Evie Dreams Big (Bored, #3)

By Matt Stanton

Sometimes feeling bored is just the beginning ...

My name is Evie and I'm making plans. Actual plans. I'm going to build my own house. I'm not talking about some silly treehouse either. I'm going to build a real house.

Only it seems everyone else who lives in Turtle Place has an opinion they'd like to share. Frog and Milo want to build something totally different, Mr Santos is grumpy, Mrs Katz is spying on us, my sister is the most annoying person on earth and my parents don't believe in me at all. But I have a plan!

I have big dreams when I'm bored ...

From million-copy bestseller Matt Stanton, author of FUNNY KID and THE ODDS, comes this laugh-out-loud series about the complicated business of being a kid.

PRAISE FOR THE BORED SERIES

'Milo Finds $105 is about friendships and how they can morph and evolve, and ... how first impressions are not always what they seem. The language between the kids is authentic and there is a strong sense of family in the book ... The chapters are short and engaging, which may inspire confidence in reluctant readers. Stanton, author of FUNNY KID and THE ODDS, looks to have produced another winning series' - Books+Publishing

'all the sharp wit, funny dialogue and all round good times that we expect and love from a Matt Stanton experience but oh my heart, it was nostalgic, very clever with all the feels and the perfect book to help kids navigate through the complicated business of being a kid' - Gleebooks

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Apr 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781460714287

Matt Stanton

Matt Stanton is a bestselling children’s author and illustrator who has sold more than one million books worldwide. Matt lives and works in Sydney, Australia, with his wife, bestselling author Beck Stanton, and their children. You can visit him online at mattstanton.net.

Book preview

1

My name is Evie and I’m bored.

No. Actually, it’s much worse than that. I’m going to use the thesaurus on my desk here and try to explain it better.

I am fed up, weary, uninterested, demoralised, burnt out, dispirited, fatigued and limp with boredom.

That was quite good. I’ll try some imagery.

My mind is melting with exhaustion, my cranium is collapsing with frustration and my pupils are peeling with annoyance.

That was even better.

These feelings are being accompanied by a soundtrack.

Imagine two keys next to each other on a piano. Put one finger on each and alternate them like your fingers are marching on the spot. Right, left, right, left. Now take that repeated sound and sing it using the two syllables of my name.

‘Ee-vee. Ee-vee. Ee-vee.’

That’s my sister standing at my door. She sounds like a siren.

‘Ee-vee. Ee-vee.’

Her name is Grace. She’s wearing one of Mum’s bras on her head.

‘Ee-vee.’

She’s eight, and she’s a lot.

‘Ee-vee.’

I’ve been ignoring her quite well for the last eleven minutes and thirty-four seconds, but I’m not sure how much longer I can last. Or how much longer Grace can. She seems very committed, though.

I’ve been doing schoolwork, then I’ve been drawing a page full of pipes, then I’ve been watching the clouds move across the sky outside my window, then I’ve been remembering the schoolwork, and in all that time Grace has never missed a beat.

‘Ee-vee.’

2

Today is Tuesday and we’re all at home because there’s a virus going round at school and we need to make sure my other sister, Charlie, doesn’t catch it. Charlie has cystic fibrosis, so getting a cold can make her pretty sick. Occasionally, if there’s something particularly nasty going round, our whole family does its own little lockdown.

Which is kind of like being put in prison with a mosquito you can’t squash.

‘Ee-vee.’

Each syllable feels like a chopstick being slowly pushed into my earholes.

All right! I surrender.

I take a big breath and swing around on my twizzling desk chair. ‘WHAT?’ I say.

She’s standing there with the bra on her head, arms and legs out in a starfish shape, rocking back and forth like the metronome during my piano lessons.

But none of that is particularly surprising. The surprising thing is that she’s not even looking at me. This whole time I’ve been imagining her eyes shooting laser beams into the back of my head, begging me to turn around and give her the attention she’s clearly desperate for. But actually, no. She’s looking at one of my drawings on the wall. I may as well not even be here!

‘Ee-vee.’

