The Beginner's Guide to Revenge

by Marianne Musgrove

  ‘I’m sorry for worrying you,’ I say, looking her in the eye. That part, at least, is true.

  Mum watches me for a long time. ‘Unfortunately, due to a little thing called The Universal Declaration of Human Rights, I can’t force you to tell me what’s going on. And if you won’t tell me, you won’t tell me.’

  ‘Okay, thanks, Mum!’ I say, leaping out of my seat.

  ‘Hold it there, young lady. Don’t think you’re getting off scot-free. For the rest of the holidays, you’re going to get up at 7.30 every morning – no more sleep-ins for you, my dear – and you’re going to do two hours of housework every day. Lots of greasy, grimy, disgusting chores. And on Sunday, you’re going to help me set up for the market. Got it?’

  ‘Got it,’ I reply, stifling a groan. The punishment is bad but the alternative is much, much worse.

  That night, as I get into my PJs, I gaze around my room. What makes me so different from everyone else? From what I can tell from television, I’ve got a fairly typical teenager’s bedroom: posters on the walls, computer on the desk, dreamcatcher in the window. Okay, maybe the model aircraft Dad and I made is a little unusual, but is it unusual enough to qualify as Weird with a capital ‘W’? Is it enough to explain why I always end up on the outer?

  I touch the postcard stuck to the wall above my bed. It is the same as the cover of Sebastian’s book. I’ll have to ask him about it tomorrow, misfit to misfit. But right now, I’m going to go to sleep.

  … Or not …

  As I climb into bed and shut off the light, all the things I couldn’t tell Mum rise up out of my imaginary cemetery to haunt me. Riley’s party is definitely not resting in peace.

  ‘No more tears now;

  I will think about revenge.’

  – Mary, Queen of Scots

  SATURDAY, 16 APRIL

  Thud! Dad’s book falls to the floor. ‘Shh,’ I whisper, picking it up and shoving it in my backpack. Dad didn’t call, but that’s okay, I have a plan. Mum and Marshall can get married all they want, but it doesn’t mean I have to be there to watch them.

  Once I’ve finished packing, I listen at the door to make sure Marshall’s not awake. All is silent. Good. I slip downstairs and unbolt the deadlock on the front door. When Marshall eventually gets up, with any luck, he’ll assume I’m still in bed. That’ll give me a couple of hours’ head start.

  I open the door softly, softly, and shut it behind me. The Canberra air slaps me in the face. I can’t believe it’s only April, it’s way colder than Wollongong. Luckily, I don’t have to walk far to the bus stop. As I creep down the road, my breath fogs up in front of me. So far so good.

  The bus shelter is a strange cream and orange building. It’s curved with a lid on top and looks a bit like a Lego man’s helmet. According to the timetable, the next bus won’t be here for a whole twenty minutes. I huddle inside the shelter and wait, my legs jigging up and down like crazy. If I don’t calm down, I’m going to attract attention.

  I haul the encyclopedia out of my backpack and open it to the story of Medusa. According to legend, all it took was one glance between you and her and you turned to stone. I imagine Mum’s hair morphing into snakes one morning, then Marshall coming in, locking eyes with her and turning to concrete. We could stick him in the front yard and use him as a giant garden gnome! This makes me laugh so hard I get out my pencil and jot it down in the back of the book. For some reason, it makes me feel a bit better.

  I get up to see if the bus is coming and a girl leaps out of nowhere and shouts, ‘Boo!’

  I yelp. That’s right – yelp. Like a little dog.

  The girl cracks up laughing. ‘Scared ya!’

  ‘No, you didn’t.’

  ‘I believe I did,’ she replies, grinning. ‘Remember me? We met last night, sort of. I’m Romola.’

  I look her up and down. Her hair is all over the place like a massive brown tumbleweed, and she’s wearing a coat over baggy green trousers with flying dragons all over them. ‘Are those your pyjamas?’ I gape. ‘Did you get out of bed and follow me?’

  The girl looks down at her clothes and shrugs. ‘Saw you sneaking out. If I’d changed, I might’ve lost you.’ She smiles broadly, showing gappy teeth. She’s tall for a girl – sort of gangly – and her face is long. She makes me think of a giraffe or a flamingo. ‘So what are you up to?’ she asks.

