Chloe's River Rescue Read online

  First published in 2015

  Copyright © Text, Samantha Turnbull 2015

  Copyright © Illustrations, Sarah Davis 2015

  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 the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  A Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available from the National Library of Australia

  www.trove.nla.gov.au

  ISBN 978 1 74331 987 1

  eISBN 978 1 74343 983 8

  Cover and text design by Vida & Luke Kelly

  For Babs, Bob, Gem and all anti-princess mums

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  EPILOGUE

  Grace goes cross-eyed as she spots the blue tentacle hanging down her forehead.

  ‘I don’t want to alarm you,’ I say, ‘but that’s a Portuguese man-of-war. Don’t touch it.’

  Grace drops her surfboard. ‘You mean a jellyfish?’

  ‘It’s often mistaken for a jellyfish, but it’s actually a different class of ocean critter,’ I say. ‘A jellyfish is a single organism, while a Portuguese man-of-war is a siphonophore, which is a colony of very small predatory marine creatures.’

  ‘Chloe Karalis, save the biological explanation!’ Grace yells. ‘What is on my head?!’

  I’m a scientist, so I often get the common names for different species mixed up with the scientific titles. ‘Its proper name is a physalia physalis, but they’re sometimes called… ummm…bluebottles. There’s a bluebottle in your hair.’

  Grace freezes. ‘Should we run to the lifeguard?’

  Grace Bennett is the fastest runner I know, but any sharp movement could result in a severe sting. And by the time I got to the lifeguard station and back, Grace’s scalp could be burning from multiple stings.

  ‘We can do it ourselves,’ I say. ‘We don’t need rescuing.’

  Grace manages a brave half-smile at the mention of our club motto. We’re founding members of the Anti-Princess Club. We can solve our own problems, unlike the damsels in distress you read about in fairytales, which we actually call unfairytales.

  ‘Hurry, Chloe,’ Grace whimpers. ‘I think it’s moving.’

  I wish the other founding members, Emily Martin and Bella Singh, were here right now. Today, however, it’s just me and Grace. I wanted to come to the beach to collect some molluscs for an aquarium I’m building, and Grace never passes up a chance to hit the waves.

  ‘Let’s do it,’ I say. ‘Bend down.’

  I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose and carefully part a few strands of Grace’s short blonde hair. There are tentacles everywhere. ‘I’d love some tweezers and gloves,’ I say. ‘But fingers will have to do.’

  I brace myself. There are up to three thousand touch receptors in each fingertip, so this could really hurt.

  I delicately pinch the first tentacle and wince. It feels as if tiny electrified razor blades are lashing against my skin.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Grace asks.

  I clench my teeth. ‘It’s not so bad,’ I lie as I draw the tentacles through Grace’s hair, untangling piece by slimy piece.

  ‘Aaaaah!’ Grace squeals. ‘It got me on the ear!’

  I spy the cone-shaped top of the bluebottle at the nape of her neck. ‘I see the float,’ I say. ‘It’s like the head. There’s no venom in it, so I’m just going to grab it, okay?’

  I pull off the bluebottle in a single swoop and throw it on the sand.

  Grace is clutching her ear and I’m shaking my thumb and index finger.

  ‘Thanks, Chloe. Not many people would touch a bluebottle with their bare hands like that.’

  I swoosh my hand around in some saltwater then splash a little on the red welt on Grace’s earlobe.

  ‘Don’t we need some vinegar?’ she asks. ‘Isn’t that what takes the pain away?’

  I remember reading about this. Doctors used to treat bluebottle stings with vinegar, but discovered it only works for super poisonous gelatinous zooplankton, like the deadly box jellyfish. ‘No,’ I say. ‘We need to find some hot water – it will help ease the burn.’

  Grace makes a run for a toilet block in the distance. I take off after her as she slows her stride to keep pace with me. We reach the girls’ bathrooms and Grace turns on the shower taps full pelt. I stick my hand in the hot stream of water.

  ‘That feels better already,’ I say.

  Grace doesn’t hear. Her head is tilted sideways, her ear under the water. ‘You know, sometimes I think of shaving off all of my hair because I hate brushing it every day,’ she shouts. ‘But it’s finally come in handy for something.’

  It’s a sound hypothesis: if Grace were bald, she’d have a much sorer head right now. I don’t think anyone would be willing to test the theory, though, even in the name of science.

  A pair of feet in pink runners is sticking out from underneath Bella’s dad’s sports car.

  ‘I’m guessing that’s you, Bella,’ I say. ‘Unless your father’s feet have shrunk and he’s borrowed your shoes.’

  Bella slides out from under the car with a torch in her hand. She pulls a bandana off her head and lets her curly black hair fall down her back.

  ‘Hi, Chloe,’ she says. ‘I think Dad needs new brake pads. We’re waiting for a mechanic to see if I’m right.’

  Any other parent would freak out at the thought of their ten-year-old kid fiddling with their vehicle, especially a fancy convertible, but Bella designed and built the Anti-Princess Club headquarters, AKA an amazing treehouse with its own top-floor planetarium. I call her a builder-slash-artist.

