Part 1 (1/2)

Sunny Side Up.

Marion Roberts.

For Oscar.

And special thanks to John, Ava, Lucian, Willow and Arthur.

for their unending support.

and inspiration.

Warning! This book may contain traces of nuts.

That was the summer when everything started to change, and let me tell you, change is not my strong point. For starters, Mum insisted that Carl (her boyfriend), and his kids (Lyall and Saskia), help decorate our Christmas tree.

Can you imagine? Tree decorating has always been my job.

'I want to put the angel on,' shouted Saskia, pulling a dining chair over towards the tree. Saskia is nine and Lyall is eleven.

'I'm doing the lights then,' said Lyall, taking them out of their box.

'Mind you don't get them all tangled,' said Carl giving Lyall a hand.

I gave Mum a blank stare, and raised one eyebrow as if to say Good one, Mum. I guess that just leaves me to throw on a bit of tinsel then, fine! I was actually a little worried about the Christmas lights. Mum said there have been cases where faulty lights set Christmas trees on fire, which you have to agree would be a total disaster because the first thing to burn down would be all your presents.

The following week Mum invited Carl, Lyall and Saskia over for Christmas morning and present-opening a without even checking with me. I mean, doesn't everyone know that Christmas is not a time to spend with people who aren't actually part of your family? It's meant to be just about Mum and me and Dad and Steph (my stepmother who's going to have a baby, possibly very soon).

But this year, we all squashed into the lounge room around the tree a even our dog Willow, who had been very naughty and already chewed the paper off two presents. She'd even eaten the cards. One of the presents was for me, from Carl. It was a T-s.h.i.+rt with red writing on it saying If you can read this, you can read, which is a lot like Carl's sense of humour.

'Do you like it?' he said, as I was checking the size. 'It was between that and another one which said, Smile If You're Gay.'

'Daaad-duh!' yelled Saskia, punching Carl in the arm.

'Yeah, Dad!' said Lyall. 'As if she's going to want a T-s.h.i.+rt saying that!'

'I really like this one,' I said. 'Thanks, Carl.' I gave him a kiss on the cheek and could smell straight away that he'd had a cigarette, which probably explained why he and Mum had disappeared out to the shed for a while just before Dad and Steph arrived. It's also part of the reason I became a social activist and founder of Children Living With Hypocritical Parents Who Smoke. At the moment I'm the only member of the organisation, but I'm sure more kids will join because I'm not the only one living with parents who pretend not to smoke and constantly fail to give up. Seriously, my mum rings the Quit Line so often they probably think she's a stalker.

Don't get me wrong about Carl. I like him, I really do a even if he is the sort of guy who wears man-perfume. Carl's cool, he rides a Vespa and tells lots of jokes. The only problem with Carl (apart from being a smoker) is that he comes with kid baggage, of the Lyall and Saskia variety. I don't exactly not like them, it's more that I simply don't want to see them all the time or have Christmas with them. Also, Lyall and Saskia argue a lot, and I'm an only child who's used to peaceful and harmonious living conditions, and I really do want to keep it that way.

Being an only child is total bliss, even though lots of people feel sorry for you or think your parents are selfish for not providing brothers and sisters. As far as I can see (and I've done my research), all siblings do is argue and bash each other and have to take turns riding in the front seat. Being an only child might have been h.e.l.lish if I had mean parents who locked me in a cupboard, but I have quality parents a even if they are divorced (in a friendly way). Anyway, at Mum's place we don't even have cupboards. She uses a clothing rack and still sleeps on a futon.

When I've been over at Claud's house (that's Claudia, my best friend) I sometimes come home exhausted by all the noise and fighting that goes on with her brother Walter, who is always hiding the remote control and has a permanent case of head lice. And sometimes it's not just Walter and Claud. Their family does foster care, and depending on who they have staying with them you can't guarantee getting a seat on the couch at all. That's when I appreciate my biffo-free conditions the most. I can lie on the couch watching any show I like, without someone changing the channel or bas.h.i.+ng me up and infecting me with lice.

