The Beginner's Guide to Revenge

by Marianne Musgrove

  Oh no! He only just forgave me for the other thing. If he hears about this, I’m stuffed. And when he tells Mum, I’ll not only be stuffed but mounted on the wall.

  ‘Idgie,’ I say, talking as softly and as quickly as I can, ‘I need you to not put out the recycling bin.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said I need you to not put out the recycling bin.’

  ‘He’s almost here,’ squeals Romola.

  I grip the receiver so hard, it’s digging into my palm. ‘Did you hear what I said, Idgie?’

  ‘Shh, Mrs Lam’s saying something. Sorry, Mrs Lam? Oh, he wants me to put the bins out.’

  ‘Tell him we won’t forget,’ I hear our neighbour reply.

  I groan loudly just as Marshall rounds the corner. ‘Grub’s up,’ he says. ‘You all right there, Seb?’

  Romola stands behind him so he can’t see her, and lifts the corners of her mouth, indicating that I should smile and act natural.

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ I reply in what I hope is a bright manner. ‘Just talking to Idgie. Be there in a sec.’

  ‘So, Marshall,’ says Romola, taking him by the arm and leading him away, ‘when’s your book going to be published?’

  ‘You still there, Idge?’ I ask, as soon as they’re out of earshot.

  ‘I have to go now,’ she replies. ‘We want to get good seats at the parade.’

  ‘No, wait, I need –’

  ‘Don’t forget my autograph! Gotta go, bye!’

  She hangs up and I stare at the phone, my guts tangled up like barbed wire. What do I do now?

  I walk over to the picnic rug and stand there watching Marshall, Cass and Romola sitting in a circle unwrapping sandwiches. My mouth moves up and down but nothing comes out. My voice has gone AWOL.

  ‘You okay?’ asks Marshall. ‘You look shocking. Is Idgie okay?’

  I nod to show she’s fine.

  ‘Come and sit down,’ says Cass, patting a cushion. But I can’t move. I’m like one of those people who’s stepped on a landmine – once they’ve put their foot down, they don’t dare lift it up again or it’ll explode.

  ‘Speak, Seb, you’re making us nervous,’ says Marshall.

  I lick my lips. Nope, that’s not going to do it. I clear my throat. I clear it again. Guessing what’s happened, Romola gives me an encouraging smile.

  ‘Marshall,’ I finally say, my voice barely above a whisper, ‘can I talk to you over there?’

  He gets up quickly and we walk over to the bridge. Instead of hassling me, he waits for me to pull myself together, all the time rubbing his beard, his face filled with concern.

  ‘Marshall,’ I begin, ‘you know how you forgave me for … you know?’

  ‘Yeeeeees,’ he replies. ‘It’s a work in progress, but yes.’

  ‘I was wondering if you had a few bonus forgiveness points left …’

  ‘Sebastian,’ says Marshall, taking me by the shoulders, ‘what have you done?’

  ‘You’ll be the death of me, kid,’ he says, clicking the button to unlock the car. ‘But it’d kill your mother if she ever found out so it’s up to us to get that dress out of the bin without anyone knowing.’

  I check his face for any obvious signs of anger: jaw-clenching, face turning white – that sort of thing – but he looks more worried than anything.

  ‘Thanks,’ I reply, but as Mum would say, we’re not out of the woods yet.

  ‘Right,’ says Marshall, ‘I think that’s everything. I’ll have to come back tomorrow for the rest of our stuff – there’s no time to go to the house. Now, have you given Romola Rex’s medals to return?’

  ‘Yep,’ I say, opening the car door.

  ‘And did Cass manage to book a taxi to get to the parade?’

  ‘Maisie’s coming.’

  ‘Good.’ He pats his pocket to check for his keys, then turns to me. ‘Now, Seb, do you promise me you’ve got nothing else to confess?’

  I can feel my cheeks turning pink with embarrassment, but I also feel strangely relieved. There are no more dark secrets growing inside me like horrible fungi. ‘That’s everything.’

