Looking for Alibrandi by Melina Marchetta Read Free Book Online

I feel that John Barton’s team had a certain advantage.
    When it was over I rushed to the classroom where they were serving coffee and biscuits. I was hoping to salvage the last piece of cake or maybe a chocolate biscuit but discovered I was too late when I found a girl taking the last four.
    “I bet she was the type who hogged the potato chips at parties when she was young,” I heard someone whisper in my ear.
    I turned to face John Barton and laughed, nodding my head.
    It had been three months since I last saw him and he was looking even better. Not that he’s a “pretty boy” or even bursting with sex appeal, come to think about it. It’s the honesty and realness about him that I love. It’s written on his face like a script.
    If he was a woman he would never need to wear rouge. He has that natural redness on his cheekbones. Although he’s a bit on the thin side, it’s his height that I like and the way his hazel eyes smile and change so instantly with his moods.
    “I’m left with the boring Scotch Finger biscuits as usual,” I told him.
    He grinned mischievously and held out his hand, holding two Tim Tams.
    “I was a fairy-bread hogger at parties,” he told me seriously, his eyes immediately changing. “I used to put them in my pockets or hide them wherever I could, until one day I was exposed when my host handed me my parka and four slices of fairy bread fell out. I was seven years old, and up till this day if I ever see fairy bread I palpitate and realize that psychologically I will never be cured.”
    I laughed at his theatrics and took the Tim Tam he offered me.
    “So what deep, dark secret do you have to tell me about your party days?” he asked.
    “Well, I was one of those ‘pass-the-parcel’ hoggers. I used to hold on to the parcel for five seconds more in case the music stopped. The same for musical chairs. I’d stand in front of the chair and not move. I was banned from parties after that.”
    “Yeah,” he said, narrowing his eyes in mock suspicion. “You look the type.”
    Mama came up and gave me a kiss and then made a bee-line for Sister Louise before I could stop her.
    “She’s very natural. She looks more real than anyone else in this room,” he observed, his hazel eyes following her.
    “I know,” I said, watching her talking to Sister. “I’m just worried about what Sister Louise is telling her. I’ve been in trouble lately.”
    “You were very good at Martin Place the other day. I recognized your speech.”
    I looked at him and frowned. “I didn’t see you there.”
    “I was with Ivy and some others talking to the Premier.”
    I nodded, thinking how perfectly suited his family was to Poison Ivy’s. I wished like crazy that he hadn’t mentioned her name. How could I compete with someone whose father was one of Sydney’s top heart surgeons and whose photo was in the
Australian
when she was elected school captain. I could picture her parents at dinner with his. They’d talk about politics, the arts and world affairs. Then I tried to picture them at dinner with Nonna and Mama. Not that I have ever been ashamed of them, by any means. But what would they talk about? The best way of making lasagna? Our families had nothing in common.
    “That Cook High guy was pretty impressive. I mean, he wouldn’t make a great debater, but he was a surprise.”
    “Jacob Coote,” I murmured as he grabbed some biscuits and we walked outside.
    I tried to picture John Barton terrorizing girls in alleyways or Jacob Coote being able to converse with the Premier. It made me so much more aware of the social and cultural differences around me.
    We ended up sitting on cane chairs on the veranda looking up at the sky. It was a beautiful, balmy night.
    “Heard about the regional dance?”
    I didn’t want to look at him because I would have seemed too eager. To walk into the regional dance with John Barton would make me the envy of every snob at St. Martha’s.
    “It’s all we talk about. Can