Miss Understood Read Free

Or Ms Richardson?’
    ‘Tomorrow morning.’
    ‘Usually they give you holidays between changing schools,’ I said, even though I knew that it was pointless.
    ‘Yeah, good luck with that,’ said Dad. I think he was smiling then.
    ‘Will I have to call you Mrs Adams?’ I asked Mum.
    ‘No, but you’ll be polite, just as you would be at school.’
    ‘Just as you should be at school,’ Dad muttered, and there it was. Misunderstood again. I was never cheeky to my teachers. Not ever.
    I sighed. At least I wouldn’t have to lug a heavy bag of homework home every night.
    No, because now everything would be homework.
    My whole life was about to become stupid homework.
    And that’s when I started to cry all over again.
    On the way home, we picked up Richie up from Aunty Carol and Uncle Tony’s place, where Mum and Dad had dropped him off while they came to school to talk to Mr Hilder about me. My little brother was all grizzly, so I poked my tongue out at him, just to make myself feel better. It didn’t work. Not that he cared, because he was too busy picking his nose to even notice.
    As we pulled into our driveway, Dad honked the horn, just a couple of little pips. ‘Out of the way, you clowns,’ he growled.
    I looked up. A man and a woman were standing at the edge of our driveway, staring at us.
    ‘It’s not their fault, Marty,’ Mum said.
    ‘Would a display home have a newspaper in the driveway?’ Dad muttered as he turned off the engine and got out.
    The man was now trying very hard to open our front door. I decided that while Mum was getting Richie out of the car, Dad could probably use my support, so I got out too, just to back him up.
    ‘Hi there,’ Dad was saying. ‘Can I help you?’
    ‘Oh, good,’ the man said, rattling the handle of the security screen like a gorilla in a cage. ‘Do you know if this one is open?’
    ‘Not yet,’ Dad replied.
    ‘Do you have a key?’ the man asked, sizing up our dusty red Toyota. I knew what he was thinking: that’s not really the kind of car someone from the display village would drive.
    ‘Of course I have a key,’ Dad said. ‘But you see, this house isn’t part of the display village.’
    ‘Yes, it is,’ the man said.
    ‘No, it isn’t,’ Dad replied.
    ‘Well, we were in the Greengrove 300 right next door.’ The man held up a shiny brochure. ‘Very impressive, if a little small for our needs. And only single-storey.’
    Dad nodded at him. ‘Yes, well, the Greengrove 300 is a display home. This one, however, is not. This one is where we live.’
    ‘Are you sure?’
    ‘Oh yes, I’m quite sure. We are a real family. We have been for years.’
    The couple looked at one another. ‘I’m confused,’ the man said.
    ‘Clearly, but it’s actually not that complicated,’ Dad replied, after taking a deep breath. ‘The display village stops there, at the fence. That is all display village over there. All of it. No one lives in those houses yet. Whereas this –’ he swept his arm around to take in our front yard and our house – ‘is where we actually live. You know, like real people. Listen,’ he said. ‘Hear that dog barking in the backyard? That’s our dog. His name is Muppet, he’s a beagle, and he’s real. He’s our real dog, and he lives here because we do too.’
    ‘You live here ?’ the man said.
    Dad sighed. ‘We actually do. But if you want to have a look inside . . .’
    ‘Do you mind?’ the lady asked.
    ‘Yes, we do mind,’ said Mum, who was now standing there as well, with Richie wriggling around on her hip. ‘My husband was having a little joke.’ Then, under her breath, she added, ‘A bit like the little joke he was having when he convinced me to buy an ex-display home.’
    ‘Do we have to start with that . . .’ Dad began. But then he stopped speaking, got back in the car and pressed the garage door opener. As he drove in, I heard the man say to the lady, ‘That’s amazing! I can’t believe they actually put