How to spell catastrophe, p.9
How to Spell Catastrophe, page 9
Which tells you everything you need to know about next door’s bar for humour.
Because I am truly glum at the moment, that only makes it more annoying when he says, Don’t worry, it might never happen.
Because actually it – my life being pulled out from under me – is happening in all probability, as well as it – my friends excluding me – is also actually happening, so I scoot straight past him, giving him the minimum level of polite smile, and don’t stop for any talking.
I get inside to find Mum settled at the dining room table, working.
‘Nell, I have a pile of case notes to finish, are you happy to get yourself some afternoon tea and give me an hour or so before we catch up on the day?’
‘Sure,’ I say. Not like I have any choice.
I haven’t done it for a long time, but I dump everything from my desk onto the floor, drag my quilt off the bed and drape it over my desk, which is actually a table, to make a hideaway space, a quilt cave.
I weight the quilt with some heavy books and crawl in under the table, bringing a plate of food, the framed photograph of my father, Snoog-bunny, and my bad mood.
Backed into the corner, knees up, Snoog-bunny tucked under my chin, a crack of light coming in from the window, I put my finger up and trace the little dog face I drew inside the table edge when I was seven. I smell the cedar woody smell of Under Table Land.
If only I had a dog to look after.
If only I had a daemon to look after me.
If only my dad were alive.
If only my friends still included me in all their plans.
If only my mother had never met Ted.
If only they’d never started going out.
If only I could stop worrying because it might never happen.
If only I could go and live with Map.
If only this wasn’t the pandemic era.
If only I could leap, like Lyra, without looking.
If only I didn’t know so much about dangerous things then I might have the necessary combination of ignorance and courage to run away.
If only I weren’t so sensible that I know there’s no point in running way.
If only we were still allowed to have peanut butter at home.
If only I had some mini Mars Bites with me right now.
If only I could save the planet and maybe appear on the news giving an inspiring speech like Greta Thunberg.
I stack up four crackers and cheese and crunch down. Delicious. I poke my head out, blinking in the stronger light, and drag a black Fineliner pen into my sulky den.
Closing my eyes, I imagine my perfect dog and my perfect daemon.
I blend them into one perfect creature –
Dark, shiny as a wet night road, light on his feet.
He steps elegantly, crouches and sprints – flying, feet barely glancing the ground.
He turns back to check where I am.
He always knows, always wants to be near to me.
His ears are long and finely pointed. They sit straight up, alert to every sound, turning delicately like antennae.
I am safe.
What will I call my daemon dog? He needs a light, swift name. Maybe . . . Kite! Fast, fleet, and it’s a type of bird, too.
Perfect.
I know well enough that I am too old to draw on furniture. But this inside-the-table canvas belongs to me.
I look at the photo of my father, smiling.
He understands, for sure.
I smile back.
Dad and I love the same book, Northern Lights, across a twenty-seven-year bridge; he stands there on the other side, a twelve-year-old boy in Glasgow.
I uncap my pen and draw Kite’s face, pressing each line firmly into the wood, filling it in, black, black, black. His head tilts to the left, as though he’s listening.
He’s right next to my seven-year-old dog drawing.
Last time I made the quilt cave – ages ago – it was with Cecily.
We persuaded my mum that we could sleep in the cave.
Two girls. Two sleeping bags. Not much air.
We just squeezed in but only lasted for a couple of hours.
We ran out of air but we did not run out of giggles. We dragged the sleeping bags out and slept on the rug.
A camping inside night.
I’m missing Cecily.
We haven’t even had a fight, but we’re drifting. There’s a coolness between us now that wasn’t there before.
And that’s a first.
It’s all down to me, quitting spelling bee, and keeping it secret that I’ve been to Plum’s place, twice.
I’m looking at my phone, willing someone to text me when I remember the audiobook, No One is Too Small to Make a Difference by Greta Thunberg, also read by Greta Thunberg.
Map sent it to me ages ago and I forgot I had it.
I listen until Mum calls me for dinner.
Important to Me
Later, curled up in bed past my usual lights-out time I finish listening to the book, which results in . . .
An epiphany.
A light-bulb moment.
Clarity!
New understanding!
Ever since we were almost caught in the bushfire, climate change has felt too big and too worrying to look at.
Now, thank you, Greta, a switch has flipped and climate change feels too big and too worrying not to look at.
Time to email Map.
I have an idea and need her expert feedback.
We email back and forth, back and forth.
My mother would not approve, at this hour, but Map is reassuringly vague about bedtime and school nights.
My email subject line was: Being a friend of the earth.
I text Cecily that we need to talk.
She won’t get the message until morning because of the Smart family all-devices-out-of-the-bedroom-by-bedtime rule.
I want her to know she planted the seed.
As I drift towards sleep, muffled scraps of the late-night current affairs show theme music waft upstairs and I’m thinking, there’s no Don’t worry, it might never happen from Greta, she is as clear as glass: climate catastrophe is happening; urgent action is needed.
