Little Sister Read online

  “Thank God you’re here,” said Dylan when I opened the door. It’s his standard greeting, even though the “crises” he needs me to help with are usually minor. I think he mainly says it to make me feel needed. It works. “Jay had a bad night so it’s just the two of us till he’s caught up on a bit of sleep. Can you open the shop while I take Doodoo for a walk?”

  Doodoo is Jay and Dylan’s ancient Maltese terrier cross (crossed with a rat, if you ask me, but I’d never say that to Jay). She and Jay share many of the same medical conditions, including high cholesterol and type 2 diabetes. The three of them live in the flat above the shop.

  After Dylan and Doodoo left, I checked that the refrigerated display cabinet was fully stocked and correctly labelled, and gave the shelves of crackers, quince paste and other cheese accompaniments a tidy. Before long the bell on the door tinkled with the arrival of our first customer.

  A big downside of working in Kingston: everyone knows everyone. Aside from Maz, most kids at Whitlam have lived around here all our lives. Our parents bought their houses twenty-odd years ago, when young couples who couldn’t afford a big house on a big block of land started buying Kingston’s run-down terraces on the cheap and renovating them themselves. Once all these nice, middle-class couples were living in Kingston they needed places to shop and eat out and get their hair done, so Kingston Shopping Village was born. It’s almost impossible for me to have a day at work when I don’t see at least one person who’s known me all my life.

  Mrs Green came in first thing to get her weekly ration of edam, which she insisted be cut in precisely three-millimetre-thick slices. I concentrated on keeping my fingers away from the whirring steel blade of the slicer while she chatted at me about her daughter. At school, Tracy is known for getting out of it as soon as someone cracks the seal on a bottle; she has a “no tell” policy, which means no one’s allowed to tell her about anything she did that she can’t remember for herself. Tracy must have been a very different girl at home, because Mrs Green bragged on and on about her volunteer work with Kingston Meals on Wheels until I handed over her perfectly sliced cheese in one of Say Cheese’s stylish brown paper bags.

  “Say hello to your mum for me,” she called on her way out. “Tell her that cream cleared my rash right up.” Another downside of working in Kingston: everyone knows Mum.

  Jay still looked pretty knackered when he came down a couple of hours later.

  “Why don’t you take the day off?” suggested Dylan.

  “And leave you two to your own devices? Who knows what’d be waiting for me when I come down tomorrow.”

  Dylan pretended to be insulted for about two seconds before winking at me and agreeing.

  I like Jay and Dylan equally, but Dylan’s definitely the more easygoing boss. He’s about ten years younger than Jay and a lot less serious. Jay says it’s because he’s an eldest child and had to be responsible for his younger brothers and sisters from an early age. But Dylan once told me that Jay had a pretty rough time growing up and it’d taken some of the fun out of him.

  “Besides,” said Jay, “Al still has to pass this week’s test. Where’s the blindfold?”

  When I first started at Say Cheese, I didn’t know much about what I was selling, since Larrie’s condition meant we never had it at home. Jay began teaching me about the different cheeses in the shop in my first week, making me taste an increasingly smelly selection of soft cheeses until I’d worked up to a blue vein that was so strong it could have walked out the door on its own.

  To further my education, Jay had started giving me blindfolded taste tests of the new cheeses that came in. First, he’d pass a plate with the cheese on it under my nose for me to sniff, then he’d pop a small piece in my mouth. Not being able to see the colour and texture of the cheese meant I had to rely on my senses of smell and taste. Unlike other odours that hit my nose like a full-frontal assault, I found I could detect subtle differences between the cheeses: a little straw aroma here, a touch of ash from a wood fire there. So far I’d correctly identified fifteen out of twenty-five, and come close on another six.

  “What do you think?” asked Jay.

  I swirled the cheese around my mouth with my tongue, considering its flavours. “It’s definitely a parmesan. And judging by the amount of crystallisation, it’s been aged for at least two years. It’s too full-on to be a Grana Padano, so I reckon it must be a Reggiano.”

