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The school bell rings as I jam my tyre into the bike rack under the droopy oak tree. I prefer to arrive on or just after the bell to avoid unnecessary waiting in gossipy corridors. The school bus stops out front, and streams of uniforms walk the steps into the grey brick administration building. With our uniforms all the same, unless someone looks close enough, I blend in.
Holes dot the undersides of my shoes. Luckily, this is my last year of school, because next year my shorts will be well above my knees, my shirt a crop top. In this school, anything sideways of average and you’re the weird kid.
I wait by the bike racks for the stream of people to go. I’ve done well to blend in at this place; I’m a nothing. Not the loser who is picked on. No one knows my name or where I come from, and it has to stay that way.
I walk the steps into the admin block and head down the hall towards form meeting. Up ahead, Miss Reed’s door swings open. Bad timing. I speed up. She got me the scholarship into this place, and I owe her, but I can’t deal with her today. She asks too many questions, and it’s hard to maintain lies about Dad’s job status, our address, topics that always come up. I’ve been lying for so long, it’s a complicated, tangled web of deceit, and it’s only a matter of time before she discovers I’m full of it.
“Dylan,” she shouts from up the hall. “We need to catch up.”
Any other teacher, and I’d pretend not to hear. It’s a legit excuse; lockers slam, a group of juniors shout to friends at the opposite end of the corridor. I don’t want to talk to her, especially after another eviction letter. Lying takes energy, and with less than two hours of sleep and nothing to eat, I only have enough energy to muster for art. Art is the only reason I want to be here; the other subjects’ grades allow me to be in Mr Campbell’s honours art programme.
Miss Reed taps me on the shoulder and repeats, “We need to catch up.”
She has black hair today. She wears blue skinny jeans and a black biker jacket, which is misleading because she rides the teeniest, banana-yellow nifty fifty. She and Mr Campbell sometimes ride to school on it together. I don’t know how they are together. As far as school counsellors go, she’s the least irritating I’ve come across. He’s a talented artist, blah in personality.
“You’re not getting out of meeting up, my friend.” She crosses her arms, pretends to be annoyed. She’s not; she does think she’s funny, though.
I smile, hold the shoulder straps of my bag, and hope she doesn’t ask questions that require going through my bag, as there’s nothing but my art book, spray cans and a pen in there. Then I remember I was supposed to meet with her yesterday afternoon to talk about university scholarships, or the lack of, for next year. I loosen the grip around my shoulder straps, relieved she’s not going to interrogate me about Dad and his work.
It’s Saturday tomorrow. A sly grin escapes, but just for a moment. “We could meet tomorrow?”
Miss Reed laughs as she looks down the hall. “I’m not that silly. I’ll check my diary and send you a message. But it’s important; we will catch up.”
Her attention diverts as a red-faced junior meanders our way, wiping her eyes with a wad of toilet paper.
I take my chance to leave as Miss Reed rushes over to the girl.
The downside to not meeting with Miss Reed is no free muffins or a loan of her sweet art books, which probably come from Mr Campbell’s art supply shop in town.
The second bell rings and I edge towards art. Down the corridor, people disappear into their classes. Up ahead, I spot Libby. She removes a biology book from her locker and drops it in her bag. My stomach rolls like when I steal something and know a shop person has watched my every move. I avoid making eye contact; any conversation will give her an opportunity to ask if I know anything about the art on the back of her café, or worse, she’ll tell me she saw me do it.
The hallway crowd thins till I’m directly behind her. I’m shoved from behind as Luka pushes past and swings his arm around Libby’s shoulders.
They’re as corny as their names sound when they’re said together: Luka and Libby. He’s deputy head boy, a bruised ego no doubt, outshone by his head-girl girlfriend. They’re predictably boring, predictably beautiful.
He’s the only guy who wears his school shirt fitted and, to be fair, he’s got visible muscles. If he was green and twisted at the waist, he’d be an acceptable Hulk.
