A Straight Line to My Heart

Bill Condon's
novel
Confessions of a Liar, Thief and Failed Sex God
was the winner of the inaugural Young Adult Fiction prize in the 2010 Prime Minister's Literary Awards. His other novels for young adults include
No Worries
, which was an Honour Book in the CBCA awards for older readers in 2006, and was also shortlisted for the NSW Premier's Literary Awards.
Dogs
was an Honour Book in the CBCA awards for older readers in 200
1.

Bill lives on the south coast of NSW with his wife, the author Dianne Bates. Before writing for children and young adults, Bill worked as a journalist on a suburban newspaper. He has written non-fiction, short stories, poetry and plays.

For more information about Bill and his books go to www.enterprisingwords.com

Other books by Bill Condon

Give Me Truth

Dare Devils

No Worries

From Hero to Zero

First published in 2011

Copyright
©
Bill Condon, 2011

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
The Australian Copyright Act 1968
(the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

Allen & Unwin

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Email
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A Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available from the National Library of Australia: www.trove.nla.gov.au

ISBN 978 174237 730 8

Teachers' notes available from www.allenandunwin.com

Design by Bruno Herfst

Set in 11.5 pt Caslon Classico

ebook production by
Midland Typesetters
Australia

There's nothing quite as good as folding up into a book and shutting the world outside. If I pick the right one I can be beautiful, or fall in love, or live happily ever after. Maybe even all three.

If you can't get a boy, get a book, that's my motto.

Here I am in Gungee Creek Library. It's tiny and cramped but it has ceiling fans and the bus stop is only a short walk away. I have twenty-five minutes to wait for my ride home. That's plenty of time for me to visit an old friend named
Wuthering Heights
.

It's all so sad. Catherine died two hours after the birth of her daughter. Just like my mum. And Emily Brontë, the author, died not long after finishing the story.

Young Cathy is asked why she loves Edgar Linton. She dodges around before at last admitting: ‘I love the ground under his feet, and the air over his head, and every word he says . . .'

On and on she goes with this romantic drivel. It's too much, Cathy. But still, I wouldn't mind feeling that way about someone, especially if he felt the same way about me. I wouldn't go for Edgar, though; tall and windswept Heathcliff for me, every time. And there wouldn't be any tragic misunderstandings if we hooked up. It would be . . . 

‘Scuse me.'

A guy stands in front of me.

‘Yes?'

‘Sorry to interrupt.' He grins for no reason. This is not a promising sign. ‘You don't know where there's a toilet around here, do you?'

He's large and slouchy, like a vertical beanbag.

‘Go out the door. Take a left. Take another left. Toilet.'

‘Must have gone right past it. What was it again? Take a left and then . . .?'

‘Two lefts. One. Two. It's the second one.'

‘Got it.'

‘You can't go wrong. Come back if you do.'

‘Ta. I'll go check it out.'

‘Yes. Do that.'

He gives me a toothy smile then holds and holds the pose as though he's being photographed for
Village Idiot Weekly
, before at last he turns and lopes away.

I feel like writing a stern note to the librarian.

Dear Ms Dombkins,

I strongly suggest the library overhaul its security procedures. Today my sanctuary was violated by a Big Foot!

Outraged, of Gungee Creek.

I try to slip back to
Wuthering Heights
.

‘Oh, these bleak winds, and bitter northern skies, and impassable roads . . .'

Oh, forget it. One minute ago I had no trouble imagining myself battling along on the frozen heath, but now an invader has trampled all over the mood. I've left
Wuthering Heights
and I'm stuck back here in the boiling heat of Gungee.

Damn.

He was wearing red shorts with a blue stripe. So he plays for Tarwyn, forty-five minutes drive north of here. He's more hulk than hunk, but I have to admit he's got a cute smile. About my age or just a bit more, probably blown in for the day to have a game at the oval tomorrow. The Tarwyn crew often arrives a day early. My guess is their coach likes to have some of his gorillas stroll around town to intimidate the Gunners. Smart move. This guy looked like he eats smaller footy players for breakfast.

I kinda want to see him again, if only to do a little exploring. Who knows – I might even like what I find. Only problem is, exploring takes bravery and I'm fresh out. It's easier to hunch down and bury my head in some musty pages, while trying to watch the library exit sign out of the corner of my eye. In a few minutes he should be on his way.

I wait and wait. Where's he got to? Maybe he's pushing on the toilet door instead of pulling on it. He might never get out of there.

Uh-oh. Here he comes.

‘Scuse me.'

I look up and there he is.

‘You didn't get lost, did you?' I ask.

‘Nuh. No trouble at all. Your directions were spot on.'

‘Good . . . so you're probably looking for the exit. Out that door.'

‘I know. I was looking for you.'

He's grinning again.

Ms Dombkins, where are you? Help!

‘Me?'

‘Yeah, I didn't introduce myself before; was in a bit of a rush. When you gotta go–'

He puts out his hand – I say a silent prayer that he washed it – and reluctantly give him mine.

‘Davey Peters.'

His handshake is almost gentle. That's a trick serial killers use to lure you into a false sense of security.

‘And you'd be?'

No, no. Wait. I've had second thoughts. I'm no explorer. I'm not interested in knowing you.

Look at you. Now look at me. What is wrong with this picture?

Both of us!

He's a bumble-headed sleepwalker, twice my size.

And I'm just an ordinary girl –
too
ordinary. No boy ever notices me.

Tell him that. Tell him!

I always talk to myself but I hardly ever listen.

‘Tiff.'

‘Ohhh, Tiff,' he says, pretending he understands, when it's obvious to me that he doesn't. Looks like I have to explain it.

‘Short for Tiffany. Tiff is what I usually get – Tiffy sometimes – basically I'll answer to any name that starts with a T.'

Oh God, now I'm grinning. I'm as bad as him. And I'm babbling, too. I'm nervous, that's the problem. It's a natural reaction when you're confronted by a Big Foot who won't take his eyes off you.

Look at something else. The library has lots of pretty pictures on the wall. Stare at them, not me.

‘Tiff like in
Breakfast at Tiffany's
,' he says. ‘Right?'

I couldn't be more shocked.

‘Um . . . yes, that's right – it's an old movie.'

‘Is it? Don't watch much
tv
. I've only heard of the book – got it at home. I bought it 'cause Truman Capote wrote it. I was stoked by
In Cold Blood
. He wrote that, too. You read it?'

‘No.'

‘Aw, you gotta. It rocks.'

I look away as if I've been suddenly distracted by something out the window. It's my version of the pause button. There's a lot of information to process. Here's a boy my own age; he shakes my hand, he talks to me – not just to ask directions to the toilet – and he reads books.

Heathcliff?

‘Oops. Almost forgot why I came back in to see you.'

Those words hit my brain and just reverberate – he came back to see me! I try hard not to let my feelings show, but there's nothing I can do about the wave of redness that engulfs my face. I so hope he's colour blind.

‘Um . . . so why did you come back?'

‘Raffle tickets.' He takes out a book of them. ‘The Blues are raising money for equipment. You want to buy some? Three for five bucks. Top prizes.'