How to Spell Catastrophe, page 6
Grace said that even though when I first started seeing her I looked at the death worries a lot, one day I’d find that I had hung them in a corner I hardly ever looked at.
And that is exactly what happened.
It’s easy to say that now, but I remember how it felt to be seven and flooded with worry, to be drowning in thoughts of death.
I’m still extremely interested in death – and how to avoid it – but I don’t worry about it in that way anymore.
The last time I saw Grace was when I started having the fire dream two years ago.
We had been staying at Mallacoota only one week before catastrophic bushfires stormed through, forcing an evacuation to the beach. Even though we watched the news footage from safe-at-home, we were so close to being there at the wrong time.
One week later and it would have been us on that beach.
And even in Melbourne, we needed masks because the bushfire smoke travelled south. Our skies were hazy for weeks.
I imagined what it would have been like if we’d been at Mallacoota one week later, herded with a crowd of strangers in the screaming roar of the fire, choking, eyes streaming, sky red, sea black and the sand starting to sizzle and melt as a choking wall of unbearable heat pushed us into the water.
I dreamt over and over of losing my mother in the water, my scream coming out as a small rasp because of smoke, losing my footing on the sand, being too tired to stay afloat.
Going under.
Weather events, like bushfires and typhoons, are getting more extreme because of climate change.
I talked to Grace about how scary it was almost being in the Mallacoota bushfires, and how scary it was to go to sleep knowing that the dream was there waiting for me.
And how thinking about climate change made me feel – helpless.
She said it’s not kids’ responsibility to fix all the problems of the world and it was okay if I didn’t want to think about it too much.
It’s why I don’t have a climate change page in my notebook.
Map does so much work with Extinction Rebellion.
Maybe one person per family fighting for climate action is enough.
If I told Grace I’d had the fire dream again, I’m pretty sure she’d say it has to do with My Other Worries.
Strange and interesting accidental deaths:
Spontaneous combustion
Laughing to death
Stabbed with own baton while conducting orchestra
Struck by meteorite during a meteorite storm
Struck by tortoise dropped from sky by eagle
Infected mosquito bite
Kicked/slashed by a cassowary (big foot claws)
Strangled by own scarf
Carrot juice overdose (you can die of too much vitamin A)
Water overdose!
Choking on a small book
Crushed by a coffin
Touching a poisonous snail
Drowning in quicksand
Drowning in molasses
Drowning in grain silo
Drowning in wine
Note: do not fall into large containers of anything
Leadership Challenge
Alex has asked me to come in for a chat at recess.
Recess chats are always about problems and everyone knows it.
She starts off by saying the exact words my mum said: ‘Why would you quit spelling bee, Nell? You love spelling bee.’
I
hate
people
telling
me
what
I
love.
I sigh, trying to remember the moment. ‘It was like finding out how I felt while I was saying it.’
Alex is listening carefully and nodding.
‘And you talked about it with your mum?’
‘Yep.’
‘Well, I will certainly respect your choice, but I want you to know that you can change your mind and come back at any time. You also need to think about what other contribution you might like to make as part of the grade six leadership group.’
Uh-oh. That sounds like demotion time.
Am I getting kicked out of the leadership group?
In a way it would be fair enough. I said in my application at the end of last year that I would be a spelling bee role model to younger students.
And I meant it at the time.
‘Do you want me to go away and think about it, or say something now?’
Plum looks through the window in our classroom door, holds up her middle fingers and ducks out of view.
I manage to swallow my laugh, turning it into a cough.
‘Whenever you like. I have some ideas that might get the ball rolling.’
‘O-kay.’ This is a potential teacher trap, where they find a way to get you to pick up rubbish in the playground by calling it something like environment protection.
‘Maybe I could share some more catastrophe information. Because it’s really all about safety, when you think about it. I could share something new every week.’
Now Plum’s hand appears, waving at the window in the door. I have to take a deep breath and hold it, forcing myself not to laugh.
‘Maybe. Although, we have already heard quite a lot from you on the catastrophe front. I will certainly always be grateful for your advice on what to do if I ever get caught in a lion’s cage.’
‘There’s lots more.’
Alex is doing some respectful nodding, but I can tell she’s not going for my suggestion.
‘Nell, you know we’ve been looking at healthy environments being diverse environments?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you know we’ve got that strip of land next to the oval that is basically a weed patch?’
Here it comes. Weeding. ‘Yes.’
‘I’m wondering if grade six blue might work on planning a native garden for that area, to attract some birds, and insects and bees?’
‘That sounds good.’ It would actually be good, something to stop the wind freezing us there in winter.
With a gulp I remember that we won’t be here next winter.
We’ll be scattered to different high schools and I might not even be living in my own home anymore.
‘Think about it and come back to me with any other ideas you have.’
The first music bell starts and Alex stands up. ‘You’ve just got time to eat your snack.’
