Green valentine, p.3
Green Valentine, page 3
‘Dad? Are you okay?’
He looked up, surprised to see me, and used the sock to wipe his eyes. Then he adopted a nonchalant expression like he hadn’t been caught crying over an unpaired sock by his teenage daughter.
‘Hey, kiddo,’ he said croakily.
‘Hey,’ I said. ‘I can see the packing is going well.’
Dad looked down at the sock. ‘I can’t find the other one. It’s supposed to be a pair. And now this one is all on its own. It’s useless.’
It didn’t take a gargantuan intellect to figure out that we weren’t actually talking about the sock.
‘I’m sorry, Dad.’
Another tear squeezed out and rolled down Dad’s cheek. He looked awful, as if he hadn’t shaved for a few days. Or showered.
‘I miss your mother,’ he rasped. ‘I don’t want this.’
‘Well, then you probably shouldn’t have slept with the Whippet.’
The Whippet was the twenty-six-year-old dental nurse who had destroyed my parents’ marriage. No, that’s not fair. My dad destroyed the marriage. The Whippet had just happened to be there, on the dental chair in Dad’s surgery, wearing only high heels and one of those little surgical masks, when Mum had popped by to drop off some paperwork for Dad. The Whippet had an actual human name, but I was determined not to learn it. I called her the Whippet because, even though she ticked all the conventional boxes of attractiveness in being tall and skinny and blonde, she looked spindly and pathetic, with bulging dark eyes like a hungry whippet. I so didn’t get it.
Dad looked uncomfortable. I probably shouldn’t have mentioned the Whippet. I wondered if she and Dad were still seeing each other. Ew. It’s gross enough thinking about your own parents having sex. It’s a million times worse imagining a parent having sex with someone else.
‘Do you want to do something later?’ asked Dad, looking hopeful. ‘I could take you out for pizza.’
‘No, thanks,’ I said, and his face fell. ‘I have heaps of homework.’
I had no idea how I was supposed to act around Dad anymore. I’d tried being angry at him, but he was so sad and pathetic it was hard to stay mad. And I figured Mum was mad enough for both of us. Not that I wasn’t on her side. Dad totally shouldn’t have slept with the Whippet – Mum was absolutely right to kick him out. So I didn’t want to hang out with him. But he was still my dad, and I felt rotten every time I rejected him.
*
* I know it’s not exactly fair to call Dev a Missolini, given that he isn’t a Miss. But Paige and I have been friends with him since he wore a cravat to the first day of kindergarten, and he carries nearly as much popularity clout as Paige, so he’s a Missolini in reputation, if not in, you know, bits.
* There is a plant that grows in the Galapagos Islands in the cracks of volcanic rock. There’s no soil or anything. The seed blows in from wherever, gets stuck in a crack, gets a tiny bit of moisture from the tropical air, and that causes it to germinate. As it starts to grow, its lower leaves die and drop off rapidly. Then the leaves break down and create their own soil, so the plant can grow bigger. And here I was, with organic soil and nutrient-rich fertiliser, and I couldn’t get a freaking cucumber seed to sprout.
I got an email from Mr Gerakis on Tuesday, asking if I could pop by and see him. Mr Gerakis was in charge of Home Economics at Valentine High, and he fancied himself a kind of Greek Heston Blumenthal. He was always encouraging the students to experiment with texture and flavour – which was a pretty big ask considering most of the students couldn’t successfully boil an egg. There’d been at least three cases of acute food poisoning, and one incident where the Home Ec lab nearly burnt down after a student got a little overenthusiastic with a brûlée torch.
‘Astrid!’ It was Tyson Okeke chasing me down the corridor. Tyson was Valentine High’s star full-forward, and one of the friendliest guys I’d ever met – a definite red ten.
Back in Year Eight, Dev had invented this complicated system of who was allowed to date whom. Everyone was assigned a colour, depending on what type of person they were. Red was sporty. Purple was creative. Green was scientific or academic. Paige, Dev and I were gold – general all-rounders. Black was the goth-emo types. Brown were the anti-establishment stonery dissidents. Within each colour, you were assigned a number, which had to do with your status, popularity, talent and success. We, naturally, were tens. Dev’s rule was that you could date anyone who was the same colour as you, or anyone who was the same number as you. It was totally ridiculous, but there was a certain demented logic to it.
