Something More (Girlfriend Fiction 11) (3 page)

He'll be one of the first kids in our year to get a licence. How much protection is that little bit of plastic going to give the public when Jack pulls a Ferris Face at a Wrong Way Go Back sign and his rust bucket gets up close and personal with someone's internal organs?

‘And when exactly are you going to get your L-plates?' Dad asked sharply, reversing the car out onto the driveway.

‘Give me a break, Dad. I'm not seventeen yet.'

The smile on his face was dazzling. It was great that he was taking it so well.

‘Isla, I've got some terrific news for you. I've already picked up all the paperwork for your licence application. In Australia, you can learn to drive at sixteen! I can't believe we didn't realise it before now. Didn't you notice any of your classmates already learning? Terry did.'

I was stunned.

He didn't wait for an answer. ‘Better yet, she wants to take lessons with you.'

Lasso my panicking eyeballs.

Terry knew I was terrified of learning to drive, and I'd specifically asked her to keep her mouth shut. What a brat.

Dad got out of the car before I could respond. ‘Right, pass me those boxes,' he commanded.

I trudged off, kicking myself that I hadn't just gone to the Bank of Mum, and fumed over Terry's betrayal as I worked.

The music from Sad Old Fart
FM
,
blaring from the car radio, was just getting on my nerves when Dad approached, wiggling his fingers and shaking his head from side to side. ‘I love the Beatles. Come on, pet, I wanna hold your hand.'

I rolled my eyes, but my feet followed his lead and we glided around the driveway. His fingertips were feather-light on the small of my back, but they had magical powers: when they guided me I was sure-footed and graceful. He made me feel like a princess.

When the song finished – much too soon – he smiled. ‘Life doesn't get any better than dancing with daughter number one on a Sunday afternoon.' He planted a big sloppy kiss on my forehead.

‘You need a shave,' I said, hugging him. ‘And you're a terrible dancer.'

‘That's not true,' he protested, finally letting me go. ‘Your mam and I were brilliant in our day. I remember…'

I didn't hang around. I'd already wasted huge chunks of my life listening to what Dad remembered. I collected the last box and was about to hoist it in the air when I fumbled and dropped it. A few things tumbled out.

‘Hurry up, Isla.' Dad was starting the car. ‘Just shove it in and I'll be off.'

I gathered up the escaped items and crammed them back into the box. That's when I saw it.

Mitsy was heading to the Salvos.

I smiled as Dad drove away. Sucked in, Terry!

‘The road to success is a bumpy
one, Isla, especially if your
father is driving.'

(Gran McGonnigle)

On Monday morning Terry was in so much of a hurry to leave she missed Dad's offer of a lift.

Usually we catch the train to our school, which is forty minutes north, near Uncle Colin's place in Sydney. We started there when we first moved to Australia, and when we finally settled in Coledale three months later to be near Wollongong for Mum's new job, neither of us wanted to change schools again.

Coledale is lovely. Behind the house there's a wall of mountains called the Escarpment. It reminds me of home.

Terry and Dad don't seem to think about Scotland much. Mum gets a bit teary now and then when one of her relatives calls, though. Perhaps, like me, it's not just the people that she longs for; maybe it's the places and smells, too.

I miss the long summer twilights: that in-between time before the day dies, when magic can still happen. I had my first kiss at dusk…with Brian.

‘Come on, stop dreaming,' Dad said, waving the car keys at me. For a horrible moment I thought he was going to ask me to get behind the wheel, but he didn't.

Soon we were zipping across the new sea bridge at Clifton, winding our way along the coastline. I tuned in to Dad's rabbiting for a few seconds on the off chance that he was saying something interesting.

‘… a wee banger's all you'll need. You and Terry can share it.'

Change of subject needed, immediately.

‘Do you use this car at work, Dad?'

‘No, they've got pool cars. I'd be too conspicuous driving around in the same vehicle every day.'

We veered close to the hard shoulder of the road and my body jolted as Dad over-corrected his steering.

‘How are things with your new case?'

His forehead creased. ‘This one will be the death of me.'

