by Tiffiny Hall
I shrug my shoulders carefully, mindful not to rattle the bag I’m carrying that contains my precious putrid present. The money tree flashes behind my eyes. ‘Thinking about how to break into her room,’ I lie.
Street lamps awaken and shadows begin to burst across the pavement. We are able to shift in and out of them as cars pass so we are not noticed.
‘I can feel my heart in my throat,’ Tyler says.
‘I’ve never done anything like this either,’ I admit, then my heart is in my ears and I start to panic with what-ifs: what if we get caught, what if Stacey is in her room, what if we can’t even get into her house?
Then I notice Tyler staring at me as we walk. He has forgotten about swatting insects with his racket. ‘What is it?’ I ask.
I can’t tell for sure because of the rolling-in dark, but I think he blushes. Is he staring at my chubby cheeks?
‘You look really pretty with your hair out,’ he says.
I swish my hair over my shoulder. I don’t know what to say. I feel as panicked as I did thinking of being caught.
‘Not used to compliments, huh?’ he asks.
All I can do is summon a shake of my head.
‘Most girls roll their eyes when you say something nice cos they’ve heard it all before. But you didn’t.’
‘Most girls? You tell most girls they’re pretty?’ I ask.
Tyler laughs. ‘No,’ he says. ‘Pretty is a lot of things. And not many girls have all the right combinations.’
I laugh then, a free laugh, and knock his shoulder with mine. We walk a bit in silence. Mum would kill me if she knew I was roaming the streets at this hour with a boy. Good thing she’s at work, and Dad’s caught up in meetings. Fleur must still think we’re in my room. She’s probably basking under the money tree, making more lists of stuff she wants.
‘Is your house like a mega-mansion too?’
‘Not really,’ Tyler says.
‘I bet you have a room just for kids to hang out in,’ I say.
He shrugs. ‘Yeah, we have a rumpus room.’
‘Pool too?’ I ask.
‘And a sauna and spa.’
Without thinking, I say, ‘We don’t even have a bath.’ I expect him to joke, ‘That would explain the smell.’ But he doesn’t.
He looks at me with crystal-blue irises and very white whites, then smiles. ‘I prefer showers anyway. Something not right about sitting in your own dirty water.’ He clears his throat and asks, ‘So what’s the plan?’
‘I don’t know. You tell me? You know her house.’
Tyler thinks for a few steps. ‘Okay. So this is what I know. They have dinner downstairs in the dining room. Her bedroom is in another part of the house on the ground floor. She leaves her window open (her mum must be a fresh-air freak like my mum). We can cross over the front lawn, but we have to squeeze through the gates. We need to get in, dump the cockroaches in a drawer and get out fast.’
‘Sounds simple,’ I say confidently, although I’m thinking it’s anything but.
Tyler halts and points at the mansion in front of us, then brings his finger to his lips to silence us. We nod at each other. He counts to three on his fingers, then we charge down the street, diving onto our stomachs behind the hedge ringing Stacey’s yard. I watch as an upstairs light switches off, then a stairway light turns on, followed by a light downstairs.
‘Dinnertime,’ Tyler whispers.
My breath hitches when I see the gates. Tyler slips through easily: head, shoulders, hips then feet, almost like a single fluid break-dance move.
‘Are you coming?’ he asks, holding out a hand through the bars.
I pass him the bag of cockroaches. I breathe in. Tyler yanks me through the bars and I’m free.
We creep across the lawn like ninjas. The house is a dream home with two levels of bay windows and sweeping balconies, lit exquisitely like a museum. We head for the far right window at the side of the house. The room looks dark and — I hope — empty. My heart is pumping. Tyler wiggles through the window first. I hesitate. Luckily it’s wider than the bars on the gates and I make it inside with little trouble.