  ‘Should we head out the back to HQ?’ she asks. ‘You can help me set up for the meeting.’

  We four original anti-princesses meet three times per month at Bella’s treehouse and every fourth week at my apartment so the girls can hang out with my grandmother. Everyone loves Yiayia.

  We were actually due for a meeting at my place next week, but instead we’re all heading to my holiday house with my family. It will be the anti-princesses’ first ever school-holiday getaway together. We have sleepovers all the time, but this will be for eight whole nights.

  Emily and Grace aren’t here yet, so I follow Bella through her mansion. It’s seriously huge. Perky pop music with a man singing in Hindi is blaring from the downstairs lounge room. Bella’s
brother, Max, and their dad are watching a Bollywood film – the bright colours and choreographed dancing on the screen make it unmistakable. Bella’s mum was born in India and introduced them to Bollywood, which is the nickname of the Indian film industry.

  ‘Hi, Max,’ I say. ‘Hello, Dr MacKenzie.’

  Bella’s dad has a different surname to the rest of the family. Max and Bella use their mum’s name, Singh.

  ‘Don’t be offended that they’re not answering,’ Bella says. ‘You’ll never get their attention while they’re watching those movies.’

  ‘Are your parents worried about you coming away with my family for a whole week?’ I ask. ‘I bet they’ll miss you.’

  Bella grabs four bottles of orange juice from her fridge to take to the treehouse. ‘They’ve got crazy rosters at the hospital next week, so I doubt that,’ she says. ‘Max will probably be a bit bored without me though.’

  We walk through Bella’s backyard and climb up into the treehouse. I take a drink from Bella as Grace’s head pops through the doorway. ‘Want a bottle, Grace?’ Bella asks.

  Grace lowers herself into a hip flexor stretch. ‘As long as it’s not blue,’ she says. ‘My earlobe has only just healed.’

  Emily appears next and flips open her laptop before she even says hello. She uses her computer to communicate with the other 872 members of the Anti-Princess Club. We couldn’t fit them all into the treehouse, or even Bella’s mansion, so Emily built a website for everyone to meet virtually.

  Emily is also our club president, so we can never start a meeting without her.

  ‘I call this meeting of the Anti-Princess Club to order,’ she says. ‘Does anyone have any urgent matters of business?’

  No one raises their hand.

  Emily closes her laptop and rubs her palms together excitedly. ‘I guess that means we can chat about next week’s trip instead,’ she says. ‘I can’t wait.’

  We’re interrupted by Dr MacKenzie calling up to us from underneath the treehouse. ‘Bella!’ he yells. ‘The mechanic’s here. Do you want to come and check out the engine together?’

  Bella leaps up eagerly. ‘Sorry, guys,’ she says. ‘I need to show this mechanic a thing or two.’

  I think Emily likes packing. It’s the mathematician in her. Numbers and order help her feel calm.

  ‘Are you bringing your computer?’ I ask.

  She looks at me as if I’ve just asked whether she’s taking her left leg. ‘Of course. I can’t cut off all the other anti-princesses just because they’re not coming with us.’

  Of all my best friends, Emily lives closest to me. My apartment and her house are both within walking distance from school, so we’re at one or the other almost every day. That means I also spend a lot of time with Ava, Emily’s little sister.

  Ava throws a plastic bag onto Emily’s bed. ‘Mum wants you to pack these. It’s sunscreen, cleanser, toner, moisturiser and a bunch of other stuff I can’t remember the names of.’

  Emily takes the sunscreen and ignores the rest. Her mum is a beautician, so she’s always trying to get us into boring beauty regimes.

  ‘I won’t tell Mum you ditched all this if you take me with you,’ Ava says. ‘Pleeeeeease?’

  ‘You know I’m lucky to be allowed to go away for so long, Ava,’ Emily says. ‘And I’m ten. There’s no way Mum and Dad would’ve let me out of their sight for a week when I was six.’

  Emily fires up her laptop. ‘Let’s look up Pacific Palms,’ she says. ‘I want to see what it’s like.’

  Mum and Dad own a Greek restaurant downstairs from our apartment and they’re run off their feet with work most of the time. But a couple of times a year, they like to escape to the most relaxing spot they know.

  ‘It says here the entire population is only seven hundred,’ Emily says. ‘That’s zero point one per cent of the population of Newcastle.’

  I must admit, I’ve been a little worried that the other anti-princesses might be bored in The Palms. ‘It sure is small,’ I say. ‘And a bit… slow.’

  Emily senses my fear. ‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘We could entertain each other on a desert island if we had to.’

  I hope she’s right. Emily, Grace, Bella and I have never had a fight. I’d hate for us to get sick of each other at my sleepy old holiday house.

  Yiayia whacks Mum in the gut with her handbag.

  ‘I can do it myself, koritsi mou,’ she says. ‘I’m not an invalid.’

  Yiayia means ‘grandmother’ in Greek. Koritsi mou is what Yiayia calls my mum, and it means ‘my girl’.

  ‘Please let me help you,’ Mum says. ‘It’s a high step.’

