Give Peas a Chance

  Jake grinned.

  Let’s see Tom Cruise have an idea like that, he thought. Even with Nicole Kidman and Katie Holmes to help him.

  It was fantastic.

  The whole bunch of them, the yellers and the moaners and the arguers, weren’t making a peep.

  Jake glanced up at the motel sign.

  Have to change that now, he thought.

  Quietest Motel In The World.

  Then suddenly the silence was shattered. Not by the parents and kids of units 7, 8 and 9. By a noise far louder than anything they’d come up with.

  Two babies howling.

  Everyone froze.

  Everyone looked at Jake and frowned.

  Jake glanced at his watch.

  Ten to three.

  Oh well, he thought. Forty-three minutes of unbroken sleep is better than nothing. Mum and Dad are always saying that.

  Tomorrow he might be able to get them an hour.

  For now, though, he had a motel to run.

  Units 7, 8 and 9 were muttering to each other.

  Jake thought fast.

  The important thing was to make sure nobody went into the office and pestered Mum and Dad while they were getting up and feeding the bubs.

  Easy.

  ‘Hey,’ Jake yelled to units 7, 8 and 9. ‘You lot might be good at ant racing and ping-pong and crazy golf, but I’m the fastest swimmer round here.’

  Jake took his t-shirt off and sprinted over to the pool. He glanced back, saw he had a crowd of competitors at his heels, smiled to himself, and dived in.

  Paparazzi

  I crouch inside the front door, waiting for Kevin. I’m pretty nervous. That’s why I’m chewing my nails. Yuk. This new nail polish looks good but it tastes revolting.

  I’ve never done anything like this before. Usually on a Saturday afternoon I’m hanging out at Madonna’s place or somewhere. But a friend needs me, that’s why I’ve decided to do this. I just have to be careful I don’t ruin everything by being seen.

  There are paparazzi everywhere.

  That’s what Kevin reckons they’re called. People who chase after you with cameras, desperate to get your picture, tripping over things, bumping into each other, invading your privacy, yelling at you to pull a funny face or sing something.

  Why do families always do that?

  Paparazzi sounds like an Italian word. I don’t know what the razzi bit means, but I bet the papa part is because the person at the front with the biggest camera is usually your dad.

  My mobile’s ringing.

  Two rings.

  That’s Kevin’s signal. He must be almost here.

  I open the front door and check for grown-ups. I hate to think what Mum and Dad would do if they saw me like this.

  When I checked earlier, Dad was in the back yard trying out his new handicam. Mum was taking snaps of him on her digital cause she reckoned he looked so funny trying to video insects and walking into the washing.

  From the sound of her giggles he must still have a bra on his head.

  I hope they don’t wake Daniel. Dan’s not really into photos, but he’ll always grab a couple with his mobile if there’s a chance of getting his little sister into trouble.

  The front yard is clear.

  I pull the paper bag over my head and half walk half run down the front path.

  Oh no, I haven’t made the eye holes big enough.

  I can’t see anything either side of me.

  My main worry is Mrs Kyneton next door. Her son got her a six megapixel 3G Nokia for Christmas and she’s been putting the whole suburb on her blog ever since.

  I don’t think she’s seen me.

  I can’t hear anyone yelling ‘say cheese’.

  What I can hear is Kevin’s brother’s car wheezing and spluttering as it gets closer.

  I hope Kevin’s right about it being more mechanically reliable than it sounds. It looks fantastic, a gleaming light-blue 1982 Valiant that always gets photographed at car shows, but looks aren’t going to help us today.

  The car squeaks to a stop. Kevin’s in the front next to his brother. He winds down the window.

  ‘Haul butt,’ he says.

  Even though I’m sweating with tension, I smile inside my paper bag. Kevin’s got hair gel on. He thinks it makes him look like Brad Pitt. It does a bit, but his voice is even squeakier than the car.

  ‘Hurry up,’ says Kevin, starting to sound panicked.

  I yank the back door open and scramble inside. The car roars away at high speed. That’s what I wish it was doing. Actually it chugs away slowly.

  ‘G’day Nat,’ says Holly.