  Marshall heaves a huge sigh of relief. ‘And do you swear never to do anything like this ever again?’

  ‘I swear,’ I say. ‘You can trust me.’

  ‘It’ll take time,’ he says, opening his door and climbing in, ‘but we’re on the right track. All right then, ready for Operation Wedding Dress Rescue?’

  ‘Ready,’ I say, getting in and tossing my bag on the back seat. It’s so much lighter now without the book. Marshall gives me a small smile and puts the key in the ignition.

  Because of the ANZAC Day crowds, we practically crawl out of Canberra. As the minutes tick by, I bounce my leg up and down, and Marshall drums his fingers on the steering wheel. The car reverberates with our nervous movements as we will the traffic jam to clear.

  ‘We’re not going to make it!’ I burst out.

  Marshall peers out the side window to see what’s going on. ‘We’re certainly running out of time. If we could just get out of Canberra, we’d be in with a chance. What time did you say the garbage man is coming?’

  ‘One.’

  He checks his watch. ‘I’m sorry, Seb, I know you didn’t want your mum to know but this is cutting it too fine. We’re going to have to call the neighbour and tell her about the dress.’

  I nod reluctantly. ‘I know.’ I get my phone out and dial the number. Marshall watches me, barely breathing. When there’s no answer, I shake my head.

  ‘Try again.’

  I dial once more. ‘Come on, pick up, pick up, pick up.’ Again, no answer. I’m about to try a third time when I remember something. ‘Idgie said they were going to the local march early. They’re not home! And I don’t have Mrs Lam’s mobile number! What are we going to do?’

  Marshall mutters something under his breath then looks at me. ‘All we can do is hope for the best.’

  For the next who-knows-how-long we creep forward and then, all of a sudden, the traffic clears and we’re zooming along the freeway to Wollongong.

  ‘How long till we’re home?’ I ask Marshall for the millionth time. I’ve been gripping my seat as if we’re on a roller-coaster.

  ‘About ten minutes,’ he replies. ‘How much longer till the garbo comes?’

  ‘About ten minutes.’

  One of the factoids Romola shared with me this past week is that scientists think time is like a piece of elastic. Sometimes, it’s stretchy and takes ages to move from one moment to the next. Other times, it’s slack and races by. If that’s true, we’re in the middle of a stretchy part because those ten minutes are the slowest, most excruciatingly painful of my life.

  Finally, we’re two streets away … then one … and then, as we round the corner of my street, we see the garbage truck tipping up the neighbour’s bin and spilling rubbish into its gullet. It sets the bin back down, the gears crunch and it jerks along the road towards our place.

  ‘Hurry!’ I cry.

  Marshall hoons up the road, pulls into our driveway and screeches to a halt. I leap out of the car before he’s even switched off the engine and race towards the recycling bin. The truck is already outside our house, its claws reaching out.

  ‘No!’ I scream, lunging forward. I fling open the lid of the bin, reach inside and pull out the garment bag.

  ‘Careful!’ shouts the driver. ‘Don’t want to end up in the masher, do you?’

  I slam the lid back down and step back, just as Marshall joins me on the footpath. ‘Sorry! It’s all good!’

  The two of us watch the claws grab the bin and tip its contents into the truck like a monster chugging a glass of milk.

  ‘We did it,’ whispers Marshall.

  As the driver moves on to the next house, I’ve never felt so relieved.

  ‘Sebastian, Marshall, what’s all the yelling about?’ calls my neighbour Mr Stanley from across the road.

  ‘Nothing!’ I say, tossing the garment b
ag over our hedge so it’s out of sight.

  ‘Nothing!’ repeats Marshall. ‘We’re just glad to be back home. Right, Seb?’

  ‘Right,’ I say. ‘Very glad. Very, very glad.’

  Marshall shakes his head at me, but he’s smiling. ‘Shall we?’ he says, nodding for us to go inside, then he puts his hand on my back and guides me through the gate.

