Emily's Tiara Trouble
Page 1
First published in 2015
Copyright © Text, Samantha Turnbull 2015
Copyright © Illustrations, Sarah Davis 2015
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.
Allen & Unwin
83 Alexander Street
Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
Email: info@allenandunwin.com
Web: www.allenandunwin.com
A Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available from the National Library of Australia
www.trove.nla.gov.au
ISBN 978 174331 984 0
eISBN 978 174343 984 5
Cover and text design by Vida & Luke Kelly
For Liberty, Jonah and their awesome dad
CONTENTS
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
Epilogue
Bella pokes out her tongue and makes a choking sound as if she is going to spew. I love that word. Spew. It’s a disgusting word for a disgusting thing, and I usually want to do it when something disgusts me. Like now.
‘What was that awful noise?’ Bella’s mum asks. ‘Is someone ill?’
I erupt into a fit of snorty giggles.
‘Emily Martin, what’s so funny? This book isn’t supposed to be amusing.’
Emily Martin – that’s me. Bella Singh is one of my three best friends. The other two are Grace Bennett and Chloe Karalis, who are giggling in sleeping bags on the floor beside us.
‘Don’t mind them, Mum,’ Bella says. ‘They’re just laughing at me.’
We’re all sleeping over at Bella’s house. Our sleepovers are usually mega fun until bedtime rolls around. Then things become mega awkward.
You see, Bella’s mum insists on reading us spew-worthy fairytales before we go to sleep.
Tonight, she’s reading us yet another fairytale about yet another princess being rescued by yet another prince. And in this one, the princess just kissed a frog. Talk about disgusting.
‘I just made that sound because I thought it was a little gross to put one’s lips on an amphibian,’ Bella says. ‘I’m sorry. Keep reading, Mum.’
Bella’s mum closes the book. ‘Maybe that’s enough for tonight,’ she says. ‘I’ll let you girls chat for half an hour before lights out, okay?’
Bella blows her mum a kiss as she leaves the room.
‘Thanks for having us, Dr Singh!’ I call out.
Bella’s mum calls back, ‘Anytime, Emily.’
She doesn’t get it, and we don’t want to hurt her feelings. She and Bella’s dad really do try hard to give the best of everything to Bella and her brother, Max. Unfortunately, their idea of ‘the best’ isn’t the same as ours.
Bella’s parents are the busiest types of doctors you can get. They’re not the regular kind you make an appointment with when you’ve got tonsillitis. Her dad is a paediatrician – that’s a doctor who specialises in treating kids. Her mum is a neurosurgeon – that’s someone who operates on people’s brains. Most days they don’t get home before nightfall and Bella and Max have to be looked after by their babysitter, Louis.
I have a hunch Bella’s parents feel bad about being away from home so much, and so they try to make up for it with presents. They bring home every new toy, book or computer game as soon as it hits the shops.
The trouble is, they don’t know what Bella likes. Max is easy to buy for because he likes all the things a typical eight-year-old boy is supposed to be interested in: bug catchers, Lego, comics and computer games starring superheroes.
But when it comes to Bella, her mum and dad don’t understand. They buy her fairytale after fairytale after fairytale. Sometimes they throw in a doll. They even bought her a computer game once where you had to dress up a bunch of animated runway models – borrrrring!
Bella’s mum and dad work such long hours, I don’t think they’ve taken enough time to get to know her. Plus, Bella’s mum was into princesses and fashion when she was growing up in India, so she probably just assumes her daughter will like the same stuff.
If Bella’s mum and dad really knew her, they’d know she would much prefer Max’s comics – partly because she loves sketching and partly because she’s sick of fairytales.
I pick up the book Dr Singh left on Bella’s bedside table and start to flick through the pages.
‘What I don’t understand is why boys almost always get to be the heroes in fairytales,’ I say. ‘The princess, or the maiden or the damsel, is almost always the one in trouble. And it’s the prince, or the knight or the king, who gets to save the day.’
Bella takes the book and slides it under her bed.
‘You’re right, Emily,’ she says. ‘Fairytales should be called unfairytales.’
Grace and Chloe laugh at Bella’s clever joke.
‘That’s what you should tell your mum, Bella,’ Grace says. ‘Unfairytales are unfair to girls. She’d understand. She used to be a girl before she was a grown-up.’
Before Bella can speak, Dr Singh reappears armed with a parcel tied up in pink ribbon.
‘I almost forgot about this,’ she says. ‘I bought you this fairytale today, Bella. Shall I read it to everyone now?’
Dr Singh looks eager to share the new book with us and I can tell Bella doesn’t want to make her sad by saying no.
‘Why not,’ Bella says. ‘It is brand new, after all.’
Her mum opens the book. ‘Once upon a time there was a princess who lived in a big castle…’
Bella’s too polite. If Dr Singh were my mum I would’ve told her a long time ago to ditch the spew-worthy fairytales.
