Chocolate Box Girls: Sweet Honey Read online

  A new start, a new me.

  Beyond the rooftops the sky is streaked with pink as the sun begins to rise. I abandon all hope of sleep and dip a toe into the pool, experimentally. It is cold enough to make me shiver, but I don’t allow myself the luxury of cowardice. I curve my body forward and dive right into the turquoise water, gasping at the shock of it.

  I swim lengths until my jet-lagged brain finally switches off and my heavy heart lifts and lightens, then I roll on to my back and stretch my arms out wide, water swirling past my pale limbs as I float. The sky is brighter now, wisps of pink and gold barely visible against vivid blue.

  I smile, imagining a future filled with sun and cool water, sunshades and polka-dot bikinis. Back in Britain, autumn is sliding into winter, but here in Sydney the summer is just beginning. Perhaps by flying halfway round the world, I really can turn the clock back, wipe out the mistakes of the last few months?

  Your friend requests to:

  Skyeblue

  Summerdaze

  CoolCoco

  have been accepted.

  4

  It’s Sunday afternoon and I’m at Sunset Beach, the little surfers’ cove near Dad’s house. I have packed my rucksack with picnic food, iPhone, pencil case and sketchbook, and I’m hiding behind a wide-brimmed hat and sunshades.

  I’ve had two full-on days with Dad and Emma; we’ve watched a modern dance production at the Opera House, driven out to the Blue Mountains and hiked along the trails, met the neighbours at an impromptu barbie and even crammed in a lightning-fast shopping trip for some truly hideous school uniform. Today Emma was seeing a friend so Dad promised me a day at the beach together, but at the last moment an important business client flew in from Singapore to talk about some big deal, and he had to drop everything.

  He’ll be out until late, but I don’t mind. I’ve been itching to get out by myself, explore properly. I scope out the beach cafe, all shiny-new and open at one end with glass and decking and outside tables with sunshades. The boy behind the counter is about my age, a skinny Asian kid with blue-black hair that dips down over his eyes and a kind, crooked smile. He looks cute and friendly in a boy-next-door kind of way, but boy-next-door is not my type. I generally go for bad-boy cool, with a side order of mean ’n’ moody.

  I order a fresh fruit smoothie and the boy raises an eyebrow.

  ‘You British?’ he asks, chucking strawberries, banana, milk and chipped ice into a blender and hitting the button to smoosh it up.

  ‘How can you tell?’ I ask, mock-surprised. ‘My English rose complexion? The tourist map peeking out of my rucksack? My epic fail on the whole beach dress-code issue?’

  He laughs. I am probably the palest person on the beach, and the only one dressed in a flowered minidress and strappy sandals instead of a swimsuit or shorts/vest-top combo. And yes, I have a map.

  ‘All of that,’ he says. ‘And the accent – dead giveaway. I like the hat and the sunglasses. Are you in disguise?’

  ‘Might be,’ I tease, tilting the hat back and peering at him over the sunglasses. On closer inspection, I can see that he has killer cheekbones and melted-chocolate eyes that take him right out of the boy-next-door category, and I smile.

  ‘I could be a British spy,’ I tell him archly. ‘Or a movie star who doesn’t want to be spotted, or one of those food critics who write secret reviews for the papers …’

  ‘I’d better do a good job then,’ he says, decanting the finished smoothie into a glass. ‘Seriously – are you on holiday?’

  ‘Not exactly – I’ve just moved here.’

  ‘Cool,’ he says. ‘Sydney’s a great place to live – I’d offer to show you around, but I’m tied up most days with school and family stuff and shifts at the cafe. Which school d’you go to?’

  ‘I’m starting at Willowbank on Monday,’ I say. ‘It’s all girls and pretty strict, my dad says.’

  He decorates the smoothie with a slice of fresh mango and a couple of straws, sliding it across the counter while I count out my dollars and cents, trying not to look too clueless. A small queue is forming behind me.

  ‘You’ll be right,’ the boy says. ‘What’s your name, anyhow?’

  ‘Honey Tanberry …’

  ‘OK, Honey Tanberry,’ he says, turning away to serve the next customer. ‘I won’t forget a name like that!’

  I am halfway across the cafe when he shouts after me. ‘My name’s Ash, by the way, in case you were wondering!’

