in the car and he was on the veranda, but Harry was bouncing ahead at such a speed I had to jog to keep up. I wanted to ask why he’d been crying yesterday but wasn’t sure where to start. Maybe I could say I was sorry to hear he’d lost his dad.
‘Anyway,’ he said, waiting for me to catch up, ‘Mr Wilco’s told us all about you.’
I chewed my thumbnail. What had Mr Wilco said? I shuddered. Whatever it was, I was sure they’d already decided they didn’t like me, even before I arrived.
‘Oh,’ I said, glancing around. ‘Where’s the … um … the rest of the … um … school?’ We’d only passed three classrooms before the path turned towards a large hall.
Harry laughed. ‘What did you expect? High rises? This isn’t the city, you know.’
My face felt red hot. ‘Well … um … I know, it’s just, I was wondering …’
Harry paused. ‘Sorry. That was pretty mean. Must be weird, starting a new school halfway through the year?’
Weird? How about petrifying. ‘Well, I was … just wondering,’ I murmured. ‘Is there a … um … a library?’ I had to find somewhere to hide.
Harry laughed again, but this time it was a friendly chuckle. ‘Library? What do you want a library for?’
I would have thought that was obvious.
A group of girls ran over, the leader wearing thick black-rimmed glasses. She nudged Harry with her shoulder. ‘That her?’ she asked. ‘The new girl? From Queensland?’
I wanted to say that, technically, I wasn’t ‘the new girl’. I would only be here for six weeks, which made me just a visitor. But the girl with the glasses was looking me up and down.
‘Funny,’ she mused. ‘She’s not how I thought a Queenslander would look.’
‘Ha ha,’ said Harry tersely. ‘Aren’t you on yard duty, Dakota? There’s a wrapper over there. And an empty water bottle. Better get a move on before Mr Wilco sees you.’
‘So, do you play sport or what?’ asked Dakota, ignoring Harry.
I swallowed hard. I had to at least try to talk and make friends. ‘W-well,’ I stammered. ‘I like tennis.’
‘Not that kind of sport,’ said one of Dakota’s friends, giggling. ‘She means games. Like Red Rover? Tug of War?’
My shoulders tightened. I’d only been at school ten minutes and already I was a disaster.
‘Figures!’ said Dakota, rolling her eyes. ‘I knew Queenslanders would be stuck up.’
‘Or useless,’ said her friend. They laughed and ran off.
I dipped my head, trying to fight the tears welling in my eyes. I wished more than ever Miss Pearl was beside me. At least she was my friend.
‘Don’t worry about them,’ said Harry, unlocking the hall. ‘Come take a look at this.’
He pushed open the door and beckoned me inside. ‘This hall is way better than any library.’
Stacks of grey chairs towered against the far wall and a volleyball net hung taut across the middle of the room. The hall smelt like playdough, and the lino squeaked under our feet.
‘Wait there and I’ll grab the sports cones,’ Harry instructed before sprinting to the storage cupboard.
I took a shaky breath. I had to calm my nerves. I couldn’t burst into tears every time someone spoke to me. Mum and Dad weren’t here to rescue me now. I looked for something to read and found a list of names on a sports honours board fastened to the wall. Read the names, one by one, and breathe. Mum had taught me that. Mum thought breathing was the answer for everything.
Christopher Campbell (breath)
Carl Campbell (breath)
Cliff Campbell (breath)
Curtis Campbell (breath)
Craig Campbell (breath)
There were lots of Campbells at this school.
‘The bottom two are my older brothers,’ explained Harry, struggling to carry a stack of orange cones. ‘Curtis is on the farm now, and Craig’s up at the high school. Cliff’s my cousin and—’
‘But all their names start with C,’ I murmured.
‘Wow, Queenslanders are smart!’ said Harry, his eyes twinkling.
I dipped my head.
‘Sorry,’ he said, hoisting up the cones and heading out of the hall. ‘Couldn’t resist. The C-names are a family tradition. My dad was Carl and Grandad was Chris.’
I glanced at him sideways. His voice hadn’t flinched when he’d said his dad’s name. Perhaps that was all part of the cover up, not letting on how much he missed him.