Libby holds the art-room door open. Her strawberry-blonde hair is wound into a bun held together by a coloured pencil jammed through the middle. Ignoring her, I walk into class, and my insides sink as I feel her watching me take my seat in the back corner by the window. I pretend to look through my bag and avoid eye contact as she sits down next to Luka in the front row.
Mr Campbell stands at the front of the class as the last members drip in.
“Learn the art of punctuality, would you!” He turns and writes on the whiteboard, the last teacher on the planet not to use the smartboard. Tan lines peek from under the short sleeves of his blue shirt dotted with waves. He picks up a stack of posters from his desk and dumps the pile in front of Libby. “Hand these out.”
Libby says nothing and begins handing out posters, starting with the front row.
I’m not a fan of Mr Campbell’s condescending tone, or that he thought I faked my art grades to get into his class. According to him, an A in art at my old school was equivalent to his C. If it hadn’t been for Miss Reed, I don’t reckon he would have accepted me in.
Libby begins the next row, handing each person a poster, the coloured pencil in her hair etched with the word Artistry. The girl knows her top-end art brands.
Libby looks at me. I divert my attention to Mr Campbell, who’s writing scholarships and assessments on the whiteboard, his jet-black hair making the stray white strands pop.
“Hey.” Libby stands in front of me and holds out a poster, the same one I saw last night pinned to the back door of her parents’ shop. The words SOFA Scholarship Competition bombed in technicolour, each letter resting on top of a black building, each recognisable from Beachlands city.
“Sweet, thanks.” I take the poster, pretend to read the terms and conditions on the back. My heart is popping like candy.
Libby pulls a folded piece of paper from her pocket – a note – and slides it in front of me.
“Also, for you.” I look up, and for a split second we make eye contact, long enough for me to see her eyes are green, and she has dimples when she smiles ... before I remember that eye contact is not a good idea, and I divert my attention out the window.
Libby moves to the next row.
On the top of the note, Dylan is written in curly handwriting. I didn’t think she knew my name. I slip the letter into my pocket, imagining what could be written or drawn on it, the possibilities etching into my leg like a tattoo – comic-book styles, her saying, I know it was you and a picture of me being carted away by police, while Dad rots alone somewhere. Maybe I’m dramatic? What is it she couldn’t say to my face?
Libby has one person to go when Katie bursts through the art-room door, to be met with a sigh from Mr Campbell and the same Learn the art of punctuality speech. Katie carries a guitar case and takes Libby’s seat at the front, next to Luka.
“Sorry, my music exam went over.” Katie’s the odd mix of perfect adherence to the uniform regulations mixed with black boots and black fingernails.
Libby glances around and slides into the only available seat – right next to me. Like she had any other choice. I inhale a whiff of her perfume ... vanilla, or something else sweet, toxic, but in a good way.
“Katie stole my seat,” she whispers.
I glance at her. “It’s cool.” I rub the palms of my hands on my school shorts. I’ve never realised how much my hands sweat.
She pushes her “used to be blonde but now borders on light pink” hair from her face, the colour totally going against school rules. Freckles dot her nose, and that smile looks harmless, probably fake. The fake goes soul deep with everyone in the group she hangs with.
Mr Campbell huffs something about how the class needs to focus. I try to concentrate on him, not on the few centimetres that separate me from Libby, or that I’m frozen, worried the way I sit is awkward. But I am awkward, and I’m almost angry at Katie for stealing Libby’s seat.
Libby pulls a Chapstick from her pocket and smears it over her lips like there wasn’t enough there already. I try to distract myself with details; the reflection on the lino, the seven different colours of pins stuck to the wall where a picture was. My mind drifts to the note and what’s possibly written on it. Maybe it’s an invite to one of Libby’s lame groups; she’s always trying to recruit people to join, like she thinks she and her friends will have any effect on people not littering, or will be happy to donate food to the starving. But people just aren’t that nice. Although it’s easy to donate money when you have truckloads of cash at your disposal. She’s hard outta luck if it’s money she wants; I have six bucks to my name, and that’s for emergencies. And I come to the conclusion that whatever’s on that note, it’s gonna be irritating.