  I laugh. ‘I was,’ I yell back. ‘Obviously. Just too shy to ask!’

  I’m smiling as I snag a table on the decking with a slightly wilting sunshade and set down my smoothie, spreading my drawing stuff out around me. Sunset Beach is a perfect slice of golden sand edged by a silver-blue ocean, inspiration on a plate. There are families picnicking, little kids building sandcastles, kids playing football or running into the sea.

  I open my sketchbook and pick up my pencil. I love drawing people, and pretty soon I lose myself in the process. I sketch a group of girls sunbathing, smoothing suntan oil over long, tanned limbs, turning themselves like chicken on a barbecue. I draw the cute waiter with his dipping fringe and his tray of smoothies, and a middle-aged woman standing on one leg, doing yoga on the sand. A knot of teenage boys are yelling and splashing around in the ocean with surfboards, trying to catch a wave, and I draw them too, my pencil lingering over lean legs and broad shoulders, buzz-cut hair and toothy grins.

  Suddenly, a stray football flies past, knocking my sketchbook on to the decking.

  ‘Whoa,’ a voice says, and a boy dips down to rescue the sketchbook, dusting away a scatter of sand before handing it back. ‘Close one!’

  He’s older than me, lean and tanned and still glistening with seawater, blue eyes as vivid as the sky, damp blond hair raked back from his face. Not that I am looking, of course.

  He turns and hooks the football up with one bare, tanned foot and kicks it back along the beach to where some little kids are waiting. They grab the ball and scarper, laughing.

  A couple of the surfer boys are watching the whole scene play out. ‘Hey, Riley!’ one yells. ‘Chatting up the girls again? Don’t keep her all to yourself!’

  ‘Ignore him,’ the boy says. ‘He’s just jealous. You British?’

  ‘Yeah … I’ve just moved here to live with my dad.’

  His eyes catch mine and for a moment I think I might drown in their bright, clear blue. He likes me. He’s good-looking, in an edgy, surf-boy way … he’s like an Aussie version of my ex, Shay. And that’s a good thing, trust me.

  There are yells from further down the beach. Half a dozen surfie boys are running towards us across the sand, all brown limbs and streaks of sunblock, surfboards beneath their arms. They skid to a halt beside us, spattering wet sand everywhere like boisterous, unruly dogs.

  ‘Riley! C’mon, man, we’ve gotta bail, we’ll be late. Leave the poor girl alone!’

  ‘We’re supposed to be over at Donny’s for six – party time!’

  ‘Slow down,’ Riley says. ‘This is … uh … I didn’t catch your name!’

  ‘Honey,’ I tell him, and his eyes flash, amused.

  ‘Honey? I like it. Sweet!’

  Not so sweet, I think, remembering my ironic new SpiderWeb name. But who knows, maybe a boy like Riley could halt the slow curdle of hurt inside me that turns sweet to sour? Maybe.

  ‘Honey’s new in town,’ Riley is telling his mates. ‘All the way from Britain! We should invite her along to the party, show her a bit of Sydney hospitality!’

  ‘Why not?’ one boy agrees. ‘Pretty girls are always welcome!’

  ‘British?’ another declares. ‘Cool. You doing that uni exchange scheme? Come to the party, for sure, just don’t take any notice of Riley – I’m way more your type …’

  My heart begins a drumbeat of anticipation. This is a game I am expert at – a few cool boys, the push/pull of flirtation. There is just one problem: I am supposed to be off boys, possibly for the rest
of my life. I made a deal with Dad – no boyfriends, no parties, no trouble. I am supposed to be squeaky clean. I can’t break that promise on my very first week in Australia. Can I?

  Dad and Emma won’t be back till late. I could go to the party for a few hours and they’d never know. I’m torn, but the new-leaf me knows that this is not a good idea. ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Sounds great, but … I can’t. Sorry!’

  The boys laugh and roll their eyes and pretend to be heartbroken, and then they’re heading on up the beach and I’m forgotten. That’s boys for you.

  Deflated, I take out my iPhone and open up my new SpiderWeb page, pretending I couldn’t care less. There’s a post from Coco on my wall:

  Hey, big sister, don’t forget our Skype date tonight. I know you’re starting school tomorrow and I know it is one of those crunchy granola places where you call the teachers by their first names, but … I want to wish you good luck. Break a leg, as Summer would say. Only … well, don’t actually break a leg. Obviously. Skype call is 9 p.m. your time, OK?

