Matilda Rose Harper sat in the back of a bumpy taxi, staring out the window. The city was gone now.
No more tall buildings, no more bright lights, no more noise. Just dirt. Red dirt stretched out as far as she could see.
Trees dotted the land too, but they were skinny and dry, not like the big, green ones she loved back in Sydney. She hugged her backpack tight against her chest.
Her stomach twisted and turned, feeling sick. She didn't want to be here. Not one bit. This whole mess was her parents' fault, and she couldn't stop thinking about it.
Two weeks ago, everything changed. She'd snuck out her bedroom window to meet her friends at the park. It wasn't a big deal—just something kids do.
But her dad, James Robert Harper, acted like she'd done something awful. He yelled so loud the neighbors probably heard him, his face red and his voice sharp. Her mum, Sarah Jane Harper, didn't yell.
She just sat there, crying, her hands shaking as she said, "We can't trust you anymore." Matilda tried to tell them it was just for fun, nothing serious. She wasn't hurting anyone. But they wouldn't listen.
They didn't even try to hear her side. Instead, they decided she needed a "fresh start," whatever that meant.
So now here she was, stuck in this taxi, bouncing along a dirt road toward Wattle Creek—a tiny outback town she'd never even heard of until they told her she was going there.
Her Uncle Ben Harper lived in that dusty place. He was her dad's older brother, but Matilda barely knew him. She'd met him once when she was six years old.
All she could remember was his big, scratchy beard and his loud, booming laugh that echoed in her ears.
The taxi hit a big hole in the road, and Matilda's head smacked against the window. "Ow!" she cried, rubbing her forehead with her hand. It hurt, and a little bump was already forming.
The driver, an old man wearing a worn-out hat, chuckled softly. "Rough ride out here, love. You'll get used to it," he said, his voice gravelly but kind.
Matilda shot him a mean look. She didn't want to get used to it. She didn't want anything to do with this place.
All she wanted was to turn around and go back home to Sydney, where things made sense.
The car slowed down as they finally rolled into Wattle Creek. Matilda pressed her face closer to the window and looked out.
The town was small. Really small. A handful of houses made of old wood lined a dusty street.
The paint on them was peeling, and they looked tired, like they'd been sitting there forever.
There was a little shop with a faded sign that said "General Store" in crooked letters. Next to it was a tiny pub, its windows cloudy with grime.
A rusty old truck was parked outside, its red paint chipped and dull. Two old men sat on a wooden bench in front of the pub, holding beers in their hands. They looked up as the taxi drove by and waved lazily.
The driver lifted his hand and waved back. Matilda sank lower in her seat, pulling her backpack up to cover her face a little. This place was boring.
No malls to shop in, no movie theaters to watch films, no parks to hang out with friends. Nothing but dust and old people everywhere she looked.
The taxi came to a stop in front of a house. It was old, just like everything else here. The roof sagged in the middle, and the paint was peeling off in big flakes. A man stood on the porch, watching them.
He was tall, with a grey beard that looked messy and wild. He wore a faded flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. It was Uncle Ben. He held a chipped mug in one hand and waved with the other.
"There she is!" he shouted, his voice loud and cheerful, just like she remembered from all those years ago.
Matilda grabbed her backpack and pushed the taxi door open. She stepped out, but her foot caught on the edge of the seat. She stumbled forward, her arms flailing.
Her suitcase tumbled out after her and hit the ground hard. The clasp popped open, and all her stuff spilled out into the dirt—her favorite jeans with the rip at the knee, her pink shirt she wore all the time, even her underwear scattered across the ground.
Matilda's face turned bright red. She dropped to her knees fast, trying to shove everything back into the suitcase. Her hands moved quick, but the dirt stuck to her clothes anyway.
Uncle Ben laughed from the porch. "Welcome to the outback, princess!" he called out, stepping down the creaky stairs toward her.
"Don't call me that," Matilda snapped, her voice sharp. She stood up, brushing the red dirt off her hands. It smeared across her palms. Her suitcase wouldn't close now—the clasp was bent.
She kicked it hard with her shoe, and it slid a little in the dust. Uncle Ben laughed again, louder this time. "You've got a temper, huh? Just like your dad," he said, shaking his head.
Matilda didn't say anything back. She didn't want to talk about her dad, not now, not ever. She grabbed the handle of her suitcase and started dragging it toward the house.
It was heavy, and the wheels wouldn't roll right in the soft dirt. She took a few steps, then tripped again. This time, she fell forward and landed face-first in a patch of wet mud.
The cold, slimy muck squished against her cheek and stuck in her hair. She heard Uncle Ben's big laugh behind her. "You're off to a great start!" he said, his voice full of amusement.
Matilda pushed herself up slowly. Her hands were covered in brown mud now, and it dripped off her fingers. She wanted to scream at the top of her lungs.
She wanted to cry until her eyes ran dry. But instead, she wiped her face with her sleeve, smearing the mud even more, and glared at Uncle Ben. "This place sucks," she said, her voice low and angry.
Uncle Ben just grinned, showing his crooked teeth. "You'll love it soon enough. Come on, let's get you inside." He bent down and picked up her suitcase with one hand, like it was light as a feather.
