Going Bush

by Martin Chatterton

  “HI, HONEY. Was work okay?” Mom asked when I came home. “Oh, I almost forgot—you’ve got a letter.”

  She was standing with her back to me, making pancakes, which filled the kitchen with the smell of, well, pancakes. Normally, I’d have snaffled as many of them as I could, but dealing with all those goopy plates kind of affects the appetite, if you know what I mean. I’d eat something later when I’d managed to forget all about The Sink At Swifty’s Diner.

  I planned to sneak my pancakes to Junior, who was sitting on my feet with his head on my knee. That dog always knows exactly where to sit.

  Grandma Dotty was watching TV in the living room. She does a lot of that these days and sometimes talks to us about her favourite soap actors like they’re real people. I’ve tried pointing this out, but now I just nod and agree with whatever she says.

  There was no sign of Georgia. She was probably up in her room, arranging the world’s biggest collection of stuffed animals. Georgia’s got a lot of stuffed animals. Sometimes I think she’ll go into her room and we’ll just lose her in the crowd.

  On the kitchen table was an envelope. It was propped up very suspiciously against a pot plant. I looked at it like it might explode. The envelope, I mean—not the pot plant.

  * * *

  Rafe Life Lesson #22: Envelopes propped up on the kitchen table should be approached with EXTREME CAUTION.

  * * *

  Suddenly, Mom having her back to me took on a new meaning.

  Did she already know what was in the envelope? Were the pancakes to soften the blow of bad news? I wondered if Principal Stricker or her evil minion, Vice Principal Stonecase, had secretly signed me up for some fiendish punishment: deep-seam coalmining in Alaska, or cleaning the inside of a Ukrainian radioactive fuel dump using only my tongue.

  I picked up the envelope.

  It was nice, heavy paper—expensive. It looked official. It had some kind of stamp on it.

  Mom turned around and waved the spatula at the envelope. “Are you going to open that or just stare at it?” she asked.

  “No, I figured I’d stare at it some more,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Can’t I stare at things now? Jeez.”

  Even when I’m saying sarcastic stuff like that it feels as if someone else is saying it. I know Mom doesn’t mean any harm. She’s not bad, but a teenager’s gotta do what a teenager’s gotta do. Sarcasm goes with the territory. Hormones, remember?

  I waited for Mom to turn back to the pancakes and then opened the envelope. A smile spread slowly across my face.

  Another chapter in The Adventures of Rafe Khatchadorian was about to begin.

  DEAR MR. KHATCHADORIAN,

  Every four years the Institute for the Advancement of Writers and Contemporary American Artists in Washington (IAWCAAW) is asked to recommend a promising young artist to take part in an international educational arts program with other promising young artists from around the world. This year that arts program will begin on May 4 and takes the form of an all-expenses paid, two-week-long “Cultural Campout” situated in the Northern Territory of Australia. Your name was suggested to us for consideration by noted Australian art critic Mr. Frost DeAndrews. Therefore, we would like to invite you to take part as the American Young Artist. The other Young Artists who have accepted are listed overleaf. If you decide to accept our offer, please reply to …

  I flipped the page and ran my eyes down the list of names on the back. One of them leapt out in red neon letters ten feet tall, and just like that, a crummy day that had become a pretty good day suddenly got a whole lot better.

  REMEMBER A FEW chapters back when I mentioned my Australian friend Ellie? Okay, if you haven’t read Rafe’s Aussie Adventure, you won’t know that Ellie Watts is just about the coolest person I’ve ever met.

  Ellie is awesome. She is smart, creative, and makes MOVIES! She also once saved me from a nude surfing disaster (long story).

  Spoiler alert!

  Even though things hadn’t exactly worked out how we’d planned (because I’d ended up being chased out of Australia by a mob of angry zombies), it wasn’t Ellie’s fault. Or Australia’s.

  For a whole twenty-six seconds, I forgot all about Jeanne Galletta. I was going to see Ellie again.

  I PLAYED IT COOL.

  “WOOOOOOOOOOOOHOOOOOOO!!!!!” I screamed, leaping to my feet.

