Little Sister Read online

  There are just thirty-eight days until Al’s smart, pretty, popular and perfect-in-every-way sister Larrie finishes Year Twelve.

  Thirty-eight days until everyone at Whitlam High will stop seeing Al as Larrie’s little sister and start appreciating the real Al Miller.

  But when rumours about Larrie start spreading, Al discovers that having a sister everybody is talking about can be even worse than having one everybody loves.

  Contents

  Cover

  Blurb

  Walker Books Australia

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Author’s note

  Acknowledgement

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Also By Aimee Said

  1

  Monday morning: Whitlam High School assembly hall. Welcome to another week of mind-numbing boredom higher education.

  Year Ten filed to our designated rows of plastic chairs, watched over by Ms Brand, deputy principal and Official School Funbuster. Maz made me squeeze past Chloe Rider and her Country Road crew (their collars temporarily turned down to avoid being busted for breaking uniform rules) to get to the two empty seats next to Nicko and Simon. Thankfully, Simon was too engrossed in the dragons-and-knights-and-swords novel he was reading to notice me.

  Our principal, Mr Masch, jogged up the three stairs to the stage. He was wearing a Whitlam High hoodie – his latest attempt to get down with the kidz. It was pretty lame, but you had to give him points for trying. After giving us the usual reminders about the ban on wireless internet dongles on school grounds and using the colour-coded recycling bins properly, he clutched his hands together and rocked on his heels. One thing Mr Masch is not good at is playing the bad guy.

  “I’m afraid it’s my not-very-happy duty to talk to you this morning about cyber safety,” he said sadly, emphasising the word “cyber” as if it was some great and mysterious being.

  There was a collective groan from the hall. We’d already covered online stranger danger in Computer Science, Health and Development, and any other subject they thought they could sneak it into; the Learning and Leadership Centre walls were plastered with “Do you know who you’re really talking to?” posters, designed to make us think that every instant message we received was from some old pervert who was trying to lure us to a gruesome demise. And thanks to the school board’s parent education campaign, most of us got all this guff again at home.

  “Bit of shush, please,” said Mr Masch. “I know you think you’ve heard this before, but there have been some incidents lately that suggest the time is ripe for a reminder.”

  Maz, Simon, Nicko and I all turned to Prad, who had form for posting photos of himself (well, parts of himself) under a pseudonym. His barely concealed smirk confirmed that the King of the Moon had been at it again.

  Mr Masch continued his bumbling. “Now, uh, we all know how handy our mobile phones are – outside of school hours – and we like being able to catch up on friends’ news and, uh, photos in the virtual world. But we need to remember that not everyone accessing at our information is who we intended to see it, and that we might be giving away a lot more, uh, details about ourselves than we meant to … or realise we have.”

  There were murmurs around the hall along the lines of “What’s he on about?”

  Ms Brand (aka Brandy, on account of the fact that she snaps at the slightest misdemeanour) leaped onto the stage as fast as her sturdy, sensible shoes would allow and grabbed the microphone. “What Mr Masch means is, make sure you don’t send information over your phone, or put anything on the internet, that you wouldn’t want everyone – including your parents and teachers – to see. Do I make myself clear?”

  Mr Masch took back the microphone with a forced smile. “Thank you, Ms Brand. Straight to the point, as usual. Now, onto more pleasant things. Please welcome your school president, Larissa Miller, to give the weekly round-up of student news.”

  There was clapping, whooping and “Go Lazza” catcalls as our glorious leader made her way to the stage. I slumped as low as I could in my orange plastic seat and made a gagging noise under my breath, echoed by Maz in a show of best-friend loyalty. Unfortunately, Brandy heard us. Her monobrow furrowed in a familiar I’ll-deal-with-you-later expression.

  Larissa took her place on the podium and demonstrated why she was not only captain of Whitlam’s debating team, but also the southern region’s champion junior toastmaster. Every week we had to listen to her read the “student news” (aka What Whitlam’s Overachievers Did Last Week), including the weekend sports results, debating team wins and choir medals. What was worse, half the announcements she made were about her own accomplishments.

  A poster child for overachievers everywhere, Larissa Miller is brainy, sporty, civic-minded, environmentally aware – the complete package. And gorgeous. Not just pretty, but seriously beautiful, from the unsplit ends of her blond hair to her perfectly pedicured toenails. Even in Whitlam’s navy blue, box-pleated school uniform – designed to turn even the most shapely female student into a waistless, bustless, sexless blob – she managed to look like she’d stepped out of the pages of Vogue.

  While the rest of the hall hung on her every word, I wanted to scream with frustration that no one else could see through her perfecter-than-thou act to the self-centred, self-absorbed drama queen that lurked beneath the surface.

  I should know: Larrie’s my sister.

  2

  I made a break for the doors the moment assembly finished, but I wasn’t quick enough to escape Brandy. Her shrill voice stopped me in my tracks.

  “Allison Miller! I thought we discussed proper assembly behaviour last week. If you want your iPod back you’ll have to show me that you’re mature enough to control yourself.”