I snap back to reality when Mr Campbell reads out the terms and conditions for the SOFA scholarship competition. “The most exclusive private art school in the country; the only way to get in is to win your way in or pay their fees,” he says.
And to do that, you’ll need a pot of gold, out of reach even for regular people, let alone the non-regular.
If you want to be somebody in the art world, that school will get you there. It’s not only the best art school in the country, but part of the course involves setting up a business to sell and market your work. I can’t imagine being paid to bomb walls – it would be living the dream, a massively unrealistic, unattainable dream. It’s hard to get into SOFA, even for those who have the money and are semi-talented – they admit only thirty percent of people who apply. A fact Mr Campbell has repeated twice in the space of one minute.
He stands at the front of the class and holds up the poster. “If you’re smart, the portfolio you create to pass my art class could be the portfolio you submit for the SOFA competition. To gain entry into SOFA, you must” – he holds up a finger – “receive an A in art” – the second finger pops up – “ace the portfolio” – his third finger rises – “have a referee write you a glowing referral” – four fingers wiggle – “and attend an interview.”
At least half the class sighs.
I grab my art book from my bag and push my bag shut, so no spray cans escape. Libby’s bag lies open, old-school chemistry and physics textbooks jammed inside. Doesn’t she know you can get stuff online? I place my art book on the table; Bear is bombed on the front.
Mr Campbell continues. “You need ten pieces for the portfolio that fit the theme, ‘art and society’. The winner receives a full scholarship and one year at the halls of residence.”
I’m assuming that doesn’t include those with juvenile police records or a tag-along alcoholic pain in the ass.
Libby leans in, cranes her head to get a better look at the bomb on my cover. “It’s amazing.”
The butterflies return; she’s too close. It’s unnerving. I open the book and flick to a random page in the hope it’s empty and she won’t be reminded of my work. Nope. The page opens on Xavier in fat gold letters across two pages. The more I flick, the worse it gets; her eyes grow large, her gaze never leaving my work. I close the book and turn the cover face down.
“I mean it – the detail in those portraits, crazy detailed for spray work.” Crazy because she now has proof it was me last night? Or crazy, as in she likes my work? Not sure street art is her scene.
Heat floods my face, and I jam my book back into my bag. When I sit up, Libby looks straight at me. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be nosey. What I meant was, your work is clever.” And she smiles. It feels genuine; I shift on my seat. Something about compliments make me uneasy, untrusting, like they can inflate your ego and make you blind, especially if the person is lying. She’s the first to say anything positive about my work. I’m not about to get ahead of myself.
“Thanks.”
Mr Campbell booms from the front, “Would you two stop talking!”
Libby retrieves a notepad from her pencil case. There’s a bee on the front with Bee Kind written in curly handwriting. She flicks through the pages, writes something, rips the paper off, folds it in half, and slides the note in front of me. I can’t look at her. I don’t want another note, I don’t like surprises or unexpected things; they’re never good, and I’ve now got two of those burning a hole in my pocket. I fight the urge to roll my eyes, bashing my mind with what’s written on the stupid things.
I’d read both now, but Mr Campbell stares at us, and he’d read them out in front of the class given a chance – he’s done it before. He directs us to start our portfolios, and Libby leaves to work in the resource room with Katie. My shoulders relax; sweat stops emptying from my hands, and for the first time since I made it into class, I take a breath using the total capacity of my lungs. I’m relieved; at least I can concentrate on art with her gone.
I work on a portrait I’ve been struggling with for ages.
The bell rings. As the class packs up, Mr Campbell yells, “New stock of computers and graphics tablets in my shop, two percent off; we have payment plans available.”
Mr Campbell’s art shop is the lamest, saddest excuse for an art shop. Ever since the SOFA was rebuilt – including a beautiful art supply shop, its outside covered with regularly changing art I’m so envious of – Mr Campbell’s shop has looked like a dreary monotone oil painting.
