The screeching of lorikeets woke Henry early. His mouth was dry as a desert and he was desperate to go to the bathroom. He slid out of his sleeping bag and tiptoed around Lulu and her ponies, which seemed to have scattered all over the floor in the night, like wild brumbies on the run. He unzipped the tent and fly and crawled through the small hole. His dad was sitting on a camp chair near the edge of their tarp, holding a mug of coffee in his hand. He was staring out at the water, toasting his hairy legs in the sun.
‘Hello, early bird,’ he whispered. ‘You sleep well?’
‘Sure,’ said Henry.
‘I’ve staked out the joint,’ said Dad. ‘I’ve been for a long bike ride already and there’s a stack to see. Stingrays, seals, Nugget Rock shining like fool’s gold and on the other side, the inlet so glassy and smooth, a fishing paradise . . .’
Reed slid out from the tent opposite in his pyjamas, bed-haired and bleary-eyed like he had just slithered from a cocoon. ‘Sunny!’ he whispered, looking up. ‘Yay!’ He tugged at his pyjama pants, pulling them up high. ‘Who wants a bowl of Coco Pops?’
The smell of burnt toast and bacon drifted in the air.
‘Nah,’ said Henry, jiggling on the spot. ‘No thanks.’
‘How about we tackle your bike?’ said Dad. ‘Get a quick lesson in before breakfast?’
Henry swallowed. No crafty thief had come in the night. There it was: the bike. He couldn’t escape it. He glanced at Reed.
‘Yeah!’ said Reed, licking his lips. ‘Whatcha waiting for, Hennie?’
Henry shook his head. ‘Not now,’ he mumbled.
‘I’d sure love to ride around with you to Nugget Rock,’ said Dad. ‘I saw a baby seal round there this morning, slapping a fish.’
‘Maybe later,’ said Henry. ‘I need to go to the bathroom now.’
‘I’ll go with you, Mr Hoobler,’ said Reed, with a smirk. ‘After I’ve gone for a fish first.’
‘Ah, well, maybe later then,’ said Dad, with a tiny sigh.
Henry slunk away quickly, the grass wet beneath his feet. Gosh, that Reed! What was wrong with him? He was into everything. Maybe he’d grow up to be like Mr Duffy from across the road, wandering the streets on council pick-up day, fossicking through the trash on everyone’s front lawn, searching for hidden treasure.
Because, after all, Henry wanted to do stuff with his dad. He did. But his dad was so . . . what did his mum always say? Exuberant. Yes, that was the word. His dad was exuberant, which meant enthusiastic and some other word, what was it again . . . buoyant. Yes, buoyant as a boat, as if nothing would ever sink him. Mostly, this was a good thing. Like when Henry first went to school and was scared he might never learn to read, his dad’s confidence gave Henry courage, even when the words in the readers jumped and blurred together.
But the bad thing about his dad’s exuberance for everything was that he was so loud. He was into celebrating and rejoicing, whoo-hooing and clapping every new little step, every tiny gain.
Learning to ride a bike was different from learning how to read.
Henry wanted to learn quietly, without any fuss, far away from all his friends and family, where no one he knew could see his mistakes or his fear.
Henry took the long way back from the bathroom. He cut between the ritzy-ditzy cabins, the ones his dad reckoned cost twelve arms and twelve legs to stay in. He trod carefully around the scaly roots of the pine trees and stepped out onto the footpath.
Early morning joggers rushed by, their feet pounding. Scruffy dogs tugged at their leads, sniffing the salty air. Bellbirds ting-tinged from across the water.
Everyone was happy and polite and said things like ‘Morning!’ and ‘Lovely day’ and smiled at him, as if it was not unusual to see a boy in his pyjamas taking a stroll on a public footpath.
Henry paused to gaze over the water. A flock of birds rose up suddenly from out near a tiny island. They flew so tightly and close it was like watching one big bird, rather than hundreds of small ones. They dipped and turned, rising up and then sweeping left, the flash of their wings creamy white. Then they skimmed the water and whizzed up again, as if they didn’t know how to settle.
Just then Henry heard a splash. A different bird popped its head out of the water and then flew up and struck down again. A school of fish sprang out in silvery arches – once, twice, three times – down towards the bridge.
Henry lunged forward, straining to see more. Ah, that poor bird! He was like a cartoon character, diving in and coming up empty every single time, those tiny fish sticking close together, quicker than a bunch of quavers.
‘Wow,’ he breathed, turning to see if anyone else had noticed.
The girl on the crimson dragster bike was perched right behind him. ‘Ha!’ she said, with a grin. ‘My Nan reckoned the best things always happen on the way to somewhere else.’
‘Is that right?’ said Henry.
‘Yep. For sure!’ said the crimson dragster girl. ‘Take last night – I was going for a ride after the storm when I saw something out of the corner of my eye. So I stopped to take a look and found this.’ She reached into her bike basket and pulled out a strawberry-pink pony.
Henry’s stomach flipped like a pancake. ‘That’s Peony.’
‘I thought it might be a member of your family.’ The crimson dragster girl lifted her eyebrows high. A small smile fizzed on her lips. ‘So tell your little sister I’m her knight on a shining bike!’ She tossed the pony to him and flicked her fingers up in a funny greeting that was both hello and goodbye all at once. Then she surged off down the grass and up the path, coasting from side to side, her crimson dragster moving like a dancer, curving left, then right.
Henry stood up straighter. He clutched the pony tight to his chest and watched her ride away, even though he wanted to tell her to stop. Where had she found Peony? How could he thank her? He wanted to ask her what made her so sure that best things always happen on the way to somewhere else – how could that be true?
But then he remembered that the girl had seen his pyjamas, the exploding rockets, shooting stars and planets, so now she would be thinking he was nothing but a baby. Good grief, why didn’t he get changed before going to the bathroom, or at the very least wear pyjamas without a pattern? Now he couldn’t get back to the tent quick enough.
‘Hey there.’ Reed ambled towards Henry. He wore bright blue board shorts and a surfie singlet. A fishing rod rested against his shoulder and he was swinging a red bucket. ‘So,’ he cried, scrunching up his nose. ‘Who’s the girl, Hennie? Is she your new girlfriend?’
‘Just zip it,’ said Henry.
‘You gonna kiss her, Hen?’ Reed clucked like a chicken.
Henry brushed past, shaking his head. He didn’t have any words handy that could express the fullness of his scorn.
Why couldn’t a boy and a girl just be friends? Why did everyone have to go like a stupid ninny-head the minute a boy and a girl talked for one tiny second? All that dreaming about fish, all that hoping about fish and all that babbling about fish had left Reed with fish flakes for brains.
‘Do you see the way she rides that bike?’ called Reed. ‘She’s no scaredy-cat.’
Scaredy-cat. That word sunk inside Henry like a stone. ‘What do you know?’ he muttered, stomping off up the path.
‘Ah, Henny,’ chirped Reed. ‘I know everything!’