In Stacey’s room I can see the silhouette of a large island that must be her bed (queen-sized!), a couch in the corner (her own couch!), a dressing table, an en suite bathroom and a walk-in wardrobe. We sneak over to the walk-in wardrobe and Tyler’s phone lights it up. The cabinetry, carpet and ceiling are milkshake pink, so pink you feel you have to drink it in or drown in it. There is a wall of fuchsia shelving just for shoes. The shoes are ordered by colour and style, and some of them have duplicate pairs in different textures. Fleur would pass out! Handbag racks, hat boxes (who wears fancy hats at eleven?), a glass cabinet strung with necklaces as you’d see in a shop — it’s like we’ve walked into Stacey’s personal department store. Many of the clothes still have their price tags. Never even worn. Not a single hand-me-down in sight.
Footsteps sound outside the door. I gasp, grabbing Tyler’s shoulder, and look at him with my eyes bulging in fear. He smiles and in a leisurely way steps back, folding himself into a rack of jackets. I dive in after him with the egg cartons of cockroaches, just as the bedroom door swings open. Someone walks into the room. I try to push the cartons as far back into the closet as I can to reduce the sound of the roaches’ rustling. An arm’s-length distance definitely doesn’t lessen their smell; Tyler and I nearly gag. Tyler tries to breathe through the jackets, then I feel his nose near my neck.
‘Your hair smells like breakfast,’ he whispers, his voice soft and modulated through my curls.
‘You stink too,’ I whisper, then try to stop myself from giggling.
The person leaves the room. We linger amongst the jackets for a moment longer, then step out into the fresh air. Tyler lights up the wardrobe again with his phone. I smile to think that Stacey’s wardrobe is bigger than Fleur’s room.
‘Let’s start with the underwear drawer,’ I say.
‘Oh, you’re good,’ Tyler says.
We both race to a tower of drawers next to the shoe shrine and open every one until we find a drawer lined with purple felt cushioning filled with undies. I empty an egg carton into the drawer and a black cloud explodes. I hide the vile egg carton at the back of the wardrobe. Then I empty the second egg carton into the next drawer, which is full of matching socks. The cockroaches burrow deep into the balls of socks. I close the drawer quickly, locking in the Simons. Then I hide the second egg carton in one of Stacey’s expensive tote bags.
I turn to Tyler and smile. He switches off his phone. I blink away the blindness until I feel his hand grab mine and lead me towards the window. I scramble onto the ledge and as Tyler does the same, a soprano voice shouts, ‘Phil!’ I take off running. Tyler is behind me. I hear the front door of Stacey’s house slam open, but I don’t stop or turn around, not when a thundering voice booms, ‘STOP!’ and not even when a dog barks. We slide through the gates, sheer terror shrinking my stomach to squeeze between the bars, then dive over the hedge. I wanted to land in an artistic flip or something, but I spill onto the concrete road, breaking my fall on top of Tyler.
‘Run!’ Tyler yells and I follow him. He bounds up some steps and runs straight through the open front door of the neighbouring house. I stop dead.
‘Come on!’ he whispers urgently, waving me inside.
‘That’s practically breaking and entering!’ I whisper back.
‘What do you think we just did?’
‘Sneaking. And not through the front door.’
‘Trust me,’ he says.
The street feels like it has been woken up, so I hurry up the bluestone steps two at a time and follow him inside. Tyler leads me through a massive echoey entrance where two staircases snake towards a balcony connected to another level of rooms with big doors and gold handles. We move through a living room on carpet that, yep, feels like clouds, past furniture that looks French because all the legs are like a ballerina’s turned-out feet. Very ‘la-di-da’, as Mu
m would say. Mum said the lino in our old house came from France, but that’s as close as we’ve ever come to living with something European.
We arrive in a kitchen. Every drawer has a tiny white label: cutlery, fine cutlery, utensils, tea towels, real junk, junky junk. Tyler walks straight over to the fridge, opens its door (which has a TV in it) and takes a swig of milk from the carton.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ I scream in a whisper, darting my eyes around the room nervously. Then Tyler turns on the light and I nearly have a heart attack.
‘This is my house,’ he says.
‘You live here?’ I ask, looking over to the cabinet filled with expensive sparkling glassware. ‘Where are your folks?’
‘They’re at dinner with friends. My big bro’s upstairs. He’s eighteen. But unless you’re a game console, he doesn’t want to know ya.’ Tyler smiles. ‘How else did you think I knew so much about Stacey Shovelton? I’ve lived next door to her my entire life.’
