About the Book
Two friends.
One book of revenge.
Zero consequences?
As a soldier’s daughter, Romola has changed school five times, always having to make new friends … and now enemies. Meanwhile, Sebastian’s mum is about to make the biggest mistake of their lives, unless Sebastian can find his dad in time to stop her.
Thrown together by chance, these two thirteen-year-olds set out to even the score. But once that big oldball of revenge starts rolling down the hill, there’s not an awful lot they can do to stop it … or is there?
If you found the perfect way to pay someone back, would you do it?
Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title
Dedication
Chapter 01: Sebastian
Chapter 02: Romola
Chapter 03: Romola
Chapter 04: Sebastian
Chapter 05: Sebastian
Chapter 06: Sebastian
Chapter 07: Sebastian
Chapter 08: Sebastian
Chapter 09: Romola
Chapter 10: Romola
Chapter 11: Romola
Chapter 12: Sebastian
Chapter 13: Sebastian
Chapter 14: Sebastian
Chapter 15: Sebastian
Chapter 16: Romola
Chapter 17: Romola
Chapter 18: Romola
Chapter 19: Romola
Chapter 20: Sebastian
Chapter 21: Sebastian
Chapter 22: Sebastian
Chapter 23: Sebastian
Chapter 24: Romola
Chapter 25: Romola
Chapter 26: Romola
Chapter 27: Romola
Chapter 28: Sebastian
Chapter 29: Sebastian
Chapter 30: Sebastian
Chapter 31: Romola
Chapter 32: Romola
Chapter 33: Sebastian
Chapter 34: Sebastian
Chapter 35: Romola
Chapter 36: Sebastian
Chapter 37: Sebastian
Chapter 38: Romola
In Flanders Fields
Legacy Australia
Acknowledgements
Author’s Note
About the Author
Also by Marianne Musgrove
Copyright Notice
More at Random House Australia
For Mum, without whom this book would not exist.
‘Revenge is sweet and not fattening.’
– Alfred Hitchcock
FRIDAY MORNING, 15 APRIL
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Urgent!
Hi Dad
You there? Found out something really bad. Went a bit mental. Did something extreme. Possibly maybe went too far. Please call ASAP on mobile. I’m not home. I’m in Canberra.
Last few months’ emails bounced back. Really hope this makes it through.
Love Seb
‘Those who plot the destruction of others
often perish in the attempt.’
– Thomas Moore
FRIDAY EVENING, 15 APRIL
‘Mum, you’re doing the lipless thing again.’
We’re in the car parked outside Riley’s place and Mum’s staring out the window, lips pressed together so tightly they’ve disappeared inside her mouth. If she’s not careful, her entire face will be sucked into itself like a black hole.
‘Mum.’
She blinks, releasing her lips with a smack. ‘Sorry, I was miles away.’
‘You don’t have to worry about me, you know. I’m not going to stuff things up like last time. This is the new and improved me, remember?’
New And Improved Romola:
is cool, calm and collected
does not feel compelled to share bizarre factoids she has read on the internet
laughs in a delicate, feminine way that does not sound like a cross between a vuvuzela and a seal giving birth
always observes others closely so that she can fit in, and
MOST important of all: does NOT draw attention to herself.
‘It’s not that, darling,’ says Mum. ‘I was thinking of something else.’ Her lips disappear again and I realise she’s not worrying about me, she’s worrying about Dad. The fears I’ve tried so hard to bury the past few months unearth themselves. Dad. Battlefields. Stray bullets. Bombs. If I don’t get these bad thoughts under control, they’ll multiply. Believe me, I know, and since I’m not a huge fan of bad thoughts, I do a little trick I like to call burialisation:
Step One: Imagine a cemetery.
Step Two: Dig a hole.
Step Three: Throw in any bad thoughts or feelings.
Step Four: Cover with dirt.
Step Five: Erect a headstone.
Step Six: Walk away. Congratulations, you are now free of your bad thoughts!
Only this time they’re not being as cooperative as normal and I’m forced to beat them back down with a shovel.
‘I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation why Dad didn’t Skype today,’ I say, giving Mum a reassuring smile. ‘The internet’s probably fried or he had to go off base for some reason. I’m sure he’s okay.’
Mum turns to me, her brave face firmly in place. ‘You’re absolutely right, Romola. Now, go inside and enjoy yourself. You look lovely.’
I take a quick look in the mirror to make sure everything’s in order. I’m wearing the purple and red friendship band Riley made for me and some jeans Paige said were cool. My hair is in a loose bun on the top of my head the way I’ve seen Amal wear hers. It’s held in place with my peacock feather comb but it keeps slipping out – probably because I have so much hair. (I can sit on it if I tip my head right back. One day, I’m going to cut it off and have it made into a wig so that when I go grey, I can wear my wig and always have long brown hair.) As I reposition the comb, it occurs to me that this is precisely the kind of weird thing New And Improved Romola would not talk about. I file my wig plans under ‘Topics To Avoid’ and open the car door.
