That night, Dylan shouted Henry a special three-scoop gelato sundae. ‘Here ya go, grandmaster,’ he said, sliding it across the table to Henry. ‘This is for you. Banoffee, vanilla and cherry coconut ripple. Enjoy!’
‘Reed had to stay in the tent,’ confided Lulu, ‘because he wouldn’t say sorry, not even when his mum and dad told him to a hundred times and now he has to miss out and tonight they have pavlova flavour.’ She nodded her head vigorously. ‘And when he finds out about that I’m pretty sure he will be sorry about not being sorry!’
‘Oh, Lulu,’ breathed Mum. ‘Please!’
Lulu nibbled her waffle cone. ‘Maybe some people are just big scaredy-cats about saying an incy-wincy word like sorry!’ A drip of watermelon gelato hung off her chin.
‘Just eat up,’ said Mum, reaching over to swipe it away.
‘Ow!’ wailed Lulu. ‘You’re hurting me!’
Henry scratched his nose. He didn’t think sorry was an incy-wincy word. It always felt like a word that weighed a lot. Sometimes after he had done the wrong thing and spoken it out loud, the space still ached where it used to be, in a way that was both happy and sad. He gazed down at his gelato.
‘Whoo-heee,’ said Dad. ‘There’s a lot there, Heno. I’ll be happy to give you a hand if that gets too much for you.’
‘I’ll be okay,’ said Henry, elbowing his dad away. He ate slowly, savouring every mouthful. Gosh, there were no better flavours! The cherry coconut ripple even had real toasted coconut and dark chocolate chunks.
‘It’s been a good day, yeah?’ said Mum. She licked the drips running down her lemon sorbet waffle cone.
‘Yep,’ said Henry. ‘The best.’
‘I hope it doesn’t rain tomorrow, but,’ said Patch. ‘Because I want to get out and surf again. Today was okay, but give me a day with some sun, please.’
Lulu dipped her tongue into her cone. ‘But if it rains tomorrow,’ she said, her teeth bright pink, ‘we can all play the My Little Pony Memory Game. It’s very hard. You have to match the ponies and to do that you have to remember where they are and flip them over and I am very good at making matches.’
‘Oh, no!’ cried Patch. ‘Spare me the giddy-up, partner. I’m trying to forget ponies, not remember them.’
‘You big meanie.’ Lulu kicked Patch’s shin fiercely.
‘Owww! She just broke my leg. Did you see that?’
‘Settle down, tulips,’ said Dad.
‘Settle down?’ said Patch. ‘Do you call that discipline? I’m going to start wearing my hair in pigtails with cute little boggly boos and hug a pony, if that means you can get away with everything.’
‘Shhhh,’ said Mum. ‘You’re making too much noise!’
‘How about you say sorry, munchkin,’ said Patch, glaring at Lulu.
Lulu shook her head. ‘No!’
Patch coughed. ‘Scaredy-cat!’
Lulu stood up. ‘He called me scaredy-cat!’ She stamped her foot.
‘That’s enough,’ said Dad. ‘Don’t make a scene.’
Patch grunted. ‘Ah, geez, we all know who the golden child is—’
‘So Henry,’ interrupted Mum. She nodded at his sundae. ‘Is this your favourite part of today?’
‘Uh-huh.’ It was pretty awesome. Even a double scoop of gelato seemed sad and lonely next to this triple-whammy mountain range.
But later on, after they had finished eating, when Henry was crossing the road back to the holiday park and he was holding Dad’s hand and the stars were coming out between the clouds, he couldn’t help thinking it wasn’t the winning or the three-scoop sundae or even discovering that he was a genius at noticing things that was the best part of the day.
It was the surprising.
Yes, that was the best thing ever. Everyone seeing him one way at the beginning of the day and then everyone suddenly seeing him differently at the end, his dad and Patch and all their friends and, now he was thinking about it, maybe even himself.
