Matilda woke up feeling like her head was stuffed with heavy rocks. It was her thirteenth day in Wattle Creek, a small, dusty town in Australia where the air always felt too dry.
The letters from her dad still sat on her desk, old and crinkled, their edges curling like they were tired of being there.
She'd read them again last night, his messy handwriting spilling out stories about how he ran away from this boring little place, started fresh in Sydney, and somehow ended up with her.
Those words made Matilda's chest ache with a mix of anger and sadness. Her dad was leaving again, this time for London, and she couldn't figure out where she fit into his big, shiny plans.
Sleep had barely come, her mind tangled up with thoughts of him and Jack. Jack—she was going to tell him about the letters today.
He'd get it. He always seemed to, in his quiet, steady way.
She dragged herself out of bed, her body feeling like it weighed a ton, and pulled on her jeans.
They were stiff, coated with dirt from days of running through fields and climbing fences, but she didn't care.
Her sneakers, crusted with dried mud, waited by the door. She tied her dark hair into a messy ponytail, strands sticking out every which way, and shuffled to the kitchen.
Uncle Ben was already there, hunched over the table, munching on a piece of toast. Crumbs clung to his scruffy beard like tiny snowflakes.
"Morning, kid," he said, his eyes fixed on his plate, not bothering to look up.
"Morning," Matilda mumbled, her voice barely above a whisper.
She reached over and swiped a piece of toast from his plate, biting into it. The bread was dry, scratching her throat as she chewed, but she was too tired to care.
"Are they calling today?" she asked, leaning against the counter.
"Yeah," Uncle Ben said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Your parents. Probably around noon, I'd say."
"Great," Matilda said, her voice flat as a board.
She wasn't looking forward to hearing her dad's excuses or her mum's shaky voice trying to smooth everything over.
But she didn't have a choice, did she? She shoved the rest of the toast in her mouth, the crumbs sticking to her lips, and grabbed her backpack from the floor.
"I'm heading to the barn," she said, already moving toward the door.
"Be good, Matilda," Uncle Ben called after her, still not looking up from his plate.
She gave a quick nod, even though he couldn't see it, and stepped outside.
The sun was already blazing, the air thick and dry, making her skin feel tight.
She kicked at loose rocks along the path, her stomach twisting into knots. Jack would be at the barn.
She'd see him, tell him about her dad's letters, and maybe, just maybe, she'd feel a little less like she was floating away. Maybe.
When she reached the barn, Jack was already there, hammering away at the wooden frame for the wombat statue they'd been building together.
His brown hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, and he looked up with a big grin.
"Hey, Matilda! No snakes sneaking around today, right?" he said, his voice light and teasing.
"Hope not," she said, trying to force a smile.
She dropped her backpack with a heavy thud and picked up a paintbrush from the pile of tools. Her hands felt shaky, but she gripped the brush tight.
"Hey, Jack, I've got something to tell you," she said, her voice quieter than she meant it to be.
"Yeah? What's going on?" Jack said, pausing with the hammer in mid-air.
His eyes were bright and curious, and that made her feel a tiny bit better, like she wasn't carrying everything alone.
"It's about my dad," Matilda said, keeping her voice low, like she was afraid someone else might hear. "He's from here. Wattle Creek."
Jack's eyes widened, his mouth dropping open a little. "No way! Your dad? From this place?" he said, sounding shocked.
"Yeah," Matilda said, nodding slowly.
She brushed a strand of hair out of her face, her fingers smudging dirt on her cheek.
"I found these letters last night," she said. "He wrote about how he ran away when he was my age. Packed up and went to Sydney."
"That's wild," Jack said, leaning against the wooden frame, his hammer dangling in his hand. "Why'd he leave Wattle Creek?"
"Same reason as me," Matilda admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "He hated it here. Said it was too small, too quiet, like it was choking him."
"And now he's off to London?" Jack asked, tilting his head, his eyes searching her face.
"Yeah," she said, her throat tightening like someone was squeezing it. "He's running again, Jack. Just like always."
Jack nodded slowly, his face serious, like he was turning her words over in his mind.
"That's really tough, Matilda. You holding up okay?" he asked, his voice soft.
