How to Grow a Family Tree Read online

  DEDICATION

  For Mum

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘It’ll be like a holiday!’ my mum says, beaming at us with her head vein throbbing.

  ‘Fairyland Caravan Park?’ My sister, Taylor, looks across the table with such disgust that I almost feel sorry for Mum.

  ‘It’s the termites!’ Mum says, although we know it’s got nothing to do with termites. Having to sell our home has everything to do with Dad getting laid off and developing a strong attachment to the pokies down at the pub.

  Which is why Mum’s telling us the bad news and Dad’s outside hiding somewhere. If he’d been in here, I’m pretty sure Taylor would’ve reached across the kitchen table and ripped out his eyeballs.

  ‘I’m not going,’ Taylor says. I’ve never met anyone else like Taylor. She’s short, like Dad, and wears her powdery-blonde hair very short. Although she’s got this very sweet, gentle voice, she’s extremely brutal. I spend most of my life walking into things and falling over, and yet Taylor’s still responsible for more of the scars and marks on my body than I am.

  ‘You don’t have a choice,’ Mum says, equally sweetly.

  They stare at each other and then Taylor groans and stands up to peer out into the garden, and I hope Dad’s hidden himself well. Or maybe I don’t hope that. Maybe I hope she finds him.

  I lean back in my chair and look up at the ceiling because ceilings have a sort of soothing effect on me. ‘A caravan,’ I say.

  ‘It won’t be forever,’ Mum says, as Taylor disappears out into the garden and starts yelling at something behind the garden shed.

  I keep staring up at the ceiling. There’s the crack Dad plastered but never painted. There’s the stain where Taylor used to throw the food she didn’t like. ‘A caravan, though.’

  ‘It’s not a caravan with wheels.’

  ‘So it’s a useless caravan.’

  ‘What I mean is that it’s got rooms,’ Mum says. ‘Two bedrooms. And a bathroom.’

  ‘Whoop-di-do.’

  ‘Stella, it’s the best I could do.’ Her voice is flat and I feel instantly awful because it’s not Mum’s fault that Dad’s a latent gambling addict.

  ‘I know,’ I say.

  ‘We’ll get through it.’

  I look at the tarnished light fitting and the crooked bulb above the dining table. It’s getting dark. We’ll need to turn it on, soon. ‘I know that, too.’

  ***

  This has been a pretty bad week, even before the whole we’re-moving-to-a-caravan-park thing. The piece of post that I’ve been wishing for and dreading for as long as I can remember finally arrived.

  The day the letter came was the day I’d decided to photocopy all my important documents. I’d watched a special on a news program that mentioned you should have copies of everything you’d need in an emergency and keep them in a separate location from the originals. I need to start thinking about these things. I’ll be eighteen soon.

  Mum’s a bit sloppy with some stuff – mostly because she’s so busy – but she’s always been meticulous at keeping everything important in her desk, so I’d gone rummaging without really thinking about it. I’d been alarmed at the number of unpaid bills and loan applications, but that still felt like adult stuff that didn’t really concern me. I mean, I had a plan for how to become an adult. And that plan started with copying my emergency documents.

  When I picked up my original birth certificate, the unfamiliar name had snagged my eye, like a stranger posing in a family photo. Kelly Russo. But I’d known I was adopted since forever. It just wasn’t a big deal. It almost felt like a fairy story. Kelly Russo – who had me too young and knew my parents really, really wanted a baby. The End.

  I’d gone outside to bring in the mail before the snails ate them and there was that name again. Kelly Russo. For a moment, I’d been completely certain that I was going to throw up all over the letterbox snails, so I stood with my head curled in towards my chest, taking deep breaths, until the feeling passed. Until all I was left with was a pounding headache and the urge to both rip the letter into tiny pieces and also shove it down my top, right next to my heart, because it felt so precious.

  I’d meant to tell Mum and Dad about the letter and have a bit of a self-indulgent tantrum about the whole thing, but before I’d worked out the most dramatic way to do it, Mum had dropped the caravan news and then Taylor was having a self-indulgent tantrum, and self-indulgent tantrums are sort of Taylor’s thing so I haven’t told them. Not yet.

