Paradise City

by C. J. Duggan

  Paradise City

  C.J. Duggan

  Copyright © C.J. Duggan 2015

  For my dad, who always believed

  I dreamed of Paradise

  If there is one thing I have learned in my short little life, it is to take advice from the least likely of sources.

  ‘Have low expectations, kid, and you’ll never be disappointed.’ My Uncle Eddie delivered his words of wisdom with a wink and a double-barrelled shooting finger.

  At the time, I hadn’t taken it too seriously because, firstly, I was only nine and, secondly, he was wearing mission-brown stubbies with thongs. I mean, really? Sure, all those things could have very well been the reason why Uncle Eddie’s words didn’t sink in. But it was more the fact that after he had delivered his wise words, he then tripped backwards over his own esky, rolling like a human pinball down the front steps and landing, spread-eagled, on the lawn, wailing about soft tissue damage and needing an ambulance.

  Eight years later, it was still one of the most talked about of Uncle Eddie’s drunken antics resulting in cringe-worthy accounts of public humiliation, not just limited to our front lawn.

  Uncle Eddie, while at times hilarious, was also the resident drunk, who cycled his way around town on his punting, drinking expeditions sporting his crisscrossed fluoro safety vest (courtesy of Al, the local policeman). He would wear it even in the daytime – mortifying! He was almost like the town mascot, which pretty much paints an accurate picture of my hometown.

  Red Hill.

  The European explorers who named it obviously had a sense of humour because, unlike the name suggested, there was no hill in sight. Just a flat, desolate whole-lot-of-nothing. Well, that’s not exactly true. There were three pubs and a club, a Caltex petrol station, an IGA supermarket, a post office and a newsagent. And when you’re seventeen and trapped in a place nicknamed ‘Red Hole’, the only thing left to do is dream of a life less ordinary.

  In my room I had a bookshelf that housed my entire Holy Grail collection: a crystal angel from my Aunty Deb, a jasmine-scented candle that was too pretty to use and a stack of penpal letters from around the world. I kept writing to my penpals vigilantly with the idea of scoring free accommodation when I travelled abroad someday. I stashed the truly sacred stuff on the top shelf, like the tattered postcard from my cousin Amanda. It was slightly frayed around the edges from the countless times I had picked it up and flipped the glossed square over in my hands, reading the exciting account of the new life she had found in a place nothing like Red Hole.

  For the past year I had been set a challenge: maintain my good grades and Mum and Dad would ‘entertain’ the thought of me finishing my VCE in a real school, not one that involved a satellite connection to a virtual teacher. That’s right, Red Hole had three pubs and no school and I, for one, was not revelling in a future as an uneducated drunk, slurring my words and tripping over myself. No way.

  I hoped it was just a matter of time before they would let me venture out to further my education. Whether they liked it or not, that change was what I needed to ‘experience’ the big bad world. And even though I had a long-standing wish that maybe it could be so, it was never anything more than a crazy pipe dream. So come the time we had the family roundtable discussion, never in my wildest dreams did I think it would come true.

  Dad’s lips were pressed together in a grim line, his arms folded over his broad chest as he let Mum break it to me.

  ‘We’ve talked it over and if you agree,’ she said, smiling to herself as she traced her finger along the patterned wood grain of the tabletop, ‘we think –’ Dad coughed. ‘Okay, I think that straight A grades deserve nothing less than destination Paradise.’

  My head snapped up, my eyes widening in disbelief. ‘Are you serious?’

  Mum laughed. ‘I spoke to Aunty Karen, and they would love to have you.’

  I flung myself against my parents, hugging the life out of them. Thanking all the gods in all the universe that my prayers had been answered. ‘Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!’

  A smile spread across my face as I re-read Amanda’s postcard; her elegant, cursive writing described how her life was all about sun, surf, sand and boys (shhhh), which wasn’t exactly the smartest thing to write on the back of a postcard. It was the first and only postcard she had sent, and four years had passed since I’d received it, but when you’re thirteen and a seed is planted, and you have no clear future other than becoming betrothed to one of the local farming boys, you take solace in alternative future possibilities. Glancing at the front of the postcard, I absorbed the beach landscape peppered with sky-high buildings along the foreshore, and an embossed golden font that read ‘Paradise City’.

