Max (17 page)

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 the 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 wall of staff photos
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 from her.

"Relax, Mum, I'm in."

"Yeah. Relax, Jen, she's in. And what
school wouldn't want someone with her grades?" Dad slunk 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 inconspicuous 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 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 grand archway, while Destiny's Childs 'Independent Women'
played softly in the background, perhaps with a wind machine 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 couldn't help but peer 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 grand 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 toward the yard at a group of Year Eights
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 gritted in
embarrassment.

Mr Fitzgibbons sat back in his seat, 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 math 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
anymore. 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 were a nightmare.

"That's her," said my dad
cheerfully, clearly oblivious that this sudden revelation 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
couldn't help but laugh thinking that Mr Fitzgibbons' day was about to get a
whole lot worse.

Chapter Two

Did 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.

The Best Western was not situated in the
most prestigious of locations; a fence line of skip bins sat right outside our
motel room, and there was an angry dog barking constantly in one of the
suburban backyards we so charmingly overlooked. Still, it was the budget-savvy
thing to do, even if there were probably chalked outlines of bodies on the
pavement around the corner and yellow police tape cordoning off a part of the
neighbourhood.

I watched on as Mum pumped hand sanitiser
liberally in her palm for the hundredth time that day, and it didn't escape my
attention that Dad would click the central locking on our doors every time we
hopped in the car.

I knew Mum and Dad were massively out of
their comfort zone, and I had to admit this wasn't exactly what I had
envisioned as Dad cruised past the fibro-sheeted houses and another laneway,
thick with coloured graffiti. It was gritty and lively, for sure, but seeing
piled-up mattresses and TV sets on the nature strips for hard rubbish
collection day – oh God, at least I hoped that's what it was for – didn't
exactly scream Paradise. I quickly wiped the thought from my mind. This wasn't
Paradise City, this wasn't the hub of my dreams, this was merely a suburb of
the city itself: an unfortunate introduction because my parents were always
conscious of the purse strings.

I stretched forward from the back seat.
"Tell me again, why aren't we staying at Aunty Karen and Uncle
Peter's?"

"There's just not enough room for us
all to stay there," insisted Mum, massaging the disinfectant into the back
of her hands.

It was so great to finally be here, and to
actually step foot in what was to be my school, but I was saving most of my
excitement for seeing my cousin Amanda again. She was only a few months older
than me, but I always had this kind of worshipping thing about Amanda. Before
they moved to Paradise City, they only lived a three-hour drive from Red Hill
in Sunnyvale, where we used to share birthdays and Christmas holidays. We would
play Barbies, bruise our ribs sliding along the slip 'n' slide in our backyard,
become death defying stuntmen by tipping our trampoline on its side before
charging from across the yard, latching onto it and pushing it over to slam to
the ground again. We used to host our own radio station by recording our voices
on cassette tapes, or freak each other out by telling ghost stories with
torches pressed up against our chins under the blankets. Amanda was the sister
I never had. When her family moved away, it was like they had taken a piece of
my childhood with them, and Red Hill suddenly became unbearable with no option
of an escape. Aside from that first postcard she had sent and a few phone
calls, Amanda slowly drifted away from me. She was busy with her new friends in
her new life, and why wouldn't she be? I mean, they lived in Paradise,
literally. I would often comment on her Myspace page, a window into her amazing
existence of linked arms around friends and pouty pictures at the beach with
heart-shaped glasses on. Long gone were the Barbie dolls and afternoons spent
swooning over pictures of Jonathan Taylor Thomas. Amanda had moved on. Whereas
I was just the same old Lexie. Until now.

"So, how much longer?" My insides
twisted with giddy excitement.

"Are you so eager to be rid of
us?" My mum looked at me pointedly in the rearview mirror.

"Of course not," I lied.
"But I start school on Monday and I need to get my bearings."

As in, I needed to grill Amanda about who's
who and the dos and don'ts of real high school society. Having her as my wing
woman would be an invaluable asset if I was going to fit in and furthermore
convince my parents that I could live out my final high school year here.

"You'll have plenty of time," Mum
said.

"Time for what?" asked Dad, as
usual, coming in on the end of a conversation, while he adjusted the cricket on
the radio.

"Lexie's worried her life is flashing
before her eyes."

"Every day is a wasted day," I
groaned, flinging myself back into my seat.

"Don't wish your life away,
Lexie."

I mimicked Dad's favourite saying. "
Pfft,
what life?
"

"Well, I wouldn't say today was a
waste; you got to look around the school at least," said Mum.

I cringed at the memory.

My dad winking and jovially saying g'day to
each student he passed in the corridor. More often than not, people would
snigger with their friends or look back at him as if he was some mutant, or
more accurately, some kind of country bumpkin. He might as well have been
wearing a cowboy hat, chewing on a piece of straw. Disguising my mortification
as starvation I cut the walk around short, insisting that we please go … now!

Orientation: disaster.

I much preferred my chances with Amanda. I
mean, I had to remain the mysterious new girl. I wanted my entrance to be, like
my dad would say, bigger than Ben Hur. I sat in the back seat dreaming of smoke
machine entrances, whispers and stares from hot surfer boys.

