Bo Mitchell lives in a country town and has little on his mind

except school, footy, family and friends . . . until he meets

Rory Wild, a girl from a secretive off-the-grid community
called Garden of Eden.
When Bo’s family becomes engulfed in a crisis that could
tear them apart, Bo finds himself drawn towards Rory and
the Eden community’s way of life.
But as the town comes together for the ‘White Night’ lightshow,
Bo realises that out at Eden the secrets might be more serious
than anyone has imagined . . . 

A dazzling YA novel from the acclaimed author

of the Every series.

‘Gutsy characters, a cracking plot, and the perfect amount

of swoon – everything Ellie Marney does best.’
Vikki Wakefield

ISBN: 978-1-76029-355-0
Cover design: Debra Billson
Cover images: Dario Sablijak and
Vladimir Caplinskij/ Shutterstock

# L o v e O z YA 9 781760 293550

FICTION
This project is supported by the Victorian Government through Creative Victoria.

First published by Allen & Unwin in 2018

Copyright © Ellie Marney 2018

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording
or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in
writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a
maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater,
to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes
provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a
remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

Allen & Unwin

83 Alexander Street
Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
Email: info@allenandunwin.com
Web: www.allenandunwin.com

A catalogue record for this

book is available from the
National Library of Australia

ISBN 978 1 76029 355 0

For teaching resources, explore www.allenandunwin.com/resources/for-teachers

Excerpt on page 69 is taken from Ranger’s Apprentice Book One: The Ruins of Gorlan
by John Flanagan. Copyright © John Flanagan, 2004. Reproduced by permission of
Penguin Random House Australia.

Cover and text design by Debra Billson

Cover and text images by Dario Sablijak and Vladimir Caplinskij/ Shutterstock
Set in 10.5/15.5 pt Janson Text by Shahirah Hambali

Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

The paper in this book is FSC® certified.

FSC® promotes environmentally responsible,
socially beneficial and economically viable
management of the world’s forests.
For Deb, who always thinks the best of everyone
Three things are all over my feed on the first day of school:
the skate park’s being shut down, Mr Showalter is losing his
nut, and the new girl is a feral skank.
Teo saw Mr S talking to himself at the IGA. Lozzie’s avatar is
a dancing tulip.
Showalter = do not care. I’m barely awake. Lying in bed
moving my thumbs is all I can manage. New girl – how you
know?
Deep Throat sources, Sprog types.
Cam sends an eye-roll. Means he has no idea.
Sprog sends a pic of his middle finger.
Loz clears the air. Homegroup homies say Newgirl = Eden
commune feral.
That’s when I notice the time. I’ve got to move or I’m
gonna be late.
I bail out into the kitchen, look around. Dad’ll be in the
garden, but Mum’s not here – unusual. I go for a hunt, only
make it halfway to the back verandah.
‘Bo, is that you?’

1
 I follow her voice left, walk down the hall and stand in the
doorway. ‘You all right?’
Mum’s sitting on top of the doona in her PJs, shoulders
propped up on pillows, waving me in. ‘Come over here, big
fella.’
I sit gingerly on the edge of the bed, trying not to dip the
mattress. Mum’s real round now, and she rolls easy. Her belly
juts forwards like the prow of a ship, and her long black hair
streams out behind her. I still can’t get my brain wrapped
around the idea that I’m gonna have another sibling. Mum’s
due in April, which doesn’t seem that far away anymore.
‘First day back,’ she says.
‘First day, same old stuff. Whatcha doing in bed?’
‘I didn’t sleep that well.’ She stretches, puts a hand on
her back. ‘Thought I’d get a lie-in before making you kids
breakfast, but …’
‘Too late now. I’ve got to go in ten minutes. You need
anything?’
‘I’m good. Only I need to go to the loo again, as usual.
Help me up?’ She slings her feet over the edge of the bed,
and we laugh a little as I lever her up. Once she’s standing,
she winces and puts a hand under her belly. ‘Right. Now I
really need to go to the loo.’ She pushes at me. ‘Get ready.
Don’t forget to take a water bottle. And don’t eat all the
bread.’
Mum shuffles off to the bathroom. I race between the
laundry pile, my bedroom, the kitchen. No time to cook a
decent breakfast. I’m shovelling bread and jam into my mouth
and my books into my backpack when Dad and Connor walk
in from different directions.