But it’s not my place to argue, so I zip my lips and count the stripes on Bella’s bedroom wallpaper. Counting is one of my things – I’m a mathematician and computer expert. My favourite number is twenty-three because it’s the only prime number that consists of two consecutive prime numbers.
As I count the fifty-seven stripes on Bella’s wall, my mind drifts off while I imagine what my own castle would look like. It would have a drawbridge and a moat with crocodiles in it. Twenty-three crocodiles.
My mum is smart, but sometimes she does things I can only describe as plain silly.
My little sister Ava and I are watching her pull the hairs out of her eyebrows with a pair of pointy tweezers. She’s pulling so many that I’m afraid she won’t have any left.
‘Doesn’t that hurt, Mummy?’ Ava asks. ‘Your skin is turning red.’
Mum’s reflection smiles at us from the mirror. ‘Eyebrows frame the face. It’s important to make them the right shape.’
Mum is a beautician. There’s a room next to the laundry that’s set up for clients. She calls it ‘the beauty room’, but I call it ‘the torture chamber’. It’s full of freaky contraptions that cut cuticles, pop pimples and peel layers of skin off women’s faces.
‘Emily, do they look even?’ she asks.
Mum wants my opinion from a mathematical perspective. If she plucks too many hairs from one side she can throw the symmetry of her face right off balance.
‘The left one is longer than the right,’ I say. ‘If you take about two millimetres off the end, they’ll be even.’
As Mum turns back to the mirror I can’t help but blurt out what I really think.
‘I still don’t understand why you do it,’ I say. ‘It hurts, and it makes you look permanently surprised. You wouldn’t catch Dad doing something so stupid.’
Ava’s eyes widen, which tells me I may have gone too far. I shouldn’t have said ‘stupid’. I should’ve kept it at ‘silly’.
‘Well, your dad is lucky he’s a man, because men don’t have to make themselves pretty,’ Mum says. ‘It’s just women who have to do things like this. I’m sorry you think it’s stupid, because you and Ava will need to do it too one day.’
She swiftly turns and walks into her wardrobe in a huff. Ava runs after her, pushing past the dresses and stumbling over the shoes.
‘Mummy, I like my eyebrows,’ Ava says. ‘I want to keep them.’
Mum bends down and runs her thumbs over Ava’s tiny eyebrows. ‘You’re a long way off plucking, Ava – you’re only five. Emily, on the other hand…’
I snort – it’s what I do when I hear something ridiculous. ‘Mum, I’m only ten. And I won’t ever pluck my eyebrows. Not when I’m twelve. Not when I’m twenty. Not when I’m eighty. I think it’s stupid … I mean, silly.’
‘If your father were here, you would be grounded for that comment,’ Mum says.
Dad is in the Army. He’s overseas and won’t be back for ages. Mum is right about how he would react if he heard me. He doesn’t like anyone showing disrespect to his sweetheart, AKA Mum. But there’s no way he would agree Ava and I need to change the way we look – not now, not ever.
I shake my head. There’s no point arguing with Mum about beauty – it would be the same if she tried to tell me that algebra was a waste of time.
‘Don’t forget to take your ballet slippers today, Emily,’ Mum says. ‘You’ve got a class straight after school.’
Urgh, ballet. The only good thing about it is that Grace does it too.
Ava wanted to join the kindy class and while Mum was signing her up she put my name down as well. Once I realised there was a bit of maths involved in ballet (keeping time, counting steps, patterns – that sort of stuff) I agreed to try it out for a year.
It’s been six months and I’m totally over it.
‘Can you let your ballet teacher know I just paid this coming term’s fees?’ Mum asks.
I guess I’ll tell Mum I want to quit at the end of the term.
The blood is dripping out of Grace’s knee like it’s a leaky tap. Drip, drip. Drip. Drip. She says it doesn’t hurt too much, but her white tights are getting covered in red droplets. Drip, drip. Drip. Drip.
‘Someone’s going to be in big trouble when they get home,’ says Grace’s older brother, Tom.
Her younger brothers, Oliver and Harry, chime in: ‘Ooooooooh, Grace is going to be in big, big trouble.’
They run ahead of us, yelling, ‘Trouble, trouble, big, big trouble,’ over and over again.
We all caught the bus home to Grace’s place together. The boys were at Scouts while we were at ballet.
Grace loathes ballet too, but her parents signed her up because for some weird reason they think all girls should love dancing. The only part we actually love is the end, because I get to hang out at Grace’s house for an hour before Mum picks me up.
Grace could easily beat her brothers to the house, but she hangs back with me – I’m not a very fast runner.
Even though Grace is only ten, she is extremely fast. One of the fastest kids in town, as a matter of fact.
‘Don’t tell Mum!’ Grace yells at her brothers. But we know it’s useless. It’s hard enough trying to figure out how we will explain Grace’s bleeding knee and ruined tights to her parents. Having three obnoxious brothers dobbing her in beforehand makes it even harder.
Grace’s mum rushes out to the porch, wiping her hands on a tea towel.