  “Genius!” said Dylan, pulling off the blindfold so I could see the official Parmagiano-Reggiano seal stamped on the side of the large wheel of cheese on the chopping block.

  I smiled to myself. If Cheese Appreciation was on the Whitlam curriculum, I would’ve blown Larrie out of the water.

  The bell on the door tinkled and Jay and Dylan snapped back into serious work mode, relaxing again when they saw it was just Simon.

  “Oh, hi, Al,” Simon said, as if he was surprised to see me, even though he’s come into Say Cheese every Saturday since I started working there. (Without doubt the biggest downside to working in Kingston.)

  “Can I help you?” I asked formally.

  “Mum’s after something special for a souffle. I told her you’d know what to recommend.”

  I thought for a moment. “It depends how strong she wants to go. Some people like a blue vein, but I think it can be a bit overwhelming in a souffle. What I’d recommend is Gruyère.”

  I pulled out the block of cheese and cut a sliver for him to taste. Simon may have been running a close second to Larrie for the title of Bane of My Existence, but a customer was a customer. And, if I was being honest, I enjoyed knowing more than him about one subject.

  “It’s Swiss,” I said as he chewed. “Known for its excellent melting properties. The flavour is strong, but it’s offset by a sweet nuttiness.”

  “I couldn’t have sold it better myself,” said Jay, proudly, when Simon left with a large wedge of Gruyère two minutes later.

  Al Miller knows her cheese.

  9

  Year Twelve’s last week of school may as well have been renamed Farewell Larrie Week, since every activity revolved around her. It started with assembly on Monday morning, when Mr Masch gave the same speech he’d given at every Year Twelve final assembly the whole time I’d been at Whitlam: sorry to see them go; best Year Twelve in Whitlam’s history; all destined for greatness; blah-yadda-blah.

  “No tribute to Year Twelve would be complete without recognising the contribution made by one very special student,” he concluded. I prepared myself for the inevitable. “It gives me great – no, immense – pleasure to present the dux of Year Twelve and president of the Student Representative Council: Larissa Miller.”

  After the clapping finally stopped, Larrie gave a gushing, Oscar-worthy speech about how Year Twelve would think back on their years at Whitlam as some of the most important in shaping them into the individuals they’d become, and how it was all thanks to Mr Masch and Ms Brand’s strong leadership. Maz mimed sticking her fingers down her throat, convulsing more and more violently until I couldn’t help laughing.

  A bony hand clamped down on Maz’s shoulder like a vice. A second later I felt the same sting. Neither of us was laughing any more. Brandy pulled us out of our seats without loosening her grip, and led us out of the hall. She dealt with Maz swiftly, giving her a detention and sending her back to her seat. Then she started on me.

  “This is the final straw, Allison. I’ve tried to help you overcome your seemingly uncontrollable urges to disrupt, distract and derail your classmates, but you obviously need more support than I can give. Perhaps Ms Shields can succeed where I’ve failed. I’ll ask her to schedule an appointment for the two of you.”

  Patricia (aka Patchouli) Shields is Whitlam’s counsellor, meditation teacher and all round New Age hippie. She takes a week off each term to go to her guru’s ashram and recharge her chakras, and believes that school’s become far too stressful for young people. Which should have made meeting with her okay … except that an app
ointment with Patchouli is usually the first step towards expulsion, since Whitlam’s Student Code of Conduct states that any student who is “habitually and wilfully disruptive” must be counselled before any action can be taken.

  Brandy had given me my first strike.

  “What have you done now?” asked Larrie when she saw me standing outside the hall waiting for Maz to come out after assembly.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Brandy’s being a bitch, as usual.”

  There was no way I was going to tell Larrie about having to see Patchouli. She’d make sure Mum and Dad knew about it before I even had a chance to do any damage control.

  “Well, if you’d quit acting like such a brat Ms Brand wouldn’t be on at you all the time,” said Larrie.

  “She just hates me because I don’t suck up to her like you do,” I spat back.

