Mostly Sunny with a Chance of Storms (6 page)

‘I’m Sunny,’ I said. ‘I mean, you know that already, sorry.’

‘I do,’ said Finn, packing his knitting in his back-pack and standing up to press the button for the next stop.

‘What I meant was: she’s a greyhound. Willow’s a greyhound.’ I was wondering what school he went to, but before I could ask he said, ‘Rudolph Steiner. And you?’

‘Elwood Primary. We just moved,’ I said, knowing he was wondering why I’d be going to a school so far away. ‘I’m finishing the year off at my old school.’

The bus slowed down and pulled over at Finn’s stop. ‘Have you checked your old place, Sunny? Maybe Willow’s there. She might still think it’s home. Dogs do that sometimes, you know.’

‘Brilliant idea! I’ll check our old place,’ I said, wondering why I hadn’t thought of that myself.

‘See you, Sunny,’ he said, making his way to the door. ‘I hope you find your dog.’

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Nice to meet you, Finn.’

The bus doors folded shut and I waved to Finn as he walked past my window. That’s when the strangest feeling hit the pit of my stomach. The only way I can describe it is
that when I’d woken up that morning Finn hadn’t existed, but by the time I got to school, he not only existed, but out of nowhere, he suddenly
mattered.
Maybe it was the knitting? It’s possible.

But seriously, what if I had the beginnings of a crush? A pre-crush? No! After seeing how weird Claud went over Buster Conroy I swore it would never happen to me. Claud’s laugh turned so fake you could practically spell it.

But even a possible pre-crush wasn’t enough to stop me worrying about Willow. I worried all through Science and all through Maths, and I worried a whole lot more through RE. I checked my phone at recess but there was no message from Mum. At lunch I called her.

‘Nothing yet I’m afraid, sweetheart,’ said Mum apologetically.

‘Have you asked Settimio?’

‘I did, Sunny, and apart from him telling me Willow had chased poor old Marmalade under the house again, he said he hadn’t seen her since yesterday. I don’t want you to worry too much. She’ll be back for dinner, I’m sure.’

‘What if she’s trying to walk back to our old place, Mum? Dogs do that you know. There’re so many busy roads, and you know how hopeless she is in traffic, and what if she gets—’

‘Try not to think the worst, Sunny. If she’s wandering about, someone will find her and give us a call. Trust me,
she’ll be okay. She’s smarter than she looks, you know.’

Just to be certain, I went back to our old place after school. I was hoping she’d be lying exhausted under the fig tree, just like old times. I could fully understand Willow thinking our old place was still her home; it still felt like my home too. I could have walked on in and dumped my bag in the hall, just like I always used to.

The new people had already put up a weird temporary carport made of canvas, like you see in caravan parks. It felt like such an intrusion. There was no car under it though, so I felt safe that the intruders weren’t home. I clicked open the gate, almost expecting Willow to fly down the side of the house with her tail whipping about like a propeller.

But there was nothing.

I really wanted to sneak down the side and see what the new people had done to the shed, but I didn’t, because I had no right to be there any more. That house was the most familiar place in the world to me, but suddenly it was out-of-bounds.

I had written a note in RE, asking the new people to call if Willow showed up, and I slipped it under their door hoping they didn’t have a pet who might eat it. Then I ran to the bus stop as fast as humanly possible. I looked at my watch. I had been worrying about Willow for nine solid hours.

The whole way home on the bus I practised the positive
visualisation techniques that Auntie Guff had taught me. I closed my eyes and imagined seeing Willow’s snout under the gate when I got home. Then I imagined her jumping all over me. I even let her tear my sock and I didn’t get cross. I imagined Willow so hard I could almost smell her.

But when I walked up our street there was no Willow-snout pressed under the gate and no Willow jumping all over me, or doing laps of the house. There was no trace of Willow at all. The front garden was as quiet and still as that first day I’d visited Granny Carmelene, way back when I hadn’t even met her yet and didn’t even know she was going to die.

‘
W–i-l-l-o-w!’
I called, closing the gate behind me. When she didn’t come, the pink rubber ends of my vast balloon of hope slipped from my grasp, and I watched it make frantic balloon circles in the air before falling limply to the ground.