  Sorry, Uncle Eddie, but I ignored your advice. My expectations were as epic as those high-rises and, knowing my grades had earned me a ticket to the beach, to a real school, with real people, I was determined. Yes, I’d dreamed of Paradise City. From the day that postcard arrived I knew I was destined to be there.

  And just as I thought the likes of Red Hill ironic in all its flat mundaneness, I came to realise you should never judge a place by its name.

  Maybe Uncle Eddie was a genius?

  Chapter One

  ‘Where’s Ballantine?’

  That was the first time I heard his name. I was sitting outside the principal’s office, wedged between Mum and Dad, seeking an audience with Mr Fitzgibbons, the bow tie–wearing man with a balding head and high blood pressure, if his scarlet-tinged complexion was anything to go by.

  His flushed face-off was with a woman sitting behind a desk in the opposite room. She had ‘Counsellor’ mounted in front of her, one of those removable plaques she probably popped into her handbag at the end of each day.

  Mr Fitzgibbons’ fire-breathing question was met with a sigh and half-hearted shoulder shrug. Obviously not the answer he was looking for as he closed his eyes briefly – as if he was silently counting to three, or perhaps praying for strength. ‘That boy will be the death of me,’ he said to himself, before turning on his polished heel and heading back into his office, slamming the door so hard that the staff photos along the wall lifted with a violent jolt.

  ‘Geez, looks like someone needs to loosen his bow tie,’ murmured Dad from the side of his mouth, in that inconspicuous way people do, thinking no-one would suspect they were speaking at all. We giggled like naughty school kids until Mum elbowed me in the side, cutting us both a warning flash of her steel-blue eyes.

  Mum leant forward. ‘Nice, Rick. Real nice. Remember, you never get a second chance to make a first impression.’

  Poor Mum. She had been brushing off imaginary dust, picking at a loose thread on her cardigan, and fidgeting with a nervous anticipation I had rarely seen in her.

  ‘Relax, Mum, I’m in.’

  ‘Yeah. Relax, Jen, she’s in. And what school wouldn’t want someone with her grades?’ Dad slung his arm around my shoulder, giving me a squeeze. I cringed away from his hug. I was grateful that Dad had warmed to the idea of me coming here, but seriously.

  ‘Cool it, Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore.’ I quickly looked up the hall, hoping no-one had seen. It was bad enough that I was going to have my orientation being walked around by the principal while my parents ooohed and ahhhed about the state-of-the-art facilities; I could have thought of less subtle ways to be tortured publicly. On our way to the principal’s office my dad had even commented on how impressive the touch-free drinking taps outside the boys’ toilets were. I pressed the back of my head against the wall with a sigh.

  Yep, it was going to be a long day.

  I’d had grand visions of walking through the school gates with my cousin Amanda, cool, calm and with an air of mystery as I sauntered under the ornate archway, while Dest
iny’s Child’s ‘Independent Women’ played softly in the background, perhaps with an industrial-strength fan blowing my hair back. A smoke machine would have been a bit much. I was all about keeping my fantasies real.

  Mr Fitzgibbons’ door whooshed open, shunting me out of my daydream. I blinked into the here and now as he paused, clasping his hands with joy.

  ‘You must be Lexie.’ He beamed. ‘I am so happy to meet you,’ he said, stepping forward and shaking my hand in a series of shoulder-dislocating tugs. I peered past him into his empty office, wondering if this had been the same man from moments before.

  Bald, coffee-stained teeth, hideous bow tie. Yep, this was him.

  Another none-too-subtle elbow from my mum had me standing instantly to attention. ‘That’s me,’ I managed, smiling politely.

  ‘And you must be Mr and Mrs Atkinson.’

  ‘Oh, please. Call us Rick and Jen.’ My dad laughed. Mum laughed. Mr Fitzgibbons laughed – it was just an absolute riot.

  ‘Well, you can call me John, but just this once.’ He pointed, laughing at his own zany joke, while he ushered us inside his office and closed the door behind him. ‘Please, take a seat.’