‘What? You're not in any danger, are you?'

He laughed. ‘Aye, I might die from boredom. Compensation claims are a pain in the neck, or in this case, the back.'

‘Why?'

I soon wished I hadn't asked. He was still going on as we approached the freeway. ‘So you see, Isla, that's workers' compensation in a nutshell.'

Yeah, a coconut shell. We were almost at my school.

Basically, some guy was conning his employer to pay him while he pretended to have a sore back, and Dad was hired to catch him out. Mum's nursing job is more dangerous. She's often thumped by a flying arm or foot belonging to one of those old wrinklies in the geriatric ward.

Perhaps, I mused, they were just trying to tap dance – like Gran McGonnigle. ‘I'll be tap dancing to my grave. I'm not crawling in there,' she once told Terry and I.

‘And we'll be tap dancing on top of it,' Terry had muttered under her breath.

Gran and Terry have always had a bit of a ‘personality clash', as Mum calls it. She reckons they're just too alike.

Dad was looking at me. ‘What's so funny?'

‘Nothing. Just thinking about Gran tap dancing.'

‘Aye, well, this guy can definitely tap dance if he wants to, because there's nothing wrong with his back.'

‘What makes you so sure? He might be using strong painkillers.'

‘I've been onto him for a month now, and the only thing making this joker flinch is this week's petrol prices. Let me tell you, we all need strong painkillers to stomach those.'

I laughed.

‘You won't be laughing when it's coming out of your own pocket, kid.'

Oh no, back to me driving again. ‘So, you follow this guy every day and what?' I asked hurriedly.

‘What do you mean, what?'

‘What do you do exactly?'

‘I film him and I take photographs.'

I suppressed a snort. Dad must have the most self-photographed fingers in the history of this earth. ‘Doesn't he ever notice you, Dad?'

‘No! Anyway, it's easy for me to blend in with the crowd; he's always at the Lions' football stadium, even mid-week. But it works both ways – he just disappears. It's a bloody big place.'

‘Never mind, Dad, there's a lot of losing being done inside that stadium this season.'

He gave the top of my head a playful swipe.

‘Go the Lions!' I taunted, clambering out of the car.

‘Carve up that maths test today,' he called after me from the open window.

Low blow. I'm terrible at maths.

It came as no surprise to me that the main topic of forbidden communication in first-period history was Emma Duggan's party. If her birthday gets any more popular it will be declared a public holiday. An invite from Emma is a defining moment in your school year, perhaps even your life. Thankfully, I get on well with her and her friends so I made the cut.

‘Have you worked out what you're wearing yet?' Kate Sullway whispered just before the bell.

‘No idea.'

‘Me neither.' She grinned. I like her – she was the first girl at this school who asked for my mobile number and she uses it a lot – but she's not Fiona.

After another disastrous date with trigonometry in period two, I headed for the canteen and lined up for a blueberry muffin.

‘You been invited to The Palace on Saturday night?' It was Jack Ferris, in front of me in the line.

‘Yep,' I said. He didn't need to know that the whole invitation was fraught with danger for me. ‘You?'

‘Absolutely.' He winked. ‘It's only the losers who didn't get that pink envelope. Didn't you just love those silver glitter hearts that fell out? I'm really into classy invitations.'

His face was deadpan, but his eyes twinkled. Just when I started to find him slightly less unbearable than usual, he laughed. At least I think it was a laugh; it sounded like someone had just run over his foot.

‘Emma has a massive heated pool. It's going to be an awesome party.'

I disguised a groan with a cough. The pool was precisely my problem.

‘So, are you a bikini-wearer or a one-piece kind of a chick?' He stepped forward in the queue as he spoke.

If only he knew the truth: neither was much use to me.

He turned around again. ‘I'd say you're a bikini babe, am I right?'

I shuddered. ‘Are you ever right, Jack?'

‘I think I was once, when I was in kindergarten. It's a great story, actually, do you want to hear it?'

‘Yes, please do bore me to death, Jack – and by the way, it's your turn.' I pointed to the impatient mother behind the canteen window.