  “What on earth …?” Mom dropped the jug of pancake mix on the floor. I looked over and saw her face turning a dangerous shade of red.

  But I didn’t care. I punched the air and spun in a circle. “Khatchadorian shoots! He scores!” I shouted. “Goodbye, disgusting dishpig reality. Hello, awesome Australia!”

  “Australia?” Mom said.

  I held out the letter and danced around the room. “Uh-huh, uh-huh!”

  “You look stupid,” Georgia said from the doorway.

  I didn’t reply. Instead, I did what any normal teenage brother would do. I waggled my butt from side to side at her. Then I did that dance step thing where you push out your arms and sort of run on the spot while singing a sentence over and over again. In my case that was: “I’m going to Australia, I’m going to Australia.”

  “Keep the noise down in there!” Grandma Dotty yelled. “They’re about to find out who the killer is!”

  “The guy with the beard!” I yelled back. “It’s always the guy with the beard!”

  Mom stepped over Junior and sat down at the kitchen table. “What about your schoolwork?” she said. “And Australia’s dangerous, Rafe, remember? You can’t just take off like that. I’m not sure you can go.”

  “Ha-ha,” Georgia said.

  I stopped dancing. Life had suddenly gotten all sucky again and this time hormones had nothing to do with it. My reunion with Ellie and Australia had run headfirst into The Great Wall of Mom.

  WHAT DID SHE mean, I can’t just take off like that?

  OF COURSE I can just take off like that!

  I’m Rafe Khatchadorian, Young Artist! I’d been specially invited! By an Institute! I was going to see Ellie! This wasn’t fair! Mom wasn’t fair! Life wasn’t fair!

  “You are just so—” I began, ready to tell Mom exactly how unfair she was being, when something really weird happened: I did something smart.

  It was like there was a voice in my head telling me to not do the thing I was just about to do—that is, throw a complete full-on teenage tanty, stomp off to my room, and sulk for a couple of days.

  That won’t get you what you want, said the voice. Be smart.

  The voice sounded like it knew what it was doing, like it was all wise and experienced and stuff. I wondered what it was doing in my head. Not only that, the voice had remembered the drawings I’d done. I couldn’t believe my luck—if I knew anything about Mom, that sketchbook would be the clincher. I just had to pick the right moment.

  “Just so what?” Mom said, her eyes narrowing.

  “Just so right,” I said.

  “I am?” Mom said in shock. “Yes, I am! You can’t just take time off. It’s not good having too much time off school.”

  I nodded, making sure my face was set to SINCERE and laid the groundwork.

  “What if I checked with Ms. Donatello?” I suggested. “The letter does say it’s an educational program. I mean, she might agree with you, but there’s always a chance she’ll see if Mrs. Stricker will give me time off.” I looked at the letter again. “I think half that time could be during school vacation, anyway. Plus, there’ll be people looking after us, and Australia wasn’t that dangerous.”

  Then I played my ace.

  “Wait here,” I said. “I’m going to show you something.”

  LEAVING MOM IN mid-think, I sprinted to my room and grabbed my big sketchbook. I clattered downstairs and stood next to her so she could see.

  “I’ve been doing some drawings,” I said, flicking through the pages until I found what I was looking for. “There,” I said, pointing.

  “Wow,” Mom said, taking the sketchboo
k from me. “These are great, Rafe!”

  Mom’s always loved my art, but for the first time I knew that she wasn’t just saying it because I was her kid. She was saying it because what I was doing was good. I could feel the difference.

  I know I come off all ironic about stuff, but when it comes to art I am actually dead serious. I don’t want to sound all touchy-feely about it but this was what I was going to do for the rest of my life in one way or another. I wanted to make art. This wasn’t just a hobby anymore. I wanted to go to Australia for more than a free trip and to see Ellie. I wanted to go back and see some traditional Indigenous Australian art for myself.

  “Thanks,” I said. “So …?”

  Mom sucked in her cheeks. “I suppose there’s no harm in asking …”

  “Hey!” Georgia said. “That’s not fair!”

