I took a step towards him. ‘Thanks so much for this,’ I said. ‘I really owe you one.’

  Bryce’s eyebrows drew together in concern. ‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Astrid? I could get into a lot of trouble for this.’

  ‘I know. And I really appreciate it. But you understand, right? Why it’s important?’

  Bryce hesitated, then nodded. ‘I suppose they’re going to take the keys off me in a few days anyway, when the new cleaning company moves in.’

  I smiled and tried to look braver than I felt. ‘Trust me.’

  He pulled a heavy bunch of keys from his pocket and let me through a door to one side of the Town Hall steps. Inside everything was quiet and cool, save for the wheeze of an air conditioner. Bryce led me down a corridor lined with framed portraits of previous councillors. They looked like an entirely shifty lot.

  ‘So,’ I said, trying to ease the awkward silence as we walked. ‘How are those organic cleaning products I recommended going?’

  ‘Great,’ said Bryce over his shoulder. ‘Until I lost the council cleaning contract. I now have a garage full of tea tree oil and orange extract.’

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Well, hopefully we’ll be able to do something about that today.’

  Bryce didn’t reply. I didn’t exactly feel waves of confidence radiating from him.

  A bored-looking security guard stood in front of an unremarkable door at the end of the corridor. Bryce nodded to him, and the security guard turned and opened the door. We walked through, and I couldn’t quite believe that had been so easy.

  The Town Hall was quite a grand space that had once held concerts and markets and seminars. Nowadays it was only used for council meetings, and everything was shabby and faded. The councillors sat around a long wooden table on a raised platform at one end, in front of the stage. There were a handful of uncomfortable plastic chairs set out in wonky rows, in case the council needed to consult with any community groups. Which of course they didn’t.

  Eight councillors sat around the table. I recognised a few of them – a couple of local business owners. Some I’d never seen before, and I suspected that Mayor Tanaka had squirrelled them in to be her cronies. She sat at the head of the table, wearing a neat business suit, her face a mask of cold, businesslike efficiency.

  ‘… implementing our key deliverables according to the proposed timeline …’ Mayor Tanaka broke off and looked up as we entered. Eight heads turned to follow her gaze.

  ‘See?’ the Mayor said to the councillors, indicating me and Bryce with a tilt of her head. ‘This is why we need the services of a reputable, accountable cleaning firm, and not just some random local who can bring in anything off the street.’

  Her eyes flicked to me as she said anything with a look of polite distaste, as if I were some kind of feral animal, or an overflowing rubbish bin.

  Bryce looked terrified. ‘You’re on your own, kid,’ he muttered, and scurried away out the door. I swallowed, and then walked across the scratched parquetry floor until I stood before the wooden table.

  ‘Hi, Mayor Tanaka,’ I said. ‘My name’s Astrid Katy Smythe. I’m Hiro’s girlfriend.’

  Mayor Tanaka raised her eyebrows. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I know who you are. Are you looking for Hiro?’

  I shook my head. ‘Actually, I was looking for you. I have something I want to say.’

  ‘I’m sure you have some big speech planned,’ said Mayor Tanaka, holding up a hand. ‘But we really don’t need to hear it. The vote will be going ahead. I’m sorry if you’re disappointed.’

  I felt the old rage-monster rise up inside me, but it was trampled down by the green, growing calmness. I didn’t need rage. I had certainty instead.

  I smiled at her. She didn’t smile back. I wasn’t sure she could. The door behind me opened again, and Mr Webber stepped into the council chamber room. I blinked. He scowled at me, walked across the room and sat next to the mayor.

  ‘You’re on local council?’ I asked, and then wondered why I was surprised. Of course he was. Mayor Tanaka had probably promised him a nice cushy job as principal of the evil new Valentine Business College.

  I shook my head. ‘I always knew you hated my kitchen garden,’ I said. ‘But really, a heated pool?’

  Mr Webber shrugged. ‘All the best schools have a pool. It attracts the right sort of parent. Unlike your little garden, which, as I understand it, is just hazardous waste.’

  Hazardous waste. That’s what he called the garden. He was a hazardous waste of a human being.