  By then a small crowd had gathered around us, including Beth. “Why don’t you two discuss this at home?” she suggested quietly.

  Larrie looked like she’d rather keep showing me up in full view of the rest of the school, but she let Beth lead her away by the wrist.

  “I can’t believe I missed all the action,” said Maz when I filled her in on what had happened on the way to Science. “If I’d been there when Larrie pulled her Mother Superior act, I’d have told her exactly what I think of her.”

  Maz’s disdain for Larrie started on her very first day at Whitlam, when she transferred in Year Eight. Not having grown up in Kingston, Maz didn’t know who the cool kids were or who it was social suicide to be seen talking to. Most importantly, she had no idea who Larrie was or that we were related. So when Larrie was called to the stage in the first assembly for the year to accept a community service award for her work over the school holidays, Maz didn’t clap along with the other kids. Instead, she turned to me and muttered, “Shiz, someone needs to get a life.” We’ve been best friends ever since.

  “I trust you’ve all completed your genetics worksheets,” said Ms Morales at the end of class.

  Ordinarily, that would’ve been my cue to slump on my stool and practise blending in with the walls, but after Friday night’s nerdathon study session I didn’t have to. I followed Simon’s lead and held my worksheet over my head to show I’d done it, earning an approving nod from Ms Morales. So far so good.

  “That was a practice exercise to warm you up for your major assignment for this topic. I want you to build as complete a genetic picture of yourself as you can, based on what you can observe and ask your immediate family about. You’ll then map the results on a gene wheel,” she held up a diagram of a circle divided into hundreds of small sections marked with different letter combinations, “and write a report about how you are genetically similar or different to your family members, and how you might explain any anomalies. Assignments are due four weeks from today.”

  I was deflated. How could I ace the assignment if I didn’t even understand the task? More to the point, how was I going to get Larrie to answer the questions about herself when she wouldn’t even tell me when she was finished in our bathroom?

  Simon’s hand shot up. “Instead of my family, could I map my finch breeding pairs? I already mapped two generations of the Lutz genome at camp last year, and I think this would help me work out which birds should breed together to achieve the most desirable colour variations.”

  Ms Morales beamed. “That sounds fascinating, Simon. I’ll be most interested to see your projections.”

  The only thing that stopped me from telling Simon to lay off on the sucking-up was the knowledge that, in four weeks’ time, I might need his help to prove Ms Morales’s beliefs about my scientific ability wrong.

  “If I hear one more word about finch genetics, I’ll throttle him,” I told Maz as we joined the canteen queue. “I used to think it was bad sitting next to him when we were studying something he learned at nerd camp back in Year Five, but this is a fresh hell.”

  “Come on, he’s not that bad.”

  “Who’s not that bad?” asked Nicko, oblivious to the scowls from the Year Eights he’d pushed in front of to join us.

  “Al’s venting about a certain finch fancier,” Maz told him, ignoring my raised right eyebrow (our unspoken sign to each other that a topic is off limits for public discussion).

  “Simon?” asked Nicko. “He’s a good guy, Al. What have you got against him?”

  “That’s what I keep asking her,” said Maz.

  I usually tried to restrict my whingeing about Simon to Maz’s ears, especially since he and Nicko had become close friends in the band, but seeing the two of them exchange a smug, great-minds-think-alike smirk made me forget my diplomacy.

  “Simon Lutz has been bugging me since our very first day of school. From the moment I hung my Wiggles backpack on the little yellow duck hook next to his little blue whale hook, he hasn’t left me alone. In Prep he used to carry me from one room to the other at nap time. By Year Three he was riding past my house on his bicycle ten times a day. In Year Six Mum made me go to the end-of-school square dance with him, and took that cheesy photo of us in cowboy hats that’s taped inside his locker door. I’ve been trying to give him the hint that I’m not interested for the past eleven years, and he still hasn’t got the message!”

  Nicko took a step backwards, as if he was scared of me. “I didn’t realise it was such a touchy subject. I’d have thought most girls would be flattered to know a guy liked them so much.”

