Running Scared

Prologue

It seems so long ago—so much has happened since—but when I was a little kid; I used to wish I was a butterfly. The monarchs were my favourite. They still are. Their wings are iridescent orange, inked with black lace, and I love how they dance together in the sunlight. Their beauty makes me ache.

There was a day, about two months ago, when I followed two monarch butterflies to the back of Aunt Lynn’s yard. It had been a couple of weeks since we’d moved to Brisbane. We’d lost everything: our farm, our friends, our hope.

I sat on the back step of Aunt Lyn’s house, fighting loneliness and biting back tears, when two butterflies danced around my head. They circled me three times then flew towards the back of the yard. I know it’s crazy. Butterflies are just insects, but it was as if they wanted me to follow them.

I think this was my white rabbit moment—like in Alice in Wonderland—except my magical world was a suburban backyard in Brisbane. The butterflies fluttered over the side fence and hovered around some flowers, just out of reach. I was about to turn and head back up to the house when I noticed there was a hole in the fence, right at the back, big enough for me to squeeze through. I glanced around to see if anyone was watching, then clambered through the space into what I came to know as Rory’s place.

It really was magical—the yard was like a rainforest. My friend Thali thinks I’m weird, but I love rainforests. Aunt Lynn sent me a book on the Daintree one Christmas, and I’ve been hooked ever since. I breathed in the musty smell of decaying leaves, then reached out and touched the waxed surface of a bright red bromeliad spike. A little sunlight dappled through the tangled treetops. Huge broadleaf staghorn plants hung off moss-covered trunks. I jerked back as my arm brushed something dangling from a tree. I thought it was a snake, but it was only a trailing vine. My two butterflies found three others and danced around hibiscus flowers.

‘Hey.’

I jumped and turned around. A boy smiled at me. He looked about a year older than me and had blue eyes, messy light brown hair, and a cheeky grin. He sat in a lightweight wheelchair.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be here,’ I said.

‘No sweat. I’m Rory, what’s your name?’ His eyes crinkled as he smiled.

‘Melinda, Melinda Green.’

‘Well, welcome, Melinda Green, to my forest.’ Rory scratched his chin. ‘Can I call you Mel, or something?’

‘Yeah, I guess so.’

‘You like my trees?’

‘I saw the butterflies.’

‘Ah … lots of them here.’ Rory’s eyes crinkled again. He held out a plastic packet. ‘Want a raisin?’

I took one. It was a burst of sweetness in my mouth.

‘I didn’t see any furniture truck,’ he said. ‘You just visiting? Though I’ve seen you walk home from school.’

‘We’ve moved from our sheep farm. Out west—a bit beyond Tara. We’re staying with Aunt Lynn, so our stuff is in storage.’ I hesitated. ‘We’re going back one day.’

‘Ah.’ Rory nodded. I think he knew I was lying.

I hoped he wouldn’t ask anything about my family. Mum wasn’t doing well, nor was Dad.

‘So, what class are you in? Mrs Trapper’s?’ Rory asked.

‘No… I’m in Mr Spade’s class.’

‘So, Year 10?’

‘Yeah. I’m nearly fifteen.’ Why did I say that?

‘I’ve just turned sixteen—in year 11.’

I wasn’t sure what happened, but at that moment, the simple warmth of Rory’s welcome kindled a light inside of me. The last months had brought nothing but darkness for me—and my family. But there was something in Rory’s smile that made me believe things could be better. I wanted—needed—to be friends with him.

Right then, Aunt Lynn called me for lunch. ‘I gotta go.’

‘Okay, drop in any time, Melinda Green.’ Rory swung his chair around, wheeled along a compacted gravel path and vanished between the trees.

I crept back through the fence and, to my surprise, ate two helpings of Aunt Lynn’s latest vegetarian creation for lunch.

Two months later, I’m in Rory’s yard again—a place I’ve now been told I’m never, ever to go.

Chapter One

The scent of frangipani hangs thick in the air, as does the hum of the late afternoon cicada chorus. Relax . Dad and Aunt Lynn are out, but even if they come home early, I’ll be safe. You can’t see into Rory’s yard from mine. The trees between his place and mine are tall and the shrubs are thick.

I fiddle with the settings on Aunt Lynn’s camera and shrug to ease the tension in my shoulders. When I get home, I’ll take my memory card out and put Aunt Lynn’s card back in. I can’t let her see I’ve been at Rory’s. I love my aunt, but I don’t know if she’d keep my secret from Dad. It’s crazy to have to hide my friends from my family.

‘Over here, Mel.’ Rory leans forward in his wheelchair and parts the leaves of a scraggly milkweed bush. ‘Here’s one.’ He points to a leaf midway up the bush.

‘Where? Oh, wow.’

I reach forward and take a photograph of the butterfly pupa. ‘Thanks.’ My arm brushes Rory’s shoulder.

