Candyfloss Read online

  ‘Yeah, what secret?’ said Margot. ‘You always have to create, like, a drama, Floss.’

  ‘Well, I guess this is pretty dramatic,’ I said, stung. I decided to show her. I took a deep breath. ‘We’re only going to Australia,’ I said.

  They all stared at me. Rhiannon looked particularly impressed. ‘Wow, you’re going on holiday to Australia!’

  ‘Well, I’m going on holiday to Orlando,’ said Margot. ‘It’s got Disneyland. Australia hasn’t got Disneyland.’

  ‘It’s got the Great Barrier Reef and Bondi Beach and Ayers Rock,’ said Susan, who had crept to the edge of the group. ‘Though actually we should call it by its Aboriginal name, Uluru.’

  ‘Nobody asked your opinion, Swotty Potty,’ said Rhiannon. She turned to me. ‘So when are you going on this holiday, Floss? Any chance I can come too?’

  ‘I wish you could,’ I said. I was regretting telling everyone now. It made it seem too real. I had to explain properly. ‘It’s not a holiday. We’re going to stay there for six whole months.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said miserably. ‘Only I don’t think I want to. I like it here. I’ll miss my dad so much. And I’ll miss you, Rhiannon.’

  ‘I’ll miss you too!’ she said, and she hugged me tight.

  I hugged her back.

  Margot and Judy made silly noises and stupid comments but I didn’t care. Susan hitched her glasses higher up her nose, gave me a wan smile and wandered off. I felt bad that Rhiannon had called her names, but I couldn’t help it. I liked Susan. I wanted to be kind to her but I knew if I started speaking to her properly people would start teasing me too.

  I started to think about the Australian school during lesson time. I would be the new girl. What if everyone started picking on me? I was quite clever but I didn’t ever come top, so they wouldn’t tease me for being swotty, would they? I had a perfectly ordinary kind of name, Flora Barnes. My initials didn’t spell anything silly or rude. I didn’t mind being called Floss or Flossie for a nickname. Rhiannon once or twice called me Flopsy Bunny but that was when she was making a big fuss of me.

  I’d never ever find a friend in Australia like Rhiannon.

  ‘You will stay my friend when I’m out in Australia, won’t you?’ I begged her at lunch time. ‘And still be best friends when I come back?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Rhiannon.

  She wasn’t really concentrating. She was looking over at Margot and Judy, who were huddled up looking at some stupid pop magazine. They were giggling and kissing their fingers and stroking all their favourite boy bands. Rhiannon giggled too, watching them.

  ‘You won’t make friends with Margot when I’m gone, will you?’ I said anxiously.

  ‘Give it a rest, Floss! Which part of Australia are you going to, anyway?’

  ‘Sydney.’

  ‘Is that near Brisbane? That’s where they make Neighbours.’

  We went to the library and found a big book about Australia.

  ‘Wow!’ said Rhiannon, flipping through pictures of bush and beaches and orange rocks and weird white buildings. ‘You are so lucky, Floss, it looks fantastic.’

  It didn’t seem like a real place. It was all too bright and highly coloured and bizarre, like a cartoon. I looked down at the parquet pattern on the library floor and tried to imagine myself going down down down for thousands of miles and then bobbing out in Australia.

  I’d never quite got to grips with geography. I knew the people in Australia weren’t really upside down, but it still seemed a little odd all the same.

  We read a ballad about an Australian called Ned Kelly in our English lesson that afternoon. He was a sheep thief and he ended up getting hanged.

  ‘You’d better not steal any little lambs out in Australia, Floss!’ said Rhiannon.

  Mrs Horsefield asked me to read a ballad about a Tragic Maiden out loud. I read it dramatically, making the Tragic Maiden weep and wail. Margot and Judy started snorting with laughter. Even Rhiannon smirked a little. I could feel myself blushing.

  ‘That was very good, Floss,’ said Mrs Horsefield kindly. ‘You’re very good at reading aloud.’

  I’d always liked reading to my mum when she did the ironing or started cooking, but now she chatted to Steve instead. I’d tried reading aloud to Tiger, but he fussed and fidgeted and kept wanting to turn the page before I’d finished reading all the words.

  ‘Now I want you to have a go at making up your own ballads,’ said Mrs Horsefield.

  ‘Does it have to be all daft and old fashioned and tragic?’ said Rhiannon.

  ‘It can be about anything at all, as long as it’s in ballad form and tells a story,’ said Mrs Horsefield.

  Everyone started groaning and scratching their heads and mumbling. Everyone except Susan, sitting by herself in front of us. She was scribbling away like anything.

  ‘Look at Swotty Potty,’ said Rhiannon. ‘Trust her. Oh yuck, I hate this ballad lark. What have you put so far, Floss?’

  ‘The girl sat in an aeroplane,

  Watching the clouds with wonder,

  Worrying how she’d get on

  In her new life Down Under.’

  ‘Down Under what?’ said Rhiannon. ‘That sounds stupid.’

  ‘Well, I know. I want to say “In Australia” but I can’t find a word for it.’

  ‘What about . . . wailier?’ Rhiannon suggested. ‘The girl went ever more weepier and wailier because she was missing her best friend Rhiannon now she was in Australia. There!’

  ‘It doesn’t fit, Rhiannon. It’s too long.’

  ‘Well, say it very quickly then. Now help me, Floss. So far I’ve got, There was a pretty young girl called Rhiannon, who joined a circus and got shot out of a cannon. Hang on, inspiration! It hurt a lot when she got shot, that poor pretty young girl called Rhiannon. There! Maybe I’m not such pants at ballads after all. Even though I don’t show off in a swotty way like some people.’ Rhiannon put her foot up and kicked Susan’s chair.

  Susan jumped and her pen squiggled right across her page. She sighed and tore it out of her exercise book. Then she turned round. ‘If you were a little bit swottier you’d realize that you’ve written a limerick, not a ballad.’

  ‘Who cares what you think, Swotty Potty? You think you’re it just because you like writing this poetry rubbish. What have you put anyway?’ Rhiannon reached out and snatched Susan’s spoiled page.

  ‘Oh yuck, what kind of daft drivel is that? What’s she on about? Listen, Floss.

  ‘She walked along the corridors,

  Pacing each floorboard with care.

  She didn’t step on a single crack

  But no one knew she was there.

  She edged around the wooden fence,

  Tapping each post in turn,

  She counted each one attentively

  But she had a lot to learn.

  She tried to do maths magic,

  Adding all the sums in her head,

  But all the figures multiplied

  Her loneliness and dread . . .

  ‘What kind of weirdo nonsense is that? And it’s not a ballad either because it doesn’t tell a story, it’s just a lot of rubbish about nothing, so ya boo sucks to you, Swotty.’

  Rhiannon crumpled the page up and threw it at Susan’s head.

  Susan turned round and chopped her hand quick on Rhiannon’s shins.

  ‘Get off! That hurt,’ said Rhiannon.

  ‘Good,’ Susan muttered. ‘Now get your feet off my chair.’

  ‘Don’t you tell me what to do, Swotty Potty,’ said Rhiannon. She leaned right forward on the edge of her seat, ready to kick Susan hard in the back. But Susan grabbed her by the ankles and pulled. Rhiannon lost her balance. She shot straight off her chair and landed with a thump on the floor. She shrieked.

  ‘Rhiannon! Whatever are you doing! Get up and stop clowning around,’ said Mrs Horsefield.

  ‘Ouch!’ said Rhiannon. ‘I think I’ve broken my elbow. And my wri