  “I guess it depends on the guy,” I said, turning to face the front of the queue to hide my embarrassment at losing it in front of Nicko.

  Which is when I saw Josh Turner standing two spots ahead of us in line, buying enough Power Kick energy bars to fuel an entire sports team. At the volume I’d been ranting about Simon, he must have heard every word.

  Al Miller doesn’t think this week can get much worse.

  10

  When I checked my school email account the next day there was a message in my inbox, cc’d to Ms Brand.

  Subject: Let’s catch up!

  Hi Allison!

  It’d be great to touch base with you. Please join me for chai in the Chill Out Room after recess on Wednesday.

  Cheers

  Patricia Shields

  I hadn’t planned to tell anyone except Maz about the email, but the decision was taken out of my hands when Simon sat down next to me at lunchtime.

  “Is everything okay, Al? I saw your name on Patchouli’s appointment list for tomorrow.”

  “How did you see that list?” I demanded. “Did you hack into the school’s server?”

  Simon was so offended you’d have thought I’d accused him of robbing a bank. “I was in the office helping Mrs Turner adjust her calendar settings and she accidentally brought up Patchouli’s diary.”

  I should’ve known that with the amount of time Simon spent helping the admin staff with their computers and Whit’s Wit he’d end up being privy to pretty much everything there was to know about every student at Whitlam.

  “It’s just Brandy thinking up new ways to make me suffer,” I said, trying to sound as though I didn’t care.

  “Don’t sweat it,” said Prad, who was no stranger to the counsellor’s office. “Patchouli’s a pushover. All you have to say is that it must be the stress of hormones and peer pressure and that you’re very sorry and it won’t happen again. It helps if you can squeeze out a few tears.”

  “Do your parents know?” asked Nicko.

  “No, and unless my blabbermouth big sister finds out and tells them for me, I intend to keep it that way. This is all I need when I’m days away from Larrie leaving Whitlam.”

  Maz backed me up. “This is all Larrie’s fault after all. If she hadn’t given such a putrid speech in assembly, I wouldn’t have been forced to pretend to vomit in my lap, which means Al wouldn’t have laughed out loud, and Brandy wouldn’t have gone apoplectic.”

  “Exactly, but how do I make Patchouli understand that?”

  “You can’t,
” said Maz. “Take my advice and don’t say anything about Larrie to Patchouli. It’s an argument you can’t win around here.”

  Despite Prad’s assurances, I couldn’t help worrying about the counselling session. Knowing that she’d already have heard Brandy’s side of the story, I didn’t think much of my chances of making Patchouli see that I was just dandy thankyouverymuch.

  I waited until most people had gone to class after recess before heading to the Learning and Leadership Centre, which housed the school library, Year Twelve’s common room and the Chill Out Room (aka Patchouli’s office, but she doesn’t like to call it that because of the “implicit power structure” of the word “office”).

  To get there, I had to walk past the school office (where the admin staff are very happy to have an implicit power structure, as indicated by the “No students beyond this point” sign on the front counter), earning mildly interested glances from Mrs Turner and her evil henchman assistant, Ms Munce. I assumed that Josh’s handsome features came from his dad’s side of the family, since Mrs Turner wore a perpetual grimace, as if she’d been squirted in the eye with lemon juice. From what Simon told us, she and Munce spent most of their time moaning about the students and drinking instant cappuccinos.

  Patchouli greeted me like a long-lost friend. “Allison! Come in, come in. Make yourself at home. Shall I make us a nice cup of chai?”

  She started fussing with mugs and tea bags before I could answer. I took a seat on a lumpy old couch with a batik sarong thrown over it and inspected the dreamcatchers, wind chimes and inspirational posters that hung around the room.

  “Now, let me see – it’s soy milk for you, yes?”

  Did I look like a soy-drinking sissy? Away from home I always drank full-cream milk, on principle as much as for its taste.

  “Normal milk’s fine,” I said.