We each take a stool at the enormous granite bench flecked with gold. I stare into its swirls, noticing that my cheeks are red and I’m sweating. I look pretty, glowing. Adventure suits me. Tyler serves me some delicious choc-chip cookies and we eat silently for a moment.
‘You think she found a Simon yet?’ I ask.
‘Hope so,’ he says, then grabs his mosquito racket and rocks out, playing air guitar on the kitchen floor. I burst out laughing. We laugh so hard we hose cookie crumbs out of our mouths. Tears fall as I struggle to stay upright on the swivel stool.
Laughter shines the money tree into my mind. It’s calling to me louder now, flickering. I wonder what Fleur is up to at home with the branches all to herself. I don’t know what makes me do it. Maybe it’s my first adventure, perhaps it’s hanging out with my first new friend who doesn’t have scales or a blue tongue, but I lean in towards Tyler’s ear and whisper, ‘Do you want to know a secret?’
Chapter 11
The luminous tree stretches out into the cellar’s shadows, broken up by blinks of colour so bright the eye sees them only as flashes. Tyler licks a fifty-dollar note and sticks it to his forehead. We’re lying under the money tree, sort of sunbaking in the weird glow as we watch the leaves of money vibrate. Every now and then the branches shake and money rains down on us.
‘This beats being at after-school debating. Can’t believe you kept me in suspense all weekend, then made me sit through a whole day of school before showing me this,’ Tyler says. ‘I didn’t believe you. Not in a million years.’
‘I had to think about telling you. Promise you won’t tell anybody. Not even your dog,’ I say.
‘Don’t have a dog.’
‘Well, don’t even tell the imaginary Labrador of your childhood dreams about the money tree. It has to be our secret and I only told you because I need your help.’
A note falls from a branch and floats down to touch my cheek. There is money sprawled across the floor. My rug upstairs is all bumpy and hardly contains the loot any more. Tyler spreads out his arms and legs and swishes his limbs in a flying motion.
‘Look! Money angel,’ he says. Then he stops suddenly and mutters, ‘Magic sap.’ He sits up. ‘What else would make the tree glitter like this? You said the leaves grow back as soon as you pluck them. Then I reckon it all started with magic sap. Someone found some and planted it here.’
I sit up and face him. ‘Maybe.’ I shrug.
‘Or perhaps someone found a magic lottery ticket and planted it,’ he says. ‘The deal is you don’t win the lottery, but the next day the money tree grows and you win the lottery every day for the rest of your life. Pretty cool!’
‘Doubt that happened.’
‘Well, how do you think it got here?’ Tyler turns to me.
I realise I’ve been so caught up in trying to hide the money tree that I’ve never thought about where it originally came from. I remember crying into the floorboards. I don’t tell Tyler about that, but maybe my tears watered the tree into life?
‘Well,’ he prods. ‘Do you think there could be other money trees in Hatbridge? Do you think that’s why everyone’s so loaded around here?’
There’s a kaleidoscope of possibilities. ‘Who knows?’ I say, but my heart stings. I want this to be the only magical tree in the world. Somehow it feels special that I was the one to discover it. This tree is all mine.
I stand up and begin raking the money into small piles with one of the two rakes I swiped from the shed. Tyler stands up to help me.
‘What have you bought so far?’ he asks.
‘A rug, stuff for school, snacks for Sibyl and Socrates,’ I say, raking a corner where money swims around my ankles.
Tyler squints one eye at me and sighs. ‘You don’t need my help to garden. You don’t know how to spend the money, do you?’
‘You say that like it’s a real thing, a real thing to be good at — spending money.’
‘Well, it can be pretty fun. Think about it. At the moment you’re spending money as if it will run out … when it won’t. This money will go on forever. So what do you really want?’
No one has ever asked me that question before — I’ve not even asked it of myself. I take a break for a moment. Sweeping up money is hard work. I push the hair off my face and tuck it behind my ears. But not as hard work as actually earning money, I remind myself.
‘Like in the Faraway Tree series,’ Tyler prompts. ‘Read it?’
‘Of course I’ve read it,’ I say.