  I’ve been keeping the letter close to me. I like to imagine what’s written in there. Whether she’s left-handed, like I am. Anything to distract me from the fact that it’s taken her seventeen years to write me anything.

  ***

  Sutherbend is a weird place – a bit too close to the city to be considered a country town, but also a bit too far out to be considered the suburbs. It has a very big river and a very wide highway, and the caravan park is kind of wedged in between the two.

  Our house is on the other side of town, tucked into a street that’s not the worst (that honour belongs to Sunshine Road), but definitely on the lower end of the ladder. Both my parents had worked really hard to buy the place and I’m pretty mad about them losing it.

  Fairyland Caravan Park. I roll onto my stomach and bury my head under my pillow. If anyone at school finds out, I’ll be a social outcast for the rest of Year Eleven and the whole of Year Twelve.

  Taylor comes into my room. She never knocks and I’ve given up asking her to. She sits down on the floor with her head tipped back onto my bed. ‘I don’t want to leave here,’ she says.

  ‘Me either.’

  We hear the squeak of the couch in the next room. Dad’s been sleeping in the living room for the past month but pretending he’s not.

  ‘There’s gotta be a way to get the money,’ Taylor says.

  ‘I think we’re past that, Tay. I think that’s what Mum’s been telling herself for months.’

  ‘But maybe . . .’

  ‘It’s hundreds of thousands of dollars. I’ve got about two hundred saved up – how about you?’

  Taylor sniffs, which I guess means less than two hundred.

  ‘At least we’ll be close to the river,’ I say. ‘We can swim over summer.’

  Taylor looks at me with her eyebrows raised. It’s one of the first things you’re taught in Sutherbend – to never go into the river because you’ll catch a dreadful disease and then you’ll die. I mean, even the bravest kids only ever go as far as poking the shallows with a stick. Some people swear they’ve seen it glowing green at night, but I’ve never believed that.

  Taylor starts picking the polish off her toenails and my voice gets louder. ‘Mum says there’re rooms and stuff. It’s not a caravan caravan.’

  ‘If it’s in a caravan park, it’s a caravan.’

  ‘Apparently, there’s a pool and a tennis court.’

  Taylor sniffs again. ‘I hate Dad.’

  ‘
He’s seeing a counsellor. To help with his gambling.’ I don’t know why I always do this; try to spin things for her so they sound better than they are. Maybe it’s because I’m eight and a half months older, I don’t know. It’s just the way it’s always been. The only reason that I know Dad’s been seeing a counsellor is because I heard him telling Mum last night that it’s a waste of time and he won’t be going back. Mum had made this weird, cackling sort of laugh. Dad had asked her if she wanted some tea and she’d said yes. I don’t get adults. I really, really don’t.

  ***

  The next afternoon, Taylor climbs up onto the roof with a sheet to protect her from the sun. ‘I’m not coming down until you promise that we’re not moving!’

  Mum stares up at her from the back lawn, and Dad stands near his shed and doesn’t look up at all.

  Mum cups her hands around her mouth. ‘Taylor, come down!’

  ‘No!’

  Mum prods me. ‘Get her down, Stell.’

  ‘Me? I’m not going up there! I’ll break my neck! Make Dad do it.’

  Mum sighs. ‘Taylor, you can’t stay up there!’

  ‘I can and I’m going to.’

  ‘Leave her,’ I say. ‘She just wants the attention. If we go inside and ignore her, she’ll come down.’

  ‘I can’t leave her up on the roof! What if someone sees?’

  I shrug. I mean, we’re about to move to Fairyland. A neighbour spotting Taylor on the roof (for what’s probably the fiftieth time) isn’t going to make much difference to anything.

  ‘I’m going to make chocolate mousse, Taylor,’ says Mum.

  I see Taylor stiffen for a moment. ‘You’re not.’

  ‘I am. And if you’re not down by the time it’s done, you won’t get any.’

