Blue Water High (10 page)

While the rest of them spent their spare time trying to work out how to deal with the community service issue, Fly kept right on obsessing about her own problem. Bec had come up with a plan to see if they could do their hours as voluntary lifeguards. That way they still got to be on the beach, they could do some extra training if they felt like it, and there was no chance it would involve wiping dribble off an old person's chin. She couldn't make any promises but she'd known the head of the guards, Casey Ryan, since she was in primary school, so she'd see if she could pull a few strings. Edge was thrilled by the idea. Fly couldn't help noticing that Edge being thrilled seemed to thrill Bec too. Was something going on there? It was possibly the only thought Fly had all week that didn't include the dim, green glow of a mobile phone, or the number 274.74. She needed a solution and she needed it fast.

At lunchtimes Fly sprinted to the pay phone across the road from the high school, dialling number after number out of the newspaper, looking for a part-time job. When the afternoon siren screamed across the school grounds, Fly made excuses not to walk home with the rest of the crew. She lingered until the coast was clear so she could trawl the shopping strip asking, begging, pleading for work. She tried milkbars, coffee shops, supermarkets, video arcades. The answers were all versions of the same thing – they didn't have anything at present, but if they did, they
would be sure to call someone older, wiser, stronger than Fly. But good on you for making the effort to come and ask, kiddo.

By the time Friday came, Fly dragged her backpack and her battered confidence towards a tall, middle-aged petrol pump attendant cleaning up at the service station. She wasn't hopeful, but she'd made a commitment to go to every place she'd circled in red texta in the paper. This was the last circle.

‘Excuse me, can you tell me where the manager is?' she asked.

The attendant turned and looked down at Fly. ‘Why do you want the manager?'

Fly didn't need to go through an interview to see if she would get into the interview. Her self-esteem was rocky enough already and it would've been so easy to tell the man she'd made a mistake and go home. But she really
had
made a mistake, a $274 one, so she bit the bullet.

‘I was wondering if the job he advertised was still going?'

The man couldn't help a smile. He turned back to the two heavy jerry cans he was moving.

‘I don't think so, love. We need someone physically …' he trailed off.

Fly knew how the sentence was going to end and she suddenly felt angry. Her eyes flashed and he copped a week's worth of aggro.

‘I've spent my whole life on a farm, you know? Milking, shearing, hauling grain, mucking out sheds. I've sold fruit and veg at the local market since I was five years old. And handled the cash. I can drive a tractor and fix a baler and work in a flood. So excuse me if I think being something
like a checkout chick in a service station'd be a piece of cake!'

She turned and flounced off, her head held high. Just hearing those words sounded good. One of the interview questions Deb and Simmo had asked her when she'd made it through the trials was to describe herself in twenty-five words or less. Back then she'd have rather stuck pins in her eyes than do what they'd asked. She'd mumbled and fumbled and twenty-five words felt like a novel. But right now, listening to how she'd just described herself, it didn't sound too bad. Good enough in fact to make her turn briefly and give him one more shot.

‘I bet
you've
never hauled a heifer out of a dam.'

The guy kept right on working. ‘Nope. Don't have a lot of heifers coming in here …'

Fly just nodded. That was probably a fair enough point.

‘But I am the manager. And I do have a job you might be interested in.'

The toughness on Fly's face melted into a smile.

George's petrol station had just installed a newfangled car-washing machine. Even though it was mostly automatic, George had decided not to spend the extra money and get the top of the range, which meant he still needed an attendant. Fly blessed George's stinginess and gratefully pocketed the twenty-five dollars he paid her for every four-hour shift she did. Even if he did make her wear a pair of fluorescent orange overalls.

There was a certain calmness about Fly's time at the car
wash. While she cleaned the inside of the cars, that great machine circled around her like a giant octopus, its long, flapping curtain of sudsy, rubber strips flapping all over the shop. She wiped dashboards and spritzed windows and accidentally leaned on horns. As time went on she was confident enough in what she was doing to turn these other people's car radios on. It was like being in an underwater nightclub, rubbing and polishing and cleaning to the beat.

She would arrive home – it was finally starting to feel a bit like that – soaked and dirty and late. She usually waited outside until Jilly was in her own room before she snuck into the shower. Perri and Bec harassed her outright to know what she was doing. They wondered if there was some boy thing going on, and it was driving them mental that they didn't know the details. Anna was good enough not to ask – that would've been the worst, having to lie to her again. The boys seemed too caught up in their own stuff to notice. Even Heath.

Fly wished she could call Nell and prove to her that her suspicions about Heath were wrong. He was just being nice before, making her feel welcome, and now he was off doing his own thing. But the thought of using the phone to call her sister made her shudder. Maybe she'd write her a letter instead.

At nights she stayed up late counting her earnings. She knew if she could just stay under the radar for another couple of weeks, then she'd have the money to pay Anna's bill. She'd never had a mobile so she wasn't really sure how the bill thing worked. Maybe, once she had the money, she'd feel okay enough to just explain what had happened.

