Miss Understood Read Online Free Page A

really mine.
    Still, even though she didn’t try to do any wacky voices, Mum was pretty good, and by the time ten o’clock rolled around, I’d already learnt a new way to remember the difference between their , there and they’re , and had started to understand how to do long division without getting a headache. Plus I got to do it all with Muppet at my feet, which never happened at Sacred Wimple (except for the time I smuggled him into school in my bag when he was a tiny pup. Maybe I’ll tell you that story another time.).
    ‘All right, Lizzie, it’s ten o’clock,’ Mum said, standing up and stretching. ‘That means recess for you, and a cup of tea for me.’
    ‘And me,’ I said. ‘I like tea.’
    ‘You do? Oh, okay, a cup of tea for you as well. Could you run upstairs and see if your dad wants one?’
    ‘What do I do after that?’ I asked.
    She shrugged. ‘What would you normally do?’
    ‘I’d play,’ I said, a little crossly, mainly because I was a little cross. ‘I’d play with all my friends. But guess what? I can’t , because –’
    ‘You could play with Richie.’
    ‘I’d rather play with proper people.’
    Mum sighed. ‘Lizzie, go and ask your dad if he wants a cuppa, then get something to eat from your lunch box and find something to do. It’s recess. Free time. I’ll call you back in half an hour.’
    ‘Are you going to ring the bell? Sorry, Mum,’ I said when she gave me a scowly look. ‘I’m going now.’
    Dad was working hard. He had his little notepad open on his desk, with all the notes he writes about the restaurants he reviews, and he was typing fast. I didn’t want to interrupt him if his thought-train was going, so I just coughed.
    He spun straight around in his swivelly office chair. ‘Betty!’ he said. ‘How’s things?’
    ‘Good.’
    ‘How’s school?’
    ‘Good, I guess.’
    ‘Is your teacher pretty? I’ve heard she’s really pretty!’
    ‘She’s okay. Are you writing a review?’
    ‘I am,’ he said.
    ‘For the newspaper?’
    ‘Yes, indeed.’
    ‘Is it a good review?’
    ‘Three stars, this one,’ he said. ‘Solid effort, eclectic menu, good service, a bit on the pricey side.’
    ‘Eclectic? What does that mean?’
    ‘Um . . . mixed up, I guess.’
    ‘So why didn’t you say that?’ I asked him. ‘Anyway, Mum wants to know if you want a cup of tea.’
    ‘Tell her I’d love a cup of Joe. That’s coffee, by the way.’
    It was a nice autumn day, sunny and warm, but not hot, so after I told Mum that Dad wanted some Joe, I decided to go out into the front yard to eat my lamington and drink my tea. Dad fertilises the lawn all the time with this stuff that looks like chocolate sprinkles, and that makes the grass really soft and cushiony, so I flopped down there and ate slowly. It was quiet in our street, which isn’t even really a street – it’s actually called a cul-de-sac , which is just a fancy name for a dead-end.
    Not much happens near our place on a weekday. It’s the weekends when it gets extra busy, with all the young families coming along with their enormous three-wheeled prams, and babies in backpacks, looking for somewhere to park their cars and wagons while they go and walk through all the HomeFest display houses. Often that includes our place.
    Here’s why. The houses on both sides of Henry Court are display homes, almost all the way to where the bulby bit at the end begins. There are six regular houses with real people living in them around the bulby bit – first there’s us, then the Greens, then Mr Hanson (who lives by himself with his two little fluffy dogs who yap at everyone from inside his front security door), then the Nguyens, then Miss Huntley, who is old and lives by herself (and doesn’t have any pets as far as I know), and last of all the Franklins, who moved in not that long ago. That means HomeFest comes right up to the Franklins’ fence on one side of the street, and right up to ours on the other. And that