by Micol Ostow
Table of Contents
Title Page
Acknowledgments
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Making Waves Down Under
After a few graceless hours in the water, Eliza had managed to lock down a routine of sorts:Step 1: Paddle your arms really hard when Macca says “Go.”
Step 2: Hop up on the board when Macca yells “Up.”
Step 3: Wave your arms around frantically like a windmill.
Step 4: Careen into the water.
It wasn’t quite surfing, but it was something.
Eventually she started getting the hang of it. That was to say, she got the hang of those four steps. Paddle, hop up, freak out, fall over. At least she finally stopped looking like she was being attacked by a swarm of bees each time she hopped back up onto the board. Soon she could even stay up on it for a few seconds and, yes, even “feel” the waves carrying her along.
The best part, though, was when they would take a break to catch her breath. She would climb up to sit on the board, and Macca would climb on behind her, resting his palms on her shoulders as their feet drifted in the surf. She would lean back against him until she felt up to another go. They’d wait for the right wave, Eliza lying on the board and Macca floating next to her, his hand on the small of her back until he would yell “Go!”
Eliza would paddle furiously and then hop up onto the board and, once in a while, the wave would catch the board and begin pushing it toward the shore. And there would be Macca, catching her eye, a smile on his face as big as the one on Eliza’s.
Acknowledgments
MICOL would like to thank: Noah Harlan, writing partner, handyman, film buff, best friend; Jodi Reamer, warrior princess; Kathi Appelt, southern gothic mentor-type; Angelle Pilkington, SASS-y editrix and gossip partner; and Kris Gilson, patient Puffin boss-woman.
NOAH would like to thank: Micol Ostow, writing partner, writing guide, and mentor extraordinaire, general inspirer, best friend; Angelle Pilkington, editor-o-rama; Kris Gilson; Clan Harlan (Josh, Trinity, Leonard, Fleur) and, especially, Elizabeth Harlan, the original Harlan family YA author.
SPEAK
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)
Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Registered Offices: Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Published by Speak, an imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
Copyright © Micol Ostow and Noah Harlan, 2010
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA Ostow, Micol.
Up over down under: a super special / Micol Ostow and Noah Harlan. p. cm.—(S.A.S.S.: Students Across the Seven Seas)
Summary: When sixteen-year-olds Eliza of Washington, D.C., and Billie of Melbourne, Australia, participate in a semester-long ecology exchange program, Eliza’s plan to “cut loose” out of the public eye goes awry, while Belinda must consider tempering her idealism in order to work within the system.
eISBN : 978-1-101-42735-4
[1. Self-actualization (Psychology)—Fiction. 2. Foreign study—Fiction. 3. Schools—Fiction. 4. Ecology—Fiction. 5. Washington (D.C.)—Fiction. 6. Melbourne (Vic.)—Fiction. 7. Australia—Fiction.] I. Harlan, Noah. II. Title.
PZ7.08475Up 2010 [Fic]—dc22 2009027241
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
http://us.penguingroup.com
For Jim Kane, always and forever our Aussie-in-residence!
Application for the Students Across the Seven Seas S.A.S.S. Goes Green! Study Abroad Program
Application for the Students Across the Seven Seas S.A.S.S. Goes Green! Study Abroad Program
Chapter One
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: S.A.S.S.
Billie—
Hi! This is Eliza Ritter, and I’m going to be the one exchanging with you this semester. S.A.S.S. said we should get in touch so . . . well, here I am! I’m not sure what there is to tell you; everything here is pretty normal, so I doubt you’re in for any surprises. My parents may seem a little strict at first, but don’t take it too personally. Their rules are really just their way of making sure that Dad’s public image stays intact. But I’m guessing you would never have applied to volunteer for a government official if you weren’t prepared to do the whole “perfect, polished student” thing, right?
As for me, I can’t wait to get down there! I’ve been obsessively Google-imaging pictures of Australia, and it looks warm and gorgeous!
Now for the important questions: Do you live near the beach? Oh yeah, and I am a total Gossip Girl addict—do you have that down there?
Also, your profile said that you have brothers. How many? And how long do they usually spend in the bathroom in the mornings? I’m an only child, so I’m sort of used to unlimited mirror time.
Anyhow, feel free to send a note whenever. If you’ve got any questions of your own, I’ll try to answer them.