2
 Connor dumps his bag near the kitchen island, tries to
grab the bread. ‘Dude, it’s so lame we have to go to school
again.’
I snag another slice before I hand it over. ‘Du-ude, you
sound like you’ve been watching too much Regular Show.’
‘Boys, don’t eat all the bread.’ Dad swats Connor. ‘And
keep your mouth sweet about school. I pity your teachers
more than I pity you. Where’s Mum?’ He scans around the
kitchen, before his eyes settle on me.
I speak through my mouthful of bread. ‘Barp’oom. Gotta
go.’
He stills me with a hand on my shoulder. ‘Work hard.
I know it’s only the first day back, but show them you’re keen.
If you want to make it big on the field, you need discipline.
That starts at school. And when you get home, I’ll need you
to help me pull some concrete mix outta the ute before you
go to footy training.’
I groan.
‘No groaning. Is Mum okay?’
I swallow my mouthful. ‘She said she’s tired.’
He nods at me, and I nod back. We’re almost eye to eye
now – I did a bit more growing over the summer holidays. Me
and Dad will probably end up the same height. We’ve got the
same eye colour, the same build, the same hair. My skin’s not
as dark – I got a mix of Dad’s tan and Mum’s paleness – but
me and Dad are similar in almost every other way.
Dad gives my shoulder a squeeze. An understanding has
passed between us – take care of Mum.
I’m cool with that. Dad and me share the load around here.
Dad’s the sun my planet orbits around. He’s strict, intense,

3
subject to random flare-ups – like firestorms on an actual
sun – and fast on his feet. He’d still do okay on the footy
ground, even though he gave up the game fifteen years ago.
He’s got quicksilver under his skin, in his blood and bones.
I like to believe I’m just like him.

‘Right,’ Mr Showalter shouts, ‘everyone please shut up.’

We all smirk at each other as the fans spin in wobbly
circles overhead. Mr Showalter was on leave – stress leave,
I’d heard – last year, and if this is his classroom management
strategy on day one of the new term, he’s toast.
Sprog grabs me at the bell. ‘What’s this shit about the
skate park closing soon?’
I shrug. ‘Mate, the council’s been wanting to shut down
the skate park for ages. Dad reckons it got pushed along cos
those guys got busted dealing there.’
‘We’re fucked, then.’ Sprog looks depressed. He hangs
at the skate park a lot, when he’s not hanging with me or
checking out chicks on Gough Street.
‘Don’t lose hope.’ I clap him on the shoulder, hoist my
backpack. ‘What’s next?’
He scans the timetable. ‘English. Great. Another year of
listening to Smallie rave on.’
‘And watching him scope out Kaylah’s legs.’
‘I do a bit of that meself,’ Sprog admits.
We get out of Room 323, hit the corridor. Lamistead
Secondary is the only high school in the district – kids are
bussed in from outlying farms. People are spread thinner
out in the farming areas, though, which means there’s only

4
three classes of Year Eleven. There’s enough of a population
mix to provide some variety, but the town kids – including
me, although I don’t live right in town – make up the
majority. First day back is like a cattle stampede. I exchange
nods with Joel Harvey across the hall while walking against
the crush. Junior kids give ground, but you’ve still gotta
push. There’s a year to go before we acquire Year Twelve
Rock God status. Sprog already carries himself like he
thinks he’s a Rock God.
Second period has started and everyone has found
appropriate seats, according to the current pecking order.
Our English teacher, Mr Small, is stacking paper on his
desk – probably in an attempt to make himself look more
efficient at the beginning of the lesson. The usual hum of
conversation quiets when this chick walks in.
She has frizzy, dirty-gold hair, kept back from her face with
a band of tie-dyed scarf. The fringed ends of the scarf tangle
with the straps of the overalls she’s wearing over a white
singlet. Who wears overalls to school? Strappy sandals on her
feet, no make-up. A nose-stud. A canvas knapsack instead of
a backpack. Yep, she looks feral.
I can see straight away she’s out of her depth – the weight
of books in her knapsack, the map of the school in her hand.
She waves her hall slip at Mr Small. She has an honest-to-god
flower in her hair. ‘Um, hi. I have a note from Mrs Wagner at
the office …’
Mr Small breaks out his cheesiest smile. ‘Ah – my new
student. Welcome. It’s Aurora Wild, isn’t it?’
‘Just Rory is fine.’ Her voice echoes in the space left by the
conversational buzz.

