The Wombat Plan

Matilda sat on the creaky bed in her tiny room, staring at the cracked ceiling. It was her third day in Wattle Creek, and she still hated it.

The rooster woke her up again at dawn, its loud crow cutting through the quiet like a knife. She hated that sound.

It was sharp and mean, and it wouldn't let her sleep. Uncle Ben kept calling her "princess," too, which made her want to scream.

Every time he said it, his voice boomed through the house, and her stomach twisted. She hadn't unpacked her suitcase yet.

It sat by the door, a big lump of clothes and stuff she didn't care about anymore. The suitcase was old and scratched, full of things that reminded her of Sydney—her real home.

She missed Sydney so much it hurt. She missed her friends, their laughs, their talks. She missed the noise of the city, the busy streets, the lights. She missed everything.

Uncle Ben knocked on her door, three hard taps that made the wood shake. "Get up, Matilda," he said, his voice rough like gravel. "We're going to the hall."

Matilda groaned, long and loud, letting the sound spill out of her. "What hall? Why?" she asked, her words sharp with annoyance.

"Town meeting. Everyone's going. You too," he said, short and firm. His boots clomped away down the hall, heavy steps fading into the distance.

Matilda pulled the blanket over her head, the scratchy fabric rubbing her face. She didn't want to go anywhere.

She didn't want to see people. She just wanted to stay in bed, hidden away from this awful place. But she knew Uncle Ben wouldn't let her stay.

He was stubborn like that. He'd drag her out if he had to, his big hands pulling her arm until she gave in. She sighed, a big puff of air, and pushed the blanket off.

Her legs felt heavy as she swung them over the side of the bed and stood up. She put on her muddy sneakers, the laces frayed and dirty from kicking around outside.

She grabbed a wrinkled shirt from the floor, shook it out, and pulled it over her head. Her hair was a mess, tangled and wild, but she didn't care.

She didn't look in the mirror. She didn't want to see herself here, in this place she hated. She shuffled to the kitchen, her feet dragging on the worn wood floor.

Uncle Ben was there, sitting at the table, eating toast. Crumbs fell into his thick beard, sticking in the gray hairs. "Hurry up," he said, his mouth full. "We're late."

Matilda rolled her eyes and grabbed an apple from the table. It was red and shiny, but she didn't really want it. She just needed something to hold.

She followed him outside, her sneakers crunching on the gravel path. The sun was high already, hot and bright, beating down on her head.

They walked down the dirt road, dust puffing up around their feet. They passed the general store, its faded sign swinging in the breeze.

They passed the pub, where old men sat outside on a bench, their voices low and grumbly. A few people waved at Uncle Ben, their hands lazy in the air.

He waved back, a big grin on his face. Matilda kept her head down, her eyes on the ground. She didn't want to talk to anyone. She didn't want them to see her.

The town hall was just a big shed with a tin roof, rusty and dented. It smelled like dust and old wood inside, a dry, stale smell that made her nose itch.

Chairs were set up in rows, metal ones that squeaked when you moved. People sat chatting, their voices buzzing like flies.

Matilda saw Mrs. Elsie May Carter from the store, her apron still tied around her waist. She saw the old men from the pub bench, their hats pulled low over their eyes.

And then she saw him—Jack Thomas Flynn. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, talking to a girl with long blonde hair.

The girl laughed at something he said, her head tilting back. Matilda's stomach twisted, tight and sour. She didn't like him.

Not after yesterday at the store. He'd called her "city girl" in that mocking tone, his voice loud enough for everyone to hear.

Then he laughed at her shoes, pointing at the mud on them like it was funny. She hoped he wouldn't see her now. She ducked her head lower, trying to hide behind Uncle Ben.

Uncle Ben found two chairs near the front, right where she didn't want to be. "Sit," he said, pointing at one.

Matilda sat, her apple clutched tight in her hand. She took a bite, chewing loud on purpose to annoy him. The crunch filled her ears, but he didn't notice.

He just stared ahead, waiting. A man in a green shirt stood up at the front. He was short, with a big belly that stretched his shirt tight. His voice was loud, too loud, cutting through the room.

"Quiet down, everyone!" he shouted. The buzzing voices stopped, and the room went still. "I'm Mayor Frank William Dodd. Thanks for coming."

Matilda slouched in her chair, her shoulders hunching up. She didn't care what this guy had to say. She didn't care about anything here.

She just wanted to go back to bed, pull the blanket over her head, and pretend she was somewhere else. But then Mayor Dodd clapped his hands, a sharp sound that made her jump.

"We've got a plan to save Wattle Creek!" he said, his eyes wide with excitement. "Tourists. We need 'em. And we're gonna bring 'em here with a giant wombat statue."

Matilda stopped chewing, her mouth full of apple. A wombat statue? She didn't even know what a wombat was. She pictured a big, fat rabbit, fluffy and round.

Maybe with wings, flapping in the wind. The idea was so silly she almost laughed, a little snort escaping her nose. But then she saw Jack looking at her from across the room.

He smirked, his lips curling up like he knew something she didn't. She glared back, her eyes narrow, and took another bite of her apple, harder this time.

Mayor Dodd kept talking, his voice bouncing off the walls. "It'll be huge. Ten meters tall. Made of wood and metal. We'll put it by the road, and people will stop to take pictures. Wattle Creek will be famous!"