  ‘Forgiveness does not change the past,

  but it does enlarge the future.’

  – Paul Boese,

  Kansas businessman and writer

  TWO WEEKS LATER

  ‘I have to get going in a minute,’ I say, reaching up to adjust my peacock comb. ‘I’ve got a drama club rehearsal.’

  I’m at Rex and Maisie’s place eating homemade ANZAC biscuits in their lounge room.

  ‘You joined the drama club?’ says Maisie. ‘That’s wonderful, love.’

  ‘One of the girls in my class heard me at ANZAC Day and invited me. I managed to convince Amal to join as well. She’s going to help with the costumes.’

  ‘How I miss the stage!’ says Maisie, striking a pose. ‘You’ll love it. Here, you should take the rest of these bickies. Acting’s hungry work.’

  ‘Thanks!’

  ‘So tell me, Romola,’ says Rex, putting down the crossword, ‘how’s my mate, Sebastian?’

  ‘Yeah, good. We chatted online last night. He’s going to lend me some of his graphic novels when he comes down.’

  ‘So he’s planning a visit?’

  ‘Next holidays. I promised to teach him how to play the recorder with his nose. How could he refuse?’

  ‘How indeed?’ laughs Rex.

  ‘Any word from your dad?’ asks Maisie, spooning sugar into her teacup.

  I shake my head, a sick feeling rising in my stomach. It’s the only thing weighing me down these days.

  ‘He’ll call soon,’ she says. ‘It’s just a matter of when.’

  ‘Anyway,’ says Rex, ‘you be sure to send Sebastian round when he comes. We’ve got a lot to talk about.’

  ‘Tell him I’ll make him some ANZAC bickies,’ says Maisie.

  ‘Aw,’ says Rex, putting on a mock tragic face. ‘You never make ’em for me!’

  ‘What d’ya call these?’ protests Maisie, holding up the plate. ‘Petunias?’

  While Rex and Maisie argue about the biscuit shortage, there’s a knock at the door. Before any of us can answer it, Mum bursts in, out of breath, her hair spilling out of its bun. ‘Romola, come quick! Your dad’s on Skype.’

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘This very second!’ She’s smiling so much, her lips couldn’t disappear if they tried.

  ‘Off you go, love,’ says Maisie, ‘and don’t forget to send your dad our love.’

  ‘I will,’ I cry, leaping out of my seat and grabbing my green velvet jacket. I dash out the door, run down the steps and leap over the wall. As I race up the path and into our house, every cell in my body is yodelling with joy. I’ve got so much to tell Dad, I hardly know where to begin.

  In Flanders Fields

  In Flanders fields the poppies blow

  Between the crosses, row on row,

  That mark our place; and in the sky

  The larks, still bravely singing, fly

  Scarce heard amid the guns below.

  We are the Dead. Short days ago

  We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

  Loved and were loved, and now we lie,

  In Flanders fields.

  Take up our quarrel with the foe:

  To you from failing hands we throw

  The torch; be yours to hold it high.

  If ye break faith with us who die

  We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

  In Flanders fields.

  – John McCrae, 1915

  Legacy Australia

  After World War I, some of the men who came back from the battlefields were concerned about the lack of support for returned servicemen. In response, General Sir John Gellibrand founded the Remembrance Club in Hobart in 1923. In time, a club was also established in Melbourne. By 1925, the work of the club had expanded to include caring for the children of those whose lives were lost as a result of military service, and so Legacy was born.

  Today, over 6000 Legacy volunteers care for around 100,000 war widows and almost 2000 children and dependants with a disability. Among other things, they provide support to families following a bereavement, advocate for their rights and entitlements, offer financial assistance and mentor children who have lost a parent.

  To find out more information or to donate, go to www.legacy.com.au.