5
 ‘All right, Rory.’ The smile again, god. Mr Small waves a
magnanimous hand towards the rest of us. ‘Well, we have free
seating in this class, so find a pew anywhere you like.’
He thinks he sounds cool when he says that. Find a pew –
wow, what a cool guy. I roll my eyes.
The girl nods. ‘Thanks, Doug.’
I hear an almost audible ping as fifteen other students
suddenly register what New Girl said. She seems oblivious as
she heads for a free desk near the front.
‘Doug’ lifts a finger to grab her attention. ‘Aurora? It’s Mr
Small in class.’
New Girl pauses. ‘Oh, right. Sorry.’
Yeah, thanks for that, Smallie. Making sure we all
understand the rank-and-file system here, good to know.
Mr Small’s roving eye seems to be exempt from the ‘you,
student – me, teacher’ rule, but New Girl doesn’t get that yet.
I wonder if he’d still let her call him Doug outside of class.
Small’s a dickhead and a sleaze, and he basically destroyed my
enjoyment of this subject last year, which was a shame, cos
I liked English in my first three years with Mrs Vernon.
Mr Small claps his hands together as he sits on the
corner of his desk, in the accepted ‘groovy teacher’ fashion.
‘Welcome back from holidays, everyone. Now, we have a few
books on our reading list this term, and I thought we’d ease in
with some short stories. Has anyone read Island yet?’
New Girl raises her hand. I nearly groan aloud. Ohmigod,
why? Why would you poke your hand up first thing in a new
class at a new school?
Mr Small looks around the room. ‘Yes, Rory?’
‘I’ve read it,’ she says.

6
 Good for you, sister. I want to bang my head against the
table.
‘Well, that’s great,’ Mr Small says. ‘That’s a good start to
the term’s—’
‘I’ve read all of them.’
Mr Small squints. ‘Pardon?’
Kaylah stops bouncing her tanned leg on her tanned knee.
Shandy gives New Girl the dead-fish glare from the other
side of the aisle.
But New Girl doesn’t seem to notice the looks she’s
getting. ‘The books you set. Wuthering Heights, The White
Tiger … Maus was my favourite.’
Maus was listed for fourth term. Which means, if I’m
hearing this right, she’s hoovered up a whole year’s worth
of English novels before February’s even started. First the
overalls and general feralness, now this. She’s a try-hard,
mouthy participator. Awesome.
This chick’s gonna fit in just great at Lamistead.

7
After breakfast on Tuesday, I have to help load the post-hole
digger into the trailer hooked up to the ute. The post-holer is
a solid piece that Dad inherited from his mentor, Harry Krane.
I remember Harry as an old guy with gnarly fingers who
used to rub my head with his knuckles when I was six. Harry
was a man from the local mob, living on his own country, sure
and proud of his identity; Dad was dumped at a Queensland
hospital as a baby, grew up in institutions, and still has no
idea of his heritage. They couldn’t have been more different
if they’d tried. Dad says he owed Harry a debt he couldn’t
ever repay, and that’s why he was happy to buy the business
when Harry retired. Now Dad’s got business cards – Mitchell’s
EarthMoving – stuck up in the windows of all the shops in town.
Some people collect teapots, or paint kit aeroplanes,
or obsess over cars; my father gets a hard-on for digging
equipment. Mum’s always joking that if they ever got divorced,
he’d marry the bobcat in the shed. But Harry’s post-holer is
one heavy son of a bitch. By the time we get it sorted, I’m
running late for the school run.

