Mum swanned into the room like an exotic butterfly, half her face hidden behind large black sunglasses and her expensive silk kaftan billowing in her wake.

‘Skiing in Aspen is confirmed! We leave on Boxing Day,’ she called out before seeing me sprawled on the couch. She gasped and clutched dramatically at her heart. ‘Don’t sneak up on me like that, darling.’

I sat up and grinned.

‘Oh, Aspen’s not for you,’ she quickly added, pouting her lips. ‘It’s strictly adults only. You understand.’

The grin melted from my face.

‘Oh don’t act like that. Your father and I are sending you somewhere special, at great expense, I might add.’ She patted my arm.

‘If I came to Aspen, I could be extremely quiet. You wouldn’t even know I was there,’ I said, pushing my bottom lip out.

‘No, no, no. You’d skulk around, and people would feel obliged to engage with you out of politeness. You know, not all adults find kids interesting. When you’re older you can come along to these things, okay?’

I must have looked upset – how very uninteresting of me – because Mum sat down beside me and took off her sunglasses. Every room in our house features at least one floor-to-ceiling window and because most of the furnishings are a crisp white, the result is blinding. She hastily put her sunglasses back on. ‘It would be so dull for you. There won’t be any other children, only boring oldgrown-ups—’

‘Drinking expensive champagne and hobnobbing with the elite of Hollywood stars,’ Dad called out from his adjoining office. Mum squealed and then snorted a little.

‘Henry, do you have that brochure?’ Mum shouted, getting back to her feet. ‘Bring it so I can show Branson.’

Dad appeared, brochure in hand. He came over and shook my hand, like we were business associates.

‘Hello, son,’ he said.

‘Dad, I’m a good skier now. I’ll be able to keep up, I promise,’ I said.

‘I wouldn’t hear of it. While we’re having a boring old time in Colorado, you, my dear boy, will be living a life of luxury in Far North Queensland.’

He dropped the brochure into my lap and I only casually glanced at it.

‘I hate holiday camps. I really don’t mind being on my own—’

‘Jungle Escape is no holiday camp,’ he said. ‘It’s an exclusive retreat and spa for young people. I only wish I’d had an opportunity like this when I was young. Look at it, won’t you?’

I sighed and picked the brochure up. There were pictures of ferns and a pool. It mentioned an exclusive summer camp program with cuisine, interior decoration and business skills classes. That was my parent’s idea of a fun summer, not mine.

‘The Daintree Rainforest is divine,’ Mum chimed in. ‘You’ll love it. You might even make a friend – wouldn’t that be something?!’

It was clear that my parents had made up their minds.

‘May I be dismissed?’ I asked. Both Mum and Dad nodded.

‘But get yourself ready for the party and make an effort tonight to socialise,’ Mum said.

I’d purposely forgotten about the Christmas Eve party they were hosting. It had become a tradition.

An annual nightmare.

I walked, calmly as I could, to the door and then, once out of view, I ran to my bedroom and threw myself on the bed.

I was going to be an orphan during the school holidays. Again.

I screamed into my pillow for a good couple of minutes. I don’t know why they bothered having a child – my very existence was nothing but a nuisance to them. The worst thing was how awkward they were around me, as though instead of being a child, I was a different species or something. They’d either bypassed or repressed their own childhoods and had no understanding of what it was like to be young.

Exhausted, I flipped over onto my back. I hated my room. Mum and Dad had some famous interior designer work on it and I hadn’t been consulted at all. There was minimal furniture and all my clutter had to be contained in this large ash cupboard, where the shelves were crammed with the latest gadgets and gold-plated snow globes from the places my parents had been without me.

I imagined bringing that cupboard crashing to the ground and smashing everything into little pieces.

Dad would be appalled.

‘This hot-headed approach of crying and screaming is for cave men,’ Dad once told me when I was a toddler, after I’d just recovered from a significant tantrum. ‘No one acts rationally when they’re full of anger. No, the best way to express yourself is through a sternly worded letter to the manager!’

Dad was the king of writing complaint letters, often writing up to ten each week – he said people deserved to know when they had displeased him.

I snatched up my writing pad and fancy pen.

Dear Mr and Mrs Hawthorne,

It has recently come to my attention that you have decided to spend these holidays away from your only son, me. Perhaps it has slipped your mind that you have a son, perhaps you weren’t aware that it is the duty of parents to spend time with their children, particularly during the holiday season. I will certainly be nominating you for the Worst Parents of the Year Award and wish you every success in that competition. I hope you break your legs on the skiing field and that you have to spend the entire trip stuck in an avalanche.

Yours sincerely,
Branson
(your son, in case the name doesn’t ring any bells)

I finished scribbling then re-read the letter. Of course, I would never actually give it to them. Even if I did, I’m sure they wouldn’t read it. They’d never consider something I’d written interesting enough to read. I scrunched the letter up into a ball and threw it at the bin. It missed and landed among other scrunched up balls of similar content. I wished, not for the first time, that I was a kid in one of my favourite books. Those kids were brave and strong-willed and even if they were scrawny and burdened with a family like mine, it didn’t matter because they’d soon discover they had hidden magic talents and were destined to save the
world …

With a deep sigh, I got up and started cleaning the rubbish from the floor. In doing so, I stubbed my toe on a hardcover book. I was in the process of drafting a sternly worded letter of complaint to the offending book when I noticed the title.

A Beginners Guide to Magic.

Maybe I did have magical talents after all …

Soon there would be hundreds of people in our house and I would have an opportunity to show my parents and everyone they knew just how interesting I really was.

I would introduce them to Branson the Brilliant!

I wouldn’t skulk around the party.

I would be the life of the party!

‘Oh you simply must bring Branson with you to Aspen,’ they would say. ‘He’s an absolute delight.’

I picked up the magic tutorial book and began to read.