‘What, Grace?’ I say. ‘I’m answering you!’

Her eyes drift towards me and stare. She looks like she’s day-dreaming. There’s no expression on her face. It’s kind of creepy. I think her hypnotic chanting may have put her into some sort of trance.

‘Ee-vee.’

Oh. My. Gosh. How can one person be so annoying? And why do I have to be related to her?

‘Will you go away?’ I ask. ‘Please?’

Grace pauses. Is she blinking? I don’t think she’s even blinking. Is she thinking? That’s a question I’ve been asking for eight years.

Slowly she smiles at me. I smile back, a bit desperately. I think we’re connecting. She opens her mouth.

‘Ee-vee.’

Oh, for—!

3

I leap out of my chair, march over to Grace, put my hand on her arm and push her firmly out of my doorway.

Grace does what any normal person would do in this situation. She tilts her head back and screams like I’ve just pulled out one of her eyelashes.

‘Evie pushed me!’ Grace yells, and grasps her shoulder as if she’s been shot with an arrow. ‘Ouch! My arm!’

‘There’s nothing wrong with your arm,’ I say, and start to close my door.

Grace knows there’s nothing wrong with her, and I know there’s nothing wrong with her, but that doesn’t seem important to her at all. She stumbles back dramatically and crashes into the hallway wall opposite my door. Somewhere there’s a musical theatre group made up of terrible actors and they’re missing their star.

‘I think it’s dislamated!’ Grace yells, clearly hoping that there’s an adult who will hear her and come running.

I roll my eyes. ‘You mean dislocated,’ I say. ‘And it’s not. Go away!’

With that, I close my door. It makes a really wonderful thunk noise, followed by a satisfying click. The doors and walls in my house are definitely not sound-proof, but strangely everything goes quiet now that there’s a door separating us.

I walk back to my desk.

I like my room. I’ve always liked it, especially with the door closed. It’s my creative space. I have my drawings on the walls, the computer Mum and Dad got for me so I can make more pictures, and my window, which looks out over the empty block next door. I can sit at my desk and watch clouds drift across the sky above Rocco’s house and feel like I’m completely alone.

I pick up my headphones and scroll through the playlist on my computer, looking for a song.

That’s when she starts knocking on my door.

Knock, knock, knock.

It’s not just the polite two knocks of someone who would like to come in. Oh, no. She’s doing continuous knocking, over and over and over. It’s echoing around my room, invading my space, drilling into my brain, until—

I yank open the door.

‘What, GRACE?!’ I yell.

Except it’s not Grace. It’s my littlest sister, Charlotte.

4

‘Sorry, Charlie.’ I sigh when I see the startled four-year-old. ‘I thought it was Grace.’

Charlie is super-cute. It’s not just that she’s so little. Her cheeks are still squishy, her eyes are big and wide, and she replaces her R’s with W’s. ‘Cawwot’ is one of my favourite words in the world.

‘E? What are you doing?’ Charlie asks. She also speaks in a sing-song voice, which is much less irritating than Grace’s car-alarm impersonation. I love Charlie, and Charlie loves me. She’s had to deal with a lot for such a little kid. It’s not fair, but she still finds heaps of reasons to smile, which makes us all smile too.

‘Just school stuff.’ I shrug. ‘That’s what I’m trying to do, at least, but Grace is annoying me.’

I say that last bit extra-loud because I know Grace is somewhere nearby, listening.

‘Oh,’ Charlie says with a big sigh. She looks down at her toes. ‘Gwace is dead.’

‘No, she’s not,’ I say.

‘Gwace said she dead,’ Charlie says, as though she’s telling me very disappointing news. ‘She said you pushed her and she died.’

‘Ugh, Grace!’ I look out my door and down the hall. Sure enough, there’s Grace. For some reason, she’s decided to lie face-down on the floor, still with Mum’s bra on her head. ‘Don’t say that to Charlie!’

My littlest sister looks up at me with her wide blue eyes. ‘Is she dead?’

‘No, Charlie,’ I say, putting a hand on