8
 I end up meeting Aurora Wild for the first time on the
same day I get my first ever detention.
We meet over a broken bike chain, which is not a first.
I mean, I’ve fixed broken bike chains. Not this one, though.
‘It’s rooted.’ I squat in the dust on the side of Fogarty’s
Hill Road, where the eucalypts are too far back to give proper
shade. School is in the opposite direction to town from our
place, and all the roads in are lined with bush.
Aurora spills off her haunches and onto her knees. ‘I was
hoping you weren’t going to say that.’
‘I’m real sorry, hey. But see that link there?’ I point. ‘It’s
come apart in the centre and jammed in your gears.’
I’m still trying to figure out why I stopped for her.
Powering my way to school, I saw a flash of gold hair,
movement: Aurora Wild was kicking her bike by the roadside.
I did a screechy to stop, telling myself I felt bad for the bike.
She squints. ‘If we had a screwdriver, couldn’t we pop out
the bad link and click the chain back together?’
‘You got a screwdriver?’
‘A pocketknife.’ She digs around in her knapsack.
Naturally, Aurora Wild carries a pocketknife. I don’t
know why I’m surprised. New Girl needs some serious
enlightenment.
‘Um, did you know you can get in the shit for carrying a
knife at school?’
‘Really?’ She pauses. ‘Even just a pocketknife?’
Dad always says the opposite of a poker face is a gin
rummy face. I don’t know what the hell he means, but
I think Aurora Wild might have one. ‘Yep, if you get busted,
it’s a suspension.’

9
 She pulls out the knife. ‘They’d really suspend me for
carrying this?’
The knife is an antique Swiss Army number, with obsolete
attachments – a tiny file, a Bakelite toothpick. I have to admit,
it doesn’t look like a weapon of mass destruction.
‘Fair enough.’ I turn my attention to the task at hand. ‘Nah,
still can’t do it. I got skillz, but I’m not MacGyver. You need
someone with proper tools to have a look at it.’
What it needs is a whole new chain. She’s sailing a real old
ship here. The bike is fuzzy with rust; cobwebs dangle under
the seat and in the spokes. Chances are high it needs more
than the chain replaced, it hasn’t been used in so long.
‘Crap.’ Aurora slumps in the dust. Thin metal bangles – so
many bangles – chime together on her wrist as she flaps at a fly
near her cheek. ‘Okay, thanks for stopping, but I’ve held you
up. You should go. You’ll get in trouble with Mrs Franklin if
you’re late to homegroup, won’t you?’
I stand up and clap my palms against my legs to brush off
the grime. We’re about five kay from school, so more than
halfway, but the hill ahead is a total bastard – we’re sitting
in the gulley about halfway along Fogarty’s Hill Road, and
they call it Fogarty’s Hill for a reason. If I really churn it hard
I could probably make it right on bell time.
I don’t wanna abandon New Girl, though.
A constant refrain of Dad’s comes back to me: Don’t be a
dickhead, help your brother out. He usually says it about two
seconds after Connor starts whinging, but all the same, it
pulls me up. My little brother can be a pain in the arse, but
he’s still a human being. Everybody needs a hand sometimes.
I yank out my phone and try to call the office to report

10
that we’re going to be late. No reception – that’s right, we’re
in the gulley. Aurora watches me tuck the phone away.
‘It’s all good.’ I lean down and pull on the handlebars of her
bike until we’ve got the old ship standing. ‘If we can get this
thing in to school, Mr Fennelli will fix it for nothing.’
She clambers up. ‘I can wheel it myself.’
I shake my head. ‘Your back tyre’s gonna drag with a stuck
chain. It’s a long way. I’ll carry it, you wheel mine.’
I heft the bike up and lay the crossbar on my shoulder.
I was right, the bike’s old – it weighs a fucking ton.
‘We’ll take it in turns,’ Aurora says quickly.
I must’ve winced. I try to shove the bike higher. ‘Uh, yeah,
okay.’
Aurora wheels my bike and I lug the Titanic on my
shoulder. Sandy dirt crunches under my boots, flies make
suicidal circles. The heat of the day is bleeding out of my skin,
and it’s only eight-thirty.
‘Thank you,’ Aurora says. ‘For stopping.’
I’d shrug, but my shoulders are occupied. ‘No worries. It’s
crap, being stranded. I got stuck last year. Blew a tyre halfway
to school, no patch kit. Had to carry the bloody bike the rest
of the way, like this, then hunt around all day getting it fixed
for the ride home.’
She grins in sympathy. Her frizz of hair is what I imagine
a spume of expensive champagne might look like. It turns
to darker, thicker ringlets where it meets the perspiration
at the base of her neck. Her face is incredibly freckled, and
shadowed with dirt; Mum would be tutting, and pushing her
towards a hot shower. The bridge of her nose is sunburnt, but
the tiny jewel on the side flashes green in the light.