It’s Settimio,
I thought.
He’s done something to her. I just know it.

I stomped straight around the back of the house towards Settimio’s cottage. I knew he was home, because apart from the fact that he never went anywhere, I could see smoke coming from his chimney. I threw my school bag down at his gate, marched down his cobblestone path and thumped on his door with two flat hands. I could hear him hobbling towards the door. When he opened it, he
was wearing only a flannel shirt and a woollen vest over his bare plaster-cast legs. I’m sure he was dressed like that just to frighten me.

‘What have you done with Willow!’ I could feel my nostrils flaring and I was trying my hardest to stay angry so that I wouldn’t cry.

‘I already tell your mother,’ said Settimio. ‘I not see your
stupido
dog.’ He tried to close the door in my face, but I stopped it with my foot.

‘Go away!’ he growled.

‘Tell me where she is!’ I yelled, but he closed the door hard against my foot and pushed the end of one crutch right on top of it until I had to pull it out of the way. Then I heard the door locking. I thumped on it with both hands.

‘We’re going to call the police, Settimio!
The police!’
I wished I knew the word for police in a language other than Indonesian. But I threw the Indonesian version at him all the same, just to make it sound like I was
really
serious. ‘
Polisi!
’

Then I ran to our back steps, almost tripping over my own school bag on the way. I stopped and yelled back towards Settimio’s cottage as loud as I could: ‘
Dognapper!’

I burst into tears the moment I got inside.

‘Is that you, Sunday?’ Mum called out from the kitchen.

I could smell dinner cooking, and it sure smelt like something meaty-cheesy-delicious, even if I wasn’t going
to be feeding any to Willow under the table.

‘I’ve been trying to call you for the last hour,’ Mum said giving me a hug. ‘Oh, Sunny, you’ve got yourself all worked up.’

Before she could say anything else, I heard a Willow-whine coming from the laundry, followed by some familiar snorting noises under the door. It was at that moment that I remembered the little voice I’d ignored when I’d arrived home and marched straight over to Settimio’s. The little voice that told me to go inside and see Mum first.

‘Apparently she took herself for a bit of a stroll by the river,’ Mum said. ‘Someone called me from Dights Falls!’ She opened the laundry door and I dropped to my knees so that I would be on the right level for a Willow hug, which turned out to be impossible because Willow was so happy to see me it was all I could do to fend her off. She jumped and licked and wagged her tail so hard it was painful to hear it bang against the door. Then she pounced on my feet with her claws as I tried to stand up.

‘Come on, Willow, settle down,’ I said, but she took off down the hall, racing in and out of the dining room, in and out of the drawing room and the library, then up and down the hall again.

‘Seems she may have missed you, Sunny,’ said Mum. ‘She’s been searching for you for the last hour and a half. I had to put her bed by the heater in the laundry just so I
could get the dinner on.’

‘Oh dear,’ I said, as Willow ran back towards me and buried her snout between my knees. I was feeling dreadful about what I’d said to Settimio. And especially silly for the Indonesian police part. ‘What was I thinking?’ I said under my breath.

‘Sunday?’

‘Oh, it’s nothing, Mum. Just a little misunderstanding.’

‘With who?’

‘Settimio. I kind of accused him of being involved with Willow’s disappearance. But you’ve got to admit, Mum, it really did look that way. He threatened me remember?’

‘Mmmm,’ said Mum looking sceptical. ‘Sounds to me like
someone
owes Settimio an apology.’

‘Aw, come on, Mum. I was traumatised. He’s probably already forgotten.’

But Mum gave me
the eyebrow
, as if to say,
You’ll apologise, Sunny Hathaway, and that’s that.

‘Dad,’ said Saskia
at breakfast the next morning, ‘how do you catch dyslexia?’

Lyall made a snorting noise into his porridge, and I could see Carl was trying his best to keep a straight face.

‘Dyslexia’s not something you
catch
, love. It’s a genetic thing.’

‘Oh,’ said Saskia, disappointed.