Pitch Preparation
Even a non-morning person can set an alarm and get some pre-breakfast work done.
I gather up my index cards and tap them into a sharp pile.
Even though there are just three cards.
If only I can be brave like Lyra
If only I can be persuasive like Greta
If only I can walk the walk like Map –
I
might
be
able
to
make
a
small
difference
to
a
big
problem.
School Strike 4 Climate Plans
Cecily and Gus are deep in talks about round one of the spelling bee when I arrive, so I don’t get a chance to share my plan.
When everyone heads out to morning recess I stay to make my pitch to Alex.
I look at the first index card to help me remember what I want to say. I got so much good advice from Map about how to persuade someone.
Our school’s policy is that we don’t attend the strike as a school, but that you are allowed to go with your parents.
‘I believe it’s time we persuaded the school to change its mind about School Strike 4 Climate: the whole of grade six should go to the rally, representing Hollyhill Primary.’
I start on my bullet points.
‘First – in less than a year we will all be high school students, and as such we need some rehearsal in responsibility.’
‘Okay.’
‘Second.’ I hold up my grade six blue ‘Being Good Research Detectives’ sheet. ‘This is exactly what we’re learning about – how to see the difference between valid and invalid sources. In all my research, using valid sources, scientists say we are in the middle of a global climate catastrophe. There is expert consensus, just like we’ve talked about.’
‘I hear you.’
‘Third, I have a genuine interest in catastrophes and I’m confident that this information is correct.’
Alex nods.
‘This is not about having a day off school –’
‘Though it does involve the better part of a day.’
‘Yes, but it will be part of a well-thought-out strategy.’
More nodding. ‘I fear it’s likely to be a “no” from Sofia, but she is more likely to be persuaded by a well-thought-out strategy. What are your strategy prongs?’
It’s on another index card. I’m glad mine are pink. It’s an encouraging colour.
‘One, grade six to lead planning for the native garden at the side of the oval.’
Alex nods.
‘Two, invite our local member of parliament to the school to discuss climate policy.’
More nods.
‘Three, write a letter from our class to the Prime Minister to share our ideas about more ambitious zero carbon emission targets. Remind him that we will be voting in just six years. And four, attend the School Strike 4 Climate on the last day of term.’
‘This is good work, Nell.’
‘I emailed my grandmother and got lots of help from her.’
‘Do you think you could do everything except the strike?’
‘No, because the strike will send a strong message to the government. They should see as many people as possible and as big an age range as possible.’
‘I do see your point.’
‘Also, because the Australian School Strike 4 Climate will be on the news, it gives kids in every other country around the world the message that we care, too. It makes us all stronger when we see that.’
Alex starts jotting down some notes.
‘You could say that the idea was inspired by our word of the week, “participation”!’ That was Map’s idea: when you need their cooperation, encourage people to feel as though they have some ownership of the idea.
‘Do you think that the whole class would support the strike?’ Alex asks.
‘I’m glad you asked me that.’ This is from Map, too: welcome people’s input! Ideally you have anticipated the question and already have your answer.
‘This is going to be my Important to Me talk, and I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to persuade everyone that going to the school strike is important to all of us. And I’ll have a petition ready to sign.’
I’m not showing off when I say that Alex looks impressed. Honestly, it’s mostly because I got pro advice from Map.
Map said it’s crucial to canvass the views of the class before I do my talk. Canvassing is like suggesting it to them as something to consider, also persuading them that it’s what they want.
To put it another way, you want people warmed up to the idea of signing before you put a petition in front of them.
Moving Plans Get Real
For dinner we are having a vegetarian Thai green curry. It’s one of my favourites so I’m in a happy haze of lemongrass and coconutty anticipation and doing the right thing without being asked – i.e., getting out cutlery and setting the table.
In our dining room there’s a narrow table with two drawers. A large mirror hangs above it. On that table sits a blue china jug filled with jonquils from the garden, along with today’s mail, our keys and Mum’s sunglasses.
My mum has opened a couple of letters and as I get out place mats and coasters, I see it: a removalist’s quote!
I look up to see my own horrified face staring back at me in the mirror, my mouth a comic book ‘o’.
First of all, who knew how expensive it is to get your house packed up and relocated?
Second, a moving quote? Good for sixty days?
Third, I have a pimple that’s come from nowhere right between my eyebrows.
Looks like my mum told a big fat lie when she said there was no rush, we could take it slowly, get used to the idea.
‘Nell, can you please come and give me a hand?’ she calls from the kitchen.
I take a deep breath and put on a calm face.
Now is not the time for a battle, but it looks like time to implement some strategy.
I slip my phone out and take a photo of the quote.
It’s not till my head hits the pillow later that night that I realise I have completely forgotten about my friends having their first spelling bee round which I kind of said I’d go to.