‘To match our surname,’ he explained.
‘But your name is Harry,’ I said.
Harry laughed. ‘You are quick. Mum finally got sick of all the C-names, so that’s why I’m Harry. Anyway, you can talk. Mr Wilco said your name was Minnie, but this morning your aunt called you Mouse.’
I dug my nails into my palms. Mum had promised she’d explain my name when she enrolled me. It wasn’t like her to forget. ‘I prefer Mouse,’ I murmured. ‘Not Minnie. Just Mouse.’
Harry grinned. ‘Righto, Minnie Mouse, we’d better go, the bell’s about to ring.’
We were halfway along a path when a man in a sporty white jumper and blue trackpants waved us down.
‘Hello there! You must be our visitor from up north. Lovely to meet you, M—’
‘Mouse,’ Harry interrupted. ‘She likes to be called Mouse.’
Mr Wilco’s eyes were kind and welcoming. ‘Welcome, Mouse. Come and meet the troops.’
On the oval, the rest of the students pressed in around us.
‘Are we playing Tug of War today?’ asked a girl with bright red hair. ‘Or Red Rover?’
Another body pushed to the front. ‘Mr Wilco, I haven’t had a turn being in the middle yet.’
‘Mr Wilco, I can’t play. Look.’ A boy with a zillion freckles held up a bandaged thumb.
Mr Wilco smiled at me across the class. ‘Don’t mind this lot,’ he said with a wink. ‘Completely overexcitable. Need to run some energy out of them.’ He took the whistle from Harry and waved his arms as if shooing away a mob of cattle. ‘We played Tug of War on Friday, so its Red Rover today. Go sort yourselves out, people, while I explain the rules to Mouse.’
The students ran off in a flurry of squeals and shoves and pushes while Mr Wilco beckoned me over. ‘So, what do you know about Red Rover?’ he asked.
‘Um … well, I … um … played it at a party once.’
‘Okay, great.’
‘But we … um … had to stop when someone got a nosebleed.’
Mr Wilco whistled. ‘Right, well, shame. Anyway, as you can see,’ he said, gesturing to his class, ‘basically everyone stands in a line except the catchers – they stand in the middle. When you get called, you run like the blazes to get to the other side. Last one not caught wins. You okay to run in those?’ He looked down at my shiny pink flats.
Why had I chosen them? Aunt Evie had said I should wear something smart, but I wished she’d said something fast.
I fixed my eyes on Harry standing between us and the row of cones he’d set up on the other side of the oval. The cones were a long way off.
‘Make a line, everyone,’ called Mr Wilco.
My mouth grew dry. Everyone else looked strong and athletic, not awkward and puny like me. I bet when they ran their faces didn’t go red and blotchy like mine.
‘Thought you didn’t play sport,’ sniggered Dakota, scrunching her nose underneath her glasses.
‘Righto, catchers! Name your victims!’ shouted Mr Wilco.
‘Red Rover, Red Rover, we call over …’ called Harry.
I held my breath. He was sure to pick me.
‘Purple hats!’
I reached for my head. I wasn’t even wearing a hat. A girl in a floppy hat stepped forwards and half-ran, half-skipped towards Harry and the other catcher. Harry lined her up and barely had to stretch his arm to tag her.
‘Ugh!’ muttered the boy next to me. ‘She always does that.’
‘Okay,’ shouted Mr Wilco. ‘Next call.’
I stood statue still, wishing this day was already over. If only I could close my eyes and …
‘Red Rover, Red Rover, we call over … blue socks!’ shouted Harry.
Two boys with blue socks hurtled into the middle. At the last minute one swerved, but Harry dived and grabbed him by the legs.
‘No rough housing!’ shouted Mr Wilco as Harry tackled the boy to the ground.
So far, no one had made it through.
‘Red Rover, Red Rover, we call over … people with black hair!’ shouted the other catcher.
The girl next to me took off. Her brown legs flew. She ducked and weaved and raced. The catchers were close on her heels, when, just in time, she slid past the orange cones to safety.
‘Home!’ she shouted triumphantly.