  She was right. We had discussed proper assembly behaviour. We’d also discussed proper classroom behaviour, proper public transport behaviour, proper school uniform and proper manners. In fact, since starting at Whitlam I’d had more “discussions” with Ms Brand in her tiny broom cupboard of an office than I’d had with any other teacher in the entire eleven years I’d been at school so far. And they all ended with her sighing and giving me the same line, the one she delivered now: “Why can’t you be more like your sister?”

  I learned somewhere around the middle of Year Eight that she didn’t want to be told the answer.

  “Branded?” asked Maz when I finally made it out of the hall.

  “The curse of Larrie’s little sister strikes again. At this rate I’ll be lucky to get my iPod back before we finish Year Twelve ourselves.”

  “You need some of these,” said Simon, putting his fingers to his ears and produc
ing two tiny earphones. “They’re wireless. I’ve been listening to a Stephen Hawking podcast.”

  “Where were these two weeks ago when Brandy sprung me with my earbuds in during detention?” I demanded.

  “I hadn’t made them yet.”

  “You made these?” said Maz. “Simon, you’re freaking brilliant! You could make a fortune out of this.”

  “Nah, it’s a pretty simple hack. I’ll make you some if you like, Al.”

  For a so-called genius, Simon can be incredibly thick. “They’re not much good to me without an iPod,” I pointed out.

  “Oh … yeah.” His face went nearly as red as his hair, and he mumbled something about having to drop by the school office before taking off in the other direction.

  Maz and I dawdled to class, putting off getting to Science for as long as we could.

  “You shouldn’t be so mean to him.”

  “To who?” I asked, as if I didn’t know I was about to get lecture #126 in the Be Nice to Simon series.

  “Come on, the poor guy’s got it bad for you and you treat him like something you trod in.”

  “That’s because nothing else I’ve tried has made him accept the fact that I’m not interested in him and never will be. It’s not my fault the guy can’t take a hint.”

  “I don’t hear you complaining when he’s doing all your lab work for you.”

  I stopped at the door to the Science lab. “Is this the point where you ask me why I can’t be more like my sister and treat the whole world like my best friend? ’Cos you sound exactly like Brandy right now.”

  Maz clutched her chest like she’d been shot. “You really know how to hit a girl where it hurts,” she said, falling to her knees.

  “Maryanne Dekker, get up and get in here!” thundered Ms Morales, holding the door open and pointing to where the rest of our class was waiting to begin the lesson.

  “Sorry, Miss. I was trying–”

  Ms Morales held up her hand to stop Maz talking. “Save the explanations for detention. Now move it.”

  I pulled Maz up before Ms Morales found an excuse to give me a detention too. Aside from Brandy, Morales is my biggest detractor (or Larrie’s biggest fan, depending on how you look at it). She makes her classes sit in alphabetical order at the lab benches, which means I have to sit two rows back from Maz. Even worse, since Brian Mansford had to repeat Year Nine, the name before mine on the class roll is Lutz. Simon Lutz.

  “One person from each bench, come and collect your specimen,” said Ms Morales.

  Simon was out of his seat before she’d finished speaking, as eager as an industrious beaver at the start of dam-building season.

  “Miss, do we really have to do this with actual frogs?” I asked. “I’ve heard about schools where they do virtual dissection, you know, on computers. They say it’s just like the real thing, except no innocent amphibians have to die for it.”

  Ms Morales was unmoved. “I’ve already told you, Allison, if you don’t want to pass this biology unit, you’re welcome to opt out of dissection, but I suggest you think carefully about whether you can afford to lose those marks. Perhaps your sister can help you get over your squeamishness? She’s got a steady hand with a scalpel.”

  I’d already asked Larrie to help me with dissection – by signing my petition to have it removed from the Year Ten Science syllabus. I had nearly one hundred signatures and I knew hers would be the ringing endorsement the school would demand before making a change. After all, if Larissa Miller, aspiring vet and Schools Science Olympiad silver medal winner for Biology, thought that dissection wasn’t necessary then it simply must be true.

  Larrie refused to oblige. She said it was because it was good for us to learn from real organs and muscles and bones, but I knew it was to spite me. I should’ve done a petition demanding more dissection, then she would’ve kicked up a stink and got it banned.

  “Want to make the first cut?” asked Simon, offering me his scalpel.

  I could barely bring myself to look at the pathetic little blob of browny-green with its arms and legs pinned to the tray, let alone cut into it. “You go ahead. I’ll watch.”

  I don’t know which was more stomach churning: listening to Simon’s running commentary on the dissection (“And now I’m cutting through the abdominal wall – it’s springier than you’d expect.”), or the overwhelming smell of formaldehyde.

  One problem with having a really sensitive sense of smell is that odours that other people find unpleasant (like wet dog or the school canteen on meat pie day) are totally unbearable to me. The formaldehyde-soaked frog smelt like pickles in vinegar with a side order of acid. It burned my nostrils, and when I switched to breathing through my mouth, I could taste it on the back of my tongue. Even if I’d been the most enthusiastic dissector, I couldn’t have concentrated on the job.