Mum was packing three sets of school lunches. ‘Now, Lyall, you will
eat
the banana won’t you? There’s no point just taking it to school for an outing and bringing it home again.’

‘Oh no, I’ll definitely, like, eat it, Alex. I promise.’ Lyall said. ‘Dad can we join the DVD library tonight and rent some movies? Last day of school and all.’

‘Which reminds me, Mum, I said. ‘We’ve got our class break-up party at lunch, so I won’t need a sandwich.’

‘Sunny, that’s the sort of information that might have been useful
last night
.’

‘I’ll take it, darl, I love a packed lunch,’ said Carl.

‘Can I see if Claud can come for a sleepover, Mum? Please, she’s dying to visit.’

‘Sure,’ said Mum.

‘So if you’re not born with dyslexia you can’t get it then?’ said Saskia, putting her bowl in the dishwasher.

‘Why would you
want
dyslexia, Saskia?’ said Lyall, munching on toast.

‘Hey, did you hear the one about the dyslexic devil worshipper?’ Carl looked thrilled to have yet another joke that he obviously felt was perfect for the occasion.

‘Dad-uh!’ said Saskia impatiently. ‘I’m not—’

‘He sold his soul to Santa!’

No one laughed, except for Carl and Mum. And I could tell she was just trying to be nice.

‘Well, I want to be dyslexic because it means you’re better at art and probably also a genius. Leonardo da Vinci was dyslexic,’ said Saskia.

‘You’re already good at art, Saskia. It’s your thing.’ I said.

‘Picasso was dyslexic. Andy Warhol was dyslexic. Albert Einstein was dys—’

‘If you lot want a lift to school you’d better get a move
on,’ interrupted Carl, looking at his watch.

‘Tom Cruise is dyslexic,’ Saskia continued.

‘Really?’ said Mum. ‘I thought being a Scientologist would be enough.’

‘Thanks, Carl, but I think I’ll take the bus,’ I said.

‘Why?’ asked Lyall.

‘No reason,’ I said.

‘Kiera Knightly’s dyslexic. Orlando Bloom’s dyslexic. Cher, John Lennon, Richard Branson, Muhammad Ali.’

‘Okay, okay, Saskia, we get the picture,’ said Lyall heading off to brush his teeth.

‘
Agatha Christie was dyslexic!
’ Saskia yelled after him.

Finn was on the bus knitting again.

There was even a spare seat next to him, so I sat down, being careful not to get tangled up in his wool and hoping like crazy that having a pre-crush wasn’t an obvious-looking thing.

‘It’s Sunny Hathaway,’ Finn said. ‘Hello. Did you find your dog?’

I thought it was really decent that Finn remembered about Willow. But then again that could have been the pre-crush at work. Apparently, pre-crushes can make normal little things about a person seem super-special.

‘Hi, Finn,’ I said. ‘I did find my dog, thanks. She’d taken herself on a bit of an adventure. What’s your surname, Finn?’

‘Fletcher-Lomax.’

‘What sort of a surname is that?’

‘The sort that’s half my mum’s surname and half my dad’s.’

I hoped I hadn’t sounded rude. I mean, it’s not as if every third kid at school doesn’t have a double-barrelled surname. And it’s not that Mum says they’re super-pretentious. It’s more that I worry about all the quadruple-barrelled names in future generations. Has anyone actually thought it through? You could end up with a surname like Fletcher-Lomax-Aristotle-Percival-Garfield-Fotherington-Smythe. Or will there just be one generation of people with double-barrelled surnames, just like how there’s a definite generation of people with names like Edna, Percy and Dot? Can you imagine
anyone
calling a little baby Edna any more?

I was way down a tangent but Finn pulled me out of it. ‘You on MSN?’ he asked.

‘Yep.’

‘MySpace?’

‘Sure, you?’

‘Don’t have a computer,’ said Finn, taking a felt-covered rainbow-coloured notebook from his bag. ‘Here, write down your snail-mail address.’ He passed me a pencil, rolled his knitting into a ball and stabbed it with the spare needle to keep it in place. Then he pushed the button for
his stop and squeezed past me into the aisle.