‘For goodness sake, Grace, are you all right?’ she asks. ‘Come inside and let me clean up that knee.’
This is how it works. First Grace’s mum worries if she’s okay, then she starts to question her, and then Grace gets in trouble. If her dad is home the trouble is twice as bad, but it doesn’t look like he’s back from soccer practice just yet. He’s a soccer coach – for boys.
‘How did this happen, Grace?’ her mum’s questioning begins.
‘I fell over at ballet.’ It’s a half-truth. Grace actually fell over after ballet. She was practising her sprinting at the bus stop and tripped over when one of the laces on her sneakers came undone. She didn’t tie them properly because she was in too much of a rush to get out of her ballet jiffies.
‘Why didn’t Miss Charmaine phone me to pick you up?’ Grace’s mum asks.
Miss Charmaine is our ballet teacher. She knows we don’t like ballet and she knows Grace didn’t fall over in class.
‘I…um…maybe she…’ Grace can’t think quickly enough.
Her mum bends down and dabs at the blood with a tissue. I can tell Grace’s knee is stinging, but she’s gritting her teeth and being brave.
Oliver steps in. ‘She fell over while she was running at the bus stop.’
I roll my eyes. Brothers can be such dobbers.
‘I was working on my sprinting,’ Grace says. ‘I have to train, you know.’
Grace wants to make it to the Olympics one day and I reckon she will. But first she wants to prove herself closer to home.
‘We saw an exciting poster at the bus stop today, Mum,’ Grace continues. ‘It was for the Junior District Athletics Carnival. I’ve never been able to go in it before because I was too young, but this year I’ll be old enough.’
The front door slams and Grace’s brothers grin. ‘BIG, big trouble,’ they all whisper.
Grace’s dad marches up the hallway and straight to the kitchen. He’s very tall with huge shoulders. Kind of scary-looking, really. He drops a bag of soccer balls onto the lino and stares straight at Grace’s bleeding knee.
‘Grace, how many times have I told you to quit this nonsense?’ his voice booms.
Grace’s bottom lip quivers. ‘But Dad, I need to train.’
They have this fight a lot. Grace tries to be tough but it always makes her upset. Her dad is so stern.
‘We pay a lot of money for your ballet lessons,’ he says. ‘We can’t keep replacing ruined tights, leotards and shoes. You need to learn to be a lady and stop running here, there and everywhere.’
He grabs a soccer ball and the boys follow him into the backyard. I listen to them laughing as Grace’s mum finishes with her knee.
‘That wasn’t so bad, was it?’ Mrs Bennett is talking about the scolding as well as the knee repair. ‘Now help me with dinner, will you, girls?’
‘I’m sure I can make this baklava syrup better by having less lemon juice and making it up with orange juice instead,’ Chloe says. ‘I’d also like to add a vanilla bean.’
I’m not much of a cook, so I say, ‘Whatever you think.’
Chloe takes three measuring cups from the cupboard. ‘To support my hypothesis, I’ll measure out three different flavour combinations,’ she says. ‘You and Yiayia can blind-taste and sc
ore the results against the original recipe, then I’ll analyse the data and draw my conclusion. Sound good?’
I lick my lips. Taste-testing baklava is my kind of scientific research.
I’m used to being involved in Chloe’s experiments. I see her the most out of my three best friends because she lives in the same street as me, in an apartment above the restaurant owned by her family. She lives with her mum and dad, her big brother, Alex, and her yiayia. Yiayia is the Greek word for ‘grandmother’.
Alex gets paid to help out in the restaurant. Chloe would much rather have her weekends free to examine things under her microscope and hang with me, Bella and Grace.
Her mum and dad say that when Chloe and Alex grow up they will take over the business, but Chloe has other ideas. She is going to be a scientist.
Every now and then Chloe doesn’t mind chipping in to help with the cooking if her parents are super busy. Her specialty is baklava, which is a sticky pastry filled with nuts. She says cooking can be fun when she’s allowed to experiment. But that’s the problem. Chloe’s mum and dad don’t like her experimenting.
‘Our recipes are tried and true,’ they say. ‘Our customers know what to expect and that’s why they keep coming back.’
Yiayia is more understanding. She knows that Chloe’s favourite thing in the world is science and that changing recipes is similar to conducting scientific experiments.
‘It’s our little secret,’ Yiayia says. ‘We will pretend we don’t taste the difference.’
If there’s one thing Chloe loves as much as science, it’s Yiayia. She’s seventy-eight years old – that’s sixty-eight years older than Chloe.
Yiayia is getting frail and she needs a lot of help around the apartment, but we don’t mind because she’s wonderful company. She likes to read quirky facts out loud to Chloe and me from her old encyclopedias. We don’t ruin her fun by telling her we can find all that stuff on the internet. She says reading keeps her mind active now that her body can’t move so much.
Chloe finishes mixing the baklava syrups, complete with the new additions of orange juice and vanilla beans. ‘Now, turn your backs while I pour the syrup into cups. Then you can perform the taste testing.’