She must not look away, no matter how difficult it is to see her dear fearless friend in this deadly battle.

  Map has to stop and blow her nose. She gets quite emotional sometimes.

  ‘Break?’ she checks.

  ‘No!’ I need to know urgently, one way or the other, whether Iorek Byrnison can defy the odds and win.

  She reads on until we can finally relax.

  I was so scared, I could only take tiny little half-breaths for about three pages and now my face is very hot.

  Spoiler: he wins.

  I’ve had to flop on my bed and take a few huge gulps of air to recover, and have never felt more relieved about anything I’ve ever read in a novel.

  School Strike 4 Climate

  Lying in bed, wide awake, still thinking about Lyra and her determination to look, without flinching, at the worst possible thing she could imagine.

  She’s determined to be there for her friend, Iorek Byrnison, if he happens to look her way while he’s in a battle to the death.

  It connects like a puzzle piece with Greta Thunberg. The courage of not looking away, no matter how painful.

  It’s not an armoured bear in Greta’s case, but a planet she loves.

  She looks, without flinching, at the effects of climate change.

  Sitting alone outside the Swedish parliament.

  Not being afraid, not being intimidated, determined to change things.

  Facing up to the most difficult thing imaginable again and again and again.

  Repeating her clear and urgent message to adults all over the world until she is more than one girl sitting with a protest sign, she is the face of a movement of millions of kids who want climate action.

  Because she would not look away.

  And it’s like Map’s wall message about paying attention.

  I know I’m not that brave – not as brave as Lyra, or Greta, or Map – but I am now looking at climate change.

  I have finally given it a proper divider section in my catastrophe notebook, my whole Important to Me talk, stapled in because I couldn’t find sticky tape.

  Even though I’m utterly failing – so far – to have any impact on my mum’s plans, maybe I can succeed at getting the grade sixes to the School Strike 4 Climate.

  I must do it, or die trying.

  Not literally die, but try really, really, really hard.

  Greta and Lyra Energy Needed Urgently

  Arriving at school a quarter of an hour earlier than usual I head straight for the principal’s office.

  Dev, the principal’s assistant, is already having his first cup of tea and biscuit, and is hard at work.

  ‘Hi Dev, is Sofia free? I need to see her.’

  ‘Good morning, Nelly. Unless it’s an emergency, can I suggest you catch up with her in the playground at lunchtime?’

  Sofia has a playground wander every Monday and Friday lunchtime, so she can be accessible to students.

  She likes to hear our ‘news and views’.

  ‘It is a dire emergency.’ I fix my eyes on Dev, not looking away, hoping to channel some Lyra energy.

  He stands up, looking worried. ‘Let me see if she can find a couple of minutes before her eight thirty.’

  ‘Take a seat, Nelly.’

  ‘Nell.’ They forget, these people who’ve known me since prep.

  ‘Nell!’ Sofia gives me an encouraging smile.

  ‘Sofia, I’m here to personally let you know how important it is that grade six gets to go to the climate strike.’

  Sofia shuffles through some papers on her desk. ‘I have your petition here . . .’

  ‘So you know that every single grade six signed it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We are unanimous. We are committed.’

  ‘Good work, but I still need to speak to a couple more members of the school council before I make my decision.’

  ‘Thank you, Sofia. Is there anyone you’d like me to speak to?’ I’m keeping the eye contact dialled to ten.

  ‘No, thanks, Nell. I’ll be sure to let Alex know the outcome. Is there anything else?’

  I stand up, fierce eye contact unwavering.

  ‘Let’s talk again soon,’ she says, glancing at her watch.

  I will not look away, no matter how difficult it is. ‘I should mention that I’m prepared to come and sit outside your office every day, if necessary. If that’s what it takes to get grade six to School Strike 4 Climate, I’ll do it.’

  She looks startled, but smiles and nods as Dev comes in to usher me out.

  I’m floating along on the specific good feeling of trying to do the right thing, until I cross paths with Plum and Nate.

  My smile freezes as Nate starts pretending to puke.

  Nate is particularly good at a realistic ‘about to vomit’ action and sound effects.

  What Cecily would do is tell Nate not to be horrible.

  What Plum does is laugh.

  Who is she, my maybe friend who got really excited about grade six going to School Strike 4 Climate, or someone who cares more about being popular with Nate?

  I trail along behind them towards the grade six building feeling queasy and humiliated.

  Is my friendship with Plum fizzling down before I even get to ask her about her favourite sort of catastrophe?

  I bet she would have said ‘fashion catastrophes’.

  That’s the sort of story in the magazines at her place. Two celebrities turn up somewhere in the same outfit! Who wore it best?

  Not as interesting as Cecily and Gus’s areas, but it is a thing.

  When someone says ‘fashion catastrophe’ it usually means that you don’t look right for various reasons according to someone else, probably a fashion journalist, or even a mean friend.

  Maybe this shouldn’t be worn with that, or your colours clash, or your accessories are all wrong, or that’s so last season, or something doesn’t suit you.

  What comes to mind when I think ‘fashion catastrophe’ is slightly different.