On his way back from the bathroom, Henry spotted the crimson dragster girl’s bike parked outside the laundry. He peeked over the windowsill and watched the girl shoving clothes into a washing machine, even though it was so late.
‘I can see you,’ she said, without turning her head.
‘No way,’ said Henry.
‘Yes way.’ She tapped the glass on the front loader. ‘You’re in here.’
‘Aaah!’ said Henry and he felt a swell of gratitude that he was still wearing his shorts and a T-shirt and not his pyjamas. ‘That’s clever.’
‘I bet you can’t guess my full name,’ said the girl, turning round. ‘What do you think Cassie might be short for?’
Henry shook his head. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said, hesitating. ‘Cassata?’
‘Ha! Too funny.’
‘Cassava?’
‘Nope!’
‘I don’t know,’ said Henry. ‘Cassandra?’
‘Close. Good try.’
Henry laughed. ‘Cassowary?’
‘Do I look like a giant bird to you?’
‘Casserole?’
‘Tasty! But not even warm.’
Henry held up his hands in surrender. ‘I give up.’
‘Cassiopeia.’
‘Gee.’ Henry took a few steps forward, so he hovered in the doorway. ‘Wow! That’s a long name.’
Cassie turned and tocked some coins into the slot and spun some knobs on the washing machine. The clothes inside began to toss and swirl. ‘Do you know where it comes from?’ she asked. ‘Cassiopeia?’
Henry fiddled with the seam of his T-shirt. ‘Nope.’
‘My mum named me after a bunch of stars, a big constellation,’ said Cassie, popping her detergent into a laundry bag and zipping it up. ‘Because at one time she wanted to be a big, big star.’
‘And is she one?’ Henry stepped right inside.
‘Nah,’ said Cassie. ‘She sings on cruise ships now, which my Pop says are just floating RSLs. My mum reckons she left her run too late. And it’s hard to be a big, big star when you’ve got a kid.’
‘Oh,’ said Henry.
‘People call me Cassie because it’s easier to say.’
‘Which do you like better?’ asked Henry.
‘Cassie, I think. Because it’s plain and everyday.’
‘Okay, then,’ said Henry. ‘So I have a question too.’ He cleared his throat.
Cassie tapped her foot. ‘Sure!’ she said. ‘Ask away.’
‘Well . . .’ Henry tugged his ear. He rubbed his chin. ‘How long . . . are you really staying down here?’
‘Forever,’ said Cassie.
Henry lifted his eyebrows. ‘Forever?’
‘I live here,’ said Cassie. ‘With my Pop.’
‘In a tent?’
‘No way!’ Cassie rolled her eyes, as if she was beginning to suspect Henry was slower than she first thought. ‘In a caravan!’
‘In a caravan?’ Henry blushed. ‘Oh, yeah . . . right . . . I know . . . I mean . . . I just . . .’
‘The one with the three meerkats staring out from the front window, just over the road from the amenities block and the dumpster.’
‘Meerkats?’ said Henry. ‘Holy Flamoley.’
‘Not real ones.’
‘Oh.’
‘Stuffed toys,’ said Cassie, grinning. ‘How’s your bike? Haven’t seen you ride it yet.’
‘Well,’ said Henry. ‘It’s okay – sort of. It’s kind of . . . the tyres . . . well, hard to – it’s got a bit of a problem . . . the brakes, you know . . .’ The moths in his chest buzzed.
‘You’re funny,’ said Cassie.
‘I’m staying in the green tent,’ said Henry, nodding his head, keen to change the topic. ‘That one up there in the middle. Not far from the bikies.’
‘I know,’ said Cassie. ‘You’re with the big crowd.’
‘Well,’ said Henry. ‘We’re not that big!’
‘Yeah, probably not. It’s just my Pop goes to bed early every night, in a grump, because he reckons he can’t sleep when there are so many little kids screeching about on their bikes in the park and so many loosey-goosey tarps flapping like sails in the wind. He sometimes has to get up before dawn, my Pop, because in the summer he works as a deckhand on a fishing charter boat and they need to get over the bar before the swell picks up. He’s not too fond of tourists.’ Cassie swung her laundry bag over her shoulder. ‘But I like them,’ she added. ‘So there, Henry.’
