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Since library security guards operate on a skeleton crew over the weekends, I figure I’ve got time. I plug in my phone; it won’t have time to charge much, but it’s better than nothing. I’ve been two days without a shower, and I can smell me, which means everyone else can, too. Plus, I need to figure out if this can become a regular thing; I can’t go to school smelling homeless. And I don’t want to get caught using the school showers every morning like I have been. Now Libby and Luka know, I’m not taking any more risks.
The warm water cascades down my back. I use the hand soap to clean my body and wash my hair, which reminds me of Libby and her shampoo bottle dominoes.
A bang on the door makes me jump. “The security guard is here, and we have the key for this shower.”
Safe to say, this won’t be my regular shower spot. I reek of hospital-grade hand soap; at least I don’t smell like my life is going nowhere – it only looks that way.
I slip on my jeans, hoody, and faded Chucks. Using the mirror, I rake my fingers through my hair to tame the mass. If I’d taken the bag of stuff from Libby, I’d have a comb, possibly hair gel.
Outside the bathroom, I scan for the librarian. In the children’s section, kids rifle through alphabetised boxes of books. I reckon Dad would have read most of those to me while waiting for Mum to finish work.
That was then.
In the central part of the library, I pass two policemen at the lending desk, helped by the parking warden slash librarian. I quicken my pace; my first thought is What’s Dad done? My second, The Mitsi. I break into a run, and when I’m outside, see that the spot where the Mitsi was parked is empty. My heart goes full death metal as I scan the car park in case Dad moved spots, then I see the Mitsi on the back of a tow truck being driven out of the car park. Jack sits on the bench seat, Bear on his lap.
I race to my bike and pound the pedals hard after the tow truck as I shout, “Look after Bear!”
Jack screams, “Your dad didn’t use gentle hands; policeman took him away.” And he adds something else, which I miss; my heart’s too busy trying to escape through my ears as I pump the pedals furiously hard and fast.
The tow truck stops at the lights, sandwiched between two lanes of traffic. Cars toot for me to get out of the way.
I bang my fist frantically on the cab door. “Where are you taking my car?”
Country music booms from the cab, and the driver doesn’t notice me. The lights change, and the truck speeds ahead. I weave between traffic, my focus not leaving the truck. My lungs sting, my thighs burn; I’m not sure how long I can keep up, but there’s no time to slow down. If I lose sight of the truck, we’ve lost our only safe place to sleep.
The truck slows as we pass a petrol station, and indicates the turn into the industrial subdivision. I hang back and watch as it glides into a gated compound, other impounded cars in neat rows. The truckie backs the Mitsi inside the compound before parking his truck on the road.
Leave the gate open.
But it’s as if he reads my mind. He ambles up to the gate and swings it shut, securing it with a padlock, then goes inside the building. Through the window, I watch as he sits at a table.
All the essential stuff is in the Mitsi: my art book, spray, dog food. Without the Mitsi, bed options are a park bench or under a bush; neither guarantees sleep. At least the Misti doors lock, and it’s slightly less polar than sleeping outside.
I climb the side of the truck, hidden from view. Reaching through the window, I snatch the keys from the ignition and drop them in my pocket.
What I’m about to do next is crazy, especially in daylight. If I’m caught, trapped behind that gate, there’s no escaping. I survey the compound fences, ten feet high at least with barbed wire looped around the top. My palms clam up, coating my handlebar grips in sweat while I contemplate whether saving the Mitsi is worth the risk of getting caught, whether stealing my own car without paying the fines is considered a big enough criminal offence to go on a police record, or would be viewed by SOFA as a definite hell no to being accepted. The last time the Mitsi was out of action, Dad would go missing for days, choosing to sleep in friends’ cars – and it’s that thought that makes me decide. The Mitsi is what will keep Dad close and Mum a teeny bit closer; it was her car.
I pedal down the street to the petrol station and stash my bike around the back. The only cars around are those driving in and out of the car wash. I head back to the Mitsi.
Back at the tow truck I inspect the keys and narrow it down to three that could open the compound. The guys are still in the building, eating. I duck low along the side of the office window and run towards the gate. If one of the men looks up, I’m snapped. I push the first key into the lock and twist. The keys jangle against the gate – wrong key. As I slip in the next key, there’s a bang on the window, followed by rushed footsteps on gravel.
“Oi, mate!” One truckie runs towards me, the other to the gate.
I jam in the last key; the lock releases and I swing the gate open and gap it into the Mitsi. The two truck drivers stand in front, blocking my way out. I rev the engine and floor it towards them; both dive out of the way when they realise I ain’t gonna stop.
I screech down the main road and into the petrol station, detach the front wheel from my bike and shove it in the car, then sit in the front and catch my breath. Dad’s nearly had us evicted twice in twenty-four hours.
My phone beeps; a text from Dad. Beer, cask wine, smokes and drop off here, and there’s an address.
