Something More (Girlfriend Fiction 11) Read online

  something more

  The Girlfriend Fiction Series

  1 My Life and Other Catastrophes Rowena Mohr

  2 The Indigo Girls Penni Russon

  3 She’s with the Band Georgia Clark

  4 Always Mackenzie Kate Constable

  5 The (not quite) Perfect Boyfriend Lili Wilkinson

  6 Step Up and Dance Thalia Kalkipsakis

  7 The Sweet Life Rebecca Lim

  8 Cassie Barry Jonsberg

  9 Bookmark Days Scot Gardner

  10 Winter of Grace Kate Constable

  11 Something More Mo Johnson

  12 Big Sky Melaina Faranda

  www.allenandunwin.com/girlfriendfiction

  something

  more

  MO JOHNSON

  First published in 2009

  Copyright © Mo Johnson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander St

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone (61 2) 8425 0100

  Fax (61 2) 9906 2218

  Email [email protected]

  Web www.allenandunwin.com

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:

  Johnson, Mo, 1966-

  Something more/Mo Johnson.

  ISBN: 978 1 74175 528 2 (pbk.)

  Series: Girlfriend fiction; 11

  For secondary school age.

  A823.4

  Cover design by Tabitha King and Bruno Herfst

  Text design by Bruno Herfst

  Set in 12/15 pt Fournier by Midland Typesetters, Australia

  Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  www.allenandunwin.com/girlfriendfiction

  For my sister,

  Dr Agnes Rennick

  Contents

  ‘No point in losing your head, Isla, if people won’t help you look for it.’

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

  ‘Global warming my backside, Isla! If we get any more rain in Glasgow this year, we’ll need an ark.’

  ‘Too many cooks spoil the broth, but if you’re doing the cooking, Isla, one will do just as well.’

  ‘Learn to close your gob, Isla, or your brain might do a runner.’

  ‘If dads are the heads of their families, Isla, mums are the feet. It’s hard to give your kids a kick up the bum with your noggin.’

  ‘If it looks like a horse and smells like a horse, it’s probably a donkey.’

  ‘They say your life flashes before your eyes when you drown, Isla, so if you don’t want to die bored, learn to swim.’

  ‘Embarrassment is a state of mind, Isla. Your state, lingering much longer than you’d like it to in other people’s minds.’

  ‘Window-shopping is a waste of time, Isla, if you live in a tent.’

  ‘A bird in the hand could crap on your fingers, Isla. I’d always choose two in the bush.’

  ‘If you must choose between a rock and a hard place, Isla, pick the rock then throw it at the person who got you into the mess to begin with.’

  ‘The problem with Terry is Terry.’

  ‘I don’t know much about this foreign karma thing, Isla, but here in Scotland we all know that what’s for you won’t go by you.’

  ‘Isla, never stand directly behind a person who’s taking a bull by the horns!’

  About the author

  ‘No point in losing your head,

  Isla, if people won’t help you

  look for it.’

  (Gran McGonnigle)

  ‘Where is she, Isla?’

  Terry barged her way into my room, slamming the door so violently that Mr Jingles the string puppet fell to the floor in a tangled heap.

  ‘What have you done with Mitsy, you cow?’

  Ignoring her, I began to do a mental count. By three she was fuming. By eight, her skull was about to blow off. I leant back in my chair, ready to say the last digit out loud.

  ‘Tenahhhh!’ Unfortunately, I overbalanced and crashed to the ground. That’s the trouble with wheelie chairs: they’re great for spinning, but the minute you get the loading wrong you’re road kill.

  ‘So you want to count, do you?’ My sister dropped down heavily. ‘One…two…’

  ‘Get off! You’re hurting me!’

  ‘Three…serves you right for hiding Mitsy!’

  ‘I did not hide Mitsy.’

  ‘Four…’ She crushed my lungs. ‘Tell me where she is then.’

  ‘How would I know?’ I wheezed.

  ‘FIVE!’ she yelled, and then she slapped me.

  My jaw dropped as a large hot welt painted itself on my thigh.

  ‘Where. Is. Mitsy!’ She was pinching my arm.

  I got my knee up to her chest. ‘Stop it! I haven’t got your dumb mouse.’ I thrust hard and she went crashing into my chair.

  Parents tend to think that an eleven-month age gap between siblings is a good thing. Ha! I’ll be seventeen next month, but it won’t make much difference. Terry and I will still hate each other.

  I expected her to come at me again, but her breathing was laboured. Thinking I was safe, I heaved myself to my feet. She saw her chance and took it.

  I went down with a thump.

  ‘I’m calling Dad,’ I panted.

  ‘I don’t care. Just tell me what you did with my mouse.’ She bounced on top of me a couple of times as she spoke, and it really hurt.

  ‘In the name of the wee man, what’s going on up there?’ Dad was at the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘Nothing!’ we said in unison. Terry jumped up and tiptoed towards my bed, while I tried to replace the fallen chair without making any more noise.

  ‘It doesn’t sound like nothing!’

  ‘What does nothing sound like?’ Terry whispered.

  I grinned.