He carried it up the steps, the wood groaning under his boots. Matilda followed behind, her shoes squishing with every step. The mud was cold against her skin, and she felt gross.
She felt mad. She felt like running all the way back to Sydney, but she had no money, no car, no way to escape this awful place.
Inside the house, it smelled like wood and strong coffee. The air was warm and a little stale.
The place was small and messy, just like she'd expected. A lumpy couch sat in the corner, covered with a scratchy old blanket.
A table nearby was buried under piles of papers and junk—old newspapers, tools, a few empty mugs. In the kitchen, dirty dishes were stacked high in the sink, crusted with dried food.
Uncle Ben dropped her suitcase by the front door with a thud. "Your room's down the hall," he said, pointing with his thumb. "Last door on the right. Don't expect much."
Matilda trudged down the narrow hallway. The wooden floor creaked and squeaked under her muddy shoes. She pushed open the door to her room and stopped.
It was tiny—so small she could almost touch both walls if she stretched her arms out. A bed with a thin, lumpy mattress sat against one wall, the sheets wrinkled and faded. A small window above it looked out at more red dirt and a few scraggly bushes.
There was a desk in the corner, but it was covered in a thick layer of dust, like no one had touched it in years.
She dropped her backpack on the floor with a soft thump and sat down on the bed. It squeaked loudly under her weight. She let out a long sigh. This was her life now, whether she liked it or not.
She reached into her backpack and pulled out her phone. She tapped the screen, hoping for a signal.
Nothing. No bars, no connection. Of course. She tossed the phone onto the bed in frustration and flopped back, staring up at the ceiling.
A big crack ran across it, zigzagging from one side to the other. She closed her eyes tight.
Maybe if she fell asleep, she could pretend this was all a bad dream. Maybe she'd wake up back in Sydney, in her soft bed, with her friends texting her.
But then Uncle Ben's loud voice broke through her thoughts. "Dinner's in ten minutes! Don't be late!" he shouted from the kitchen.
Matilda groaned and rolled over, pressing her face into the flat pillow. She didn't want dinner. She didn't want to sit with Uncle Ben and listen to his dumb laugh.
She didn't want anything this stupid town had to offer. But her stomach growled, and she knew she'd have to eat something eventually.
Ten minutes later, she dragged herself out of the room and into the kitchen. Uncle Ben was standing at the stove, stirring a big pot with a wooden spoon.
The smell of meat and onions filled the air, warm and heavy. He glanced over at her as she shuffled in. "You clean up yet?" he asked, his eyebrows raised.
Matilda shook her head. "No water in the bathroom," she muttered, her voice flat.
He scratched his beard and looked at her like she'd said something funny. "Tank's outside. You'll have to fill a bucket. Outback life, kid." He turned back to the pot and kept stirring, like it was no big deal.
Matilda stared at him, her mouth open a little. Fill a bucket? Was he serious? She wasn't some farmer girl who knew how to do that stuff. She was from the city, where water came out of taps and life was easy.
She plopped down at the table and crossed her arms tight over her chest. "Why am I even here?" she asked, her voice sharp with annoyance.
Uncle Ben scooped thick stew into two bowls and carried them over. The steam rose up in little curls. "Your folks think you need discipline. Said you're out of control," he said, setting a bowl in front of her. He sat down across the table and took a big bite, chewing loudly. "I reckon they're right."
Matilda pushed her bowl away with both hands. The smell was good, but she didn't care. "I'm not hungry," she said, looking down at the scratched-up table.
"Suit yourself," Uncle Ben said with a shrug. He scooped up another spoonful and ate it like nothing was wrong. "But you'll eat eventually. Nothing else to do out here."
She glared at him again, her eyes narrow. He didn't care one bit. He just kept eating, slurping the stew, acting like this was all normal.
Like sending your kid to live in the middle of nowhere with a stranger was a fine thing to do.
She stood up fast, her chair scraping the floor, and stormed back to her room. She slammed the door hard behind her. The loud bang felt good, even if it didn't fix anything.
Back on the bed, she lay down and stared at the cracked ceiling again. She thought about Sydney—her real home.
Her friends were probably at the park right now, sitting on the grass, laughing and eating salty chips from the corner store.
She could almost hear their voices, see their smiles. She missed them so much it hurt. She missed her room with its soft bed and big window that let in the morning sun.
She missed her old life, the one her parents had ripped away from her. Tears stung her eyes, hot and prickly.
She wiped them away fast with her sleeve. She wouldn't cry. Not here. Not where Uncle Ben might hear her and laugh again.
Outside, the sun was setting slow and steady. The sky turned orange and pink, the colors bleeding together over the flat, dusty land. Matilda sat up and looked out the little window. It was pretty, she had to admit.
The way the light hit the dirt made it glow a little. But it didn't make her feel any better. She was stuck in Wattle Creek, and she hated it with every piece of her heart. She hated her parents for sending her here.
She hated Uncle Ben and his loud voice. She hated the mud and the dust and the skinny trees.
Tomorrow would probably be worse—she was sure of it. More dirt, more work, more of nothing.
But for now, she lay back down, closed her eyes tight, and tried to sleep. She hoped, deep down, that when she woke up, she'd be somewhere else—anywhere but here.