So anyway, I'm slightly off the topic now, but that's something you'd better get used to because I'm the sort of person whose mind accidentally runs off on tangents. That's why I've had to invent the Tangent Police, who are meant to step into my brain and blow a whistle if I'm off the point. In reality though, the Tangent Police are often out on a boozy lunch, and I don't realise I'm off on a tangent until someone like Mrs Ha.s.slebrack (my maths teacher) sees me staring out the window and says, 'Sunny Hathaway, are you paying even the slightest bit of attention?'

So the other totally odd thing to happen at Christmas was that Mum and I got presents from Granny Carmelene, which has absolutely never happened because Mum and Granny Carmelene haven't spoken to each other in about twenty years. Whenever I ask Mum what all the fuss is about she just gets really angry (in a silent way) and says things like: 'Not all relations.h.i.+ps necessarily last for ever Sunny,' or even, 'It's none of your business, Sunny. For heaven's sake you're just like a dog with a bone.' And that totally makes my throat ache.

Mum had bought some presents that I could pretend I'd bought for Lyall and Saskia. I (Mum) got Lyall a book about making horror movies and I (Mum) got Saskia a flower garden set. I was more excited about the present we'd wrapped up for Willow. It was a giant bone from the butcher.

'There you go girl,' I said, handing the parcel to Willow, 'Merry Christmas.' She took one quick sniff at the paper, then grabbed it (in a gentle greyhound way) and galloped out the back door. Willow usually buries bones straight away then digs them up again later. Don't ask me why. Maybe dirt gives bones an added crunch?

Dad and Steph bought me a new basketball and some basketball shoes.

'They should get you moving,' Dad said, because he's what you might call sports obsessed and is going to be coaching our team once school goes back. I think he's planning to train us extra hard. Then he handed me the present from Granny Carmelene, and I noticed Mum's top lip go all tight and thin as I opened the card.

Dear Sunday, It sometimes makes me sad that we've never had a chance to get to know one another. I was thinking that it might be nice for you to come to visit me one day, if you'd like to.

Maybe you could give me a call? I'm in the book you know. I hope you have a lovely Christmas.

All my love, your grandmother, Carmelene Aberdeen.

xx.

Granny Carmelene had given me some posh writing paper and fifty dollars. She'd also sent photographs of her rose garden, which looked very Botanical Gardensy, all surrounded by green spongy lawn. I reached under the tree and pa.s.sed Mum the present Granny Carmelene had sent for her.

'Aren't you going to open it?' I asked.

'No, I'm not, actually,' Mum said, and she stormed into the kitchen. Everyone looked at me as though it was my fault, so I followed her out there. Carl started telling a joke to smooth things over.

Mum was putting on the kettle for a cup of tea.

'I knew she'd do this,' she said, banging a cup down on the bench.

'Do what? It's Christmas, Mum. It's normal to send presents.'

'It's not normal for her.'

'Well, maybe she's trying to make up.'

'Well, maybe there are some things that can't be made up for, Sunny.'

'She can't be that bad, Mum, she's your mother.'

'She b.l.o.o.d.y well can be that bad, and the fact is, Sunny, I just want you to stay out of it. None of it concerns you. None of it.'

'She's my grandmother,' I said under my breath.

'What? No Sunny! I know what you're thinking. You're not to have anything to do with her. Do you understand?' She opened the biscuit tin with the White Christmas slices that I'd made the day before. Willow appeared in the doorway wagging her tail. She had dirt all over her nose.

'Here, put these out for everyone would you please?'

'But what about-'

'Just drop it, Sunny! You're not to see her. Promise?'

I picked a bit of marshmallow out of one of the slices and put eight out on a plate, including one for Willow, who is the sort of dog who loves White Christmas, even though sugar is meant to be bad for dogs and (according to Mum) bad for people, too.