  ‘I don’t care!’ Taylor bellows. ‘I don’t care about mousse! I’m staying here! I’m not bloody moving!’

  ***

  ‘Good mousse,’ Taylor says grudgingly, setting aside her bowl. ‘You know, kids from Sutherbend High go and egg the caravans at Fairyland.’

  ‘That’s terrible.’

  ‘We’ll be there. We’re going to get egged, Mum.’

  ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine.’

  Taylor spins around to Dad. ‘It won’t be fine! We’re going to get egged and it’s all your fault!’

  ‘It’s not for long, Taylor,’ Dad says, his voice tired.

  ‘That’s not going to stop us getting egged, though.’

  ‘We’re not going to get egged,’ I say.

  She glares at me. ‘Well, you’re such a giant the kids are probably going to be too scared to egg you. But me. I’m so tiny, I’ll be egged for sure.’

  ‘Hey!’ I say. Mum, Dad and Taylor are all pretty short. I shot up when I hit thirteen and I’m now hovering just over six feet.

  ‘No one’s going to be stupid enough to egg you, Taylor,’ says Mum.

  Taylor crosses her arms. ‘I want more mousse.’

  ‘There’s no more mousse.’

  ‘I’m going back up on the roof if there’s no more mousse.’

  ‘I can make more,’ says Dad. He doesn’t look at Taylor, but he picks up her bowl very carefully. ‘I can make you some more mousse.’

  ***

  Before the letter arrived, I’d seen myself in my father’s nose and my mother’s eyes and Taylor’s wide mouth and crooked teeth. I’d seen myself in my father’s abiding love of chocolate crackles and Taylor’s habit of yelling out random words in her sleep. But for some reason, now I look at them and see them only reflected in each other. I’ve never known who I look like and it’s unnerving how much it suddenly bothers me.

  The next afternoon, I’m on my bed, eating cereal and reading an article on adoption, when Taylor throws my bedroom door open. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ she says. ‘Are you listening? I’ve been thinking.’

  I shut the old laptop we share. I’m careful to close the browser window, first. Taylor gets really impatient about anything related to my adoption. We had a newer laptop that had mysteriously gone to get serviced and never came back. Come to think of it, I’m not even sure laptops need to be serviced.

  Taylor and I had got into the habit of keeping our rooms very neat and running regular inventories of all our stuff. If something wasn’t where it was meant to be, we quickly banded together and hunted around for it. Very occasionally, we’d find that we’d just put it somewhere by mistake, and sometimes we found it in Dad’s black backpack and then most often we never saw whatever it was ever again.

  She tugs me upright. ‘There’s a pub next door to the caravan park. With pokies.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I want to go down there and talk to the management.’ She straightens. ‘If Dad can’t sort himself out, we’ll just have to sort him out ourselves.’

  ‘Taylor . . .’

  ‘Come on.’ She tosses some of my clothes onto the bed that she’s decided will best complement her outfit, and I pull them on without complaint because there’s no point complaining to Taylor.

  ‘I can’t wear this,’ I say when I see myself in them.

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘It’s too short.’

  Taylor turns around to inspect the dress I’m wearing. ‘You need to stop growing!’ she says.

  ‘How am I meant to stop growing? Far out, Taylor. I’m not doing it on purpose.’

  She sniffs. ‘I guess you can wear something else. But make sure it’s serious looking, okay? We can’t look like kids. We’ve got to look like we mean business. I’ve printed this out,’ she says. It’s an unflattering print of Dad’s face. I nod. It’s kind of giving me a rush if I’m honest. Mostly, Taylor and I haven’t done much about Dad’s gambling, beyond protecting our stuff. It’s seemed like an adult problem, something between Mum and Dad. But the whole moving-to-Fairyland-Caravan-Park has changed things. I can feel it and so can Taylor.

  ‘We should start going through his bag,’ I say, pulling on a pair of jeans. ‘Not just when something’s missing, but regularly.’

  Taylor brightens. ‘Alright. We just need to try to control him a bit, until he sorts all this stuff out.’

