Making Friends With Monsters

By Sandra L Rostirolla

"Why does everything have to be so complicated? Why? Monsters! That's why! They stick their scungy little noses into everything!"

In this gripping tale, twelve-year-old Sam's innocent quest to help his troubled older brother, quickly spirals into a battle with his own inner monster. After a life-altering accident awakens Sam's beast, his once well-intentioned actions wreak havoc on his relationships, including with the girl he loves.

When he uncovers the family secret that triggered his brother's downward spiral, Sam realizes someone else also has a monster and the hideous beast did something really bad. With his world spiraling out of control, Sam struggles to find balance and along the way discovers hidden strengths and the power of compassion.

In this thrilling book, the stakes are high as Sam confront the truth about himself and those around him. Full of heart-pounding suspense and emotional depth, "Making Friends With Monsters" is a powerful story of self-discovery, resilience, and the transformative power of friendship. Readers of all ages will be captivated by Sam's harrowing journey as he grapples with the complexities of life and finds the courage to confront the monstrous shadows that haunt us all.

Themes include: Suicidal ideas, death of a family member, animal death, family dysfunction, and severe bodily trauma.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pinkus Books
• Release date: Apr 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9780999189191

Sandra L Rostirolla

Insightfully penned, with a plot that sizzles, Sandra L. Rostirolla’s CECILIA has earned the Literary Classics Seal of Approval. Born in Sydney, Australia, Sandra came to America on a professional work Visa, only to find herself studying theater and dance in Chicago. After moving to Los Angeles, she put aside her Bachelor of Applied Science and MBA to study film & entertainment at UCLA. Her talents as a lyricist led her to her now husband, composer Kurt Oldman, who co-wrote and produced her CD, THYME. Realizing that writing, rather than singing, was her passion, Sandra began writing screenplays, making the top 200 of Page International Screenwriting Competition, quarterfinals of the ASA Screenwriting Competition, and top fifteen percent of the Nicholl Fellowship. She wrote and directed the short animation, The Adventures of Gilbert the Goofball, which was runner-up for Best Animation at the Action on Film Festival, and her short story, Lucky Quarter, was a finalist for the Rick DeMarinis Short Story Award. Selected to participate in the Australians in Film Writers Room, Sandra work-shopped the screenplay version of her novel, Cecilia. She remains active with the core Alumni group, which meets monthly to review and critique each other’s work. Sandra presently works for a film production company, which recently released the Josh Hartnett starring film “6 Below: Miracle on the Mountain.” When she’s not imagining fantastical stories grounded by rules and reasoning, she’s usually renovating something around the house, sneaking away with her husband for a last minute ski-trip, or dealing with the unruly strays that seem to enjoy terrorizing her three cats.

Book preview

ONE

The moment Dad picks up the phone, a sickening feeling races through my stomach, like I know something bad is going to happen. Kind of like in a scary movie, when someone does something they shouldn’t do, and that wrong decision sets off a chain of events that may seem unrelated, but really they’re connected by a Monster that’s hiding in the dark, slowly scratching at the wall, waiting to attack.

We have a Monster. I can feel it gnawing away at my family. I don’t think Dad knows about the Monster. If he did, he wouldn’t be making this call. He would’ve taken Lambert out the back and shot him. Made Abby understand this is a working farm, not a playground for little girls and their lambs. Lambert shouldn’t even have a name. He’s livestock. Not a pet.

In normal times, Dad’s call would be fine. A lamb gets sick; you call the vet. But these aren’t normal times. Did I mention the Monster? It’s been growing stronger these past few months. I’m pretty sure the drought has something to do with it. Monsters seem to feed off stressful times. And with the stress in our house teetering on explosive, the smallest thing—like helping a sick lamb—is certain to set it off.

I probably should try to stop Dad, but it’s too late now. He’s hung up the phone. The wrong decision has been made. The chain of events has started. I’m not sure how this will end. I just know it’s not going to be good.

TWO

The dust trailing the vet’s pickup looks like smoke from a dragon. As the plume heads up our driveway, the kookaburras in the gum tree above start cackling. Stupid birds. Their laughter seems to aggravate my older brother, Ben. His eyes narrow as he turns to Dad and mumbles,

A friggen bullet costs less than fifty cents.

Dad, who’s sitting hunched on his favourite log, glances up from under the rim of his Akubra hat at Abby, my little sister. He’s checking to see if she heard Ben’s sour comment, but she seems oblivious as she continues to pet Lambert inside the pen.