‘Hey! You remembered my name!’
‘I’ve got a good memory,’ she said, nodding.
‘I was named after my great-grandfather who was an admiral in the navy.’
‘So I’m a girl from the sky and you’re a boy from the sea!’
‘Ha!’ said Henry. ‘Yes. I like that.’
‘You know, if you want,’ said Cassie, ‘maybe I can introduce you to my stingray?’
‘Is that stuffed too?’ asked Henry.
Cassie laughed, squinting. ‘No, he’s the real deal.’
Henry thought about the poisonous barb in a stingray’s tail. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Aren’t they kind of . . . dangerous?’
‘Nahh,’ said Cassie, sliding past him, her thongs flopping. She grabbed her bike and climbed on. ‘Not this one. He’s lost most of his tail, so he’s completely harmless and super friendly. If you like, I can take you on a bike ride tomorrow and show you all sorts of interesting stuff.’
‘Maybe we could go for a walk instead,’ said Henry. ‘Until my bike gets – fixed?’
‘Well,’ said Cassie, wrinkling her nose. ‘We won’t see as much.’
Just then Reed turned the corner, a towel wrapped around his neck. He popped his toothbrush out of his mouth.
‘I’ve got to choof,’ said Cassie, pushing off with one foot. ‘But maybe I’ll catch you later?’ She glanced at Henry over her shoulder.
‘Maybe,’ said Henry, shrugging, suddenly awkward.
‘See ya!’ she called, riding off down the path, swerving around Reed.
‘Whoah-ho!’ Reed swaggered towards him. ‘Whooo-hoo, Hennie! Girlfriend!’
‘Shut up,’ said Henry, glaring at him. ‘You don’t know anything.’
‘She sure is a whizz on that bike!’ said Reed, sauntering past. ‘Maybe some kind of genius. Maybe you should ask your dad to put your training wheels back on, baby cheeks, so you can keep up with her?’
‘And how many big fish have you caught so far?’ called Henry. ‘How many kingfish, hey?’
Reed saluted Henry with his toothbrush. ‘None yet,’ he cried, without looking back. ‘But I will!’
Henry clomped off down the path. It was true! Reed Barone was the most irritating boy in the world, maybe even in the universe. The minute Henry was near him, he got itchy all over and started sprouting mean thoughts.
‘Hey there, Heno.’ Dad came zooming up the road on Patch’s skateboard. ‘I’ve been sent out on patrol. You admiring the view?’
Henry shook his head.
‘You okay?’
Henry gazed at his dad for a moment, weighing up whether he should say something about Reed. But then he would also have to talk about the crimson dragster girl. And, oh blimey, that tiny little story he had just told about his new bike being broken.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Check out this fog,’ said Dad, gazing up. It was starting to slide across the sky like a long slow misty sigh. ‘Isn’t it astonishing, hey?’ He flipped his board around. ‘Race you home, genius boy!’
Henry charged after Dad down the road, running fast past the cabins with their flickering blue windows and the tinny sound of laughter, past the big bikie with the steel-wool beard, playing a noisy game of Celebrity Head with his bikie mates in the barbecue gazebo. He clambered over the lumpy roots of the pine trees and raced up to their tent, glowing like a Chinese lantern.
‘Beat you, Dad!’ he cried, as he zipped open the fly and crawled inside. He flopped down onto his Therm-a-Rest, panting. He peered up at the snug dome roof, the thin skin walls breathing in and out.
It struck Henry that the world was a little bit like a bag of mixed lollies: always full of some kind of surprise, some of them good, like clinkers and strawberry creams, and some of them horrible, like blue gummy cats and any orange lolly. Every day a jumbly rumbly bag of best moments and bad moments, joggled up tight together.