Have You Seen Ally Queen? (20 page)

‘And your wet-weather jacket, a good torch, a backpack, some thermals ... Have we got all that stuff? Mum normally looks after all these things...’ He drifts off, looking around, kind of lost.

‘I’ll find it. And the school’s organising the tents. I’ve got everything except proper boots.’

He looks around the floor as if there’ll be a pair lying around. ‘What about your Blundstones?’

‘My Blundies? They’re not proper hiking boots, are they?’

He shakes his head as if I’d forgotten the golden rule. ‘Ally, anywhere a pair of Blundies can’t go isn’t worth going.’

‘But all the other kids will have Colorados and stuff, proper lace-up hiking boots.’

He completely ignores me. ‘Do your Blundies ever give you blisters?’

‘No,
but—’

‘Your mum and I did a ten-day trek through the mountains in Patagonia, Ally, with Blundstones.

Everyone else had Gore-tex this, that and the other—all sorts of special gear—and at the end of the day we had no blisters,
and
a credit card that was still in the black.’

‘Dad! This isn’t the eighties anymore. No one goes hiking in—’

‘Believe me, Ally, I’m aware that this is not the eighties. That’s got nothing to do with it. This is Monday and you are going on this hike tomorrow! That’s one point we have to take into account here. The other is this—and your mum would say exactly the same thing—it’s about image and functionality.’

Image and functionality?
I know by his face that there’s no changing his mind. I guess I’m just relieved that it looks like I’ll be going. I’m gunna look a total dickhead in my Blundies, but what can you do? I just let it go, and mumble, ‘I’ll go downstairs, then, and sort out my gear.’

Dad looks up at me. He’s far away, probably off in South America somewhere. He and Mum are always reminiscing about that trip, especially the mountain trekking stuff.
Patagonia this, Patagonia that, blah, blah, blah.

‘Okay, Allycat, you can go. Remind me to write the cheque tonight.’ He adds, ‘I’m glad you’re going. It’ll be fun. The walk will be hard, but it’s often the hardest things that turn out to be the best.’ He nods, off in that other world again.

I nod, too. Sounds like something Mum would say.

At recess, Rel and I meet under the peppy trees.

As he walks over, he looks at me like he’s waiting for something big.

‘What?’ I manage innocently.

He widens his eyes. ‘Whaddya mean,
what?’

‘Well, what was that look for, with the eyebrows and everything?’

He looks away and shakes his head. ‘Nothing.’ And then looks back at me, trying not to grin.

Of course, I know what he’s wondering, but it’s pretty embarrassing and I’m not sure that it doesn’t make me feel slightly sick, all this boy stuff. Sick like nervous, you know?

‘I’m going.’

His face drops. ‘Oh. To Perth?’

‘On camp, actually.’

‘Unreal!’ he says, before catching himself and mumbling, ‘Cool.’ He looks across the oval, nodding, and, while we stand there, the leaves of the peppies brush the ground over and over like a broom clearing the way for something.

Just as the driver’s looking at his watch and getting ready to pull away from the Melros bus stop, Rel runs on to the bus. He’s red and sweaty, like he’s run all the way from home, which he probably has. I was getting nervous, and have to restrain the smile of relief as he gets on.

He comes and sits right beside me, and a wave of cooing sounds and theatrical sighs come up to us from the kids at the back. It doesn’t bother me as much as before.

‘Where’s your stuff?’ I ask.

‘Mum’s gunna drop it off at school later on.’

‘Yeah, me, too. I mean ... Dad is.’

I try to look cool, but I know it’s not a very good effort and I just end up feeling like a sack of spuds sitting next to this hot guy on the bus, like it should be someone else or something, like he’s gunna
find out
about me and it’ll be back to the same old on-her-own
Ally, with this really screwy family that everyone knows about, even though I haven’t actually talked to anyone about it.

After recess, Dad rolls up with all the other oldies, lugging my backpack like it’s full of sand. He’s really hamming it up, a genuine Hunchback of Notre Dame. It’s very,
very
embarrassing, and I have to pretend for a bit that he’s not anyone I know, let alone someone I’m related to.

I swap him my schoolbag and say, ‘Thanks, Dad.’

He grins stupidly. ‘See you on Saturday, then, right?’

I nod. ‘They said we should be back about two.’

‘Well, have a good time, Allycat.’

I roll my eyes. ‘Dad,
please.’

‘Sorry,’ he says, grinning. ‘Be careful. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. And wear your clothes to bed at night if you’re not warm enough in that sleeping-bag.
And don’t kiss any boys,’
he whispers loudly.

God!
‘Okay. I’m going now. I’ll see you Saturday, okay?’

‘Okeydoke.’

‘Tell McJerry I’ll see him then, too.’

‘Yep.’ He squeezes my arm, smiles right at me and then turns back towards the car.

There’s kids and people and bags everywhere and everyone’s moving and talking in the sun and being excited and I’m going away and Dad’s walking back to the car to go to the house on his own.

Well, there’ll be Jerry, but he doesn’t really count.

The wind gusts a few leaves down on us. I see one land in Dad’s hair.

Now I really wish Mum was home.

It’s when the bus door hisses shut that I realise who is coming on this camp.

Mr Taylor, for one. He’s driving. I see him looking at me in the rear-view mirror as I get on. God. I hope he’s not going to get all heavy on me.

The freaky chick with the red hair.