  Holly is lying across the back seat, her head in a pillowcase. She squeezes over and I lie down next to her so nobody can see us from outside the car.

  ‘Hi Natalie,’ says Madonna.

  Madonna is lying on the floor behind the front seats. She’s got her head wrapped in a towel. It’s her sister’s sports towel from school. I can see the name tag. Beyonce Crutchley.

  ‘Is it me,’ says Madonna, ‘or is it hot in here?’

  ‘Sorry,’ says Kevin’s brother. ‘Heater’s jammed. I can’t turn it off.’

  ‘This isn’t hot,’ says Kevin. ‘I had a go in a spin-dryer once and it was much hotter than this.’

  None of us say anything.

  Kevin is known all through grade six and most of grade five for exaggerating. It’s what you have to do when you’re the youngest of eight.

  Suddenly the brakes slam on and I roll off the back seat onto Madonna.

  ‘Ow,’ she says.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, and try to shift my bony bits.

  ‘Does anyone know anybody with a yellow Corolla?’ says Kevin’s brother. ‘It’s blocking our way. There are people inside with cameras and they’re waving at us. I think they want us to get out.’

  My paper bag deflates. So does my chest.

  It’s my rellies. They must have come round the corner and seen me as I was getting into the car.

  ‘It’s my nan,’ I say. ‘And my Auntie Pru and Uncle Andrew. They’ve come over to take pictures of the Christmas clothes they gave me, but they’re not meant to be here till this evening.’

  ‘Paparazzi,’ says Kevin. ‘They don’t care whose lives they wreck. I’ll handle them.’

  He gets out of the car.

  ‘Kevin’s amazing,’ says his brother. ‘He can lie his way out of anything. I’ve got videos of him doing it.’

  Carefully I kneel up, not on Madonna, and peep out the window.

  Kevin is yelling at Nan through the windscreen of the Corolla.

  ‘It’s an emergency,’ he shouts. ‘We’ve got to get to the hospital.’

  Me and Holly look at each other through our paper bag and pillowcase eye holes.

  Why is he telling them the truth?

  In the Corolla, Nan looks puzzled too. She might not have her hearing aid turned up.

  Auntie Pru winds down her window and points her camera at Kevin. It’s the big one she uses for her wildlife photos on holiday. Kevin sees her and puts his hands up over his face and scurries back into our car.

  ‘Don’t worry, Kevin,’ says Holly. ‘You tried.’

  ‘It’s not my fault,’ said Kevin indignantly. ‘Look at the size of that zoom lens.’

  None of us say anything, but we all know how he’s feeling. We’ve all been caught by paparazzi not looking our best. We’ve all had our pimples and baggy track pants plastered across family slide nights and aunties’ websites.

  ‘They’re backing up,’ says Kevin’s brother.

  We chug off again.

  I flatten myself onto the back seat, hoping they didn’t hear what Kevin said about the hospital.

  Why didn’t he say we were going to the mall or somewhere?

  It’s not Kevin’s fault. He must have panicked. I’d probably have done the same. Dealing with the paparazzi is just so stressful. I don’t know how Angelina Jolie and that lot cope.

  ‘Nat, keep yo
ur head down.’

  Holly is hissing at me because I’m peeping out the car window.

  I know she’s right, but I can’t help it. We’re passing what’s left of Tara’s house and even though I’ve seen it heaps of times since the fire I can’t stop myself looking.

  Tara is the only kid in our class whose house has ever burned down.

  A great big house turned into a pile of scrap and ash by a bunch of candles.

  ‘Sheesh,’ says Kevin’s brother, slowing down and staring. ‘I wouldn’t mind getting a picture of that.’

  ‘Not now,’ pleads Kevin. ‘We’re on a deadline.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I haven’t forgotten,’ says Kevin’s brother. ‘Keep your gel on.’

  We don’t stop.

  I puff out my paper bag with relief.

  But I don’t blame Kevin’s brother for wanting a picture. Each time I see the remains of Tara’s burnt house I’m shocked because it’s so much worse than I remember.