  ‘You know this is wrong,’ I said to Mr Webber. ‘You know it isn’t fair.’

  Mr Webber’s face twisted. ‘You know what, Astrid?’ he said. ‘Life isn’t fair. You get to swan around school as if you own it. You get to skip class whenever you feel like it. Everybody likes you and listens to you. You have privileges at Valentine High that nobody else does – teacher or student. Is that fair?’

  I felt as if he’d slapped me in the face. It wasn’t fair. I was a Missolini, and it wasn’t fair, any more than it was fair that Superman had super strength. But Superman’s strength was also a burden and a responsibility.

  ‘You’re right,’ I said to him. ‘Fair doesn’t come into it. There’s no such thing as fair. There’s no cosmic judge handing out compensation packages to people who have been treated unfairly. But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to fight for what I think is right.’

  Mayor Tanaka let out a derisive snort. ‘Honestly,’ she said, her voice heavy with sarcasm. Her eyes narrowed, and for a moment I could see Hiro in her face, resentful and full of anger. ‘You and whose army?’

  I heard a rumble coming from outside. ‘My army,’ I said. ‘My Invisible Garden Army.’

  The rumble got louder, a low thumping tramp, clapping, and music.

  Mayor Tanaka glared at me. ‘Enough of this bullshit,’ she said, and turned to the notes in front of her. ‘First order of business is the approval of the Green Valentine scheme. All in favour—’

  I heard footsteps in the corridor outside, and the raised voice of the security guard.

  ‘Mayor Tanaka,’ I said. ‘You can grow some pretty awesome stuff in bullshit.’

  The doors behind me burst open, and my army flooded in.

  They were dressed in all the colours of the rainbow, carrying placards and shovels and pots overflowing with green life. Paige was wearing a long, elaborate gown that seemed to be entirely made of leaves. She wore a crown of flowers, and trailed ivy tendrils behind her. She was surrounded by an adoring crowd of fans, who carried placards that read RESISTANCE IS FERTILE. Michi and Cara wore twin crowns of woven flowers. Hiro’s nonna pushed a wheelbarrow full of vegetables and seedlings. Dev’s parents led a troupe of singing teenagers carrying a banner saying DON’T LET OUR DROP-INS DROP OUT. Paige’s mum and the rest of the leisure centre staff waved pool noodles like flags of victory. At the front was my mum and some people from her art class, carrying an enormous banner that just read VALENTINE, where every letter was decorated with the different things that brought our community together – library books, meals-on-wheels, soccer clubs and working bees. I saw my dad and the Whippet, both carrying enormous white boxes with the logo of Dad’s dentistry practice on the sides.

  They crammed in, filling the hall with noise and colour. Just when I thought we were at capacity, more people would squeeze in through the door. People from school with their friends and parents. The staff of Patchwork Rhubarb handing out iced coffees and juices. Teachers from school. I spotted a couple of Poison Ivy’s goons, and didn’t even feel annoyed that one of them was banging on a djembe, because it was drowned out by our entire school marching band, who managed to elbow their way up onto the stage behind the council, playing a very up-tempo version of ‘Rockin’ in the Free World’, being led by Dev, who was dancing in front of them with his flute like the Pied Piper of Hamelin.

  And up the very, very front was Hiro, waving a foam lobster claw and looking extremely pleased with himself. I loved him so much, in that moment, that I thought I might fall apart.

  Mayor Tanaka pulled out her BlackBerry and began speaking urgently into it, yelling to be heard over the din.

  Mr Webber turned to me, his face dark with rage. ‘You,’ he shouted. ‘You did this.’

  I shook my head. ‘No, Mr Webber. Valentine did this. We may live in the ugliest suburb on the planet, but that doesn’t mean we don’t care about it.’

  Hiro and I had worked all weekend. We’d called in Paige and Dev and harnessed the vast social networking powers of the Missolinis. We’d doorknocked and texted and tweeted and Facebooked. We hadn’t tried to convince anyone of anything – we hadn’t needed to. Everyone had heard about Green Valentine, and everyone was angry that they hadn’t been consulted. I looked out over the sea of people. Not a single one of them had signed my Hairy Marron petition. But that didn’t mean they didn’t care about anything.