‘Hey,’ I said, craning my neck to look up at Tyson.
He smiled his usual ear-splitting grin. ‘So, um. Slightly embarrassing question. I’ve got tickets to the Junior Brownlow this weekend. Is Paige still dating her aikido instructor?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
Tyson shrugged ruefully. ‘Always worth checking. So …’ His grin took on a slightly cheeky twist. ‘What are you doing this Saturday night?’
I laughed. ‘Wow, Tyson. You really know how to make a girl feel special.’
‘Sorry.’
‘I’m used to it. And I’m busy this weekend. But have fun!’
Tyson threw me a mock salute and jogged off down the corridor.
I slipped into Home Ec lab after school, just before heading to the garden. The room reeked of something sweet, salty and altogether unpleasant.
‘What is that smell?’ I asked Mr Gerakis, who was cleaning purple goop off his desk.
‘Beetroot and caper foam,’ said Mr Gerakis, pushing his glasses up his nose with a pink-stained finger. ‘It didn’t work so well.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I said, thankful once more that I’d never taken Home Ec. ‘You wanted to see me?’
‘What?’ Mr Gerakis rubbed his temples for a moment. ‘Oh, right, yes. I gave your proposal to the canteen, and they’ve turned it down.’
I stared at him. ‘I’m sorry?’
I’d written up a proposal for the canteen, letting them know that once the garden was producing, they could use as much of the harvest as they liked, and that if there was anything in particular they’d like me to grow, I’d give it a shot. I wasn’t going to charge them any money or anything – it seemed like a win-win. They got free vegies, our students got to eat fresh local produce, and we’d considerably reduce the school’s carbon footprint. I figured we’d be at full production before the Christmas holidays.
Mr Gerakis blinked. ‘They said no.’ He shrugged. ‘The canteen isn’t independent – it’s owned and staffed by a company that services most of the schools in the state. It keeps costs down.’
‘Costs and nutrition,’ I said. ‘All they serve is sausage rolls, deep-fried food and rubbery ham sandwiches.’
‘Well, they’ve signed a new exclusive contract with the bulk supplier,’ said Mr Gerakis. ‘They’re not allowed to use any externally sourced food or food-related product.’
‘What does that even mean? What’s a food-related product? And we’re not talking about externally sourced produce – we’re growing it right here at school!’
‘They mean produce sourced from outside the company,’ explained Mr Gerakis with a sigh. ‘Also, their insurance people say it’s a health risk.’
‘Health risk!’ I felt my voice rising in indignation. ‘Have they seen the deep-fried chicken and corn in a roll that they serve?’
Mr Gerakis shrugged. I felt a wave of despair, but shoved it away. ‘What about here, then?’ I asked, looking around the Home Ec room. ‘What if you used the produce from the garden in Home Ec class?’
Mr Gerakis shook his head gloomily. ‘The canteen supplies me with all the Home Ec ingredients.’
‘So you can’t use anything? Not even for garnish?’
‘Believe me, Astrid, I’ve been trying for years to get my own supplier. Can you imagine how difficult it is for me to create anything using such basic ingredients? But this new contract is written in stone.’
‘I’ll write to the new mayor,’ I said. ‘Maybe things will be different now she’s in charge.’
Mr Gerakis gave me a flat look that told me what I already knew. I’d written countless emails to our council over the years, asking for them to improve our recycling scheme, to run seminars at our local library (or even buy some books for our local library), to start up a community gardening program, to protect the nearby wetlands from developers. I’d never received a single reply. Not even a form we appreciate your feedback email. Nothing. It was like every email I sent got sucked into a black hole.
I could write. I could petition. I could stamp my feet until I was blue in the face. But I knew that it wouldn’t do any good. Valentine City Council was a closed book, a locked vault. There was no way in, new mayor or not.
I went back to the garden, feeling numb. The whole point of the project was to encourage students to grow, cook and eat their own food. But I couldn’t do that when the school’s idea of a healthy meal was frozen fish sticks or soggy pies.