Did he see the car get towed? My shoulders tense. I drop my phone in my bag and grab my sketchbook, flicking through for a blank page; there are none. The SOFA art poster falls on my lap: the winner of the best portfolio receives a full scholarship and one-year halls of residence. For a split second, my mind drifts to what it might feel like to win; I’d be living my dream, proud I’d be somebody going places. Free halls of residence, a safe, secure place to call home for a year – but it would mean ditching Dad and not keeping my promise to Mum. And I snap back to reality.
I punch my fist into the steering wheel; it lets out an unsatisfying beep that fades to a broken, repeated clicking.
Art is what I do; it’s like oxygen – I can’t be me without it.
I also can’t make a portfolio without more supplies. Spray is not included in the free supplies school provides. I’m the only person in art that doesn’t have a tablet; they’re a must-have to compete with the quality of applications that SOFA gets, especially from rich kids with limitless budgets to buy whatever art supplies they want.
I drive the backstreets into town and park in front of Steve’s Art Supply Shop. Why Mr Campbell named his art shop after himself, I’ll never understand. Seems like anti-marketing. In the window is a red banner: 5% off everything. I don’t know why I’m here; he’s never going to let me pay off a graphics tablet – a pad of paper, maybe.
A buzzer beeps as I walk inside and down a narrow aisle tightly packed with dust-clad art supplies. Mr Campbell is at the counter, talking with a woman. I wait behind them; a graphics tablet rests on a nearby seat with a half-unpacked box of sketchpads, waiting to be priced and put away. The graph tab is just sitting there, unattended. My hands tingle, that start of the hand sweats and the first indication I’m about to do something real dumb.
Mr Campbell gives the woman the stink eye. “It declined again. Unless you can find the last six dollars, you can’t take it home.”
Katie appears beside her mother and says to Mr Campbell, “No worries.” Then she yanks her mum’s arm. “Let’s go.”
Katie glances at me and steps back into an aisle, out of sight.
I get it. My card was declined so much I don’t bother using it.
“Come on! It’s fine; I’ll figure something out.” Katie’s voice is a shouted whisper.
If she wants a shot at SOFA, she’s gotta have the gear – a graphics tablet, minimum.
I turn my attention from Katie and pretend to check out the stack of sketchbooks. No one wants attention in that situation.
Katie’s mum pleads with Mr Campbell. “Please, can I bring you the six dollars on payday?” She sounds desperate now. “It’s essential for her to get in.”
“Let’s go. Now, Mum,” Katie snaps.
Mr Campbell stands his ground. “It’s not shop policy, no.”
I dig into my bag, unzip the side pocket, and pick out the last coins to my name, totalling six bucks. I reach past Katie’s mum and drop the cash on the counter. At least someone will have a graphics tablet and an actual shot at SOFA.
“Six dollars.” I wait by the graphics tablet on the chair.
“Thank you! How can I repay you?” Katie’s mum looks over at me.
“Really, don’t mention it.” It’s more awkward for them than for me.
Katie pulls her sunglasses over her eyes. I’d always assumed her family was rich. Guess I judged wrong.
“Well then,” Mr Campbell says. “Here’s your new graphics tablet.” And he passes Katie a box.
Mr Campbell’s graphics tablet is right there on the seat next to me. He’s distracted, talking at Katie about his strict no-returns policy. While I watch them, I pick up the tablet, shove it in my bag, and walk out of the shop. The buzzer beeps as I exit.
It’s not until I’m outside that I realise I didn’t check for cameras, and panic sets in. I unlock the Mitsi, hide the graph tab in my bag, start the engine and begin reversing. I narrowly miss running over Katie, who’s tapping on the passenger window. Now’s not the time to for thankyous, I need to get gone. I keep edging back, hoping she gets the message. She doesn’t, continuing to tap the window, pacing back with the car. I lurch to a stop, focused on Mr Campbell, who’s standing in the shop doorway. I wind the window down, expecting him to run after me any second.
“Hey.” She holds up the graph-tab box. “Thanks – I’ll pay you back when I can.” She looks around and leans into the window. “Would you mind not telling anyone what happened in there?”
Her mum comes out of the shop and unlocks the Mercedes in the car park.
“Sure.” I edge the Mitsi backwards again.
Katie whispers, “Anything I can do to repay you?”
“No, thanks.”
Katie gets in her car as I reverse the Mitsi, but then I drive back into the car park. I’m not sure what’s come over me. Maybe because I’ve got a graph tab, I can now plan some dope art for my portfolio and the ball. Show Libby not everything about me is tragic. Come to think of it, why is Libby not asking Luka to help? No doubt he’ll have all the gear.
I draw alongside the Mercedes and Katie winds down her window.
“Is Luka doing the ball stuff with Libby? I’m ... asking for a friend.”
“Riiiiight ... You promise not to say what you saw?”
“Promise.”
“Ha.” She laughs as she rolls her eyes. “You can tell your friend, it changes weekly, like their relationship status.”
And her window closes.
I glance at my bag; I got tech support. But I’m doomed if Mr Campbell saw me.
The SOFA game is on.
I park the Mitsi under the trees that line Central Garden Square, in the furthest spot from Libby’s apartment, the café, and her room above, which is lit. I call Dad, but he doesn’t pick up or answer my texts. Where is he?
For the rest of the night, I sketch on the graphics tablet till the battery dies.