  Your Adoring Sister,

  Coco

  xoxo

  I’m about to tap out an answer when a shadow falls across the table: Riley.

  He rakes the damp blond hair back from his face. ‘Look,’ he says. ‘Tonight’s going to be a bit crazy – don’t blame you for giving it a miss. Maybe another time?’

  ‘Maybe …’

  His face lights up and there’s a charge in the air between us, heavy but invisible. We once did an experiment about magnetism in primary school with a horseshoe magnet and iron filings, and I remember thinking it was pure magic the way one pulled the other to it. This is the same kind of magic, and I think it is working both ways.

  You cannot fight that kind of thing, right? And Dad need never know …

  ‘Riley!’ one of his mates roars from the sand dunes. ‘She’s not interested in you. Come on!’

  Riley glances at my phone. ‘You’re on SpiderWeb?’ he asks. ‘Cool. What’s your SpiderWeb name?’

  ‘SweetHoney,’ I say, and Riley laughs and says that figures.

  Out of nowhere, Ash, the beach-cafe boy, appears at my table with a tray, collecting up my empty smoothie glass. ‘OK?’ he asks.

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine!’

  He wipes the tabletop down with exaggerated swipes of his cloth.

  Riley rolls his eyes. ‘Got a problem, mate?’ he asks.

  ‘No problem,’ Ash says lightly. ‘Just doing my job.’

  Riley turns back to me. ‘You’re an art student, right?’ he says. ‘I live quite near to COFA, so maybe I’ll see you on campus. We can grab a coffee.’

  He thinks I’m older, that I’m at some kind of art college. I’m about to nod and say I’ll look out for him, but even though I’ve just met him I feel weird blatantly lying in front of the beach-cafe boy. I’ve just told him I’m starting at Willowbank, after all.

  ‘I’m not a student,’ I hear myself say to Riley. ‘I’m fifteen. Still at school.’

  His face clouds, and the magnetism fizzles away to nothing right in front of my eyes. He’s not interested in schoolkids. Why would he be?

  ‘I’d better be getting off,’ he says, sounding bored now, embarrassed. ‘See you around, maybe …’

  ‘Me and my big mouth,’ I say to the cafe boy as he gives the table one final polish. ‘Blown it.’

  Ash shrugs. ‘His loss,’ he says.

  I raise my hand to wave as Riley jogs up the beach to join his friends, but he doesn’t look back.

  Skye Tanberry

 

  to me

  Hey, big sister, good to see you on Skype just now. We needed cheering up … it is very weird here without you. I came up the stairs last night, and your bedroom door was open. When I looked inside, Mum was just sitting on the window seat, hugging her knees. I think she’d been crying. I’m not telling you that to make you feel bad or anything – just that we miss you. Good luck for school and everything. Send my love to Dad … if he can remember who I am.

  Love ya,

  Skye oxox

  5

  The minute I walk through the doors of Willowbank School for Girls I have a bad feeling, a feeling of doom. The foyer is crowded with girls in hideous, blue-checked school uniform. They gawp at me with undisguised curiosity the way I have been gawping at parakeets in the park or surfie boys on the beach; like I am something exotic and faintly scandalous.

  Don’t get me wrong, I like being exotic and faintly scandalous. It is my trademark look, but I think I may be an endangered species here at Willowbank.

  This morning when I tried on my new uniform for the first time, I almost cried.

  I looked in the mirror and saw a horrified girl in a polyester tent dress with a drooping yellow neckerchief. The dress flared out into an alarming triangle shape; knee-length white socks and ugly brown sandals completed the look. Luckily, I am an expert when it comes to adapting and improving. I used the kitchen scissors to chop three inches off the hem, hoisted it in with a belt and turned the yellow neckerchief into a hair accessory.

  It wasn’t good, but it was an improvement. I could tell by the way Emma’s jaw dropped when she saw me.

  ‘They’re strict about uniform at Willowbank,’ she argued, but I pointed out that I was wearing the uniform, every bit of it, so what was the problem?

  I think I am about to find out.