Why does Ben have to be so mean? Doesn’t he get how hard this is for Dad?

Maybe not. Ben was away at footy camp the day Dad shot close to a hundred of our sick and dying sheep. When I got home from school, I heard Dad sobbing in the shed. I’d never heard him cry before. Not knowing what to do, I just stood there, listening for a bit, then left him alone. Maybe I should’ve gone in and comforted him? I don’t know. I hug Mum all the time. Hugs don’t seem to be Dad’s thing.

The vet’s pickup pulls to a gravelly stop. As Mr Blackmore steps out, Mum hands him a fresh-made iced tea. She’s good like that. He takes a long sip, then follows Dad to Lambert’s pen. From where I am, dangling inside our tyre swing, I imagine Dad whispers to Abby something like Go play with Sam so Mr Blackmore can look at Lambert because she runs over and climbs to the top of the tyre.

Ben, come push us, she says.

Damn it, Abby. The last thing I need is Ben’s attention drawn my way. From the scowl on his face, I already know what he’s going to say.

I told you to keep out of my stuff.

He’s PO’d because he still thinks the red and green South Sydney Rabbitohs jersey I’m wearing is his.

It’s not yours anymore, silly beans, Abby tells him. You put it in the Vinnie’s bin.

A few months back, Mum made us clean out our wardrobes and put our old stuff in a box for St Vincent De Paul. The moment Ben tossed his jersey inside, he ditched ownership.

You should stop wearing it, Abby says to me.

Why? It’s mine now.

Because it makes Ben mad and you look like a dag because it’s too big.

I don’t care how I look. I don’t wear Ben’s jersey to look cool. I wear it because, well, I used to wear his stuff because I wanted to be him. Who wouldn’t? He’s a sports hero who has a ton of mates and the best girlfriend. Now, I wear his jersey because it’s the only way I know how to feel close to him. He’s changed so much; I don’t know who he is anymore. Mum says it’s just a phase, part of being a teenager. I’m not sure. His friends are all teenagers and they’re still cool towards me. With Ben, I’ve gone from being his best friend to a pain in the you-know-what. And I hate it. I’m sure the five-year age gap doesn’t help. He’s seventeen, I’m twelve. But there’s six years between me and Abs, and we get on fine. Mum is wrong. Ben isn’t going through a phase. Ben has a Monster. I wish he’d stop feeding it, but I don’t think he knows it’s there. I do. I can see it. And I seem to be the only one who can.

Fact #1 about Monsters:

Most people don’t know they exist.

Abby leans back and tugs on the rope. Her way of telling me to push us around with my feet, but I’m too hot and miserable to be bothered. Complaining that I’m no fun, she jumps off and runs back to Dad, who’s leaning on the pen’s wooden fence, watching Mr Blackmore examine Lambert.

Daddy, Lambert’s going to be okay because the doctor has medicine, and I’ll make sure Lambert takes it, even if it tastes yucky because medicines always taste yucky, but I’ll do what Mummy does and—

Mr Blackmore steps over, cutting her yapping short. From the way he scratches the back of his head, I know the news isn’t good. He tells Dad Lambert has a bad case of pneumonia and will need antibiotics and some other meds I’ve never heard of before.

Tom, the lamb’s going to need some looking after. Even with treatment, it’s fifty-fifty. You may want to consider the alternative.

Rolling his eyes at the vet’s beating-around-the-bush, Ben lowers himself to Abby’s height. Abs, you’re big enough to understand. That lamb is sick, and he’s not going to get better.

He’s not ‘that lamb.’ He’s my Lambert.

He’s a bloody farm animal. Ben turns to Dad. I’m gone for two weeks, and I come back to this crap? Why are we wasting Mr Blackmore’s time?

Ben has just finished Year 12 and arrived back last night from partying on the Gold Coast for Schoolies Week. I guess his end of school celebrations were going so well, he turned it into a Schoolies Two-Week.

Ben, please, says Mum.

No. I’m serious. I asked for a couple of hundred bucks to help towards my trip and you said, ‘Things are tight right now.’ I was like, ‘Fine, okay, I get it,’ but then somehow we miraculously seem to have money to spend on some stupid lamb that will end up costing us more than the damn thing’s worth.

Abby slap-punches Ben’s thigh. Lambert’s not stupid. You are.

If you don’t get the gun, I will, he says to Dad.

Abby screams. No! Daddy! Please!

As her tears flow, my stomach folds in on itself. The chaos I knew Ben’s Monster was going to cause has started.