‘You’re welcome.’ His eyes are blue, and his smile is warm. When I’m with Rory, the rest of my life doesn’t seem so bad.

‘Not just for this.’ I point to the pupa. ‘I don’t know what I’d do if it wasn’t for you—and Thali.’

‘Yeah, well. Your life has been like a reality TV show from hell.’

‘You guys have helped put out the flames.’

‘Happy to be of service.’ Rory grins and bows in his chair. ‘How’s your mum?’

‘Still the same. Dad’s visiting her now.’ My voice catches, but I pick up the camera again and twenty photos later, I’m back in control. ‘She’ll be okay.’

‘Great. Then you can tell her how you aced your macro photography project.’

‘Sure.’ The crack in my voice betrays me. I’d give anything for Mum to be well—and interested in Dad and me and life again.

I lean forward and take five more shots before something crawls on my hand. ‘Eek!’ I jerk backwards, let out a nervous giggle, and show Rory. A tiny yellow and black striped creature tickles as it worms over the back of my hand. ‘Just a caterpillar.’ I let it crawl onto a milkweed leaf.

Rory laughs. ‘The brave nature photographer.’

I screw up my face at him. Not so brave. If it had been a different kind of creature—an eight-legged creature—I’d have been a trembling, weeping, screaming, crapping-myself mess. But I don’t tell Rory. There are some things you never want your friends to know.

I lean forward and take more shots of the pupa. I lose count of how many, but when I check the viewfinder, all but two of the photos look amazing.

Rory reaches past me, breaks the twig, and hands the pupa to me. ‘Here, take him upstairs. They go transparent close to hatching. You can photograph the changes.’

‘Thanks.’ I take the prize from him.

Rory nods to the camera. ‘Can I have a look?’

I hesitate—it’s Aunt Lynn’s camera, not mine—but I trust Rory. ‘Okay.’

He turns it around, looks through the viewer, points it at me, and takes my picture.

‘Hey! Delete that.’

‘Nope.’ He presses some buttons on the camera, then grins. ‘Great camera. Has wi-fi. Just sent the photo to my phone.’

‘Don’t you dare put that on social media!’

‘Don’t worry.’ He waggles his eyebrows like a mad professor. ‘I have other plans.’

‘Rory.’ I reach for the camera, but he holds it behind his back.

‘I wanna see your butterfly photos.’

I must have looked desperate because he smiles and says, ‘Trust me, Mel.’

I give in and attempt a breezy smile. ‘There’s nothing on there that can incriminate me anyway.’

‘Muhahahaha!’ He waggles his eyebrows again. ‘We shall see about that.’

I give him my best evil stare.

Rory changes the subject. ‘So, are you ready to meet Lucy?’

‘Who is she, anyway? You talk about her like she’s your girlfriend.’

I really, really, hope she’s not his girlfriend.

‘Come and meet her.’ 

I glance around, expecting some drop-dead gorgeous blonde with long, straight, silken hair to sweep down the path and into Rory’s arms, but all I can see and hear are the crimson rosellas squawking in a nearby tree.

I lift the butterfly pupa. ‘Can I take this up to my house first? I don’t want to drop it.’

‘No problem.’ He raises the camera and winks at me. ‘I’ve got photos to look at.’

Five minutes later, I’m back in Rory’s yard, edging along the path behind my friend. It’s getting dark and I’m beginning to think this is a bad idea. I love Rory’s double-block, do-it-yourself, suburban-jungle backyard. But today, at dusk, the trees press too close. My skin is clammy, my T-shirt clings to me and Aunt Lynn’s camera hangs heavy around my neck. I wish I’d taken it back to the house with the butterfly pupa.

I glance toward Aunt Lynn’s place. No one is home and no one can see. I tell myself I’m safe, but what if Dad comes home early? What if I can’t hear him calling me? What if he tries my phone and hears my ringtone from next door? 

If he does, I’m dead.

I stop, try to still my breathing, then switch my phone to silent. Melinda Green doesn’t take chances.

‘Coming?’ Rory turns back toward me. His eyes are deep blue in the dusk. 

‘Yes. It’s just…’ Mosquitos whine around my head and I swat them away. I look up and shiver as fruit bats flap overhead on their evening dinner run. 

‘You don’t like bats?’

I shake my head. ‘They’re okay.’

‘You’re worried about meeting Lucy?’

I shake my head again.

‘You’re sure you’re okay?’

I bite my lip. ‘Yeah. Just worried about Mum—and Dad.’ 

‘Look, if you’d rather do this another time, we can—’

‘No. It’s cool, really.’ I force myself to smile.

‘Then come on—it’ll just take five minutes. Lucy’s dying to meet you.’

I follow him down the pressed-gravel path, the crunch of his light wheelchair mixing with the harsh shrieks of the parrots. I haven’t been to this part of Rory’s jungle before and, to my surprise, I see a shed. It’s almost invisible in the dim light. It’s green, covered by masses of creepers and nestles in a dense grove of trees. Rory opens the door and a piece of wood, branded with a large ‘R’, bangs against the metal.

