Matilda woke up feeling sick to her stomach. It was her ninth day in Wattle Creek, and her head was full of the kiss.
Yesterday, under the big gum tree, Jack had kissed her, and she'd kissed him back. Then she'd bolted like a scared little kid.
Her cheeks got hot just thinking about it—his lips were soft, warm, and his eyes were so wide after.
She didn't know what to do next. She liked it, but it scared her silly. She wasn't supposed to like Jack.
He was annoying, rude, just a country boy. But deep down, she knew he wasn't really like that, and that made everything harder.
She rolled out of bed and rubbed her eyes hard. The rooster outside crowed, loud and sharp, like always.
She groaned, annoyed. Her room was the same as ever—small, dusty, with a cracked ceiling staring down at her.
She yanked on her jeans and a plain shirt, her hands shaking a bit. She didn't want to go to the barn today.
She didn't want to face Jack. But she had no choice. The wombat statue they were building wasn't finished, and Uncle Ben would drag her there anyway.
In the kitchen, Uncle Ben was sipping coffee. "Morning," he said, looking at her over his mug. "You're super quiet today."
"Just tired," she mumbled.
She grabbed a slice of bread and ripped it into tiny pieces, not eating any. Her stomach was all twisted up, like a knot.
"You and Jack doing okay?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Yeah," she lied, staring at the table.
She couldn't tell him about the kiss. He'd probably laugh or say something embarrassing.
She shoved a piece of bread in her mouth and chewed fast, just to look busy.
"Truck's fixed," he said. "I'll drop you off at the barn."
"Fine," she said, her voice flat.
She grabbed her backpack and shuffled outside behind him. The sun was already up, bright and hot, making her squint.
She climbed into the truck, her legs feeling heavy, like they didn't want to move.
The ride was quiet, just the engine making its low, grumbly noise. She stared out the window, watching trees and dirt blur past.
But all she could see in her mind was Jack's face—close, then shocked when she ran. She wanted to forget it, but it wouldn't go away.
When they got to the barn, Jack wasn't there yet. The wombat statue's frame stood under a tarp, all muddy from the rain a few days ago.
Matilda dropped her backpack on the ground and sat on an old tire. She didn't feel like working. She didn't feel like thinking.
She picked up a stick and started scratching at the dirt, drawing random lines. Her head was a big mess—Jack, the kiss, Wattle Creek.
She hated this place, but then again, she didn't hate it completely. That was the worst part.
Uncle Ben came back about an hour later. He'd gone to the store and had a bag of nails in his hand.
"Jack's late," he said, setting the bag down by the statue.
"Good," Matilda said, but she didn't mean it.
She wanted to see Jack, but she also really didn't. It was confusing and dumb.
"You sure you're okay?" Uncle Ben asked, looking at her funny. "You're acting all weird."
"I'm fine," she snapped, glaring at the dirt. "Just leave me alone."
He put his hands up, like he was surrendering.
"Alright, princess," Uncle Ben said. "I'm heading home. Call me if you need anything."
He climbed back into the truck and drove off, the engine fading into the distance.
Matilda watched him go, then went back to her stick, poking at the ground harder.
She drew a circle, then scratched it out, frustrated. She didn't know what she was doing, not with the stick, not with anything.
Jack showed up ten minutes later. He walked up the path, carrying his toolbox.
"Hey," he said, stopping a few steps away.
His voice was quiet, like he was being careful.
"Hey," she said, not looking up.
Her stick dug deeper into the dirt, making a little hole.
"About yesterday—" he started to say.
"Don't," she cut him off quick. "Let's just work, okay?"
"Okay," he said, sounding a bit sad.
He set the toolbox down with a thud and grabbed a hammer.
They worked without talking—him banging nails into the wood, her slopping red paint onto the frame.
The air felt heavy, not because of the hot sun, but because of them. Matilda's chest hurt, like something was pressing on it.
She wanted to say something, anything, but no words came. She kept her head down, focusing on the paint, watching it drip a little.
