Carla Fitzgerald is a writer, a recovered lawyer and a mum of three from Sydney. She studied arts and law at university before working for a judge and at the Australian Human Rights Commission. Only after that did she rediscover the great fun of making up stories for kids. Carla is a Books in Homes role model and a coach with the Harding Miller Education Foundation. Her favourite things to do are write, walk, read, eat, and hang out with her family. Not in that order.

  To Mum and Dad, for the type of love that makes a kid think they can do anything.

  Chapter 1

  Monday

  It’s not easy for a prime minister to go on holiday, but then my dad has always been good at avoiding work.

  I stood at the doorway to my parents’ bedroom, watching Dad chucking stuff into a suitcase at lightning speed. T-shirts, thongs, goggles, snorkel, his boomerang pillow; he even had his favourite ukulele under his arm. The dawn light was peeking around the curtains and I rubbed my eyes to make sure I was awake.

  ‘I’ll only be gone for a week and a half. I should be back for the Annual Party Meeting next Wednesday,’ he said, slapping me on the back. He reached into the cupboard and retrieved his massive sunhat that never sat properly on his head.

  ‘Dad,’ I could feel panic start to move up my chest, ‘you’ve only been prime minister for two months.’

  ‘Sixty-four days actually, Harper.’ He stopped packing for a second and released a long slow sigh. ‘I need to get away for a bit to go … um … to an important conference. Very important.’

  A conference? There wasn’t a single suit or tie in his bag. It looked like he was packing for Hawaii. A zillion questions swirled in my mind: Was Dad running away? Was it because of the news story about the shark? Who was going to run the country while he was gone?

  I had to choose the right question to make Dad stop packing, but I felt like I was frozen to the spot and he was moving in fast motion. I pressed Marcella, my soft monkey, to my chest.

  I mean, I knew things had been bad lately. Every day there was a new headline. The first day was: Accidental hero becomes accidental prime minister. Then recently: What rescue? PM’s shark story in doubt. Last week, the headline was: Worst prime minister ever? I heard Billie, one of the chefs in the kitchen, say it was nice of the newspaper to use the question mark.

  I sat down on the bed and said nothing. The prickly blanket instantly reminded me that this wasn’t my parents’ old bed. Nothing in Kirribilli House felt like home. In our old house, my little sister, Lottie, and I shared a room; there was only one bathroom and our tiny backyard just fitted the squeaky trampoline that Mum found on the side of the road. Here, it was like living in an old, haunted museum, with endless echoing rooms. I got lost trying to find my way to the toilet.

  Who knew our lives would change forever the day Dad rescued two kids (and a labradoodle) from a shark? Suddenly, he was no longer local member for the electorate of Bates; he was a national hero. The footage of him paddling to shore with the kids and their dog on his boogie board led the news on every station in the country. And, in a twist of fate, Prime Minister Walsh was forced to resign from the job the following day when someone discovered he had registered pets as voters in the last election.

  Dad barely had time to catch his breath before the scrambling government promoted him to the position of prime minister. Never mind he was supposed to be at work (not the beach) on the day of the rescue. Never mind that no-one could see the shark in the footage. Never mind that everyone was now doubting it was a rescue at all. Never mind that Dad had absolutely no idea how to be prime minister!

  Lottie was the only one excited about the change and she’d spent hours watching our new school’s debating team on YouTube. Mum didn’t take the news very well, because she had to leave her job as a teacher and dye her purple hair ‘natural cappuccino brown’. I didn’t have to press my ear to the door to hear Mum and Dad arguing on the night of the swearing-in ceremony. But Mum tried to put on a brave face and started quoting some guy called Bono, who said that ‘fame is a currency’ and ‘you need to use it wisely’. She joined a literacy charity and now travelled to schools all over the country to talk about reading and books.