  ‘Look, I don’t mean to be rude or anything but could you please go away?’

  ‘No problem.’

  I sigh with relief.

  She takes a seat under the shelter and smiles at me. ‘Just as soon as you tell me where you’re going.’

  Oh great.

  ‘I’m a very good listener,’ she adds. ‘I’ve had training. Hey, what’s this?’ She picks up my book and thumbs through it. ‘Myths? Ooh, I love myths! Did you know the Navajo Indians believe their thoughts are stored in their hair? That’s why they never cut it. See mine? How long it is? Imagine how many thoughts are in there.’

  ‘Imagine,’ I say, trying to grab the book back.

  Romola turns away from me so she can keep looking. ‘Why’s there handwriting in the back? Secret notes, perhaps …?’

  ‘Don’t!’ I lunge for the book but she leaps up onto the seat and holds it out of my reach.

  ‘Tell me about your notes,’ she demands, smiling at me in the most annoying way.

  ‘Give it back, you freak!’

  The second after I call her a freak, her cheeks turn a deep red. She drops her arm and hands me back the book. ‘Sorry,’ she says softly. ‘Didn’t mean to annoy you.’

  I take the book from her and rest it on top of my backpack. ‘It’s my dad’s,’ I explain. ‘I don’t want it getting wrecked.’

  Romola is quiet for a moment. She jumps off the bench and sits down. ‘Fair enough … for now.’ But just when I think she’s dropped the subject, she rounds on me. ‘So Sebastian, are you running away to your dad’s or what?’

  What possessed me to tell her, I’ll never know. She’s sure good at cross-examination, that’s all I can say. She fired so many questions at me, I thought I’d have actual holes in my body by the end of it.

  ‘So let me get this straight,’ she says, pacing the length of the bus shelter. ‘You’re heading off to go and live with your dad but you haven’t told anyone, including your dad?’

  I nod.

  ‘You’re going to bus it to Adelaide, then catch another one to Roxby, but you don’t have much money so you might have to hitchhike part of the way?’

  ‘Yeah, and?’

  She stops pacing and stares at me. ‘Sebastian! Are you crazy? Roxby Downs is practically the desert. Do you have a camel, Sebastian? Well? Do you? Because you’re gonna need one. And what about Marshall? Isn’t he supposed to be looking after you? He is going to freak out! And then there’s your mum – if she’s anything like mine, you’ll be grounded for years. That is, if you haven’t been kidnapped by vagrants before you get there.’

  ‘Vagrants? It’s not the nineteenth century.’

  ‘Sebastian, haven’t you forgotten something very, very important?’

  ‘What’s that?’ I ask tiredly. Why didn’t I keep my big mouth shut?

  ‘What are you going to do if you get to Roxby and your dad’s not there?’ Her breath condenses in the air between us leaving a cloudy question mark. She’s managed to dig out every doubt I’ve ever had about this trip and wave them in my face. As we stare at each other all I can hear is a kookaburra laughing nearby and the slap, slap of a jogger’s feet on the pavement as he passes by.

  ‘He’ll be there,’ I say firmly. She opens her mouth to argue but I get in first. ‘Thanks for being worried about me, but you don’t need to be. Dad’s told me a million times he wants me to live with him. I’ll be fine.’ An engine rumbles in the distance and I stand on the kerb to hail the oncoming bus.

  ‘But, Seb–’

  ‘See ya.’

  The driver pulls to a halt and the door opens. As I bend down
to pick up my bag, Romola steps forward. ‘Sorry, Sebastian, but you leave me no choice.’ She leans over, grabs my book and takes off up the street.

  ‘Hey!’ I shout. ‘Bring that back!’

  She doesn’t, of course. There’s nothing I can do except chase her.

  She’s fast, I’ll say that for her. I’m pretty good at running myself (it’s the only sport I really like apart from cricket) but I don’t come close to catching her – not until she rounds the corner of Beryl Place. I lunge for the book but she pulls away just in time and dashes down the path to number six. When she reaches the door, she spins around and holds the book high above her head with one hand. The index finger of the other is poised, ready to press the doorbell.

  ‘Just listen,’ she says as I stumble up the path.