  ‘If you two are fighting again…’ He left the threat hanging. ‘We’re fine, Dad. Terry was just mucking around in my new chair and she fell off.’

  She groaned. ‘You idiot.’

  ‘Is she okay?’ Dad yelled, pounding up the stairs.

  She was right. I was an idiot. Our father gets nervous about his family’s health. No doubt he was imagining my sister rolling on the floor with her intestines hanging out, not that he would recognise these if they floated in his beer: he’s far too squeamish to learn about the human body. He couldn’t even watch us having our needles as kids, according to Mum. She’s the complete opposite. She would have jabbed the suckers right into our arms herself, given half a chance.

  ‘Er, she did give her stomach a bit of a bump, but it was sore anyway because she’s got her PERIOD!’ I shouted the last bit.

  Silence. Then the sweet sound of a speedy fatherly retreat, and a much more distant and awkward, ‘Right, well…stop clowning around, you two.’ Then nothing.

  He’s a bit outnumbered in this household. It’s not just talk of periods that is included on his ‘to be avoided at all costs’ list. Other things sure to make him scurry off are bras, waxing kits and any reference to sex.
>
  ‘Nice save,’ Terry said when we were certain that he’d gone. ‘Now give me Mitsy before I kill you.’

  ‘I swear I didn’t take her.’ I didn’t get her sudden obsession with the mouse. ‘And anyway, what does it matter? It’s just a dumb cuddly toy. You didn’t even like it when Robbie Caruthers won it for you.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Poor Robbie Caruthers. Think how hard it must have been to aim for that clown’s mouth, with a glass eye.’

  ‘He did not have a glass eye.’

  I pretended to think. ‘Yes, you’re right. It was the other geek who loved you that year who had the glass eye. Wasn’t Robbie the only kid in our primary school to have a full moustache?’

  I love reminding her about Robbie Caruthers. Pathetic, but I have so little else to work with when it comes to getting under her skin.

  ‘Get lost.’

  Back in Scotland, Terry’s Year 5 class visited a carnival. I guess in Australia you’d call it a theme park – a bit like Dream World, but not nearly as big. At that time, Robbie Caruthers, the nerdiest kid in her class, loved her madly.

  Personally, I think she should have been grateful some fool wanted to kiss that smart mouth of hers when the rest of us just wanted to slap it. Anyway, the big dope won her an enormous green-and-white mouse. She was horrified.

  Her class teacher, Miss McKenna, tactfully rescued it from a duck pond and gave it to our mum. Over the years, Mitsy wormed her way into Terry’s affections, though the same cannot be said for Robbie Caruthers. I think she even kicked him in the nuts when they were in Year 6.

  Before I could conjure up another Caruthersesque insult, she said, ‘If Mitsy’s not in here, where is she? She was under my bed yesterday morning before I went to soccer.’

  ‘Terry, I have absolutely no idea what happened to her, and I don’t care. I just want to get back to my English assignment because, unlike you, I don’t have the time to run after soccer balls.’

  ‘That’s because, unlike me, you count bending down to clip your toenails as your exercise, mate.’

  Mate? We’ve only been on the continent twelve months and already my sister is using Aussie slang like a native.

  In contrast, I’ve picked up a hybrid kind of sign language that seems to help most Australians understand me better. It’s my way of avoiding having to repeat basic sentences at least three times.

  Do you know how hard it is to remember to take out my ‘notebook’ in school, and not my ‘jotter’? Or to convince my teacher I really did just thank her for giving me the A4 sheets and not the A4 shits?

  It amazes me how so many countries can have English as their first language and yet get so confused when someone speaks it with a different accent. At least sign language is universal.

  I was making a universal sign at Terry now with my middle finger.

  ‘So, why do you desperately need a stuffed mouse on a Sunday afternoon? Isn’t it a bit early to suck your thumb and take it to bed?’

  My question seemed to panic her, but she quickly tried to disguise her discomfort. ‘I just hate people messing with my stuff. I’ve told you that a million times.’

  I wasn’t fooled.

  ‘What’s so special about Mitsy all of a sudden?’

  She made a move to leave. I darted in front of her and held the door closed with my back.

  ‘Go on. Tell me. What’s this about?’

  Her gaze softened for a second and she leant in close. ‘Isla?’

  ‘Yeah?’ Finally I was going to get an honest answer.

  ‘You’ve got something green stuck in your teeth.’

  I hate my sister.

  When Terry left, I finished the last sentence of an email to Fiona, my best friend back home. Lots of people promised to stay in touch when I left Scotland, but Fi’s the only one who has. She keeps me up to date with the goss from Glasgow and sometimes, when she reckons I can stand it, she updates me on Brian Danielson.

  Apparently it took him six months after I left to find a new girlfriend. At least she wasn’t from our school. Fiona thinks he met her through his family.

  I stole a glance at him in the photo of us on the wall above my desk. There are lots of pictures of my old friends there, so it doesn’t stand out. As far as my parents are concerned, I’ve never had time for a boyfriend; I preferred to hang out with a big group in Scotland and yes, it was lucky that I did, because as they kept reminding me at the time, I didn’t have to leave someone special behind when we emigrated.