Ha, payment plans. With prestigious art schools, the gear isn’t optional. I can’t pull off dinner with all the food groups, let alone new tech; but if I could acquire the gear, I’d already have a better shot.
Libby picks up her bag, swings the strap over her shoulder. “Bye, Dylan.”
She beams a luminous smile that I’m not sure is fake or genuine niceness. How do you come back from that?
I muster a “see ya.” By the time the words fall out, Libby is distracted by Luka. He drapes his arm around her shoulders. “Missed ya, let’s go. I need to check on Sam.”
Luka might be head douchebag, but credit has to be given that he stands up for his little brother. I’ve seen him take a punch setting things straight when people call Sam dumb or slow; we agree on one thing – ya always have ya family’s back.
When they’re out of sight, I tug the notes from my pocket and open the first one.
I know it was you last night.
Fuck!
I open the second.
Love your art, Xavier. Will you enter the SOFA comp? Promise I won’t nark; you’ll help with the ball art, aye?
She knows I’m Xavier! It’s like I’ve been turned inside out, raw and exposed, and I can’t flip back to normal. The one thing I never wanted anyone to find out is now known by the most socially busy, get-stuck-in-people’s-business person at school. Who’s she told? She can’t tell anyone.
I look around the empty class, paranoid someone else is here; the walls of the room are closing in. I re-read her note, hoping I’ve misunderstood. The way it’s worded, I can’t tell if the promise I won’t nark bit is an ultimatum, like if I don’t agree to ball art duties, she’ll tell ... who? Or is it not an ultimatum and more a PS hey, side note, thought I’d mention ... kind of thing. Either way, she knows.
And hell no, I’m not doing the ball art. She’s mad-crazy to think my art style would work for the school ball, or that I’d let her suck me into a dodgy deal, ultimatum, or whatever it is she’s getting at.
For the rest of the day, I avoid Libby. I’m irritated that I can’t get the ball ultimatum note out of my mind. What if she narks? I can’t have anything else added to my police record; SOFA wouldn’t be open to anyone with criminal convictions, even well-intentioned art-related ones. No art school would accept me, even the shit ones. And if the police get involved, they’ll ask for my address, and when they find out I’m officially homeless, social services will be notified. The last time that happened, Dad disappeared and I got sent to a foster family, till they couldn’t handle me and gave up trying.
Libby’s got me by the art school balls. And what’s the social protocol to reply? Another note written on cutesy paper? Please don’t tell anyone I’m Xavier, especially the police, especially Miss Reed.
To her, it’s nothing; her life is perfectly mapped out. To me, it could ruin everything. At least she doesn’t know I’m homeless – that secret would spread like free music downloads, and no one, no one at school can know, most of all Libby Green. That kind of info in the hands of someone who wrongly thinks they can change the world can only end in shame, the soul-sucking kind.
After school I bike home, pounding the pedals, pissed I got caught, pissed I’m gonna have to do ball art for the most annoying girl on the planet. I pause outside, hesitant to open the door and see what state Dad is in. But I hear nothing. Just the squeaky belt from the air-conditioning unit a few doors down. Meaning Dad’s passed out, or dead.
I push open the door, grab my phone from my pocket, ready to call emergency services. I creep through the front room; Dad isn’t on the couch. I wish I could hit Pause, stop the images flicking through my mind of all the ways I’ve found him, all the possibilities. It’s not over yet; I creep into our bedroom, forcing myself with every step to face what might be there, as if picturing the reality before I find it might soften the blow. I glance into our room; Dad’s bed is unmade, the room empty. He’s not home. I forgot about that option; it gets me every time. And like a flood gate has opened, the worry floats away, replaced with anger.
On the kitchen bench, another eviction notice. The gist is, we’ve got till tomorrow to be out of here – that, or the police will escort us. The word EVICTION never gets easier to read.