‘Lucy’s in here?’

A tendril from a vine touches my arm. I jump and shiver. 

Rory laughs. ‘Ha. That’s two.’ 

I make a face.

He grins as he reaches into the shed and flicks on the light. I take a deep breath and step forward.

 ‘Rory. Reptiles. Awesome!’ The words rush out of me, and I sound like a kid at Christmas time. Rory’s shed is lined with tanks and cages. All sit below waist high and most have snakes and lizards in them. A large, bearded dragon lazes on a hot rock in the tank beside me.

‘That’s Harvey,’ Rory says. ‘Dad found him injured in the bush one day. A dog got to him. He’s okay now, though, aren’t you, boy?’

Harvey lifts his head as if on cue and flicks his pink, fleshy tongue in and out. 

‘His tail is fat. That’s good.’ 

‘You know about lizards.’ Rory grins with approval. ‘Most chicks don’t.’

I reach towards the tank, then hesitate.

‘Go ahead. He’s friendly. Here, let me help.’ Rory swivels around in his wheelchair and lifts the lid from the lizard’s tank.

I stroke Harvey’s back and the lizard turns his head, eyeballs me, but accepts the touch. ‘I can’t believe Thali thinks they’re slimy.’ I’m a reptile-tragic—unlike every other girl in my class at school,

Rory grins. ‘I thought you’d like him.’

In the next tank, a brightly patterned snake lies coiled in gravel beside a pool of water.

‘That’s Cynthia. Best not to touch her.’ Rory points to another tank where a huge olive python sits coiled around a branch. ‘Russell’s okay.’ Rory spins his chair around. ‘Ah, Lucy. There you are.’

I turn. No one else had come in. There was just another glass tank with a light, stones, gravel and …

I freeze. 

She creeps from the shadows.  

Eight long legs unfold, one step, then another, toward me—massive fangs protruding below black eyes that stare.  

Right. At. Me.

I want to step backwards, but my feet won’t move. An invisible hand grips my throat and squeezes. I can’t breathe. Dark spots spike across my vision and a bass drum pounds in my chest. Blood roars in my ears. The room tilts and swings around me. I clutch the tabletop. No, no, no! I can’t faint. Not in front of Rory. 

One of Lucy’s front legs lifts like a giant feeler, testing the air. 

She crouches.

She springs.

‘No!’ I jerk backwards as she smacks into the glass wall of her tank. A poor cricket struggles, jammed between her fangs.

I try to speak, but my mouth moves silently—like a beached mullet—gasping for breath. 

‘Mel?’

I can’t see. I can’t breathe. I can’t speak.

‘Mel, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.’

I stagger past Rory and out of the shed, retching as I go. I run for the fence. Branches scrape my clothing, but I don’t care as I crash off the path and through the trees. My foot hits a rock, and I sprawl forward. Something cracks. Mulberries squelch between my fingers. I try to stand, but my knees turn to porridge. I kneel for a moment before wiping my palms on my shorts and trying again. My legs wobble but then hold as I pick up Aunt Lynn’s camera and stagger for the hole in the fence.

Wire jabs into my left arm as I press through the narrow space. ‘Ow!’ I try to rub away the sting, but my flesh burns as I creep into Aunt Lynn’s yard and huddle behind the mango tree. 

I press my back against the tree trunk and smear away the tears that stream down my face. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. I’ve done it again. I’m such a loser. I love nature. Birds, insects and lizards are amazing and I’m not that scared of most snakes. I’ve seen enough of them in the country. But I’m totally, mind-bendingly, gut-wrenchingly, run-away-terrified of spiders. I’ve always been that way.

I wait until it’s completely dark and the sharp pain in my arm morphs into a deep, burning throb. I finger my sleeve, torn by the fencing wire. How am I going to explain my arm? My T-shirt? 

A mosquito whines near my face and lands on my cheek. I slap it and glance at the house. A light blazes in the kitchen. Aunt Lynn is home. Dad will be soon.

I brush myself off and hope no one sees me as I sneak up through the back garden to the house.

Chapter Two

Iease open the screen door on the back porch. Thunder rolls in the distance and bright lights strobe the horizon. I shiver, despite the humidity, and click the door shut behind me.

‘Is that you, possum?’ I jump as Aunt Lynn calls from the kitchen. When I was a kid, she used to say my large, brown eyes made me look like a ringtail possum. ‘Possum’ or ‘poss’ for short, had stuck. I’m way too old for it now, but I can’t stop her. When I try, she just gives me one of her ‘I know you’re not serious’ looks. I don’t really mind—as long as she doesn’t call me that in front of my friends. 

 ‘Yes. It’s me.’ 

I hurry to my room, grab an old towel, and sit on the edge of my bed. Something cracked as I fell and I’m scared it might be Aunt Lynn’s camera, but it looks