11
 She’s got some kind of knitted headband keeping her hair
back today, and she’s wearing the overalls again with a grey
tank top. Her pale shoulders are exposed – she’ll be red as a
smacked bum by the end of this arvo, but by the look of her
nose, maybe she’s used to it?
‘So … who’s MacGyver?’ Her hands, on the handlebars of
my bike, are strong, callused, with a confident grip. Hard-
working hands.
‘Sorry?’ I realise I’ve been checking her out, force myself
to stop. Concentrate on trudging up Fogarty’s Hill.
‘I don’t get the MacGyver thing.’
‘Ah.’ I laugh, and the metal of the bike frame scratches
against my neck. ‘MacGyver is this guy from a TV show. He
can fix or build anything from whatever he’s got. Like, give him
a piece of tin foil and a bottle cap, and he’ll make you a radio.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Yep. Every episode, he outwits bad guys with his
ex-military fix-it skills. My dad thinks he’s God.’ It’s hard to
keep a straight face while explaining MacGyver. ‘I’ve tried
to explain that he’s fictional, but I don’t think Dad cares. He
just likes to believe there’s another guy running around in the
world with spark plugs and wire in his pockets.’ I glance at
her. ‘You don’t watch TV?’
‘Nope.’ She shakes her head over the handlebars. ‘No TV.’
‘Really? How do you … y’know … live?’
She laughs. ‘I get by.’
According to the local rumour mill, most commune folk
get their education in-house. I turn my head forwards and
watch my footing as I ask the next obvious question. ‘How
long were you homeschooled?’

12
 ‘Nine years.’ She straightens her arms to keep my bike
ahead of her as we climb the hill. ‘From when I was about
seven.’ She notices my expression and smiles. ‘Can’t quite
imagine it?’
‘Um, not really.’ Sweat is trickling an itchy line down my
nape, and I hope I don’t look too horrified. Wouldn’t it be
boring? Wouldn’t you get lonely? Wouldn’t being taught by
your parents every day drive you fucking crazy? She looks
away as she changes the subject. ‘Your bike is great.’
‘It was my dad’s. It’s an early model Cannondale. They
don’t make them like this anymore, and Dad took care of his,
so he’s always on my case to look after it.’
‘My bike is awful.’ She’s matter-of-fact about it. ‘Here,
come on, we should swap.’
Aurora engages the kickstand on my bike, pushes her
knapsack off her hip and slides it around behind her, holds out
her hands. The Titanic drops off my shoulder with a thump,
and as she hefts it onto her own, I notice she’s got armpit hair.
Woah. I don’t know any girls who don’t shave their armpits –
or their legs, for that matter. Me and Sprog have joked that
depilation seems to be a serious business among the chicks at
Lamistead.
She grunts with the weight of the bike, and I can’t help
grinning. ‘Don’t know what you’re complaining about. That’s
a real gem you’ve got there.’
She snorts, then steadies the weight. ‘Oh, yeah, it’s great.
I borrowed it from Sally, my neighbour. I wasn’t sure how
long I’d need a bike for, so I kind of begged around.’
I grab my bike and we restart the trek. Then her words
sink in.