  I patted her on the head. She hates it when I do that, which is why I do it whenever I get the chance. “Fair’s a hair color, li’l sis,” I whispered, making sure Mom didn’t hear. “You’ll find out.”

  “It was the guy with the beard!” Grandma Dotty shouted from the living room.

  I nodded. It was always the guy with the beard.

  I was so wise.

  THAT MILITARY-LOOKING dude controlling my brain had been right to get me to quit bellyaching and try being smart.

  I showed Ms. Donatello the letter and she just about freaked—in a good way. She even gave me a hug (which I’m pretty sure is punishable by death in some states) and rushed off to do battle with the Fire-Breathing Dragon Lady who runs our school, aka Mrs. Stricker.

  That was the moment when things sort of hung in the balance.

  To say Mrs. Stricker doesn’t like me would be akin to saying dogs don’t like cats. Stricker flat out hates me. It would be a little bit of a miracle if Ms. Donatello came out of that office alive, let alone with permission for me to go back Down Under.

  I hung around outside Stricker’s lair for a year or two, chewing on my nails like they were prime BBQ ribs. Just when I started looking around for someone else’s nails to chew, the door to the office opened and Ms. Donatello staggered out.

  Whatever it was she had done inside there had worked. Principal Stricker had agreed to let me have the time off.

  THIS TIME I hugged Ms. Donatello.

  “There are a couple of conditions, Rafe. Mrs. Stricker was very firm about this,” Ms. Donatello said. “First, you have to write a detailed report about the whole thing when you get back.”

  I nodded. No problem. And define “detailed”.

  “You have to make sure you don’t do anything dangerous,” she added.

  I nodded again. I had no plans to do anything dangerous. Doing things that are dangerous is dangerous.

  “And you have to …”

  I admit I kind of tuned out at that point. I mean, I really like Ms. Donatello and all, and I was incredibly grateful she’d gone into battle for me against the Dragon Lady, but I was so happy that I was getting to visit Australia again that I would’ve agreed to a head transplant without anaesthetic if that had been one of Mrs. Stricker’s conditions.

  Ms. Donatello eventually stopped listing all the stuff I was supposed to do or not do and I blam-med out of there and headed home.

  To be honest, I can’t be bothered telling you all about getting from Hills Village to the Cultural Campout, so I’ll make it easy and speed things up:

  1. I packed furiously and looked for my stuff.

  2. Had a Grade-Three Meltdown because I couldn’t find my ABSOLUTE FAVORITE T-shirt.

  3. Found my ABSOLUTE FAVORITE T-shirt exactly where it should be, neatly folded on top of a stack of other T-shirts.

  4. Slept through my alarm.

  5. Grandma Dotty got a speeding ticket.

  6. Embarrassed (but secretly pleased) by Mom and Georgia giving me a very public hug at the departure gate.

  7. Plane took off.

  8. Plane landed.

  9. Boarded another, smaller plane.

  10. Boarded an even smaller plane …

  THE LAST PLANE was so small it had a propeller instead of a proper grown-up jet engine.

  I was also close enough to hear the pilot without him needing a microphone. I was so close I was practically sitting on his lap. The badge on his sweat-stained shirt told me his name was Johnno. Johnno hadn’t shaved since he was in diapers and looked like he cut his own hair with a butter knife.

  There were only three passengers aboard. Me, a Scottish kid called Glen Coe, who was another Young Artist heading for the Cultural Campout, and a Fijian lady named Barbara, who sat right at the back of the plane and never once opened her eyes during the three-hour flight from Darwin. I only knew her name was Barbara because Johnno had asked everyone before we took off.

  “If anything goes wrong, I don’t like to hit the deck without knowin’ every other drongo who’s crashin’ with me!” Johnno had joked. At least I think he’d been joking.

  I didn’t laugh.

  There was one thing I’d forgotten about back in Hills Village—one small problem that I’d overlooked in all the excitement about coming here again. One thing that should come with a safety warning attached:

  Australians.

  OKAY, BECAUSE I know there might be one or two Australians reading this, I’m going to choose my words very carefully.