‘Oh, and love,’ says Mum, touching my arm, ‘there’s nothing wrong with the old Romola. And you didn’t stuff up anything, okay? What happened at school last year wasn’t your fault.’
‘Hm,’ I say, not wanting to get into it. School Last Year takes up a whole row of headstones in my imaginary cemetery, right next to School The Year Before and School The Year Before That. ‘Thanks for the lift, Mum. See you at 10.30.’
I climb out of the car awkwardly, trying to balance a tray of cupcakes, a gift and my bag. As I bump the door shut with my hip – thunk – faint party sounds filter out into the street: music, chatter, the occasional shriek of laughter. It’s time to attend the first birthday party I’ve been invited to in eight years.
TWO HOURS LATER
Think about something else.
Think about something else.
Think about something else.
I repeat this to myself as I march down the cold, dark Canberra streets, jacketless and alone. Time to perform a few rounds of burialisation.
Here lies Riley’s party. RIP.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t work, no matter how many times I try. I really should have thought things through before I walked out on her birthday party without telling anyone.
I’m still not entirely sure what happened. One minute, I was telling my friends how nervous I was about reading a poem on ANZAC Day, how they were expecting twenty or thirty thousand people to show up at the Dawn Service, how it was going to be broadcast on national TV. The next minute, Riley announces she doesn’t believe in glorifying war and she’s not attending
on principle.
Before New And Improved Romola could stop her, Old Romola blurted out that Riley was wrong – that ANZAC Day’s about remembering those who’ve sacrificed their lives for their country. If anything, it reminds us how much we need peace. Old Romola also explained to her that, while it’s true a lot of wars are fought for dodgy reasons, our troops go on peacekeeping missions, help get food to war-torn areas and protect innocent people whose countries have been invaded. But Riley wasn’t listening. She said being in the Army was immoral and she didn’t know how anyone could do it.
Taking every atom of strength not to slap her, I forced my voice to remain steady and reminded her that my dad was in the Army. Then I asked her The Question: did she think my dad was immoral?
Riley paused. It was the longest pause in the history of long pauses. Then she said it – the words that set me on my current course: ‘No offence, Romola, but yeah, I do.’
Before Old Romola had a chance to speak her mind, I left the room. The idea was to splash some cold water on my face while I calmed down. Instead, my legs took charge – they do that sometimes – and I found myself outside, gulping in deep breaths of chilly night air. The next thing I knew, my legs were leading me down the driveway and into the street. New And Improved Romola was appalled, but quite powerless against my legs.
Think about something else.
Think about something else.
Think about something else.
My bun falls out yet again – nothing is going right today! I stuff my peacock comb into my pocket, letting my hair cascade over my shoulders. Not much further now.
When I eventually turn into 7 Beryl Place, I can tell something’s wrong. The car’s gone and the lights are off. Where could Mum be? She’s supposed to be baking for a big catering job. I could go over to Rex and Maisie’s, my next-door neighbours, and hang out there till she gets back, but they aren’t home either. And in my haste to leave Riley’s, I forgot my bag, so I’m stuck out here in the cold with no keys, no phone and nothing but my hair for warmth. Well, not nothing – I am wearing clothes. Obviously, I’m no nudist. The point is, it’s Cold with a capital ‘C’. As I shiver on the dark porch, risking frostbite and possible toe amputation, the reality of my walkout hits me. Did I just lose the only group of friends I’ve ever had?
The thought of going back to the horror of hiding in the girls’ loos every lunchtime flashes through my mind. Because Dad gets posted somewhere different every year or two, I’ve already been to six schools and I’m only in Year Eight. In every single one of those places, I’ve spent quality time in the girls’ loos. But at Deakin High, I’ve actually managed to get – and keep – some friends. Almost three whole months, it’s been, and not a hitch – until tonight when Old Romola decided to lose the plot. Idiot, idiot, idiot.
I’m beginning to wonder if maybe I overreacted. Walking out on somebody’s birthday party because they said something a bit thoughtless – what was I thinking? Sure, Riley was a bit harsh, but she was only speaking her mind and we do live in a democracy, don’t we?
It looks like I have some Major Damage Control to do tomorrow. As I sit down on the step, hugging my knees, I tell myself it’ll be okay. I can fix it. But in the meantime, my dear brain, I’d really like to Think About Something Else!
As if on cue, I notice that the lights are on in the house across the road. That’s weird – the Paxtons are hiking in Canada. Maybe their lights are on a timer or something. But then a shadow passes behind their living room curtain and, my blood, which is already cold, turns arctic.
‘Don’t get mad, get even.’
– Robert F. Kennedy
THURSDAY, 14 APRIL, THE PREVIOUS DAY
I’ve got it all worked out. The recipe’s picked, the ingredients are in my bag and – even better – Marshall’s out of town. That means it’ll just be the three of us: Mum, Idgie and me. Thursday is pizza night in our family. Dad started the tradition, but since he’s not here, it’s become my job (until he gets back, that is). Mum’s just got a promotion so I’m going to make my speciality: extra-extra-extra-super-supreme pizza.