A few people clapped, their hands smacking together. Others nodded, their heads bobbing up and down. Uncle Ben grinned like it was the best idea ever, his teeth showing through his beard.

"Who's gonna build it?" someone asked. It was one of the old men from the pub, his voice creaky like the bed Matilda slept on.

"We all are!" Mayor Dodd said, throwing his arms out wide. "Everyone's pitching in. Kids too. We start tomorrow."

Matilda's mouth dropped open, apple juice dripping on her chin. Build a statue? She didn't know how to build anything.

She could barely hammer a nail without smashing her thumb. She looked at Uncle Ben, her eyes big. "I'm not doing that," she whispered, her voice low and fierce.

"Oh, yes you are," he said, not even looking at her. "It'll be good for you."

"No way," she said louder, her voice rising. A few people turned to look, their heads swiveling around. She didn't care. "I didn't come here to work."

"You didn't come here to sit around either," Uncle Ben said, his tone hard like stone. "You're helping. End of story."

Before Matilda could argue more, Mayor Dodd pointed at them, his finger jabbing the air. "Ben Harper! You and your niece are on the team. And Jack Flynn too. You three start tomorrow at the old barn."

Matilda's heart sank, heavy and cold in her chest. Jack? She looked over at him. He was still smirking, his eyes locked on her.

The blonde girl next to him giggled, her hand covering her mouth. Matilda wanted to disappear, to melt into the chair and vanish. She didn't want to work with him.

He was rude and annoying, and he'd probably laugh at her the whole time. She could already hear his voice, sharp and teasing, calling her "city girl" again.

The meeting ended, and people started leaving, their chairs scraping the floor. Uncle Ben stood up, stretching his arms. "Let's go," he said, nodding toward the door.

Matilda followed him outside, her apple core still in her hand. She threw it into the dirt, watching it roll away. Jack walked past with the blonde girl, his steps light and easy.

"See you tomorrow, city girl," he called, his voice loud and smug. The girl laughed again, high and bright. Matilda's face went red, heat rushing up her neck.

"Who's that?" she asked Uncle Ben, her words clipped.

"Jack Thomas Flynn. Good kid. His dad's a sheep farmer. That's Lily Grace Evans with him. They used to go out," Uncle Ben said, scratching his beard with his thick fingers. "You'll get along fine."

"No, I won't," Matilda said, crossing her arms. "He's a jerk."

"He's just teasing," Uncle Ben said, shrugging. "Lighten up."

Matilda didn't answer. She didn't want to lighten up. She wanted to go home, back to Sydney, back to her real life. They walked back to the house in silence, the sun still hot on her back.

The whole way, she thought about the stupid wombat statue. Ten meters tall? That was crazy. And working with Jack? Even worse.

She pictured him laughing at her again, his smirk wide and mean. Her fists clenched tight, her nails digging into her palms.

When they got home, she went straight to her room. She slammed the door hard, the bang echoing through the house. She flopped on the bed, the springs squeaking under her.

The rooster crowed outside, even though it was afternoon now. Its noise drilled into her head, and she groaned, pressing her hands over her ears. Tomorrow was going to be awful.

She'd have to see Jack, his dumb face grinning at her. She'd have to build something she didn't care about, something stupid like a giant wombat.

She closed her eyes tight and tried to imagine Sydney—the beach with its soft sand, the shops with their bright lights, her friends with their warm smiles.

But all she could see was Jack's dumb smirk and a giant wombat staring at her, its wooden eyes blank and creepy.

She rolled over and punched her pillow, hard and fast. The stuffing flattened under her fist. Maybe she could fake being sick. Maybe she could cough and sniffle, tell Uncle Ben her stomach hurt.

Maybe he'd let her stay home, let her hide in bed all day. But she knew he wouldn't. He'd see right through her, his eyes sharp and knowing. He'd make her go, his voice firm, his hands pushing her out the door.

She was stuck. Stuck in Wattle Creek, stuck with Jack, stuck with a wombat. She sighed again, a long, tired sound that filled the room. This was her life now, and it was terrible.

Matilda lay there, staring at the ceiling again. The cracks looked like rivers, winding through the plaster. She traced them with her eyes, following every twist and turn.

Her mind wandered back to Sydney, to the days when she'd walk home from school with her friends. They'd stop for ice cream, the cold sweetness melting on her tongue.

They'd sit on the beach, the waves crashing in, the salt air stinging her nose. She missed that so much.

Here, there was no beach, no ice cream, no friends. Just dirt and roosters and Jack's stupid face.

She sat up, her legs dangling off the bed. The suitcase by the door stared at her, a silent lump of her old life.

She thought about opening it, digging through the clothes, finding something that smelled like home. But she didn't move.

What was the point? It wouldn't change anything. She was still here, still trapped. She kicked the floor with her sneaker, a dull thud against the wood.

Tomorrow loomed over her like a dark cloud, heavy and close. She didn't want to face it, but she had no choice.

The rooster crowed again, and she yelled, "Shut up!" at the window. It didn't stop. It never did. She flopped back on the bed, her arms spread wide.

The ceiling cracks stared down at her, mocking her. She closed her eyes again, willing herself to sleep, to escape.

But her mind wouldn't quiet. It spun with thoughts of Jack, the wombat, Uncle Ben's stubborn face.

She groaned one more time, loud and long, letting the sound fill the empty room. This place was a prison, and she was locked in tight.