  Acknowledgements

  I’d like to first thank my mum for listening to endless versions of this story and for seeing me through the angst that is creating a novel. Thanks also go to my agent, Sheila Drummond, my publisher and editor, Zoe Walton, my other editor, Catriona Murdie, and the rest of the talented team at Random House Australia. More than any other book I’ve written, this one has involved an enormous amount of brainstorming and research. For helping me with this process, I thank Colonel Peter Scott, DSO (Rtd), Mr Rocky Anock, Fionnuala Gray, Mark MacInnes, Geoff Banks, Sandra and Fred Gregson, Kate Thorne, Russell Talbot, Rachael Eggins, Damon Muller, Neela Nath, Gay McKinnon, Geoff Watson, Richard Brookton, Kesta Fleming, Julie Thorndyke and the South Australian Writers’ Centre. I also owe a debt of gratitude to my readers for their continued support. In what is largely a solitary occupation, your encouragement is greatly appreciated. Thank you!

  Author’s Note

  The Illumicube is an iconic piece of Canberran street art. It was created by Kerry Simpson to celebrate twenty-five years of electricity supplied to the city by the ACT Electricity Authority. Installed at the intersection of Ainslie Avenue and London Circuit, it was originally sound-activated. In the 1990s, passers-by would shout at the cube (the author included) or honk their horns to make it light up. However, complaints from local residents about the noise led to its current incarnation as a movement-activated installation. It is now found at the entrance to the Canberra Centre.

  One of the plusses of being a writer is the ability to exercise artistic licence, so this I did, reverting the cube to its sound-activated state for the purposes of my story.

  – Marianne Musgrove

  About the Author

  South Australian author Marianne Musgrove got her first taste of success when, at age ten, she won the Sinbad Award For The Most Outlandish Stories To Be Written. Since then, her books have won various prizes including the 2008 Australian Family Therapists’ Award for Children’s Literature for The Worry Tree and the 2011 Swiss Prix Chronos for the German language edition of Don’t Breathe a Word. Her other books include Lucy the Good and Lucy the Lie Detector. Marianne has, at various times, worked as a tomato picker, museum guide for kids, social worker and social policy writer – however, writing for children is by far her favourite job.

  For more information, check out: www.mariannemusgrove.com.au.

  Also by Marianne Musgrove

  For younger readers

  Lucy the Good

  Lucy the Lie Detector

  For older readers

  The Worry Tree

  Don’t Breathe a Word

  Don’t Breathe a Word

  By Marianne Musgrove

  ‘I, Mackenzie Elizabeth Carew, do solemnly swear never to communicate anything about what happened tonight.’

  That’s what I promised my sister Tahlia, and I’ve tried my best to keep that promise. It’s hard, though. Grandpa is acting so strangely since his accident. I’m sure Mrs B. suspects something, and Mahesh must think I’m weird for avoiding him. My best friend Annie is too busy hanging out with Regan and Tegan to notice. But someone will find out if we’re not super careful.

  It’s lucky Tahlia has a plan …

  Available at all good booksellers

  The Worry Tree

  by Marianne Musgrove

  Just because something’s not
magic doesn’t mean it can’t be magical …

  Juliet’s a worrywart, and no wonder! Her little sister, Oaf, follows her around taking notes and singing ‘The Irritating Song’ all day long. Her parents are always arguing about Dad’s junk. And Juliet’s friends, Lindsay and Gemma, are competing to see which of them is Juliet’s best friend. Juliet can’t fit in any more worries!

  But then she makes a remarkable discovery. Behind the wallpaper in her new bedroom, Juliet uncovers an old painting of a very special tree. It’s the Worry Tree, and with the help of a duck called Delia and the other Worry Tree animals, Juliet just might be able to solve some of life’s big problems.

  Available at all good booksellers

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including printing, photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of Random House Australia. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Version 1.0

  THE BEGINNER’S GUIDE TO REVENGE

  Published by Random House Australia 2012

  Copyright © Marianne Musgrove 2012

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  A Woolshed Press book

  Published by Random House Australia Pty Ltd

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