When he'd purchased a wheelbarrow of food, I took his place. He'd bought the last blueberry muffin. I spun around in a huff, and there he was, hovering.

‘I won't tell you then, because I want you alive this weekend. You can be on my team for pool poker,' he said through his final mouthful of delicious muffin.

Nightmare!
I wasn't getting into the stupid pool because, well, let's just say I'm aquatically challenged.

Living in a cold city like Glasgow, I never felt the need to learn to swim properly. But more than that, I have a pool phobia. Crazy to most Aussies, but true.

I've always hated the idea of swimming pools. I mean, anyone would have to agree that there are people out there you wouldn't even let in your front door, never mind take a bath with, right? So why jump into a pool with them? The only thing keeping their germs off you is a bucket-load of bleach, and don't get me started on bleach.

‘I can't imagine there will ever be a time in my life when I'd want to be on your team, Jack.'

‘Really?' He seemed to give this statement serious consideration. He was silent for a few seconds – most unlike him – and I wondered if I'd gone too far.

I watched him fighting with the wrapper of his pie. ‘Give me that!' I snapped it out of his clumsy mitts and whipped the plastic off in a second: my version of a truce.

‘Thanks.' He took a bite before adding, ‘Well, you can be on Sam's team, then. You've gotta play. It's too good a game to miss, and we're betting on it so bring some cash.'

‘Is Sam Doyle going?' I asked as casually as I could, while my heart beat a heavy-metal rhythm.

He clicked his tongue at my stupidity, stuffing the pie in his mouth. ‘Of coursssssssse.' He stressed the word and half the pie ended up on my shirt.

Gross. Imagine being spat on by someone who could be defeated by a food wrapper. But the spray heralded good news. Sam was going.

As far as I'm concerned, Sam Doyle should be cloned and given to every girl as a sixteenth birthday present. Think how much time and heartache that would save us. But as there's only one of him, I've decided that I deserve him. I am trying to get over Brian, after all.

‘Everyone in Sam's group is going – and so is Molly Phillips.'

I froze. Tomato sauce was now dripping down his chin. I imagined it was blood from the punch I wanted to give him on his ugly nose.

If Molly Phillips was going too, I didn't stand a chance.

But Molly didn't take art, and that's where I was heading next, to my table right behind Sam Doyle. With any luck, Miss Reid's ramblings wouldn't distract me too much from my perving.

I have to confess that Sam and Brian Danielson are a bit alike. Sam's a fraction taller and much browner, but they have similar colouring – blond hair, blue eyes – and the same lazy smile. The cool kids hang with them, but neither appears to need them.

Sam seems to be a good listener – not that he's ever heard much coming from my mouth, since I usually find myself tongue-tied when he's around, but I've noticed he looks people in the eye when they speak and doesn't interrupt them. Brian did that, too.

Unlike Brian, who's kind of adorably gangly, Sam moves with a natural grace that gives an impression of strength. He's like a well-bred racehorse. Not that I know much about horses, or even like them. I fell off a pony at the beach once when I was six. Ponies aren't allowed on Aussie beaches. Good thing, I reckon.

Anyway, I admit Sam's hair
is
always messy, his shirt's never tucked in and he often misses deadlines, all punishable crimes at our school but all good as far as I'm concerned. Slightly flawed is definitely my type. He's also the first guy I've been interested in since leaving home, and that's got to count for something.

I was preparing to switch into Sam-ogling mode when Jack broke my concentration.

‘Heard a rumour that the assignment is being given out today.'

Finger-on-the-Pulse Ferris.

‘Yeah? Even my parents are aware of that, Jack.'

He was a bit put out and changed the subject. ‘You started your photography project?'

‘Sure have.' I waved my folder in the air. ‘I'm doing People for my Major Work.'

He sniggered. ‘That topic's a bit broad, isn't it?'

‘Obviously I've got an angle that I'll be exploring, but I'm hardly going to tell you about it.'

‘Oh, don't be a dag,' he said, and I cringed at the phrase. It was so Australian. ‘I've already settled on what I'm going to do, so I won't copy you. My topic is Chicks.'