  For example, I’d forgotten that the tiles in Tara’s upstairs bathroom were pink. They’re stacked up on the front lawn now, and most of them are singed and scorched and black round the edges.

  Which is really sad because it was one of the nicest bathrooms I’ve ever been in.

  But of course it’s not as sad as what’s happened to Tara.

  ‘Poop.’

  Kevin’s brother is swearing.

  The car’s stalled and he can’t get it started again. He pumps the pedal and the engine whines like a kid with pillow hair who doesn’t want to be in a family photo.

  ‘Are we out of gas?’ says Kevin, who likes to use American words whenever possible.

  ‘Battery’s going flat,’ says his brother. ‘I need a push.’

  ‘I’ll handle it,’ says Kevin and jumps out.

  We don’t even wait for him to try. Kevin’s built like a TV aerial and even if he could move the car on his own he’d probably rupture one of his very skinny internal organs.

  Plus we’ve got to be at the hospital in less than ten minutes.

  ‘Keep your heads covered up,’ Holly says to me and Madonna as we get out of the car.

  She doesn’t have to remind me. My paper bag is firmly on. To be sprung now would be a disaster.

  We all push as hard as we can and the car starts moving.

  ‘Hey,’ yells a voice. ‘Look. Kev’s girlfriends have gone Islamic.’

  I recognise the voice.

  Rocco Fusilli.

  I swivel my head and glare at him through my eyeholes. The one kid from school I hoped would be somewhere else today. Like Antarctica. But there he is, taunting us with his mates. They’ve got their mobiles out and as we break into a trot, pushing the car, they chase us and take pictures.

  ‘Ignore them,’ mutters Holly.

  ‘You’re invading our privacy,’ Kevin yells at them. ‘It’s against the law. My dad’s a cop and he’s watching you on the police satellite.’

  Rocco and his mates just laugh.

  Kevin is always doing that, exaggerating about the surveillance capacity of the police. Everyone knows that compared to rellies with cameras, most law enforcement agencies can’t compete.

  The car gives a big jolt and the engine splutters into life.

  ‘Get in,’ yells Holly.

  We all clamber in and chug away from Rocco and his paparazzi pack.

  I flop down in the back with Holly and Madonna. Inside my paper bag I’m sweating.

  Just my luck.

  I’ve got the most important photo session of my life coming up and I think my make-up’s running.

  We bump and totter into the hospital lift. Just the four of us because Kevin’s brother has to stay with the car in case it gets scratched.

  There are two nurses in the lift.

  They stare at us.

  I can feel Madonna shuffling nervously behind me and I know why. What if there’s a hospital security regulation forbidding visitors to have their heads in bags or pillowcases? What if the nurses ring an alarm bell? What if security guards are waiting for us when the lift doors open and we don’t even get to see Tara?

  ‘Hi ladies,’ says Kevin to the nurses, who glare at him sternly.

  He’s got courage, Kevin, for a skinny youngest kid in a big family.

  ‘Don’t be alarmed,’ he says to the nurses. ‘We’re here to make a patient feel better.’

  The nurses think about this, then both grin at him.

  ‘Fair enough,’ says one. ‘They say laughter’s the best medicine.’

  ‘Which is why,’ says the other, ‘I predict a complete recovery when the patient sees your hair.’

  The lift doors open and we drag Kevin out before he can get defensive about his gel.

  As we hurry along the corridor I catch a glimpse of Tara’s dad up ahead, going into Tara’s ward.

  I take a deep breath and keep going.

  We knew Tara’s rellies would be here for such an important occasion. The surprising thing is that her dad hasn’t got his camera round his neck. Out of all our parents, he’s the biggest photo fanatic. That’s why Tara’s house had so many burning candles in it, so their Christmas family pictures would look extra atmospheric.

  On second thoughts, after what happened, he’s probably gone right off photography.

  We stop outside Tara’s hospital room and peek cautiously in.

  And nearly die.

  It’s not just Tara’s rellies who are crowded around her bed. My mum and dad are there too. And Holly’s. And Madonna’s.

  Kevin’s aren’t, but with eight kids they never are.

  Mum and Dad and the others are staring at us.

  None of them have got their cameras.