Around noon, Uncle Ben's truck rumbled up again. He got out, his face looking serious, not his usual easy grin.
"Matilda," he said. "We gotta talk."
"What?" she asked, her heart sinking.
She dropped the paintbrush into the can. Jack stopped hammering and glanced over, curious.
"Inside," Uncle Ben said, nodding toward the barn.
Matilda followed him, her stomach twisting even tighter. He didn't look happy, and that scared her.
Inside the barn, it was cooler, darker, with shadows all around. He leaned against a wooden crate and crossed his arms.
"Your parents called," he said, his voice low.
"So?" she said, trying to sound tough.
She didn't want to hear about them. They'd sent her to Wattle Creek like she was a problem they didn't want. They didn't care about her.
"They're moving," he said. "To London."
Matilda froze, like her feet were stuck to the floor.
"What?" she whispered.
"Job stuff," he said. "Your dad got a big offer. They're leaving next month."
"What about me?" she asked, her voice shaking now.
"They didn't say," he said, looking at her steady. "Might take you with them. Might not."
She stared at him, her head spinning like a top. London? That was so far away, across the whole world.
Away from Sydney, away from her friends, away from—Jack.
She didn't want to think about him, but his name popped into her head anyway.
"They can't do that," she said, her voice louder.
"They can," Uncle Ben said. "They're your parents."
"They dumped me here!" she shouted. "They don't get to decide now!"
"They do," he said, calm but firm. "But I told them you're staying with me for now. We'll figure it out."
Matilda's hands balled into fists, her nails digging into her palms.
"I don't want to go to London," she said, almost growling.
"Then don't," he said. "But you gotta talk to them."
"No way," she said.
She spun around and stormed out of the barn. Jack was still by the statue, watching her.
She ignored him and grabbed her backpack, slinging it over her shoulder.
"I'm leaving," she said, not looking at him.
"Matilda—" Jack said, taking a step toward her.
"Leave me alone," she snapped.
She walked off fast, her boots kicking up dust on the path. Her eyes stung, but she wouldn't let herself cry.
She was so mad—mad at her parents, mad at Uncle Ben, mad at the whole stupid world.
London? They didn't even ask her. They just decided, like she didn't matter. She hated them so much right now.
When she got home, she went straight to her room and slammed the door hard.
She flopped onto the bed, staring up at the cracked ceiling. It looked ugly, just like how she felt inside.
She wanted to scream. She wanted to run back to Sydney, to her old life.
But Sydney wasn't home anymore—not if her parents were leaving. She didn't know where home was now, and that scared her.
Later, Uncle Ben knocked on her door.
"Dinner," he said through the wood.
"Not hungry," she said, her voice muffled by the pillow.
He opened the door anyway, holding a plate of steaming stew.
"Eat," he said, putting it on her desk. "You're upset. Talk to me."
"They're jerks," she said, sitting up a little. "They sent me here, and now they're moving? Without me?"
"Maybe," he said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "They're still figuring it out."
"They don't care," she said, her voice cracking. "They never cared."
"They do," Uncle Ben said. "They're just not good at showing it."
Matilda didn't say anything. She grabbed the blanket and pulled it over her head, hiding. Uncle Ben sighed, a long, tired sound, and got up.
"Eat the stew," he said before leaving, closing the door soft.
She stayed under the blanket, the stew sitting there, getting cold. Her mind was racing—London, Jack, the kiss, Wattle Creek.
She didn't want to leave this place, but she didn't want to stay either. She didn't know what she wanted, and it made her feel lost.
She thought about Jack again. He'd tried to talk to her at the barn, and she'd pushed him away.
She felt bad about it, but she couldn't face him, not with all this going on.
She didn't need anyone—not Jack, not her parents, not Uncle Ben.
She'd figure it out by herself. She had to, because no one else was going to help her.
The stars came out later, twinkling through her window. She didn't look at them.
She curled up tighter under the blanket, her chest hurting, like it was too full of feelings. Tomorrow she'd have to see Jack again at the barn.
She didn't know what to say to him. She didn't know anything anymore, and that was the worst part of all.