Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
SAND DUNES
SEAL
SILVERBEET
MULBERRY
SUNSET
BEACHED
MARINE LIFE (AND DEATH)
CICADAS
TREATED PINE
ANGELGIRL
SEASHELL
SHADOWS
STARFLOWERS
BEAUTIFUL BANGLE
(S)HELLHOLE
SKELETONS
SKANKY FUG
SCRAMBLED EGGS
MUSICAL WORRIES
WINDCHANGE
WORDS
LIAR, LIAR
HERBAL REMEDIES
EINSTEIN
SEASNAKES
MY PLACE
ECONOMICS OF LIFE
BOYPRAWNS
PILLOWFIGHT
HIS PLACE
PRAWNING
NEWSLETTER
TRAVELLING
JELLYFISH
CAMP PSYCHO
MEETING MR CASUAL
BARBIE GOES TO THE BEACH
GROUP THERAPY
MCBLABBER
WHITE STARS
SAD CATS
SCHMUCKSVILLE
THREE TYPES OF PEOPLE
DARKNESS
BLUE
SHINING KNIGHT
CRAYGIRL
MISTER FIX-IT
MERMAID
MAGIC PYTHON BUSH
BLIND DATE
BZZZZ
STARFISH
SMOOTHIE
SHELLTWISTS
NIGHT OWL
BLUNDIE CHICK
THE LOCAL HUNCHBACK
TRAVELLING TEACHERS
STIRLINGS
HIMALAYAS
CAVEWOMAN
MOUNTAIN GOAT
ROCKY TERRAIN
DEPARTURE OF STUFF
TENT-SWAPPAGE
LOVEBIRDS
BRAND NEW DAY
LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL OF SHITE
CHEZ QUEEN
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
for Stew
SAND DUNES
I have survived. Today was my first day at this new school. I feel like I’ve run a cross-country or something; I’m exhausted. I drop my bag outside our house and head down to the beach. I don’t feel like answering Mum’s questions about how it went—I just want a bit of space.
My feet sink deep into the cool sand and it takes ages to make headway through the dunes between our place and the beach. I stop to rest for a while, and plonk down on a steep section. I make bum-shaped dents in the sand and look out.
New schools aren’t such a big deal—some kids move every couple of years, don’t they? But I’ve gone right through to Year 10 at the same school, and now this. It’s the first time for Jerry, too. We’ve changed schools and towns. Well, regions, actually. Sometimes I feel like we’ve changed mums, too. Which is weird, because we haven’t. I didn’t want all this change, I really didn’t. It’s messed everything up.
We shifted in to our new place a couple of weeks ago, at the start of the school holidays. Mum and Dad brought us down here for a weekend a few weeks before that, to introduce us to the new house and show us around Melros a bit. That didn’t take long. The whole of Melros is about four streets, and one long beach. There are no shops. A fat row of sand dunes separates the houses from the water. Jerry was really amped that first weekend about the fishing potential. I was too, secretly, but I’m not sure anymore if I should keep going out fishing with Dad and Jerry. I mean, it’s not very teenage girl, is it?
One thing I’m glad of (if you have to choose something): we moved during the holidays. So I started at Peel at the beginning of fourth term, when there were a few other new kids, too, not just me. There’d be nothing worse than walking into a classroom one morning right in the middle of term. Right, everyone, I’d like you to meet someone new to our school. Alison Queen. I hope you’ll make her very welcome. And to have to put up with those queen jokes, the snickering. Very welcoming.
I looked around the class this morning—without looking like I was looking—for anyone who seemed like my kind of person, for someone to hook up with, but everyone seems all set with their mates and groups. Quite a few of the girls are wearing stacks of make-up. One chick’s hair is streaked like a rainbow, with the full range of colours. I guess it’s going to be a long term. I s’pose I can just spend lots of time doing homework and stuff till it gets easier.
It’s not so bad for Jerry—he’s still in primary school, and they’re not that into queen jokes in Grade 4. But Peel Senior High. I can’t believe I have to do this without my friends. I can’t believe I have to do this without Shel.
I shake my head, as if that might help me clear it. It doesn’t. It just makes me feel even more frazzled. I look across the ocean as far as I can, and try to blank it all out.
SEAL
Mum tried to talk to me today but I didn’t want a bar of it, as she would say. Big Talk. Then she went off looking tragic. I heard her blabbing to Dad about it in the bedroom. She’d been trying to tell me not to worry about make-up, she said, how it clogs up your skin. Filling me in on feminism. What a load of frogshite. Like she’d know about make-up and feminism. Look at her, making us come down here, out in the sticks. That’s feminism, isn’t it. Being away from all your friends and cooking country stews every night of the week. We used to have pizzas and stuff, even HJs sometimes! But now she’s all gingham shirts and vegie patch. She’s even trying to make Dad get us some chooks. Reckons it’s good for the garden. Now that’s one thing I know for sure: chooks don’t live near the beach.