"Nope," she said, being completely honest. Her eyes stung, but she blinked hard to keep the tears away. "But I'll figure it out. I always do, don't I?"
"You will," Jack said, his voice warm and sure. "You're tough, Matilda Harper. Tougher than most people I know."
"Thanks," she said, her cheeks getting warm.
She turned to the wooden frame and started painting, the red paint sticking to her hands like sticky syrup.
Telling Jack didn't fix everything, but it made the heavy weight in her chest feel a little lighter—not gone, but not crushing her anymore.
They worked quietly for a while, Jack hammering nails into the wood, Matilda brushing paint in slow, careful strokes.
The sun climbed higher, and sweat trickled down her back, soaking her shirt. She didn't mind too much. Jack was there, and that made it feel okay.
Then she heard footsteps—fast, angry ones, like someone was stomping through the dirt.
She turned around, and there was Lily Grace Evans, storming up the path like a dark cloud ready to burst.
Her blonde hair bounced wildly, and her face was red as a ripe tomato. She looked madder than Matilda had ever seen her.
"Jack!" Lily shouted, her voice sharp enough to cut through the air.
Jack dropped his hammer, and it clattered to the ground with a loud clang.
"Lily? What's wrong with you?" he said, his brows furrowing.
"You tell me, Jack Flynn," Lily snapped, stopping right in front of them.
She planted her hands on her hips, her eyes glaring like she was trying to burn a hole through him.
"I heard you're leaving town. Is that true?" Lily asked.
"What?" Jack said, his mouth falling open. "Who's saying that nonsense?"
"Everybody," Lily said, her eyes flashing with anger. "The whole town's talking about it. They say you and her—" she jabbed a finger at Matilda, her nail practically pointing in her face "—are running off to Sydney together."
Matilda blinked, her brain struggling to catch up. "That's not true, Lily," she said, her voice shaking a little.
"Don't you lie to me," Lily said, stepping closer, her voice dripping with venom. "I heard it at the store. Mrs. Carter was telling everyone you're both done with Wattle Creek."
"That's ridiculous," Jack said, shaking his head so hard his hair flopped into his eyes. "I'm not going anywhere. Not yet, anyway."
"Then why's everyone saying it?" Lily demanded, her voice rising, loud enough to echo off the barn walls. She turned her glare on Matilda, her eyes narrowing. "You started this, didn't you, city girl?"
"Me?" Matilda said, her face getting hot, like she'd been slapped. "I didn't say a single word about Sydney, Lily. Not one!"
"Someone did," Lily said, her eyes like slits. "And it's gotta be you. You hate this place. You're probably trying to drag Jack away with you."
"I'm not," Matilda said, her voice trembling now. She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. "I swear, Lily, I didn't say anything like that."
"Then who's spreading this lie?" Lily asked, crossing her arms tight across her chest. "It's all over town. People think Jack's ditching us because of you."
"That's so stupid," Jack said, his voice firm, cutting through the tension. "I'm staying right here, Lily. Matilda's not leaving either."
"You better tell that to everyone," Lily said, a smirk curling her lips. "You're messing everything up, city girl."
"Shut up, Lily," Matilda said, her hands shaking with anger. "I didn't do anything wrong."
"Sure you didn't," Lily said, her smirk growing wider, like she was enjoying this.
She turned to Jack, her eyes flashing again. "You're such an idiot, Jack Flynn. Picking her over me? Really?"
"I didn't pick anybody," Jack said, sounding annoyed now, his patience wearing thin. "Lily, you need to stop this right now."
"No way," Lily said, her voice sharp as a knife. "You're leaving, and it's all her fault. I knew she'd ruin everything the second she showed up."
"Enough!" Jack shouted, his voice so loud it made Matilda jump. "Go home, Lily. Just go."
Lily glared at him, then at Matilda, her eyes like icy daggers.
"Fine," she said, her voice cold as stone. "But this isn't over, not by a long shot."
She spun around, her boots kicking up clouds of dust as she marched away, her blonde hair bouncing with every angry step.
Matilda watched her go, her chest so tight it felt like someone was squeezing her heart.