Fire Dreams Again
Black water.
Endless black water.
Red sky.
Sizzling sand.
Gulp of smoke.
Try to call out, can’t make a sound.
Mum!
The tiniest croak no matter how hard I shout.
Toe juuuuust touching the hard sand.
Toe pointing down not finding the sand.
Mouthful of water.
Head swallowed.
The suffocating hush of black water.
Wake with a gasp. Sit up, shivering.
Phew, early light outside.
Get my phone.
Photos.
The removal quote.
That was no dream.
Some Friendly Help
Omar and I arrive at school at the same time.
‘Where were you last night?’ he asks. He’s talking about round one of the spelling bee. ‘Also, my mum said I should have invited you to come to Hamburger Heaven. Sorry!’
He is dragged away in the direction of the prep area by his little sister.
I’m in Cecily’s sights as she comes hurrying into the bag area.
‘Where were you?’
Even though I’m not officially involved, I should have been there to lend some support.
Spelling bee is like debating: a little audience creates atmosphere, even if it’s just family and a couple of friends.
‘You said you’d be there.’
‘– if I could.’
‘Well, why couldn’t you?’
I show her the removalist’s quote on my phone.
‘Whoa. So it’s really happening.’
‘I’m sorry – I went into shock, then I forgot to ask Mum.’
Cecily’s look of annoyance doesn’t last long. ‘I didn’t remind you, either. I hate going straight from saxophone to spelling bee, it sucks.’
‘How did you go?’
‘Won. By a mile.’
‘Ha. You don’t need me at all.’
Rhianna rushes in, smiling, and ignoring me, does a fancy fist and hip bumping routine with Cecily, saying, ‘Winner, winner, hamburger dinner.’
Gus arrives and joins in.
This is new.
Just as I’m feeling as left out as it’s possible to feel and doubting my decision to quit spelling bee, Plum comes up behind me, gives me a friendly shove in the shoulder, and we all head into the classroom together.
Morning recess and we’re sitting on the border of the kitchen garden, inspecting and swapping snacks.
Key move for me is swapping a large oatmeal and raisin cookie for a snack pack of cheese corn chips. Omar takes the deal not because he prefers the cookie, but because it will fill him up better than his more delicious corn chips between now and lunch. My hungry peak hour is after school, so I can put flavour first.
‘Listen up,’ says Cecily. ‘Urgent business, what is Nell going to do about the removalist’s quote?’
Gus whistles. ‘So, I thought this was a distant maybe, but now it’s really happening? Back to the strategy list – what is this guy up to that would be a deal-breaker for your mum?’
Omar is across the whole catastrophe. ‘That’s what you need to find out.’
I nod, eating the last corn chip. There are never enough in the snack-size pack. ‘We could go to the café where he works and – spy on him?’
‘I’m out, sorry,’ says Omar. ‘I told Mum I’d help with the sisters after school. They want to make slime. Again.’
We throw him looks of sympathy. His sisters’ love of slime is lasting forever.
‘I can come,’ says Gus. ‘What about you, Smartie?’
‘I’m in,’ says Cecily. ‘But what do we tell the parents?’
‘Can we say it’s a brainstorming session for our Important to Me talks at your place, Gus?’ I ask.
‘Sure.’
Right behind where we are sitting, inside the kitchen garden, Nate and Monty are balancing on a pile of bricks they’ve found and Plum is laughing and joining in.
‘So, your girl Plum sure likes hanging out with Nate and Monty,’ says Omar.
‘She’s not my girl.’
Cecily raises her eyebrows.
‘She’s your girl, Nelmac,’ says Gus with a shrug. ‘You like her. You’ve befriended her.’
‘She said you went to her place,’ says Cecily in an accusing tone.
‘That’s not a crime. She’s new; I’m being friendly.’ But I’m blushing with embarrassment. I should have told Cecily. We both know it.
‘But how do you feel about being in an overlap friend group with Nate?’ Omar wants to know.
‘I’m not even,’ I try.
But – I am, I guess?
And for the record, that is, my private record, I don’t feel good about it.
‘Don’t worry, it won’t last,’ says Gus. ‘She’s the cool girl, still finding out who’s who and what’s what at the new school, and when she does she’ll drop you.’
‘Or – maybe she’s nicer than you think.’
Three pairs of eyes disagree with me.
And that’s without them having heard her say That zit needs its own desk, on the way out to recess. Plum does seem mean sometimes, but I think-hope maybe it’s her sense of humour.
‘You know this is her fourth school, right?’ I say. ‘Might be worth actually giving her a break.’
Just as I’m about to get their help talking to people about the petition, Alex buzzes over to round up the spelling bee crew for a newsletter photo.
‘You’re welcome to come along, Nell,’ she says.
‘That’s okay.’ I get up and brush corn chip crumbs off the front of my track pants. I’ve got work to do: canvass the views of my classmates.