When I get back from the supermarket, my little sister, Idgie, is in the front yard prancing around pretending to be a gymnast. Her blonde hair’s pulled tightly into a bun, and since she doesn’t own a proper leotard, she’s put on her swimmers over a long-sleeved T-shirt and tights.
‘Watch this!’ she says, tossing a homemade ribbon stick (red crepe paper attached to a chopstick) into the air. She does a forward roll then tries to catch the stick before it lands. It crashes into the azalea bush. ‘Whoops!’
‘You’re getting better,’ I say, as she fishes it out. ‘You’ll make the Olympic team one day for sure.’
Idgie grins.
‘Guess what I’ve got?’ I hold up the shopping bag. ‘Pizza supplies!’
‘I thought Marshall was cooking,’ she says, concentrating on throwing her stick from hand to hand.
‘What do you mean? He’s in Canberra.’
‘No, not till tomorrow. He’s in the kitchen making some weird stewy thing.’
‘What?’ My heart base-jumps down to my shoes. ‘But I’ve got three types of cheese and four types of salami.’
Idgie shrugs. ‘Maybe we could have pizza for dessert?’
As she twirls her ribbon faster and faster like a red tornado, I drop my bag in disgust. Marshall’s ruined everything.
Mum denied my request to eat dinner alone in my bedroom so I’m forced to sit at the table with everyone. Marshall’s still wearing an apron when he serves up the meal. Dad would never be caught dead in an apron. As he dishes up some sloppy lamb and rice thing, he can’t stop smiling at Mum with his annoying beardy smile. And worse than that, Mum returns it with an equally sickening lipsticky smile. Why’s she wearing lipstick anyway? And why’s she done her hair all fancy? Mum has black hair like me that sort of just hangs there, but lately, she’s been sticking goop in it and setting it in huge roller thingies.
‘Juice?’ asks Marshall, waving a carton in my face.
‘Nuh,’ I reply.
‘No, thank you,’ corrects Mum.
‘No, thank you,’ I parrot.
Maybe I’ll dehydrate and then I’ll have to spend the next few weeks in hospital, far away from here and the almost daily exposure to Marshall and his beardiness. Lucky I’m going to Jackson’s tomorrow for ten days while Mum goes up to Port Macquarie to help Nan and Pop move into an old people’s home. That means ten whole Marshall-free days.
‘Tuck in,’ he says, lifting his fork. ‘Hope it’s okay.’
He reaches out and squeezes Mum’s hand. Idgie and I exchange a look. Gross.
‘What’s this?’ I say, picking a brown fleck out of the stew.
‘It’s a cumin seed, Seb,’ says Mum, giving me a warning look.
I wipe it on the edge of the table. ‘I don’t like cumin seeds.’
Mum throws a worried glance at Marshall, then turns back to me. ‘You’ve never had one before so how could you possibly know that?’
‘I just do,’ I say, pushing my plate away. ‘I can’t eat it if it’s full of cumin seeds. They look like fly poo.’
‘Fly poo!’ cries Idgie, dropping her fork.
‘Pay no attention to your brother, Imogen,’ says Mum. ‘It is not fly poo.’
Idgie pushes her plate away all the same.
‘See what you’ve done?’ Mum glares at me for a moment, then sighs deeply.
‘I’m sorry, Gina,’ says Marshall. ‘It was stupid to cook Moroccan. Next time I’ll make something more kid-friendly.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with what you’ve cooked,’ says Mum, touching his arm. ‘Sebastian’s just being perverse, as usual. He’ll eat what’s on his plate or he can starve.’
‘Then I choose starvation,’ I say, crossing my arms.
Mum shakes her head in exasperation and begins picking cumin seeds out of Idgie’s dinner.
A part of me feels bad for spoiling tea,
especially since I won’t be seeing Mum and Idgie for a week and a half. I remind myself it’s not my fault. Expecting someone to eat cumin seeds against their will is practically human-rights abuse. When you think about it, the person who’s really to blame is Marshall.
After he’s gone home to pack for a work trip to Canberra, it’s time to read Idgie a bedtime story. Since Mum’s a nurse, she does a lot of shiftwork so I’m usually the one who reads to her. Idgie’s very particular about who can and can’t perform this task. (Babysitters are regularly ejected from her room for not using the right voices for each of the characters.)
‘Ready for your story, Idge?’
My sister is on her knees tucking her dolls into bed. ‘Shh,’ she says, holding a finger to her lips. ‘They’re just dropping off.’
While I’m waiting, I run my finger along the book spines on her shelf as if they’re piano keys. For some reason touching them makes me feel better.
‘Okay,’ she says, climbing into bed. ‘I’m ready.’
‘How about this one?’ I pick an old encyclopedia of myths and legends off the shelf. It was Dad’s when he was a kid. It has a picture of a dark-haired woman on the front pouring green liquid into a pool. The book is as heavy as a paving stone. ‘Remember Pegasus, the flying horse?’
The Beginner's Guide to Revenge Page 1