  ‘No,’ I hiss, but I don’t get too close to her – any sudden movement and she could ring the bell and wake Marshall. ‘Give it back.’

  ‘Not yet,’ she says. ‘Trust me, you’ll thank me later.’

  ‘That’s unlikely.’

  ‘Here’s what I think you should do: sneak back inside and unpack. That way, Marshall will never know you were gone. Then I’ll help you track down your dad’s phone number so you can speak to him and make proper arrangements. Good plan, eh?’

  ‘I already tried finding his number – there’s no Woody Miller listed. Now hand it over.’ I risk lunging at her again but she’s too quick for me.

  She puts her finger a millimetre away from the doorbell. ‘Careful.’

  It takes all my willpower not to tackle her but I back off. ‘You’re very persistent,’ I say.

  ‘Thank you,’ says Romola.

  ‘It’s not a compliment! This is none of your business!’

  ‘Romola!’ call two voices from across the road.

  ‘Hi, Rex! Hi, Maisie!’ she replies, waving.

  I spin around to see an old couple dressed in tracksuits. The woman has boofy, dyed red hair and is wearing bright red lipstick. The man has the most impressive comb-over I’ve ever seen, beginning just below his left ear and going up and over his entire head.

  ‘Who’s this handsome devil?’ bellows Maisie, gesturing at me.

  ‘Sebastian!’ calls Romola, then turns to me. ‘When they haven’t got their hearing aids in, they tend to shout a bit.’

  ‘Ah, Sebastian!’ hollers Maisie. ‘A Shakespearean name!’

  I look around nervously. They’re going to wake the whole neighbourhood.

  ‘You all set for ANZAC Day?’ Rex shouts.

  Romola nods.

  ‘Maisie’ll give you some pointers on voice projection, won’t you, love?’

  ‘Surely will!’ booms Maisie. ‘Sebastian, has Romola told you she’s reading a poem at the Dawn Service?’

  I shake my head, no.

  ‘“In Flanders Fields” is always read by someone from Legacy,’ explains Rex, ‘so this year, I asked our unofficial legatee, Romola!’

  ‘She’s very talented!’ shouts Maisie.

  ‘Rex and Maisie are members of Legacy,’ Romola says to me. ‘I help them out sometimes, visiting war widows and stuff.’

  I nod, desperately willing everyone to speak more quietly. If this conversation goes on much longer …

  ‘Anyway,’ calls Rex, ‘better get on with our walk! Cheerio, kids!’

  ‘Cheerio!’ shouts Maisie.

  As Romola waves to them, I take advantage of her distracted state and snatch back my book. ‘Got it!’ I step back out of her reach. ‘Now leave me –’

  The door opens and there’s Marshall in his PJs, his face all rumpled. ‘Sebastian?’ he says groggily, rubbing his beard. ‘I wondered what all the noise was about. What are you doing out here? Is that your backpack?’

  It’s been two hours since Marshall sprung me. He spent the first half an hour doing what he calls ‘trying to understand me’ but I call lecturing. Then he phoned Mum. After he’d dobbed me in, he thrust the phone at me and made me talk to her. That was bad. She yelled a lot – said things like ‘Have you lost your mind?’ and ‘You could’ve been murdered!’ Then she ordered me to my room even though she’s in a different state. Can you believe it? I was going to argue with her but a part of me wondered if maybe she had a point. It would’ve been pretty bad if I’d got to Roxby and Dad wasn’t there. But still …

  Marshall’s been talking to Mum ever since I came up to my room. I open my door a crack and a few phrases float up the stairs – phrases such as ‘big responsibility’ and ‘heavy burden’. Heavy burden! So Marshall doesn’t like me. He’s been pretending all along! Well, I don’t care! I don’t like him either. I grab one of the comics I brought with me but I can’t get into it. Then my eyes wander over to Dad’s book of myths. I turn to one of the gorier chapters and fill my mind with tales of revenge.

  Just as I’m jotting down a few revenge ideas in the back (Romola turning into a cane toad, Marshall being chased for eternity by a persistent mosquito), there’s a knock at the door.

  ‘Seb? Can I come in, please?’