The new phys. ed. teacher, Mr Roberts, who looks like he just finished uni. (Apparently, Karen Mason’s after him, reckons she might join the girls soccer team so she can ... I dunno, be
near
him, or something.)

Ms Carey. Okay, I knew that.

My stomach churns. Was this was a mistake, me coming on this trip? Rel, Ms Carey
and
Mr Taylor in one very small enclosed moving space? As well as all the pus-heads! What was I thinking?

I do the only thing I can: find my iPod Mini and push my earphones in as far as they will go and turn Sarah Blasko on as loud as possible. Rel is sitting
further back, talking to some guys, and I’m next to Angie, who’s okay, but we’re not really mates, or anything. Anyway, she’s leaning across the aisle, talking to Sophie, who thinks she’s a real glamour-puss ‘cos she’s got uber-long hair and only wears clothes from Saba.

I actively avoid eye contact with Mr Taylor and concentrate on the Ms Carey factor. I haven’t spoken to her since
that
class. I’m in Mr Kent’s English class now.

Ms Carey smiled at me before. She probably thinks I’m a complete wuss for swapping classes. She’s got fisherman’s pants on, and a white Indian top. It looks unreal. I feel like a toad in my jeans and
Blundies.
Thanks, Dad.

I wonder about the tents—who am I gunna be sharing with? Apparently, it’s three to a tent, and most people have already sussed out who they’re sharing with. It’s not like I can share with Rel; I hardly think they’re gunna allow mixed tent-sharing. I look around and realise I actually don’t have any proper friends here. I mean, I
know
people, and they know me—in fact, yep, they know all about me—but there’s no one I hang out with, apart from Rel. No girls. So now I’m gunna look like even more of a freak.

Ben passes up a CD and Mr Taylor puts it in. It’s
Powderfinger, and obviously someone cranked up the volume on the bus CD player before we got going, because it fairly booms out. Ms Carey gives Ben a withering look as Mr Taylor fumbles with the knobs, trying to turn it down, but it’s Day One, so no one really minds. It’s actually pretty funny and there’s a fair bit of snorting coming from up the back.

I turn around to check it out and there’s Rel, grinning and looking pretty damn cute, I must say. His shell is hiding under his T-shirt, but I know it’s there and it makes me think of my bracelet, and for a minute my face flushes up with the thought, and the thought of that arvo on the beach, and the starfish and mulberries, and hanging out at his place the other night with the moon glowing down.

He looks at me and smiles. He reaches into his pocket and across the whole bus of kids he chucks a Killer Python over to me.

I catch it perfectly—one-handed, as if I’m just adjusting my headphones, or something.

There’s a sort of gap in the noise.

The world blurs past outside.

Let’s get this show on the road.

It’s freezing. I mean,
freezing—
for summer in WA, anyway. I’ve got my Polartec zipped up to my nose and I’m still cold. But it’s kind of alive-cold, if you know what I mean. ‘Cos I’m standing in the middle of nowhere, and ahead of me is this amazing blue line of mountains, about to go down with the night. The dusk lights it up like the ridge is on a stage, all soft blues and greys and surrounded by this super-crispy air that’s making my eyes water. The Stirling Ranges. I hadn’t realised how impressive they are. I mean, they’re
big.
They’re, like,
mountains.
And tomorrow we’re heading up there, with our backpacks and food and everything. Bloody hell. I’m nervous all of a sudden.

‘Righto, everyone, let’s get back to camp,’ says Mr Taylor. ‘We’ve got dinner; then I’ll brief you on tomorrow’s hike.’

He’ll
brief
us? I look at Rel. He’s trying not to laugh.

‘What’s the joke, Mr Anderson?’ Mr Taylor says.

‘Oh, nothing, Sir. Just...’

‘What?’

‘The thought of your brief—s.’

Even Mr Taylor has to laugh. Some kids slap their thighs and bend over with silent laughter.

We all head back towards the camping ground, across the scrub. It’s remarkably flat for miles around, given that there are mountains just nearby. Grass trees poke their spiky heads up everywhere, and there’s this sweeping sky that seems different from the sky anywhere else. Ultra-beautiful. Expansive.

Rel comes over and walks with me. ‘I didn’t know we had a comedian on tour with us,’

I say, grinning at my feet.

He laughs, then goes deadpan. ‘Neither did I. Who is it?’

Man.
This guy’s too much.

‘What’s for dinner, Mr Taylor?’ someone shouts out from the back.

‘Spag bol.’

‘Excellent!’

‘Spew!’

‘We need the carbohydrates,’ he says, turning around to look meaningfully at the Stirlings. ‘Don’t
forget what we’re doing tomorrow.’

‘No, how could we,’ someone moans.

‘Well, no one
has
to go, remember. It’s not compulsory,’ he says.

Yeah, but will we be hauled in for counselling if wedon’t?
I wanna say. Actually, he hasn’t been too bad so far. He’s much better when he’s not in that poxy office of his.

‘You going on the hike tomorrow?’ I ask Rel.

‘Does a bear shit in the woods?’

‘I hope not,’ I say, looking around nervously.

He laughs. It’s a great sound.

My pack’s got rocks in it, it must have. Or ten sacks of rice. What’s going on? It’s pulling down on my shoulders and I’m walking half bent over, trying to take the weight off my legs. People are groaning all around me. I’m sweating and my face is cut beetroot. My knees wobble, and as we go higher I’m having to stop every ten steps or so.