  Australians are nuts. There’s no getting around it. Capital N. Capital U. Capital T. Capital S.

  NUTS.

  Exhibit A: Captain Johnno. I reckon the only place on the planet that would allow a guy like Johnno behind the controls of a passenger plane would be Australia.

  “Cop an eyeful of that, mate!” Captain Johnno yelled. “Bigbottom Creek—ya bewdy!”

  He jabbed an oil-stained finger down at what looked like a bunch of dusty cardboard boxes scattered across a gigantic bowl of red dirt.

  Glen pointed at something on the ground. “Whut a crawkie!” he said.

  I looked at him blankly.

  “Crawk. Oar. Deel.” He pronounced every word very carefully as though he was talking to a deaf person.

  “Ohhh, crocodile,” I said.

  Glen shook his head and looked at me sadly. It was a look other people have given me before. Lots of times.

  Glen was right—there was a crocodile in Bigbottom Creek and it was HUGE.

  I knew Australia was stuffed to overflowing with eleventy billion terrifying creatures but, even from the air, this thing looked like it dwarfed the truck parked right next to it.

  “The Big Croc,” Johnno said proudly. “Best Big Croc in Australia, mate. I heard they got one over in Tamalamadingdong but it ain’t a patch on Old Bluey!”

  “Old Bluey?” I screeched over the engine noise.

  Johnno picked up a large spanner and hit the cockpit controls with one end. The engine gave one giant, wheezy burp and the propeller stopped turning. “Uh-oh,” he muttered.

  “Uh-oh?” I repeated.

  Take it from me, “uh-oh” is not something you ever want to hear your pilot say, especially when the plane’s nose is tilted ninety degrees and pointing directly at the ground. We started dropping toward Bigbottom Creek at about a trillion miles an hour.

  Johnno smacked the control panel again and the propeller began turning. Coincidentally, I also began breathing again. With the engine running, Johnno started bringing us in for landing.

  There was only one problem as far as I could see.

  “Um, Johnno?” I squeaked. “Where’s the runway?”

  Johnno laughed. “Runway? There’s no runway at Bigbottom, son!” He jutted his bristly chin at one of the dirt tracks. “We use the road, mate, like every other muppet. I’ve just got to make sure we get down quick enough so we don’t get marmalized!”

  He pointed at a dust cloud spewing out from behind the wheels of a ginormous truck barrelling toward Bigbottom Creek on a direct collision course with our plane.

  “Come on, you clanking old bucket of rust!” Johnno yelled, his
crazy Australian eyes bulging. “WOOOOOOOOHOOOOO! It’s gonna be close!”

  Glen screamed and Barbara dropped dead.

  I closed my eyes and waited for The End.

  JOHNNO WAS WRONG.

  It wasn’t close.

  It was SUPER-CLOSE. Like, really, really, really, really close.

  A microsecond before the propeller began digging a hole in the dirt, Johnno braced his feet against the cockpit dashboard and hauled back on the joystick with everything he had.

  The plane, with its engine screaming and every rusty rivet straining, straightened up and touched down—right in front of the giant truck. Johnno swung the plane off the road, and the truck driver blared his horn as he swept past in a plume of red dirt and anger. Johnno wiped the sweat off his brow and looked up to the sky.

  “Thanks, big man,” he said, and switched off the crummy engines. As they clattered to silence, Johnno turned to us. “Your bags can be collected from carousel three, just as soon as our ground staff have completed their work.”

  Glen, Barbara, and I clambered out of the plane and staggered to the terminal—a small tin shed that looked more like a bus stop. Behind us, Johnno slung our bags into a pile on the dirt.

  “Carousel three right here!” he shouted. “You blokes enjoy Bigbottom Creek!” Johnno gave us a thumbs-up, then turned and sprinted to a large wooden building with a sign that said BIGBOTTOM CREEK HOTEL. Barbara grabbed her bags and stumbled into a waiting pickup truck without a word. As the dust settled, Glen and I looked at each other like two soldiers at the end of a battle. Glen said something in Scottish.