She turns to see Plum doing silly dancing to the music bell. ‘And thank you for making Plum feel welcome, Nell. That’s some nice leadership right there.’
It’s not emergency knowledge that you’d need every day, but this is what to do if you are ever trapped inside a lion’s cage or enclosure.
First up, obviously avoid lions’ cages.
But just say you were doing work experience at a zoo, and you were putting down some feed, and the lion supervisor didn’t know you were there and locked the gate as they left . . .
Stay calm.
Scream loudly.
This has two functions: you need someone to know you are in the lion’s cage so they can let you out, and secondly the lion will possibly be put off attacking you because they don’t like loud noise.
Try not to move around too much.
But do slowly make your way to the gate of the cage or enclosure.
Be alert to a growl, which might signal an attack.
Other behaviour that signals anger: a flicking tail (just like domestic cats), and eye contact.
Look around for something you can use as a weapon to whack the lion with if it does attack.
Keep yelling.
Good luck.
My mum thinks there is likely to be a safety release handle of some sort, so no one could get trapped, but I doubt that, because what if the lion managed to activate it?
I wouldn’t do work experience in a zoo if you paid me.
Imagine if all the glass shattered in the Reptiles’ enclosure!
Cecily is still keen.
As a precautionary measure I’ve encouraged her to learn how to pick a lock.
So far, we have successfully unpicked several luggage locks using a straightened-out paperclip, which worked better than the more traditional hairpin.
There are plenty of very clear lock-picking tutorials on YouTube.
But none of them show you how to do it without turning your back on the lions!
Showing Off
One of the worst things about third term is that athletics training starts.
Maybe it’s because our school is conveniently located just a block away from an oval with proper running tracks, or maybe because our principal Sofia is an outdoorsy person, or maybe just to make my life hell, we do a lot of athletics.
They encourage every single one of us to be involved.
Rhianna Gupta got in early this year with a letter about her high arches, so she’s allowed to do timekeeping.
I’m so jealous.
There’s no way I will ever qualify as team-worthy for any inter-school competition, and that means I spend a lot of time slowly jogging around with people who are training for long distance runs.
Our squad divides into two groups: people like me who cannot do sporty things to save our lives, on the fun and fitness end of the spectrum, and people like Monty Soda, lean and strong and can run forever as though he’s never heard of an off switch, who will probably be a professional marathon runner one day.
When I was young I thought I was just slow to find the sport at which I would shine.
I knew there should be at least one, because of my mother.
She is naturally sporty. She runs; she plays tennis; she swims.
She has great reflexes. She can even juggle.
Whereas – well, there is a home movie starring me, as a baby, that says it all.
I’m sitting on the patchwork blankie that Map made for me – we still have it – and my dad, who is off camera, rolls a ball towards me. I look at the ball. And I look up towards him as though I’m saying, Huh?
His hand comes into the frame to take the ball, which he rolls to me again, saying, Are you ready, Nelly? Here it comes.
And I stare down at the ball, as though I’m waiting for it do something.
I look up at my parents, puzzled, and they start to laugh. Mum’s laugh is louder because she’s the one filming.
A third roll, and I’ve had enough of this caper. I look at the ball in disgust, pivot away from it and crawl off.
The image shakes as my parents totally crack up, and the footage is cut.
‘Your fine motor skills were very advanced, and so were your verbal skills, but it was as though you had ball-blindness.’
‘I wish that had my dad in it,’ I said, when she first showed me.
She said she wished it, too. ‘It’s hard knowing he’s there, just out of frame, and not being able to see him.’
My mum recently watched me attempting to throw a screwed-up ball of paper into the recycle bin, and miss three times in a row. The last try rolled halfway around the rim and dropped to the ground.
‘It’s as though there’s an anti-gravitational force that activates when you throw something,’ she said, genuinely mystified.
With encouragement like that, no wonder I struggle.
Even though it was obvious that I didn’t have good – or any – ball sense, I thought I’d probably be a useful runner, having long legs. Surely that would be an advantage.
It was not.
I can never manage to get any speed up.
I have an unbroken record of coming last or second last in every race I’ve ever run.
When I tried shot-put, I staggered over backwards, toppled like a skittle by the shot’s weight.
One discus throw that went surprisingly (and quite dangerously) in the wrong direction alerted me to the fact that it was probably safer if I stuck with the slow jogging.
Cecily is a sprinter, Gus is good at middle distance running, and Omar can fly over hurdles as if the hurdles are not even there, so usually I have no particular friend among the joggers.
Today Plum self-sorts into the group by telling our teacher, Sam, that she’s a fan of fitness but not competition.
Cecily runs past, her face as red as hot sauce. I raise my hand, but she is concentrating fiercely and doesn’t notice.
‘Check out twinnie, she’s going to explode,’ says Plum.
‘She’s working hard. And it’s warm. Warmer than it should be in August.’