  Lying was easier than having to put up with their unnecessary pep talks. It was bad enough having to listen to their advice on coping with leaving Fiona. I didn’t need their help. I’d made a clean break.

  It was the only way; I didn’t want to stay in touch with Brian knowing that eventually he’d have to tell me he was seeing someone else or, worse still, he’d just stop communicating because he didn’t want to tell me. I’d spared myself that hassle.

  I willed myself to stop thinking about him, logged out and headed downstairs.

  Terry and I live on the top floor of our house. A kitchen-come-lounge and a bathroom separate our bedrooms. Back home we shared a room, so it’s great to have all this space. Better still is the fact that both bedrooms have glimpses of the ocean.

  When we first moved our gear in I commented on how good it was of Mum and Dad to give us the best rooms upstairs.

  ‘You’re so dumb sometimes. Nice had nothing to do with it. It was Family Planning. Their plan was to get as far away from us as possible.’

  See, that’s one of the many problems with my sister. She’s just so cynical.

  ‘If we weren’t only renting, they’d probably put in one of those fireman’s poles so we could exit straight into the garden. Then they could go for whole weeks without seeing us at all.’

  I’m sure she’s wrong. If Mum and Dad really didn’t want to see us they would have given us our own fridge.

  In the kitchen, Mum was sitting at the bench, slurping tea.

  ‘What was that noise up there before?’

  I searched for orange juice to avoid answering.

  ‘Were you two fighting again?’

  I tried to look innocent, but my face has a tendency to colour itself in. It’s like a toddler – who can’t stay within the lines – has been set free on me with a scarlet crayon.

  ‘It was nothing. We were just mucking around.’

  I could tell she didn’t believe me. She reached for the chocolate biscuits and dunked one in her cup before guzzling it. Parents can be so gross.

  ‘Where’s Dad?’ I asked, changing the subject.

  ‘He’s loading the car.’

  ‘Why?’

  I hoped he wasn’t heading out to work; I wanted to borrow some cash. The Bank of Dad has superior customer service to the Bank of Mum.

  Dad doesn’t normally work on a Sunday, but I figured criminals don’t always take the weekend off. No, my father is not a criminal, although my parents were so desperate to move to Australia that if a conviction was still an entry requirement, I’m sure they’d have willingly notched up a couple of crimes between them.

  My father used to be an ordinary, boring traffic cop. Now he’s a private investigator. It’s hilarious. Dads are supposed to have sensible jobs but he saw an ad just after we arrived here, applied on a whim and got the job.

  Mum’s voice broke into my thoughts. ‘I’ve asked him to take a few things to the Salvation Army shop for me. Why don’t you give him a hand? He’s in the garage.’

  I bet she knew I was going to ask for money and was making sure I earnt it. She’s uncanny like that.

  Why don’t you give him a hand? I felt like saying. I wasn’t the one scoffing biscuits while Dad slaved. But if I voiced that thought it would be the last thing I ever did.

  ‘Yeah, in a minute,’ I said through a mouthful of juice, then decided it needed ice and a straw.

  Mum studied me as I fluffed around stalling for time.

  ‘I
sla.’ Her voice was a warning.

  I sucked up the rest of my drink with noisy defiance before losing my nerve and speeding out the door.

  Denim is the great equaliser as far as clothing goes. Rich or poor, fat or thin, young or old, most people feel that they can wear denim.

  Dad’s jeans are ridiculous. They’re baggy at the bum, shiny at the knees, and they’re hemmed! I’m not kidding. He’s got four centimetre turn-ups at the bottom of each leg. Worn together with his bright-purple sweater, they made him look like a kid playing dress-ups.

  ‘Have you come to give me a hand?’ He was still surrounded by boxes.

  ‘Well, that depends,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, aye? On what?’

  I sidled up and gave him a hug.

  ‘How much?’ he asked.

  ‘Ten bucks?’

  ‘A dollar a box, that seems like a good deal.’

  ‘What? Are there ten of them?’ I couldn’t believe we had accumulated so much junk in a year.

  ‘Nope, fifteen, but we’ll call the rest interest.’

  ‘Are they all going?’

  ‘Your mum has marked some for storage and some for the Salvos. The ones with the big “S” are for the Salvos.’

  ‘And not for storage?’ I asked innocently.

  He stared at me, pulling up his trousers. ‘I’d better double check.’ And off he went in search of Mum. With any luck she’d make him a cup of tea and I could sneak back to my room without doing a thing, claiming that I’d waited around for ages.

  I’m kind of lucky with my parents, which is a good thing considering how unlucky I am with my sister. They’re generally simple to operate, although Mum does come with a complicated manual that needs to be consulted often. Dad is much easier. When he has a mechanical breakdown, you just give him a bit of a thump, metaphorically speaking.

  They did take me by surprise fourteen months ago, though, when they pulled us in for an important ‘family talk’ and announced we were definitely on our way Down Under.

  ‘But…’

  I didn’t manage to splutter much more.

  ‘Yes!’ Terry screamed and jumped around the kitchen, punching the air with her fist like she’d just raced to Australia and won.

  ‘I thought it would take much longer than this,’ I said to no one in particular.