  I think of the time Cecily told me about a boy in the twins’ class who got his penis caught in the zip of his pants and had to go to hospital.

  Having a synthetic material melting into your skin in a fire.

  Bursting for the toilet while wearing a onesie that you can’t get out of in time.

  Getting your neck broken by a scarf that gets caught in the wheels of an open car. That happened in real life to a famous dancer called Isadora Duncan a long time ago.

  Period blood leaking onto light-coloured jeans or skirt and making a huge, red, impossible-to-hide stain. My plan if I do ever get my period is that I will always carry a long-sleeved top that I can casually tie around my waist in a situation like that.

  Bell sleeves draping themselves in gravy.

  Finally getting to wear high heels only to lose balance and break your ankle.

  Using an old-fashioned umbrella with a metal spike and getting electrocuted when struck by lightning.

  I’m sure there are lots more, but those are some of the most obvious fashion catastrophes that spring to mind.

  Juggling Friendship

  In the bags area Cecily and Gus have goo-goo eyes looking at new photos of Fennel on Gus’s phone.

  They glance up but don’t offer the phone to share as they would have before I ditched spelling bee, before I ditched them for Plum.

  ‘Can I have a look?’ I ask.

  Gus shrugs and hands me his phone. ‘Sure.’

  The kitten is adorable, tortoiseshell, with little black splodges on her face, as though she’s been splashed with paint.

  One photo shows her teeny little paw-pads. I need to share the cuteness with someone, but Cecily has gone over to chat with Rhianna.

  ‘When can I meet her in person?’ I ask Gus, feeling needy, and aware of Nate still miming the big vomit episode and Plum still finding it funny.

  Gus shrugs again. ‘I mean, Saturday after spelling bee practice if you want to come over.’

  My mouth is open, about to enthusiastically agree.

  ‘Oh, no, it can’t be this Saturday,’ says Gus. ‘I think we’re meant to be going to Rhianna’s.’

  He says it like he couldn’t care less either way and does not offer a different time that I could come over.

  And it’s another awkward frozen-smile-on-my-face moment.

  Walking into the classroom in the cold air between all my not-friends, I check that my phone is on silent and hand it to Alex who is greeting everyone and holding the phone locker.

  Over at the Wings of Hope installation on the back wall, Plum is pinning up a feather while Cecily, standing next to her, poses for Rhianna, before Alex removes Rhianna’s phone.

  Time to check in on my hope levels.

  • Hopefulness levels re friendship: LOW. I will have to go to spelling bee tomorrow night. Friendship action is needed. As with climate change, talking isn’t enough. Need to walk the walk. Have I left it too late? I hope not.

  • And what about Plum? What sort of friend teases you about something that is already embarrassing, like public puking?

  • Hopefulness levels re blocking the move into Ted’s: VERY LOW. But it’s not over till it’s over, i.e., until the removalist truck arrives.

  • Hopefulness levels re grade six getting permission to go to the School Strike 4 Climate: MODERATE.

  Could a school council and a school principal ignore a one hundred per cent petition response?

  Not without the whole year level feeling disrespected!

  If I sit alone outside Sofia’s office, day after day – which I’m fully prepared to do – eventually new friends might gather around me, like-minded friends.

  I look around the room.

  Cecily is the most like-minded by a long way.

  I haven’t added my climate action hopes to the Wings of Hope, so I go to the hope box and choose a mauve feather to take back to my desk.

  On it I write: I hope to attend School Strike 4 Climate with my whole year level.

  Cecily is sitting next to me and leans in a bit to see what I’ve written.

  Normally she’d say something encouraging.

  Now she has no comment for me, or my hope.

  I miss the hundred little drips of kindness that a nice friend can give you on any old day.

  I pin my hope onto the edge of the left-hand wing.

  Half covering Romi’s hope to make a major contribution to public life.

  Seriously.

  I meant to look for Plum’s feather, but I didn’t see what colour it was.

  Walking back to my table, Plum shoves me in the back. When I turn to frown, she’s grinning. ‘Just kidding with all the –’ She mimes vomiting again.

  Yeah, right.

  ‘Sure,’ I say, forcing out what is meant to be a chuckle, but is really more of a gulp.

  Lunchtime starts with Cecily not waiting for me to go to our usual spot near the kitchen garden.

  She no doubt thinks I’ll be sitting with Plum.

  Plum makes the ‘are you coming?’ gesture by moving her head in the direction of the door, but she’s with Nate and Monty, and I’m in no mood for more dissection of my public vomiting episode.

  So I start chomping on my loner-lunch sandwich sitting in the bag area, but soon get shooed outside by Alex.

  In the blinking bright playground, the first person I see is Sofia.

  I make a beeline for her and we talk about climate action until she checks her watch and remembers she needs to make an urgent call.

  Let’s hope it’s to a council member about the climate strike!

  While we’re cleaning up after dinner, I ask my mother if I can go to spelling bee, round three, tomorrow night.

  She abruptly stops spraying and wiping the bench. ‘Of course you can! I’m glad you want to go.’

  I try out my quizzical look on her. It’s one hundred per cent based on Sofia’s. Eyebrows up. Three-quarter face.