  I had no idea who Bono was and I had no plan to use fame wisely. I didn’t even want to be famous. Flying under the radar was what I did best. Even my teacher called me the wrong name for most of last year: ‘Harriet’ – a perfectly nice name, just not mine. Harriet was another girl in my grade, who was roughly my height and had brown hair like me but was otherwise completely different. The first few times it happened, I whispered that my name was actually Harper. But it continued. So, I gave up and started answering to Harriet instead.

  Now, I’d just turned eleven and everyone seemed to know my name. Two federal police officers, Adeena and Frank, followed Lottie and me to school each day, there were photographers at our netball games, and we had a nanny called Cerise, who told me to stop checking the letterbox in my Bugs Bunny onesie. I love checking the letterbox.

  Dad was bouncing on his suitcase, trying to squash the contents down. Two pairs of rolled-up socks and a tube of sunscreen spilled out from the side. I could see why Dad might doubt himself. I mean, Dad could make a giant guacamole in under two minutes and was awesome at defeating zombies in Minecraft, but could he run the country?

  The suitcase squeaked under Dad’s weight. I stroked Marcella’s fur to try to calm down.

  Why was I stressing out? Mum would be back from her trip to Western Australia soon. Lottie was snoring in the next bedroom. And of course there was Cerise, who informed us on her first day that she was the Women’s Weekly Runner-up Nanny of the Year. I still hadn’t worked out why though – she wasn’t exactly Mary Poppins.

  Plus, Dad said he’d only be gone for a week and a half. The huge lump forming in my throat had no business being there.

  A high-pitched zipper sound brought me back into the room. Dad stood back and placed his hands on his hips. ‘Think that’s everything.’

  ‘Where are you actually going, Dad?’

  ‘What was the name again? I think it’s The Sands or Le Sands. Something like that. Such a drag I’ll be working the whole time. Unless they have a swim-up bar, of course.’ He held his hands in the air and wiggled his hips. I assumed he was trying to dance.

  ‘Don’t do that in public. You might get photographed.’

  ‘Good tip.’ He kissed my head and smiled. He seemed to have brightened a little at the thought of a swim-up bar. But as he grabbed his bag to leave I saw something weird in his eyes. It was the same look I caught on his face at the swearing-in ceremony. Fear.

  I tried to grab hold of his hand, but he was too quick. I just stood there, gripping Marcella’s neck so tight my knuckles turned white. The front door slammed and I raced to the hallway. Dad’s boomerang pillow was resting at the front door. I picked it up with my spare hand and stared at the closed door. How was Dad going to sleep without his favourite pillow? It had the perfect indent to fit his big head and weirdly it still smelt like our old house. He needed it as much as I had started needing Marcella again.

  This didn’t make sense. What had just happened? One of the portraits hanging in the hallway caught my eye. The old guy in the painting looked down at me as if to say, ‘Don’t ask me.’

  The smell of coffee drifted from the kitchen and I heard Cerise’s high heels on the wooden floor. I immediately stood up straighter. That sound always made me feel as if I should be doing something, like fixing my hair or cleaning my room.

  I put the pillow back in Mum and Dad’s bedroom then tiptoed into my own, crawled into bed and pulled the covers over my head.

  What now?

  I closed my eyes but couldn’t get back to sleep. Was he really going to a conference? What if he wasn’t? Being known as the daughter of the prime minister was bad enough, but I might soon be known as the daughter of the world’s worst prime minister – no question mark required! I could already imagine the kids at school: whispering, pointing, sniggering. I’d give anything to go back in time and be some unknown kid at Mount Dale Public School, possibly named Harriet. But that wasn’t going to happen – I had to be at my stupid, stuck-up new school in a few hours.

  Oh man, our family could go down in the history books. I’d never be able to fade into the background again.

  I tossed and turned, my brain full of the headlines that could appear in the next few days. PM’s secret holiday? Missing PM! PM caught wiggling hips at beach resort. I eventually drifted into a restless sleep – until I was awoken by a terrible sound.

  Chapter 2

  The ‘Baby Shark’ song was playing over and over.

  Was this some kind of cruel nightmare?