  I had imagined that the principal’s office would be like a luxury penthouse, with all the lurks and perks that come with the job. A large modern space with city views and your own parking spot. Instead, the room was cramped; three mismatched chairs had been wedged in where they didn’t fit, giving us barely enough room to awkwardly manoeuvre our way to sit without playing a form of musical chairs. Mr Fitzgibbons didn’t seem fazed in the slightest with his less-than-humble abode. I daresay the pot plant by the window and his own private kettle facilities in the corner – with a rather impressive selection of Cup a Soups – made him more than happy with his space, even if the walls were covered in seventies wood panelling and the desk was laminate. I could imagine how desperately my dad was trying to contain himself from stating the obvious.

  Looks like they blew the budget on the drinking fountain.

  But he behaved; he sat stoically straight, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair, and linking his fingers over his stomach. I would have relaxed too but my orange plastic bucket seat didn’t have arms. Another budget cut?

  What I guessed were family photos stood on Mr Fitzgibbons’ desk, pointed away from us. My imagination started to wander. No doubt a picture of a pretty teenage daughter who was not a student at this school, probably privy to a spot as a foreign exchange student in France or something. A son on the brink of manhood, sporting a gleaming metallic grin and acne, most likely an interstate hockey champion. And then there would be a dowdy Mrs Fitzgibbons, who was probably a local tax attorney with sensible shoes and a not-too-sensible bob haircut.

  I blinked out of my imaginary Fitzgibbons’ family character assessments when Mr Fitzgibbons knocked heavily and rather expectantly on the window of his office, scurrying to pull the blind up without taking an eye out.

  ‘Boys!’ He yelled a fine mist onto the glass as he gesticulated towards the yard at a group playing basketball. He pointed to his eyes and then back to the group – a rather threatening mime of ‘I’m watching you’.

  The boys merely laughed, continuing their game. It was becoming obvious to me that Principal John Fitzgibbons wasn’t exactly a respected authority figure at Paradise High.

  ‘I have to say, I was pleasantly surprised when I received your application, Lexie,’ he said, picking up a manila folder from on top of his keyboard. He went to casually sit on the edge of his desk, opting for the laidback look. He soon leapt up when it was apparent his weight was too much for the flimsy frame, the desk shifting with a violent jolt that had us all flinching in horror.

  He cleared his throat and moved to his chair as if nothing had happened, adjusting his bow tie.

  My mum straightened nervously in her chair, as if she was dreading Dad or me losing it at any moment.

  I bit my lip, suddenly finding my hands in my lap so incredibly interesting.

  ‘It’s certainly been a while since we’ve had a student of your calibre enrol here at Paradise High, and home schooled too? Simply amazing.’

  ‘We’re very proud of Lexie,’ said Mum, almost bursting with pride.

  ‘Yeah, she gets the brains from her mother and her devilish good looks from me.’

  ‘Dad,’ I whined in embarrassment.

  Mr Fitzgibbons leaned back in his seat, his belly laughing so over the top that I could barely stop my brow from curving in disdain. He steepled his fingers like a Bond villain. ‘Well, we have an excellent curriculum here, and we need upstanding role models like you, Lexie. We have a healthy debate team, a maths club, drama society, and an SRC committee that I will put you forward for, straightaway.’

  With every rattled-off program, committee and club, a little piece of me died. It was like I was no longer in the room. He had gone from addressing me solely to addressing my parents, who were smiling and nodding with glee.

  It was almost like I was witnessing everything play out in slow motion as Mr Fitzgibbons jotted down notes into that manila folder with my name on it.

  No-no-no-no . . .

  I didn’t want to be a representative of any committee or a team leader of an inter-school debate. I just wanted to be normal, to blend in, to infiltrate the life of a local city slicker. Although I was pretty sure people in the city didn’t refer to themselves as city slickers.

  ‘Of course, there is good and bad in every school and there seems to be something rather alluring about the beach that has birthed a generation of delinquent, slacking beach bums,’ he said.

  I straightened in my seat, finally interested in what he was saying.

  ‘That’s why we need leaders in academia, to show the way.’