  Hiro scrambled up onto the councillors’ table, motioning for silence. His mum looked utterly horrified. The marching band stopped playing, and everyone turned towards Hiro.

  ‘Hi,’ said Hiro, his voice sounding out clear and loud, so different from his usual mumbling. ‘So, a lot of you don’t know me. And most of you who do know me probably don’t like me. But that’s okay, because I don’t know you either. And you do know this girl here.’ He gestured towards me. ‘Everyone knows Astrid Katy Smythe. Whether she raised money for your soccer team, or helped you with your science homework, or pestered you into signing a petition about some random endangered crustacean, you’ve all met Astrid, and undoubtedly been charmed by her cheerful determination. So I’m going to stop talking, and let her do all the hard work.’

  He reached down and pulled me up onto the table. Everyone cheered, and the marching band played a little fanfare. I felt like I was in a dream. I glanced down at Mr Webber and Mayor Tanaka. They were both furious. The Mayor was jabbing savagely at her BlackBerry while Mr Webber seemed to be muttering apologies and excuses into her ear.

  Then I looked out over the crowd. It was the strangest group of people I’d ever seen. There were plants and musical instruments and gardening implements and pool noodles. They were shoulder-to-shoulder, taking up every inch of the hall, crammed in together like one giant, swirling mass of colour and weirdness.

  I cleared my throat. What on earth was I supposed to say? In the crowd, I saw Dev grin and give me a thumbs up. I didn’t have anything prepared. I hadn’t thought this far ahead.

  ‘Um,’ I said. ‘Thanks for coming …’

  ‘Enough,’ said Mayor Tanaka. ‘This has to end. You think you can storm in here, interrupting official business, and everything will go your way like in a movie? It doesn’t work that way. You can’t save the world by planting a bloody tomato.’

  I stared down at her, and suddenly I knew exactly what to say.

  ‘Yeah, I can,’ I said. ‘Because you know what I can do with that one tomato? I can get about fifty viable seeds. And I can grow those seeds, or give them to other people to grow. And that makes fifty tomato plants. And we can harvest around twenty tomatoes from a tomato plant. And if we collected the seeds from just one tomato per plant, and grew those as well, we’d have twenty thousand tomatoes. And you can feed a lot of people with twenty thousand tomatoes.’

  A ripple of applause went through the crowd.

  ‘Mayor Tanaka thinks that Valentine needs to change, and she’s right. But she’s like I used to be. She’s trying to force Valentine into the mould of what she thinks a successful suburb should look like. But she hasn’t listened.’

  I looked out over the sea of people. I saw small business owners and students and children and pensioners and retail employees and musicians and teachers. I saw a community.

  ‘I learnt something this week,’ I told them. ‘I’ve spent years trying to get you all to care about the things I care about. But I’ve gone about it totally the wrong way. I’ve been telling everyone around me that they’re wrong, that the way they do things is bad, that they should be ashamed. But I’ve been a total hypocrite, because I never listened to any of you, when you tried to tell me what you cared about. You all have passions and dreams. Everyone cares about something, whether it’s your house, your family, your job, your pet. I thought that just because Valentine doesn’t look like the happy, friendly, white-picket-fence suburbs you see on TV, it meant we had no community. I was wrong. We have a community, and all we needed was for someone to listen.’

  The crowd burst into applause.

  ‘I believe Valentine can be better,’ I continued. ‘I believe it can be beautiful. And I know you all believe that too. And every single one of us will have a different idea of how it can be better. We should share those ideas. Because a truly great community can’t be built with just one idea. It’s built with hundreds and hundreds of little ones.’

  I thought about the sneering remarks Poison Ivy had made about my tomatoes. ‘A high school kitchen garden might not be much,’ I said. ‘But it’s a seed. And seeds can grow into amazing, beautiful things. One seed can end up feeding thousands. People think of gardening as being relaxing. It’s something that we do to get away from all the terrible stuff going on in the world. It’s something little old ladies do.’

  I heard Maria let out a whoop.