  As I opened my eyes and the fog in my head lifted, I realised it was Dad’s mobile phone ringtone. I’ve told him a million times he’s the only person left in the world who still loves that song, but he won’t change it.

  I tiptoed into his bedroom and saw that, sure enough, he’d left his phone on the bedside table. Dad didn’t even go to the toilet without his phone. He must have left it on purpose. Maybe he didn’t want anyone to contact him? The phone was jiggling around like a baby shark out of water. Dev, Dad’s chief of staff, had called him seven times in the past five minutes. Seven! Seven missed calls was a lot, even for Dev.
  When Dad became prime minister, Dev had become a sudden and permanent presence in our lives. There was Dev at breakfast, reading Dad the newspaper; Dev on the sideline at netball, getting Dad to sign stuff; and Dev talking loudly through the house, while I was trying to read the latest Beatrix Brown mystery. He wasn’t that old for a grown-up (maybe thirty?) and we knew he still lived with his mum down the road, because he brought us her homemade Sri Lankan treats, like coconut roti, every day. Maybe it was the glasses that he wore on the end of his nose or the serious way he spoke that made him seem older than Dad. Or perhaps it was the way he seemed genuinely excited when he talked about ‘protocols’, ‘draft legislation’ and ‘budget estimates’. I guess you don’t get to be chief of staff at thirty years old without being super serious and loving boring documents.

  Lottie said that the chief of staff was responsible for all the work that Dad did (or was supposed to do) and for all Dad’s other staff as well. At least it meant that the other staff didn’t come to the house much, because Dev seemed to like being the one to deal with Dad. I was convinced that Dev wore a suit to bed in case he was needed at a moment’s notice. He definitely wouldn’t wear a rugby league jersey and undies with holes in them like Dad did.

  Mum wasn’t a big fan of Dev. Mum and Dad had a huge fight before she left because Dev went on their anniversary dinner. Talk about a third wheel! Mum put her foot down after that and something must have happened because Dev didn’t visit Kirribilli House quite so often from then on.

  I checked my watch. Dad left hours ago. Wouldn’t Dev be going to the conference with him? So shouldn’t he know that Dad left his mobile at home?

  I unlocked Dad’s phone. He still hadn’t got round to putting a password on it, even though Lottie kept telling him that a prime minister should definitely have a password on their phone. My finger hovered over Dev’s name. Should I call him back?

  Before I’d decided, a string of new messages from Dev popped up on the screen.

  Good morning, sir.

  Are you up yet?

  Good result in the match yesterday!

  I’m sure you’re very busy but just reminding you that we are meeting at 8:30 am today to discuss the policy announcement that you’ll make at the Annual Party Meeting next Wednesday. Only ten days away! The whole Party will be arriving in Sydney for the meeting in the next week or so.

  Hopefully, you have given this some thought.

  Remember, we discussed what ‘policy’ means. Just a plan or idea for the country. Something that you come up with that will become law once it goes through parliament. You get to have what is called a ‘Captain’s Pick’. That means you get to choose a policy without consulting others. This is your chance to show the country who you are and what you believe in.

  Are you okay?

  My heart started pounding and my head felt foggy again. If Dev didn’t know that Dad was going to the conference, did anyone?

  It didn’t make sense.

  I went back into my bedroom and grabbed my iPad to see if I could video call Dad. He’d said that I could video call him anytime on work trips. In the past, though, whenever I’d tried he’d always been busy. And today there was no sign of him online at all. He could still be on a plane somewhere. Or maybe he didn’t want to be contacted? I had a sinking feeling about this conference.

  Maybe I should talk to Lottie. She’d definitely have an opinion on what to do. I usually bury my head in a book when big things are happening. But would Lottie do the right thing? She was probably still asleep anyway.

  I picked up Dad’s phone and typed out the words:

  Hi Dev, it’s Harper. Dad’s gone to the conference.

  My finger danced around the send button.

  But something didn’t feel right.