"What was that all about?" Matilda asked, turning to Jack, her voice still shaky.
"Lily being Lily," Jack said, rubbing the back of his neck, his face flushed. "She's super mad, that's for sure."
"No kidding," Matilda said, trying to steady her breathing. "Why's she saying I'm taking you to Sydney? That's insane."
"I don't know," Jack said, frowning, his brow creasing. "Someone's talking nonsense, and it's got her all worked up."
"It's gotta be her," Matilda said, her mind racing, putting the pieces together. "She's the one spreading this stupid lie."
"Maybe," Jack said, looking unsure, his eyes darting to the path where Lily had disappeared. "She's jealous, I think."
"Jealous of what?" Matilda asked, her stomach flipping with confusion.
"Of you," Jack said, his eyes meeting hers, steady and warm. "Of us."
Matilda's face burned like it was on fire, her cheeks flaming red.
"There's no us," she said quickly, her voice wobbling, her heart pounding in her chest.
"Isn't there?" Jack said, his voice soft, his eyes still locked on hers, like he was searching for something.
Matilda didn't know what to say. Her head was spinning—Lily's mean words, the ridiculous rumor, Jack's warm, steady gaze.
She didn't start this mess, but it felt like it was her fault somehow, like she'd broken something without even trying.
They went back to work for the rest of the morning, but it wasn't the same.
Jack was quieter than usual, his hammer moving slower, like his mind was somewhere else.
Matilda's painting was sloppy, her hands trembling as she tried to focus on the red paint, but her thoughts kept drifting.
The rumor wouldn't leave her alone—Sydney? With Jack? It was so dumb, but people believed it.
She didn't want that. She didn't want Jack thinking she'd just pack up and leave—or worse, drag him away with her.
At noon, Uncle Ben's voice called her back to the house, loud and clear across the field.
Matilda trudged home, her stomach twisted into knots, her sneakers scuffing the dirt.
Her parents were on the phone when she got there, their voices crackling through the old landline.
"Matilda, love," her dad said, sounding tired, like he hadn't slept either. "We're moving. London's all set now. It's happening."
"What about me?" Matilda asked, her voice hard, like she was daring him to give her a bad answer.
"You can come with us," her mum said, her voice wobbly, like she was trying not to cry. "Or you can stay with Ben. It's your choice, sweetheart."
"Choice?" Matilda said, almost laughing, but it wasn't funny. "You didn't give me a choice when you shipped me off to this place."
"We're so sorry," her dad said, his voice heavy, like he was carrying the same rocks she felt in her head. "We messed up, Matilda. We know we did."
"Yeah," she said, her throat so tight it hurt to talk. "You really, really did."
"We'll talk more soon," her mum said, trying to sound hopeful, but it fell flat. "Just think about it, okay, love?"
"Fine," Matilda said, and she slammed the phone down, her hands clenched so tight her nails dug into her palms, leaving little crescent marks.
She didn't want to go to London. She didn't even want Sydney anymore. She didn't know what she wanted, and that scared her more than anything.
She stormed to her room and flopped onto her bed, the mattress creaking under her weight.
The rumor kept nagging at her, like a splinter she couldn't pull out—Lily's revenge, twisting everything into a big, ugly mess.
Jack believed she didn't start it, but what if he changed his mind? What if he thought she'd run away, just like her dad?
The thought made her stomach churn, like she'd swallowed something sour.
She grabbed the letters from her desk and read them again, her dad's words blurry through the tears welling up in her eyes—leaving, sorry, gone.
She didn't want to be like him, always running, always leaving people behind.
Matilda got up and walked to the creek, her legs moving like they had a mind of their own.
She needed to breathe, to get away from the house and the phone and the letters.
The water moved slow, the banks muddy from last week's rain, the air smelling like damp earth.
She sat on a big, smooth rock, her eyes stinging, her chest heavy. Lily's lie hurt—it hurt Jack, it hurt her.
She didn't know how to make it stop. She didn't know if she could.
The stars started to peek out above, faint against the fading daylight, but they didn't make her feel better.
She cried, quiet and alone, the rumor echoing in her head like a bad song that wouldn't quit, her tears falling into the dirt where no one could see.