  ‘And although gardening is relaxing, it can also be radical. It can be political. When all our food is grown from genetically modified seeds, created in laboratories that are owned by just five companies worldwide, growing our own vegetables is an act of resistance. And it’s not a negative resistance like a boycott or a strike. It’s positive. We’re creating other options, opening up new pathways to live and be.’

  I glanced over at Hiro and he grinned at me.

  ‘When I started the school kitchen garden, I did it because it was good for the environment. Seventy-five per cent of the energy needed to produce our food is used after it’s left the farm. Home-grown food uses less energy, fewer pesticides and up to eighty-nine per cent less water. And I’ve realised this summer that growing your own vegies is about more than just the environment. Gardening is about people. It’s about sharing your excess lemons and tomatoes with a neighbours and friends. It’s about getting together to install new garden beds. It’s about sitting down at a table full of food that you grew, that only had to travel a few steps to your kitchen. It’s about sharing that food with the people you love. It’s about talking, and listening. Food brings us together. And we’re not going to save Valentine unless we’re all in it together.’

  I had them. The crowd were with me, hanging on my every word. I felt like I could float off the table, through the ceiling and into the sky.

  ‘The word radical comes from the Latin word radix, which means root. Gardening is radical. Growth is radical. It’s built into our language. So let’s be radical. All it takes is one seed. Just one seed, one idea, and then you’re on your way to growth, and change, and community. So let’s get our hands dirty!’

  The crowd erupted into applause, and things went crazy for a while. The brass band started up again and everyone whistled and cheered and sang along.

  The councillors were talking urgently with each other around my ankles. Mayor Tanaka was banging her hands on the table, struggling to be heard. Mr Webber’s face was purple with rage.

  I took a deep breath, and hoped that I’d said enough. That we’d shown them. I held up my hand and the noise died down.

  ‘I’m sorry we interrupted your meeting,’ I said, looking down at the councillors around the table. ‘I think you were about to put the Green Valentine Scheme to a vote. Please continue. I promise we won’t interrupt again. You won’t even know we’re here.’

  I clambered down from the table.

  Mayor Tanaka picked up her papers and shuffled them, and I could see that her hands were shaking. She looked down at her notes, as if they could provide her with a way of delaying the vote, so she could get control back.

  The hall fell completely silent. Everyone’s eyes turned to the Mayor, waiting.

  She sighed. ‘All in favour of the Green Valentine Scheme, say aye.’

  I held my breath.

  ‘Aye.’ One of the anonymous councillors.

  ‘Aye.’ Another anonymous councillor.

  ‘Aye.’ Mr Webber narrowed his eyes at me.

  Mayor Tanaka raised a hand. ‘Aye.’

  I waited, my heart pounding in my chest. My eyes darted from councillor to councillor. They were all looking at their folded hands, or at their notes, trying to appear as small and unnoticeable as possible. The silence stretched on. Four votes. The Mayor needed two more.

  We waited.

  Finally, Mayor Tanaka closed her eyes in defeat. ‘All against.’

  There was a chorus of nays.

  ‘The nays have it,’ said Mayor Tanaka, standing up so quickly that she knocked her chair over. ‘The Green Valentine Scheme will not proceed.’

  She pushed through the crowd and headed out the door as everyone filled the room with whoops and cheers. Mr Webber followed her, shooting me a look that implied my Missolini privileges had been revoked.

  The council chamber was getting very hot and stuffy, so we all trooped out as well, spilling out onto the street and into the blinding, baking sun.

  People pressed forward to hug me or congratulate me. Everyone was sharing questions and ideas – one man suggested starting a Valentine seed co-op, where we would all share and swap the seeds we saved from our gardens. Someone from Mum’s art class was talking to the owner of Patchwork Rhubarb about setting up an Art and Coffee club. Paige’s mum and Dev’s parents were discussing the possibility of a festival of dance. Mr Gerakis gave me a hearty handshake, and told me that, council be damned – he was going to use all our fresh produce in his Home Ec classes.

  ‘Astrid.’ It was Mum.

  I gave her an enormous hug, and she hugged me back. ‘I’m so proud of you,’ she said. ‘How did I ever produce such a wonderful daughter?’

  I grinned at her. ‘I guess you must have been an excellent parent.’

 

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