  It’s OK, I say to myself. Stay calm. We knew there was a chance this might happen. Everyone must have decided to keep cameras away from Tara.

  I glance at Kevin. He pats his pocket.

  ‘It’s cool,’ he says.

  ‘G’day Nat,’ says Mum uncertainly. ‘Auntie Pru told us you were coming here and we guessed it must be Tara’s special time so we thought we’d come and help cheer her up too. Why have you got a bag on your head?’

  I don’t say anything, partly because I’m a bit dizzy now the big moment is close and partly because a doctor is bending over Tara’s bed, slowly unwinding the bandage from around her face.

  We all stop looking at each other and anxiously watch the doctor and Tara.

  It feels like nobody’s breathing in the room, except Kevin, who’s looking a bit pale and like he might faint.

  The last bit of bandage drops away from Tara’s chin.

  ‘Good,’ says the doctor. ‘That is good. It is. It’s very good.’

  Nobody else says anything.

  It’s as bad as we thought it would be.

  The beautiful smooth skin on Tara’s face isn’t smooth any more and it hardly even looks like skin. It’s bright red and cracked and flaky. And her hair, her long fair hair which was probably the most photographed hair outside Hollywood despite how Tara used to come up with some really clever hiding places to get away from her dad’s camera, her hair isn’t long any more.

  It’s short and very patchy.

  You can see bits of her scalp.

  ‘Give it a few weeks,’ says the doctor to Tara. ‘Few weeks and you’ll be right as rain. Two months tops.’

  Slowly, her hand shaking, Tara picks up the mirror on her bed and looks at herself.

  I have a weird thought.

  Can people whose faces have been burnt still cry?

  They can. Tara’s eyes are filling with tears as she looks at her reflection. I glance at Holly and Madonna through my eyeholes.

  This is the moment.

  I pull my paper bag off my head and Holly removes her pillowcase and Madonna unwraps her towel. We all stand there in front of Tara and let her see us.

  I’ve prepared a speech about how she’ll always be our friend no matter what she looks like. But when I see the expression on her
face as she stares at us through her tears I know I don’t need to say anything.

  I glance at Holly and Madonna.

  I was right, our make-up has run, but I reckon we still look pretty good. Madonna’s mum prefers orange lipstick, so Madonna’s face isn’t as red as Tara’s, but Holly’s is. And because we smeared the lipstick onto our faces really thickly and blasted it with our hairdryers, it’s cracked and flaky and looks exactly like the real thing, specially on our foreheads.

  I’m so glad we decided to give ourselves these short and patchy haircuts and shave our eyebrows off.

  We look at Tara.

  Tara looks at us.

  Yes. It’s working.

  Tara isn’t crying any more. She’s even managing a smile.

  ‘Thanks,’ she whispers.

  Mum and Dad and the other parents are staring at us like the doctor has just given them a really strong anaesthetic that knocks you out with your eyes open.

  When it wears off there’s a good chance they’ll be totally furious. Me and Holly and Madonna know this, but we think it’s worth it.

  The colour has come back into Kevin’s face. Not as much as we’ve got, but at least he won’t need oxygen.

  I give him a nudge and he fumbles in his pocket. He pulls out his dad’s camera and pushes it into Tara’s dad’s hands.

  Then me and Holly and Madonna and Kevin go over and hug Tara and sit on the bed with our arms round her so the grown-ups, when they recover, can take our photo.

  Greenhouse Gas

  Today is a very big day for our family.

  Me and Grandpa are both getting honoured. Grandpa’s been voted Australian Of The Year and I’ve been voted Young Australian Of The Year. Plus we’re getting a ten-metre-high concrete tomato. Nobody in our family’s ever won anything before except scratchies so everybody’s very excited.

  But there’s a problem.

  Grandpa has jumped into the sea again and I’m out in the boat trying to find him.

  ‘It’s one-thirty, Grandpa,’ I yell. ‘You’re being honoured in an hour and Mum reckons if you’re not in your best pants by two-fifteen she’s gunna get Andy Wicks to demolish the big tomato with his bulldozer and use the bits of concrete to build a new toilet block in the caravan park.’