An icy rage spread through me. I hated our council. If Paige were here, she’d tell me that hate wasn’t a constructive emotion, and that I was disrupting my ki. But I hated them. I hated the way they never did anything, but still managed to destroy my plans. It was like they wanted the whole planet to die.
I kicked over a watering can, but only succeeded in stubbing my toe. I swore, hopping around on one foot.
I heard the crunching of gravel behind me. It was Hiro, hood up and ridiculous headphones on, staring at me as I clutched my foot. I felt my cheeks redden, which made me even more angry.
‘What are you looking at?’ I snapped.
Hiro put up his hands in mock surrender, and slunk off to his bench. I could hear the tinny thumping of music from his headphones, which only served to irritate me more. Stupid sullen Hiro and his stupid attractive face. I hated him too.
I stomped over to the seed-raising punnets so I wouldn’t have to hear his stupid music or look at his stupid head in its stupid hoodie.
Bare earth stared back at me.
Not a single sprout. I’d been trying for over a month, and nothing.
I retrieved the watering can and filled it, determined not to even look at Hiro. Rage seethed inside me. Water soaked into the mockingly empty punnets.
Maybe I was kidding myself. Maybe this whole kitchen garden plan was a waste of time. Who cared if the canteen wouldn’t take my produce – I didn’t have any produce. The International Space Station had a microgravity growth chamber where they could get seeds to germinate. In space. I couldn’t even make a sprout. I wasn’t even growing weeds.
‘You’re watering them too much,’ said Hiro from behind me. He’d come over to the potting shed and was watching over my shoulder.
I glared at him. ‘And I suppose you’re an expert.’
He shrugged. ‘You’re drowning the seeds,’ he said. ‘They’ll rot. Soil needs to be damp for germination, not wet.’
Hiro moved closer and bent to look at my carefully labelled punnets. My rage melted into confusion. Sulky Hiro was talking to me. In real, proper, multisyllabic words. Talking about something useful. Maybe he’d been in a bad mood yesterday. Maybe Shopping Trolley Guy was his true persona, and he just had to get warmed up to me.
Surely if I could get Hiro to talk to me, I could get a snow pea seed to sprout.
Maybe everything would be okay after all.
‘You won’t have any luck with snow peas anyway,’ he said. ‘It’s too warm this time of year. Try tomatoes or cucumbers. And you’re sowing the seeds too deep. They should only be a couple of centimetres below the soil.’
I stared at him. His face had come alive as he poked around in my seedling tray. The sullen stare had vanished, and had been replaced by a keen alertness. I felt an excited flutter of recognition as I saw the cute guy I’d met on the weekend. He looked up and met my eyes. A shivery thrill ran through me, and for a moment I was certain that he’d finally recognised me. Then, like blinds being drawn, his face shut again, and once more he was angry and disconnected. The transformation was so sudden, I felt like I’d been given an electric shock.
‘Whatever,’ he mumbled. ‘Do what you want.’
I opened my mouth to reply, but stammered incoherently. I wanted to get him back. ‘H-h-how do you know so much about gardening?’ I managed to choke out.
He just looked away and scuffed his sneakered foot on the ground, then made a show of pulling up his headphones and turning his music up loud. But he didn’t go back to his bench. He sorted through my seed packets, separating them into four piles. I watched him, fascinated.
‘Summer. Autumn,’ he said, pointing at the stacks in turn. ‘Winter. Spring.’
I blinked. ‘I didn’t know you were supposed to plant them all at different times.’*
Hiro slid his headphones off with a weary sigh. ‘Is it shocking?’ he asked sarcastically. ‘To discover that there are things you don’t know?’
He was mean. ‘There’s lots of stuff I don’t know,’ I told him. ‘Anyone who thinks they know everything is deluded.’
Hiro raised an eyebrow, but I thought I saw the teensiest flicker of respect in those dark eyes. Or maybe it was just wishful thinking. But he did leave his headphones slung around his neck, and showed me how to soak the seeds before we planted them, and how much the seaweed fertiliser needed to be diluted. With only a minimal amount of eye-rolling.
‘Hey,’ I said. ‘You’re really good at this. Thank you.’
In an instant, Hiro’s face clouded over. ‘Don’t patronise me,’ he muttered, and stumped away to his spot near the water tank.