You had one job to do before you went away and you didn’t do it, Dad says to Ben. If you want to hang with your mates, you go right ahead. Your mother and I aren’t offering charity.

Charity? Are you kidding me? You guys ain’t offering jack. He starts dropping f-bombs and spewing hate, telling Dad we wouldn’t be in this shit situation if Dad had planned better.

Who can plan for a six-year drought?

From the way Ben keeps going off, he seems intent on getting a rise out of Dad. When he doesn’t get one, he calls us all eff-ing idiots and storms off. Seconds later, he rips down our driveway on his trail bike, sending an angry ball of dust into the air.

Mum apologises to Mr Blackmore.

Dad pulls his Akubra low.

I slink down into my tyre.

And Abby. Little girls and their damn lambs. How the hell is anyone supposed to separate them? She’s at Lambert’s side, soothing him with cooing noises. It’s easy for me to say Dad should have taken Lambert out the back and shot him, but there’s no way I could do that to Abby. As it turns out, neither can Dad.

Start the medicine, he says to Mr Blackmore.

THREE

Hey! They’re mine, Abby says.

I startle at getting busted. Abby’s got a stack of rainbow coloured Post-it Notes on her desk and I’ve snagged some.

I only took a few, I say.

She eyes my loot as if to figure out if my definition of a few meets hers. Seemingly satisfied, she asks what I’m going to do with them.

Nothing in particular, I tell her. I’m about to start my super-secret research on Monsters, so I can help Ben get rid of his. Since it’s super-secret, I can’t risk saying anything to Abby. She keeps secrets worse than a broken bucket holds water. Besides, I wouldn’t know what to say. How can I tell her about Monsters when I barely know anything myself?

Well, don’t take any more, she says, and trots off.

Sitting at my desk, I grab a pen and write on the first, bright yellow Post-it Note:

Monster Research.

On the following green note, I add:

Fact #1 about Monsters: Most people don’t know they exist.

From the doorway, Mum calls me for lunch.

Coming, I say. I hide my research in an empty Star Wars Lego box, then trot over to her. She looks tired. Maybe drained is a better word. Ben’s Monster will do that. I hug her and tell her in my mind,

Don’t worry, Mum. No matter how bad things get, I’ll never be like Ben. I’ll never let a Monster take hold of me.

---

After lunch, I help Dad around the farm, then search for Abby to see if she wants to do something. Since she’s busy caring for Lambert, I curl up on the couch with my sudoku. Dot Cobble (an old lady Mum looks after) gave me the puzzle book for my birthday. She’d picked it up at Vinnie’s, so it was already pretty beat up, and while some of the puzzle boxes had been filled in, there’s still a tonne left. I’m not bored. Which is good, because this is pretty much how my days go. Being stuck all the way out here, I don’t get to catch up with anyone. Not that being closer to civilisation would change things. Unlike Ben, I’m not a sports hero, so I don’t really have many​…​any friends.

When I’m done with dinner, I haul in our fake Christmas tree from the storage shed. Mum stopped buying a real tree a couple of years back. She says the plastic ones are better for the environment. I think the real ones were getting too expensive, whereas this dodgy thing was free, courtesy of Mrs Cobble. I say dodgy because it’s missing a few branches, leans to the right, and doesn’t smell like Christmas.

Abby is about to place a red bauble when I remind her that we have to wait for Ben to do the lights first. She smiles as I bring up how amazing he’d made her angel look last year. He’d placed the fairy lights in such a way that at night, Abby’s handmade Christmas topper literally glowed. We laugh about how fun it was when Ben pretended that we were trees and hung snowflakes from our ears, and how he chased us around the house with tinsel, telling us it was a python, then wrapping it around us when we were caught.

When the chuckles settle, despair grips my belly. I miss Ben—the old Ben—so much. I’m hoping that the second he sees the tree, he’ll remember the awesome time we had last year and that these happy memories will act like a Monster repellent and drive his beastly creature away.

I’m just going to put this one up, Abby says, and hooks the red bauble to a branch.

As we watch Finding Nemo and wait for Ben, my toes start to wiggle. Any minute now, his trail bike will chug up the driveway. No matter how explosive Ben’s Monster gets, Ben always comes home.

Two hours later, I’m staring at the lonely red ball hanging on our leaning tree. Abby is curled up next to me, asleep; her tiny hands still clutching her toilet-roll angel.

Come on, Sam, Mum says. It’s late. Time for bed.

The weight dragging on my chest is so heavy, I can barely stand. Where’s Ben? He should be home by now?