It’s official: we’re homeless, again. At least I wasn’t stupid enough to believe Dad’s promise, that this time would be the last. I’ve been so distracted with the Libby ultimatum that I’ve buried the eviction stuff in a deep, dark corner of my mind, temporarily ignored, paused because it’s the only way to not fall apart. There’s no one to help pick up the pieces.
I swallow hard. I want to lay blame – it’s Dad’s fault Mum is gone, if he hadn’t ... but I push those thoughts down hard. It wasn’t just him; if I’d stopped her getting in the car, accepted her offer to pick me up, she might be here.
I slump on the couch, the eviction notice in my hand. Crying won’t help either; it won’t bring Mum back.
On the back of the eviction notice, in block letters, I write EVICTED FROM LIFE and in the empty spaces within the letters draw intricate flowers the way Mum would have, though she’d have used popping watercolours and the last of her art supplies are long gone. I make do with a black pen. I picture her in her studio at her desk. As the years go by, it’s harder to remember her face; it’s been three years and six days.
I run out of light before I can finish; it’s too dark to see now. The downside to living with Dad – he doesn’t discriminate when choosing which bill to pay, he just pays none of them.
No matter how many jobs I’ve applied for, when you tick the yes box to having a criminal record, you’re guaranteed an emailed rejection letter with a thanks but no thanks. I’ve tried lying, but they must run checks because those emails have always been more along the lines of you lied, never apply for a job here again. Eventually, I stopped applying, stopped hoping someone would give me a chance.
I grab my phone and art book out of my bag, but my phone’s out of juice. I throw my art book across the room and sit in silence, wishing one of Dad’s parties was raging; at least someone would be here. He’d be here to be pissed at, a distraction from missing Mum’s pie hot out of the oven. At least nutting off at him about a party on a school night would make it easier to bury memories, and guilt at being unsure I can ever forgive what Dad did, even though it wasn’t on purpose. My eyes sting, and I’m relieved when the rattle of a commuter train barrelling past lights up the room and snaps me back to reality.
I trudge to the other side of the room, stare down at my sketchbook, lying open, a portrait of Mum staring at me with accusing eyes. And then I see it. I know where me and Dad can crash. At least, until I figure out a better place.
I bike to the public library on autopilot, cut through the empty car park and follow the path around to the back, which is secluded in trees, the other half being in open view of the men’s night shelter and high-rise apartment blocks. The security light flicks on. I lean my bike against the brick wall next to the fire escape ladder that leads to the roof of the library. The wall where my last bomb was, a portrait of Mum, is now a bright white square, layers of portraits underneath. They never last. Most of my work is lucky to last overnight; most is painted over hours later. The city council has a zero-tolerance policy for street art.
I take the stencil from my bag, hold it against the wall, and spray black; the outline of a kid sitting on his mum’s lap reading an X-Men comic appears with Miss Mum written as the comic’s title. I spray Xavier in black in the corner. I’m not sure what bothers me more: how quick the last bomb of Mum was sprayed over, or hearing the familiar rumble of the security van out front.
I load my sprays into my bag, ram my bike into the bushes, and climb the fire escape to the second storey. The bald head of the guard stops below me. I freeze. He knows I’m here; he’s just not sure where, yet. If this dude finds me, I’ve got nowhere to go but up. And that leads him right where I don’t want him. He can’t find out what’s on the roof.
The guard holds his torch over my graff, wet paint glistening in the light. He wipes a finger across the face of the lady, the paint now smeared on his finger. Bastard! The guard takes a picture. He coulda done that before he ruined Mum’s face.
He skims his torch along the fence, through the bushes where my bike is, retrieves his walkie-talkie. “Library to base, that Xavier guy’s back.”
I move up the next rung, my bag slips back, and two spray cans fall out. Fuuuck!
“Oi!” the guard yells and points his torch at me.
I sprint up the ladder, across the library roof bombed in an explosion of my technicolour graffiti, and gap it towards the rooftop stairwell.
“Stop,” the guard shouts, still hauling himself up the fire escape.