‘Astrid!’
Dev and Paige were on the other side of the chain-link fence that separated the kitchen garden from the rest of the world. I saw Hiro stiffen and pull up his headphones. I walked over to the fence.
‘Nice outfit,’ said Paige.
I looked down at my gardening apron and flowery gloves. ‘I know, right?’ I said, striking a pose.*
‘We’re heading to Patchwork Rhubarb to study for that algebra test tomorrow. Come with us.’
‘I can’t,’ I said. ‘I’ve got more work to do here, and I promised Mum I’d be home for an early dinner.’
Paige and Dev made exaggerated sad faces.
‘Are you sure?’ said Paige. ‘Not even for half an hour? I’m going to need a break from listening to Dev go on about his music teacher.’
‘I friended him on Facebook,’ said Dev breathlessly. ‘And he doesn’t have any relationship status. That means he’s single!’
Paige shot me an imploring look.
I shook my head. ‘Sorry.’
Paige sighed. ‘How’s it going, anyway?’ she asked. ‘The Great Gardening Project?’
‘Better,’ I said. ‘I’m learning a lot.’
Paige glanced at my raised garden beds. ‘I don’t see any actual plants.’
‘Er,’ I said. ‘No. Still working on that.’
‘What did Mr Gerakis want?’ asked Dev.
Anger washed through me again. I told them about the canteen, and the school’s contract with the bulk food supply company.
‘How awful,’ shuddered Dev. ‘I’m so glad we never eat there.’
‘Can you imagine the kinds of preservatives they use?’ said Paige. Although Paige wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about my kitchen garden idea, she was very much in favour of organic food. She said that preservatives were toxins that polluted the body, clouding the ki. She made her mum drive her to Cambridge Hills every weekend to buy kale, avocado, chia seeds and dried goji berries for her lunch salads, and had been very supportive of my campaign to get her dad’s cleaning business to use only green cleaning products.
‘Um, Astrid?’ Dev was frowning. ‘Why is there a drug dealer in your garden?’
He’d noticed Hiro. A sudden thought occurred to me. What if Hiro was good at gardening because he grew pot? He could be a drug dealer. A hydroponics expert. It wasn’t a comforting thought.
I tried to put on a bright smile. ‘Mr Webber sent him here. Detention.’
Dev made a face. ‘Him? He’s the guy who stole the box of finished exams from the office and put them up on the roof.’
Really? That was Hiro? It had been a huge deal. The fire department were called to get the box of papers down so they could be sent off for marking.
Paige nodded. ‘Isn’t he also the guy who got caught calling in a bomb threat so he wouldn’t have to do a maths test?’
‘Maybe we should stay and protect you,’ said Dev, eyeing off Hiro, who was apparently engrossed in his phone. ‘He might be dangerous.’
I laughed. ‘The only danger he poses is to himself. He might eye-roll too hard and cause permanent damage.’
Paige peered through the fence at Hiro. ‘I think he’d be quite cute,’ she said. ‘If he stopped looking so slouchy and miserable.’
I felt a little zing of … something. What was it? Pride? Jealousy? That was ridiculous. Paige could have him if she could convince him to look at her without sneering. I certainly wasn’t interested. Even if he was cute. Anyway, he was obviously immune to the Missolini glow.
‘Too young,’ said Dev with a dismissive sniff. ‘Did I mention that Sanasar studied music at a Belgian conservatory? He’s definitely a purple ten.’
Paige groaned. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I want to get this algebra done so I can watch Runaway Amish.’
I could feel the scorn coming off Hiro in waves. And I could feel myself growing prickly. It was okay for me to judge Paige for her reality-TV obsession, but it was not alright for stupid Shopping Trolley Guy to do it. She was my friend, and if she wanted to watch My Alien Lover Wants a Divorce or Dance Senator*, then she could. After all, it wasn’t as if she was wasting her life. As well as being Queen Missolini and universally adored, Paige was also a straight-A student and an aikido champion. And she meditated for an hour every single morning to focus her ki, so she definitely wasn’t neglecting to nurture her soul. How exactly was Hiro bettering himself? Skulking around, setting Year Sevens’ bags on fire and working as a supermarket stacker? Whatever.