13
 ‘Are you gonna start getting a lift?’ The bus doesn’t run
this route; I can attest to that myself. Maybe her parents are
worried about her riding on the road and they’re gonna drive
her.
‘What? No.’ She laughs briefly as she trudges along. ‘I’m
not sure how long I’ll last at school. Whether I’ll like it
enough to stay. My dad didn’t want me to enrol. He’s always
going on about the factory model of education and how it
destroys creative thought.’ She blushes, kinks her neck against
the bike frame.
‘So you had to fight to be allowed to go to school?’
‘Yep.’
I laugh. ‘Man, that’s flipped. Most kids would be fighting
their parents to stay home.’
She seems surprised by the idea. ‘I never thought of it like
that.’
Now I’m thinking about it. She’s never been to school
before, so she probably didn’t get the memo about compulsory
classroom apathy. And she’s gonna struggle with the social
stuff, for sure. I wonder whether I should clue her in. If she
thinks she’s gonna magically break into friendship cliques
that have been going since playgroup, she’s about to be sorely
disappointed.
‘So do you have any mates at school yet?’
‘No. But it’s only the first week.’ She smiles at me. ‘And
I just met you.’
‘Yeah, you did.’ My return smile is neutral. ‘So when’d you
move here? To the district, I mean.’
She wriggles the Titanic on her shoulder, keeps a hand on
the frame so it doesn’t swing. ‘I guess it’s been … five years?’

14
 I pull up short. ‘But I’ve never met you. I’ve never even
seen you.’ I take a couple of quick steps to catch up. I need to
see her face so I can tell if she’s bullshitting me.
‘Oh, well …’ She’s puffing on the final rise to the crest. ‘We
don’t get into town much. I went yesterday, for school. And
to the library three weeks ago, to get books and stuff. And last
year, for the Growers Market festival.’
She sounds almost proud about that. But the Market
festival was … last March. Is this chick for real? Suddenly it’s
like I’ve got the whole picture, and it’s the weirdest picture
I’ve ever seen.
I shake my head. I could ride back past my place all the
way to Lamistead in under thirty minutes from here. ‘I’m
having a hard time understanding how you could live so close
to town and be so cut off. It seems kinda extreme.’
‘Garden of Eden is an intentional eco-village that practises
rewilding and radical zero-impact lifestyle as a sustainable
alternative to the domesticated, techno-capitalist worldview.’
She’s obviously reciting. But then her voice becomes more
normal. ‘We’re off the grid. No plastic, no appliances – and
no TV. Permaculture food production, DIY building, low
carbon … you name it, that’s us. It’s about reducing our
ecological footprint to an absolute minimum.’
‘That’s …’ I search around for a complimentary term.
‘… pretty hardcore.’
‘I guess.’ She pushes her hair back, bangles chiming.
‘Anyway, that’s why I’ve never gone to school here. But
I wanted to see what it was like. See if I could make it work.’
We’ve reached the top of Fogarty’s Hill. As I look down
over the slope, I realise what I’m feeling: it’s wonder. Like

15
I’ve discovered a new species, or some exotic kind of flower
previously unknown to science. This girl is something else,
something I don’t think I’ve ever imagined existed. She isn’t
just a new student. She lives in a commune, completely off
the radar. She only ever goes into town – town! That’s, like,
only twenty kay away! – about once a year. And now she’s … 
Shit – she’s at Lamistead Secondary.
I know what people there can be like; I know what that’s
going to mean for her. The students of Lamistead won’t
exactly throw out the welcome mat. I can already imagine
Shandy and Kaylah circling at school, plotting their attack.
But Aurora’s put effort into this – the school books, the
crappy bike, the long ride, the battle to be allowed to enrol.
She’s giving it a shot, when she could have opted out. She
definitely gets credit for having a pair.
We’ve both stilled at the crest, panting for breath. I wave
my hand at her load. ‘Gimme that back.’
She slides the Titanic down with a grunt. ‘God, that’s heavy.’
‘Only three more kay to school and it’s all flat. Piece of
piss.’
‘Thanks.’ She wipes her neck with one hand, looks grateful.
I pass her my bike. ‘You should stick with school. People
in class are tight, but they’ll get used to you.’
‘I’d like to stay,’ she admits.
‘Then stay.’ I grin as I manhandle her bike back onto my
shoulder. ‘Stay at school, Aurora. Hang with the rest of us
factory models.’
She smiles and turns to face the road. ‘All right. I’ll stay,
because Bo Mitchell thinks it’s a good idea. And it’s Rory, by
the way. Only my dad calls me Aurora.’

16