  Like I have a choice. I lay down my book as Marshall walks in, scratching his head. Stay tuned for Lecture: Part Two. ‘Seb, I’m very conscious of the fact that finding out about me and your mum getting married has been very upsetting for you. And I understand perfectly why you’d want to see your dad. I would too if I were you, but taking off to Roxby isn’t the solution.’

  ‘Yeah, but –’

  ‘Please, let me finish.’ He goes over to the desk and perches on the edge of it. ‘Your mum and I have talked, and it so happens that my brother-in-law’s a mining engineer. He doesn’t work at Roxby but he has contacts there so I’ve asked him to see if he can track down your dad.’

  I gape at him. ‘You serious?’

  ‘I can’t promise anything but it’s worth a shot.’

  I was sure his solution would involve me being handcuffed to the kitchen table for a week while he finished his interviews. I don’t get it. ‘Are you trying to get rid of me?’

  Marshall covers his face with his hands. ‘I can’t win, can I? No, Seb, of course I’m not trying to get rid of you. I want us to be a family – you, me, your mum, Idgie. Believe it or not, I’d like for us to be friends or, at least, friendly. I’d even settle for civil at this point.’

  ‘I’m going to live with my dad,’ I insist. ‘You can’t stop me and neither can Mum.’

  Marshall looks at me sadly. ‘Nevertheless, I’m responsible for you in the meantime. If anything happened to you … well, your mum’d kill me for a start. I need you to promise not to run away again. Do I have your word?’

  I pause for a moment. As soon as they find Dad, I’ll go to Roxby anyway so there’ll be no need for me to run away. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I promise.’

  Marshall heaves a huge sigh of relief. ‘Good stuff. Oh and before I forget, Romola dropped this off for you.’ He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a green envelope with a peacock feather design on the back.

  Hey there, Sebastian (or Mr Miller if we’re going to be formal),

  I’m going to go out on a limb here and suggest we didn’t leave one another on the best of terms this morning. Your parting remark ‘Get out of my face, weirdo’ was, shall we say, a little curt. Other, lesser people might have taken this to mean you didn’t want to be friends with me. Fortunately for you, I have extremely high self-esteem. I should warn you, however, that even I have my limits so I was wondering if, in future, you could please refrain from calling me ‘freak’ or ‘weirdo’ or other such unflattering labels (see attached for list of taboo terms). I have an unfortunate history of name-calling (as the recipient, not the giver-outerer) which I’m trying to put behind me, so I’d be eternally grateful if you’d abide by this request, thank you.

  Let’s cut to the chase, Sebastian. You and I should be friends. Why? I’m glad you asked. My reasons are as follows:

  1. I’m a delightful conversationalist. To give you an idea of my diverse interests, I like rollerblading around
the lake, dragons, the colour emerald, helping out war widows in need, Mum’s white chocolate and honeycomb cupcakes (eating them), soft boiled eggs (also eating them), and peacocks (looking at them, not eating them).

  2. I have many unusual abilities. I can:

  * split a single hair seven times (The world record is eighteen – with a bit more practice, I’ll be a serious contender.)

  * play the recorder using only my nose

  * yodel (self-taught).

  3. I’m self-sufficient. For example, I once operated on my own ingrown toenail. Sure, it got a little infected and I had to have emergency surgery, but still, you can’t say I didn’t show initiative.

  And that’s only the start of it! Here’s the thing: you may not realise it but we have a lot in common. We’re both in high school, we both have dark hair and both our dads are far away – too far away if you ask me. (Mine’s busy being a soldier in a war zone. He’s a member of the Quick Reaction Force. I try not to think about it but sometimes I can’t help it.) Anyway, if you want to talk to me about anything you should know I’m very good at keeping secrets. (See Rex for character reference.)

  So to get to the point of this letter, would you, Sebastian, like to come to the markets with me, Romola, tomorrow? Mum has a new stall I’m supposed to help with, but there’ll be time to explore the market too. We have to be there at 9 a.m. so meet me at my place at 8.45 sharp. (And by sharp, I don’t mean you need to pack a knife. The market owners prefer we leave all weaponry at home. Ha ha.) Just bring yourself.

  Eesay ouyay aterlay. (Rex taught me some Pig Latin – it means ‘see you later’.)

  Miss Romola Metski

  List of Names NOT to call RM