‘It feels Perth-warm. I thought Melbourne was supposed to be cool.’
‘It is supposed to be. This is because of climate change.’
Plum looks at me. ‘Or – maybe it’s just a warm day?’
‘My grandmother is a climate activist, so I know quite a lot about climate change.’
‘I mean, so do I. We’ve all learnt about it, I guess,’ says Plum.
‘Well, Mum and I were almost caught in the Mallacoota bushfires, so it’s also pretty personal for me.’
She looks blank.
‘Where everyone had to be evacuated to the beach?’
‘Oh! Wow. Sorry.’
I don’t explain that we weren’t actually there. We might have been! One more week and we would have been.
I’m swamped by a post-show-off embarrassment blush, and immediately go blank on what I actually know about climate change.
I drop down on one knee and pretend I need to re-tie my laces.
As I stand up, Plum says, ‘You’re as red as your twinnie. What’s that about?’
‘I’m hot, okay? Because it’s hotter than it should be. Because of climate change.’
‘Er, sure. I think it’s going to stay warm on the weekend. Do you want to come to my place on Saturday? I found a cute park at the end of my street.’
Sam runs up alongside all the sluggish joggers. ‘Come on, year sixes, we’re jogging for fun and fitness, not dawdling for a chat.’
Plum jogs ahead, not waiting for my response.
I pick up my pace and catch her up. ‘Yes, to Saturday.’
She smiles. It’s a smile that doesn’t care too much one way or the other.
I put that smile in my pocket to practise later.
After School with Cecily
Cecily and I are occasionally allowed to have a shop browse on the way home from school on Friday if we’ve asked.
‘Do you know what I really hate?’ she says.
‘What?’
‘We don’t have enough time together since you quit spelling bee.’
‘It’s been one session.’
‘But every time I thought of something funny on Tuesday, I looked around and you weren’t there to tell.’
‘So, tell me now.’
Cecily stops walking.
I stop too.
She stares at me with quiet focus. I give her a minute while she scans the memory banks.
‘I can’t think of anything.’
For no good reason, this makes us both laugh.
We have a diagnosed laughing problem: we are contagious.
It’s why we are not always allowed to sit next to each other in class, because we can make each other laugh without even talking.
‘When will you get to try the sneezing plan?’
‘Not sure.’
‘I thought of something else last night – introduce your mum to another man! Competition for Ted.’
‘But I don’t know any men she doesn’t already know.’
‘It’s really hard, isn’t it?’
‘Really hard.’
‘Your life challenge right now is the exact opposite of The Parent Trap plot.’
We do the usual: check the supermarket free fruit barrel.
It’s supposed to be for people shopping in the supermarket, and our families do shop here, so we figure it’s okay. Sometimes the fruit is disgusting and not worth taking, but today there are some okay-looking smaller-than-average apples, so we get one each.
Next stop, Aniseed: one large fries, one large strawberry thickshake, two straws.
On to Chemist Barn to check out makeup.
Of course we are both feminists, but we are also fans of makeup.
The mothers don’t let us wear any makeup other than lip gloss, but we have pushed the boundaries this year with tinted sunscreen. Spot sticks are also allowed. Woohoo.
We both try on a shade of lipstick called Black Cherry, after I wipe it carefully with some of my pocket hand sanitiser squirted onto a tissue, followed by a second wipe with a clean tissue. The colour is extreme. More black than cherry in the mix, put it that way.
‘Dramatic good . . . or dramatic bad?’ I ask.
‘Hard call,’ says Cecily, narrowing her eyes in concentration as she assesses our lips in the makeup stand mirror. ‘Maybe more of a Halloween look?’
‘Could it give you lip blackheads?’
‘Is that a thing?’
We both shrug.
We take a quick selfie for further review of the colour, then scrub it off with the free makeup remover.
‘Don’t crack the mirror, losers.’ Nate Matsouka strolls past us.
‘Diarrhoea tablets are in aisle six,’ says Cecily.
He ignores us and keeps walking. At least he knows enough not to have a war of words with the word girls.
Though, on second thoughts, that was a weak burn that would only work on someone like Nate.
Anyone more tuned-in would immediately turn it back on us: how come we know where the diarrhoea tablets are? (We don’t.)
We head home, each chewing on half a raspberry twist from the newsagency’s mixed lollies selection. We only live a block apart.
‘I wish you’d change your mind about spelling bee, Nello Marshmallow.’
‘I don’t think I will.’
‘Did I tell you Rhianna’s joined?’
‘Rhianna?’ I’m annoyed that this makes me feel annoyed. ‘She can’t spell.’
‘Yet,’ says Cecily. ‘She can’t spell yet. But she wants to go to Tasmania to see the Cadbury factory, so her motivation is off the charts.’
‘You know Alex says I have to do something to replace my spelling bee work?’
‘Like what?’
‘Maybe something to do with the environment?’