I go down to the beach at sunset. The sand flicks back at my calves, stinging and tickling. The dunes go up and down like sandy waves. I climb and sit on the highest one, like yesterday, and the day before that. The coast is the one good thing about this place, I reckon.
Sometimes roos hop through the scrub behind me. I never thought of roos as beach critters before we came here; I thought they lived in the dry bits of Australia, in the red dust. But here the roos come right up to the last row of dunes before the water. They stick their heads up over the scrub for the view, and watch for a bit before turning back.
Sometimes I go all the way down and sit on the cool, wet sand at the edge, soaking a dark patch on the back of my uniform, and wait for the seal to come back. I’ve only seen it once. I couldn’t believe it, it was rolling and clapping and arcing in the water out by the reef. Sleek and beautiful, just playing. No one else saw it, and I didn’t tell anyone. Not that I have anyone to tell—small detail. Only Jerry, and everyone knows you don’t tell stuff like that to your poxy little brother, who comes into your room at night just to fart, and then slams the door and runs away.
That’s Dad and Jerry coming back now from Tims Thicket. Bet they haven’t caught anything. They went off carrying on like Rex Hunts, with buckets and blocks of bait and PVC pipes. Jerry spent all last night after dinner making gangs. Like they’re gunna catch anything that big.
Mum runs out to them. Feminist.
They come in, all fishy smelling and roughed up by the wind.
‘Cool hair, McJerry,’ I say, smirking.
Dad looks at me. ‘We got a salmon.’
‘Huh?’
I get the same smirk back from Jerry. ‘Salmon!’ he shouts, hopping all over the kitchen like the little kid that he is. ‘We caught a salmon!’
Dad ruffles his hair. What is this, an ad for Country Road or something?
‘This is gunna be good, living here,’ Dad says. ‘First pick of the salmon every run.’ He’s grinning and brown and salty, and his lumberjack shirt’s got blood on it.
Mum lo
oks at me. Suddenly everyone’s looking at me, slightly crazily. Grinning, smelling, and with big hair.
‘What?’ I say. Why am I copping all the attention?
‘Come on, Allycat,’ Dad says. ‘Have a laugh.’
‘Don’t call me that!’ I say, and I know I’m going to cry. I can’t believe it. I run out again, even though I only just got back, leaving them standing there in the kitchen with their stinky salmon.
I catch the bus to school here. As if living in the sticks isn’t bad enough! Having to be a bus kid in the sticks—it’s hideous. There’s only a handful of other kids still on it when I get off. Poor buggers. How much further away could you live? In Perth, I used to ride my bike but Peel Senior High is fifteen ks away. On the way to school, Shel and Zoe and I would swing by the deli and get a whole heap of snacks, which we’d ration out for the rest of the day. Caramel buds, green snakes and my favourite, Killer Pythons. Bet they wouldn’t even know what a Killer Python is here.
At least we’re not stuck inland. Have to thank Dad for that; he still thinks he’s a surf rat. It’s ridiculous, seeing him wax up the malibu on a Saturday morning. Obviously, I don’t go and watch him, in case anyone sees me.
I email Shel; it’s the first proper one since we came here. Texts just don’t cut it at the moment—I need more than 160 characters for some of this stuff. I sit down at the computer (which Mum and Dad have set up in the living area so that they can keep an eye on what we’re up to).
Dear Shel,
This really is frogshite. The Killer Pythons at the delihere are STALE and HAVE NO FLAVOUR. To get to the deli from our house, you either have to trek (taking spare water with you) or catch a light plane. Can you urgently send me down some KPs? How are you and Zo? How’sMax?! Has the bubble on Mr Dawe’s head grown anymore? Peel SHS is absolutely tragic. The boys are either bogans or surfies and the girls are pretty unfriendly. They have 80s hair and worse make-up. No one really wants to know me, and I’m not sure that I mind, to behonest. They don’t have cheesies at the canteen, and the women who work there are hideous. Mum’s been on my back about make-up and shaving my legs and stuff. Can you believe it?! She reckons there’s some kind of conspiracy theory against women, reckons magazines and consumerism are to blame for the world’s problems. I’m seriously concerned about her, I mean, what’s going on with her, making us move down here and growing vegies and hair, and Dad and Jerry going fishing all the time—they’ve all completely lost it! I’m on my own here, Shel, please come down and save me! You can sleep in my room ...
I nearly say that I’ll take her to my secret seal spot, but I delete that thought before I type it. Love Ally, I key in.
I go downstairs and sneak out the door next to my bedroom; I’ve already made it my emergency exit. The only problem is when Jerry’s in the shed fiddling with his chemistry set. I tell you, the boy’s sad. He makes Dick Smith radios and intercoms in his spare time. If it weren’t for Dad taking him fishing, he’d never leave the house.