I took a deep breath. This was it. If I was quick, I’d make it across before Harry and the others figured out I’d started running. I began to sprint and made it halfway across the oval, flying like a rocket, when I heard the whistle blast.
I skidded to a stop.
‘Where are you going?’ called Mr Wilco.
I looked around. I was the only one running.
Two girls giggled.
‘Just come back on over,’ said Mr Wilco kindly. ‘Perhaps you thought someone called you?’
‘No, but …’ I slunk back to the line, my head down. I thought everyone ran if one person made it to safety?
My day didn’t get any better after Red Rover. Everything was a competition. Everything. First Red Rover, then a race to see how quickly we could finish our times tables grids. At my school everyone took turns to clean the whiteboard, but here, the first one to name three capital cities won the honour.
The only good part was when Mr Wilco handed me a brand new scrapbook. Hurray! A whole new book to fill with sketches of my new favourite animal: Miss Pearl sleeping, Miss Pearl eating, Miss Pearl being bossed about by Pumpkin. But my smile soon disappeared when Dakota was called over to explain what the scrapbook was for.
She pulled her chair up to my desk, flaunting her scrapbook labelled ‘Dakota Smikoff, Grade Four, Planet-ology’, but she didn’t offer me a look inside. Instead, she picked up mine and waved it in front of my face.
‘Okay, so these are our ology books. You have to choose something you’re really, really interested in,’ she explained in an over-the-top teacher voice. ‘Then you fill your ology book with information about it. Drawings, fun facts, definitions. Stuff like that. I’m interested in planets.’ She jabbed her finger at the title on her book. ‘So I’m doing planet-ology. What are you interested in?’ She gave me a suspicious glance, as if someone from Queensland couldn’t possibly be interested in anything.
I stared at my book. I wanted to ask, So, you can choose anything? And, It doesn’t have to be a particular topic, like history or geography or science? But I didn’t. I just sat there holding the edge of my desk. The thought of saying something wrong made my throat squeeze so tightly around my voice box that only the tiniest squeak slipped out.
Dakota sighed like I was the world’s dumbest person. ‘Anyway, as long as you’re interested in it, it’s allowed. So, if you like netball, for example,’ she said, ‘then you could do netball-ology. Or if you like clocks, you could do clock-ology.’ She pushed her glasses up her nose and looked impatiently over at Mr Wilco.
‘I-I like drawing,’ I offered.
She tested that under her breath. ‘Drawing-ology.’ She shrugged, unconvinced. ‘I guess.’
‘And mangoes.’
She smiled. ‘Mango-ology!’ She slid the new scrapbook over to me. ‘So, now all you have to do is fill this book with facts about mangoes and hand it in on August 21st. That gives you three whole weeks.’
I sniffled. I didn’t want to write about mangoes. That would make me miss
Mum and Dad even more. Eating mangoes is what we did in the summer holidays. When it was too hot to think straight, we’d suck on icy cold Bowens until juice rolled down our chins. Would Mum and Dad be back before mango season? I wondered.
I’d have to think of another ology idea, but not in front of Dakota.
‘Okay, so if you need any help, just ask.’ She shot a look at Harry. ‘And just so you know, the ology project is only for students in Grade Four. Harry’s in Grade Five.’
Aunt Evie was waiting for me after school in the car park.
‘Four sixes,’ she said as I opened the car door.
I dipped my head. I didn’t want to cry. Not in front of Aunt Evie.
‘Only joking. Was it that bad?’
‘Awful. Worse than awful. They called me a Queenslander.’
Aunt Evie’s lips twitched with amusement. ‘Well, you are, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘From Queensland, I mean?’
‘Not funny,’ I said, clipping in my seatbelt. ‘The teacher makes everything a competition. I mean everything.’
‘Come on, chin up,’ said Aunt Evie as she eased the car onto the road. ‘You’re not a quitter, are you? You know the only place success comes before work is in the dictionary? Just imagine all the things you can tell your friends back home.’
I gazed at the flock of birds flying overhead. My friends back home seemed a lifetime away. It hardly seemed possible there were people in Brisbane who actually understood me. People who knew things without me saying. And who didn’t laugh if I did something wrong.
Things were certainly different in South Australia.
Wombat Warriors Page 3