"So, is Aunty Karen going to be home
by the time we get there?" I asked.

"Ah, yes, she took the day off for
us."

"Bloody hell, we'll never hear the end
of that," Dad said, rolling his eyes.

The fact that Mum and Dad had pulled the
"we need our own space" card when checking into our motel was not
lost on me. And the fact they thought I was immune to their grown-up politics
was, well, insulting. I'd innocently earwigged on enough conversations between
Mum and Dad to know that there was a definite divide between Mum and her
younger sister.

Nothing more telling than Mum's admission.
"They're just trying to keep up with the Joneses."

"Joneses? They think they are the
bloody Joneses," said Dad, laughing.

The differences were pretty clear.

Mum married a country boy.

Aunty Karen married a city boy.

Mum was asset rich but cash poor.

Aunty Karen was just rich.

Mum drove a Patrol.

Aunty Karen drove a Volvo.

Mum's fingernails were chipped, broken from
helping Dad on the farm.

Aunty Karen's French-tipped nails dialled
for a cleaner to clean her two-storey house.

Worlds apart and none of it had seemed so
obvious until their big move to the coast.

"Doesn't Aunty Karen have some big
high-flying government job?" I asked with interest, causing Dad to nearly
spit out his drink over the steering wheel as he looked at Mum.

"Where did you hear that?" Mum's
brows creased.

"I heard Nan telling Mrs Muir at the
supermarket."

"Oh, bloody hell." Dad shook his
head.

"Rick!" Mum warned.

"No, Jen. If Lexie is going to be
immersed in this world she needs to know the truth. Aunty Karen works at the
local shire as a glorified receptionist answering phones and paying rates. She
lives purely on credit that her long-suffering husband has to work seven days a
week to pay for."

Whoa, go Dad!

All this I had kind of gathered, but still,
Dad always liked to tell it like it was, while Mum chose to live in the
'ignorance is bliss' category.

I was somewhere in between, myself.

Mum sighed, clenching the bridge of her
nose as if warding off a migraine. "I'm not doing this now, Rick,"
Mum warned.

And when Dad didn't let it go, I took it as
a sign to dig out my ear plugs, wedging one in each ear and pressing play,
spinning my Triple J's Hottest 100 CD to life, circa 1995. It was a wonder it
still played at all considering the amount of times I had listened to it over
and over again. The chilling waves of Natalie Merchant's 'Carnival' washed over
me, just as the flashes of light from the setting sun over the city blinded me
in patches through the buildings. Graffiti-clad fences morphed into bustling
streets of Chinese takeaway and two dollar shops, divided up with traffic
lights on every block. The animated gestures of my parents as they continued to
argue seemed to play out in slow motion compared to the fast moving surrounds
at peak hour. I pressed my temple against the window, gazing up at some palm
trees, a long stretch of them dotted along a concrete jungle. Were we getting
nearer to the ocean, I wondered? If we turned a corner would it suddenly be
there on the horizon? With no real idea where we were headed or how far away we
were, the city scene soon blended into a long stretch of industrial building
sites. Long gone were the mystical, towering palm trees, and hello, Bunnings
and Mustafa's Kebabs. The car interior smelt like Colonel Sanders and his
secret herbs and spices, which were probably cementing their stench into my
hair and clothes. I sniffed the fabric of my top. Impossible to tell. I wasn't
sure why a part of me was suddenly so nervous. This was family and we were
coming over for dinner, just like we had when I was little. But I was always
amazed how quickly things changed, how people got older and time moved on,
almost as fast as the ever-changing neighbourhoods we drove through. I
straightened with interest, noting the very obvious differences and feel of the
area we were heading into.

Money.

Single fibro commission shacks were
exchanged for actual bricks and mortar – some with their own strategically
placed palm trees. A good test of wealth, it seemed, was whether you had an
impressive concreted driveway and a remote-controlled garage door. We had
definitely entered into that territory. A far cry from Red Hill, where fortune
was dependent on how many acres you had or how large your rented TV was. This
was more like the Paradise I had envisioned: kids playing cricket on the
street; a group of women power walking in their three-quarter lycra pants and
sunvisor caps; a man hand-mowing his minuscule front yard with earmuffs on.

My heart almost leapt out of my chest when
I spotted a surfboard mounted on the wall of an opened garage. We had to be
close, we just had to be, and as I quickly wound down the window and raised my
face up to the sky, the first thing that hit me was the glorious smell of the
ocean. Ocean and sunshine, thick in the air that whipped the wisps of hair into
my eyes.

Dad turned in to a long sweeping road to
the right and just as I was about to announce the assault on my senses to my
parents, there it was. There in the distance, as we drove along the winding
road, was a deep blue mass of water, cresting up to meet the sand. Just as
quickly as it was there it was gone again, as Dad made another sharp right,
powering up a ridge of bitumen into another street. I spun around in my seat,
grinning like a fool at what was slowly disappearing behind me. Now this was
Paradise.