The next morning, I stop at his room and stare at his still-made bed. He didn’t come home at all? Dad steps up beside me. From his clenched jaw, he seems far from worried.

Right. Looks like it’s just the two of us, he says.

---

Our dam is dry and with no water to irrigate our paddocks, we’re forced to hand-feed our herd, which means loading up our flatbed trailer with bales of hay and driving them out to dozens of hungry mouths. It’s hot and sweaty and the blowflies are miserable, and without Ben, Dad and I have to work twice as hard. On the bright side, at least I don’t have to listen to Ben gripe about how shitty things are.

Today being a Sunday, we break at twelve. Nothing, not even no-show Ben, will stop Dad’s weekly catch-up with the fellas at the pub. He’s there now. I’m in my bedroom playing with my Lego when I hear a trail bike chugging up the driveway. I rush to the window.

Ben’s home!

Because I live in perpetual hope that one day, the brother I once knew will return, I’m excited to see him. He enters the front door and I sag at the scuffing of his boots against the wooden floor. As always, he’s dragging his Monster with him.

Convinced that my Christmas-tree-decorating plan to make Ben happy will still work, I step up to his open bedroom doorway. I’m about to get his attention, but the grunting noises he makes as he flicks through his hanging shirts have me questioning the whole thing. Maybe I should leave and wait until he’s in a better mood? Overruled by the desperation pulsing through my veins, my feet remain glued to the ground. Squeezing my thumb helps boost my bravery.

Hey, Ben. The tree’s up. Do you wanna do the lights?

Mum, he yells, completely ignoring me. Where’s my blue-and-white shirt?

A few seconds later, Mum steps up beside me and calmly reminds Ben that she’s told him repeatedly not to yell throughout the house.

I just need my shirt, Ben says, as he continues rummaging.

It’s in the wash.

Ben swears under his breath.

Mum is usually pretty tolerant of Ben’s Monster, but lately, I think the constant swearing has been getting to her. Her tone sharpens. Where have you been all day? You were supposed to help Sam and—

Ben scoffs. Seriously? You of all people need to get off my case.

You of all people? What the heck does that mean?

The drop of Mum’s head jolts me. I may not know what Ben’s driving at, but Mum certainly seems to.

What’s going on between them?

Ben. Let’s not— As though thinking better of whatever she was going to say, she cuts herself off. What about your red shirt? she asks.

Ben removes a red-checked shirt from the closet and studies it. His face scrunches. It’s not even clean. How can anyone live like this?

He tosses the shirt on the floor and starts going off about how nothing is ever clean in this damn place. To prove his point, he rips another seemingly filthy shirt from its hanger and chucks it to the ground. As shirt after shirt meets the same fate, I inch back against the wall and wish for something—anything—to happen to stop this madness.

The phone rings in the living room.

M-u-u-m, yells Abby. It’s Alice. There’s been an accident at the pub.

My heart stops. And so does Ben’s Monster.

Dad’s at the pub. Is he alright?

FOUR

A crow’s desperate cry echoes in the endless blue sky. Beads of sweat pour down Father Michael’s temple as he reads a passage from the Bible. I stare at a walnut coffin perched above a six-foot hole and a ball of guilt lodges in my throat. When I’d wished for something to stop Ben’s Monster, I didn’t mean this. Mr Nesbit, one of Dad’s good mates, died. His daughter, Becky, is in my class and is the smartest, toughest girl I know. I first saw her back in kindergarten when she and Gregory, a chubby kid who grew up to be the class bully, tried to outdo each other with the two-times tables. Back and forth they went until Becky finally said:

Bet you don’t know what forty-seven times two is.

My spectator eyes grew wide. I had no idea. Neither did Gregory.

Like you know the answer, he said.

Ninety-four, she replied.

Sneering, Gregory told her girls were stupid and skulked off. At that moment, I’m pretty sure I fell in love with Becky. Six years later, I’ve barely uttered a word to her. When it comes to girls, I don’t have Ben’s confidence. Or his dimples. Even if I could muster the courage to talk to her, what would I say at a time like this? She has enough people offering her comfort. Like her girlfriends. She’s surrounded by them now, their collective cheeks blackened with streaks of mascara.

As the coffin lowers into the grave, Abby cuddles me close. Mum told her Mr Nesbit had died of a heart attack. She tried to tell me the same lie, but I told her, It’s okay, Mum. I know what happened.

She burst into tears.

I’m not sure if I’m supposed to know the details of what really happened to Mr Nesbit. I can’t help it if I can hear through our walls when I cup my ears to them. The night after the