  The twitter of girly gossip fades into silence and I hear the clip-clop sound of high-heeled shoes approach. A woman strides towards me through the crowd, small and plump in a chiffon blouse and tailored skirt, hair fluffed and sprayed into a feathery bouffant. She peers at me over a pair of alarmingly winged glasses; she reminds me of a hen, anxious, clucking, easily ruffled.

  ‘I am Miss Bird, the head teacher,’ she tells me, and I swallow back my smirk. Miss Bird? Seriously?

  ‘I expect you’re the new girl, from England. Honey Tanberry?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Bird,’ I choke out.

  She glares at me as if I just arrived fresh from St Trinian’s with a Danger label tied to my wrist. I guess that’s not too far from the truth, actually.

  ‘My office,’ she says. ‘Now.’

  A bell shrills to signal the start of class and Miss Bird ushers me into a darkly panelled room full of trophy cabinets and portraits of stern headmistresses from years gone by.

  ‘So,’ she says. ‘Before we go any further – we do not go in for customized uniform at Willowbank. You will wear your socks pulled up to knee-length, your neckerchief round your neck. And you will let down that hem once more so it’s the correct length.’

  ‘I can’t,’ I say brightly, holding the jagged hemline between my thumb and forefinger. Should I go for total honesty here, or just plead ignorance? It’s hard to know. Admitting that I hacked my school dress to pieces on the very first day may not be a good plan.

  ‘There’s no hem to let down,’ I explain, trying for a helpless look. ‘I don’t know why – it just came this way. Maybe the dress was a factory reject?’

  ‘Or maybe somebody took a pair of scissors to it?’ she says crisply.

  ‘Who would do a thing like that?’

  Miss Bird grits her teeth. ‘Don’t get smart with me, Honey Tanberry,’ she says. ‘You’ll find you’ve bitten off more than you can chew. Let me be straight here – your father was very keen for us to take you, even at this late stage in the school year. He led me to believe that you were a bright, talented pupil with a genuine drive for success. I must say, you are not at all what I imagined.’

  My eyes widen. It seems that Dad has been a little sketchy with the truth – I know I’m meant to be turning over a new leaf but I’m not sure I can live up to the saintly persona he’s created for me. I take a deep breath in. I am not going to let a woman with fluffy hair and winged spectacles wreck my chances of a fresh start. I will give Willowbank a fair chance, even if it doesn’t give me one … and I will be grateful that my murky past is finally b
ehind me.

  ‘Sorry, Miss Bird,’ I say. ‘It won’t happen again. I will do my very best here, honestly I will.’

  ‘See that you do,’ she says curtly. ‘Pull your socks up and take the neckerchief out of your hair. Tomorrow, I shall expect perfect uniform. Your father has asked me to let him know if there is anything at all which concerns me, and believe me I will do that. Willowbank prides itself on good manners, good uniform and the desire to excel in all things, whether academic or sporting.’

  ‘Great,’ I mutter, untying my neckerchief bow.

  Miss Bird sighs. ‘Our coursework will be quite different from what you’re used to,’ she continues. ‘Your father tells me he’s requested the records from your old school, but they’re sending paper copies of the files, so they may not reach us until the new school year. Meanwhile, I’ll expect you to work hard. I want to see the determined, focused, career-driven girl your father described to me. Yes?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Bird.’

  Her eyes narrow. ‘Are you wearing make-up?’ she asks.

  ‘No, Miss Bird.’ Eyeliner and lipgloss don’t really count, do they?

  The head teacher fixes me with a beaky, speccy stare. ‘I’ll be watching you, Honey Tanberry,’ she says. ‘Remember that. Now run along – room 66, mathematics, Mr Piper.’

  I dawdle along the corridor, crestfallen. Whatever happened to the creative, caring school with support for troubled students that I was promised? I might have stood a chance there. Instead I’ve been thrown right back into the chaos of a regular school, only with a crazed chicken-lady in charge, and minus the welcome distraction of boys. Great.

  I find room 66 and take a moment outside, quickly pushing my socks down again before knocking and going inside. It’s not defiance exactly – more a matter of pride.

  Mr Piper directs me to an empty seat near the back. I hold my head high as my new classmates watch me slide into a seat beside a girl with black-rimmed glasses, lank auburn hair and freckles. She smiles politely, then turns back to her work.