Tonight Jilly had uni, so Fly stepped more confidently through the door. The rest of the crew were setting the table and unloading chicken and vegetable pies from another basket sent by Bec's mum. Fly was so hungry she could've eaten the lot, wicker basket and all. She didn't want to risk missing out, so she took a seat; her shower could wait.

They were about to tuck in when the glass door slid open and Jilly appeared. She'd forgotten one of her folders and had ducked back to get it. Everyone froze. Jilly stared at the basket on the table, at the food she knew none of them had cooked.

‘I'm already late, so you get the short version of the riot act. Which is this: realise you have left home. There are no parents to pick up after you. No laundry service. No meals on wheels.'

Bec looked down.

Edge piped up in her defence. ‘This one's my fault, Jilly. Bec's mum called while she was out – she said she'd made extra and wondered if we wanted it. I knew I should've said no, but I was weak.'

Fly clocked the brief soft glance pass between Edge and Bec. She was sure there was a little tingle growing between them. But Jilly wasn't interested in blossoming romance.

‘I don't care whose fault it is. There's a reason you all pitch in here, and it's not really about the food. It's about taking responsibility and being part of a team. You might be competing but you also have to look out for each other.'

Everyone was silent, taking in her words.

‘For this year, we're all each other's family. Get used to it. Anyone want to say anything?'

Edge put his hand up. ‘You're not really gonna throw out Bec's mum's pies, are you?' he asked.

Jilly looked at Edge, at the dinner, at the other kids. ‘Not if you save some for me.'

Jilly was almost out the door when she turned back again, frowning at Fly's dishevelled appearance. ‘What on earth have you been doing, Fly?'

All eyes were suddenly on her; they wanted to know the answer too.

‘I … um … I've been doing community service.'

It was out of her mouth before she could think too hard about it. Another lie. She didn't know what was happening to her. Maybe once you started lying you couldn't stop. Maybe she'd turned into a non-stop lying machine. And she had no idea how she was going to get out of this one. She knew they needed to have their hours recorded on a special chart, signed by the person in charge. Maybe she could get George to sign it anyway, even though her work at the service station wasn't exactly voluntary.

She was shocked at the thought. Now she was trying to get other people to lie too? She wanted to give herself a slap, but it probably would have looked weird.

Thankfully Jilly didn't ask Fly where she was actually doing her community service. She was too busy asking the others how they were getting on. This time the eyes were on Bec as she reluctantly admitted that she had failed to get them into the lifeguards. She squirmed uncomfortably in her chair, avoiding Edge's gaze. Her discomfort only increased when Perri piped up that she'd met Casey on the bus that afternoon. He'd said he'd be thrilled to have them. Fly felt sorry for Bec, who was obviously humiliated. It was pretty clear to everyone that Casey hadn't said yes to Perri because she looked like the back of a dump truck.

Fly ate like a horse. In spite of this disturbing run of lies
she couldn't seem to stop telling, she was actually making some headway. The worry that had been nibbling away at her nerve endings was starting to pipe down. She was doing something about her problem.
She
was – not her mum or dad, or Deb and Simmo. She'd created a mess and she was fixing it up. And it made her feel a little ember of pride somewhere deep down in her chest. Now that she thought about it, she was feeling better than she had in weeks.

She probably should've known it was a bad sign.

Some problems take their time to stick up their ugly mugs and scream GOTCHA! Others are desperate for the spotlight, they can't wait to pop out of their box. Fly's problem was going to take its time. Perri's, however, was keen as a cucumber.

While Fly trudged off to her date with the mechanical octopus, Perri and the others geared up for their first day as volunteer lifeguards. Perri was enjoying the credit for having scored them the perfect community service jobs. Ah, if only she'd known: what Bec had failed to mention about Casey Ryan was that he had a nasty streak. He'd been good-looking but nasty in primary school and he was still good-looking but nasty now.

At the beach, Casey made them all stand in a row on the sand. He'd even drawn a line and checked each of their toes was touching it. He'd probably have a great career ahead as a school principal. He made a long speech about the value of the coast. About its pristine beauty. About its place in the nation's pride. Edge pulled a face at Bec – what was this guy on?

Casey reached down into a large canvas bag and pulled out six pairs of yellow rubber gloves. He silently handed a pair to each of them. As he walked back to the bag Matt held up his rubber gloves and hissed to Heath, ‘Are we going to need these in the surf boat?'

Casey returned with six screamingly loud yellow T-shirts. Written in bold black letters across the front – and the back, in case you missed them on approach – were the words: B
LUE
W
ATER
L
IFE
S
AVING
C
LUB
L
ITTER
L
EAGUE
.

They all stared in silence as Casey explained that their community service would consist of picking up cigarette butts, ice-cream wrappers and whatever other trash the unthinking beachgoers had failed to take home with them. If the nation was so proud of their coast, why did it fling so much crap about?

Everyone stared at Perri. It was clearly news to her. And then, just to make the shame sharper, they heard wolfwhistles and looked up to see a row of Year 10s sitting on the concrete wall at the top of the beach. Bec saw Casey's small evil smile, and she knew he had probably, ever so casually, worded them up about the show.