  ***

  We walk past Fairyland on our way to the River Pub. Like swimming in the river, walking past Fairyland is something kids in Sutherbend have been told to avoid.

  Sagging wire fence; old cabins and caravans with red-and-pink flowers in pots. A pool with strange-coloured water and an old tennis court that has weeds growing through the cracked surface. My arms are covered in goose bumps. I feel like I’m being watched. Taylor doesn’t say anything as she walks by, but I see her shoulders and jaw tense up.

  There’s an arch over the gate. When it was put up, it would have read Fairyland. The letters have dropped off since then, though. The archway now reads airyla d.

  ‘They say it’s not going to be for long,’ I tell her. I’m more than a head taller than Taylor, but when she’s on a mission I struggle to keep up with her.

  ‘Unless we stop Dad gambling, we’ll be here forever, Stella,’ Taylor says, powering across the pub car park. ‘You’re so dense, sometimes.’ She pauses at the door. ‘Keep your mouth shut, okay? I’ll do the talking. Just try to look big and tough.’

  I don’t know how tough I’m capable of looking, even with my height. Before I can speak to Taylor, she’s squared her shoulders and disappeared into the pub. After a moment where I count quietly to ten and square my own shoulders, I go in after her.

  ***

  At school the next day, I’m staring up at the ceiling, not really listening to anything, thinking about gambling. I mean, how hard could it be to stop? I had to stop eating gluten for a whole month when I couldn’t quite get over a case of tonsillitis and Mum made me go on a special diet that was meant to boost my immune system. I’d done it. I’d managed. And I knew Dad could too if he just tried. Pokies couldn’t be harder to give up than doughnuts.

  Clem flicks me in the head. ‘What’s up with you today, Pric
e?’

  Clements, Lara, Zinnia and I are sitting in the technical section of the library on account of the air-conditioning vent right above it. Clem and I have been best friends since kindergarten. Back then, he’d lived on our street, but in the years since, his parents had saved and his mum had been promoted at work and they’d bought a nicer place near the cinemas. We stayed friends, though. Clem came over all the time, even though it was a long walk and our house was messy and cramped compared to his. But when stuff started getting awkward with my parents – both of them randomly bursting into tears and Mum rage-cooking dinner at seven o’clock in the morning on a Saturday – I’d stopped him coming over, and he hadn’t said anything about it, just gone along with things.

  Clem’s like that.

  ‘Just Year Twelve,’ I say. I hadn’t really thought through how to tell them about the move – I just assumed that I would. And then the morning had passed and I hadn’t.

  ‘Um . . . Year Twelve hasn’t started yet. You know that, right?’ Clem says.

  ‘It has! It has. This is our Year Twelve orientation,’ Zin says. ‘Year Eleven’s gone. It’s over.’

  Lara rolls her eyes. ‘You’re so dramatic.’

  The letter’s in the pocket of my school dress. I haven’t opened it yet and I also haven’t let it get further than a metre away from me.

  I imagine telling Clem about Fairyland. He wouldn’t really get it. For a moment, I try to imagine him having to move to Fairyland Caravan Park. He’d just shrug and get on with things and it wouldn’t be a big deal to him. That was Clem. When the apocalypse comes, he’ll probably steal ten bags of chocolate snowballs, shrug and settle in somewhere comfy with his soccer ball and some Lego.

  Lara says that Clem’s only good at soccer because his feet are so huge that it’s impossible for him to miss the ball. He’s always moving, always causing trouble, but never meaning to. And it’s the adorable sort of trouble that the teachers just roll their eyes at. He loves building things and wants to get into construction when he finishes school.

  ‘It’s just surreal,’ I say. ‘It’s freaking me out.’

  Zin sits up. ‘Oh, Stell. Me too. It’s stressful, right? Like, where’s all the time gone? I used to think the Year Twelves were all grown-ups and now we’re there and I don’t feel grown up. At all.’ She looks a little teary, but Zin’s always been a crier. Sometimes she cries in the middle of the Sutherbend High school anthem because it makes her feel nostalgic for the school we haven’t left yet.