I race inside the stairwell, shut the door, and crouch under a portrait of Bear bombed on the back door. I remove the padlock from my bag, hook it through the holes in the lock, and click it closed. Sitting against the door, I’m barely able to make out the steep metal stairs down to the library.
Footsteps edge closer on the roof. The guard pushes the door open, and a crack of light ignites the stairwell. The guard shoves the door, lurching me forward; the padlock stops the door from opening wider. My heart races. Torchlight peeks through the cracked window paint, casting a shadow of my face on the wall behind. The stairs that lead into the library are now lit; the door at the bottom is always locked.
I huddle behind the door as one hand extends through the gap. A grunt rises as the guard tries to squeeze through. I hold in a laugh. Dude’s dreaming of his thin days.
When he gives up, footsteps clomp around the roof. The door’s still ajar; every part of me wants to slam it shut, but instead I peek through paint cracks on the window. The guard takes a picture of the rooftop portraits. Politicians, Mum, Dad, my life. He photographs my tarp, collapsible chair, plastic storage box of spray. My emergency place, the closest thing to home, my canvas, my peace and safety in the city – discovered. Once your spots are found, they’re relentlessly patrolled.
I knew they’d figure out what’s up here eventually, making the option to stay here off the cards. The guard snaps a picture of my box of spray cans, more photos for the Beachlands Police Station collection.
I’m tempted to open the door, beg him not to nark to the police. If he knew it’s the only non-risky place me and Dad can crash, maybe he’d take pity on us. Then again, who wants pity? If the police get involved, it’s too risky.
I peer through the window, and the guard climbs down the fire escape. But relief doesn’t follow. He’ll be back.
I grab my keys from my bag and slip one into the padlock. Outside on the roof, my stuff is laid out like they’re ready for a crime scene examination. I pack my bag with as much spray from my stash as I can fit in. With a lump in my throat, I avoid looking at the portraits. No time to get sentimental; they’ll be painted over by tomorrow.
I climb down the fire escape and jerk my bike from the bushes. Flinging my hoody over my head, I speed around the front of the library and past the parked security guard. I should have waited longer, a rookie mistake. I jump the lights at the intersection, bike up Main Street and down the alleyway, and pause at the concrete wall – the back of the Red Gallery Café.
I lean my bike against the concrete fence and stand on it, hoisting myself up. My bomb from last night is partially blocked by a van, but it’s still there.
A guy opens the back door and slides a tray of food into the back of the van. I concentrate on the apartment window above. It takes a second to click; it’s the guy who delivers food to the homeless. The food is epic, but I only eat it if it’s not Libby or someone from school there, collecting extra school credits.
I realise the guy is staring. “You alright, bud?” The same face shape as Libby, his hair more unruly.
“Sorry.” I jump back in the alleyway and lean against the wall, nowhere to go, nowhere to be, the alley silent, no one to be seen, although how would I know? It’s too black to see. The smell of food makes my stomach roar; for a second, I’m tempted to follow the van. I haven’t eaten since yesterday morning, but the thought of Libby seeing me eat food from that van tames my hunger. The last thing she needs is a whiff of me being homeless; that girl knows enough, too much. The food is for the homeless. I hate the word homeless, can’t say it, can barely think it without wanting to ignite the word and blow it to smithereens.
The security lights from the café click on, and Libby’s voice says, “Ready, Dad.” The van door slides shut, and the engine roars, its lights igniting the alley.
I grab the two notes from Libby from my pocket.
I know it was you last night.
Love your art, Xavier. Will you enter the SOFA comp? Promise I won’t nark; yall help with the ball art, aye?
On the wall, I spray a massive black heart and inside write Yes to art in thick loopy handwriting like Libby’s. I sign Xavier in the corner in gold. Even with practically zero chance of getting into SOFA, art is the only thing that makes sense, even if it means agreeing to Libby’s ball ultimatum. And what have I got to lose entering that SOFA comp? Things can’t get worse.