The moon’s out; it’s spilling over the water, slightly blue like Hi-Lo milk. I can’t be bothered scaling the Mt Everest dune, so I sit on a rock with my back to the house. Seals aren’t nocturnal, I reckon. I’m not expecting to see it again, just like to look out at the spot where it rolled and slid through the water, almost oily. Free.
SILVERBEET
I check my emails before I go to school. One from Shelly:
Ally. Listen up, sister: on no account may you grow big hair of any kind in my absence (or, worse, in my presence). Your mum can smear as much sandalwood oil on herself as she likes, but do not allow yourself to become contaminated. Do you read me?
I can’t come down to stay, not for a while, anyway. Am grounded for getting home past dad’s bedtime last week. Bubble size stable.
More soon, Shel xxx
I laugh while I get ready for school.
Maths is the pits. Talk about a complete waste of time. Like I’m really going to need to know how to figure out the length of the third side of the triangle once I leave school. Hmm, that’s an interesting triangle there on the side of that house; I wonder what precise length its hypotenuse is. Rii-iight.
English is my favourite subject. There’s room to move in English; you can have ideas and write about them, and you can read what other people have to say.
Most of it’s okay, though some is total shite—some of the questions we get! Oh, man ... Discuss the significance of the sun metaphor in so-and-so’s poetry. I mean, how much can you write on that? It’s just the sun! It was a hot day: the sun was out, okay?
The classes at Peel seem pretty similar to how it went back at my old school. I’m having to repeat the entire ‘Natural and Processed Minerals’ module in science here, though, having only just survived the experience with Bubblehead at home, which is utter frogshite.
It’s after school. Mum’s out in the sun—communing with the silverbeet. Aerating the soil is what she calls it. She never used to be into gardening this much—not until the accident, anyway. I mean, she’s always loved her garden, but this is way over the top. She says she talks to the plants; she mutters out there in the vegie patch like a loopy person. I feel like calling out: Good conversation?
Mum doesn’t drive anymore, which is a bit of a laugh when you live down here. Even the deli is half a fuel tank away (okay, a half-hour walk). She reckons she just wants to potter around the house and get into her garden— That’s the beauty of living in the country, Ally, simplicity—but I know Dad wants to get her driving again. Jerry overheard Dad talking to Aunty Trish about it a couple of weeks ago. Jerry told me he knew a secret but I forced it out of him while administering a Chinese burn. And threatening other tortures. And finally he told me: Dad reckons that Mum’s too scared to drive. And that was part of why we moved down here. I knew coming here was her fault, I said to Jerry. But he stuck up for her, the little suck. He likes it down here. He gets to go fishing with Dad.
Mum’s always been ... quirky. But the car accident last year seemed to send her right into bizarro mode. They happen every day, don’t they—car crashes? But this was a hit-and-run, and Mum was the only witness. She was just on her evening walk. Mum wasn’t injured or anything, but she saw the whole thing, and she was the only person around to help the guy trapped in his car. She called the ambulance and the police and they arrived within a few minutes, but I overheard her telling Dad that it was like trying to help someone who’d stepped on a landmine.
She used to walk every night, before the accident, changing the route slightly each time; she loved looking at the different houses and their gardens. She stopped the walks afterwards, though. I think she was just too scared she might see something else.
I look down the beach from our upstairs verandah. The sun’s almost at the horizon. That’s twenty-two kilometres away, according to Mr Bell (Mr Balls, I heard one of the kids say today—I almost laughed). It’s melting, a big glob of gold ready to cool off in the ocean. I wonder for a moment about the metaphorical significance of it looking like gold. I shout bye to Mum and sprint towards it.
MULBERRY
She has a circle of small wooden beads around her neck and tiny mirrors embedded in her skirt. Some kids are trading tales from after-school soccer last night, but I’m just staring. She’s beautiful. Her face is brown and glowing and full of smiling skin. She has a wide silver bangle around her wrist and is about to start teaching us about advertising. She is Ms Carey, our English teacher.
I haven’t wanted to stick my hand up and be noticed in class yet. The less I get noticed here the better, I reckon. But right now, I’m popping out of my pants to get one of my ideas up on the brainstorming board. ‘Money,’ I say, and instantly regret it. But she writes it up, alongside ‘products’, ‘business’ and ‘marketing’.
‘Money’s the bottom line,’ I hear myself saying, interrupting the quiet girl at the back. She was saying ‘jingles’. Ms Carey’s eyes swing back my way.
My eyes widen. ‘Sorry,
I didn’t mean to interrupt.’
‘No, that’s all right, umm...’ She looks lost.
‘Alison.’
‘Queen,’ I hear someone else add.
‘Thank you.’ She waits for the cackling to stop.
Rather than shutting up, I seem to switch on to autopilot. (Shelly used to call it Loud Ally Mode, or LAM.) ‘It’s all about getting the viewer to spend their money on whatever product is being advertised,’ I say, as the class settles down.
Have You Seen Ally Queen? Page 1