  What if Dad hadn’t gone to a conference? What if he’d gone … somewhere else? And didn’t want to be found?

  The media would go into a frenzy if it came out. But maybe Dad just needed some time, a little break before Dev and everyone else started hounding him again. I totally get what that feels like.

  I deleted my words and replaced them with:

  Good morning, Dev. I’m feeling unwell. Let’s discuss the policy tomorrow.

  I paused. That didn’t really sound like Dad. He never used people’s real names. I deleted the text again and typed:

  Feeling crook mate. In bed. Don’t come here today – ill catch you tomoz.

  I pressed send and then dropped the phone before I could think about what I’d done.

  Chapter 3

  ‘So, let me get this straight: you’re upset about this?’ Lottie whispered to me as we waited in the hallway. I could tell from the twinkle in her eye that we were having very different reactions to recent events.

  We stopped whispering as Cerise approached and gave us a long look up and down with an expression that suggested we’d failed in some way already.

  ‘Girls,’ she said with an imperceptible shake of her head. I’d only recently understood that this was Cerise’s way of saying good morning.

  We mumbled our hellos. I watched her out of the corner of my eye as she reached into the pocket of her dress for a comb to scrape against our defenceless scalps. Cerise reminded me of one of my dolls that I used to dress up and paint with Mum’s make-up: all shiny and smooth and pink. I kind of wanted to give her a ‘make-under’ to see what she actually looked like without all the lipstick and other gunk she put on.

  Cerise ran the comb through Lottie’s short dark bob and then turned me by the shoulders and began coaxing my hair into a low bun. I thought I’d done a decent job of my hair, but clearly not. Lottie was making faces at me in the oval mirror but I knew better than to laugh and risk one of Cerise’s death stares.

  Cerise was teaching us to be ‘proper young ladies’, which as far as I could see meant no laughing, hardly any talking and as little fun as possible. Cerise didn’t even like us playing Minecraft because ‘young ladies should be using their time more productively’. Whatever that meant. This morning, Cerise had at least three bobby pins in her mouth and a look of sheer determination on her face.

  We had discovered that Cerise’s official title was ‘Prime Ministerial Nanny’, which made us giggle every time we heard it because it sounded as if she was Dad’s nanny. But no, she was definitely ours, and apparently the role involved torturing me with bobby pins each morning. And throwing out any of our clothes she didn’t approve of, which was pretty much all of them. Even my comfiest sneakers with the purple stripes. Our new wardrobe consisted of stiff dresses that I couldn’t move my arms in and Mary-Jane shoes that made me slip and fall on my bum on a regular basis. I looked wistfully at Lottie’s short hair and noticed a flash of her bright green Youth Climate Coalition wristband tucked up under the sleeve of her blazer. If Cerise saw that she’d be in so much trouble. But Lottie didn’t care. My sister was much better than me at being sneaky.

  Cerise stood back and sighed, still looking dissatisfied. I clenched my eyes and mouth as she reached for the hairspray. Sure enough, she sprayed it all over me, making me gasp for life like a helpless cockroach. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lottie leaning against the wall in silent laughter.

  ‘That will have to do.’ Cerise exhaled, not noticing my discomfort.

  I looked in the mirror at the girl with the elegant low bun. It was so tight I felt like a thousand tiny ants were pulling my scalp back. My morning routine used to consist of hunting on the floor for an elastic and then wrapping it around a loose ponytail while munching a banana. Now, ‘hair’ was a thing that took at least fifteen minutes and a fair amount of pain. But I dared not loosen it until we were at school.

  I walked back to my bedroom to give Marcella a final hug and saw the screen of Dad’s phone flashing on my bed. Five new messages from Dev. What should I do? Phones weren’t allowed at school but I couldn’t leave it here or Dev might explode from the stress. Or worse, just turn up at the house! I shoved the phone into my pocket and smoothed the covers of my bed, just as Cerise called out, ‘Time to go, ladies! A day of learning awaits.’

 

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