‘Remember when they go to the Land of Take-What-You-Want. What would you take? A rocket to fly you to the moon, a pet elephant, a never-ending tower of donuts, a rock band to play your favourite songs, your own TV, a big room like Stacey’s?’
‘Well, I’ve been crunching numbers,’ I say.
‘What sort of numbers?’ asks Tyler.
‘Big ones,’ I say. ‘Ones with commas and zeros in them. And I could afford anything I want.’
Tyler stops sweeping and shakes his head. ‘What could we buy with so many dollars?’
‘Anything we want!’ I squeal, scooping up my pile of money and throwing it into the air. Funny that I have no idea what I want. I now own a few new things that make me feel less embarrassed and like I fit in at school, but beyond that, as long as I can feed my lizard family and help Mum and Dad, I don’t really want anything more. Shopping isn’t my thing and I loathe clutter, so the money itself is kind of wasted on me. Guess I’m more seduced by the chance to keep a secret and guard the treasure than spend big bucks.
Tyler shovels up his money and throws it like confetti. I chase him around the money tree, laughing so hard I nearly fart, then Tyler actually farts and we fall over screaming with laughter. We bump the tree and money drifts down around us as slow as snowflakes. It all seems too good to be true … until I think of the lie I told Mum about the new rug and my lie ruins the moment. I don’t lie to my parents. Mum and Dad always say ‘honesty is the best policy’. I should be telling them about the money tree and how it feels wrong deep down. There it is again — another ‘should’.
‘Are you kidding me?’ Fleur stands at the edge of the money tree’s reach. We didn’t hear her come down over our laughter. She is holding handfuls of shopping bags. Bet she’s thrilled we live close to the mall now. At first, it seemed like torture because it was full of stuff we could never have; now it really is the Land of Take-What-You-Want. Her lips grip her teeth.
‘I-I-I …’ I stutter, staggering to my feet.
Tyler does the same, then picks up his rake and leans against it, weak from all the laughing.
‘It’s a rule! We tell no one. And you brought him here! Acting like a money mop-up crew. What were you thinking?’ she says, her voice raised to a mild bark — loud for her.
‘What did you buy?’ I retort, staring at all the bags.
‘None of your beeswax,’ she says and plonks some of the bags down on the floor.
‘We were meant to tell each other what we buy, to keep track,’ I say.
‘And we were meant to keep the tree top secret, so I guess all rules are out the window now.’
‘You’re just buying stuff to try to be cool whilst I’m thinking about how I can help Mum and Dad. You’re being totally selfish.’
‘Selfish!’ Fleur squeaks. ‘You’re the one who wanted to keep the money all to herself. You’re the greedy one! You only told me because your eleven-year-old brain chickened out and needed permission from someone older and wiser to spend some serious money. You haven’t got the guts to spend it. Always trying to do the right thing. You’re too scared.’
‘I’m not scared,’ I say and walk over and shove her in the shoulder.
‘Are too. Look! You’d rather be down here tidying up the place than up there spending cash. You just think the tree is pretty. You’re too chicken to use it.’ She shoves me back.
Tyler steps between us, holding up his hands. ‘Truce, girls, truce,’ he says. Fleur and I ignore him and stand our ground.
‘If I’m so chicken, then why have I come up with a plan to buy something so big Mum and Dad will die of happiness?’ I say.
Fleur walks over to a wine rack she has converted into a beauty counter with lined-up perfumes, nail polishes and expensive makeup she has collected over the past few days. She reaches into one of the bags still hooked on her wrist, takes out another bottle of French perfume and places it next to the others.
‘How many of those do you need?’ I ask.
‘Infinity. Smells like farts down here. Anyway,’ she gestures to the tree, ‘in case you haven’t noticed, there are no limits on anything any more.’ Fleur studies her flawless reflection in the small mirror leaning against the wall on the shelf. She sighs, then turns around with her eyes closed. She opens them slowly, glares at Tyler and says to him, ‘No offence —’
‘Already taken,’ he interrupts.
‘You have a weird vibe, probably why you never made VIP at school,’ she continues. ‘I don’t trust you. If you tell a single soul, I’ll take that racket thingy you carry around and stick your nose in it. Understood?’