—Eliza
About twelve hours into her trip, it struck Eliza Ritter that Australia was very far away. She had left Washington, D.C., early that morning on a flight for Los Angeles, and after a six-hour “hop” and an hour layover in the L.A. airport she’d boarded this flight to end all flights. She had been on this plane for five hours now and wasn’t even near the halfway point. It was an unholy fourteen and a half hours from Los Angeles to Melbourne, Australia, and the initial thrill of traveling on her own was wearing very thin. She had read through her copies of Star, In Touch, and Us Weekly and now was examining the movie selections to see what could while away some more of the time. By her calculations, there were nine and a half hours left on this plane. If the average movie was about two hours, that meant four movies and a catnap and she’d be there. Voilà!
Eliza had been ready for this trip. More than ready. Not that she didn’t like her home life—the truth was that seeing herself in news pictures alongside her father at various events made her prouder than she’d ever admit—but lately, she’d been feeling sort of…well, smothered.
Her parents weren’t overprotective like some kids’ parents were, but what they were wa
s, in a word, conscientious . They were conscientious of how they appeared in the media, and conscientious of the image they projected, separate or together, each and every time one or all of them stepped out of their house.
While most girls Eliza’s age were posting party pictures of themselves on Facebook, Eliza had to be 150 percent sure that any blog post she ever wrote was friends-locked to the nth degree. Discretion was key. And frankly, it was exhausting.
She’d been happy to play the part of “first daughter” because she was an unabashed Daddy’s Girl, and, well… there were perks in the whole process. Like having a private hairstylist and makeup artist to prep you for fancy Washington parties—or even attending those parties in the first place. That was fun.
But, yes—it was also exhausting. And what Australia promised was a chance to fly solo, even for a few blissful, if short, months. A chance to cut loose.
To be completely honest, Eliza wasn’t totally sure that she even knew what it meant to “cut loose,” so controlled had things been up until this very moment. But that was the whole point of this trip. And she was for darn sure going to make it her business to learn—pronto.
When Eliza had first read about the S.A.S.S. exchange program, she just knew that she had to sign up. She didn’t know where she wanted to be placed, but at that point, anywhere other than Washington sounded like Shangri-la. Based on photo research conducted mainly in the form of celebrity gossip magazines, France and Australia quickly rose to the top of the list. Unfortunately, her father pointed out that two years of French lessons probably would not be enough to get her through a semester of classes in Paris.
Australia was the obvious choice, then. Besides, what could be wrong with spending a semester in the place that produced hotties like Eric Bana and Hugh Jackman?
There were several cities to choose from, and Eliza weighed her options carefully. She looked at the three largest cities: Melbourne—a funky city in the south, Sydney—the biggest city and very cosmopolitan (and also home to that cool opera-house thing on the bay), and lastly Brisbane—near the Great Barrier Reef and a stretch of beach called the Gold Coast.
Brisbane sounded amazing—what could be bad about a Gold Coast? The only problem was that her school wasn’t offering an exchange to Brisbane.
That left Melbourne and Sydney. To settle things, she decided to ask her friend Allison’s mom for advice. To Eliza, there was something ultimately less objectionable in seeking parental advice from a parent who wasn’t one’s own. Mrs. Shifton was a deputy undersecretary of something or other and had traveled all over the world. She had a sort of know-it-all air about her and was prone to correcting Allison’s grammar with annoying regularity. But again, she wasn’t Eliza’s mother, and therefore her advice to Eliza was welcome. Mrs. Shifton considered the question and then announced, quite definitively, that Sydney was the place she should go.
That settled it. Eliza went home and checked the box for Melbourne. After sixteen years of doing nothing but listening to her parents, it was time to make a decision completely and entirely on her own.
So here she was, pondering the future, at least as far as the next nine hours were concerned. She’d left a lot behind in D.C. She had been dating Parker Green since the spring of sophomore year. He was very cute, smart, and charming, and he got along with all of her friends—not to mention, he was a parents’ dream—but to Eliza, Australia was a big, life-changing opportunity, and she was determined to make the most of it. Going strings-free meant going truly strings-free, which meant taking a break from the long-term guy, even if he was a sweetie. As much as she knew she’d miss Parker, Eliza also knew that an exchange semester worth doing was an exchange semester worth doing right.
Eliza had been going to school with the same kids since preschool. She knew everyone and, frankly, they knew her. When the idea of studying abroad first came up, Eliza realized that this could be a chance not only to flex her independence, but also to reinvent herself. She could find some new friends and have some new experiences. And most important, she could do all that without being under the watchful eyes of the Washington elite.
Australia was very far from Washington and all those eyes. Australia was eyeless. Australia was, for all intents and purposes, blind.
Blind was good, in this case. In this case, blind was very, very good.