  I looked for something to take my mind off the stinky, grisly scene in front of me. Luckily, more interesting things were going on outside, i.e. the Year Eleven guys playing soccer on the lawn behind the Science block. My eyes followed Josh Turner, captain of Whitlam’s A-grade soccer team and official #2 School Hunk (as voted by the girls in Years Nine to Twelve at the beginning of term one), tracing his path as he weaved between two players to steal the ball and kick a swift goal. It was poetry in motion.

  Ms Morales came around to check on our progress. “Very nice, Simon,” she said, inspecting his work. “But this is meant to be a joint exercise.”

  “Yes, Miss. I made the initial incisions. Al was about to take over for the organ removal.”

  “Excellent,” said Ms Morales, an evil glint in her eye. “I’ll be interested to see whether fine cutting skills run in the Miller family.”

  Simon passed me the scalpel and slid the tray in front of me. My mind raced, searching for a way out of the humiliation that was certain to follow. Could I faint? Vomit? Run from the lab screaming? Thankfully, a loud crash from Maz and Prad’s bench sent Ms Morales scuttling away to tell them off. Simon took the scalpel back.

  “What’s the big idea putting me on the spot like that with Morales?” I demanded.

  “Would you have preferred me to say that you didn’t intend to do any of the dissection?” he said, without taking his eyes off the frog’s innards. “Anyway, if she’d stayed, I would’ve talked you through removing the heart. It would have been fine.”

  I folded my arms across my chest and turned back to the window. The Year Elevens had finished their game and were standing around their bags, in no rush to get to whichever class they were meant to be in. Perhaps he felt my gaze, but something made Josh glance up at the window of the Science lab and for a second our eyes met. It was long enough for me to fall deeply in crush.

  3

  I was having flashbacks about the frog’s tiny, unbeating heart while I did my homework: a diagram of the dissection, complete with labelled organs.

  “Allison, come and set the table please,” called Mum, just as I finished the small intestine.

  “I’m not hungry,” I yelled back. “I think I’ll skip dinner.”

  “Stop shouting,” shouted Larrie through her closed bedroom door. “We’re trying to study.”

  I closed my folder and headed for the kitchen, knowing Mum’d do her nut if Larrie complained twice.

  “Set for five,” said Mum. “Beth’s staying for dinner.”

  I groaned. It wasn’t that I minded Larrie’s geekgirl best friend (even though she was equally brilliant academically and twice as boring socially as my sister, Beth was nice enough in her quiet, supernerd way), but Larrie was ten times worse when she had an audience.

  “I don’t see why I have to do everything around here,” I said, grabbing a fistful of knives and forks and slamming the cutlery drawer closed. “Larrie eats as much as I do and makes as much mess as I do.”

  “You know how important your sister’s final exams are.” Mum was using her let’s-try-to-be-reasonable-and-if-that-doesn’t-work-I’m-going-to-lecture-you voice. �
�The marks to get into a Vet Science degree are very high, so we all need to let Larissa concentrate on studying.”

  “You and Dad have been saying that all year! It’s as if I only exist to make Larrie’s life easier. I’m like one of those kids who’s born to have their organs harvested for a sick sibling.”

  “Don’t be disgusting, Allison. I’m sure when Larissa’s finished her exams she’ll repay the favour and do some of your chores.”

  Yeah, right. Like Larrie was going to clean our bathroom and take out the garbage and do my laundry. She had Mum and Dad as fooled as the teachers were.

  It had been like this since the first day of the school year, when Larrie rushed home and stuck her class timetable and assorted extracurricular activity calendars over every square centimetre of the fridge, and announced that she wouldn’t have a minute to spare for anything else until after her final exams. When Mum and Dad asked what they could do to support her, she said that it would relieve a lot of her stress if she didn’t have to worry about “trivial things” like housework. So the weekly chore roster was amended and my name was written in every space that Larrie’s had occupied. I tried to protest, but Larrie burst into tears and told Mum that I wanted her to fail Year Twelve so she’d know how I felt at school.

  Once she’d offloaded her chores, Larrie moved to part B of her plan to make my life suck. It was cunning in its simplicity: every time I did something she didn’t want me to – like listening to music in my room, talking to my friends on the phone or relaxing in the bath in our shared bathroom – she’d give me one chance to stop doing whatever it was, and if I didn’t, she’d call Mum or Dad to make me.

  It was blatantly unfair, but our parents were so blinded by Larrie’s academic honours and glowing report cards and shiny trophies that they couldn’t see it. I clung to the hope that once the Year Twelve exams were over life at 59 Dixon Street, Kingston would return to some semblance of normality, but I wasn’t holding my breath.

  Larrie and Beth deigned to join us five minutes after dinner was on the table. Mum had been telling me about Mr Bishop from the Kingston deli coming into the medical centre she manages with a boil the size of an orange, but, as usual, once Larrie sat down the topic of conversation turned to her.