  ‘I think Cecily has been hoping you’d go, even though you’re not competing.’

  ‘Well, I will.’

  ‘No second thoughts about stopping?’

  ‘Nope.’

  Spelling bee is definitely over.

  But I hope our friendship is not.

  Triumph!

  We are responding to a creative writing prompt to use a number or numbers in any way we like in a short piece of writing.

  It can be fiction or non-fiction.

  Alex has left us working quietly while she speaks to someone in the hallway.

  We can see her back through the closed door, so no one is bothering to talk.

  She’d just come straight back in looking disappointed and talk to us about the benefits of behaving as independent learners.

  Nobody wants to hear that one again.

  I read Cecily’s first sentence over her shoulder: No one knew exactly what was going on behind the doors at 234 Pickles Lane, but private investigator Susan Lamington had her suspicions.

  If things weren’t so chilly between us she would have already shown me and asked me what I thought of her character’s name. (I love it.)

  What a hook! I don’t even like mysteries, but I want to read on.

  My first sentence is, The ten most common hazards in the home are mould, an unserviced gas heater which might be putting fatal levels of carbon monoxide in the air, loose rugs, smoke detectors with flat batteries, spoiled food that has become toxic, cigarette smoke, poisons, for example dishwasher powder or liquid or pesticides not kept in child-safe cupboards, pool with unlatched gate or even a fishpond, objects left on the floor which could be a choking hazard for small visitors . . .

  That’s nine straight off the top of my head.

  ‘Numbers’ prompts me to brood again on my failed strategies to avoid moving in with Ted and Amelia.

  I still haven’t figured out a way to show my mother the photos outside Ted’s café without also having to admit that we were spying on Ted.

  While I’m trying to think of a tenth common household hazard, Alex comes back in pink-cheeked and smiling.

  She does her ‘attention, please’ signal, which is both arms in the air and two finger clicks, pause, two more clicks. We respond, both arms up straight and two finger clicks, pause, two more clicks.

  A classful of finger clicks is a lovely sound.

  ‘Grade six, big news! We have permission to attend School Strike 4 Climate!’

  It’s as though she’s given us an Academy Award.

  Everyone cheers, and stands up. Some people are dancing on the spot. Others are screaming their heads off. Romi and Sid start drumming their table with rulers. There’s an ongoing loop of woo-hoos racing around the classroom.

  Even though this is an unusually loud response, and we would usually be told to settle down, Alex is standing there, nodding and smiling.

  She is honestly the most enthusiastic human I’ve ever met.

  ‘Lap of the oval to express our high spirits, I think, and then back into the classroom. And three cheers for Nell and her leadership on this.’

  As people cheer, I can see Cecily being overpowered by her own niceness.

  She gives me a high five. ‘Go, Nell. You did it!’

  As we grab hats and head out to the oval together in the throng, I say, ‘I can come to spelling bee tonight; I checked with Mum.’

  She links arms and pulls me along with her. ‘I’m so happy.’

  And so am I.

  But I missed a chance to tell everyone that it was Cecily who inspired me.

  This is a special planning entry because I’m feeling the weight of responsibility for bringing my whole class to the School Strike 4 Climate, and will give a short talk about staying safe at a demonstration.

  I’ll include suggestions of what to bring:

  Sunscreen

  Hat

  Water

  Substantial snacks

  Phone

  Myki card

  Comfortable shoes, important for walking without getting blisters and to save feet from possible trampling.

  Everyone will need a designated friend not to lose sight of in case they get separated from the group, and a landmark place to meet up after the rally if they do get separated.

  Knowing how to stay safe in a crowd is important, especially if you are small or short.

  Crowds can gather their own momentum like a wave and surge forward, so if you get stuck between a hard wall and a surging crowd you could get squashed.

  This has happened with fatal consequences at sporting events and even music festivals from time to time.

  I’ll remind people to avoid the front of the crowd if we’re heading for a wall.

  If you can make your way to the edges of a crowd it is often a bit less densely populated and safer.

  Disaster!

  Crowd worries aside, my hopefulness levels have risen exponentially in just one day.

  I’m so happy it would be possible to skip all the way home, even as I think of safety issues.

  However, for whatever reason, grade sixes don’t skip in the street. That stops by the end of grade three.

  I almost feel as though I’m floating.

  It’s no trouble at all to smile as I walk past Mr Gruber and so he doesn’t get to say that it might never happen.

  I lift the gate to the exact sweet spot where there’s no scraping.

  As I put my key in the lock, the door opens from the inside.

  ‘Hi, you’re –’ I say.

  ‘Late cancellation.’

  ‘Mum, the best thing – we’re allowed to go to School Strike 4 Climate, officially, the whole of grade six.’

  But – what is going on?

  My mum isn’t doing any of the right things.

  Where there should be a huge smile, a hug, some congratulations, there is only angry silence.

  ‘My talk and the petition – they worked!’

  ‘You and I need to talk.’

  I follow her as she walks briskly to the kitchen.

  She uses a hand gesture for me to sit down as though I’m in a job interview.

 

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