‘You’re on, mate!’ Bungaree put his toe to the line and tensed, then relaxed his body like the fine athlete he was. Best in the school, in fact.
'Duh, Zoran!' said Xanthe. 'Every time, he thinks it’ll be different, but it’s not. No one beats Bungaree. No one. Not ever!' She looked at both competitors. ‘Ready. Set. Go!’ she yelled, and the two boys took off along the beach, sprinting out of sight. But it was Jacko they lost sight of first, of course.
Xanthe stood there, thinking about what Jacko had just said about the camera catching them unaware rather than the rehearsed stuff. Maybe he was right, but there was no use worrying about how good or bad they had been back at the Point. It was in the can. And that was another expression she liked, another one her dad had taught her. It sounded so final and it pretty much was, she figured, because it would be Christmas any day now, and then they would all be going off in a million different directions.
'Zampy?' It was the little boy pulling at Xanthe’s cargo pants.
‘C’mon, I’ll piggyback you, Luce.’ She scooped the little man up on her shoulders. ‘Let’s make a run for it!’ She called to the Identicals and they all took off, running along the beach, sticking to the wet sand, leaping over the rocky bits till they finally pulled up at the old boatshed where she and little Lucien collapsed on top of a sand castle, totally out of breath.
‘So, did you settle it, you guys?’ asked Jack. By now, he and Zoran had stripped to their swimmers and were putting on snorkel gear. ‘About who came up with the idea first – you or Jo Purdy?’
‘Forget it. We’ve got a proper movie to make and we’d better get on with it.’ Xanthe replied.
ISLAND GERTIE? YES, NO?
It’s not like anyone has ever seen Island Gertie in the flesh. In Zoran’s words, she is just a ‘pigment’ of the imagination.
Even though some islanders swear they’ve seen a light burning in that high window, most of Glencairn reckons the dilapidated old house is just a relic from another age and should be pulled down. To make way for progress, they say.
But, thought Xanthe, would we still say, “around by Island Gertie’s” to describe the far side where Deep Passage is and where all those cliffs are? Lindquist Hill is the official name on maps for the escarpment, which is covered in huge gums and rainforest and waterfalls and Aboriginal art. But “Gertie’s Hill” is what everyone has called it for all her life and it felt right.
‘But hello? It’s not like it’s really haunted,’ she said to the Fabs, each of them wearing a black FIFU t-shirt her father had printed for them at his agency last year.
This was their meeting to discuss the making of A Gecko Needs Friends.
She and her dad were still editing the promotional video they had made on Saturday, but they had to plan for the big one while they waited for the money they were going to need for production.
‘We’d look stupid,’ she said, staring down those who were assembled around the old teak table––one they had rescued from a chuck-out day. ‘So dumb if we made out like we really believed it was haunted.’ She was hoping in her heart that the others would help her out because a little bit of Xanthe O’Rourke wanted to believe that the creepy stories were true.
‘Or that a witch lives up there?’ Honey chimed in.
‘You’ll look like dorks, that’s what you’ll look like,’ said Zoran, throwing his favourite word into the discussion, but not bothering to raise his eyes from his manga comic.
They were at Fab HQ, the deserted old timber boatshed they had claimed two Christmas holidays ago and, with help from their mums and dads, had done up as their clubhouse. It was all old and splintery timber and broken decks, but it was hidden in the mangroves and totally forgotten about by the adults.
FIFU had painted the walls white inside and collected heaps of old things such as anchors and chains and ropes and tables and chairs. And they found a large oil painting of an old-fashioned sailing ship riding a wild storm that had been thrown out on another Council chuck-out day. You find amazing things if you hunt around the tracks at the back of people’s houses on those days, thought Xanthe as she looked around admiringly at their special place.
‘In my opinion, she would make a great subject for your movie,’ said Jo Purdy, the Identicals’ aunty, breaking in on the young Director’s thoughts.
Jo was twenty-six and an actor who was between roles at the moment, the reason she was staying with her sister, Annabelle Summers, the twins’ mother. Jo was the only adult ever to have been allowed in Fab HQ to take part in meetings. She was here today to help FIFU get started with the movie script.
‘You have a genuine legend on your back doorstep, guys. Make the most of it.’ Jo Purdy looked at Xanthe. 'And, yes, make her a ghost. Or a witch. Why not? You’re the creators. It’s your story.’
‘Because we’ll look like babies. It’s corny,’ Xanthe said, aware Zoran was sniggering behind his stupid comic. Couldn’t look like he’s interested, could he? ‘If she’s not a real witch ...’ she continued, unsure of where she was going with this. ‘... even if she is ... what’s she got to do with saving our geckos and all the other creatures ... and rock art?’
‘If she were real, darling, would she be a ghost? Or a witch?’ said Jo.
That just confused Xanthe. ‘There is no Island Gertie!’ she finally said, angry with herself for weakening. She was determined to make her point. Even to lovely Jo.
‘What’s real and what’s unreal aren’t always two different things. Sometimes things aren’t as simple as that, Xanthe, darling.’
Jo reached across for the Harry Potter book Xanthe had brought with her and flipped through it.
‘See, Zanth?’ she said. ‘Your eye really only sees black marks on white paper, right? Everyone sees the same letters on the page, don’t they? But if it’s good writing, you let go and soon forget about the black and white squiggles. You’re seeing pictures. You’re creating a whole new world inside your head. With new friends in it.’ She looked around the table. ‘That’s your personal imagination, guys. There are more ways to save your environment than just beating your audience around the head with the bad news.’
They looked at each other.
‘Engage them!’ Jo thumped the table to emphasize her point and everyone jumped. ‘That’s what we do in the theatre,’ she said. ‘That’s storytelling, kids!’
Of course, Xanthe knew Jo was addressing her in particular ––the scriptwriter. She blushed. I hate it when I blush, she chastised herself.
‘That’s the magic,’ said Jo. 'It doesn’t have to be real to be wonderful. Quite the opposite.’
‘I suppose not,’ By now, Xanthe was handing around pencils and paper for their scriptwriting workshop, knowing they had to get busy and come up with something. Anything. ‘The Hobbit isn’t true, I suppose. It’s just words,’ she said, thinking about one of her favourites––a goofy story about little people living under the earth and in enchanted forests. As if?
After sitting and thinking for a while longer she started scribbling notes on her writing pad, covering them with her hand so the others couldn’t see. She realized she was just a little bit fired up with the whole "personal imagination" thing and ideas were beginning to tumble out.
'It’s great to share our personal imagination,’ said Jo, softly.
Xanthe could feel Jo looking at her.
'If we’re game,’ added Jo.
That