  Emily, Grace, Bella and I are waiting in the back of the van for Yiayia and Mum. We’re all heading to The Palms together. Dad is driving separately to pick up Alex from his boarding school on the way.

  Yiayia hoists herself into the front passenger side.

  ‘That’s my Yiayia,’ I say. ‘Determined to look after herself, even at seventy-eight years young.’

  Mum starts up the van and slowly reverses out of the driveway.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Yiayia asks. ‘You’re driving like a yiayia.’

  The anti-princesses giggle as Mum sticks her head out the window. ‘It’s Grace’s surfboard,’ she says. ‘I’ve never driven with anything strapped to the roof before.’

  Bella climbs halfway out the window to take a squiz. ‘It’s fine, Mrs Karalis,’ she says. ‘The roof racks are solid and the straps are all pulled extremely tight.’

  Mum looks at me for reassurance.

  ‘Bella knows what she’s talking about,’ I say. ‘She can even fix the van if it breaks down.’

  The engine revs again and we’re finally away.

  ‘Woo hoo!’ I shout. ‘Off to The Palms we go!’

  Emily pulls a computer game from her bag. Yiayia turns around and tut-tuts. ‘Put that away for the drive, paidi mou,’ she says. ‘Let’s enjoy each other’s company.’

  Emily blushes and slips the game away. Yiayia doesn’t understand that she can multitask when it comes to computers, but Emily’s not about to argue. ‘So tell us what Pacific Palms is like, Yiayia,’ she says. ‘How does it compare to the beach towns in Greece?’

  Yiayia loves reminiscing about her homeland. ‘Nothing compares to the Greek Islands,’ she says. ‘My family always holidayed on an island called Hydra when I was a little girl. The beaches there are pebbled, not sandy. We would just swim off the rocks into the deep, green water.

  ‘The streets on Hydra are made from cobbled stone and the only means of transport is donkeys. To this day, they don’t allow cars or scooters on the island. It’s too beautiful.’

  Mum doesn’t remember Greece. She was just a baby when Yiayia brought her over here.

  Dad also came to Australia from Greece with his family. It’s kind of funny that my parents didn’t meet in the country where they were both born. They met when they were studying at chef school. That’s when they decided to get married and start the restaurant.

  ‘Why did you leave Greece, Yiayia?’ Bella asks. ‘I don’t think you’ve ever told me.’

  Yiayia sighs. ‘There was a war,’ she says. ‘Things were never the same after that. No jobs. No money. The government spent the next two decades encouraging people to move abroad, so that’s what we did.’

  I press my cheek against the glass and watch the houses whoosh by in a blur. ‘I’m glad you came here,’ I say. ‘I love the beaches. I love our apartment. I love my school.’

  Grace nudges me in the ribs. I deliberately left my friends out to be cheeky.

  ‘And, of course, I love my friends,’ I say. ‘I wouldn’t have met the anti-princesses if you’d stayed in Greece.’

  I meet Mum’s gaze in the rear-view mirror. I can tell by the creases around her eyes that she’s smiling. ‘I’m glad to hear that, Chloe,’ she says. ‘All we want is for our children to be happy.’

  I reach forward and pat Yiayia’s shoulder. ‘Of course I�
��m happy. I’m going on holiday with my mum, dad, brother, best friends and my precious yiayia. I couldn’t be happier.’

  I wake with a jerk as Mum changes the van’s gears.

  I rub my eyes and look up. There’s the sign by the side of the road: ‘Welcome to Pacific Palms’.

  Grace, Bella and Emily are all zonked out.

  ‘Wake up, guys,’ I say. ‘We’re here.’

  Grace jolts awake first. She gasps as she spots the beach through the window. ‘The waves look epic,’ she says. ‘I might get barrelled if it stays like this.’

  Yiayia scratches her head and turns around with a look of confusion. ‘What is “barrelled”?’

  I happen to know about this, because there’s a lot of physics involved. ‘When waves travel from deep water to shallow water very quickly a barrel-like shape is created in the hollow section of the breaking wave.’

  Grace takes over. ‘So, getting barrelled means surfing in that tube of the wave. The surfer disappears behind a wall of sea and then comes out the opening as the wave curls over.’

  ‘That would be awesome to see, Grace,’ I say. ‘Maybe we can catch it on camera to show your brothers.’

  Grace has three brothers. She says she’s glad to be getting away from them, but I think that by the end of the week she’ll be wishing they were here.

  ‘And here’s our home away from home!’ Mum announces.

  It’s nothing special from the street. Just a brick house surrounded by a little wooden deck. The best part is the location – the backyard looks over the beach.

  ‘Yay!’ shouts Bella. ‘What an amazing spot!’

  Mum slides the van door open and we all pile out. I open Yiayia’s side and help her down onto the grass. She’s a bit stiff after such a long trip, so she’s willing to push aside her pride and take my hand.

  ‘That deck is calling my name,’ she says. ‘I plan to spend many hours sitting there with my tea, keeping an eye on you girls.’

  As we turn towards the house, a girl’s voice calls out from the road. ‘Whose fish?’

  There are two girls who look about thirteen and two boys about our age with boards under their arms.