As for Parker, well, she was young, and she would be traveling halfway around the world. She told Parker that she wanted to take a break, and that if they were meant to be, they’d find themselves together again when she was back. Parker’s response, a slightly puzzled “huh,” wasn’t exactly the enthusiastic agreement that Eliza had been hoping for, but at least she’d made it through a difficult conversation. She honestly didn’t know what the future held for Parker and her. But in a way, that was just the point—suddenly, she honestly didn’t know what the future held, period. For the first time, ever, her entire life wasn’t carefully mapped out on a calendar, or committed to her mother or father’s BlackBerry.
It was terrifying. But it was thrilling, too.
She checked her watch impatiently. Eight hours and forty-three minutes still to go. The fact that her father’s executive assistant had scored her an upgrade to business class was only a small consolation. Eight hours was a long time no matter how much legroom you had.
Eliza yawned and glanced around the cabin, trying to figure out which passengers were Americans going to Australia and which were Australians going back home. She stood, shaking her legs out, and wandered up the aisle into the galley, all the while keeping her eyes peeled for signs of life.
Score! Standing in the galley was an unattended bowl of chocolate cookies—that was what she needed. Dumb romantic comedies and action movies always went better with snacks. Eliza quickly checked to make sure no one was watching, then ducked into the serving area and grabbed a handful of the cookies. She rationalized her rule bending by promising herself that she’d pass on the cookies when the flight attendants brought them around the cabin later.
Home free, she backed out of the galley…only to collide with a somewhat impatient-looking flight attendant.
The flight attendant raised a questioning eyebrow in Eliza’s direction. “Are you all set with your cookies, then?”
Eliza nodded, feeling slightly panicked. “I think I’m having a low-blood-sugar thing,” she explained, wondering if she was pushing her luck with the fib.
Miraculously, the flight attendant seemed to buy it. Her expression softened. “In that case,” she said, holding the bowl of cookies out for Eliza, “why don’t you take another?”
Eliza shrugged. “Um, okay. If you insist,” she said, now grinning for real. “I mean, better safe than sorry, right?”
She returned to her seat and placed her headphones on, settling back for a movie and munching away contentedly on her contraband snacks.
So far, this “independence” thing was working out kind of nicely…even if she had just been caught with her hands in the cookie jar.
Chapter Two
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: G’Day!
That’s Australian for “hello,” of course! But I reckon you already know that if you’ve been studying your S.A.S.S. orientation packet. I’m happy that you wrote (it’s always helpful to know a little bit about the person who’s commandeered your bedroom when you’ve gone on walkabout, after all), and I can answer most of your questions.
First off, I do have two little brothers, twins. They’re six and very cute, if a bit hyper at times. Sam and Nick. If they give you any trouble, let ’em know I told them to lay off. As for the television, I should warn you that Mum usually dominates, and you shouldn’t count on being able to wrestle away the remote. Especially ’round time for Neighbours.
You mentioned the beach, so I feel like I should warn you that, while we do have one about five kilometers outside of the city, I wouldn’t break out your swimmers and sunnies just
yet—nobody really “goes to the beach” (as you say) in Melbourne. If you can hang in there for a few weeks, I’m sure Mum and Dad will take you to their cottage in Sorrento. That’s where everyone from Melbourne goes for some beachside barbies and to catch some surf.
I’d better be going, now. Write when you have a moment, and let me know how you’re going with my family, etc.
Cheers,
Billie
“Aren’t you eating those?”
“What’s that?” Billie Echols looked up from her video iPod to find the seat mate on her right side bearing down on her affably.
Flight 181, Row 20 was cramped enough as it was without this man, a friendly but nonetheless undeniably…rotund American, invading Billie’s personal space. Australians were known for being easygoing, Billie realized, but seeing as how this was about a twenty-two-hour flight (that was including the layover in Los Angeles, of course), Mr. Seat J really needed to learn some boundaries.
“Were you eating those? The chips?”
Right. No boundaries, then. Beautiful.
“Er, I guess not,” Billie said, hesitant. While the chips themselves—some terrifying flavor hybrid of onions, cheddar, and a hint of ranch dressing—weren’t all that appealing, she knew there wouldn’t be any more food until breakfast service, and worried about midnight hunger pangs. Assuming her jet-lagged body would recognize midnight, that is.
“Would you—” she began tentatively.
Seat J needed no additional encouragement.
“Thanks!” he boomed, squeezing even farther onto Billie’s seat—it was almost as though he was trying to meld his body into Billie’s through the science of osmosis—and scooping up the sad, wrinkled foil bag. He tilted his head back and downed the last crumbs of potato chips as though he were a marathoner on his last leg and the bag was a bottle of designer sports water.