  Yeah, to improve your tertiary statistics, I thought bitterly.

  Mr Fitzgibbons mercifully put down his pen, which was slowly destroying my life. He closed the folder, clasping his hands over the cover. ‘Now, with your permission, and Lexie’s, of course,’ he smiled, exposing his off-white teeth, ‘I think Lexie would benefit from some of our accelerated classes. From what I can see here, you are quite above the state average. I’m thinking Year Eleven might be a bit of a doddle.’

  Dad’s chest puffed with pride. ‘Well, I guess it’s up to what Lexie wants to do, what she feels comfortable with. I mean, it’s going to be a bit of a culture shock at first.’

  ‘And as much as all that extra-curricular stuff sounds wonderful,’ added Mum, ‘I think we best just settle her into the final weeks of Year Eleven first; if all goes well, maybe we can look at those things next year when Lexie comes back for Year Twelve.’

  Oh, how I loved my parents.

  I saw the light in Mr Fitzgibbons’ eyes dim. His demeanour changed as he picked up his pen and clicked it in deep thought.

  I cleared my throat. ‘I would be happy to do accelerated classes; I think it would really build my confidence to do other things.’ I smiled sweetly.

  Mr Fitzgibbons doodled idly on the corner of my folder, taking in my words before lifting his gaze, a smile emerging, but not quite reaching his eyes. ‘So tell me, why Paradise High?’ he asked with interest. ‘You could have chosen St Sebastian’s or Noble Park High, for example. Why here?’

  ‘Lexie’s cousin is currently doing her Year Twelve here,’ said Mum, nodding her head in approval.

  This finally had his attention, pushing him forward in his seat. ‘Really? And who might that be?’

  ‘Her name’s Amanda, my sister’s daughter,’ replied Mum.

  I’d never seen a rabbit caught in headlights before, or the colour drain from someone’s face so quickly. I could actually see the bob of Mr Fitzgibbons’ Adam’s apple as he closed his mouth and swallowed, staring catatonically at my mum.

  ‘Amanda, Amanda Burnsteen?’ He repeated her name as if it left a bad taste in his mouth.

  ‘That’s her,’ said my dad cheerfully, clearly oblivious that this sudden revelati
on didn’t appear to be welcome news.

  ‘Well, what a small world we live in,’ Mr Fitzgibbons half-laughed as he casually opened my folder and scribbled a quick note on the inside.

  I leant forward, trying to peer at his writing but he jotted the note of importance so fast and slammed the folder shut so quickly, it made me blink.

  Mr Fitzgibbons was about to speak when he was cut off by the sudden sounding of the recess bell, ringing for students to return to their holding cells. Exercise time was over.

  ‘Ah, very good. I suggest that now is the time for you to have a look around, while all the students are settled in class.’ He grabbed the folder and stood, moving towards the door. ‘Forgive me for not showing you myself but I have to see to an urgent matter.’ He opened the door, sweeping his hand out to the hall.

  Mum, Dad and I stood, throwing uncertain looks at one another as we exited the principal’s office. He shook Dad’s, mine, and then Mum’s hands quickly, smiling and thanking us for our time – good luck, goodbye. It was like Charlie had gone from inheriting the chocolate factory to being dismissed by Willy Wonka himself. We were dazed and confused by the change in Mr Fitzgibbons as he looked past us to make eye contact with the school counsellor, who simply shook her head.

  He sighed heavily before returning to his office and closing the door.

  We stood there for a long while, stunned, before Dad spoke. ‘Well, that went well.’

  Mum and I looked at each other, laughing unsurely, as we headed down the hall, the bell drowning out our chatter with its second and final warning followed by a PA announcement as we descended the stairs.

  ‘Luke Ballantine, report to the principal’s office immediately.’

  And with a small curve of my mouth, I laughed, thinking that Mr Fitzgibbons’ day was about to get a whole lot worse.

  Chapter Two

  Does anything say family better than rocking up with a bucket of KFC for dinner?

  I don’t think so, and to make the deal even sweeter, yep, a giant tub of coleslaw; it was the least we could do, plus Aunty Karen was not known for her culinary skills.