The Other Side of Summer Read Online Free

a dairy cow, with a look that let us know that the grass wasn’t nearly sweet enough for her.
    ‘Wren? Are you with us?’ he said.
    ‘Not by choice.’
    ‘Well, I’m waiting to show you something special.’
    ‘Here, I’ll show you something special instead.’
    Slowly she raised her middle finger. She looked at it admiringly. I watched Dad’s mouth tighten but knew he wouldn’t explode. This was typical Wren. She was like a match with a huge phosphorous head that struck against any frictional surface it could find.
    Dad wasn’t going to do anything to help her ignite. You had to choose your battles very carefully.
    I think Wren was born angry. She treated it like a natural talent that needed daily practice. The difference now was that the only people who had ever fought Wren and won – Floyd and our mum – weren’t playing anymore.
    Wren was Bellatrix Lestrange in looks and behaviour and Australia would be her Azkaban. She once said I was like Hermione without the brains. No prize for figuring out what that meant: without brains, Hermione was just plain annoying.
    No one liked the way Wren made herself look and that suited her fine. She was anti-pretty and angry-beautiful, with overdrawn eyebrows and lips. If her make-up was designed to warn people away, her clothes were protective: a spiked choker, meshed arms, leather fingerless gloves, a chaos of black from head to steel-capped toe. Our neighbours glared at her as if she were about to feed on their young. She knew I was scared of her, but she didn’t know that I admired her. It was hard not to care what people thought. We didn’t look like sisters. I was a pale minikin with gossamer hair; a wisp of smoke. In old photos where I’m standing beside my brother and sister, I look like a hoax phantom.
    Floyd had looked like he’d spent his whole life outdoors. He had been taller than Dad, fit and strong. He’d had dark honey waves that tumbled over one eye when he tilted his head to look at you. You’d do anything for him if he looked at you like that. (Usually, with me, it was taking over his dishwasher duties.) He had dark brown eyes that twinkled when he was being cheeky, tiny pinprick freckles on his nose, and a big smile. I’d thought of him as invincible.
    The last mouthful of food turned sour on my tongue.
    ‘Come on, Wren,’ said Dad. ‘You’ve been chewing that piece for five minutes.’
    Wren gave him evils and let her plate drop to the coffee table with a loud clatter. Dad ignored the fuss, reached into the back pocket of his jeans and produced a folded piece of paper, which he opened up precisely, like reverse origami.
    First it went to Mum. She looked at it with the same tired, hollow look that she gave everything, and then she passed it to me.
    It was a photograph of a house. Underneath was a long description that started with the words ‘ Sensationally positioned! The family home of your dreams ’. Underneath that, Dad had written in his terrible hand writing ‘ 24 Lime Street, Melbourne ’, and added an exclamation mark after it.
    It was a gleaming white house made of horizontal boards and a shiny tin roof. There was a porch, two windows either side of a black front door and a perfectly round rose bush in front, like a face about to lick a pink lollipop.
    On the porch was a wooden bench and three pairs of wellington boots, large, medium and small. Lavender poked through the gaps of the white fence.
    It was lovely.
    ‘You’re speechless, hey?’ said Dad.
    ‘It doesn’t look real.’ I was still angry about his plan and there was no way I actually wanted the stupidthing, but saying anything against this house would sound unconvincing.
    ‘Give it to me.’ Wren snatched it away and the paper sliced a minuscule line in the soft skin between my thumb and forefinger. She looked nuclear. Anyone with any sense would evacuate to the air-raid shelter.
    But not Dad. He stood and held up another piece of paper: a photo of a puppy. A dark